Without hesitation, Lady Fairclough strode to the wardrobe, pinned her hat to her hair, and donned the same warm coat she had worn when first I laid eyes on her, mere hours before.
“But, Holmes,” I protested, “Lady Fairclough and I have not broken our fast.”
“Never mind your stomach, Watson. There is no time to lose. We can purchase sandwiches from a vendor at the station.”
Almost sooner than I can tell, we were seated in a first-class compartment heading westward toward Wales. As good as his word, Holmes had seen to it that we were nourished, and I for one felt the better for having downed even a light and informal meal.
The storm had at last abated and a bright sun shone down from a sky of the most brilliant blue upon fields and hillsides covered with a spotless layer of purest white. Hardly could one doubt the benevolence of the universe; I felt almost like a schoolboy setting off on holiday, but Lady Fairclough’s fears and Holmes’s serious demeanor brought my soaring spirits back to earth.
“It is as I feared, Lady Fairclough,” Holmes explained. “Both your brother and your husband have been ensnared in a wicked cult that threatens civilization itself if it is not stopped.”
“A cult?” Lady Fairclough echoed.
“Indeed. You told me that Bishop Romanova was a representative of the Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens, did you not?”
“She so identified herself, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes. Nor would she have reason to lie, not that any denizen of this foul nest would hesitate to do so, should it aid their schemes. The Wisdom Temple is a little-known organization—I would hesitate to dignify them with the title religion—of ancient origins. They have maintained a secretive stance while awaiting some cosmic cataclysm which I fear is nearly upon us.”
“Cosmic—cosmic cataclysm? I say, Holmes, isn’t that a trifle melodramatic?” I asked.
“Indeed it is, Watson. But it is nonetheless so. They refer to a coming time ‘when the stars are right.’ Once that moment arrives, they intend to perform an unholy rite that will ‘open the portal,’ whatever that means, to admit their masters to the earth. The members of the Wisdom Temple will then become overseers and oppressors of all humankind, in the service of the dread masters whom they will have admitted to our world.”
I shook my head in disbelief. Outside the windows of our compartment I could see that our train was approaching the trestle that would carry us across the River Severn. It would not be much longer before we should detrain at Marthyr Tydhl.
“Holmes,” I said, “I would never doubt your word.”
“I know that, old man,” he replied. “But something is bothering you. Out with it!”
“Holmes, this is madness. Dread masters, opening portals, unholy rites—this is something out of the pages of a penny dreadful. Surely you don’t expect Lady Fairclough and myself to believe all this.”
“But I do, Watson. You must believe it, for it is all true, and deadly serious. Lady Fairclough—you have set out to save your brother and if possible your husband, but in fact you have set us in play in a game whose stakes are not one or two mere individuals, but the fate of our planet.”
Lady Fairclough pulled a handkerchief from her wrist and dabbed at her eyes. “Mr. Holmes, I have seen that strange room at Llewellyn Hall at Pontefract, and I can believe your every word, for all that I agree with Dr. Watson as to the fantastic nature of what you say. Might I ask how you know of this?”
“Very well,” Holmes assented, “You are entitled to that information. I told you before we left Claridge’s that I had spent the night in research. There are many books in my library, most of which are open to my associate, Dr. Watson, and to other men of goodwill, as surely he is. But there are others which I keep under lock and key.”
“I am aware of that, Holmes,” I interjected, “and I will admit that I have been hurt by your unwillingness to share those volumes with me. Often have I wondered what they contain.”
“Good Watson, it was for your own protection, I assure you. Watson, Lady Fairclough, those books include De los Mundos Amenazantes y Sombriosos of Carlos Alfredo de Torrijos, Emmorragia Sante of Luigi Humberto Rosso, and Das Bestrafen von der Tugendhaft of Heinrich Ludvig Georg von Feldenstein, as well as the works of the brilliant Mr. Arthur Machen, of whom you may have heard. These tomes, some of them well over a thousand years old and citing still more remote sources whose origins are lost in the mists of antiquity, are frighteningly consistent in their predictions. Further, several of them, Lady Fairclough, refer to a certain powerful and fearsome mystical gesture.”
Although Holmes was addressing our feminine companion, I said, “Gesture, Holmes? Mystical gesture? What nonsense is this?”
“Not nonsense at all, Watson. You are doubtless aware of the movement that our Romish brethren refer to as ‘crossing themselves.’ The Hebrews have a gesture of cabalistic origin that is alleged to bring good luck, and the Gypsies make a sign to turn away the evil eye. Several Asian races perform ‘hand dances,’ ceremonials of religious or magical significance, including the famous hoo-la known on the islands of Oahu and Maui in the Havai’ian archipelago.”
“But these are all foolish superstitions, remnants of an earlier and more credulous age. Surely there is nothing to them, Holmes!”
“I wish I could have your assuredness, Watson. You are a man of science, for which I commend you, but ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.’ Do not be too quick, Watson, to dismiss old beliefs. More often than not they have a basis in fact.”
I shook my head and turned my eyes once more to the wintry countryside through which our conveyance was passing. Holmes addressed himself to our companion.
“Lady Fairclough, you mentioned a peculiar gesture that the dark stranger made at the conclusion of your brother’s wedding ceremony.”
“I did, yes. It was so strange, I felt almost as if I were being drawn into another world when he moved his hand. I tried to follow the movements, but I could not. And then he was gone.”
Holmes nodded rapidly.
“The Voorish Sign, Lady Fairclough. The stranger was making the Voorish Sign. It is referred to in the works of Machen and others. It is a very powerful and a very evil gesture. You were fortunate that you were not drawn into that other world, fortunate indeed.”
Before much longer we reached the rail terminus nearest to Marthyr Tydhl. We left our compartment and shortly were ensconced in a creaking trap whose driver whipped up his team and headed for the Anthracite Palace. It was obvious from his demeanor that the manor was a familiar landmark in the region.
“We should be greeted by Mrs. Morrissey, our housekeeper, when we reach the manor,” Lady Fairclough said. “It was she who notified me of my brother’s straits. She is the last of our old family retainers to remain with the Llewellyns of Marthyr Tydhl. One by one the new lady of the manor has arranged their departure and replaced them with a swarthy crew of her own countrymen. Oh, Mr. Holmes, it is all so horrid!”
Holmes did his best to comfort the frightened woman.
Soon the Anthracite Palace hove into view. As its name would suggest, it was built of the local native coal. Architects and masons had carved the jet-black deposits into building blocks and created an edifice that stood like a black jewel against the white backing of snow, its battlements glittering in the wintry sunlight.
Our trap was met by a liveried servant who instructed lesser servants to carry our meager luggage into the manor. Lady Fairclough, Holmes, and I were ourselves conducted into the main hall.