Terrors (23 page)

“Even so, Holmes,” I objected, “the lady’s virtue is one thing, her reputation is another.”

The matter was resolved by Lady Fairclough herself. “Doctor, while I appreciate
your concern, we are dealing in a most serious matter. I will accept the suspicious glances of snobs and the smirks of servants if I must. The lives of my husband and my brother are at stake.”

Unable to resist the lady’s argument, I followed Holmes’s directions and accompanied her to Claridge’s. At his insistence I even went so far as to arm myself with a large revolver, which I tucked into the
top of my woolen trousers. Holmes warned me, also, to permit no one save himself entry to Lady’s Fairclough’s suite.

Once my temporary charge had retired I sat in a straight chair, prepared to pass the night with a game of solitaire. Lady Fairclough had donned camisole and hairnet and climbed into her bed. I will admit that my cheeks burned, but I reminded myself that in my medical capacity I
was accustomed to viewing patients in a disrobed condition, and could surely assume an avuncular role while keeping watch over this courageous lady.

There was a loud rapping at the door. I jerked awake, realizing to my chagrin that I had fallen asleep over my solitary card game. I rose to my feet, went to Lady Fairclough’s bedside and assured myself that she was unharmed, and then placed myself
at the door to her suite. In
response to my demand that our visitor identify himself, a male voice announced simply, “Room service, guv’ner.”

My hand was on the doorknob, my other hand on the latch, when I remembered Holmes’s warning at Baker Street, to permit no one entry. Surely a hearty breakfast would be welcome, I could almost taste the kippers and the toast and jam that Mrs. Hudson would
have served us, had we been still in our home. But Holmes had been emphatic. What to do? What to do?

“We did not order breakfast,” I spoke through the heavy oaken door.

“Courtesy of the management, guv.”

Perhaps, I thought, I might admit a waiter bearing food. What harm could there be in that? I reached for the latch only to find my hand tugged away by another, that of Lady Fairclough. She
had climbed from her bed and crossed the room, barefooted and clad only in her sleeping garment. She shook her head vigorously, drawing me away from the door, which remained latched against any entry. She pointed to me, pantomiming speech. Her message was clear.

“Leave our breakfast in the hall,” I instructed the waiter. “We shall fetch it in ourselves shortly. We are not ready as yet.”

“Can’t
do it, sir,” the waiter insisted. “Please, sir, don’t get me in trouble wif the management, guv’ner. I needs to roll my cart into your room and leave the tray. I’ll get in trouble if I don’t, guv’ner.”

I was nearly persuaded by his plea, but Lady Fairclough had placed herself between me and the door, her arms crossed and a determined expression on her face. Once again she indicated that I should
send the waiter away.

“I’m sorry, my man, but I must insist. Simply leave the tray outside our door. That is my final word.”

The waiter said nothing more, but I thought I could hear his reluctantly retreating footsteps.

I retired to make my morning ablutions while Lady Fairclough dressed.

Shortly there was another rapping at the door. Fearing the worst I drew my revolver. Perhaps this was
more than a misdirected order for room service. “I told you to go away,” I commanded.

“Watson, old man, open up. It is I, Holmes.”

The voice was unmistakable; I felt as though a weight of an hundred stone had been lifted from my shoulders. I undid the door-latch and stood aside as the best and wisest man I have ever known entered the apartment. I peered out into the hall after he had passed
through the doorway.
There was no sign of a service cart or breakfast tray.

Holmes asked, “What are you looking for, Watson?”

I explained the incident of the room service call.

“You did well, Watson,” he congratulated me. “You may be certain that was no waiter, nor was his mission one of service to Lady Fairclough and yourself. I have spent the night consulting my files and certain other sources
with regard to the odd institution known as the Wisdom Temple of the Dark Heavens, and I can tell you that we are sailing dangerous waters indeed.”

He turned to Lady Fairclough. “You will please accompany Dr. Watson and myself to Marthyr Tydhl. We shall leave at once. There is a chance that we may yet save the life of your brother, but we have no time to waste.”

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 good will, 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 kabalistic 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, revenants 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 had 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.

The building was lighted with oversized candles whose flame was so shielded as to prevent any danger of the coal walls catching fire. It struck me that the Anthracite Palace was one of the strangest architectural conceits I had ever encountered. “Not a place I would like to live
in, eh, Holmes?” I was trying for a tone of levity, but must confess that I failed to achieve it.

We were left waiting for an excessive period of time, in my opinion, but at length a tall wooden door swung back and a woman of commanding presence, exotic in appearance with her swarthy complexion, flashing eyes, sable locks and shockingly reddened lips, entered the hall. She nodded to Holmes and
myself and exchanged a frigid semblance of a kiss with Lady Fairclough, whom she addressed as “sister.”

Lady Fairclough demanded to see her brother, but Mrs. Llewellyn refused converse until we were shown to our rooms and had time to refresh ourselves. We were summoned, in due course, to the dining
hall. I was famished, and both relieved and my appetite further excited by the delicious odors
that came to us as we were seated at the long, linen-covered table.

Only four persons were present. These were of course Holmes and myself, Lady Fairclough, and our hostess, Mrs. Llewellyn.

Lady Fairclough attempted once again to inquire as to the whereabouts of her brother, Philip.

Her sister-in-law replied only, “He is pursuing his devotions. We shall see him when the time comes round.”

Failing to learn more about her brother, Lady Fairclough asked after the housekeeper, Mrs. Morrissey.

“I have sad news, sister dear,” Mrs. Llewellyn said. “Mrs. Morrissey was taken ill very suddenly. Philip personally drove into Marthyr Tydhl to fetch a physician for her, but by the time they arrived, Mrs. Morrissey had expired. She was buried in the town cemetery. This all happened just last
week. I knew that you were already
en route
from Canada, and it seemed best not to further distress you with this information.”