“Father Twitchell,” Holmes called gently, “please come away from the edge.”
The priest spun about to face him. “It is too late,” he sobbed. “The things I have done…. I can never forgive myself!” He took a step backward, the codex held tightly to his breast, and plummeted into the darkness below.
The sidewalk and cobbles of Baker Street were littered with shattered glass. Watson could hear it crunching beneath his feet when he stepped down from the carriage. He looked up at the open windows of Holmes’ sitting room, briefly wondering what new eccentricity awaited him, and then hurried up to see his old friend.
Watson immediately felt the breeze upon his face when he opened the door. He strode across the room, past Holmes who was gazing sullenly into the fire, and stood before the two windows overlooking the street. There was no glass or mullions left in the frames. The doctor sighed deeply. “There is a decided draft in this room, Holmes. What on earth have you been up to?”
Mrs. Hudson tapped at the door and then ushered in three monks.
“The thing you seek is upon the table,” Holmes said without rising.
Brother Eduardo hugged the book. “We are greatly indebted to you, Mr. Holmes.”
“What a pity,” said Brother Paolo, “that in offering absolution to a damned soul, Father Twitchell should lose his own.”
“What do you mean?” asked Holmes.
“He committed suicide,” said Brother Eduardo, “for which there is no forgiveness.”
“And why is that?”
“Only God has authority in matters of life and death,” said Brother Eugenio. “In taking his own life, Father Twitchell usurped that authority. He will burn in hell.”
“I believe you are wrong,” said Holmes. “Your faith is founded upon the belief that in a supreme act of benevolence, God sent His only son to take upon His shoulders the sins of the world, but after His son died for those sins, He was received back to His father.
“Gentlemen,” Holmes continued, “how can you believe anything less in the case of a priest who, led by love, took upon his shoulders the sins of the book, and ultimately died for those sins? Father Twitchell’s suicide was an act of sacrifice. If there is a heaven, I believe you will find him there … waiting for you.”
Holmes motioned to the door. “But these are theological matters, of which I am out of my depth.”
“Perhaps not, Mr. Holmes,” said Brother Eduardo, departing.
“Holmes, is it wise to leave so much power in their hands?” Watson asked after the men had left.
“Most of the pages in the codex were blank once again, the parchment having long ago reverted to its original state: clean and blameless. What does it say in Isaiah? ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ I assure you, those leaves were as white as snow. Except for one last section of manuscript, which I sliced out of the binding while slightly averting my eyes, lest I should inadvertently read some of that hellish text. The pages I removed contained the last remaining words of malediction. I took the liberty of burning them shortly before you arrived. It is doubtful the Brotherhood will hazard too close an inspection of that volume; but if they should, they will not notice its thickness diminished by a mere few leaves.”
Holmes turned back to the fireplace. “And I cannot imagine the codex will mind. For it is better to lose a few pages than to lose one’s soul.”
Watson took the chair next to Holmes. “For a man who has just solved an extremely unusual case, you seem rather down. You must not hold yourself responsible for the death of the priest.”
“When Father Twitchell hurled himself from the tower, I plunged with him … into the depths of despair.”
“But why, Holmes?”
“You were planning to ask me how the windows were shattered. No,” Holmes smirked, “it was not one of my little experiments taken flight. When I burned that remaining evil signature an astonishing phenomenon occurred.” He closed the collar of his dressing gown and hugged himself. “A black plume billowed from the fireplace. It was not smoke, but rather something more solid, something slick and oily in appearance. It behaved like a giant snake. I now wonder if it was not similar to the material referred to among spiritualists as ectoplasm.”
“That’s incredible!”
“Yes, but I have had the misfortune of seeing it.”
Holmes walked to one of the shattered windows. Below him, Baker Street clattered and hummed with the activities of London life; a confusion of men and women, carriages and horses, all bustling to and fro across the soot-grey cobbles. “The damned thing bifurcated before exiting through these closed windows.”
“You’ve grown pale,” said Watson.
“I have a strong constitution, but I admit the sight of it has unnerved me.”
“You have clearly had a shocking experience. Come and sit down. I will ask Mrs. Hudson to bring up some breakfast.”
“Not just yet. There is something I wish to say first.”
Holmes went back to the fireplace and dropped into his armchair. “A significant part of me plunged with that accursed tome … and was dashed against the pavement below: a bit of my philosophy, perhaps; certainly my spirits. Remember the horrible depression through which I suffered in the Spring of ‘87?”
“We came through it.”
“I feel there are even blacker depths waiting to engulf me now. Which is why I am going away.”
“Going away, Holmes?”
“These last few days I have witnessed many strange things — otherworldly phenomena which I cannot explain.” He shuddered. “I have come to realize there is a significant tear in my logic. I must set myself to mending this tear before the entire fabric of my reason is rent asunder. To accomplish this I need time to think. I need a change of scenery; as cozy and as safe as they are, I feel the need to temporarily escape the confines of these rooms.”
“But where will you go?”
“The Continent,” said Holmes, gazing at the mezzotint hanging above the manteclass="underline" a reproduction of the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. He seemed to lapse into deep thought.
“Perhaps Tibet,” he said at length, “to visit the Dalai Lama.”
“But what of your work?”
“I have always felt it my duty to use my unusual talents for the public good, and in all the years you have known me, and before then, I have never forsaken that responsibility. But now…” He shrugged. “I am in need of a very long holiday.”
“And what of all the people who have come to rely upon you? What will I tell them when they come calling and learn that their champion has disappeared, leaving them with no one to whom they can turn? That you are on holiday? Sightseeing? They will never understand.”
“Tell them whatever you wish.” Holmes grunted. “Tell them I am dead, for all I care.”
“I am not very good at fabricating lies!”
“Come now, Watson!” laughed Holmes. “You underestimate your abilities as a fabulist. You have yet to chronicle a single case of mine where you have not played fast and loose with the facts.”
The following day, after leaving Victoria Station where he had seen Holmes off to the Continent, Watson returned to Baker Street to contemplate those empty rooms. Later, while a glazier set about repairing the shattered windows, Watson sat at his friend’s desk and started writing what he felt might very well be the last story in which he would ever record the singular gifts that had distinguished the best and wisest man he had ever known.
* * * * *
TOM ENGLISH is an environmental chemist for a US defense contractor. As therapy he runs Dead Letter Press and writes curious tales of the supernatural. His recent fiction can be found in the anthology Dead Souls (edited by Mark Deniz for Morrigan Books) and issues of All Hallows (The Journal of the Ghost Story Society). He also edited Bound for Evil, a 2008 Shirley Jackson Award finalist for Best Anthology, featuring stories about strange, often deadly books. Tom resides with his wife, Wilma, and their Sheltie, Misty, deep in the woods of New Kent, Virginia.