THE IRREGULAR CASEBOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES (2 page)

‘And what did you make of all this?’ asked Holmes.

‘At first, very little, but I have developed a tentative theory. That subdivided oblong reminds me of a mnemonic diagram in one of Robert Fludd’s works, in a section entitled
Ars Memoria.
I should perhaps explain that the Art of Memory is an elaborate system dating from Greek times, in which symbolic images were visualised within an imagined building as aids to the memorising of vast amounts of information. Vitruvian architecture became a popular setting for these images. Now, Dee was a near contemporary of Giordano Bruno, who developed the Art along magical lines. Given the reference to “building” a house, the later use of that oblong by Fludd, and the Vitruvian drawings, I think the hidden sheet may be a surviving fragment of Dee’s notes for a method of memorising magical invocations. In any case, I thought it worthy of an article for publication, and made the notes I have here. In fact, I was just completing them last night when I received a message to the effect that Dr Verrall of Trinity wished to see me urgently. Apparently he was entertaining a guest named Kelly, with whom he was discussing a matter which I alone could settle. I assumed it to be some question of Apocryphal writings, or the dating of a manuscript. It was highly inconvenient, but it is a matter of principle with me that I make myself available to my friends at all times. Besides, I felt a walk in the cold night air would do me no harm, so I set off for Trinity. Dr Verrall was very pleased to see me, but denied any knowledge of the message, or of anyone named Kelly! We concluded that I had been the victim of a silly practical joke. Then I remembered something that should have occurred to me sooner. Kelly was the name of John Dee’s associate!’

Holmes smiled grimly, and muttered, ‘A touch, that. Definitely a touch.’

‘I fairly raced back to my rooms, but when I got there I found the door open, the manuscript gone, and Muir, the porter, sprawled semi-conscious on the floor with a nasty bruise on his temple. It seemed that he had noticed the door open, entered, and had been struck from behind.’

‘What is Muir’s age?’ asked Holmes.

Dr James seemed puzzled by the irrelevance of the question, but replied, ‘Over sixty, I should say.’

‘And his size?’

‘Small, rather frail, but very courageous. He was on his feet in no time, expressing disappointment that he had been given no chance to defend himself.’

‘Now doctor, please answer with extreme care. Was anything else taken?’

‘Well, that is the odd thing, Mr Holmes. I keep a quire of paper on my desk; earlier that evening I observed there were only six sheets left, and made a mental note to replenish the supply before retiring. After the incident, I noticed that only four remained. Seemingly the thief had stolen two sheets of completely blank paper!’

Holmes clapped his hands. ‘Better and better! I’m sorry, Dr James. I was speaking from my own point of view.’

Our client seemed a little out of countenance. ‘I know this must seem very trivial to you, Mr Holmes—hardly a matter of life and death . . .’

‘Not at all, doctor. I fear Watson’s flair for the melodramatic sometimes gives a false impression. I deal with many cases from which the element of crime is totally absent. The only criteria for acceptance are that the case should be unusual, and offer a real challenge to the deductive faculty. Yours fulfils these requirements in plenty. It has some very interesting features; the blank paper, for instance, is of the utmost significance.’

‘I confess it seems to me quite inexplicable.’

‘On the contrary, it is crystal clear, and leads me to conclude there is more to the case than meets the eye.’

‘Then you will give it some thought?’

‘Leave your notes with me. There is a question of some errant footwear to be sorted out—we cannot leave our poor Mr Rodgers to Lestrade’s tender mercies—and a little research will be necessary, so it may be a while before I can visit the scene of these curious events. Watson, are you prepared to undertake a short trip to Cambridge?’

‘Of course, Holmes.’

‘Then be so good as to pack for a stay of three nights, and accompany Dr James back to King’s. Learn what you can without making yourself conspicuous. Above all, lock the remaining blank leaves away without disturbing them. I will join you at the first opportunity. And take heart, doctor. We may yet bring this matter to an early conclusion.’

Within an hour Dr James and I had completed the cab journey to King’s Cross and were on a train racing through frozen countryside. Of the journey to Cambridge I need say little. James seemed in better spirits after Holmes’s words of encouragement, talking animatedly about the published accounts of our cases. I was surprised to learn that he was himself a writer of mysteries, though of the fictional, supernatural variety.

It was already dark, but the sky was clear, with the smell of snow on the wind, when we reached our journey’s end. Little time was lost in taking a cab to King’s College and making our way to Dr James’s rooms.

Here was the dwelling place of a prodigious scholar. Books were ranged two deep around the walls and stood in piles, interleaved with notes at points of reference. On the cluttered desk lay the few remaining sheets of blank paper, which we carefully locked in a drawer, as Holmes had requested.

‘I thought,’ said James, ‘that we might have our evening meal here. Even at this season there are sufficient residents in Hall to ask awkward questions, and enough avid readers of
The Strand Magazine
to make Dr Watson from London as instantly recognisable as Dr James from Cambridge was to Mr Holmes! Had you thought of a false identity?’

We talked the matter over as we ate, and decided that I was to be Mr Crossley, representing David Nutt with plans to publish a little book by Dr James on the subject of John Dee. This, we felt, would justify any questions I might ask concerning the Trinity papers.

Dr James was occupied with some College business early the next day, so it was late in the morning before we began our investigations at the Porter’s Lodge.

Fortunately, we found Mr Muir on duty. Dr James’s description of him as small and frail proved accurate, but he was not wanting heart. Despite a livid bruise on his right temple, he stood to attention, pigeon chest stuck out, and told us what he would have done to the intruder had they met on equal terms!

‘Did you get a look at him?’ I asked.

‘Not at all, sir—first I knew was when ’e struck me.’

‘Who left the message for me?’ asked James.

‘That I couldn’t say, doctor. It was found by Mr Clifford, and passed on to me in the course of events, so to speak.’

‘Well, go carefully, Mr Muir. That is a very nasty bruise.’

When we were out of earshot, James said, ‘Well, Dr Watson, that gets us no further. Let us see what our next port of call brings.’

We walked to Trinity Library under driving clouds, white with snow—it seemed not at all unlikely that there would be a blizzard before long—and entered through the north cloister.

My first glimpse of that wonderful interior left an indelible impression of magnificence. The immense proportions of its arcades, dully illuminated by winter light through many high windows; the rows of statuary depicting past luminaries; the great oaken bookshelves that lined, and broke out from, the walls, forming bays of bookish solitude—all combined to create a place perfectly adapted to the noble pursuit of Learning.

As we approached the desk, a thin, dapper individual of pallid aspect came forward and wished Dr James ‘good day’.

‘Good morning, Mr Biggs,’ said James. ‘I wonder if you could help us? Mr Crossley here has a professional interest in those Dee lists, and would like to know whether anyone else has studied them in the last few months.’

‘Funny you should ask that, Dr James. If you’d come to see me before this morning I’d have said only one other—an undergraduate Trinity man, I have the name here somewhere—yes—Crowley, Edward Crowley. Spent some time with the Dee material over the last few months. Very keen, he seems. Then, just today—not long ago—a white haired old gentleman with those long side-whiskers—what d’ye call ’em—Piccadilly Weepers—he took them for about half an hour or so. Eldred, the name was. He seemed to know Crowley by name. I thought the old gentleman might be his tutor, though I can’t say I recognised him.’

‘Thank you, Mr Biggs. Most helpful. Shall we go, Mr Crossley?’ As we departed, James gripped my arm.

‘Well, Dr Watson, what do you make of that? A definite clue, I think. You see, I happen to know that Dr Verrall is young Crowley’s tutor. Verrall has spoken of him. It seems he came here after some trouble at Oxford. He is by all accounts a gifted student, with a real flair for Latin and Greek, but something of a
Decadent
and a poet
manqué
: you know, adopts the fashionable Diabolism of Baudelaire, and dresses very foppishly. He told Verrall that God and the Devil had fought for his soul, and that he could not decide which had won! Remember that Verrall was mentioned in the message that decoyed me from my rooms! Could it be . . .?’

I nodded. ‘That Crowley and this other fellow, Eldred, are behind the theft? It is a distinct possibility. One may have delivered the note while the other waited to slip into your rooms.’

‘My thought exactly, Dr Watson. Would Mr Holmes object if we visited young Crowley’s rooms?’

‘He told us to learn all we could.’

‘Then let us go at once!’

It took but little time to locate the young undergraduate’s rooms. At our knock a voice called ‘enter,’ and we stepped into another world.

The contrast with Dr James’s Spartan quarters was very instructive. Books covered the walls and filled several revolving walnut bookcases; but this was more than a scholar’s workshop. Everywhere the eye fell upon tomes of obvious rarity and tremendous value. I had never seen so many sumptuous bindings: vellum, morocco, and calf, all glittering with heavy gold blocking and intricate decoration. Here was the collection of a bibliophile with the wealth to indulge his passion to the full. I noted, too, a well-worn ice-axe and a bag of fishing rods. Staunton chess pieces stood about a board. The heady aroma of incense mingled with the smell of books.

The young man who rose to greet us was even more remarkable. My readers will know that I had confronted powerful men before that date, and would do so after, but never have I felt so strongly a sense of immediate danger. From the comments of James, I had expected the silken shirt and floppy tie, the hands full of rings, heavy with semi-precious stones. I could not have anticipated the brooding, hypnotic eyes, determined jaw, and immensely powerful frame. He was, I now think, only a little over average height, but his erect, almost arrogant, carriage, and the bulk of his upper torso, created the impression of exceptional stature.

Dr James introduced us, and explained about the supposed book on John Dee.

‘When Mr Crossley here heard that someone else had been studying the material at Trinity, he feared that another book was in production. I have explained that undergraduates have better things to do with their time, but he insisted we talk to you.’

Young Edward Crowley laughed. ‘You need have no fear, sir. I am not writing a book—not of
that
kind anyway, though I am the greatest poet since Shelley. No, the manuscripts at Trinity do not interest me in themselves. Oh, I did hope they might reflect his occult researches—so misunderstood by that clod, Casaubon—but as they do not, I have hardly glanced through them.’

‘Yet,’ I interrupted, ‘you have requested them on several occasions.’

Crowley gave me an odd look.

‘Yes, but not to study their contents. I see you are puzzled, gentlemen. Let me explain. I have recently discovered that I possess quite ‘remarkable psychic powers. You are probably not aware that we leave subtle impressions upon every object we touch. To hold such an object is to read its history. By holding manuscripts once written by Dr Dee, I seek to identify myself psychically with him.’

This seemed to me absolute madness, but young Crowley appeared to be completely sincere.

‘Though I can tell you little of the actual manuscripts,’ he went on, ‘I can tell you what Dee was wearing when he wrote them, describe the aspect of his library at Mortlake, and what thoughts were passing through his mind on certain days when he referred to them.’ He assumed a dramatic pose and added impressively, ‘I have even seen Queen Elizabeth when she visited him.’