“Moriarty,” said Watson. “That does not sound Germanic.”
“It is ancient Gaelic for ‘greatly exalted.’ In a perverse way, he lived up to his name: power accompanies exaltation — and his manuscript has become a source of relentless power. According to legend, he called upon Satan to anoint his writing, then repeatedly cut himself to supply the blood with which the codex was written. When finished, he was more dead than alive and the manuscript had mysteriously vanished.”
Holmes withdrew a pipe from his pocket and examined its charred contents distractedly.
“Throughout the ages there have been many blasphemous books,” continued Brother Eduardo. “Were this simply another such volume, we would not concern ourselves with it, but the parchment upon which it was written had been consecrated for sacred documents. Moriarty poured into that parchment everything that is evil. Somehow, on the night of its satanic creation, the codex took on a life of its own. Now, it is trying to revert to its original holy state.”
“Fascinating,” said Holmes, yawning.
“You must believe me! When an evil passage is read from the codex the reader is forced to enact that evil — and the passage is then wiped clean from the book! I assure you, Sir, many of its pages are now blank!”
“I believe only in those things which can be proven. You claim the book has special properties, but you have given me no proof.”
The old monk stood and bowed. “You were our last hope, Mr. Holmes. Please forgive me for taking so much of your time.”
“A moment, Friar. I may not believe the legend tied to the codex, but I will help you to recover it. Tell me the circumstances surrounding its disappearance. You said it was three days ago. Where?”
“The library of All Hallows in Longbourn.”
“I was not aware of a monastery in Longbourn.”
“Our home is in Rome. We were in London on Church business and were extended hospitality by the priest at All Hallows.”
“You brought the codex to London? Why?”
“It accompanies us wherever we go. I cannot give you the full reason for this — other than to say we are sworn to protect it.”
“Very well,” said Holmes. “We will accompany you to Longbourn.”
Judged by its dour façade, the Church of All Hallows was particularly uninviting: a squat and decrepit edifice of crumbling brick and stained glass windows darkened by decades of soot. At one corner of the church, fronting the narrow street below, an imposing tower rose up against a gray sky; a much older structure, built of huge blocks of blackened stone, that stood out from the rest like a rook on the corner of a chess board, thought Watson, stepping from the four-wheeler.
“How long have you been staying here?” Holmes asked, following Brother Eduardo inside the tower.
“We arrived six days ago,” said the monk. “We would have been on our way the next morning but Brother Paolo fell ill. Father Twitchell insisted we stay until he was well enough to travel. He said we would have the place to ourselves, for he was going up to Cambridge to attend to a Church matter and would be away for four days.”
“When did he depart?”
“The morning after our arrival.”
“And when was the last time you remember seeing the codex?”
Brother Eduardo opened a large oak door and waited for Holmes and Watson to enter. “It was certainly here in his library the night after he left. It was gone the next morning.”
The priest’s study was large but austere and, like the tower rising above it, clearly much older than the rest of the church. Heavy beams crisscrossed the ceiling and extended down the windowless walls. At one end of the room was a massive desk covered with curling documents and open books. Behind the desk a high shelf held numerous volumes recording births, burials, and other church history, their leather bindings dry and brittle with age. All this was illuminated by a single great log burning in the massive fireplace.
Holmes circled the room, making a quick inspection of the bare floor. “Other than yourself,” he asked the monk, “who else might have had access to this room?”
“Only my brothers. The study was kept locked to safeguard the codex.”
“How can you be certain of this?”
“Upon his departure Father Twitchell entrusted me with the keys to the Church, including this room.”
“Then I wish to speak to your brothers — but to each individually. Please go and ask one of them to step in.”
Holmes walked to the fireplace. It was wide and deep, and almost a foot taller than the detective. He extended his hands before the blazing log. “I daresay, Watson, I could fit my entire bed upon this hearth. No more chilly nights!” he said longingly.
The library door opened slowly and the first of two monks entered, a stout, balding man who went by the name of Brother Paolo. Holmes soon ascertained that the man had been seized with severe abdominal pains the night of his arrival and, until yesterday morning, had been far too ill to leave his bed. The detective thanked him and instructed the monk to show in his brother Eugenio.
When Eugenio entered, followed by Brother Eduardo, Holmes quickly realized the young man was a true novice, for he was hardly more than eighteen and demonstrated little of the qualities of meekness and humility that characterized the other monks. Holmes turned to the fireplace. “This is an inviting blaze. Certainly it is a temptation for someone in possession of an undesirable book. Tell me, Brother Eugenio, could the codex have found its way into the fire?”
“We do not burn books,” the youth said petulantly.
“A book does not simply disappear from a locked room.”
“We believe the codex has escaped,” said Brother Eduardo, “just as it did the night of its creation.”
“Escaped?” Holmes said peevishly. “Did it flap its pages and fly up the chimney? I should like to speak with the priest on his return.”
“He is due back tomorrow, but surely you cannot suspect Father Twitchell of taking the book!”
“At present, I suspect no one,” said Holmes, “But I must question everyone. I shall call upon him tomorrow afternoon.”
In the carriage, on the way back to Baker Street, Watson turned to Holmes and asked, “The murder last night — could it somehow be related?”
“Possibly,” said Holmes, lighting a cigarette.
“Could the codex have some occult power?”
“We have dealt with many mysteries which at first appeared to have their explanation in the supernatural — like the case of that wretched hound upon the moors. In the end, all of them proved to have a logical explanation. No, Watson, when it comes to the art of detection, I give no credence to tales of the supernatural. Like the hound, these bothersome little things nip at our heels and send us hurrying down the wrong path of investigation. How unfortunate that our history is riddled with myths, ghost stories, rumors of witches. On the stage of life, they have provided unintentional moments of ‘misdirection’: for as long as our focus is upon such things the real and important matters of human existence will always elude us.
“Nevertheless,” he continued, “I am eager to pit my skills against the bibliomane who stole this book.”
“But if the book has indeed fallen into the hands of some as yet unknown collector, it is hardly likely he will part with it. The book might be shelved in any one of a hundred private libraries.”
“If this enigmatic gathering of paper and ink is indeed a nexus for crime, then its presence cannot remain a secret for very long. I assure you, it will come to light.”