Sherlock Holmes 01: The Breath of God Page 4

  Upon spotting us through the window Pike smiled and gave a delicate, regal wave.

  We were led through to his private lounge by an elderly waiter who gazed upon the perpetually flamboyant Pike as if caught in the glare of the silk lining of his jacket.

  “My dear Sherlock!” Pike rose and clasped Holmes’ hand. There was a sweet puff of cologne as Pike opened his arms and gestured for us to sit. “You will of course join me for lunch? There is some quite exquisite game pie.” For once, my natural inclination towards dining was tempered. I had no great desire to eat in this man’s company. Perversely, Holmes, a man whose main subsistence was tobacco, informed Pike that we would do so with pleasure.

  “To what do I owe this visit, Sherlock?” Pike asked. “Or can I guess?”

  “I would be disappointed if you couldn’t,” Holmes admitted.

  Pike chuckled. “You have come to find out what I know of the late Hilary De Montfort,” he said, “in the hope that I can shed some light on what is unquestionably one of the most bizarre deaths to have reached my ears in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Not longer?” I asked, somewhat sarcastically.

  “My dear Doctor,” Pike replied, “this is London, where the bizarre is a daily occurrence, thank God. If it were not so then I imagine both Sherlock and I would be forced to relocate.”

  “I fear you give the city too much credit,” said Holmes, “it has been many weeks since something has threatened to grasp my attention.”

  “Ah, but then you always were hard to please, I find the streets positively bristling with intrigue.”

  “It takes more than affaires and new frocks to stimulate me,” Holmes agreed. “I am also fiercely impatient.”

  Pike sighed and reached for his little notebook. “Indeed you are.” He shuffled through the pages, apparently refreshing his memory. I doubt Holmes was fooled. Given De Montfort’s very recent demise there was little doubt in my mind that Pike had already reminded himself of all he knew in preparation for writing about it.

  “Of course,” he said finally, “young Hilary was always the black sheep of the De Montfort family. But then with such a boring clan that’s not difficult. Old money, old land. The sort of family that place more stock on knowing family history than they do current affairs. Heads in the past.”

  “A family of noble heritage in other words,” I countered.

  Pike shrugged. “If you say so. I see nothing worthwhile in looking in any other direction but towards the future.”

  “Whereas, presumably,” Holmes said, “young Hilary struggled to look beyond the here and now?”

  “One would imagine so,” Pike said, “though Hilary’s interests were considerably broader than you might imagine. In fact he was a member of the Golden Dawn.”

  “The Golden Dawn?” I asked, “What’s that? One of the new gentlemen’s clubs?”

  “Not quite,” Pike said. “The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn is an occult society, Doctor, which counts a number of celebrities amongst its ranks. The actress Florence Farr among them.”

  “Well,” I said, “there’s no telling what she gets up to.”

  “Indeed,” Pike agreed. “I’m afraid there’s no telling what any of them get up to. I know relatively little about what goes on there.”

  Holmes raised a surprised eyebrow.

  “They wouldn’t let me join,” Pike explained, causing Holmes to bark a laugh and clap his hands.

  “By what standards were you unsuitable?” he asked.

  “I think they could tell that my intent was not as honourable as it might be. In truth I have no great knowledge or belief in magic beyond what I see on the London stage.”

  “It is a serious group then?” I asked.

  “Deadly so,” Pike replied. “It sprang from the membership of the Freemasons as a society to promote the practice of occult rituals and what they termed ‘spiritual development’. I imagine it has a great deal to do with slitting the throats of livestock and wearing appalling robes.”

  “So what draws a man like Hilary De Montfort to join their ranks?” Holmes asked.

  “Aside from the loose morals of the members?” Pike responded with a raised eyebrow.

  “I imagine,” I suggested, “that, like the Freemasons, there’s a good deal of mutual backscratching. Perhaps he sought to improve his social standing?”

  “His social standing was hardly lacking,” Pike scoffed. “He was a pretty young fellow with money to burn, such people are unassailable in society.”

  “Perhaps it was the excitement?” Holmes said. “The lure of the illicit.”

  “Now that’s more likely,” Pike agreed. “Hilary was a man who bored easily.”

  “Then he has my sympathies,” Holmes said, as the old man entered with our food.

  Pike’s epicurean tastes were as well honed as one might imagine. The game pie was indeed excellent, even if the lunch conversation challenged my digestion.

  “What’s your opinion as to the manner of his death?” Holmes asked Pike.

  “Surely he was set upon by a gang,” Pike replied. “From what I hear of the state of his body, there can be little other explanation.”

  “But it’s simply not possible,” I said. Despite having said something similar to Gregson myself, I found, the more that I considered the dead body, the less I could believe it. “The wounds just don’t conform with such a hypothesis. I’d stake my profession on it.”

  “You are lucky that you don’t have to,” replied Holmes. “Given the inexplicable nature of the crime and the importance of the victim’s family, considerable pressure will no doubt be put on Wells, the police surgeon, to endorse such a palatable opinion.”

  “They will want the matter dealt with swiftly, certainly,” Pike agreed. “For families of that pedigree, truth is not as important as appearance. It is an embarrassment that must be made to go away.”

  “No matter the cost?” I asked.

  “The cost is ours to spare, noble Watson,” Holmes said with a smile, “as long as we can explain the inexplicable. Again.”

  He turned to Pike. “Tell me Langdale, what is your opinion of Dr John Silence?”

  “Ah!” Pike’s face lit up even brighter. “The medical scourge of the netherworld? I think he’s probably a gentle, well-meaning lunatic.”

  “Then you and Holmes are in agreement,” I said.

  “No, Watson,” Holmes said, “I have by no means decided whether he means well. One final question,” he said to Pike, brushing the crumbs of the game pie from his lips with his napkin, “before I am so indebted to you that it takes me years to balance the books by providing you with tittle-tattle.”

  “My dear Sherlock,” Pike said, “I’ve told you nothing, you cleared your debt simply by consenting to be my lunch companions. What is this final question of yours?”

  “The Laird of Boleskine,” Holmes said. “Is the title familiar to you?”

  Pike laughed. “Indeed it is, though you’ve come to the right man for certainly you won’t find mention of it in any gazetteer. The Laird of Boleskine is self-proclaimed and far from an official position. It is the name young Aleister Crowley has given himself since buying his new house in Scotland.”

  “Aleister Crowley?” I asked, entirely unfamiliar with the name.

  “A writer and mountaineer,” Pike replied, “and a man fast earning himself the title of the ‘wickedest man in the world’.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  INTERLUDE: THE PECULIAR SUPPER OF LORD RUTHVNEY

  Lord Bartholomew Ruthvney helped himself to a cigar and topped up his glass of brandy. The fire cracked like a coachman’s whip in its grate and added wisps of dark smoke to the room. Ruthvney tutted – he would remonstrate with the housekeeper in the morning, a well-cleaned chimney should not smoke. He stood away, marching proudly across a bearskin rug towards the far wall where his display cases stood.

  Ruthvney enjoyed many hobbies. He was a man of keen appetite (as any who had joined him
at the dinner table could attest) but nothing gave him greater pleasure than hunting. The pursuit and capture of another living creature, to Ruthvney, was an act so powerful that it left him lightheaded. It was, he believed, as close as a man might come to God. He puffed mouthfuls of cigar smoke against the glass that encased his exhibits as he strolled amongst them, remembering each pull of the trigger. He looked into cold, glass eyes and imagined their last spark of life. If only it could be captured along with the animal’s pelts. How much more precious that would be, a cabinet of fragile, flickering light, each held frozen at the point of extinction.

  There was a knock at the door. Stevens, Ruthvney’s butler, entered. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” he asked.

  “Not unless you have a sweep hidden away in the wine cellar,” Ruthvney replied. “That useless woman Pritchard has allowed the chimney to become congested, the damned thing is coughing smoke into the room.”

  “My apologies, sir,” Stevens replied. “I will of course insist the situation is remedied.”

  “See that you do,” replied Ruthvney. “I have no wish to choke to death in my own study.”

  Stevens gave a small bow and retired. Ruthvney returned to admiring his collection.

  As well as the usual mounted heads, Ruthvney had begun to collect other stuffed creatures. Coiled serpents, bears reeling, foxes with fangs bared. His collection was a perfect snapshot of death and he loved every bit of it.

  Behind him the coals crumpled in the grate, sending out a plume of sparks. He watched the sparks fade as they cooled on the wooden floor, making no move to extinguish them and preserve his floorboards. Such mundane care taking was not for the likes of him, he would have considered it a breakdown in social protocol to even consider it. Let the wood be scorched – his eyes were raised to higher duties.

  Which reminded him of that morning’s correspondence, as yet untouched. He sat at his desk, placing his cigar on the rim of a heavy, cut-glass ashtray that glinted on the green leather.

  He kept his filing simple, placing everything worthy of his attention in the top, left -hand drawer until he had dealt with it, at which point he would move it to the right (or, more often still, into the fire grate – Ruthvney was not a sentimental man and saw no point in keeping his letters unless they contained information of importance).

  He pulled out a small pile of letters and placed them on the desk in front of him, taking a moment to draw on his cigar as he reached for his brass letter opener.

  The first was a request for money from a charitable organisation. It was discarded, barely read, for the fire.

  The second was a request for further tunnelling work on the underground railway. Ruthvney was in the financially embarrassing position of being one of the Central London Railway’s major shareholders. In truth he rued the day he had ever become involved, at the way the business was currently running he may as well have ploughed his money directly into the dirt beneath the city. Certainly that is what he had done in spirit. They said it would open soon... after only ten years of planning and work! He tossed the letter to one side where it could stop vexing his digestion.

  The third was yet another call on his bank account. He was on the Board of Governors for the Lidster School for Girls, a dowdy establishment languishing somewhere in the north. It would seem their gymnasium was in need of repair, for which he was expected to share the bill. The headmistress, a creature of lace and cobwebs known as Mrs Shuttle (if she had ever had a Christian name it was long lost through her years of dispensing education), said it was “important for the future health of our charges”. Ruthvney added it to charity letter.

  Next came an invitation to attend the theatrical opening of a new play. Ruthvney did not like the theatre. The theatre was loud and full of expectation. One was expected to laugh in all the right places, cry in all the right places... Ruthvney did not enjoy labouring under such pressure. It joined the pile of kindling.

  The fire cracked again, a loud rifle shot that momentarily put him in mind of the safari plains. He coughed, the smoke irritating his throat. He took a large mouthful of brandy, hoping it would help, and returned to his letters.

  Next was a summons to a dinner party, an evening of old war stories and fatty pheasant with Major Thorkipps and his gluttonous wife. He’d probably go, the hosts were a terrible bore but for reasons he could never quite fathom they were well thought of in society and often attracted interesting additions to their dining table.

  Finally, a small, black envelope that, once opened, revealed little more than a thick piece of vellum with a line of strange symbols upon it.

  Ruthvney held it up to the light and examined the writing. What the devil was it?

  There was a roar of wind from outside the French windows and Ruthvney dropped the piece of paper, startled, despite himself. Shaken from his confusion, he picked up the scrap of paper, placed it on the pile of letters for burning and got to his feet.

  The wind roared again, the French windows swelling in their frame with a loud creak.

  Storm coming, Ruthvney thought, probably keep him awake for most of the night.

  The wind blew once more and this time it was so strong he thought it would push the doors wide open.

  He got to his feet, holding onto the edge of the desk as his head fizzed with dizziness. Probably the smoke, he thought, taking another mouthful of brandy, draining the glass. Like a badger in its set, I’m being smoked out.

  He moved over to the French windows, wanting to ensure they were locked tight and draw the curtains to keep as much of the foul night at bay as he could.

  The doors were, indeed, locked. He looked out on the moonlit grounds, the hems of the curtains in his hands. The moon was bright, he noticed, so maybe there wouldn’t be a storm after all. The trees were lashing back and forth almost fit to uproot themselves though, so who could tell what clouds would be blown over later?

  He yanked the curtains closed. Then immediately drew them back again, sure he had glimpsed something just before the heavy fabric had obscured his view. Yes! Out there on the far edge of the lawn, three figures, walking slowly towards the house. What the deuce time was this for callers? Too late for legitimate business, he thought, watching as they pushed their way against the wind, forcing themselves step by slow step closer to the building. Too late by half. He’d give them a welcome!

  He moved back into his study aiming for where his rifle was kept in the case beyond his desk. Suddenly his head grew dizzy again, a moment of terrible nausea as his entire body swayed. It was as if he were on the deck of a ship, nothing steady, nothing still. He put a hand out against the wall, trying to recover himself. Was it the smoke? he wondered. Could it disorientate a man so much? There was a low growl from behind him and he turned to see the stuffed bear straining its dust-filled limbs. Then a rattle as the dead snake twitched the dry bones in its tail. What was this?

  Ruthvney staggered across the room, his hands flailing ahead of him as they reached for the gun cabinet. The fire roared. The smoke continued to trickle past the mantel and creep up the wall, leaving thin, sooty trails in its wake.

  Ruthvney tugged the keys to the cabinet from his waistcoat ticket pocket where they hung from his watch chain. He unlocked the cabinet, removed the rifle and turned to face the far end of the room where his taxidermy was now quite still. What on earth was he thinking? Of course it was still, there was no life left in that menagerie.

  But there was still the matter of the strangers outside, the three men making their way towards the house. Unless they too had been a delusion?

  No! Ruthvney wouldn’t have it... He was not a man who imagined things, he was a man of facts, of solid truths. He walked back towards the French windows, rifle in hand, but made it only halfway across the room before a pain in his stomach doubled him over.

  What was happening to him? First he began seeing things then this... this... what? The pain was not like the indigestion that frequently troubled him, nor was it the equa
lly familiar stab of trapped wind. No, this was something that he had experienced often enough but so powerful, so savagely heightened, that it took him a moment to recognise it. The pain was hunger. An aching, desperate need to fill his stomach.

  This was not the time! He forced his way on, determined to see off the strangers he had seen. He managed a few more feet before the pain struck him again, savage, undeniable...

  He stepped back a few paces, resting against his desk as his stomach churned and begged for food. He turned, barking short yaps of pain as he grabbed at anything that might quell this aching pain in his guts. He tore at the desk blotter, the rifle falling from his hands as he shoved chunks of thick paper into his mouth. For a brief moment the pain seemed to dip, softening as he felt the lumps of paper pass along his throat. Then it returned, just as pronounced as before, perhaps more so. He needed more, something of more substance...

  He looked around the room, tugging his cravat from his throat as he searched for something to satisfy him. He wedged the thin silk into a solid ball, popped it into his mouth and swallowed it. Again, that momentary relief only for the need to return even more pronounced.

  His eyes passed over the French windows, all thought of the strangers outside gone. All he felt was hunger.

  He ran to the far end of the room, moving among his display cases. These creatures would sustain him, he realised. They may no longer have the meat they once did, but there was still skin to be had, thick leather and cured pelt. He reached for the head of a young elk but the hooks held it fast and he was forced to stretch up on tiptoe, chewing at its dry snout, pulling off short strips of skin with his teeth, chewing and tearing more, his wet lips coated in dust.

  More! More!

  He turned to the display cabinets, smashing the glass with his fists and grabbing the heartiest specimens he could. He held the fox in his arms, chewing on its ear, raking its flanks with his nails desperate to pull some the skin loose.