“That would have ruined the whole experiment. Besides, you would have refused to read it.”
Holmes picked up the note where Watson had dropped it. “Astonishing!” he cried. “It is blank again!” He hurried to the microscope to examine the fragment. After a minute he looked up from the eyepiece. “Not a trace of what I wrote — not even an impression made by the pen!”
Holmes walked to the fireplace, the parchment gripped tightly in his clenched fist. “Now that I know the power of the codex is genuine,” he said angrily, “I want to know why the accursed thing was not destroyed centuries ago? All those despicable crimes could have been prevented!”
After several minutes, Holmes coolly remarked, “The apostate monk who created the thing … this Brother Moriarty … in many ways, he was a Napoleon of crime. Even now, hundreds of years after his death, he dispatches his orders on these parchment leaves.”
Holmes gazed at the wrinkled page in his hand. “That miserable bookseller rotting away in jail is a pawn. Whoever mailed this page to him simply wanted to drag a red herring across the trail of my investigation. Whereas it was intended to lead me astray, it has only served to strengthen an earlier suspicion.” He shoved the parchment into the drawer of his desk and locked it. “Watson, are you recovered enough to accompany me to Longbourn?”
“If the codex was half as dangerous as you claimed, you should have destroyed it when it first came into your possession,” said Holmes.
“For hundreds of years we Benedictines have devoted ourselves to the preservation of books,” said Brother Eduardo. “The codex is one of a kind. Destroying it would have been a crime.”
“But by not destroying it,” said Watson, “you and your brothers are indirectly responsible for far worse crimes.”
“But we have worked hard to keep the book from being read.”
“And yet it has been read,” said Holmes.
“True, there have been two or three times when the codex was not in our possession.”
“I believe there have been many times,” said Holmes. “Your monograph was published over a decade ago. I believe it needs extensive updating. The Whitechapel murders, for instance. Who was reading your book in 1888?”
“The codex did escape that year … for several months,” said the monk, unable to meet Holmes’ gaze. “But we have tried so hard. We have cared for it for centuries.”
“Cared for it?” asked Watson.
“The Brotherhood considers the codex to be a living thing,” said Father Twitchell.
“At first,” said Brother Eduardo, “our order saved the book from the fire because of its rarity. Years later, we made a startling discovery about the nature of the codex. It had developed a form of intelligence.” He paused. “We believe it has a living soul.”
“You are quite mad,” said Holmes.
“It bore the sins which one man poured onto its pages. Now it seeks redemption from those sins.”
“You may leave us now, Friar,” said Holmes.
“Like any soul, it is deserving of redemption,” said Brother Eduardo, walking to the door. “But unlike the man whose sins it now bears, the codex is not human … and therefore, not eligible for the same redemption offered to men.”
“Astonishing,” cried Watson, after the monk had left the room.
“That old man actually views the book as his brother,” said Father Twitchell, “a member of his own order, in fact — which is why the codex accompanies the Brotherhood whenever they travel.”
“This case has given me a headache,” said Holmes, walking to the fireplace. “Father, may I trouble you for some water?”
“Allow me to make you a cup of tea.”
“No, please, water is fine.”
When the priest returned with a glass of water, Holmes thanked him and drained it of all but an inch of liquid. “I have been admiring your fireplace,” he said. “I have never seen a hearth as large as this one. I imagine it is quite ancient.”
“Like the rest of this tower,” said Father Twitchell. “This hearth actually took up the better part of the wall. I had the opening made smaller by bricking up the front edges.”
“And still it is a hearth of enormous dimensions,” said Holmes. “But returning to more important matters, someone in your parish is responsible for mailing a page of the codex to Mr. Avery Felton.”
Holmes crossed over to the priest’s desk and set down the glass. When he withdrew his hand he managed to spill the remainder of the water. “How clumsy of me. I have made a mess of your desk.”
“That is quite all right,” said Father Twitchell, with thinly disguised irritation.
“When I received news that a bookseller had murdered his wife,” said Holmes, “I naturally assumed the codex had come into his possession.”
Father Twitchell nodded, eyeing the spilled water. The desktop, weathered and slightly warped from years of similar abuse, was far from being level, and already the tiny puddle had begun to migrate toward a battered leather volume he had been reading. He glanced about for something to mop up the liquid and, when nothing presented itself, grew visibly agitated. When the water had crept to within half an inch of the book the priest hurriedly snatched it up before it got wet. “What is your point?” he snapped, carefully examining the edges of the volume.
“Father Twitchell,” asked Holmes, “do you have a burden for books as well as for souls?”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, recovering his composure. “It has been a long and trying day. What else did you wish to ask me?”
“Could someone in your parish have wished to divert my investigation?”
“I am not sure.”
“Of course, there is another possible motive: sending that page could have been a plea for help. Tell me, Father, how does one track down a book which, according to Brother Eduardo, does not wish to be found?”
“Where would you go, if you were overburdened by the sins of your past?”
“I might seek a priest,” said Holmes. “One who would hear my confession, or — if my sins were on paper — one who would read them. For I have lately learned that no matter what the consequences, a priest would never divulge my secrets.”
Holmes held out his hand. “It is over, Father. Where is the codex?”
Father Twitchell sprang from behind his desk and charged across the room, shoving Watson on his way.
“Holmes!” the doctor cried. “He’s running into the fire!”
“Quick, Watson! Follow me!” said Holmes, running to the hearth. He leapt over the great blazing log and then whirled about. To his left was a narrow opening in the blocks, barely more than a foot wide, and perfectly hidden from view by the newer bricks.
“Hurry,” cried Watson, now at his friend’s side, “this heat is unbearable!”
Holmes quickly squeezed sideways through the opening, followed by the doctor. They found themselves in a narrow passageway, with the sound of footsteps echoing in the blackness ahead of them.
Watson groped for a match as he and Holmes felt their way down the passage. “The footsteps are fading — he is getting away!”
“I doubt that.”
The two men stumbled upon a wider chamber. They could feel a strong current of cool air blowing past them in the darkness. Watson struck a match, illuminating a large circular room. There were other passageways leading off the chamber, and narrow stone steps that wound up the center of the tower into the shadows above. “Which way did he—?”
“Quiet,” whispered Holmes.
From the gloom above their heads several bits of crumbling mortar suddenly rained down, cascading on the lowest steps. Holmes raced up the stairs with Watson close behind. When he reached the top of the tower, he found the priest standing at the edge of the parapet, clutching the codex and staring down at the street.