The Problem of the Hindhead Minister

The summer of 1883 brought a number of interesting cases to the rooms that I shared with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and we found ourselves staying quite busy. By that time, my health had been restored to a remarkable degree, far beyond what I would have expected if asked even a year earlier, and I was able to accompany my friend on many of his investigations. My notes for that season fill several volumes, and in glancing through them, I see with fondness the little matter of the restoration of Miss Hayes to her position as headmistress to the school that she founded in Biggleswade, the terrible disappointment related to the Fawsley Cemetery Demon, and the sinister matter of the Five Red Ice-men. But I think that among them all, nothing seems as shocking as the sudden intrusion of Reverend Angus Blackthorn and his peculiar persecution.

Holmes and I found ourselves at home one afternoon, unexpectedly free from recent obligations. It was a rare chance to catch our collective breath and enjoy a quiet moment – or so we thought. We had been lazily discussing Darwinism and its societal relationship to execution for capital crimes. We offered contrary opinions, each taking one side and then dancing to the other as a new fact occurred to us. We had reached no clear consensus when suddenly the front doorbell began to ring urgently.

Holmes sat up, tossing the remains of his cigar into the unlit fireplace. A smile crossed his face as we heard a faint exchange at the front door between Mrs. Hudson and the visitor – a man, from the low rumbles of his voice. Then, the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs was soon followed by a knock. Holmes called, “Enter,” and the door was thrown open, revealing a towering figure with wild black hair and a long tangled matching beard of equivalent shading.

He wore a dark suit, quite rumpled, and his face had a frantic look. “Mr. Holmes?” he said, looking unerringly toward my friend. We had both stood as the man entered, and when he took a step forward and then collapsed to the floor, we were already moving to his assistance.

As I knelt beside him, I saw that his clothing was loose and ill-fitting, as if he had recently lost weight. His face had a gaunt look, and he evinced the peculiar and unmistakable odor of someone who has been starved. I picked up his wrist to check his pulse – steady, I was gratified to find – and saw that his nails had been chewed down to the quick. I glanced up to see that Holmes had noticed this as well, and probably a dozen other things beyond my ability to observe.

We got the man to his feet, and I retrieved my bag from near the door. Soon I had examined him thoroughly, and he was awake and eating tea and biscuits from a tray, fetched by Holmes from Mrs. Hudson. Only when the man seemed well enough would I allow him to tell his story.

“Gentlemen, my name is Angus Blackthorn. I live in Hindhead, where I am the minister to a little non-conformist church.”

Holmes and I had discussed the man’s likely profession while he was still unconscious. Even I, still unschooled in Holmes’s methods during those early days, had spotted the man’s well-worn Testament, tucked in his breast pocket.

“We aren’t a large congregation,” Blackthorn continued, “and we don’t seek new members. If someone hears of us, and our beliefs, they are welcome to visit, and join us if they would like, but it isn’t part of our mission to proselytize, or to save everyone if they don’t want to be saved.

“We – my son and I – live in a small rectory beside our church. The church building itself is quite old – it might even be called ancient – having been built nearly a thousand years ago, before the Norman Conquest. Gradually, as I have been told, the traditional church that occupied the grounds for so long withered and died as members moved on. Apparently the building stood empty for thirty years or more. When my wife died ten years ago, I felt the calling to remove myself from where we lived near Manchester and begin my work anew. I traveled the country a bit before discovering the old building in Hindhead. Arrangements were made, and my son and I moved south. Since then, we’ve attracted a small congregation that cares for one another, while preparing for coming tribulations.”

“And what would those be, Reverend Blackthorn?” asked Holmes.

“The End Times,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know in this day and age, many people don’t believe in God’s judgment, but it is coming nonetheless,” he added. “One can see the signs every day – people forget about God and his Commandments. They pursue their own earthly and prurient interests. The only solution is to keep one’s eyes upon the Lord.”

I could see that Holmes was about to make some comment which would place the minister upon the defensive, so I interjected by asking, “You have a son,” I said. “Is he your only child?”

“Yes. He is ten years old, and was born when I lost my wife.” He lowered his eyes. “I realize that my beliefs are difficult for some to understand, and I do not try to force others to agree with me, and I also pray not to judge. It… it has been a struggle at times not to wonder if I was at fault – that I had sinned in some way – to bring about my wife’s death.”

“Surely,” said Holmes, “your God would not punish someone else for your sin,” he said. “Do you not consider that the sin could have been credited to your wife?”

Blackthorn’s eyes lifted suddenly, and I saw the quick intake of breath that dilated both of his nostrils, which suddenly went white. In that moment, he looked like an angry bull, about to charge. But then he closed his eyes and let whatever anger that had washed over him flow away. Then he gave a sad smile, and Holmes returned the look as if the minister had passed a test. “It is a question that intrudes on my own mind on nights when I cannot sleep,” said Blackthorn, “and there have been many of them of late, Mr. Holmes. I believe in God as I am able to understand Him, and He expects obedience from me, but He also created me as I am, and that includes possession of a questioning nature. I must be aware of this, and accept it as a mortal flaw, and not give in to despair or temptation, no matter what doubts creep into my mind in the dark and lonely hours.”

Holmes nodded. I knew he did not agree with someone such as Blackthorn, but at least it seemed to be clear that the man was not an unreasonable fanatic.

“What has caused you to hurry here so frantically this afternoon?” asked Holmes. “Apparently it is the culmination of a situation long-standing, if your physical condition is any indication.”

Blackthorn nodded. “It is. It all began a month ago, when the first message appeared.”

“Message?”

“I suppose it can be called that, although at the time I thought it was no more than harassment from a villager. It surprised me, because we have never been bothered by this type of thing before.” He fished in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet, which he handed to Holmes. “This,” he said, “is what I copied before wiping it away. It was written in chalk on the front door of the church.”

Holmes unfolded the sheet, glanced at it, and then handed it to me. It could only be described as a skull-like face, with empty eye sockets and grinning teeth. Protruding from the smooth high frontal bones were two horns, each coming to sharp and devilish-looking points.

“You say this appeared a month ago. What did you do?”

“Why, after the initial surprise, I copied it and washed it away.”

“Why copy it?”

“I suppose to have something to use as a reference if I determined who had done it.”

“And did you have any suspicions?”

“None. We’ve been tolerated, if not completely accepted, within the village. As I said, we only seek to be left alone. Our beliefs call for us to prepare for the coming tribulations, and to be ready when they arrive. My son and I have lived peacefully since moving there, having little contact with the town except for the church members from the surrounding community – some shopkeepers and merchants, a few professionals, and a smattering of elderly folk.”

“How large is your congregation?”

“Around thirty people.”

“Did you ask any of them about the drawing?”

“I did not.”

“Indeed. Did you make any investigation at all?”

“I… I kept an eye on the church, to see if anyone came back, but I never saw when it happened again.”

“I take it that your investigations found no indication of the perpetrator. Did you hear of any similar desecrations in the village?”

“None.”

“Clearly it worried you more than you let on. Your appearance indicates as much.”

“This is true, Mr. Holmes. It has preyed on my mind as I sought to discover who would do this, and why.”

“When did the next occurrence take place?”

“A week later to the day. I found the same drawing, but this time within the church, scrawled on the stone wall behind the pulpit.”

“Did you copy that one as well?”

“There was no need. It was the same. Since then I haven’t had a good night’s sleep, and I cannot eat. I was never the same after my wife died, and the last weeks have been much worse. I can’t get the matter out of my head, feeling that it portends something terrible. And then, in spite of my efforts to detect the next instance, it happened again the next week – last week.”

“On the same day?”

“Yes. Thursday. Each time it has been on that day. Like today.”

“But what happened today? What was different that would prompt your rush to London?”

“Because today my son was taken.”

Holmes straightened in his chair. “Kidnapped?”

“Yes.” He raised a hand. “But he was returned.”

“Explain.”

“Last night, I hid within the church, hoping to see the intruder, perhaps to capture him. However, the night passed without incident, and when the sun rose, I looked around the building, only to find that there were no chalk drawings. I hoped that was finally the end of it, but I suspected that in fact, my presence had been somehow detected, and I had scared the intruder. I went back to the rectory, intending to have a bite of breakfast, but first I went to awaken my son. I knocked, opened the door to his bedroom, and found his bed empty, the bedclothes thrown back, and the window open. Drawn in chalk on the wall above his bed was the symbol, the very same one, the skull with the devil’s horns. But this time there was something different. Along with the skull, there was a word: Abaddon.”

Holmes cocked his head. “The Hebrew word for The Angel of Death?”

“Yes, although sometimes the name is used to refer instead to a place of lost souls – Hell, if you will. Seeing such a… thing, an abomination, over my own dear son’s bed – Why, I nearly collapsed, and I must have cried out, because Mrs. Beddowes, the housekeeper who comes from the village every day, came running in. She gave a small scream, somehow understanding immediately that something terrible had happened.

“I immediately searched the room, but found no clues that meant anything to me. It was then that I recalled you, Mr. Holmes. I’ve heard that you can see what is hidden from others. I resolved to seek your help, but it was at that point that I heard my son, Timothy, call from outside the window.

“I raced outside to find him, still dressed for bed, looking confused and standing beneath a nearby tree. I scooped him up, for he truly is the most precious thing in the world to me, and thanked God for his safe return. I quickly saw that he seemed to be in a fog, possibly drugged, and that he was unclear as to what had happened. He couldn’t explain how he had ended up under the tree, or where he had been through the night.”

“Did you call a doctor?” I asked.

“No, sir. I realized that this was the sort of thing that didn’t need to become village gossip, and our doctor is the type who enjoys using little scraps of knowledge to enhance his own reputation. Instead, I remembered my earlier decision to ask for your help, Mr. Holmes, so I traveled to the station and made my way up to London.”

“Where is your son now?” I queried.

“With Mrs. Beddowes. She stayed over last night as well to keep him, as I intended to hide within the church.”

“Did she know about the previous drawings, or why you intended to keep watch?”

“I hadn’t told her. She has commented on my state over the past weeks – my nervousness, sleeplessness, and lack of appetite. She was under the impression that I intended to pray all night, and I didn’t disabuse her of the notion.”

Holmes sat silently for a few moments, and then rose, walked around Blackthorn and me, and made his way to the shelf containing his indexes. He took one, flipped through it without apparent success, and then two or three more, returning each to its place when he was done. “The symbol you describe doesn’t appear to be uniquely associated with any specific cult or religion,” he said. “Clearly something like that implies a connection with the dark side of things, but even with the information that I’ve collected, I cannot identify any one group that might be associated with your persecution.”

Blackthorn seemed disappointed, and Holmes stated, “Do not misunderstand me, sir. That little bit of research is not the limit of my assistance to you. We shall journey down to Hindhead immediately, assuming the good Doctor here is available to join us.”

I confirmed my participation, and soon we were at Waterloo, boarding a train to Haslemere, the nearest station to Hindhead. I had thought that Holmes would continue to question Blackthorn, but instead he sat in silence, smoking his pipe and pondering. I prompted Blackthorn to tell me a bit more about his church and its beliefs. It seemed to be a rather strict group, something along the lines of a few of the more grim American churches. Their beliefs were rather narrow, with specific requirements as to what was and wasn’t considered a sin. Dancing and music, for instance, were forbidden, but the group appeared to lack some of the other judgmental aspects so common to other religions. While achieving a rewarded afterlife was an impossibility if one disagreed with their beliefs, there was no attempt to shame or otherwise shun those who were not part of the chosen flock.

“If you don’t increase your congregation,” I asked, “how do you expect to survive?”

“It isn’t part of our mission to grow, or even to serve as missionaries. We believe that everyone has their own responsibility to find the true path. If someone comes to us and agrees with our teachings, he or she is welcome. If not, then all we ask is to be left alone.”

“And this open-door philosophy has given you a living?” I asked frankly.

Blackthorn smiled. “It doesn’t hurt that one of our members, Mr. Hilton Frame, is one of the wealthier residents of Hindhead, and he generally provides more than his required tithe. For that I am grateful.”

Conversation gradually drifted to a halt, and it seemed that I had only looked out the window and back at the beautiful Surrey countryside before I discovered that Blackthorn had fallen asleep. Holmes noticed as well, but offered no other comment.

We had been fortunate enough to travel by express, arriving in Haslemere by late morning. Leaving the small station, Blackthorn retrieved his wagon, and we made our way north and slightly east to nearby Hindhead. The summer day was warm and not too hot, and the pleasant breezes and signs of idyllic country life almost made me forget the grim reason for our travels.

We came to a stop before an ancient church, a thick-walled stone building not more than four or five hundred square feet in size. It was tucked into the southern side of the Portsmouth Road and Hindhead Road intersection, hidden from the road by tall hedges and ancient trees. The land dropped away to the south, with a fine view of British forests stretching in the distance toward the Downs.

I was surprised to see that there was no cemetery. Blackthorn explained that there was one nearby, believed to have been associated with the church at some time in the past. At the time of the building’s abandonment, decades before, it been deconsecrated, an act that was accomplished with greater ease than if it had been associated with a cemetery.

Blackthorn led us inside the adjacent rectory. The building consisted of a short hallway just inside the door, with two doors on our left and two on the right. I had the sense that this building hadn’t originally been designed to be a residence, but rather some type of storage building in ages past. Blackthorn called to the housekeeper, who stepped out of the first door on the right, which proved to be the kitchen. She was followed immediately by a small boy who ran and jumped into the arms of his father. With eyes closed, the minister kissed the top of the little fellow’s head, held him a moment longer, and then set him down, only to follow by dropping to his knees beside him. “Are you all right, then, Timothy?”

“I am, Papa. What happened?”

“I’m not sure, but these men are going to help us find out.”

“Mrs. Beddowes won’t let me go into my bedroom.”

“It’s just for a little while,” said his father. Then, with an additional hug, he stood and spoke to the housekeeper. “Has anything else happened?”

“Not a thing. What does it all mean?”

“Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson will help to explain it.” His voice sounded certain as he gestured toward us, and I was flattered to be included in his trusting assertion.

Holmes asked to see the bedroom, and Blackthorn directed us to the room immediately opposite the kitchen, where Timothy returned with the housekeeper, who indicated that she would make some tea.

The room was a small one, but cheery nonetheless. The walls had been whitewashed, and there was a wide south-facing window. A small desk was underneath it, covered with sheets of colorful drawings, obviously by Master Timothy. A shelf containing books stood nearby. Holmes walked around, looking at the desk and the window before kneeling and examining the bookshelves as well. I only spared the slightest glance in that direction, as my attention was instead pulled toward the chalk drawing defacing the wall over the boy’s bed.

As described, it was a skull, drawn in simple white chalk. The eyes had been filled in, with no pupils to give it any sort of living semblance. The teeth were sketched with terrible sharpness, but no attempt had been made to match them exactly to the number that would be found in an actual mouth. Rather, there were about a dozen jagged fangs, arranged to approximate an evil grin. The horns were long and tapered to a point, and these, unlike the simpler versions on Blackthorn’s sketch, had a slight twist in the middle, pointing out to the sides a bit instead of straight up.

I sensed that Holmes was beside me, now studying the wall as well. “Abaddon,” I said softly while he stepped closer, looking first at the wall, and then at and around the bed below it. “Isn’t that also the same figure as the Greek Apollyon?”

“It is,” answered Blackthorn from behind us, “although the word can mean different things. As I mentioned, sometimes it refers to the Angel of Death, and sometimes to a place very much like what has come to be known as Hell. Abaddon’s function has been confused and conflated with that of Satan over the years.”

“And where does he figure in your religion?” asked Holmes, straightening from his examination and moving nearer the doorway.

“He doesn’t,” said Blackthorn. “Not in this manifestation. I’m aware of him through my studies, and who am I to say whether he is truly a part of God’s order? But our congregation doesn’t refer to him in our teachings, and threats of him, like he’s some bogey-man, aren’t used to coerce our followers into better behavior.”

“A sensible path,” said Holmes absently as he looked around. I could see that this bit of approval pleased the minister.

“Let us speak again to Mrs. Beddowes,” said Holmes, gesturing that we move in that direction.

In the hallway, Holmes nodded to the pair of closed doors at the end of the hall. “What are these other rooms?”

“That is a guest room,” said Blackthorn, gesturing to the door on the left, on the same side as Timothy’s room. “Mrs. Beddowes sometimes uses it, as she did last night when she stayed with Timothy.” He made no move to open that door, but he did walk down the hall and reach for the knob upon the other, throwing it wide. “And this is my room.”

It was on the north side of the house, and considerably darker – and smaller – than that of his son. There was a narrow bed, and also a desk underneath the single window. There were several tall bookshelves around the walls, along with a bureau and a desk. A bush outside the window further shaded the room. “I have it fixed up as something of a study,” explained our host.

Holmes nodded but made no move to enter. Then he turned back toward the nearby kitchen. Blackthorn pulled the door shut and followed. I let both go in front of me, thinking it said much for the man that he gave his son the larger and cheerier room, while taking the rather monastic cell as his own.

In the kitchen, Timothy was sitting at a table eating a piece of bread smeared with jam. Blackthorn apologized. “I’m sorry that we don’t have a parlor. The house is rather small – just the three bedrooms and this room. It suffices, but when we have visitors…” His voice trailed off, but Holmes waved away.

The tea kettle was whistling upon the stove, and Mrs. Beddowes poured the hot water into the teapot. Soon we were all sitting around the table, while Holmes asked questions. He began by asking Timothy what he remembered, but it quickly became apparent that nothing useful was to be found from that quarter. He had eaten his evening meal, a soup prepared by Mrs. Beddowes, and had then gone to bed. He recalled that he was very sleepy the night before, and the next thing he remembered was standing under the tree outside as his father rushed toward him. Only after the minister had left for London did he start to feel like himself again.

Mrs. Beddowes had even less to tell. After Blackthorn had left the previous night to step next door to the church, she had finished cooking the soup, served the boy, and sent him off to bed. She cleaned up, sat around the kitchen for another hour or so, and then made her way to the guest room. She explained that, although she lived just up the road, she occasionally stayed over on nights when the weather was bad, or when some event was planned at the church the next day, requiring that she get an early start.

“You are a member of the congregation?” asked Holmes.

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Almost from the beginning. When the Reverend moved here with Timothy, who was just a babe then, he hired me to help care for the lad. I began to learn about his beliefs, and it seemed to suit me – more than what some around here require.” She frowned then, but her expression immediately cleared. “I became a member, and have helped convince a few others as well.”

“Mrs. Beddowes is too modest,” added Blackthorn. “She has brought several valuable members to our flock, including Mr. Frame, whom I mentioned earlier. I believe that some are members more from respect for her than anything that I can teach.”

The old woman blushed and bowed her head with a small smile.

Holmes stood abruptly and excused himself, stating that he would like to look around outside. We made small talk while he was absent, chiefly consisting of my questions about the old church. Blackthorn gave further information about its abandonment many years before he and his son moved there. He surprisingly knew very little of its past, but that did not seem to interest him. He explained that when he had looked to move away from Manchester a decade earlier, he had decided to try Surrey first. In less than a day, he had come across the old church, and had been introduced with Mr. Frame, who was the owner. He attributed the ease in which it was located to a miracle. Frame had been willing to lease it to Blackthorn, who had a small amount of funds put aside. The man and his son had moved to Hindhead, hired Mrs. Beddowes, cleaned up the property, and had opened the doors. While not overwhelmed with members since then, the group had grown to the point that they considered themselves a tight-knit little community.

“Would it be possible to meet Mr. Frame?” asked Holmes, seemingly out-of-the-blue, stepping into the kitchen and resuming his seat.

Blackthorn’s eyebrows raised, but he replied, “I don’t see why not. But may I ask why?”

“I have questions about the church, and why it – and you – are attracting this sort of attention. As the owner of the property, he might possibly provide some relevant information.”

This seemed to appease Blackthorn’s curiosity, although I suspected there was more to it than this simple explanation. We stood, thanked Mrs. Beddowes, and then followed Blackthorn outside, where he asked if we would care to examine the church before we left.

Holmes replied that he had already been in during his earlier solitary exploration. I, however, wished to see it, and he waited patiently while Blackthorn took me inside. It was a typical building of the sort that I had seen a hundred times before – stone floors, mismatched chairs and pews, some decorations hanging from the walls. Blackthorn explained that there was no crypt. Rather, it was simply a square stone building, four walls and a roof, and there was nothing about it to attract attention.

We went outside and climbed into the carriage, which had been left in front of the church, the patient horse contentedly nibbling upon the rather unkempt grass surrounding the building. With a flick of the reins, the vehicle was set into motion, and we found ourselves out and circling behind the church, heading east on what was described as the London Road. It was not long before we had turned off into a meandering series of lanes, each narrower than the last. At one point I was aware of a great declivity in the earth, stretching away to the northeast. “The Devil’s Punchbowl,” explained our host.

“That sounds rather curious,” I said.

“Nothing more than a geologic curiosity,” said Blackthorn, “although there are any number of local legends about it. Some state that the Devil was so irritated about all of the churches being built around here – ours among them, no doubt – that he decided to dig a channel or a tunnel, depending which version you hear – from Hindhead to the sea, intending to flood us all. His efforts threw up the various hills in the area. Other stories state that the Devil battled the old gods, and that they threw soil from what became the Punch Bowl at him – or conversely, he threw the soil at them, creating the cavity. Others tell stories of giants who fought here, and that the soil from the punchbowl was thrown by one at another, but it overshot, and became the Isle of Wight.” He shook his head. “It is confounding what the gullible will believe.”

Holmes nodded. “Apparently someone hopes that you will be gullible enough to believe that the Angel of Death is threatening your son.”

“Well, I don’t believe it,” said Blackthorn. “But I do know that some person is doing these things, and I want to know why, and I want it to stop!”

We rode along in silence for a few more minutes until Blackthorn turned the carriage between two tall and weathered gateposts, drawing up shortly before a sprawling manor house, surrounded by many venerable old oaks. I suspected that the property connected with the Devil’s Punchbowl which we had recently passed. We approached the front door, which was opened before we reached it by a man, a butler most likely, who recognized the minister and let us in.

“Blake, can we see Mr. Frame?” he asked. The man nodded, stepped through a nearby door, and returned almost immediately to show us in.

It was a low-ceilinged room, with exposed beams running above us, revealing the age of the building. It was quite warm, as a fire blazed upon the hearth, in spite of the summer temperatures outside. An elderly man was sitting near the fireplace in an expensive-looking bath chair, a rug lying across his legs. Beside him stood a man in his mid-thirties, approximately the same age as Blackthorn, and several years older than both Holmes and myself. He looked at us with curiosity.

Blackthorn introduced the two of us, and then explained that the young man was Mr. Frame’s nephew, Joseph Beddowes.

“Beddowes?” asked Holmes. “Any relation to your housekeeper, Reverend Blackthorn?”

“Her son,” Blackthorn replied. “Mrs. Beddowes is the widow of Mr. Frame’s brother.” He fell silent then, as if uncertain how to proceed.

Frame filled the silence. “That’s right,” he said. “I’ve tried to convince her that she doesn’t have to work, but she’s a proud woman. Claims she would get old and die if she had nothing to do. And of course, she has a great affection for young Timothy.” He shifted in the chair, and then continued, “To what do I owe the honor?” There was no impatience or animosity in his tone. He clearly held the minister in the highest regard.

When Blackthorn again seemed to hesitate, Holmes began to speak, relating that he was a consulting detective from London, and that I was his associate, summoned by the worried minister. He explained what we had only recently heard ourselves – the weekly appearances of the skull drawing at the church, and how, the night before, it had been drawn within the rectory itself, above young Timothy Blackthorn’s bed, along with the name of the Angel of Death. Finally, he told how the boy had been found outside that morning, with no memory of how he got there.

Frame seemed to become rather agitated as the narrative progressed, and when Holmes had finished speaking, he asked several times whether the boy was truly all right. Blackthorn’s reassurances helped to calm the man, and Joseph Beddowes stepped forward to fix the man’s blanket and to pour him something from a decanter upon the nearby sideboard. He offered some to us as well, but we all declined.

Taking a sip of the amber-colored liquid, the older man asked, “How can I help you? You must think that I can, or you wouldn’t have come here.”

“That is correct, Mr. Frame,” replied Holmes. “As the owner of the property, you may have some knowledge that would help explain why such harassment is taking place. Is there any fact that you can recall, any connection, that would provide an explanation about why the church, or Reverend Blackthorn’s son, have been singled out?”

“I can’t think of a thing,” said the old man. “I purchased the property years ago, when I heard that there was some talk of increased railway activity in this area – this is the high point between here and Portsmouth, you know – and I started snapping up land. I held on to it for a while, and when the railway plans collapsed, I divested myself of nearly all of it. Broke even. But for some reason I still held the church, and when the Reverend spoke to me about it ten years ago, it seemed like a good use of the place.

“I never bothered to learn about its history, and I don’t know anything now either. But I did hear good things about the Reverend here from my sister-in-law, and I decided to attend and see for myself. Since then, I’ve come to be a full member, and I believe in the importance of Blackthorn’s teachings. I’d like to do more to help him, if he’d let me.”

Blackthorn smiled and shook his head. “If it’s the Lord’s will that we grow, then we will. No need to chase after people.”

Frame shook his head with affection. “It’s an argument we’ve had many times before. I’ve tried to get him to at least acknowledge that my offer to help could be the very manifestation of the Lord’s will to which he refers, but he won’t budge.”

During this conversation, which continued in this vein for several more minutes, Holmes had begun to wander the room, looking at the paintings upon the walls and the books upon the shelves. He peered at a glass figure upon the mantel, and then, without realizing what was behind him, he backed into an ash bucket sitting beside the fireplace, tipping it over with a clatter and upsetting a spill of cinders across the floor.

He avoided falling down and spun around to see what he had done, a mortified look upon his face. The conversation between Frame and the minister ended abruptly as we reacted to Holmes’s misfortune. Holmes quickly apologized, and dropped to his knees beside the mess, attempting to use a small shovel to pick up as much as he could of the disturbed ashes and return them to the now-righted bucket.

“Mr. Beddowes,” said Holmes. “Do you have a broom?”

I saw that there was one propped near the fireplace poker. Frame gestured impatiently, indicating that Joseph Beddowes should step across and assist my friend, who was still awkwardly making excuses and explanations and apologies. Things only became more confused as Holmes, apparently not realizing how close Beddowes was, chose that moment to stand, awkwardly blundering into the man, both doing a confused dance around the spilled ashes before they found their footing.

Beddowes bent to reach for the small broom, but stopped when Holmes spoke, the chattering and embarrassed tone in his voice from just a moment before suddenly gone as he commanded, “That can wait, Mr. Beddowes. First, would you care to tell us why you have been chalking the marks upon the church and rectory walls, and more specifically, whether it was done with your mother’s assistance?”

The man straightened abruptly, clutching the broom like a weapon. He looked back and forth from Holmes to Frame, and then at Blackthorn to me, before seeming to realize what he had done. Slowly, he bent and placed the broom against the fireplace. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Really,” replied Holmes, “it couldn’t be clearer. I could spend a great deal of time asking questions in the village, and conniving a way to gain an understanding of Mr. Frame’s financial situation, and finding a dozen other pieces of information that might be useful. Additionally, I can think of seven separate stratagems to press you specifically for information, but I believe the direct approach will wind this up as quickly as possible.

“An examination of Timothy’s bedroom showed that the intruder must have come from inside the house. The boy’s desk, covered with his drawings, is underneath the window. Although the window was open, there is no sign on the sill that anything has crossed that way, and the papers on the desk were undisturbed. No one stood on the desk to come in or out. The desk wasn’t moved, as I determined from the dust undisturbed underneath. An examination outside showed the same – no one had recently stood outside that window.

“More importantly, the chalk drawing was directly over the bed, which has also not been moved. Clearly, the ‘artist’ had stood on the bed. While the Reverend and Dr. Watson were looking at the bizarre skull and the threatening name, I was looking at the sheets. There were several clear footprints still impressed there. The size of the shoes was clearly evident to someone who has made a study of such things, as were the various unique features on the soles, including a nail upon the right shoe that has been hammered in after being bent, and a crack along the toe box near the end of the left shoe. Once I found those shoes, it would be as clear to me who had stood on the bed and made the chalk marks as if I had a photograph of the man.

“My mind was still open as to what might be behind this harassment, and I really did want to know if Mr. Frame could provide any information about the church and its history. But the conversation here, revealing that you were Mr. Frame’s nephew and that, through your mother, you likely had access to the rectory, quickly suggested the hint of another explanation. I observed that you were wearing the type and size of shoes that I sought. It seemed very likely that you were the man who had been in that bedroom and drew on the wall. Rather than go through excessive steps to contrive some other method of establishing your involvement, I decided to see if I could obtain your footprints in the spilled ash. I only needed to confirm the finer points, and by stepping in the ashes, you accommodated my wishes very nicely indeed. The features that I mentioned – the nail and the crack – are easily visible for all to see. So I repeat my question: Why?”

The room was silent for what seemed like a long time, while one could see the desperate thoughts racing across the man’s face. Then, his patience at an end, Frame thundered, “Well? Explain yourself!”

Beddowes’ gaze dropped, and he muttered, “It’s true.”

“Why?” asked Blackthorn, sounding puzzled.

“Because…” began Beddowes, and then he blurted, “Because every time you refused to take my uncle’s money, he seemed more intent on finding a way to convince you. He’s even begun to talk of changing his will to leave everything to your church.”

Holmes nodded. “That is one of the facts that I would have had to ferret out over the course of a long and tedious investigation. Thank you for providing it so quickly.”

“And your mother?” growled Frame, twisting to sit up straighter in his chair. “Is she in on all of this?”

“No,” said Beddowes with an urgent tone. “She knew nothing. I stopped by last night as she was about to feed the boy, and when they weren’t looking, I put a little something into the soup to make them sleep. She had told me that she was staying over while the Reverend prayed all night. I knew that he wasn’t going to do that. Rather, I was certain that he was setting some sort of trap. I had been leaving the drawings on the same night each week, and he must have been expecting it to happen again. It had occurred to me that it would be a perfect chance to slip into the house while he was in the church, and do something that would truly frighten him away, since the drawings in the church weren’t accomplishing anything.

“I left, and then waited outside while she put Timothy to bed and then put out her own light. Soon I could hear her sleeping, and I went back inside. The door was unlocked. I went to Timothy’s room, scooped him up from the bed, put him into his chair, and stood on the bed to draw the picture. Afterwards, I took him nearby to the house I share with my mother, and kept him there until this morning, when I brought him back.”

“And Abaddon?” asked Holmes. “What made you decide to drag in the Hebrew Angel of Death?”

“It was simply something I’d run across in one of my uncle’s books. It seemed as if it would add to the threat. If the Reverend’s son was in danger, he might decide to move away. I knew how he had picked this place at random ten years ago, and I thought that it would be easy for him to do it again somewhere else.” He turned toward Blackthorn. “I am truly ashamed. Can you forgive me?”

Blackthorn’s hands had been clenched through the entire explanation, but he sighed and let them drop to his sides. “Of course.”

“But I cannot,” growled Frame. “I want you out of this house within the hour. Do not darken my door ever again.”

Blackthorn looked surprised, and moved to speak, but something in Frame’s countenance stopped him. Instead, we watched as Beddowes fled from the room, leaving us with an awkward silence. Finally, Blackthorn spoke. “You should forgive him. He is your family. And no true harm was done.”

“But there might have been,” retorted the invalid. “The matter is beyond discussion.”

“And yet,” said Blackthorn, “you and I will discuss it. But later.” With that, we departed.

Holmes and I found transportation back to Haslemere on our own, leaving Blackthorn to break the news to his housekeeper. On the train, we were silent for some time before I commented, “Blackthorn surprised me.”

“And me as well.”

“When he first walked into Baker Street,” I said, “I was prepared, based upon his appearance, to believe that he would be some sort of pseudo-Old Testament prophet, prepared to rage with contempt against anyone who dared to disagree with him.”

“Indeed. Which only goes to show how easily that anyone, including the two of us, can fall into the trap of making incorrect assumptions and judgments instead of giving someone the benefit of the doubt. I hope that things turn out well for Blackthorn – although I sense that this affair isn’t over.”

Sadly, Holmes was right. I heard at a later date that Frame’s stubborn rejection of his nephew led to a falling out between the rich man and the minister, resulting in Blackthorn and his son moving to a new location somewhere near Chelmsford. I understand that his new congregation is thriving. Frame, however, became something of a bitter recluse following the removal of his ministerial advisor, and he eventually pulled down the minister’s humble residence and the old church building entirely, leaving the property bare as if nothing had ever been there. Years later, a fine house was built upon the site, and the new occupants didn’t realize the history until learning it from me. Holmes and I had been summoned there by the man who had built the new house, an old friend of ours, in connection to a particularly dangerous threat involving an Arctic whaler, long believed dead, who had returned seeking vengeance. But that is another adventure.