The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (20 page)

“Oh,” came the
voice, as out of the shadows stepped a beautiful, well groomed young lady of
slight build. “My father is your host. I’m Dorothy Brownlee.”

“How do you do.
My name is Holmes, and these gentlemen are Dr. Watson and Mr. Harley.”

She curtsied to
us, then turned back to Holmes.

“I heard the
organ music and I was terribly frightened. You must have heard of the legend, I
suppose?”

“You mean about
the Headless Monk and the ghostly organ music, Miss Brownlee?” I said.

“Yes, doctor.
And it’s more than a legend, I assure you. That’s why I rushed over here as
soon as I heard the music. It must have frightened all the servants within
hearing distance. Why were you playing the organ?”

“I was curious
to see whether it was in good repair.”

“Obviously it
is, Mr. Holmes. Well, my father and his secretary, Mr. Miles, are expecting
you, I know. Let’s walk over to the house, shall we? I’m sure you’ve seen
enough of the chapel tonight.”

I was only too
glad to get out of the cold and biting wind and into a warm house. Dorothy’s
father stood by the fireplace, his demeanor that of a strong man, proud of his
station in life.

We were all
introduced to Mr. Brownlee, who, in turn, introduced us to his secretary,
Leonard Miles, a tall man of a quiet nature, and of looks, quite handsome.
After the usual formalities, we relaxed and sat by the fire where we could rid
ourselves of the awful cold that had penetrated to our very bones.

“I’m afraid Mr.
Brownlee is rather angry with me. I hadn’t told him that you were an expert on
psychic phenomenon, Mr. Harley,” said Mr. Miles, the first to start a
conversation.

“I fail to see
why the knowledge of that fact should make you angry, Mr. Brownlee.”

“I don’t want
you ferreting about into this so-called ghost business. There’s been enough
trouble already! It’s almost impossible to keep servants, and these Cornish
people are incredibly superstitious.”

I had been
glancing at Holmes who was carefully observing the various members of our group.
He turned to Mr. Brownlee with a smile, pulling his pipe from the Inverness
cape.

“You haven’t
seen the ghost yourself, have you Mr. Brownlee?” Holmes asked.

“Of course not,”
he answered in irritation, “there isn’t any ghost I tell you!”

“Then have you heard
the mysterious organ playing?” Holmes went on.

“No, no I have
not. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”

One of the
servants came in and told Mr. Brownlee that David Pendragon was at the door and
wished to speak with him. I had pulled out my note pad and jotted down some
comments concerning the nature of the entire business just before Pendragon was
shown in. I was ready for any other pertinent information at hand.

“That’s the
fellow we met outside the chapel, isn’t it?” I said to Harley.

“Yes, quite a
colorful character.”

“On the contrary,”
voiced Mr. Brownlee, “he’s a superstitious old fool, if you ask me. But, I will
admit, he is a good groom.”

It was then
Pendragon came to stand before his master.

“Begging your
pardon, sir, but there be trouble at the chapel again tonight. I says to myself
‘David, ’tis your duty to go to the master’ and so I be here. As the moon was
hangin’ low tonight, sir, I hears the organ aplayin’.”

“But that was
Mr. Holmes, my good man,” I interrupted.

“Aye, that’s
what he thinks, maybe. What I says to myself is ‘What made him play the organ?’
Then, this very night, I saw the Headless Monk. With my own eyes I saw that
poor soul with his head off, wanderin’ in the moonlight. I saw that, sir, with
my own eyes I did!”

“Get out of here
you blathering old fool!” yelled Mr. Brownlee. “And I’m warning you, if I hear
any more nonsense about this ghost, you’ll lose your job, you understand? Now
be off with you!”

Cowed, old
Pendragon, as big as he was, turned in fright and left hurriedly. Mr. Brownlee
calmed himself as best he could and turned to us.

“Come,
gentlemen, to the drawing room where I can at least offer you a drink.”

Brownlee, with
his daughter and Leonard Miles, moved to the drawing room ahead of us, giving
me a chance to whisper to Holmes.

“Holmes, Mr.
Brownlee seems absolutely rabid on the subject of the ghost.”

“Yes,
suspiciously so. I wonder what he’s trying to hide?”

“Whatever it is,
I don’t think he’ll be successful,” Harley added. “In your profession, Holmes,
you know that murder will out. It’s true in my profession also. Try to suppress
them as you may, gentlemen, ghosts will out!”

Nothing more was
said of the incident as our host poured us drinks and entertained us until,
warm and comfortable, we all retired for the night.

It was after
breakfast, and Holmes and I, accompanied by Mr. Harley, found ourselves
strolling casually along the grounds of the manor house. The wind had abated
some, and, although the sky was filled with clouds, the sun managed to send its
rays through here and there, dotting the land with a brightness that helped
make the day a bit more cheerful.

“Well, Holmes,
this place may be haunted, but I swear that I never spent a better night
anywhere.”

“And I’ve never
eaten a better breakfast, Watson!”

“I heard you
moving about quite late. Have you been out, Holmes?”

“Yes, gentlemen,
I had another talk with David Pendragon,” he said in whispered tones, “as well
as some of the other servants. It was quite illuminating.”

“I was up late,
too, doctor,” Harley said. “I decided to ignore the veiled threats of Mr.
Brownlee, and so I did a little investigating in the chapel.”

“And what were
the results of your investigations, Mr. Harley?” questioned Holmes.

“Well, there was
no psychic manifestation, you understand, but I’m sure of one thing . . . that
chapel is evil. Evil to the heart of its stones. And I’ll swear that evil does
not stem from the hapless monk who was murdered there.”

“You have
confirmed certain suspicions aroused by my own investigations last night. There
is evil here, Harley, and I think I know its nature. Unless I mistake every
sign and reaction, someone has been initiating the local peasantry into the
evils of the Black Mass!”

“Black Mass?
Good Lord, what a shocking thought,” I said, unnerved by this unexpected news.

“My own
sensations last night confirm your theory, Holmes. There is a coven here, I
swear it! Hiding its own obscene practices under cover of the haunting,” Harley
said.

“It sounds quite
feasible,” I added. “After all, the people are so superstitious that they’d
keep as far away as possible from the chapel when they heard the organ playing.”

“This problem
falls into both our fields, Harley,” Holmes replied with a smile. “The practice
of black magic is a criminal offense.”

“It’s perhaps just
as well the old laws against witchcraft are still in force.”

“I imagine,
Harley, that you have your own methods of combating such forces as we’re up
against?”

“Oh yes, Holmes.
Though mine are not connected with the legal aspects of the case.”

“May I ask what
you plan to do, sir?” I wondered as we continued our quiet walk.

“Well, I have
several rather elaborate preparations to make, doctor. It’ll take most of the
day, I’m afraid. However, I shall explain them to you all after dinner tonight.”

There seemed no
further reason to continue our talk at this point, and we put aside these
unusual events in order to relax and enjoy the countryside. The day passed
quickly and delightfully and it wasn’t long before we sat at a table dining on
quail and passing the time conversing about music, art, and the rising
political unrest in our troubled world. In due time, the servants cleared the
table, and we sat back to enjoy the evening.

“It’s very
pleasant to sit here,” I said in quiet contentment, “after a good dinner with a
superb brandy at one’s elbow and listen to the piano being so charmingly played.”

“You’re very
kind, doctor,” said Dorothy.

“Won’t you play
something more, Miss Brownlee?” Holmes asked as he seated himself in a
comfortable chair, pipe in hand.

“Are you
enjoying your stay down here, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mr. Brownlee, himself
comfortably seated near the fireplace.

“Very much,
thank you. Both Mr. Harley and I have found the local folklore extremely
interesting.”

“I say,” ventured
young Leonard Miles, “you fellows haven’t been investigating the haunted chapel
business again, have you?”

Mr. Brownlee
abruptly stood up, his fists clenched in anger.

“Now look here,
if you have, I shall be very angry! It’s abusing my hospitality! I told you
distinctly I didn’t want any more talk of ghosts!”

“Please seat
yourself,” Harley said, “for we are not talking of ghosts, Mr. Brownlee. I have
something even more important that I must fight now. It’s possibly a little
hard to imagine me as a crusader; me, a little man beside the rest of you, as
towering tall a group of men as I have ever faced. And yet, I am your Saint
George.”

“What on earth
are you talking about, sir!” Mr. Brownlee said, his anger mounting each moment.

“I’ll tell you
in secrecy,” Mr. Harley went on. “This mustn’t reach the ears of the peasantry.
I refer to myself as Saint George because I go to wipe out an evil that lives
in your midst. A living, modern dragon.”

Dorothy stopped
playing the piano, turning to us in fright.

“Oh please, Mr.
Harley, that sounds dreadful!”

“And to rid you
all of this fiend,” he went on, ignoring the frightened girl, “I must cleanse
the chapel! Purify it! Exorcise it! Remove its residue of psychic evil. That,
gentlemen, is my mission tonight!”

It was at that
moment that Dorothy, unable to accept Harley’s words, fainted. I was beside her
in a moment.

“Get some
smelling salts from my bag, somebody. Now!”

Holmes,
unperturbed, still sat in his chair, puffing on his pipe.

“I’m afraid you
were a little too graphic for the lady, Mr. Harley,” he said with a casual air.
Mr. Harley stood, straightened out his clothes, then bowed lightly to his host.

“I’m sorry if I
frightened the young lady, but I am sure after tonight she will have no further
grounds for fear in Trevenice chapel.”

He turned and
left for his room. Mr. Brownlee was beside himself with rage, glaring after
this small man who spoke so boldly, while I and Leonard Miles tended to the
distressed young lady. Holmes crossed his legs, took a great puff on his pipe
and smiled at us all.

I had been
asleep for quite some time when I was shaken to wakefulness by Holmes.

“Come, old chap,
we’ve work to do,” he said in gentle whispered tones. “Dress quickly and follow
me.”

“What . . . what
time is it?”

“Nearing
midnight. We must go to the chapel.”

The cold
penetrated even my heavy clothing as we crouched not far from the chapel. A
thickening mist swirled about us, pushed forward by the wind. It seemed to
crawl over the ground like long white fingers, rolling up over the steps and
lingering against the chapel walls.

“Holmes,” I
whispered.

“Yes, old chap?”

“Did you hear
anything?”

“Nothing but the
owls and a clock in the manor striking midnight.”

The silence
seemed to go on unceasingly.

“I’m getting
awfully jumpy. What do you suppose Harley’s up to?”

“I can imagine
his procedure,” said Holmes. “Midnight, a crucial hour I suppose, in his
endeavor. I wish him luck. My own plans are not nearly as clear, unfortunately.
I sense a guiding force here that I—”

“There is
something, Holmes! Listen!”

“Great heavens,
it’s the organ in the chapel!”

“And Harley’s in
there alone!” I exclaimed.

“Not alone!
Listen to the organ peeling forth its madness. Come on, Watson! Something has
gone horribly wrong!”

As soon as we
heard that devilish organ music, Holmes and I rushed forward and raced down the
path leading to the ruined chapel. By the time we reached the entrance, the
organ music had ceased, and the tall, gangling figure of David Pendragon
stepped forward, standing in our path.

“What would you
gentlemen be wanting at this time of night?”

“Never mind
that. What are you doing here?”

“I? I be here
because the gentleman gave me five shillings to stand here and see that no one
disturb him. That’s why I be here. And nobody did come or go. He still be
there, he be.”

“When you heard
that organ music, why the devil didn’t you go in?”