Sherlock Holmes & the Silver Cord
“I speak of magic, Mr. Holmes.”
Mr. Percy Simmons, leader of London’s Theosophical Order of Odic Forces, is fully aware that his is not a case which Mr. Sherlock Holmes would ordinarily take up.
These are not ordinary times, however.
For something, some unquiet demon within Holmes stirs into discomfiting wakefulness under the occultist’s words. The unassuming Mr. Simmons has spoken of good and evil with the sort of certainty of soul that Sherlock yearns for. A certainty which has eluded Holmes for the three years in which the world thought him dead. While, for all intents, constructions, and purposes, he was dead.
But six months ago, Sherlock Holmes returned to Baker Street, declared himself alive to friend and foe alike, took up his old rooms, his profession, and his partnership with Dr. J. Watson—only to find himself haunted still by questions which had followed him out of the dreadful chasm of Reichenbach Falls:
Why? Why had he survived when his enemy had not? To what end? And had there ever, truly, been such a thing as justice? Such a thing as good or evil?
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Intro: Holmes takes up his own private line of investigation on one of his cases, meeting with Mr. Turner, a leader of a local occultist organization. Or, rather, Holmes considers membership within the group for its own merits, and is thus eager to conceal this new interest from Watson.
Extract: [from Chapter 7]
“I thank you, Mr. Turner, for your swift response to my message. And I thank you for agreeing to meet here, at Baker Street, so that we might speak candidly,” I said, gesturing that my visitor have a seat.
Mr. Daniel Turner gave one thoughtful turn in place before adopting a spot in the middle of 221B’s couch. I had the distinct impression that he was measuring the room, though with what mental ruler I could not begin to fathom. Tidy and trim, with a shock of white hair and sweeping moustaches to match, the head magician for the Society of Universal Energies was here at my invitation. An appointment I had pointedly made with the knowledge that Watson would be out for the morning.
“And I thank you for your interest, Mr. Holmes, in our little club.” Mr. Turner gave a wry smile.
“Come, Mr. Turner, you may be frank with me in this matter, considering my interest.”
“Your interest,” he mused over my words. “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but when a man of your intellectual prowess—and, granted, we have many a genius amongst our numbers—when someone such as yourself approaches, I can only surmise that you are doing so from a place of profane scepticism or from one of deep conviction, blessed with the spirit of divine inquiry.”
“Can it not be both, when a person knows as little as myself?”
Satisfied by my answer, Mr. Turner’s smile turned warm. He asked, “And what is it you wish to know?”
Under his piercing gaze, a shudder passed through me as though lightning had discharged close by. I felt exposed by the direct question. I felt the echo of that horrible, desperate excitement which I had experienced the evening of my first becoming acquainted with Mr. Percy Simmons. And I feared disinvitation, removal from a company of faith whose acceptance I had yet to gain. What was it I wished to know, Mr. Turner? I wished to know to what end any of us are alive.
But my needs were too fearsome to put into words, and so I said, “I can tell at a glance where a man has walked from the dirt upon his shoes, discern marital bliss—or a lack thereof—from the state of a hat or watch chain. Carpets and door latches whisper their stories in stray hairs and scuff marks. The heart of a mystery opens itself to me like a flower, whereas for others such answers remain shrouded in the gloom of a wintertime freeze. I understand what motivates a person to act—most generally when the motives are for ill. I can see all the pieces in the puzzle, Mr. Turner. I see how they fit, what picture they will make. But what I don’t know is: why the picture?”
Mr. Turner remained silent for several long moments as he considered my words. Had he spoken without any hesitation, I would have been disappointed. Had he tried to answer in the here and now, I would have known my question disregarded or, worse, misunderstood. Instead, my guest rose, tugged his sleeves, sniffed, measured the room with his eyes again, and said, “We will be in touch, Mr. Holmes.”
I saw my visitor out, and now strangely ill-at-ease over having had to admit, out loud, something over which I felt true disquiet, I paced the carpet and mentally catalogued where I stood on my various tasks for the week. It did not take long. A mountain of reading awaited me. Various correspondence, books, pamphlets, and newspapers sat neglected upon my desk.
Throwing myself at the disparate collection, I gave myself over to the solving of nearly a dozen cases which had been entrusted to me. Bountiful brainwork, it held my attention for some minutes. At length I sat back, glared at the rest of the tasks at hand, and then cast equal annoyance at the clock for good measure. No amount of willing time to pass would move the sunbeams which slanted across my path.
I reached for my violin.
I was still playing when, sometime later, I discovered that Watson had returned home and now sat quietly at our dining table. He had a curious charmed look about him, and self- conscious, I put down my bow.
“My apologies, Watson, I had not heard you come in,” I explained.
“By all means, Holmes, do keep playing,” he said. “I do not believe I’ve heard anyone—much less you—play like that in all my days.”
I noted that the lighting within our apartment had changed. A glance to my watch confirmed it; for all my frustrations and efforts, in the end the morning had gone in the blink of an eye.
“Your extemporaneous little compositions are usually so morose,” Watson continued. “Whatever mood sparked today’s playing is a thing to be encouraged. Unmusical to the point of distraction, certainly, but . . . beautiful.”
I frowned as, with Watson’s observation, my mind’s eye conjured up the image of Turner sitting upon our couch. For I had felt something of the ethereal while I had scraped mindlessly at my instrument. It was as though something had passed through Baker Street. Some scent, some cleansing breeze. It was introspection approaching the exquisite, a thing with which I had little experience. Freed from this terrestrial plodding, I had soared. And now I was back earthbound, trudging amongst the clay. I placed my violin back in its corner, distancing myself from the sublime which I had unintentionally touched and which I might never again reach, save through the accident of a distracted mind.
M. K. Wiseman has degrees in Interarts & Technology and Library & Information Studies from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Her office, therefore, is a curious mix of storyboards and reference materials. Both help immensely in the writing of historical novels. She currently resides in Cedarburg, Wisconsin.
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