The Case of the Biblical Colours

by Ben Cardall

Act I

We all have those moments in time in which we remember exactly where we were and what we were doing - the very first instant that I saw my dear Mary smile, or the first time that I heard my friend admit he could be beaten, and by a woman no less. For artists, it might have been the passing of Van Gogh, or when a sporting enthusiast is able to witness the first county cricket match. My point is simply that for me, this case represented a marker in what my dear friend Sherlock Holmes referred to as a “locked room” mystery.

It was a particularly humid summer’s eve in July, 1896. All was quiet outside, except for the distant chatter of the hooves and wheels in the street as the carriages were pulled by. Holmes and I were enjoying a discussion of matters for the logician. I say enjoying, as I was fast becoming a man out of my depth, and Holmes’s eyes were getting wider due to his passion for the topic at hand.

“Oh, Watson, it is a simple matter when you have learnt to think as I have. Many is the time I have relayed to you that the little things are often the most important. I present you with these gambits of mine to challenge your faculties.”

I must confess that I did appreciate his challenges, as on more than several occasions I could follow the deductions made. However, in my current mood, I could feel my frustrations growing, as opposed to my critical vision.

I tried to hide the fact that I was playing for time. “Run it by me once more to see if I have all of the details correct in my head, as I am not allowed a pencil to make notes.”

“You do not need notes, Watson!” Holmes’s excited state increased, his frustrations no doubt matching my own. “Once you can see your way to the one deciding fact, a thing so apparently inconsequential that it would be glazed over by the untrained eye, then the whole riddle becomes a matter of simplicity.

“Once more then, Doctor. A couple, who for the purposes of this riddle have been targeted to be murdered, unbeknownst to them of course, have arranged to meet for drinks at night at a local hotel. The lady arrives late, and a little out of breath due to her rush. They enjoy their drinks, each having the exact same ones I might add - iced raspberry lemonade and wine - and a few moments afterwards, the husband falls down dead. I put it to you that with this evidence alone, I could tell you how the husband died and why the wife did not, as well as the tools for the murder as well.”

“Definitely murder then, as you have already mentioned as much,” I mused aloud.

With an almost playfully magnanimous sense, Holmes replied, “Yes. However, I do want you to go a little deeper. The actions of the people are key, and I will tell you that it was a hot day, if it helps you get there a little faster.”

“Though I appreciate the assistance, it does appear to be maddeningly unhelpful.”

“Imagination, my good friend! Use your imagination! Go through the actions of both as if doing it yourself-” Holmes began and then stopped mid-sentence, as if stifled by some unshakeable thought. “And if you could call to Mrs. Hudson to please to let the constable in, this new case appears to be a matter of most importance. Oh, and Watson - make the young man a cold beverage.”

I was completely befuddled - not at my friend’s brilliant mind, though that same feeling would come moments later - but in this moment at the apparent random chain of events that my friend had imagined in his head and then verbalised. Were it not for the somewhat profound knocking upon our front door and ringing of the bell, I fear that I might have been stuck in that instant for a considerable time. I was literally shaken to my feet.

My friend looked at me with an all-knowing smile, and I felt that I was supposed to know more about it than I did. So as requested, I went down to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, filled a glass of water, added a piece of ice, and made my way back up the stairs. Upon my return, who should be standing there but a young man, a constable to boot, having entered in my absence, and gasping for breath. I merely gestured toward him with the water, which he literally ripped from my hand and drank with such speed that it looked as if it were giving him life. Then, with thanks, he handed me the glass.

Holmes, still grinning with delight, encouraged the young man to sit and tell us what he had to say. I must have been simply staring unblinking at my friend’s apparent premonition of the not-so-distant future and the constable’s arrival, for he said, “Watson, that can wait until later. The constable has a matter of some urgency and he needs our help.”

“I was sent strictly for you, Mr. Holmes, by the inspector,” said the man, now slowly bringing himself back to normalcy in my chair.

“And being new to his career,” Holmes continued in my direction, “he does not appear to know that when I am called, Dr. Watson will never be far behind. I can assure you, my good man,” he then said to the constable, “that Lestrade is very well informed on this matter. So what has happened at the church that has you all so stuck?”

The constable looked at me as though my friend were speaking some sort of foreign language, and I were the only one who could translate it. “Both of your feet are virtually bathed in sacramental wine,” I said. “Were you not so tired from your run, I would imagine that you would have smelt it.”

“Blow me,” the constable stated. “Every fibre of me wants to ask how on earth you gentlemen caught that. However, first and foremost, I must carry out my duties. Mr. Holmes, I am required to accompany you to the scene of the most curious crime that I have seen. I am to tell you that the room is locked, and that nothing has been touched that we can see.”

“I fail to see why you would need my assistance for that. Call a locksmith.”

“Well, that’s the thing, you see, sir. We can see four dead men from the window, and the door has been locked from the inside, and the locksmith there says that it’s nothing to do with the lock. The door just won’t open. No one is prepared to smash a window on account of it being a church, sir. So the inspector asked that I recite these details to you exactly. Between you and me, sir, I think he’s trying to ask for help without specifically asking for help.”

“Well, that is an intriguing matter, and you are absolutely correct that Lestrade would never admit to needing my assistance in front of so many ears - something I will spend more time upon in the future. For now, gentlemen, downstairs! We have a trip to make.”

Holmes then seemed to appear in his coat and hat as if a conjuror had stepped into our rooms. Not a moment later, we were in a cab heading for the church.

Act II

Little did I know that our destination was one of the better-known churches of London - so vast, and at the same time so stunning, that one could believe that someone might hide in the shadows for an age. We pulled up outside, and my curiosity must’ve been visibly bursting, as my friend smiled and said, “The constable is still pressing on your mind, Watson, and I fear you haven’t paid a moment’s notice to the little challenge I laid before you.”

“You’re quite right, Holmes, though I believe from your reaction that the two must be connected in some way.” Holmes let out a cry at my feeble attempt to curry favour for a clue.

“Watson, you have hit upon the trail. However, the connection between the riddle and this investigation is only a matter of happenstance, as if penned to illustrate the purpose of my challenge. The point of the riddle and the policeman isn’t that they are linked through themes or a particular item - it’s that one salient and often over-looked piece of information, because of its commonplace sensibility within the setting, can be potentially the most lucrative when it comes to solving a puzzle. The riddle simply highlights a particular way of thinking that is beneficial for deduction.

“The man and woman meet for drinks. She arrives late, out of breath on a hot day. They have the identical beverage, served over ice. However, the thirsty woman drinks hers immediately, while the man sips his more slowly. Soon, he dies. Now, think - do you see anything in connection to the way the constable drank the water that you provided and the woman in the story?”

I thought, and then I began to dimly understand. “When the constable handed me the empty glass, the ice that I’d placed in it was still nearly whole.”

Holmes smiled. “Exactly. He drank quickly due to his thirst, so the ice hadn’t had a chance to melt - the same as for the thirsty woman in the story. While her companion, the man drinking at his leisure, allowed the ice to melt, its substance diffusing into the beverage. Both drinks had poisoned ice, but only the man’s had time to become effective.

“Now, as regards the prediction of the constable’s arrival - you know my methods. My senses are always working, and I had simply heard a faint but expedient sound of police-issue shoes approaching quickly in the street outside through our marginally open window, giving me the man’s job and age, and thus allowing me to infer his position and rank. Someone running down Baker Street at that time must have had a pressing matter, and running at all when he could have caught a cab shows his inexperience, and also that he would need to quench his thirst.”

I had that same feeling of wanting to kick myself for not having seen something that was right under my nose the whole time, and Holmes flashed me his all-knowing grin which, in times like this, I could admittedly do without. As we turned to the very obvious scene of the crime, judging by the amount of policemen gathered around the window and closed door, Lestrade greeted us. “Right, then, Mr. Holmes. We have a door sealed from the inside that no locksmith knows how to open, four dead men, and a room that has yet to be touched since whatever has happened, happened. No one associated with the church,” he added, “saw a thing.”

“And this?” Holmes pointed at a scattering of broken wine bottles near the doorway.

Lestrade grimaced. “An accident. After we had arrived, one of the constables turned from the window in shock and straight into a delivery man.”

Holmes glanced at me. “Thus the smell of sacramental wine upon our young constable friend.” He then turned to peer at the door, followed by a lengthy view through the window. Finally, he said, “Two things, Lestrade. You’re going to need a few more men or a pickaxe of some description. And can someone please fetch me a Bible?”

“A Bible, Holmes?” I enquired. “Surely you, of all people, do not need to seek comfort in such a book.”

“On the contrary, my dear Watson. It is merely a source of fact-checking at this stage, and I use the word ‘fact’ in the loosest sense. This scene is already representative of a battle that has been going on throughout the ages.” As grandiose and potentially interesting as that sounded, Lestrade beat me to my question.

“I know that you’re dying for someone to ask, Mr. Holmes, but before you continue making such outlandish statements, could you please explain yourself?”

“The pocket squares, Lestrade, the pocket squares!” He gestured toward the window. “Surely you observed that each of the four men within that room have matching squares, folded in the exact same manner, alike in every way except for their markedly different colours. They are obviously arranged to attract attention. Red, white, black, and green. Did neither you, nor anyone else, ever pay attention in Sunday School?

“Given that we are in a church,” he continued, “it is interesting to note that the poor souls we see before us are quite infamous in London circles for renouncing the church, or at least the way of thinking that it glorifies. I would know their faces anywhere: Charles Livingston, Daniel Manning, Lincoln McConnell - who moved here from North America not six months ago to pursue his work in the sciences with this group - and Martin Noland, the latter being the most religious of the group, as he comes from a family of priests, and in that same vein, the most infamous of the dead men, due to his outspoken nature.”

“I realise that I am very stupid and you are very clever, Mr. Holmes, but would you please make your point?” Lestrade rebuked. “What in God’s name do pocket squares and a pickaxe have to do with anything?” This was another of those important moments that I shall remember for quite some time - Lestrade rarely admits to being the lesser man in any situation, and yet here he belittled himself and praised my friend in the same breath, even if sarcastically. Though Holmes would later remind him of this instant time and again in order to quieten him when needed, it was understood between the three of us that Lestrade was merely snapping in a moment of frustration, caused by one too many problems occurring all at once.

“The pickaxe is a simple matter: You will need it to open the door, as it has been sealed shut with a concrete mixture from the inside - you can see it there, escaping from under the bottom of the doorway. Now, before I go any further, you must allow me to enter the room first to observe and to collect valuable data, lest your men trample something of importance, like the-”

“Holmes, please stay on track,” I interrupted, noticing the pallor of the inspector’s face change to a deep red.

“Yes, of course,” Holmes continued. “The scent of fresh concrete is still in the air, coupled with the fact, as I mentioned, that some has slipped underneath the doorway as it has set. This shows two things: Whomever the killer is, he or she is not in that trade, as such a sloppy thing would never have happened if a craftsman were involved, and the other is that the killer could still potentially be sealed inside with the bodies.”

“Pickaxe now!” Lestrade cried. I pressed for an answer that perplexed me much more. “Why the Bible?” I asked softly. Holmes must have been in a particularly good mood, for he was able to recite his thoughts and deductions without a growing sense of annoyance at being forced to slow down.

“I did pay attention in Sunday School, Watson. Over the years, my proclivities as a logician have led me into a battle with circular belief systems of faith, time and again, and as such, I’ve read the Bible cover-to-cover on more than one occasion. ‘Know thy enemy,’ Watson, ‘know thy enemy’.

“Proverbs?” I asked.

“Sun Tzu,” he replied. “The attic that I’ve created in my head can often be a little vague if I haven’t visited a specific part of it in a while, particularly that place that holds the Good Book. Still, I strongly recall that the Apocalyptic Horsemen were represented by colours - red, white, black, and green - colours that match each of the prominently displayed pocket squares in the jackets of these unfortunate gentlemen. Have you found one?” he asked suddenly, as if I had been about the search for a Bible all along.

It was a simple matter to locate one, given that we were in a church. I was only gone a few minutes before returning with the book in question. Holmes flipped quickly to the back and nodded, as if his suspicions had been confirmed. I looked to see that the door was very nearly prised open. Lestrade, of course - feeling hugely important with his commands of “Faster!” - grew louder and more impatient. At last, the door was undone, and all went silent, bar one. Holmes used his handkerchief to push open the door as wide as it would go and then took in a huge breath. He hung his head moments later in what seemed like disappointment. However, we did not have long to wait in order to find out why, as my friend - ever the dramatist - didn’t intend to miss a valuable opportunity here. This, was another singular reason that this case stands out for me - the little things indeed.

“There is no cause for alarm, gentlemen, for all who are inside are quite deceased. You have my word.

I must confess that, as familiar as I was with death, the macabre nature of the setting was most affecting. For an instant, I felt the tension catch in my throat.

“I implore you,” said Holmes, “give me at least five minutes within the room, no more, to gather evidence so that I may put this to rest at once.”

Lestrade gestured him inside with some urgency. In matters of this nature, however, Holmes, never to be rushed, was always careful and cautious, as well as taking time to drink in every last detail in that singular way of which only he seemed capable. There were occasions when he reminded me of a bloodhound, not least of all because he was prone to smelling victims and crawling around on the floor, examining it through his glass lens. Yet, I looked twice when I saw him, with my own two eyes, taste some powdery residue that he spotted near one of the dead men, whom I soon learned was Daniel Manning.

Then, in a flash, it was over. He jolted to his feet and motioned for the inspector to begin his side of the investigation. “That’s quite enough to get me started, Inspector. I would recommend that you take the water jug from the table, as well as the glasses, as there are no injection marks or any other signs of the poison being ingested in some other way. Make no mistake: This is murder, and it was unsuspected. Watson, come! We have a cult to find. They are dabblers in the dark arts, so be prepared to see some curious wonders.”

With that, Holmes left the room to hail a cab. This, then, was the performer of whom I had grown so fond!

Act III

We returned to Baker Street, and no sooner had we entered the rooms than Holmes lit a pipe - a sure sign that something had puzzled him greatly. I was hesitant to ask, as one of a few things usually happens: Either I have missed something important, or Holmes will let his excitement get the better of him and talk far too quickly for a clear understanding. Or if I’m very unlucky, both.

“Holmes, I must confess: With what we have, I’m quite perplexed by it all. Sealed shut from the inside, and all murdered, with no apparent culprit inside. He - or indeed she - must have been an apparition of sorts.” I thought that I would try to beat him to the punch on at least one of the points.

“Watson, the matter is this: We must eliminate the impossible. Ghosts are not real, despite what people will believe, and until I see one, I shall steadfastly hold my belief. There are four dead men in a room, only one of whom would be needed to seal it from within. If it was a joint suicide on all counts, it would then be a contrived spectacle, intentionally used to make a statement about their cause. Instead, it’s murder. All of the men were in reasonably comfortable positions, which one would not expect of anyone who has been poisoned, as they clearly were. Therefore, someone moved their bodies to more relaxed positions afterwards. The real question that I have for myself at this point is how this connects to the apocalyptic nature of the Bible, and - if there was a fifth person with them - where did he or she go afterwards, if indeed he or she went anywhere at all?”

“How could this other person leave if they were sealed shut from the inside?” I asked

“Now, Watson, you are asking the important questions!” He puffed quietly on his pipe before rising. “I must go out. I believe that, with a bit of research into the backgrounds of the four dead men, I’ll be able to find a trail leading to those who have an interest in this affair.”

And with that, Holmes donned one of his many indiscriminate jackets and was out the door. I was unsure as to whether it was because he knew that I might ask more questions, or that he was simply giving a fine performance. He did not return that night. Occasions such as these always left me on edge, as I was never sure if my friend was going on some type of reconnaissance mission or using his ability to blend in so that he could slip into a less-than-reputable part of London, as he was prone to do when a matter of this sort vexed his mind. Also playing on my mind as well, aside from the concern for Holmes’s well-being, was the question of how could the murderer - he, or even she - have still been in the room? Nothing slipped by my friend when he was given full capacity to let loose his skills.

It was a beautiful morning when I awoke to discover, sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed, none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. He had a look on his face that allayed my previous concerns, only to ignite another. This was no ordinary problem for him; this had shaken him. One could always tell when something had truly disturbed him. I had seen it during the times involving The Woman. He didn’t blink, he barely moved, and most importantly, he didn’t smoke. I didn’t quite know how to ask what was wrong, or what he had seen that troubled him so, though I was grateful that I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Watson, you know me to be a man of logic and well-founded skills, based upon reasoning and evidence. Much of the time, I observe evidence that admittedly others cannot - or choose not - to see, but it is evidence nonetheless. However, I must confess that I have no satisfactory explanation for what I saw last night. Well, I have no satisfactory explanation yet, except for the fact that I should not have seen what I saw, for quite simply it cannot exist. Still, I saw it - I saw him - plain as day, and with my own two eyes!”

“Holmes, what the devil is going on? Whom did you see, and why are you sitting in my room?”

“I saw what I was told was Daniel Manning’s ghost. I saw him, not moving, but almost as an apparition. I heard a voice, but have no way of knowing if it was his or not, as I have never heard the man speak. However, others around me seemed quite excited by the fact that they could hear the voice of someone that they knew and recognized.”

I gestured before I spoke, and clearly my dear friend knew what I was going to say, again for he answered it before I uttered a syllable.

“No, Watson, they were not twins. I feel you misunderstand what I am saying. This wasn’t simply a person in an excellent disguise - this wasn’t even a person. What I saw managed to keep its form as others passed through it. I could find neither an explanation, nor a mirror, nor some sort of projection machine. But one thing is certain. I need to go back and carry out further inspection. Until that time, however, I remain, I confess, at a loss as to how I saw those things.”

He stood and began to pace. “A quick investigation narrowed my interest to Daniel Manning, who has been associated for some time with a prospering religious movement, located in a house in the East End. Suitably disguising myself, I made my way inside, during a meeting that was taking place there last night.

“The place can only be described as a ‘cult-house’. It was during the ceremony that I saw young Mr. Manning, knowing for certain all the while that he was dead. I watched as people passed through him. The only thing I can tell you for sure is that the attendees were passing through the... the apparition on purpose, as if to overstate the fact of its appearance. They seem to value this as the great proof of their belief, as well as it being an aid in convincing the undecided masses with whom I stood. Watson, these people - these believers – have the potential to be very dangerous indeed, as there were more than several prominent scientists there. If they are to be indoctrinated, then believe me when I say - and no dramatisation would be needed - the next generation will be at risk.”

Now, I may not be in league with my friend, but I am smart enough to know that science and religion and all the other things of a mystical nature have been at war for centuries, and at any time when one side is doing particularly better than the other, then usually a great many people are in danger. Holmes and I would need to control this quickly.

Holmes remained most perturbed for the rest of the day, until he decided that we should return that night to the “cult-house”, as he continued to call it. Thus, we found ourselves that evening approaching a nondescript building in the East End. To many, it would simply be a darkened corner of an even more ghastly and gothic-looking alleyway in the heart of London. Blink and one would have missed it while walking by, as it seemed to blend into the other looming buildings surrounding it. Yet, it was the type of place that might affect anyone’s mood, simply by sight alone. As we arrived there, at what I understood to be the next meeting, Holmes’s sights were set on something much more tangible and “of this world”, as he put it - data. My friend was in desperate need for a solution to this problem, as it was an itch that he simply could not scratch.

I was of a mind that we were going to be quietly and surreptitiously entering the house, but Holmes simply wandered in, without a care being paid to keep the fact that we were on a secret hunt. “Holmes!” I whispered as loudly as I could without discomfort, “Shouldn’t we be a little more careful?” This as my friend rummaged in his whirlwind way through the drawers and cupboards of the entrance room.

“Nonsense, Watson. I spent last evening amongst the peers of this den. That is more than enough time for me to know its workings. Now, at any moment there is going to be a very large gentleman coming through this door. It is of the upmost importance that you not give him any reason to be alarmed.”

“Whatever do you mean, a large gentleman?” I said.

“He is the protection for the place. There are some very familiar faces that walk the halls here, which is why this group has the potential to be such a threat. Now, my friend, did you have the foresight to bring your revolver?”

I nodded. It was all that I could do not to be propelled into action, and yet the sight of this “large gentleman” when he arrived was enough to allay any urge that I had. He was at least seven feet tall, and not only did he have to duck down to get through the doorway, but he had to step sideways through it as well. He reminded me of the carriages that only large horses could pull. In that moment, it was very clear why, with his magnitude, he represented a one man force: Having others to help him would be merely laughable.

I turned to find Holmes, hoping for some guidance regarding what to say, as I was quite out of my depth. He wasn’t there. So much for the non-stealthy approach. I hadn’t heard anything when he vanished. Looking into the jet black eyes of this mountainous man must have only taken a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime. I couldn’t let my mind run away with me, musing on all the feats of strength of which he must be capable, and thinking how feeble my bones would be under his dinner-plate-sized hands. No doubt he would quickly determine that I was there for reasons with which he would be less than happy.

After those few lifelong seconds, a frail greying northern man stepped in, introducing himself to the guard with what must have been some form of a secret handshake, as it was quite unnatural to see. The man then nodded toward me and stated, “This is my friend’s first outing into the ways of this world. I am keen to open his eyes to the possibilities.”

Two things made sense in that instant: I must have looked like a clueless child to these men, and the man from the north was in fact Sherlock Holmes. This was clearly the disguise he had used when he was here last.

Leaning in, Holmes whispered, “I found nothing in the entrance but whispers of my youth and books on science and conjuring.” His expression then went vacant as we were shown into a gaggle of people, sharing quiet words as if in a doctor’s surgery. I knew better than to ask what was happening. Holmes needed to work, and I was more than a little intrigued with what I was about to see. I turned to ask him about it, and much to my surprise, he was gone again. I was shocked to see a great many respected scientists in the crowd, as well as politicians and even members of the Yard, though I only counted two of those. It would be a few weeks later when I would be able to question them about their involvement with this cause and hear their embarrassed explanations.

An aging man entered the pulpit at the centre of the stage in front of us. Were I in a different location, it might have looked as if we were about to watch a show.

“My friends, it pleases me to see so many familiar faces, and a few new ones as well. We are here to celebrate in the knowledge that the followers of our cause can experience an existence without end. A few days ago, our brother Daniel was taken by the Horsemen as a punishment for his non-belief. I spoke with them and pleaded for his return so that he might continue to do the work for us and our way of life.” He smiled. “And they informed me that he would return. And he has.”

I expected him to dance around the topic at hand a bit more, but no. Here was a man that stated unequivocally that there is life after death, and also that he had been in direct contact with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I didn’t know whether or not I was more concerned about the forthright nature of his speech, or the fact that so many people around me seemed to believe in what he was saying. It was a feeling of uncertainty that I had experienced too many times in my life, but not so strongly since that fateful day at Reichenbach in 1894. This, and for many other reasons, is why this case stands out in my memory. I say again, I saw and heard a man that night who stated outright that he spoke with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

“Your continued support and allegiance to this cause,” continued the aging man, “has pleased so many of our constituents and spiritual friends. The time will come when you can show your dedication. But until that time comes, let me show you why your aid is so valued. Let’s talk to Daniel.

“I understand that for belief, proof is needed, and I offer it to you simply. My boy,” he called, “come back to this plane and share with us the wisdom of your existence. Come back and show us why we value our time in this household. Come back and let us rejoice in the knowledge that what we do here, in his room, protects us and binds us for all time.”

At that moment, in a flash of light, I also saw what Holmes had seen the night before - Daniel Manning! He was there - or at least some part of him - floating in the middle of the room, and looking exactly like the dead man that had been in the sealed room, right down to the clothing and the prominent pocket square. Although his spirit, if such that it was, appeared only in shades of blacks, whites, and greys, the fold of cloth suggested red, as had the one that was on the body on the previous day. The phantom’s mouth was slightly ajar but not moving, and yet we heard his voice, albeit muffled and difficult to understand. The leader informed us that this was due to the trans-dimensional distance.

“Under my guidance, I will now ask our new friends, including the colonels and army doctors among you, to come up and meet Daniel.”

I froze. He came down into crowd time and again, and one at a time we were encouraged to go up onto the stage and talk to the apparition, and then to pass through him. Many around me stated that the apparatiion sounded exactly like Daniel Manning, whom they had known during his lifetime. On stage, people asked ridiculous questions, obviously in some attempt to prove that what they were seeing was not real, and each one left the stage dumbfounded at the answers, and even more so after walking through him.

Then came my turn. I had no questions. I merely observed, and could see nothing but lights and a body, floating there before me. I walked through the apparition, and it was as cold as the fear I had felt years before when I believed that my friend had died. On my way back to the crowd, Holmes was standing there, this time looking slightly pleased. This was a huge comfort to me, as I had just had my world turned upside down.

Act IV

We returned to the rooms at Baker Street to find Lestrade waiting for us. He had that same look of impatience that I recognised as “being beaten to punch” by Holmes again, and I was brought back to this world, as I knew that this was when I would actually get to see a performance - a performance of one of the sharpest minds of our generation.

“Well, what is it, Mr. Holmes? Some of us have to work and can’t simply spend our days wearing makeup and going about the town.”

“Are we simply solving the murders, Lestrade, or also the reasons why?” Holmes asked.

Lestrade grew flustered with impatience as he attempted to chastise my friend about the two being intrinsically linked. Before he could begin, however, Holmes told him of our experience at the old house where the cult was ensconced.

“The murders and the reason are in essence connected,” Holmes continued, “but there is much blame to go around, and we will eventually need to track down and question a great number of people. First things first: The powder that you found on the ground by young Mr. Manning’s body was Magnesium, was it not? It certainly tasted like it.”

Lestrade turned to me as if to confirm that he had heard what he had heard. I merely gestured in such a way as to indicate that I was not shocked to hear that Holmes would taste Magnesium, and also that I had no idea how he knew that he could taste it without coming to any harm.

“Four dead men, one with Magnesium beside him. Do you find it suggestive that such a powder was found with the bodies? Oh well, more about that in a moment. First I will explain and let you in on a secret of such severity that you may be reminded of a conjuror revealing his secrets. When I saw the ghost of Daniel Manning, or what looked like the ghost of him - I can’t even say that now without feeling some form of anger at myself for being taken in by it! - I knew that is must be some sort of illusion.

“On my way through the halls of that place, that cult-house, I found a few things that were the turning points in this case - specifically a camera, and a few books on magic and conjuring. My friends, have you ever heard of Pepper’s Ghost?”

Our glum expressions were enough to show Holmes that we had no idea what he was talking about, for we couldn’t even formulate a question.

“Go with me on a journey, if you will, a journey of imagination. Two men form an organization, religious in nature, but decidedly dishonest. Now imagine three other men who make it their business to question religions, and are on the cusp of disproving and dismantling this growing cult.”

“Charles Livingston, Lincoln McConnell, and Martin Noland!” I asserted.

“Very good, Watson! And the two men who started the cult would be Daniel Manning and his father.”

“Is that the man who spoke to the crowd?” I asked.

“I believe not. From my research of the organization, Manning’s father tends to keep to the shadows. That is how he was able to maneuverer so well when faced with the efforts of the other three to dismantle and disprove their cult, which would essentially destroy their source of money and with it, the power that it provides for the Mannings.

“But then - something happens. The three men working to expose the cult unexpectedly have the opportunity to take on someone whom they believe is an informant, but is in fact a double agent. It’s a case of the old ‘I have served evil but now I want to do good, so I’ll tell you about the evil in order for you to think that I am good, while I am still actually evil’ routine.”

Lestrade looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I smiled, and Holmes continued. “Daniel Manning, still working secretly with his father while acting as if he has turned against the cult, manages to convince the other three that a meeting to discuss proceedings will be best. They do so, at the church where the bodies were found, for who would expect that they would assemble there? The very nature of the setting adds to the Mannings’ plan. It was likely presented as safe neutral ground. There, Daniel Manning poisons the other three with something in the drinks - you did find poison in the water jug, did you not Lestrade?

“We did.”

“Excellent. Manning poisoned the other three, Livingston, McConnell, and Noland. It was then that the elder Manning joined him, helped him to arrange the bodies, and proceeded to take photographs of Daniel for use later.”

“Photographs?” I asked.

“Of course. This is proven by the presence of the Magnesium, an important component of flash powder. Although the photographs of Manning, later used in the illusion of his ghost, could certainly have been made elsewhere, creating them at the scene had certain value in creating the effect. Then, with the other three dead and the photographs complete, the elder Manning departs, leaving Daniel to seal himself inside the room with the dead men. I have some theories about how the materials used to seal the room were hidden as well, but I’ll address that later. The advantage to all of this, as explained to Daniel Manning by his father, would be that the cult, having perceived an outside threat, has managed to destroy all three enemies to their cause, leaving one faithful servant alive.”

“But Holmes,” I said. “Manning’s son died.”

“Yes. Despite what Daniel Manning was told of the plan, the elder of these two evil cult leaders had other ideas. Daniel, under the illusion that he was serving his father, the elder leader, by creating a ‘miracle’, sealed himself in with the three other men, using concrete around the door. Then he sat down. He and his father had already placed the four Apocalyptic pocket squares to add extra portents of doom and then arranged the bodies in a semblance of comfort, to seem as if they had died peacefully in their chairs.

“After Daniel sealed up the room with concrete to add to the locked-room illusion, he seated himself as well, taking something given to him by his elder master, having been told that it would leave him unconscious, to be found later within the room as a supposed fourth but lucky victim. The death of the other three would serve to reinforce the beliefs of the cult - and encourage donations! Unbeknownst to Daniel Manning, however, the material that he added to his own drink, supposedly something quite a bit different and more harmless than what was given to the others, had also been poisoned by the elder cult leader, his own father, leaving a beautiful symmetry for the Four Horsemen illusion.

“In the meantime,” Holmes continued, “the leader of this cult had prepared well, knowing what he needed for the next part of his plan. As I mentioned, he had previously taken several pictures of Daniel Manning that would serve to represent to a full-length image of the man, as he appeared just before his true death. That brings me to Pepper.

“We were taken in by a conjuror’s illusion. It works quite simply, based upon the reflection of light through a clean plane of glass. There was a book in the cupboard of the entrance hall pertaining to that very trick. With the power of belief, all that one needs to make it happen is to tantalise with an idea, a suggestion, and then have a piece of evidence or proof to back it up, and the circle of thinking has been established.

“Magical performances and mesmerism give the audience something that they cannot refute. Now I ask you: If you saw something of that nature, in a setting that was outside of a theatre, would you immediately assume a trick, or would you consider the possibility, even a slight one, of something else?”

In that one crystallising moment, everything that my friend had been telling me from the beginning of this case rushed back to me, including the meaning of the riddle with the poisoned ice cube and the thirsty constable that came calling. It occurred to me that it must always be this way for Holmes - seeing the one fact, the one salient detail, that could break apart an entire puzzle. In this case, my friend had observed a camera and a reference to a magic trick, and that had set his mind ablaze, allowing him to make connections that might not otherwise have been made, purely because, as he sometimes put it, his emotional qualities had become inextricably intertwined with his eyes.

“Did you notice that many people seemed to accept that the voice we heard was that of the dead man? I believe that it was being produced off-stage by Daniel Manning’s father. Who better to produce a similar voice than a member of the same family? I’m certain that it was coming out of those long metal horns shoved into the corner of the room.

“We are a product of our surroundings, and those that surround us. Words, dialect, and cadence from Daniel’s father would have sounded very familiar to those around us, those that knew him, and it’s thanks to this ‘trans-dimensional distance’, as the man on the stage put it, the voice that we heard could be so easily mistaken for Daniel’s, when in fact it was his actual father’s voice.

“He, then, is the architect of this whole case, the whole cult, and indeed the whole problem. He is the man whose reach has the potential to rival another criminal mastermind that we have faced in our time. We find the father, and we find the poison, and put this whole problem to bed, as he is the real murderer who also took his own son’s life to keep his cause going in the eyes of all those he relied upon to move silently in the shadows.”

Act V

Lestrade needed a few drinks and nearly fifteen minutes to go over the details of what he had just heard, until we were all upon the same page. We then headed back to the church to find the materials used to seal the departed souls into the room. Holmes led the charge, as usual when he was chasing a lead. To him, finding these materials would prove his reasoning. We entered the room and went straight to the bookcase in the corner.

“It occurs to me, Watson, that books can be used for a great many things, both good and bad, and in some cases in which I’ve been consulted, they can literally be used as weapons. In this case, I believe we will find our materials hidden amongst these pages.”

I was of the opinion that if books contained the tools needed to seal one’s self in a room, then they would be a little more obvious, negating the entire purpose of the search. Holmes had told me that he knew that the materials had to be hidden somewhere, as there were no compartments that could not be seen, no drawers or cupboards, and most importantly, there was no cellar and no other openings to the room. I had thought that Daniel Manning might have used his hands to smooth the mix into the seams of the room, which meant that he would only need to hide the concrete mix itself. Holmes was all too quick to point out the many reasons why this was impossible, including the fact that there was no trace of concrete on the dead man’s hands.

At that stage, the search didn’t need to be delicate, as we knew exactly what we were after, and all the other evidence that could possibly be collected from the room had already been taken. Therefore, the books were merely pulled from the shelves, I was clearly looking in the wrong place, as I was hugely disappointed when I saw nothing remaining on the shelves after all of the books had plunged to the ground. Holmes, on the other hand, began to flip through the pages of what looked like every single book that he could get his hands on.

He then stopped and began to smile a huge, all-knowing, moderately conceited, and partially relieved smile. “Watson, when I said the books held the key, I meant it literally.” He turned one of them around to show that it had been hollowed out and - as he had foretold, like some sort of spiritual man himself - within was a dirtied trowel. We also found the remainder of the concrete mix that Daniel Manning had used, hidden in the plant pots and mixed in with the soil. Holmes pointed out that lilies were never that particular colour, and their smell was unnatural as well. To this day, I still remain happily uncertain of just how many senses Holmes has, or how finely tuned they are.

“Now on to the next game, gentlemen - finding the father!” Lestrade summoned a pair of constables and we found a growler to transport us to the cult-house. Soon we were standing outside. “Of my two trips exploring the literal catacombs in the bowels of this building, I discovered only one locked door, and I was robbed of the time I needed to gain entry. In that we have quite literally eliminated the impossible, because I have searched the other rooms and found no other data, then the one that remains must be the truth - or in this case, our missing link.”

Holmes led us inside. There was no sign of the gigantic man - in fact, the house seemed to be deserted completely. Holmes moved with confidence to a back hallway and straight to the door in question. It was akin to a front door in the middle of a hallway, for it had the most grandiose of door knockers. It looked as though someone had taken great pains to demonstrate just how much money they had, and this was an extension of their wealth and taste. It was enough to make one wonder about the treasures that one would find on the other side. The simple act of knocking before entering told us that, whatever was in this room, even the cult itself wanted it kept secret from the other members. It was for this reason that I believe Holmes had such excitement in his eyes - a puzzle within a puzzle. It isn’t very often that these come along for my friend. He let his mood get the better of him, I fear, for he knocked on the door quite loudly, and a voice that we recognised beckoned us inside.

The door itself was quite a heavy struggle to push open, and once we had, it took several moments to drink in the details of the room. Sheets of paper covered in scrawled scriptures were strewn about the floor, and what seemed to be a few hundred pins were stuck in a map of the whole country. A small vintage library stood in one corner, and weaponry and gothic ornaments were on every shelf. In another corner, hunched forward in his chair, was a man that not only sounded, but looked, very familiar as well.

Holmes stepped forward “Mr. Manning, Senior. After being thrown out of Oxford all those years ago for your conduct and addiction to substances, your bitter feud with that world has sent you down the wrong path. Though you are a skilled builder, I must confess that what you have built here is not something of which you should be proud.”

“Who are you?” uttered Mr. Manning in a startled breath.

“Had you spent any time in the real world, you would know precisely who I am. I am here simply to ask why you conspired in the murder of three respected men, what exactly you plan on doing with the gun that is currently resting under your left hand, and why did you murder your only son?”

Manning Senior continued to stare vacantly at Holmes, clearly in shock. My friend, taking this as his cue to continue, did so. “I can see that you are a man who has been blinded by the dreams of power and have regretted your actions, but that does not tell me why. I need to know! And while La Palina is a fine brand, you may not smoke in my presence until you have explained to me your part in this. Now, talk to me and unburden yourself.”

Lestrade had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout this whole ordeal. He was either still unsettled, or was simply a bit behind. However, he looked like he was about to speak when Mr. Manning cried, “Get out of my head! What are you?”

“You see, that’s the thing with belief, isn’t it?” asked Holmes. “You operate with what you’ve been given, and when that isn’t the whole story, when that isn’t all of the facts, you are forced into making up your own mind, based upon the evidence at hand. That is what I deal in. I am not anything but an observant man, and I assure you that the signs are in this room for all to see. But it is only I, Sherlock Holmes, that chooses to see them.”

“I have heard the name before,” said the old man, “and yet I never get to see or hear much of the outside world these days. This whole saga is gathering speed, and is quite tough to hold on to. It only started as a way to show that arrogant community that I can make them believe in whatever I want them to - that they don’t hold all the answers. If they’d only listened to me when I was there, then we wouldn’t be here right now.

“The answer is a simple one, Mr. Holmes.” My friend nodded. “I needed a way to make my story real. I needed a way to give these people evidence, a way to show them that what had gone on for all the years before had all been for something. I’ll confess that we have committed some severe atrocities in the past-”

“Attacks on royalty throughout Europe, thefts of both art and jewels, and arson.” Holmes interrupted.

“It seems you know more about the goings on of my organisation than someone of this world should. Then you’ll understand that I needed to give the people something to convince them, and sacrificing my son was the easiest way to do it. I wanted to regain control, as my leadership was being contested, you see. I could do all of that, and more, with a few well-timed drinks and a magic trick.”

“Your own son - !” I began, but Holmes raised a hand.

“The drinks,” he said. “You lured some of your enemies to the church, and worked out a plan with your son to murder them, while you told him that his would be a miraculous recovery. But he had to die as well, with coloured pocket squares added to the mix to suggest an association with the Four Horsemen. And then, you were cold enough to make use of his death through a photographic image and distorted voices.”

Manning nodded. “A simple magic trick is all that it took to gain blind allegiance from some of the finest minds in this land! You will probably understand the rest.” Mr. Manning let out small silent movements that resembled laughter, but he had deep set sadness in his eyes, I agreed wholeheartedly with Holmes in assigning regret to him, for he looked, underneath it all, to be in a great deal of pain. It is this reason why I believe that he confessed so readily to Holmes, and by extension to myself and Lestrade, as he wanted this to end, and to possibly find some peace.

“Come on, up you get. You’re under arrest,” Lestrade said proudly. Mr. Manning cradled the gun in his hands a little before standing, which set us all on edge for just a moment. Then, he sighed and gave it up, and he was escorted out.

In the weeks that followed, we would learn just how deeply this organisation had actually been set within the country. Life-sized photos of numerous other dead men and women showed up in many places, which gave some indication of just how wide-spread the planned colonisation of England was under the rule of this evil group. This truly had been the cusp of something quite catastrophic. If they hadn’t experienced such an internal battle, resulting in Manning’s need to murder his own son in order to remove his enemies while giving himself some added credence, then I might be writing about a different case altogether. We would later learn of Mr. Manning’s suicide in his cell, as evidently his impending judgment was something for which he could not wait.

So, as I remarked at the beginning of this affair, the reasons why I shall always remember this case are many, and they are why it will always stand out in my mind. I felt that I understood my dear friend’s methods just that little bit more, but I also gained more of an understanding as to how he used them, and what continuous work that it must be. In a city that had its best and brightest swept under the rug of circular belief, it was my friend that stood against the tide to show them all just what “having an intellect worth using”, as he put it, was for.

My most favourite reason for recalling this case, however, and one that makes me smile even to this very day, was that my friend, Sherlock Holmes, with his razor-sharp observational and deductive skills and unparalleled logical prowess, was stopped dead in his tracks, if for just a little while, because he believed that he had seen a ghost!