Angelus Domini Nuntiavit (The Angel of the Lord Declared)

by Kevin Thornton

When I arrived back at 221b Baker Street that Monday after my morning constitutional, Mrs. Hudson warned me that there was a nun with Holmes.

“He asked you to join him. She’s only been there a minute or two.” I thanked her then proceeded up the stairs.

“Ah, Watson, excellent timing. May I present Sister Fidelma of The Sanctified Order of Mary Magdalene. They have a convent in Whitechapel where they help the poor and destitute.”

The lady in question was of middling height and an impossible age to gauge. She had on the simple black habit and white surrounds so common among women of her calling, and the covering of all but her face made her seem timeless. She may have been be a world-weary young nun or a serene senior of the order. She was standing, yet seemed close to collapse. I moved a chair behind her. She almost gave in to the idea, but at the last second she remained upright.

“We help the street whores, Mister Holmes,” she said, “the wretched and ignored women that have to sell their bodies to evil men with base carnal needs.”

“You are very candid,” said Holmes. “There is much to be admired in such directness, but your candor does not help when raising funds for your work. You would do better to see to young orphans rather than old prostitutes. The rich are more munificent to charities that stand them in a glowing light.”

“Mister Holmes, I have not come here to be insulted. The work we do is important and valuable, and if you are of the same engrained and inbred attitude of most of the worthies of this city, I shall have to go elsewhere.” She looked around for her bag and umbrella, but didn’t see them on the stand behind the door. Her exit temporarily stayed, she returned to Holmes as if to give him one more lashing with her tongue.

Holmes was looking at her thoughtfully, waiting.

“Oh,” she said. “You have tricked me, Mister Holmes, and rather proved your point. Yes, my temper does get the better of me. I seem to have no patience with the patronizing, and most wealthy people seem to be excessively so.”

“Indeed, you and your convent live close to the breaking point of poverty and are, I fancy, in dire straits.”

“How could you possibly know that? It is true, but I did not mention it, nor do I remember us meeting before.”

“It is a simple conclusion. I’ve never seen a rich or finely enrobed nun, but your habit is so threadbare as to be barely held together, indicating that there is not even a spare ha’penny in your budget. I also happened to observe you walk towards our door along Baker Street, and you came from the wrong direction for public transport. The way you walked signaled profound weariness. It would be my estimation that you, still a young lady of a mere twenty-nine summers, set off early from Whitechapel and walked here to save the farthing that the bus would cost. Please, Sister Fidelma, sit down and relax for a moment. Watson, could you trouble Mrs. Hudson for tea, and something to eat?”

“Already here,” Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully as she came into the room. “I knew this poor wee waif would need something to bolster her while talking to you two, so I prepared a tray.” She laid it on the table and said to Sister Fidelma, “You take your time, my dear. Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson are fine gentlemen who will be able to help you, and when you are done, my nephew and his hackney will be here to take you home.”

Sister Fidelma sat down gratefully. “You are too kind, Mrs. Hudson. May God bless you.” Then she raised herself slightly in the armchair. “You have proved yourself to be most astute in your observations, but how on earth did you deduce my age—correctly, I might add.”

“Sadly that was subterfuge. When you made your appointment to see me, I sent a telegram to a Roman churchperson I know. When I found out your birth name, it was easy to look up the family. Before you became Sister Fidelma, you were known as Therese Greenwood, younger sister and only living relative of Steven Greenwood, the Marquess of Mollington. Who’s Who lists your brother’s date of birth, making him currently forty-four, and notes you are fifteen years his junior.”

“It would have been better had you maintained some subterfuge,” the nun said, “It would have been more impressive.”

“I promise you, Sister Fidelma, that however dismal the truth you seek, I will not conceal it from you.”

“Thank you. It is my brother I am worried about. He and I took such varied routes through life. The difference in age meant he was away to University before I had started school, and he then spent some years in the East, where his beliefs and his gods seemed to change with every letter he wrote home. When my parents were lost at sea in 1868, it took two years for him to return to England. I was too young to care for myself, and the estates and banking were all tied up in a trust awaiting his return, so I was placed in the care of the nuns at my school. By the time he returned, my faith had intensified to the point where I knew I had a vocation.”

“And your brother?”

“He was a restless soul at first. He has never married, always searching for some obscure truth. However, about a year ago he seemed to have an epiphany and slowly started returning to the church in which we were born and raised. He even mentioned that he wanted to make a donation to our work. He had recently done rather well with some shares and wanted to help my order. I was delighted, of course. I have never asked him before, as he has always seemed reluctant and I have never wanted to put him in a position that would test our familial ties. That he had come to this conclusion by himself was heartening.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes.

“It has been my custom to see my brother every Monday. He used to come and visit me at the convent, and then we would go for a meal. More typically though, he will send his coachman for me and we will lunch at the manor, the family home.” Sister Fidelma smiled. “It was easier that way. Taking me to a restaurant was awkward for him. The Savoy and other such places are uncomfortable with the blatant poverty I display.”

Holmes permitted himself a slight smile and a nod.

“Pray continue,” he said.

“Then everything changed,” said the nun. “A month ago when I was taken to the manor, I was met by a woman at the door, a Miss Yvette LeRoux. She introduced herself as a friend of my brother. At first I was delighted. My brother is shy and introverted, and has never seemed to be one with an interest in women. When he finally came down to join us, he seemed tired and out of sorts.”

“‘I see you have met my darling Yvette,’ he said, but his words did not match his demeanor. ‘She calls herself a therapist, and among many of her wonderful qualities, she is teaching me how to relax.’

“‘Why, that’s wonderful,’ I replied. ‘And how did you meet?’

“‘Quite by chance,’ interrupted Yvette. ‘I was walking past the manor when the heel of my boot broke off. I came to the door seeking help. Your brother let me in, we started talking and I don’t think we have stopped since then.’”

Sister Fidelma continued her tale. “To say that I was disconcerted would be an understatement. I asked about her work as a therapist and she was vague to the point of obfuscation. She mentioned Lady Pettibone and Sir Oliver Tuckett, as well as some other names. I cannot recall them, but I do remember at the time how unusual it was that I didn’t recognize any of her clients.”

“Given your sheltered life,” Holmes said, “that is maybe not as surprising as you think.”

“Mister Holmes, I lead a cloistered life, not a sheltered one. Of an evening, I find more human misery on the streets of Whitechapel than you are likely to see in a year. I am also the daughter of a Marquess and the sister to one. I grew up in a home where every year I met half the nobility and many of the royals at weekend parties and summer events. Even though I have moved away from that life, it is unlikely that she could list so many ennobled clients, yet I could not recognize a single name.”

“My apologies,” said Holmes.

“There were a few changes that first Monday she was there, things that at the time I thought insignificant. Added together with what else I have seen, they give me cause for alarm. One of the many reasons I look forward to my weekly visits with my brother is that he puts on a delightful meal. It is the only good meal that I eat all week. Typically there is a roast with all the trimmings, vegetables, some cheeses, and a cake. Steven does very well for himself and we have an understanding that I may take the leftovers back with me so that his largesse may be shared among the other nuns. Imagine my surprise when we were summoned to the dining room, only to find that there was no roast. In its place there were mushrooms from the fields, and roasted nuts. There was a bowl of green leaves that looked as if they had been growing in a ditch, and a puree of something that Miss LeRoux assured me was highly nutritious, and often eaten by the mountain men of far-off Nepal. I don’t know how nutritious it all was, but it was definitely tasteless.”

“A disappointment indeed,” said Holmes.

“Matters seemed to get worse at every subsequent visit,” said Sister Fidelma. “By the second week, my brother seemed back to his former health, but it seemed his mentality had lessened. This was a man who scoured the world seeking answers to life’s great questions, and he seemed unable to string together two coherent thoughts. Miss LeRoux explained it away by saying that listlessness is one of the initial consequences of learning how to be calm, as all the evil vapors depart the body. When I asked how she hoped to accomplish that, she mentioned a healthy diet, long relaxing walks in the fields foraging for food, and Oriental relaxation techniques.”

“On the face of it, all admirable qualities in your brother’s fiancée,” said Holmes, “for that is what she has become, has she not?”

“Did you read my mind, Mister Holmes? That is exactly what has happened. Last Monday, she informed me that not only had she and my brother become affianced, but also that he was unwell and could not join us for our normal repast. Then she said that Steven had reconsidered his donation to the convent, and would instead be giving his money to a more worldly cause. Ignoring her pleas, I stormed up to my brother’s bedchamber. I asked my brother why, after his promises, he was forsaking me. He seemed unable to give me a sensible reply.”

“What did he say?”

“That he had seen a guardian angel who had expressly told him not to donate to the convent.” Sister Fidelma looked as outraged as she could get. Her eyebrows knitted together and her lips pursed. “Imagine that, Mister Holmes. What kind of a heathen angel is that?”

“Setting aside ghostly apparitions, because I am sure there is an explanation for that, did he tell you where he was donating the money?”

“To a charity that Miss LeRoux had found. I asked her what it does, and she told me dismissively that it was a fund to support other charities and that it was a more efficient use of my brother’s largesse. She told me it was too complicated for me to understand.”

“And that did not sit well with you,” I said.

“No, Doctor Watson, it did not. I felt like my whole world had been turned upside down.”

“Yes,” I said. “Hallucinations can be troublesome.”

“Both you and Mister Holmes seem to have dismissed the possibility of my brother actually seeing his angel. I do not. I am sure guardian angels exist, Mister Holmes, at least within the beliefs of my church, and my own faith. My question has more to do with the message of the angel, as well as its fortuitous timing. I suspect my brother is being manipulated, and I suspect that I know by whom, but I don’t know how.”

“Can you describe Miss LeRoux?” said Holmes.

“She is tall for a woman, nearly six feet with those ridiculous heels that she wears. She has long black hair that she wears straight, parted in the middle, and she has the palest of skin. I would put her in her middle thirties, though my uncharitable thought is she is like mutton dressed as lamb and could very well be some years older than Steven. She is very slender, very sharp. Her face is angular, and she is no advertisement for her food, as she seems unhealthy and wan.”

Holmes walked across to the bookshelves and pulled down a vast tome of a scrapbook.

“It is Monday,” he said as he began to page through. “Are you not due there for lunch in a couple of hours?”

“I’m not sure. Every week I receive a telegram from Steven confirming that he would be at the manor and that he would send for me. There are times it doesn’t happen. Sometimes business takes him away, or he has spent the weekend shooting in Scotland. In those instances, I will still receive a message postponing our little family gathering. This time I have heard nothing. I’m troubled as to what to do next.”

“You must go to the manor, and we shall attend with you. Whatever hold she has on him is bewitching enough that he has been transformed from a vibrant intelligent man into a passive sloth.” As he said this he paused at a page in his book. “Would you look at this portrait please, Sister Fidelma?”

I went across with her. The picture was on a flyer for one of the more downmarket theatrical establishments and showed a woman as the main attraction of the entertainment. “She will tease you and please you!” it said. “Watch as Madam Mysterio makes you do the things you had always wanted to, but were too afraid to try. Walk a tightrope, juggle, become an acrobat, or a lion-tamer. Madam Mysterio will unleash the powers of your mind and turn you into your most fervent wish or desire!”

“That’s her,” said the nun. “My word, that’s what’s happened to my brother?”

“Well that explains it,” I said. “She’s a hypnotist.”

Holmes shook his head. “As always, Watson, you see only part of the picture. Come—let us away to the manor. Mrs. Hudson’s nephew will get a good fee for his cabbing work today.”

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Holmes was silent as we started the journey. I had learnt it best not to interrupt him in his cogitations. He would reveal all when he wished to—or so I thought. Sister Fidelma had other ideas.

“So is this Madam Mysterio hypnotizing my brother, Mister Holmes, or is he really being guided by his guardian angel?”

Holmes was uncharacteristically gentle. I knew what he thought about the so-called spiritual world, and he would definitely have lumped these heavenly apparitions in with all the other charlatans he had ever exposed.

“We do not have enough facts, Sister, but I think all is not as it seems. There are people who say that hypnotism is a bold new science, that even medical operations can be performed without any anesthetic. A patient merely needs to be put to sleep by a mesmerizing practitioner, and woken up afterwards, free of any pain or trauma. I have my doubts. I believe that a strong-willed man should be able to resist such chicanery.”

“And a strong-willed woman,” she said.

“Indeed.”

“The claims on your theatrical poster seem farfetched,” said the nun. “I cannot see how a hypnotist can coerce someone into doing something they had no inkling to do previously—juggling and the like. No one could put me to sleep and turn me into a tightrope walker any more than they could get me to deny my faith in God.”

“And there you have the crux of it, Sister Fidelma. Does your brother not seem from your description to be an easily persuaded man, capable of being manipulated?”

“I would say not, Mister Holmes. He has spent his adult years questing for what truths he could find, trying to make sense of the world. I should imagine he has faced many persuasive arguments, each of which he has countered by logic and force of will.”

“I suspected as much,” said Holmes. “We must wait and see what we will find at the manor, but I am comfortable enough in my theories to be confident that we shall resolve this set of events before the end of the day.”

We were quiet for most of the rest of the journey. At one point Holmes started to say something, then thought better of it. He frowned, as if in the midst of a mystery, and then addressed the nun.

“Therese is a French spelling of your name, possibly even Iberian. Do you have relatives from the Continent?”

The nun smiled. “There was much celebrating when I was born. My parents had wanted many children but my mother had six miscarriages between Steven’s birth and mine. By the time we arrived at my baptism, which was rushed as I was a frail infant, my father and the parish priest, Father Bonisteel, had spent some significant time wetting the baby’s head and could barely stand, let alone write. I was supposed to be named Teresa after the Saint of Avila. Therese was a spelling mistake, so when I professed my vows I started afresh, doing God’s work as Sister Fidelma,”

To my astonishment, Holmes slapped his knee in delight. “Well, Watson, what do you make of that? I have sat here pondering Sister Fidelma’s unusual christened name, and it is nothing more than a spelling mistake. Let us hope all other questions are as easily sorted today.

The manor house of the Marquess of Mollington was a large and forbidding building done in a mock gothic style. Above the entranceway, four grotesque gargoyles peered down, uninviting and forbidding.

“The second Marquess had four older sisters,” said Sister Fidelma, “spinsters all, and miserable souls. Family legend is the gargoyles were modelled after them.” She stepped to the door and rang the pull bell energetically, as if summoning her convent urgently to prayer.

Miss LeRoux was dismayed to see us. For a moment she seemed to wish to shut the door. Sister Fidelma, however, marched into the house as if it were her own and sat down on a chair.

“I wish to see my brother,” she said.

“Your timing is unfortunate,” said Miss LeRoux. “He is resting and lunch is not prepared for today.”

“Yet there is a smell of cooking from the kitchen,” said Holmes. “Perhaps we might stay for a short while. It is imperative we see the Marquess.”

“He has never mentioned you, Mister Holmes, nor you Doctor Watson. I cannot imagine what business you may have with him. Please leave.”

“The Marquess’s sister is worried about her brother’s health and has asked the Good Doctor to attend as a physician. I am here as a consultant. Perhaps I might suggest some form of therapy for him.”

“You are not a therapist,” said Miss LeRoux. “You are that interfering detective I have heard talk of.”

“I am as much a therapist as anyone else in this room, Miss LeRoux—or may I call you Madam Mysterio?”

For a moment I thought I saw doubt in her eyes, but she recovered quickly.

“I am not ashamed of my past, and Steven is aware of my prior life on the stage. He doesn’t care.”

“Then as soon as Doctor Watson has seen the Marquess, and I have questioned him, we shall leave you to the rest of your life.”

The stairway from the foyer upstairs was broad and sweeping. There was a noise from the top and then a man appeared from one of the doors. He was wearing a nightshirt. His hair was longer than fashionable and his beard untrimmed. He was holding his hands out parallel to the ground and for a moment I thought I was having my own apparition of the risen Christ. Then he swayed a little and the nun screamed “Steven!”

“Holmes, he must surely fall!” We dashed up the stairs towards him. He nearly did, teetering towards the balustrade, but at the last second he grabbed the top and swung down to his knees on the top step.

“Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae, et concepit de Spiritu Sancto,” he said, and he looked to the ceiling, smiling beatifically.

“What is he saying?” I said.

“‘The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary’,” said Sister Fidelma coming up behind us. “‘and she conceived of the Holy Spirit’. It is a prayer, one of the rote teachings of the church, used to achieve communion with God. What is he looking at?” She shook him by his shoulders. “Steven, what is it?

The Marquess of Mollington pointed up. Though he still smiled like a child in front of a toy store, I noticed dark patches under the eyes. Miss LeRoux’s relaxation techniques did not seem efficacious, and whatever was causing this behavior was not healthy.

“My angel soars and hovers,” he cried, raising his hands as if in benediction. “She will guide me along the right path. She is with me now.”

Sister Fidelma looked up, as did Holmes and I. There was nothing to see. “Where, Steven?” she said. “Tell me where your angel is! Tell me who your angel is!”

The Marquess ducked and then bobbed up again. “She swoops, she soars. Here she comes again. Oh Michael, my Michael!”

“Enough,” said Holmes. “Let’s get him to bed. It is clear he is delusional.”

“You don’t believe him?” said Sister Fidelma. “How can you not believe? Look at him! He is enraptured!”

“I believe that he believes in what he is seeing. I don’t believe it is an angel hidden from us, and neither do you. You are too practical to be taken in by this. If this were indeed a manifestation of a Messenger of God, why does your brother refer to it as she, yet call him Michael? Why does he get an archangel, and why is it one of the only three-and-a-half angels mentioned in the bible? If this were real, surely the introductions would have been proper, and he would know real things about his angel? This is a charade, and all that is left to do is unmask it.”

“You tease me, Mister Holmes, but your logic is correct. My brother is under the influence of someone—or something. This is merely the uncontrolled rant of a man who remembers some small parts of his childhood faith. Has she hypnotized him, Mister Holmes?”

“I believe so, but I believe that she had help.”

* * *

The Marquess settled into a sleep in his room. Miss LeRoux was waiting downstairs. “You see, he is ill, and I look after him. When he wakes, he will kick you all out, and I shall marry him and be the Marchioness.”

“You have hypnotized him,” said Holmes, “but you needed help of some sort to lower his defenses. Did you drug him? When I find what you did, I will call the police and you will be arrested.”

“You will find nothing,” she said. “Go on, search. I dare you. I will delight in throwing you all out of my house and disinheriting you!” she said, pointing at the nun. “The Sister-sister who he did not want to disappoint.”

“Enough,” said Holmes. “I tire of her prattle. Watson, lock her in the library, if you please, so that she cannot disappear.”

“Do not touch me!” she screamed and I held back. Sister Fidelma was less restrained. She grabbed Miss LeRoux’s arm, twisted it behind her back, and marched her away. I followed, but was unneeded. The nun pushed her through the door where she stumbled into an armchair and sat down rather ungracefully. I locked the door and turned to see Sister Fidelma’s shamefaced smile.

“May God forgive me, but I enjoyed that far too much.” There must have been a look of surprise on my face. “Do not trouble yourself, Doctor. I have learned to look after myself for my work on the streets. When a drunken pimp comes at me with a broken bottle because I’m trying to persuade one of his coterie to change her ways—well, let’s just say there is a time for turning the other cheek and a time to defend God’s work most vigorously.”

“Most impressive, Madam,” I said

When we came back, Holmes was standing in the hall looking around the building. It was a mansion of some twenty rooms or so, and the opulent furniture meant it would not be easy to search.

“What exactly are we looking for?” I said.

“She seemed confident we would find nothing, and as she is a confidence trickster herself, I believe that we need to approach this from a different angle. It is difficult to make someone do something against his nature or wishes, even under hypnotism. She needed to break down his mental barriers before she could start to control him.”

“Drugs, then,” I said. “I shall check his limbs for needle marks. Maybe she has been dosing him with opium.”

“I think not,” said Holmes. “I cannot imagine a scenario where she could have come up with a plausible excuse to inject anything into him the first time.”

“You’re right,” said Sister Fidelma. “No matter how smitten he was, he would never let her do that to him. He is scared of needles. Some years ago he broke his leg riding. The doctor wanted to inject a sedative to make repositioning the bone easier. Steven refused, so they anesthetized him the old-fashioned way.”

“Rum?” I ventured.

“Whisky.”

“Then let us check his liquor cabinet,” I said.

“There is no need,” said Holmes. “You mentioned earlier about the change in diet at your Monday lunches.” He dashed to the kitchen and came out two minutes later carrying a silver serving dish and a triumphant look.

* * *

We went into the library.

“I will let you go with a head start before I call the police, if you do one thing for me.”

“What are you talking about?” said Miss LeRoux. “It is I who shall call for the police. You have attacked me in my own home and taken over my . . .” She stopped then, silent as Holmes unveiled the dish.

“It is a simple task,” he said. “Eat some of these mushrooms.”

“They will make me sick,” she said.

“My point exactly,” said Holmes. “Now, eat some, or leave this home and never return.”

She was gone within the hour.

* * *

Based on Holmes’s theory, I checked my patient upstairs.

“It is my opinion,” I said, coming downstairs, “that all the Marquess needs is time. Time for the toxins to leave his system. Lots of water and bed rest, and you’ll see an improvement by tomorrow.”

“Will you tell me what happened, please?” said Sister Fidelma. “Why did she poison the mushrooms?”

“She didn’t,” said Holmes. “The mushrooms are the poison. Strictly speaking, they have mind-altering properties. There was an article in The London Medical and Physical Journal of 1799 that mentioned a man who picked psilocybe semilanceata mushrooms in the park and took them home to his family. The meal caused varied losses of control in his children. In other words, the mushrooms could break past the main barrier hypnotists face, a person’s own nature. In the journal article, the family were convinced their youngest child was possessed by the devil as he would not stop laughing for some hours.”

“What an evil woman,” said Sister Fidelma.

“Quite,” said Holmes. “Once your brother had eaten them once, his guard was down and he was easy to hypnotize and manipulate. If you hadn’t come to us, I have no doubt that Madam Mysterio would have taken everything your brother owns.”

“How can I thank you, Mister Holmes? And you too, Doctor. You have saved my brother, my only family.”

“Stay with him,” I said. “We shall send a message to your convent.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. He opened the door, stepped out then turned suddenly. He was looking up at the vaulted ceiling, and I saw a look of astonishment cross his face. As he stepped back into the hall, there was a tremendous noise outside and one of the gargoyles crashed into the exact spot where he had been standing a second before. Shards from the stonework bounced into the hall, but the mass of the monstrosity, a hundred pounds or more of grotesquerie, lay at the door.

“Holmes,” I said, “that would have killed you. What did you see that caused you to step back?”

“I must have had something in my eye,” he said. “No matter, there is no harm done.”

“It was your guardian angel,” said Sister Fidelma. “You looked to the same spot as my brother and you saw your angel. She pulled you back and saved you, didn’t she.”

“Sister Fidelma, I do not believe in guardian angels.” He stepped out of the door past the broken masonry without so much as a by-your-leave, and I followed him to our transport home—but not before Sister Fidelma shouted after him,

“You may not believe in guardian angels, Mister Holmes, but they believe in you!”

* * *

I waited until we were on our way. My friend had regained his composure, but this rare opportunity was mine and I would not let it go amiss.

“What if it was your guardian angel, Holmes?”

“My dear Watson, you of all people should know my views on sprites, fairies, and the likes. Angels are the same. I do not believe in their existence. It was, as I said, a fortuitous coincidence.”

“Now tell me, Holmes, how that is so?” I said. “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences either.”

And for once, Mister Sherlock Holmes had nothing more to say.