A Sherlock Holmes Tale for Halloween

Halloween

It was a bleak morning towards the end of October, and the first autumn chills had driven us to kindle a cheerful blaze in our fireplace at Baker Street. 
   Sherlock Holmes sat curled in his armchair, his untasted toast beside him, indexing his dark-bound volumes of criminal history, while I glanced out of the window at the dun-coloured fog drifting past the pane. 
   Our quiet routine was abruptly broken by a furious clatter upon the stairs, and a moment later Mrs Hudson ushered a visitor into our sanctuary.
   The man was a study in absolute terror. He was a middle-aged fellow, clad in a sober suit of grey which matched the sparse, dry hair upon his temples. His features were regular enough, yet his breath came in ragged gasps, and his eyes rolled with the frantic gaze of a hunted animal.    
   Without a word of greeting, he sank heavily into the chair which Holmes pushed forward, his hands trembling violently.
    "Forgive me, gentlemen," he gasped, clutching at his throat. "I have flown here in the most desperate straits. It is a matter of life and death, I assure you!"
   "Pray compose yourself, my dear sir," said Holmes, his grey eyes gleaming with that sudden interest which a new problem always afforded him. "And do not confound our worthy landlady by mistaking her for the maid. Take a deep breath, and tell us why you have bypassed Scotland Yard if your life is indeed in jeopardy."
   The man gave a bitter, hollow laugh. "Scotland Yard, Mr Holmes? I have endured their ridicule this past hour! They scoffed at my fears and bade me go home. I am a desperate man, sir, and if you will but take my case, you may name your own reward!"
   Holmes smiled, shaking his head. 
   "My professional charges are upon a fixed scale, Mr Abrahams—for I perceive your name upon the corner of the document peeking from your pocket—and I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether. The features of a problem interest me far more than the gold of a client. Pray tell us what business brings a pawnbroker from the West End to our rooms in such a state of agitation."
   "It is true, sir, I have run my establishment for upwards of thirty years, and never has a breath of scandal or trouble touched my door. But of late, a shadow has fallen over me. For weeks past, I have been plagued by a series of monstrous, anonymous communications, each foretelling my imminent demise." 
   With a trembling hand, he drew a bundle of crumpled papers from his breast pocket and passed them to my companion.
   Holmes smoothed them out upon his knee, examining them with that keen, hawk-like intensity so characteristic of his methods, before tossing them across to me. Each sheet bore but a single, chilling sentence, scrawled in an aggressive hand: You will die on Halloween.
   "Surely this is the work of some malicious prankster, Mr Abrahams," I ventured, looking up from the cruel lines. "A jest in thoroughly execrable taste."
   "Ah, Dr Watson, those were the very words of the inspector at the Yard! But I know the dark undercurrents of the town, and I cannot shake off this dreadful premonition."
   "Have you enemies, then?" Holmes asked, leaning forward with his finger-tips pressed together.
   "A man of my calling cannot fail to make them, Mr Holmes. The world is singularly ungrateful. Instead of viewing us as a refuge for the distressed—as men who extend a helping hand to pluck them from ruin—the vulgar populace brands us as usurers, bloodsuckers, and vampires. Yet they are swift enough to seek our aid when the shoe pinches!"
   "And apart from these letters, have you noted any darker symptoms? Any overt threats, or attempts upon your person? Has anything occurred to give substance to your fears?"
   "Every shadow has become an assassin, Mr Holmes! I live in a state of perpetual torment. The rattle of a passing cab makes me start; a sudden movement from a stranger on the pavement makes me recoil, expecting the flash of a dagger. I beg of you, sir, do not cast me off."
   Holmes looked at him with a searching, clinical gaze. 
   "In the course of your dealings, Mr Abrahams, have you ever crossed the line into oppression? Have you been guilty of any harshness or cruelty to those who found themselves at your mercy?"
   "Never, sir! I swear it. True, I have been compelled by the stern laws of commerce to deny loans to those whose lack of security rendered repayment impossible. That is not cruelty; it is the absolute necessity of business. I have witnessed spectacles of the most harrowing description—wretched creatures reduced to absolute penury, offering me garments so threadbare and vermin-ridden that no honest tradesman could look at them. But I am not a charitable institution, Mr Holmes. There are parish funds and benevolent societies for the destitute. For my part, I have always endeavoured to steer a just course."
   "Think carefully," Holmes insisted, his eyes narrowing. "Is there no specific individual whose resentment you have provoked? No one who left your shop with some deep-seated grievance or a vow of vengeance?"
   The pawnbroker hesitated, a sudden flush rising in his pale cheeks. 
   "There was... one occurrence, of late. A most disagreeable business."
   "Pray let us have the facts."
   "It was during the latter days of last month. A young woman—a wild, gypsy-like creature—came to my counter clamouring for an extortionate sum. She had nothing to offer in pledge save a tawdry brooch of paste diamonds. I was, of course, entirely justified in refusing her. She left my shop in a paroxysm of rage, invoking the most dreadful maledictions upon my head."
   "Did this occur before or after the arrival of the warnings?"
   "Before."
   "Be precise, if you please. What was the exact date of this interview, and when did the letters commence?"
   "The girl appeared at the very end of September. The first of these cursed missives arrived some ten days later. But it is the final communication, which reached me only this morning, that has completely unmanned me."
"Indeed? In what way does it differ from its predecessors? They appeared to me to be remarkably uniform."
   "I was so overcome with terror upon my arrival, Mr Holmes, that I quite forgot to include it." 
   He fumbled in his waistcoat and produced a final scrap of paper.
   It read: Halloween approaches. Your hours are numbered. If you would cleanse your guilty soul, see a priest before the blow falls.
   "You see, gentlemen," Abrahams whispered, his lips blue with fear, "tomorrow is Halloween."
   "You are of the Romish faith?" Holmes asked.
   "I am, sir. And as I walk these teeming streets, I feel that the advice is terribly sound. It may well be that tomorrow shall be my last day on earth, and I would fain seek absolution before the end. But London is a vast hive, and I fear that every corner conceals my executioner, waiting to dog my steps to my very threshold."
   "My dear Mr Abrahams," said Holmes, rising from his chair, "it is quite impossible for Dr Watson and myself to stand sentinel at your door, nor can we expect Scotland Yard to waste its men upon what they consider a phantom. For today, our course is clear. We shall escort you home, keeping a vigilant eye upon the street to see if any ill-intentioned fellow is tracking your path. Go directly to your house, bar your doors, fasten your windows, and tomorrow we shall re-examine the problem. Where do you reside?"
".  At number 48, Farm Street, hard by the Jesuit Church of the Immaculate Conception."
   "The distance is trifling—scarcely a mile from these rooms. Go out first, Mr Abrahams. After an interval of a few minutes, the Doctor shall follow at your heels, and I shall bring up the rear. If any hound is on your track, we shall have him between the upper and the nether millstone."
   "Shall I leave a retainer for your invaluable services, Mr Holmes?"
   "We shall speak of the financial arrangements after tomorrow, when the danger has passed."
   Our client vanished down the stairs, peering cautiously into the misty street before turning his face towards Marylebone Road. 
   Within minutes, Watson and I took up our designated stations in the rear. The pavements were already choked with the holiday throng, bustling about their affairs in anticipation of the evening's festivities.
   In that shifting sea of humanity, it required the utmost exertion of my faculties to keep the grey coat of our client in view. Upon reaching Farm Street, however, the man unexpectedly altered his course. Instead of seeking the sanctuary of his own roof, he turned abruptly up the steps of the Church of the Immaculate Conception and disappeared into the gloom of the portal.       Holmes was at my side an instant later. Peering through the heavy doors, we discerned the form of Abrahams kneeling in the dim light before a carved oak confessional.
   "We can do nothing here, Watson," Holmes whispered. "We shall bide our time in the street."
   Some twenty minutes ticked by in the chill autumn air. During this interval, three figures emerged from the church: first, a young gentleman of some thirty years, walking with an exceedingly hurried step; next, a man in his fifties, remarkably ill-clad and down-at-heel, who also vanished with strange celerity into the crowd; and lastly, a venerable old dame who moved painfully with the aid of a gnarled stick.
   We were just speculating upon the mountain of transgressions that could keep our client so long upon his knees when the heavy iron latch clicked, and a cassocked priest stepped forward to secure the main doors. 
   Holmes strode forward, presenting his card with his customary easy courtesy.
   "Good day to you, Father," said he. "We have some reason to fear that a gentleman who entered your church a short while ago may have been taken ill within, or perhaps inadvertently overlooked, for he has not yet emerged."
   The priest, a young man of striking countenance with dark, intelligent eyes, inclined his head politely. 
   "The church is quite empty, gentlemen. But if it will ease your anxieties, pray enter and satisfy yourselves."
   Father Benson—for such was his name—led us into the vast, silent nave. It was entirely devoid of life.
   "Is there a secondary egress, Father?" Holmes asked, his eyes sweeping the shadows.
   "Indeed there is. The vestry door at the rear opens upon the grounds, and is utilised by the sacristan and tradesmen."
   He conducted us past the high altar to a small door on the left, which gave onto a secluded plot of turf, dotted with ancient headstones and enclosed by a high wall. 
   Suddenly, the priest recoiled, a sharp cry of horror escaping his lips.
   "Merciful heavens! What is that?"
   Beneath the spreading branches of a great oak, half-concealed by the mossy trunk, a dark form lay huddled upon the grass.
   Holmes and I sprang forward, though we already knew what we should find. It was the mortal remains of Mathias Abrahams. I dropped to my knee, my professional fingers seeking the carotid artery, but it was useless.
   "The villain has been strangled," I cried. "A grimly efficient business—noiseless, rapid, and without a drop of blood."
   "And executed under our very noses," Holmes muttered, his face grim. 
   "Did you know this man, Father?"
   "He was Mr Abrahams," the priest replied, his voice trembling as he stared at the corpse. "A most assiduoùs attendant at our services."
   "And you have not seen him today?"
   "I have not."
   "Are you the sole minister of this church?"
   "No, my colleague, Father Alex Sanders, was also present this morning to assist with the confessions."
   "Then it was he who heard the statement of the deceased?"
   "I cannot say, Mr Holmes. From the altar, the confessionals are hidden from view. If the man entered to confess, he would have gone straight to the box."
   "I must speak with this Father Sanders at once," Holmes said decisively.
   "Alas, that is impossible. Father Sanders left the church in the most desperate haste scarcely fifteen minutes ago. He had a pre-booked passage for Rome upon urgent business of our Order, and was in imminent danger of missing his train."
   "Was he the young man who left just before you closed the doors? He bore no resemblance to a cleric."
   "He travelled in mufti, sir. It is an occasional necessity, even for the cloth."
   Holmes fixed the young priest with a glance that seemed to pierce his very soul. 
   "It was not your colleague who sat in that box, Father. I myself observed Father Sanders moving about the nave while Abrahams was speaking to someone within the confessional. Unless you entertain a third priest in this establishment, it was you who received his confession. Why do you play a part, sir? Is this a duplicity sanctioned by the Society of Jesus?"
   Father Benson staggered back, clutching at a headstone for support.
   "Did your own hand commit this deed?" Holmes thundered.
   "No, before God, no!"
   "But you heard his dying words?"
   " I did not!"
   "Then who, in heaven's name, was within that box?"
   "It was Paul," the priest whispered, his strength failing him. "The father of the unhappy Esther."       He steadied himself and looked imploringly into my companion's face. 
   "What I am about to disclose to you, gentlemen, is spoken under the absolute seal of honour. It must never be used to bring down the vengeance of the law upon a miserable soul. Have I the word of English gentlemen?"
   "Do you ask us to allow a murderer to walk the streets unmolested?" I exclaimed.
   "The law of man is a clumsy instrument, Dr Watson. It may be that the slayer was but the blade chosen by a higher tribunal. I must have your pledge before I speak."
   "You have our word," Holmes said coldly. "We shall not use your disclosures to incriminate any man."
   The priest led us into the quiet sanctuary of the vestry, locking the door behind us.
   "It is a melancholy truth," he began, "but Mathias Abrahams was a monster of the deepest dye, though he sought to buy peace for his conscience by a rigid adherence to the forms of our faith. He used the bitter necessities of the poor as a lever for their destruction, wreaking his vile will most especially upon the friendless women who sought his aid. Under the sacred seal, I have heard tales of his villainy that would make your blood run cold."
   "We can well imagine it," said Holmes grimly.
   "The girl Esther was his latest victim. Driven to despair by the unspeakable ignominy she suffered at his hands, she sought an end to her sorrows in suicide—but before she died, she confessed the whole foul truth to her father, Paul. Paul is a man of unblemished character, a hard-working fellow who has been broken by a succession of cruel misfortunes. He is, moreover, stricken with a mortal malady; the physicians give him but a few months to live. Esther was the last of his children, and she had sought the pawnbroker's shop for the sole purpose of procuring medicine for her dying parent. When Paul discovered that this wretch had driven his child to her grave, his mind gave way under the weight of his grief. He knew Abrahams' habits; he tracked him to this church, and finding the confessional empty in the half-light, he slipped into the priest's seat, lured his victim within, and took his terrible vengeance. I need say no more, gentlemen. I shall conduct you to the street."
   We took our leave of the priest and walked in silence down the damp pavements towards Baker Street. The fog was closing in, and the street lamps shone like yellow smears in the gloom.
   "What do you make of it, Holmes?" I asked at length.
   "Apropos of what, Watson?"
   "Come, man, do not trifle with me! What do you make of this tragic business of the unhappy Paul and Father Benson?"
   Holmes turned to me with a face as blank and expressionless as a wall.
   "Paul?" said he. "Father Benson? I confess, my dear Watson, that the names are entirely unfamiliar to me. I cannot imagine to whom you refer."

The End

A Halloween tale from Giacomo Mezzabarba - his new collection of Sherlock Holmes pastiches In The Shade of Sherlock Holmes Volume 1 - The Veiled Lady and Other Untold Tales is available from this store [online store links like B&N and Amazon on that page].