Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [73]
Some weeks after my return from the Continent in search of Lady Frances Carfax, we were breakfasting together and listening to the sound of a late-summer downpour battering against the windows of our old Baker Street rooms. Earlier that month I had reached my half-century, and the rain was making my old war wound ache, to say nothing of the new scar on my leg, a souvenir of our recent adventure with the American ‘Killer’ Evans. Opposite me at the breakfast table, Holmes was reading a letter which had arrived in that morning’s first post. Whatever was in it made him cock an eyebrow. I looked at him inquisitively, and he handed me the single sheet of notepaper, on which I read the following:
Grantchester, 26th August
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
I hope that you will be able to help me on a matter that, to you, may initially appear trivial. My husband, Professor Henry Westen, who has spent many years cataloguing the chained library here at Grantchester Abbey, was working in the library last night and did not come home for his supper. I went to look for him and found him lying unconscious upon the floor. I could not wake him. He has still not woken and our physician says he can find no reason for it, but that my husband appears to be more like a man sleeping through nightmares than one in a coma. The police have washed their hands of the matter since they could find no sign of an intruder, yet I believe a book to be missing — one that had been hidden in a secret compartment in the library. I do not know what the book might be, but I believe that someone has stolen it all the same, and rendered my husband unconscious to do so. I am at my wits’ end and can only hope that you will consent to look into this matter.
Yours sincerely,
Eleanor Westen.
While I was reading this missive, Holmes took to his feet and pulled the huge index volume that was his reference bible down from the shelf. Having cleared a space on the breakfast table by the simple expedient of pushing everything to one side with an almighty clatter, he set the book down on the table and began leafing through it.
“Let us see what C has to contribute. Carbuncle, ha! Of the blue ilk, eh? Carfax, Lady Frances — quite a trip you made, Watson. Carnacki, Thomas. Curious name. Perhaps derived from Karnak in Egypt. I wonder why I made a note of him. ‘Ex-mariner, gifted amateur photographer’ … Bah! ‘Occult Detective’. What manner of creature can that be, other than genus Charlatan?” He turned pages noisily. “‘Chained Libraries in General: Usual practice to provide security for reference libraries from the Middle Ages to approximately the 18th century. Existing Chained Libraries by Location: Mappa Mundi at Hereford Cathedral. Wimborne Minster, Oriel College, Oxford. Guildford.’ Finally! ‘Grantchester Abbey: These books are chiefly of an occult and alchemical nature, some of them extremely rare.’ Not a great deal of help, though it might tempt a book collector.” He indicated the letter which had set off this flurry of activity. “So, Watson, what do you make of it?”
I handed him back the letter. “It is all rather thin stuff, Holmes.”
“Life itself is made of thin stuff; it is the weaving together that makes for interest.” My friend took up the letter again. “I believe a book to be missing,” he read. “A hidden book, Watson, a secret book stolen from a chained library. Does that not strike you as significant?”
“Belief is not the same as fact,” said I. “You taught me that.”
“Belief is a strange thing,” replied Holmes quietly. “My three years wandering the world after my encounter with Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls taught me not to be as dogmatic on certain subjects as I once was.”
“It still seems hardly worth your consideration. There may not have even been a crime committed.”
Holmes shot me an amused look. “Well, Watson, since you are so sure this is not worthy of serious attention