The Stolen Relic
By David Marcum
This story first appeared in the MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Volume V.
David Marcum plays The Game with deadly seriousness. He first discovered Sherlock Holmes at age ten in 1975. Since then he has collected, read, and chronicled literally thousands of Canonical Holmes adventures. In 2008 he began writing them and has since produced over forty well-regarded short stories and novels, as well as a number of essays about the world’s greatest detective. In 2015, he conceived the idea of The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, now at twelve massive volumes and still going strong. Counting these books, he has now edited over two-dozen anthologies, as well as re-issues of the Solar Pons and Dr. Thorndyke books, while continuing to write new Holmes stories. He is a licensed civil engineer living in Tennessee with his wife and son. His blog can be found at http://17stepprogram.blogspot.com/
https://www.amazon.com/David-Marcum/e/B00K1IKA92
Terre Rybovich A third-generation native of West Palm Beach, Florida, Terre is a daughter of Tommie Rybovich, the noted sports-fishing boat designer and builder. Like her father did, Terre chooses to explore the terrain that lies just beyond what’s known. Her drawing technique first came to her years ago, while delirious with the flu. “Drawing backwards” was the initial idea, i.e., removing charcoal to create an image instead of adding charcoal to a white sheet of paper. Because her focus was on figurative work, she used her body to remove the charcoal. One unexpected outcome was how her mind reacted—and still reacts—when confronted with creative input that it didn’t generate. Every new drawing requires a period of acquiescing before the mind accepts the body’s imprint and its influence on how the drawing is finished. The result is that Terre creates artwork that her mind couldn’t have imagined. It means she works in perpetual wonder. Terre’s education is in politics and economics. Her first career was in grassroots activism and grant-making. The activist experience forged an enduring commitment to this world. It also instilled a courageous drive that she now channels into art-making. Her drawings have been exhibited widely in South Florida, and she is grateful for a growing circle of collectors. Terre’s drawings have been part of the Viewing Program of the Drawing Center in New York City since 2004.
Artwork size: 39” × 30”
Medium: Charcoal, pastel, oil paint and graphite on paper
I paused in the doorway of 221 Baker Street, anxious to make my way inside and out of the bitter wind, but held in place by the sound of the approaching carolers. They were singing “The Moon Shines Bright”, a song I remembered from my youth, and the lilting refrain brought bittersweet memories to mind, despite the cheery major key. It recalled times long gone when, as a child, our family had traveled south to visit my mother’s people during the Christmas season. It was only then that I was able to see a traditional English celebration, and with it all that I missed during those other years while being raised in Scotland, where Christmas is not celebrated as such.
As the carollers came closer, I heard the words more clearly: The moon shines bright and the stars give a light, little before it is day; Our Lord our God he called on us, and bids us awake and pray.
I took another step into the building, but caught myself as they began the next verse, which I also recalled and which seemed to reflect my thoughts from this seemingly grim December: The life of a man it is but a span, it’s like a mourning flower; We’re here today, to-morrow we are gone, we are dead all in one hour. Shaking my head at this decidedly dark sentiment, and trying to imagine how it could possibly fit into a Dickensian holiday, I went inside and shut the door.
I had not intended to return home so early that Christmas Eve, having meant to spend the morning at Barts, followed perhaps by a rare afternoon at some theatrical entertainment, and then possibly a meal. I was feeling distinctly antisocial, and sought solitude. However, I was not needed at the hospital, and I found that I wasn’t in the mood for the rest of my plans. With nowhere left to go, I glumly returned home.
While hanging my coat, I could see light shining at the top of the stairs, indicating that the sitting room door was open. But even as I watched, the stairwell darkened when the door closed with a solid thud, followed immediately by Mrs. Hudson’s determined descent. I had only known our landlady for slightly less than a year, but I recognized this as the tread she made when irritated.
Seeing me standing there, she said, “Doctor Watson, I am so sorry. I’ve tried to do what I could to make your sitting room more festive, but he will have none of it.” And with that, she cast an angry look back over her shoulder.
“It’s quite all right,” I said. “As you know yourself from being raised in the north, all of this Christmas merriment is, even now, still occasionally somewhat foreign to me.”
“I felt that way as well, when I was younger,” Mrs. Hudson replied. “But I’ve grown to love it. The decorations and the songs. The food and the tree. It’s certainly better than how we did it when I was growing up in Scotland, where Christmas was just another day.”
“I suppose,” I agreed halfheartedly and, with a nod to her, started up the stairs. The truth was that I had enjoyed the British version of the holiday at times in the past. But this year, I was finding it more difficult to embrace any celebratory feelings whatsoever.
When I was a child, my parents’ marriage had never set well with my maternal English grandfather, and in spite of his widely read experience and knowledge, he simply could not understand why Christmas wasn’t observed in Scotland. My father would attempt to explain how the Church of Scotland, strictly Presbyterian as it was, had no use for Christmas, or Christ’s Mass. Long before, it had been decided to be a Catholic affair, and thus anything remotely “Popish” was abolished in Scotland in the 16th century. And so it has remained.
But my mother was English through and through, and she had made sure that in our home, at least, some sort of Christmas was acknowledged. It was nothing like that which we saw on those few occasions celebrated at Grandfather’s, and her efforts did little to otherwise alleviate the dour northern winter that held the rest of our town in its grip every December.
After I came to London to study medicine, I truly found myself in the midst of the seasonal excitement. In my student days, while living in Bloomsbury, there was no happier celebrant than myself, though perhaps for all the wrong reasons. I was in the thick of every party, and it was said by many that no one kept Christmas better than John Watson. But then came the army, and Afghanistan.
Now, in that late December of 1881, I found myself at the end of a difficult year. In July of ’80, I was wounded at Maiwand, and then sent back to England, my health irretrievably shattered. I was set ashore on the Portsmouth jetty during a wet snow, with neither kith nor kin left in England. After that rather miserable Christmas had passed, I was acknowledging Hogmanay with a drink at the Criterion, and sourly contemplating the need to find cheaper lodgings to reflect my limited half-pay, when I was hailed by an old acquaintance, Stamford. What followed was an introduction to Sherlock Holmes, and the amazing series of events that had come over the past year.
Amazing they had been, but some had also been disappointing. Just months earlier, following a great portion of the year spent enduring a painful recovery, I had been notified that the army officially had no further need for my services. Each day that had passed since then reminded me in some way that I was marking time, and not going forward with my life. I had made myself useful, filling in as a locum, or assisting at Barts and a few of the other hospitals. But I knew that I should be devoting myself to something more permanent. The thought would not leave me.
And now, standing in the doorway of the sitting room, I felt the same thing. I was too happy to return here, when I should be looking for a more effective and prosperous alternative.
I only paused in the doorway for an instant before propelling myself forward. My friend was there, lounging in his chair by the fire and puffing on his cherry-wood pipe, and scowling at a veritable mound of holly and ivy lying across the mantelpiece.
“Ah, Watson. Come warm yourself by the fire. You’ll see that Mrs. Hudson just brought tea, along with this pestiferous sampling of Ilex Aquifoliaceae and Hedera Araliaceae, detritus from some forest that has been killed before its time to rot above our fireplace.”
“We’re here today, to-morrow we are gone, we are dead all in one hour,” I muttered to myself.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “Nothing at all.”
“My dear fellow,” said Holmes, rising suddenly. “You’re freezing. Sit down, while I pour you some tea.” And he moved to the table, showing that hidden compassion of his that appeared in the most unexpected moments.
Soon I was thawing out, and my mood increased exponentially. I was even able to look with appreciation at the difference made by having the decoration draped in front of Holmes’s criminal relics that still rested, now hidden, upon the mantel.
We sat in companionable silence for a while, both looking into the fire with our own thoughts. Therefore, it was with some surprise when the bell rang. Holmes glanced at me. “Rather late in the day for the usual clients who help me earn my bread and cheese.”
“Perhaps it is a crony of Mrs. Hudson’s, here to wish her the compliments of the Season.”
“True enough. We shall soon see.”
It quickly became apparent that the caller was not there to visit our landlady, as we heard steady footsteps ascending the stairs. In a moment there was a knock, and Holmes called for the visitor to enter.
As we stood, the door opened, revealing a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in the habiliments of a plain priest’s cassock. He wore no coat, paying no deference to the British cold, and he was clearly a stranger to our shores.
“Mr. Holmes?” he said, looking from one to the other of us, and speaking in an accent that betrayed his Italian origins. Holmes nodded, and gestured the man towards the basket chair facing the fire.
“May we offer you some refreshment?” I asked.
“Nothing, thank you.”
“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. You may speak freely before him.”
The man greeted me with a friendly and open countenance. I revised my opinion of his age. Upon closer inspection before the light from the fire, I could see that he was in his early forties.
“My name,” said the priest, “is Father Abele. I am of the order located at the Basilica di San Nicola, in Bari.”
Holmes nodded and stood. “One moment if you please, Father.” As he walked over to the shelf where he kept his indexes, the Father smiled patiently, glancing my way in a friendly manner before turning his eyes to the fire. As he warmed, I could see him visibly relax.
Returning to his chair, Holmes sat and began to leaf through the volume. “Hmm. Interesting indeed,” he murmured. Then, looking back at the priest, he said, “And how can we help you?”
“You were recommended to me, Mr. Holmes, by a man to whom you provided a previous service, Father Gregor, of the Orthodox Church, regarding the recovery of some stolen icons.”
Holmes nodded. “I remember the case.” Glancing my way, he said, “Quite before your time, Watson.”
Father Abele continued. “I hold a unique position within the basilica. It is my duty there to be something of a roving agent, tasked to deal with those issues which might have cause to require a more substantial . . . interaction with the outside world.” He looked from one to the other of us. “In short, I am here because a relic from the church has been stolen.”
Holmes’s eyes brightened, and he tapped his finger on the index. “Indeed. Might I ask—? But no, let me not anticipate your story. Please tell it in order, from the beginning.”
The priest nodded. “As I said, I represent the church of San Nicola, or as you would call him, Saint Nicholas.”
My eyes widened. “Saint Nicholas. The Saint Nicholas? As in Father Christmas?”
Father Abele smiled. “There is that connection, of course,” he said. “Even as the Americans have corrupted his name into the garbled appellation of Santa Claus.”
“The Americans are not completely to blame,” added Holmes. “The Dutch called him Sinterklaas, and carried that name with them when they immigrated to the United States.”
The priest nodded. “As you can imagine, we are quite aware of the different iterations and adaptations of our patron’s name throughout the world. But you are correct, Dr. Watson. I am referring to the true Saint Nicholas, of historical fact, and so canonized by the Church.
“Quite odd,” I said, “the way a man who lived and breathed can, over time, come to be perceived as a make-believe character.”
“Indeed,” the man continued. “If I may, I would share a bit of history with you. I assure you that it is relevant, and I will not waste too much of your time.” With a nod from Holmes, Father Abele continued.
“In case you were not previously aware, Saint Nicholas was born in the year 270 A.D. in Myra, an Asian part of what is now Turkey, and in what was then the Roman Empire. From an early age, he was quite religious, and entered the church while still a boy. Throughout his life, his kindness for both children and sailors was highly recognized, and it was through stories spread across the known world at that time by these very sailors that his fame grew.
“Throughout his life, he performed a number of miracles, including resurrecting the dead, feeding the hungry from food stores that did not decrease as they were used, no matter how much was used, and performing acts of great kindness and then directing the gratitude to God. An example of this was when he provided the dowries for a man’s three daughters when the man could not provide it himself. The story goes that the Saint did so,” continued the priest, looking at us significantly, “by dropping gold coins down the man’s chimney and so into the daughters’ stockings, hanging there to dry—hence, the variant form of receiving gifts now credited to Santa Claus.
“When the Saint was in his mid-fifties, he was quite respected within the church, and was invited by Emperor Constantine himself to attend the first Council of Nicaea, where he was one of the signers of the Nicene Creed. He died in 343, and within a few hundred years from his death, he was recognized as one of the Saints of the Church.
“At the time of his death, his body was entombed in Myra, where—for over six-hundred years—his grave was a destination of pilgrims and worshipers from all over the world.
“But in 1087, following several decades of unrest, sailors from Italy, fearing that access to Nicholas’s tomb would become unreachable for pilgrims, seized a number of the bones from his tomb in Myra and brought them back to Bari, where the Basilica di San Nicola was constructed, and where pilgrims have journeyed ever since.”
“A number of the bones, you say,” interrupted Holmes. “But not all of them, I believe.”
“That is correct. The others, initially left behind in Myra, were later seized by Crusaders and taken to Venice, where they are also kept in a church dedicated to the Saint.”
Holmes nodded. “And you mentioned that a relic from the church has been stolen. Are we to assume then that one or more of the bones of St. Nicholas has been taken?”
“One bone,” replied our visitor.
“And you need our assistance to locate it.”
“That,” said Father Abele, “is somewhat accurate. I know who took the relic. But I have not yet located where he is in London, and as a stranger in your country, I do not have the authority to retrieve it from him.”
“I’m afraid that you’re mistaken, sir, if you believe that I have any such authority.”
The priest nodded. “That is understood, Mr. Holmes. But your involvement in helping me to locate him will go a long way toward clearing the matter up, and will prevent me from blundering in and making a bad situation worse by my ignorance of your customs.”
“So,” I interrupted, “you simply wish to retrieve the relic, then? And by not involving the police, as you clearly do not wish to do, you do not intend to prosecute?”
Father Abele nodded. “My only interest is in retrieving the object. The thief’s punishment is beyond my influence.”
“And you are certain the thief is in London?”
“Yes. I believe that you will be able to help me determine his location.”
“And this relic?” said Holmes. “You said it is a single bone?”
“Yes. A distal phalange, as I think you would call it, from the Saint’s left hand.”
“The tip of a finger, then,” I said.
The priest inclined his head. “More specifically, that of his left thumb. It was stolen more than a week ago. We must retrieve it as soon as possible, before any of the manna is lost.”
I raised my eyebrows, but Holmes’s lips tightened. “My index mentions this phenomenon. I will be happy to help you reacquire the object, but I’m afraid that I cannot give any credence to this supposed miracle.”
“Miracle?” I asked. “Manna?”
Holmes gestured toward the priest, indicating that he should elaborate upon the matter. “Following the Saint’s death, his tomb in Myra was always said to have a sweet smell resembling roses. And it has excreted a liquid, known as manna or myrrh, which has healing powers.”
“I’m afraid that—” interrupted Holmes, but the priest continued.
“I understand your disbelief, Mr. Holmes. It is difficult sometimes to have faith in the manifestation of God’s miracles. But I have often seen this for myself. After the bones were brought to the basilica in Bari, the smell of roses from the tomb has continued, as well as the appearance of the liquid, to the present day. And I have watched how it has been used to perform many miracles.”
“And the tomb with the other bones in Venice? Does it also produce this manna?”
“I have not been there myself, but it is my understanding that they also have vials of the liquid.”
“But surely,” said Holmes, “there is another explanation. Seepage of groundwater into the tomb, perhaps? Or condensation?”
The priest shook his head, a tolerant smile dancing upon his lips. “No, Mr. Holmes. The tomb has been verified to be watertight, and no water is entering through the stones. The bones themselves ooze the liquid, much more than could be accounted for by simple condensation. Enough, as a matter of fact, that it is bottled in vials for use, along with Holy Water, in the performance of miracles.”
Holmes frowned, as if looking for another argument. Finally, he shook his head. “That is all neither here nor there,” he said, “in terms of recovering the bone. As you say, it is important to you to do so sooner, rather than later, but the idea of this manna’s existence in and of itself has no impact on the actual recovery. What were the circumstances of the theft?”
The priest nodded, as if some sort of accord had been reached, and there was now enough to be going on with. “A little over a week ago, a British ship was docked in Bari. St. Nicholas always had a special relationship with sailors, so it is not unusual for them to visit the basilica in order to honor the tomb. Many are simply curious, but a few are genuine pilgrims who wish to worship.
“On the day in question, a group of sailors were there, including one who was recognized as having been there before on several occasions. On previous visits, he was always reverent and respectful, and had asked a number of intelligent questions. This time, however, he did something unusual.
“One of the novitiates noticed that this sailor, a Russian who had previously introduced himself on an earlier visit as Grigori Golov, had stayed behind when his compatriots departed. No other visitors in the basilica were present at the time. The novitiate thought nothing of it until, a few minutes later, he returned from an errand to discover that the stone cover of the tomb had been shifted. He called for help, and a number of priests, including myself, quickly determined that the thumb bone had been removed. It was obvious that only Golov could had taken it. There was no damage to the tomb itself, and no other relics were moved.
“As I indicated, it is my position within the church to act in matters relating to the outside world. I quickly made my way to the docks, only to determine that the ship upon which Golov served, The Good Catherine, had just left port for England. Obviously, Golov had planned his theft to the minute, allowing for a successful escape.
“Not wanting to involve the police, I decided to follow Golov on my own to retrieve the relic. There were no ships leaving immediately, and I did not want to take the time to follow in so leisurely a manner in any case. Therefore, upon returning to the basilica, I arranged to travel by rail, setting foot here three days ago.
“I had just missed the arrival of The Good Catherine, but I was able to determine that Golov had disembarked from the ship. It is scheduled to sail again in two days. I have been unable to locate him, although I suspect that he lives in the East End of London. The officials at the shipping office became decidedly uncommunicative when I pressed my questions, and rather than wait for him to reappear at his ship, I decided to see if someone else could help me locate him sooner. I had been given your name, Mr. Holmes, and here we are.”
Holmes patted his hand twice upon his index, and then stood abruptly, as he was wont to do upon making a decision. “I believe that I can assist you.” He walked around the two of us, replacing the scrapbook. “If you will come back in three hours, I should have the information that you need.”
If the priest was surprised at this sudden burst of activity or the promise of a quick solution, he did not show it. He rose from his chair, and I did so as well. With a nod and a small bow, the priest agreed to return, and walked from the room.
Holmes moved into his room, removing his dressing gown as he did so. “Watson, I shall be back in time to meet our client. Do continue to warm yourself in front of the fire.” And then, reappearing and wearing clothing suitable for the cold, he departed.
Rather than reseating myself, I stepped over to the shelf holding Holmes’s scrapbooks, pulling out the one that he had recently replaced. I found the entry on the Saint, but it gave no more additional information than that which had been recently provided by Father Abele. Unsatisfied, I returned to my seat.
Growing up, I had been exposed to the stories of St. Andrew, that Galilean fisherman who accompanied Christ during his lifetime, and who later carried on the work of the church. I knew about the story of the miracle associated with his name, in which King Angus had seen a vision of St. Andrew’s Saltire Cross in the rising sun, and it had inspired him and his men to win a decisive victory over the opposing Saxons, thus leading to the adoption of that Cross as the Scottish symbol. But, in spite of this tale, stories of miracles like the healing fluid produced from the bones of St. Nicholas were not regularly part of the strict Church of Scotland Presbyterian fabric of my boyhood.
I was still brooding upon these questions nearly three hours later when Holmes reappeared, followed almost immediately by the priest. “I have found your sailor,” said Holmes as we stepped outside.
“I had no doubts,” said Father Abele.
Soon, we were in a four-wheeler, making our way to the south and east. Looking at the priest, sitting across from me in the bitter cold, and without a coat but seemingly indifferent to the fact, I began. “This manna . . .”
The man nodded. “I understand, Doctor. You are curious about the healing properties. You perhaps believe that there is not a true power within the liquid, but rather that the ills are cured by the power of suggestion, and the patient’s own desperate desire to be well once again.”
“Such things are not unknown,” I said. “I could tell you stories of men on the battlefield, during times when we had completely exhausted our supplies. They were given water and told that it was, in fact, morphine. Their belief was enough to convince them that their pain, sometimes from horrible wounds, had been reduced or even eliminated.”
Father Abele nodded, and with a kind smile stated, “God has blessed us with minds that have great powers indeed. After all, these minds are created in His own image. One does not realize what the mind is capable of, whether in terms of great reasoning, or the expression of beautiful art or music, or even in terms of healing. But,” he added, his face now quite serious, “none of that negates in any way the actual power of a true miracle, which is a separate and distinct thing from that which is conceived of within the mind. A miracle is a gift, granted to us by the Grace of God.” And he settled back with finality.
Holmes had a slightly troubled look upon his face, and he was silent throughout this conversation, remaining so throughout the journey. I wondered what he was thinking, although I could imagine. The priest and I also sat quietly, and soon we were at our destination.
We stepped down from our cab, and Holmes led us to a dark arch, from which we signaled for our cabbie to wait. We passed through a tunnel-like passage into a tiny court, and inside were several doors. Holmes stopped in front of the second on the left. It was part of a mean cluster of dark brick buildings, yet surprisingly well kept, considering the neighborhood in which it had been built. “Golov lives on the third floor,” said Holmes as we entered the building and climbed the stairs.
Inside, the air was somewhat warmer, although not much, and there was the stale smell of cooked cabbage that is so often found in buildings in that part of London. The stairwell was quite dark, but the treads appeared to be solidly placed, and there was an absence of the refuse that clutters buildings of this sort.
Stopping at the door indicated by Holmes, we caught our breath. From beyond it, we heard quiet conversation. Then the priest knocked solidly, and the voices stopped immediately. After a very short wait, there were heavy footsteps, and the door opened.
We were faced by a tall man, wrapped in a pea coat to ward off the chill. Behind him, we could see a woman with a sad face, standing beside a table where she had apparently been sitting. The man, undoubtedly the sailor Grigori Golov, looked from one to the other of us before settling on Father Abele. A look of sadness crossed his face as he identified the priest’s cassock, and he said, with only a trace of accent, “So. You have come, then.”
“Was there ever a doubt?” asked the priest, not unkindly. “You did nothing to hide your tracks, my son. We knew your name from when you visited the basilica on previous occasions. You waited until no one was there before you opened the tomb, so that it was unavoidably certain that you would be the one identified as the taker of the relic. You made no effort to hide your return to the ship, and your action was apparently planned so as to be able to leave with the vessel at its planned departure time.”
Golov nodded. “As you say. But you must understand. I had no choice.”
“May we come in?” asked Holmes. “Then, you can explain your reasons.”
Golov stepped back, gesturing for us to pass by him. Shutting the door, he said, “This is my wife, Maria.”
We nodded at the woman, who simply looked at us, a fearful expression upon her face, pinched with a kind of dread and terror.
“Are these policemen, then?” asked Golov of the priest, looking from Holmes to me. “Are you here to arrest me?”
“No, my son. These men are from here in London. I requested them to help me find you, as I do not know this city very well.” He looked around. “Do you still have it? The relic?”
Golov nodded. “I do. And you must believe me that, after I had used it, I intended to return it. I would not have taken it for anything. But, you see, I had no choice.”
Holmes nodded. “Is it your child?”
Golov nodded, while the priest looked to his side at my friend. “Child? What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”
Pointing to several items that I had also spotted on the table in the center of the room, Holmes stated, “Surely it is obvious, from the medical accoutrements placed here and there, that there is illness in the home. There is indication of a child’s presence from some of the objects in the room, but he or she—yes, a girl, I believe—is not present. Based upon the various icons placed on the walls, this is a family of deep faith. No doubt Mr. Golov intended to use the power of the relic to heal someone who is ill. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Golov appears to be sick, so the relic was taken to aid someone else, most likely the child.”
Father Abele looked back at the sailor. “Is that so?”
Golov nodded, and his wife began to cry softly.
“And did it help?” asked the priest. “Has your child been healed?”
“No,” said Golov sadly. “She has been too ill to even be aware that the Saint’s bone is now here.”
“Surely,” said Father Abele, “she does not need to know it is here for its healing power to make itself manifest.”
“That may be,” said the big sailor. “And yet, from the time that I returned with it, she has been asleep, suffering from a fever, and unaware that I brought it, as she had asked. I believed that she would know of its power if she recognized that it was here.”
“Your daughter requested for you to bring the relic?”
“She did. Many has been the time that I’ve told her of my visits to the tomb of the Saint, when I’ve had the opportunity to travel to Bari. When she was scratched several weeks ago, the wound quickly became much worse than one would expect. The doctor came and speculated that the scratch might have simply brought to light some other illness that might prove to be incurable. When it did not seem to get any better, and it appeared as if the doctor could be proven right, our daughter mentioned that perhaps one of the bones of the Saint could be used to heal what the doctor could not.
“I do not know if she really meant for me to bring it, but I resolved that I would do so. Thus, on my last journey, I made my way to the tomb, and as you know, removed the bone.” He swallowed, and continued. “I swear, Father, that I was as respectful and as careful as I could be. I would not have desecrated the tomb under any other circumstance, but . . . but . . .” He broke off with a sob and hung his head. His wife took a step closer and pulled him to her.
“We are afraid,” she said, speaking for the first time, “that she will die.”
“I am a doctor,” I said, stepping forward. “May I see her?”
At the same time, the priest also said, “The relic? Is it with your daughter?”
Golov looked up, from one to the other of us, and nodded. “In here.”
He led us into the other room of the tiny flat, a dark chamber with most of the space taken by a small bed. Lying in the middle of it was a wee girl, probably about seven or eight, but appearing more insignificant due to a likely lack of nutrition during the early years of her life. She was huddled under several blankets, her breathing raspy and labored while she shifted from side to side, moaning lightly with each exhalation. Asking “May I?” and receiving a nod from both her parents, I leaned down and felt of her forehead. She was burning.
While I began to examine the girl, I heard the others talking softly behind me. “The relic?” asked the priest. “Where is it?”
“Here,” said Golov, reaching for a small tin on a shabby table beside the bed. “I have not opened it since taking it,” he said. “I wanted to keep it safe in transit, as you will understand, and there was no need to see it once I arrived, as Alina was too ill to take note of it.”
“Then surely there may be enough . . .” said the priest softly to himself.
I glanced over my shoulder to see the Russian handing the tin to the priest. Father Abele took it and carefully raised the lid. Then he turned it slightly from side to side, in order to catch the faint light from the single-paned window. He stopped turning it when he found the angle he wished, and then he simply looked at it for a long moment. I continued to watch him, curious as to the apparent mesmerization that the object seemed to hold over him.
Finally, he looked up at Holmes, and then toward me. “Gentlemen? Would you like to see?”
He held it out, and I rose, even as Holmes took a step forward. Leaning in, we both saw inside the tin. It contained a small whitish nub, undoubtedly the bone from the tip of a thumb. It rested in the corner of the tin, nearly covered by an oily looking liquid. Even as I realized it, the scent of roses seemed to fill the room.
The priest smiled. “Mr. Golov,” he said. “Did you also take any of the liquid that was in the tomb when you removed the relic?”
The sailor shook his head emphatically. “No, Father. I was careful to reach in and retrieve only the bone. I was praying as I did so, in order to be as respectful as possible. Some of the liquid lying around the bones in the bottom of the tomb got on my fingers as I picked out the bone, but I shook it off before I put it in the container. It was damp, but that was all.” Suddenly, with a realization crossing his face, he asked, “Why?”
Turning slightly, the priest showed the girl’s parents what Holmes and I had just seen, the fragment of St. Nicholas, nearly covered with a fluid that it had apparently excreted between the time it was taken in Bari and now. If one believed that sort of thing.
“But surely, Mr. Golov,” said Holmes, stubbornly trying to make sense of what he had seen, “you added the liquid at some point. Or your wife.”
“We did not!” cried the Russian, while his wife shook her head emphatically.
“Then someone on the ship from Bari,” said Holmes. “Some other sailor who knew what you carried, and got at it at some point.”
“No one knew that I had it. I did not tell anyone. I did not want to take the chance that it might be taken from me before I could return with it to Alina.”
“A miracle, Mr. Holmes,” said the priest simply. “A miracle.”
Turning away from the frowning expression on my friend’s face, I returned to my examination of the girl. She had a long scratch on her leg, quite infected, and suppurating. Around it, her leg was swollen, with streaks stretching above and below. I had seen this before, and knew that there was more going on beneath the skin than was easily seen.
“She fell,” said her mother. “Outside. She said that as she did so, her leg dragged itself across a broken board.”
I nodded. “No doubt there are splinters buried in the wound, adding to the injury. This and the fever are the body’s way of fighting back. How long has she been like this?”
“She became ill about two weeks ago, not long after the injury. The doctor gave us this.” She reached behind to a cabinet affixed to the wall and turned back with a brown bottle. I examined it with disgust, seeing that it was among the worst of the patent medicines available to the ignorant, prescribed by charlatans.
“Which doctor gave you this?”
“Doctor Anglesey,” replied the girl’s mother.
I snorted. I was aware of the man. In the year that I had been back in London, while volunteering my services at Barts, I had more than once come across the victims of this mountebank’s practice.
“This concoction will not help her,” I said, shaking the bottle and then handing it back. “She is in danger.” I saw no reason to keep them from knowing the truth. “The treatment she received from your Doctor Anglesey did not help. In fact, letting her go for so long without true medical attention has only made the problem worse. She has blood poisoning, and . . . and there is a danger that she might lose her leg.”
Golov’s eyes widened, while his wife gave forth a sob. “Will she die?” asked the women quietly.
I shook my head. “It is not too late. She can be treated, but we must get her to hospital immediately.”
I leaned down and began to wrap her tightly in the thin blankets. But as I was doing so, Father Abele spoke. “Doctor? If I may?”
I turned to see him holding the tin, a questioning look in his eyes. I knew what he was asking.
“Father, I simply cannot. We do not know what is in that liquid.”
“We do not know what is in it, but we do not need to. We know from whence it comes.”
“It may do more harm than good,” I answered with exasperation. “It has been in contact with a bone, for goodness’ sake.”
“Exactly,” said the priest. “For goodness’ sake.”
I hesitated, uncertain as to whether to allow it. I noticed the girl’s father staring intently at me. He nodded. “Let him, Doctor,” he said. “Please.”
I straightened and glanced at Holmes. His eyes were in a frown, but, sensing my uncertainty, he nodded. With a sigh, I stepped back, allowing the priest access.
He sat himself on the edge of the bed and, laying a hand across the girl’s brow, began to pray in low, even tones. Mr. and Mrs. Golov bowed their heads, silently mouthing the words to the prayer as well. Meanwhile, Holmes watched intently.
Father Abele took his open palm from the girl and brought it to the tin, held in his other hand. Placing a finger carefully inside, he brought it back out, now damp from the liquid manna within. Moving carefully, so that none of it would drop off, he extended his hand back to Alina’s forehead, where he traced the figure of a cross, lengthwise and then side to side, still praying as he did so. Suddenly, almost the instant that he had finished and lifted away his fingertip, the girl gave a gasp and flickered her eyes, but then settled back into the same condition in which she had been when we found her.
Pulling aside the blankets, he then repeated his actions, carefully tracing the length of the girl’s wound with the oily substance from the tin. This time, the girl gave no reaction, and the liquid simply shone in the dim light from the window before gradually losing its sheen as it dried.
With a solemn “Amen,” the priest arose and made room for me. Not wanting to disturb the fluid, still faintly outlined on the girl’s forehead, I placed a hand against her cheek. Was her fever already lessened? Surely not. And yet, I could not be sure in that cold room, and I did not want to take time to find out otherwise. Bundling her up, I rose and carried her out of the bedroom, and so on until we reached the street, where our four-wheeler was waiting.
Talking to our cabbie was another driver, apparently a friend of his, who had tarried for a while during the time that we were inside. The two were talking and smoking, while the second driver’s hansom was parked nearby. “How fortunate to find a second cab in this neighborhood,” I thought to myself as I climbed with the girl into the four-wheeler. “Almost a miracle,” my mind added as I settled back on the seat, carefully holding my patient. I was joined by the girl’s parents, while Holmes engaged the hansom for him and the priest to follow.
“The Royal London Hospital, Whitechapel Road,” I called to our driver. “And hurry!”
“Right away,” the man answered, gigging his horse. Within minutes we were in transit, and not long after, I was carrying the girl inside, explaining the situation, and being directed to a room in order to begin treatment.
Even as we had traveled, the girl had inexplicably and impossibly begun to show signs of recovery. I would like to believe that it was due to the uncomfortable shock of being taken from the womb-like atmosphere of the bedroom and out into the cold December day. How could she not react in some way? But a part of my mind could not help but wonder if the priest’s ministrations had not had something to do with it.
Within an hour of our arrival at the hospital, the girl’s wound had been debrided and treatment was being given for the fever. Careful probing had revealed a long nasty splinter, black and slick, invisible from the surface and resisting to the end as it was pulled from the girl’s wound. The streaks of blood poisoning had already unexplainably commenced to recede back toward the puncture. And, in all honesty, the fever had already started to abate well before the efforts at the hospital began. Within a short while, it was with a great feeling of satisfaction that I was able to call in the sailor and his wife, who joyfully reunited with the now conscious and smiling girl at her bedside.
Some time later, in the hallway outside, Holmes and I stood with the priest.
“She will be fine,” I said. “They will be able to take her home within a few hours.”
“And now, Doctor? Mr. Holmes?” asked Father Abele. “Now do you see the power of the miracle?”
I wanted to answer, but my response was torn. As a doctor, I could credit the effect of the mind in letting the body cure itself. As a man of science, I wanted to reject the moonshine associated with a miracle. In the end, I said nothing, looking toward my friend.
With a tight smile, Holmes simply said, “There are all sorts of miracles, Father.”
Seeing that this was the best that he was going to get, the priest nodded. “Your fee, Mr. Holmes?” He reached within his cassock, pulling out a worn leather purse that jingled with heavy coins. Holmes waved his hand.
“Not necessary, Father. My assistance was minimal.”
“Nevertheless,” said Father Abele. “I insist.”
“If you must,” said my friend, “then use it to assist the poor. Perhaps the Golov’s could benefit from it. Anonymously, of course.”
“Of course. And Doctor? May I compensate you for your troubles?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Add my portion to Holmes’s. For the Golov family.”
“Very good,” he replied. He replaced the purse and patted his chest, where the container holding the relic of the Saint now rested. “Then I must get this back to where it belongs. May you both go with God.”
“And you, Father,” I replied, while Holmes simply nodded.
Later, as we were leaving Whitechapel behind, I turned to Holmes, sitting beside me in the hansom. “Father Abele,” I said with a false heartiness, as I attempted to place these events in some sort of container in which they could be examined and understood, “certainly believes in the power of this supposed miracle.”
“Indeed. He has dedicated his life to such an idea.”
I was silent for a moment, before I felt the need to say, “I must confess, Holmes, that the girl’s response following the touch of the liquid, and the subsequent and unexpectedly immediate improvement in her condition, is unheard of. It seems to give some validity to the Father’s argument.”
“There are all sorts of miracles,” said my friend, repeating his comment of a few minutes earlier.
I smiled. “I’m surprised, Holmes. You are the ultimate defender of the scientific and rational explanation over that of superstition. What credence do you give to miracles?”
Holmes was silent for so long that I thought he had chosen not to answer. The sound of the horse’s steady tread went on for quite a while before he spoke. And then, finally, “Ah, Watson, how can I explain it? I seek rational explanations to questions, because if I cannot define a mystery within the known rules and laws by which we exist on a daily basis, what hope do I have? No ghosts need apply. If the possibility for a supernatural explanation does exist, then when do we choose to carry on and find the truth if a human agency is responsible, and when do we abandon our efforts and throw up our hands, declaring that the problem has no solution, for it is the fault of a spirit or god beyond our understanding, and therefore the solution cannot be perceived by our mere mortal minds?
“If I am to function within my chosen field, I have to believe that there is a rational and worldly explanation for every action. There have to be some defined parameters within which I can work. If a person believes himself to be haunted, I must determine who is doing whatever is being done to make him think that, and then relieve him of the problem. I cannot simply assume that the possibilities are endless. You, as a doctor, must do the same thing. You must seek the cause of a disease, and treat it with the best defined methods in order to achieve real results, rather than stepping back and simply counting on the effort of a prayer, hoping that some magical culmination to the situation will be achieved.”
I started to reply, but Holmes added, “But, as I said, Watson, there are all sorts of miracles.”
“That,” I said, “is contradictory, and does not seem to fit with your previous statement.”
“But it does. I cannot refuse to make an effort to find a solution, simply on the surrendering assumption that it is beyond my powers. Nevertheless, as a scientist, I must also be aware of the smallness of man in the great scheme of the Universe, and how little we truly know. We have so much more understanding of the physical world than we did even a hundred years ago, but it would be foolish to think that we now understand all of it, and that all the mysteries of existence are now solved. There are so many things that we think we know with certainty that we probably have wrong, and so much more that we do not even know that we do not know. Our understanding of the actual world is like that of an ant’s knowledge of the workings of a steam engine.”
“You astound me, Holmes. I was certain that you would have had a much different point of view.”
“I’m happy that, even after a year, Watson, I can still surprise you. Would it also astonish you to learn that I believe in the human soul?”
“Frankly, yes it would.”
“And yet, given my statement that we really know nothing about the Universe around us, how could I not? For what is it that gives us a self-awareness? What is it that takes all of the various separate substances that make up our bodies, each a miniscule dead piece of matter that has never been alive and will never be alive as we understand it, and brings it all together into a unit that functions together for a while as a cohesive unit, with thought and action and purpose, before separating again into dead pieces, each one going its own way. And for that matter, what is it that allows us to change the world around us, with or without a plan, in violation of all the natural laws of the Universe?”
I found myself fascinated as this conversation spiraled from the discussion of a sick girl to the laws of the Universe. “What do you mean by that?”
“Simply that the Universe works by following a defined set, as we understand them, of natural entropic laws. Heat disperses into coolness. Higher energy decreases into levels of lower energy. The force of gravity pulls a smaller object towards a heavier one, but with a mutual attraction always existing between both of them. Any random particle in the Universe will follow these natural laws governing its motion and behavior.
“But this,” he said, raising a hand in front of us, “this simple action of raising my hand and holding it there because I choose to do so, defies all the laws of the Universe. The Law of Gravity states that I should not be able to voluntarily and decisively raise my hand, going against the pull of the entire planet. Everything in the Universe says no. And yet . . . I choose to do so, and then I so accomplish it.
“What is it that makes me decide to do this, to take this random collection of dead substances held together for a while as me, and place them in opposition to the will of the Universe? As a scientist, I see this action accomplished. It has happened, and happens everywhere, every day, whether raising a hand or a pyramid. It must be achieved by something. For lack of anything else better to call it, it must be a soul.”
“But animals choose to move independently,” I countered. “Plants grow in opposition to gravity. Are you saying that they have souls as well?”
He shrugged. “Who is to say? Perhaps we all have a fragment or spark of the Divine within each of us, to a greater or lesser degree. I know as little about it as an ant knows of a steam engine.
“But let me give you another example: If I choose to roll a boulder up to the top of a hill, something that would never happen naturally in this entropic universe, gravity immediately wants to pull it back down to the bottom. Suppose then that I brace it, where it cannot roll away. My action has thus defied one of the basic natural laws of the Universe. Wind and weather—both caused, by the way, by convection currents and other phenomena related to natural laws—will wear at the boulder and the earth beneath it for countless ages. They may do so for so long that the hillside itself erodes away, thus allowing the boulder to be freed again from its support, whereupon it will follow the natural laws and again roll back to the bottom. But in the meantime, during all those years, the boulder has been sitting where my own will and my energy and my choice placed it, where it never would have been located before, according to every natural law in the Universe. The same is true for a statue or a building made up of bricks and alloys and other materials that never would have been combined or formed together in that particular way or shape if someone had not intentionally done so, defying the laws and will and intent of the Universe.
“Knowing all of that, and additionally realizing how small we are in the great scheme of things, how can I doubt that there must be different sorts of miracles?”
I was quiet for a moment, contemplating the vast scope of his statement. Finally, I said, not knowing how else to reply, “I never knew that you felt this way.”
“It has never come up. But how can we ignore it? When trying to determine that which is greater than us, there is nothing so necessary as deduction. And if we believe that existence is essentially good, as I do—in spite of much that I have seen—then the greatest assurance of that goodness seems to rest in the extras that we are given, such as flowers, for instance. Their beauty is an extra, an embellishment of life, and not a condition, and one that I am thankful for.
“But, even if I am thankful for this extra, I must conduct my work with a degree of separation from it, so that I do not end up counting on miracles. Yet, I do believe them, and the events of today convince me of that even more.”
“How so? In what way?”
“We may or may not believe in the power of the manna from the St. Nicholas relic, although ‘there are more things in heaven and earth, Watson, than are dreamt of in your philosophy’, to paraphrase the Bard. The relic’s liquid could have contributed to the girl Alina’s recovery, or not. But I do believe that your unexpected return today, allowing you to be present in order to participate in our trip to Stepney, was part of a bigger plan. For you, a doctor, were with us when we visited this girl who needed medical attention. You had, I believe, intended to spend the day at Barts, and then at other pursuits. What if you hadn’t been at home when Father Abele arrived? I would have found the Golovs, but would we have known to seek immediate additional treatment for the girl? Would we have recognized the seriousness of her illness? Or that her wound was much graver than it appeared from the surface? Perhaps the anointment of the manna would have healed the girl, but I have to believe that she needed the immediate attention of a physician as well—and you were there.”
“The second cab,” I said softly. Holmes raised his eyebrows. “I thought at the time that it was unusually fortunate that a second cab was waiting in that neighborhood when we carried the girl outside.”
He nodded. “Another minor miracle, perhaps?” Then, lowering his voice, he continued. “And then there is the other occurrence, which might also be something of a miracle.”
A silence fell as he ruminated for a moment, until I prodded him to continue. “I didn’t tell you about how I located the Golovs,” he said.
“I had assumed it was a straightforward investigation.”
“I should have been. I was able to speak to my various contacts near the docks, and I was quickly given the man’s address. But then . . . then I couldn’t find it. Watson, you know that I have an encyclopedic knowledge of London, but in this case, it failed me. And everyone that I asked was uncertain as well as to the location of the little court where the sailor and his family lived.
“Time was passing, and soon I would need to return to Baker Street to meet the priest. Just when I was feeling most frustrated, I heard a soft voice behind me. Turning, I discovered a tall old man, with a white beard and a high forehead, smiling at me with a most warming expression. He spoke with an unusual accent that I couldn’t quite place, clearly foreign, and with something of the Mediterranean about it. ‘The house you seek is there, my son.’ And he raised his arm, pointing toward that same dark passage, previously unnoticed by me up to that moment, where I later returned with you and Father Abele. Then he lowered his hand, his smile becoming possibly even more filled with pure joy than before. I wanted to speak, to ask a question, to thank him, but I found that I could not. And as he turned and walked away into the gloom, I was aware of his eyes, Watson. They were perhaps the kindest eyes that I have ever seen . . .”
His voice faded, and I knew the unspoken thought between us. Who could the man have been who knew just where to direct Holmes in his moment of desperation? Someone from that neighborhood, perhaps, who had heard Holmes’s attempts to locate the address, and had simply offered assistance. Or could it have been . . . ? But no—for that would be impossible. Still, one somehow knows that at Christmas, above all other times of the year, the possibility of miracles might somehow truly exist.
I raised my eyes to find Holmes smiling at me, obviously reading my thoughts. “So there are different sorts of miracles, Watson, and I think that today’s events count. Most fittingly, they were Christmas miracles.”
And as we rode in silence, I found, with further examination, that I agreed with him. I recalled my feelings of just a few hours before, as I had looked about me with a sore lack of appreciation for the season. In fact, considering the circumstances in which I might have found myself at this point in my life, had I not met my friend when I did, I was very fortunate indeed. If, in fact, there is an overall plan, as Holmes espoused, one that is greater than our understanding, I could only be thankful that I could dimly recognize and appreciate my place in it, and thus count my many blessings.
“Merry Christmas, Holmes,” I was moved to say.
“Indeed, my friend. Indeed it is.”