Doctor Who_ All-Consuming Fire - Andy Lane [7]
'In nomine Patris; et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,' the Pope murmured, 'Amen.
God be with you, gentlemen.'
We left the carriage together.
'A rum business, what?' I said as we walked back across our footprints.
The night had turned colder in the few minutes we had been inside.
'Returning overdue books to the library,' Holmes snapped. 'It's a bit beneath my dignity. And I have no great love for the Catholic Church. Our family was brought up in the faith, but my brothers and I were too aware of the inconsistencies and irrationalities inherent in the Bible to make good communicants.'
Brothers? I thought, but just then the Orient Express began to pull slowly away from us, and we had to sprint the last few yards or face a long walk home.
Chapter 2
In which Holmes and Watson visit the Library and Mr Jitter threatens to take a hand.
'Cab!'
Holmes's strident cry rang out across the late afternoon hurly-burly outside Victoria Station. I added a single blast from my cab-whistle for good measure. A growler that had seen better days detached itself from the throng of vehicles and clattered towards us.
It was good to be back in London. The metropolis was labouring under a warm and muggy spell and despite the high, if not putrid, aroma of horse dung and refuse that greeted us as we left the station, I felt my spirits soar.
As Holmes and I sank gratefully back into the upholstered seats and the cabbie hoisted our considerable baggage on to the four-wheeler's roof, Holmes turned to me and said, 'You have been strangely quiet since our meeting with his Holiness last night'
Indeed, we both had. After we had clambered back on to the Orient Express, Holmes had refused to be drawn on the matter. We had retired to our cabins with no more than a few words passing between us. We awoke in Paris, and spent most of the day so occupied in getting ourselves to the present point with the minimum inconvenience and our luggage intact that no opportunities for serious conversation had presented themselves. Even on the journey from Dover to London, Holmes had buried himself into the pages of the Daily Chronicle, eschewing the headlines for the agony columns.
In passing, I should say that, despite his frequent claims to care 'not a whit'
which party was in power, I could not help but notice that on the day that the Daily Telegraph switched its editorial allegiance from the Liberal camp to the Unionist persuasion, Holmes had given up reading it in favour of the newly published Chronicle.
'You,' I ventured, 'have been remarkably reticent on the subject as well.'
We jolted into motion. The ornate facade of the Grosvenor Hotel passed us by, followed moments later by the Metropolitan line Underground station ticket office.
'That is no more than anyone who knew my foibles would expect,' Holmes responded.
I glanced across at Holmes, suspecting some jibe. His eyes were closed and his mouth curved into a slight smile.
'However,' he added, 'since you are known as a clubbable sort of fellow, your silence is more surprising than mine.'
The growler's speed increased as it moved from the muddy area outside the station to the asphalted wooden blocks of Victoria Street. Within a few minutes we were rounding Parliament Square and trotting up Whitehall.
Holmes glanced at his watch.
'Mycroft will be clearing his desk at this very moment,' he said, 'in preparation for his usual walk to the Diogenes Club. As I may have remarked before, the daily rotation of my brother between his lodgings in Pall Mall, his office here in Westminster and his club is as unvarying as the motion of the stars.'
'If you must know,' I said, 'I have misgivings concerning this case.'
'I confess,' he replied, 'that the more I think about it, the less I like it. I suspect there are deep