The Devil's Promise, page 15
Without a word they dragged me from the chamber and led me upstairs to the small bedroom. Roughly, I was pushed down on the bed and locked in.
A wave of gloom and despair crashed over me as I lay there on the bed. All my efforts had resulted in this; I was a prisoner once more. And what was worse, the man I had come to rescue, to help, to save from the clutches of Blackwood and his nefarious henchmen, was now at one with them. Holmes’ words, those that he had used to me in jest on the beach that ocean of time ago, came back to me: ‘O what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’
With stomach-churning clarity I suddenly realised that my friend was now my enemy.
If truth be told, as I contemplated this sorry state, tears pricked my eyes. The man I respected and revered had by some unholy alchemy been converted into an evil being.
I groaned and prayed for the oblivion of sleep – an escape from the futility of my situation. There was now, I knew, nothing I could do. My situation was without hope.
How long I lay in the darkness before sleep finally rescued me from the misery of consciousness, I do not know. But the next thing I knew I was being shaken gently from my slumbers.
‘Come on, old fellow,’ whispered a voice in the darkness. ‘Rouse yourself.’
It took me some time to realise that the voice belonged to Sherlock Holmes.
My body tensed. What now, my mind cried. What further devilry is afoot?
I sat up in bed without a word and stared at the vague silhouette of Holmes before me in the darkness.
‘A fine mess you have made of things,’ he said.
I aimed a blow at him but missed.
He chuckled gently. ‘Always the man of action, even if it is not the most appropriate action. No, Watson, stay your hand. I have little time. I may be trusted by these people, but I am watched also. The situation is too delicate for them to trust me fully.’
I was about to make some scathing remark about ‘trust’ but thought better of it. ‘What on earth is going on? What in God’s name are you up to?’
‘In God’s name, nothing. In the Devil’s… certainly.’
‘Enough of riddles,’ I snapped.
‘Indeed. I had hoped to keep you out of all this, my friend. Unknowingly you have been a pawn in their desperate game. They have forced me to go along with their plans on the understanding that if I did not you would be harmed – murdered.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me all about it?’
‘In order to protect you, of course.’
‘What have they made you do?’
He raised his eyebrows in a nonchalant fashion as though he were discussing the weather. ‘Nothing concrete just yet, but I have agreed to follow their wishes.’
‘And what are they?’ I snapped.
Holmes paused before replying. ‘What I am about to tell you requires a leap of faith on your part, for we wander now in the realms of the unknown, the supernatural.’
‘The supernatural… You cannot…’
‘Listen carefully. I know that you are a level-headed, logical man with your feet firmly on the ground. It has always been one of your admirable traits, but in the past when we have been investigating a case this narrowness of vision has prevented you seeing the out-of-the ordinary possibilities that circumstances presented. You sometimes found it difficult to accept the improbable, the recherché.’
‘Yes, yes…’
Holmes held up his palm to silence me. ‘What I am about to say is improbable. It is fantastic, but it is the truth. The clear-headed, clear-sighted truth. Bartholomew Blackwood is still alive and he is masterminding this whole operation. In simple terms, he and his followers are planning a ceremony tomorrow night which may change the destiny of the world.’
‘Ridiculous,’ I said. It was an automatic reaction but a creeping sense of unease robbed my voice of its conviction.
Holmes ignored my response. ‘This ceremony, the Corpus Diablo, can only be performed under certain astrological and astral conditions with the full unfettered participation of an agnostic of high intelligence.’ My blood ran cold. So what Arabella Blackwood had told me about the ceremony and Holmes’ involvement was the truth.
‘Surely such a thing is not possible.’
Holmes narrowed his eyes and paused briefly before replying. ‘I am afraid I believe it is. They intend to make the Devil flesh. To allow the most evil spirit to inherit the physical shell of a human being.’
I shook my head in disbelief. The horror of Holmes’ statement lay not so much in the sense of the words but in the manner they were expressed: he appeared to really believe what he was saying. I gazed closely at my friend. His features were drawn, his hair askew and those eyes which were usually sharp and focused shifted uneasily in their sockets. This was not the decisive, self-assured and precise fellow of my long acquaintance. It was clear to me that these satanists had played about with his brain in such a fashion by their infernal means that now Sherlock Holmes was a confused and vacillating individual.
‘You cannot allow this to happen,’ I said, grasping his arm.
‘It seems it is my destiny,’ he replied vaguely. ‘I have been chosen to be the Devil’s agent on earth.’
‘But… why you? You are such a good man.’
‘A good man who has doubts about a Christian God. The ideal candidate.’ He leaned forward, his gaze upon me, but I, who knew his moods and humours more than any man, could not read anything there. He rustled my bed covers as though he were tucking them in.
I shook my head wildly. ‘This is madness. It cannot be…’
Holmes grasped both my wrists. ‘All I have told you is true.’ He spoke now with such gravity and sincerity that his words almost stopped my heart. How could I not believe him? It was obscene madness, but if Sherlock Holmes told me it was true, then it must be.
As the realisation of the dire and desperate consequences of the situation sank in, my mind suddenly became awash with desperate thoughts.
‘What are you going to do?’ I croaked. ‘You cannot go through with this. You must summon up all your energies to fight against their influences. You must escape. Alert the authorities. Do something…’
Holmes shook his head. ‘I am helpless. I am in their thrall. They own me now. Destiny has decreed that I have to follow their path.’
‘No, no!’ I cried. ‘This is madness.’
‘Certainly. A madness I tried to protect you from, but I underestimated your tenacity. Not for the first time, I suppose.’
I made to rise from the bed, but Holmes forced me back onto the pillow, hands pulling the bedclothes up to my chin. It was a strange, awkward movement which distracted me for a moment.
‘You cannot fight it, Watson. It is too late now. They have won.’
As I stared at that strained white face before me in the gloom, it was joined by three other faces, which had emerged from the shadows. There was Enoch Blackwood and his sister Arabella, and a less familiar, wizened visage which I realised was the fount of all this evil, Bartholomew Blackwood.
I opened my mouth to cry out, but a cloth was placed over it, the pungent fumes of chloroform quickly assailing and dismantling my senses. Within seconds I swooned once more into darkness.
Part Five
Twenty-Five
From Dr Watson’s Journal
When I awoke, I was alone once more in the room. The only illumination was a small candle which flickered low on the bedside table, casting erratic shadows around the walls. I waited a few moments until I had sloughed off the remnants of my drugged slumbers and was fully awake before I attempted to pull myself up in the bed. As I did so, I felt some small weight upon my chest as though an object was lodged there. My hands sought it out. As my fingers slipped around the firm handle and I felt the cold smoothness of the barrel, I realised that it was a pistol.
My heart rate increased as I brought the weapon out from beneath the covers. I wasn’t dreaming. It was really a gun, the grey metal glimmering in the candlelight. There could only be one explanation as to how it got there. Sherlock Holmes! With incredible sleight of hand he must have secreted it under the bed sheets as he forced me back against the pillow. The strange mixture of excitement, relief and pure joy that this realisation brought to me is almost impossible to explain. The implications of the presence of this weapon were tremendous. It demonstrated clearly that Holmes was still, to some extent, his own man. There must have been some element of performance in his interview with me, probably because he knew he was being observed. He was a fine actor and certainly on this occasion he had completely taken me in. I could not help but grin broadly for despite the desperate situation we were both in, I could see now that there was still a glimmer of hope that the dark tide of this terrible business could turn our way.
This was my first smile in a very long weary month and I cherished it. Of course, I was fully conscious that the odds were stacked heavily against us, but at least I had not lost Holmes. He had not succumbed fully to the seductions and pressures placed upon him by the satanists. Of course, I should have trusted him. This thought brought another, one less sanguine. I should trust him, but could I still? Had I been given a revolver for other purposes than escape and retribution? Was it another cunning and arcane convolution in their evil machinations?
Slowly my smile faded. If I were to be sensible, I knew that I could trust no one. Not even Sherlock Holmes.
I sought out my clothes and dressed as quickly and as quietly as I could. With only half-formed thoughts of what I intended to do, my first concern was to get out of the room. I tried the window and the door. Both, as I expected, were locked.
I needed my gaoler to release me.
Picking up the metal bowl that rested on a small chest of drawers, I banged it hard against the wall. The hollow clanging sound reverberated around the room. I continued banging, the sound building like the discordant cacophony of church bells. At length, I heard the key turn in the lock. Immediately I sprang behind the door, grasping my pistol by the barrel.
The door opened slowly and a figure entered the room. I recognised the man as one of the villagers, now dressed in the rough monk-like garb. He sensed my presence behind him but before he was able to move or utter a sound, I brought the butt of my revolver down hard on the side of his head. His eyes widened in shock and the mouth opened as though to cry out, but before any sound emerged, I hit him again and he slumped silently to the floor.
I dragged the body into the centre of the room and closed the door. It took but a matter of minutes to exchange our clothes. Once garbed in the loose robe, I left the room, locking the door as I did so.
Although glimpses of the dark blue sky I caught through the narrow windows on the landing told me that it was night, I had no idea of the precise time. Had the cursed Corpus Diablo already started? Had it in fact taken place? I shuddered at this final thought and quickly dismissed it.
The house seemed quiet. It may be that, apart from my gaoler, the rest of the inhabitants were in the church, for surely this was where the infernal ceremony would take place. Slowly, with caution, I made my way downstairs. There was neither sound nor stirring from anywhere. I headed for the hallway and to my surprise and delight found that the main door was unlocked. It was with a wondrous sense of relief that I left the accursed house and found myself outside in a sharp October evening. A hoar frost was already forming on the bare branches and my breath emerged in little white clouds like cigarette smoke. I shivered as the cold night air began to chill me, but I had no time for such considerations. I hadn’t a moment to lose. I ran down the drive, out onto the narrow lane and headed for the village and the church.
The main street was deserted and no warm lights emanated from any of the dwellings or the public house. The silence was eerie and for a moment I paused, listening and scanning my surroundings. The street and the church were bathed in milky sepulchral moonlight and the whole scene appeared like a living gothic etching. And then suddenly I observed a figure emerge out of the shadows at the far end of the street. It was just a silhouette in the gloom but I could see that it was dressed in the same kind of monk-like habit as my own. He made his way with swift strides towards the lychgate. With caution, and keeping to the shadows, I ventured closer and saw him enter the church.
I followed and some moments later, with my heart in my mouth, I turned the old ring handle on the church door and pulled it slightly ajar. The porch was empty but I could see beyond into the body of the church that it was crammed full of people – the evil celebrants, all garbed in dark robes. Some kind of dirge was being played on the organ.
I edged my way forward. Luckily all eyes were on the altar so no one observed me as I took a place in an empty pew on the back row. As I did so, Bartholomew Blackwood appeared out of the shadows at the altar. He was in his wheelchair but with an unsteady motion, he rose to his feet and threw his arms into the air with a strange inarticulate cry.
The congregation gave a roar of greeting, some kneeling as though in supplication, others crying out, ‘Master, master.’
‘Now is the hour,’ intoned Blackwood in a thin reedy voice which rose above the tumult. ‘Now is the moment. Now is the glorious time we have all longed for.’
A strangled cheer of approbation rose from the assembled throng and then they knelt down. I quickly followed suit as Blackwood moved slowly towards one of two large ebony thrones placed in the centre of the altar. Gripping the back of the throne, so that only his head was visible over the carved tracery, he addressed his disciples. ‘You may guess how elated I am this night, this All Hallows’ Eve. For years I have dreamed and planned for this special time. Indeed, I can truly state that the promise of this event has kept me alive. With a successful combination of this auspicious satanic sabbat and the Corpus Diablo I am happy to give up my earthly time. At long, long last our master will be returned to us – in the flesh. Once more he will be able to interfere in and control directly the affairs of man. Our followers will rise like locusts in the field and devour all.’
He paused, his face contorted in a rictus grin, saliva seeping from the corner of his ancient mouth. The congregation chanted their approval. At length, Blackwood moved slowly to stand between the two thrones.
‘Let the ceremony begin,’ he intoned solemnly.
Arabella mounted the altar, carrying with her a large wicker basket. She set it down on the ground and, throwing back the cover, withdrew a white cockerel. Its feet were tethered but its wings flapped furiously and its tiny head swivelled violently, the beady eyes wild with terror, as though the creature knew its fate. Enoch Blackwood stepped forward, a silver chalice in one hand and a dagger in the other. With swift, deft movements, aided by his sister, he slit the cockerel’s throat and allowed the blood that flowed profusely from the wound to drain into the chalice. Again the congregation gave a murmur of gleeful approbation.
Enoch passed the chalice to his father who took it in both hands and held it above his head.
‘Please accept this meagre sacrifice, oh Lord of Darkness,’ he cried, his reedy voice echoing around the rafters. ‘It is a small token of our esteem to welcome you into our midst.’ He lowered the chalice and drank from it, before passing it to Enoch, who repeated the diabolical procedure. He then handed the vessel to Arabella who, eyes wide with pleasure, drank in her turn. All three now stood before the congregation, faces wreathed with elation, the fresh blood gleaming on their lips.
Suddenly a stiff breeze blew through the church, dousing a number of the black candles, throwing the whole scene before me into a chiaroscuro picture, unnervingly surreal in aspect.
Enoch disappeared behind the altar curtain to return seconds later with Sherlock Holmes. He was dressed in a long white shroud-like garment with a silver pendant around his neck. My heart sank as I saw that his face was void of expression. He appeared to be drugged or in a trance. Enoch led him to one of the thrones and then, dipping his finger into the chalice, smeared my friend’s forehead with the cockerel’s blood in the sign of an inverted crucifix. Then Arabella took my friend’s hand and led him to the throne on the left-hand side of the altar. I was strangely mesmerised by the scenario which was being acted out before me, as though I were watching some gruesome Grand Guignol play. I knew I had to do something soon to stop this foul farrago from going any further but I felt so helpless. What chance had I against this group of fanatical zealots? I had no idea what they intended to do with Holmes but I knew that it would be terrible.
Bartholomew Blackwood addressed his followers once more, this time in some strange tongue I did not know. They fell to the ground with groans of pleasure. I could do nothing but follow their example, but I kept my eye on the altar and particularly on Holmes.
Blackwood now took up an ancient grimoire and began an incantation in this strange language while both his children swung caskets of incense to and fro over each of the thrones, which gushed out in pungent little black clouds. The dreadful ceremony had commenced. The ceremony of satanic resurrection: the Corpus Diablo.
As Blackwood’s voice droned on in its high-pitched hypnotic manner, the temperature in the church suddenly dropped and the wind increased, shaking the drapes that hung down from the rafters.
And then suddenly to my horror and amazement I noticed some kind of movement on the empty throne. Something seemed to be shimmering there, like grey dust or a swarm of flies. They were flies! They clustered together and slowly but inexorably they grew in number. The grotesque writhing form began to take on a definite shape.
Blackwood’s incantation continued, rising and falling with exultant cadences as the thing on the empty throne grew darker and firmer. It was turning into the outline of a man! Now I could see his bodily shape: the arms, the legs, the head – the disgusting, rippling, iridescent head.
It shifted and moved like a living, breathing creature, composed of these foul buzzing creatures. Great heavens, I thought, it’s the Lord of the Flies. This is the Devil.
