27 - All-Consuming Fire

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ALL-CONSUMING FIRE

by Andy Lane

To: Chris Amies, Tina Anghelatos, Ian Atkins, Molly Brown, Mr Fandango, Craig Hinton, Liz Holliday, Ben

Jeapes, Rebecca Levene, Andrew Martin, Jim Mortimore, Amanda Murray, Mike Nicholson, David Owen,

Justin Richards, Gus Smith, Helen Stirling, Charles Stross and James Wallis. If you don't like it, you know

who to blame.

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Doctor Who Books an imprint of Virgin Publishing Ltd 332

Ladbroke Grove London W10 5AH

'Doctor Who' series copyright (c) British Broadcasting Corporation 1994

ISBN 0 426 20415 8

Cover illustration by Jeff Cummins

Internal illustrations by Mike Nicholson

Typeset by Intype, London Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd,

Reading, Berks

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or

otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any

form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

'May I marry Holmes?'

Cable of enquiry from dramatist/actor William Gillette to Arthur Conan Doyle during writing of Gillette's

Sherlock Holmes play.

'You may marry or murder or do what you like with him.'

Doyle's reply.

Prologue

March 1843 - Jabalhabad, India

'Boy! I say, boy! Two more burra pegs, chelo!'

The man in the British Army uniform waved an imperious hand as the turbaned servant glided silently from the

veranda.

The old man in the cane chair beside him cackled gently. 'Most kind of you, hmm?' he said, and glanced over

to where his granddaughter was attempting to capture the distant mountains in water-colour. The setting sun

was behind the bungalow, casting a deep shadow over the patchy doob grass but catching the snowy peaks

in a net of scarlet and purple.

She glanced up and caught his gaze.

'Grandfather?'

'Nothing, child.'

The soldier batted at a cloud of insects with his pith helmet. The motion caused a fresh rash of sweat to

break out across his forehead. He mopped half-heartedly at it.

'Deuced if I know how you cope in this heat,' he muttered.

'Oh, I've been in hotter places than this, my boy,' said the old man.

'There's nowhere on Earth hotter than India during the dry season. If there was, I'd have been posted to it.'

'Perhaps you're right,' the old man agreed. He looked over towards a group of three people - a man and two

women - who were sitting and taking tea upon the lawn in the shade of a large parasol. There was something

familiar about the man, but he couldn't quite place him.

The servant appeared from the shadows of the bungalow with two double whiskies on a tray. The ice had

already melted. A mosquito was struggling weakly in the old man's glass.

'Now, where was I?' the soldier asked, frowning slightly.

'You were telling me about a rather strange temple up in the hills.'

'So I was,' the soldier replied, faintly surprised. 'A rum tale, and no mistake. Let's see what you make of it,

what?'

The old man said nothing, but glanced again at the trio happily chatting near his granddaughter. The women

were young, but the man . . .

He managed to catch the man's eye. A look passed between them, and the old man shivered.

'Are you all right?' the soldier asked.

'Hmm? I think somebody just walked over my graves.'

'If you're feeling a bit under the weather, you'd better see the medic. Corporal Forbes is rife around here.'

'Corporal Forbes?' the old man asked.

'Cholera Morbus. Cholera, you know.'

'I wouldn't worry about that,' the old man said. 'Please, go on.'

'Right-ho. As I said earlier, the palace was a sight to be seen...'

'So this is where it all started?' Bernice said politely.

'Indeed,' the Doctor replied, and took a sip of tea. 'And we've seen where it ends. If I hadn't listened to Siger's

tale on that veranda.. .'

'Yeah, we know,' Ace said dismissively. She fiddled with her frilly dress. Bernice could tell that she felt

uncomfortable in something that wasn't bullet-proof and laser-resistant. 'Ultimate evil, and all that guff, It's a

bit hard to swallow, Professor. If you hadn't stopped it, somebody else would have done. I've seen the future,

remember? The future of all this. I was born in it.'

'Time's a funny thing,' the Doctor mused, gazing with a strange expression at the girl who was painting the

watercolour landscape. 'Didn't the business with the Monk and his pet chronovore illustrate precisely that

point? The lives of every planet, every person and every proton are like trickles of water running down a

window. Their courses may look fixed, but if you disturb them early on then they can trickle into another path

entirely'

Ace summed up her viewpoint in one succinct word.

Before the Doctor's temper boiled over, Bernice said, 'So, do I take it that the old man sitting over there is

you?'

'In a sense.'

'In what sort of sense, precisely?'

'In a rather imprecise sense.'

'He doesn't look very much like you.'

'I was five hundred years younger then,' the Doctor said gloomily. 'You may not believe it, but age has

mellowed me.'

Ace snorted.

'You should write your autobiography,' she said. 'Confessions of a Roving Time Lord. You'd sell a billion.'

'Ah,' said the Doctor, 'that reminds me...'

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small, leather-bound book.

'A present for you both,' he said.

Bernice took the book from his outstretched hand.

'All-Consuming Fire,' she read, grinning. 'Being a Reprint From the Reminiscences of Doctor John Watson As

Edited by Arthur Conan Doyle.'

She rifled through the pages.

'This is weird, seeing them called Holmes and Watson.'

'That's how history remembers them. That's how Arthur protected their identities.'

'Arthur?' Ace looked interested. 'Mate of yours, this Doyle character?'

The Doctor looked away.

'Oh, our paths crossed, longer ago that I care to remember. Arthur Conan Doyle and Rudyard Kipling. Do you

like Kipling?'

'I don't know,' Ace replied with a cheeky grin, 'I've never kippled.'

Bernice, who had been flicking through the book looking for her first appearance, laughed suddenly.

'What is it?' the Doctor asked.

'You, after that creature fell on you,' she giggled. 'I still remember the look on your face.'

The Doctor frowned, and gazed at the faded pink stains on his linen jacket.

'I'll never get these blood-stains out,' he murmured.

Bernice hardly heard him. She had flipped back to the start of the book and was already reading the first few

words.

Chapter 1

In which Holmes and Watson return from holiday and an illustrious client commissions their services

A reprint from the reminiscences of John H. Watson M.D.

As I flick through the thirty-five volumes of my diary I find records of the many bizarre cases that my friend

Sherlock Holmes and I were engaged in over the years. In the volume for eighteen eighty four, to take an

example, I see the repulsive story of the red leech and the tale of the terrible death of Crosby the banker.

Again, in the tome devoted to eighteen eighty six my eye is caught by the singular affair of the aluminium

crutch and its connection with an attempt upon the life of our dear sovereign: a story for which the world is

singularly unprepared. It is, however, the year eighteen eighty seven which occupies no less that three

volumes of my diary. Following the tragic curtailment of my marriage to Constance Adams of California I was

again living under the same roof as Holmes. I still maintained a small practice in Paddington, but my work

was undemanding - so much so that I had turned my hand to writing an account of my meeting with Holmes

for private publication - and I always managed to make myself available on those occasions when Holmes

requested my presence (I cannot, in all honesty, say help) on a case.

All through the spring and summer of that year the brass knocker on the door of 221b Baker Street seemed

never to be still, and our carpet was almost worn away by the constant stream of visitors. Twice Mrs Hudson

threatened to withdraw from her role as provider of light refreshments to Holmes's clients. The unceasing

round of snatched sleep and snatched meals caused Holmes's naturally gaunt features to become so

emaciated that I became worried for his health. Eventually I managed to persuade him that he deserved a

holiday. Typically of Holmes, he chose to spend it in Vienna researching his theory that many of Mozart's

symphonies were plagiarized from obscure works by Orlando Lassus. To mollify me, for he had no interest in

bodily comfort himself, he arranged for us to travel in some considerable style. The cost, he claimed, was of

no concern, for he had recently been generously remunerated by Lord Rotherfield for proving to the

satisfaction of the various Court circulars and scandal sheets that Lady Rotherfield was not a female

impersonator. Whilst he delved into archives and, much to the dismay of the maids, buried his hotel suite in

mounds of dusty paper, I admired the architecture, the ladies and the horseflesh at the famous Riding

Academy. Finally, completely restored to health and happiness, we returned to England on the Orient

Express. I should have known that our luck could not last for ever. The shadow of the Library of Saint John

the Beheaded lay over us, even as we pulled out of Vienna.

Holmes and I were in the habit of taking dinner with Colonel Warburton and his charming wife Gloria.

Returning from an extended holiday, they were heading for Marseilles to pick up the ship to India, where the

Colonel was the Resident in the native state of Jabalhabad. Warburton had been with my old regiment, the

Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Our paths had never crossed before, as he had arrived after my transfer to the

Berkshires during the Second Afghan War. My subsequent wounding and invalidity precluded any chance

meeting. He was a beefy, florid man with a greying moustache and piercing blue eyes. His wife was a dainty

creature, as fragile as a porcelain miniature, but they were obviously devoted to one another despite their

differences.

We first became aware of something amiss in the dining carriage. Holmes was in an unusually expansive

mood, that night, entertaining us with anecdotes of his long and varied life as we dined on an excellent fillet of

beef washed down with a surprisingly mediocre Medoc. Having heard Holmes's stories before, I spent some

time admiring the carriage we sat in. The ornate ceiling, mahogany panelling and embossed leather seats put

me in mind of the finest London clubs, although the paintings (by Schwind and Delacroix, Holmes had

assured me) were not to my taste. Give me Landseer's Monarch of the Glen any day.

Eventually my gaze shifted to the window, and to the snow-bound Austrian landscape which flashed past too

quickly to identify any features. There was a full moon in the sky, and occasionally clouds scudded across

its face like dirty rags carried by the wind. Moonlight glinted on the metal of a set of rail tracks which ran

parallel to ours. I was about to turn my attention back to the table when a movement caught my eye. I craned

my neck, and saw that a second train was racing along behind us, moving at such a pace that it would

overtake us within moments. I watched, fascinated, as it pulled alongside. Against the fiery glow from the

engine I could see the silhouette of the stoker shovelling like a clockwork figure in the cabin. As the train

overtook us I was amazed to discover that it consisted of only one carriage. If anything it was even more

ornate than ours from the outside; a gleaming white shape with scarlet velvet drapes drawn across the

windows and a golden crest on its flank. Who owned it? What was it doing there? I turned to ask Holmes, but

he was engaged in deep conversation and I could not find it in my heart to interrupt. By the time I turned my

face back to the window the mystery train had almost passed us.

Holmes was now waxing lyrical about violins, explaining to the Colonel and his wife the difference between an

Amati and a Stradivarius. I thanked God that Holmes's own violin lay back in Baker Street. When the mood

took him Holmes could play like an angel, but more often than not his raucous meanderings put the cats to

shame. Whilst we waited for our third course I glanced over Holmes's shoulder. Apart from the four of us

around the dinner table there were two other travellers travelling first class, but only the Reverend Hawkins

was present in the dining car. Baden-Powell, a self-proclaimed expert on butterflies whose tan and manner

indicated military service, was absent. I looked again at the Reverend Hawkins. Something about him

bothered me, but I could not say what.

'You see, but you do not understand,' said Holmes, interrupting my train of thought.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Our clerical fellow traveller is an agent for the British Government.'

'Good Lord, Holmes. Are you sure?'

Colonel and Mrs Warburton were listening intently. I suddenly became aware that the train was slowing but I

found myself, as always, fascinated by Holmes's display of his talents.

'The Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits have provided spies of all nations with a golden ribbon across

Europe. It would be unusual were they not to take advantage of it. When I see an English clergyman travelling

first class my suspicions are raised; when I notice that the knees of his trousers do not shine, my suspicions

positively levitate.'

'Knees?' asked Warburton.

'Shine?' murmured his wife.

'You do not see the connection?' Holmes asked. 'Forgive me, I thought it was obvious. The Reverend Hawkins

may pray, but not I suspect for his immortal soul, and certainly not in the conventional position. You may

also note the callous on the index finger of his right hand, indicating a familiarity with firearms of which the

Archbishop of Canterbury would strongly disapprove.'

The train was just crawling along now, but Holmes continued.

'The man is obviously an undercover agent of some sort. The assertion that he works for our dear Queen

rather than one of her foreign relatives is, I will admit, a shot in the dark. However, given his calm manner I

would suggest that he is returning from an assignment rather than travelling to one.'

'But how did you know . . .?'

'That you were watching him? If I catch you staring fixedly over my shoulder it doesn't take much to know that

you aren't keeping an eye on an empty table. You were watching one of our fellow travellers.'

The train had been brought to a stop now. Glancing out of the window I saw what I had expected; the white

train with the gold crest was stationary on the other track.

'But,' I protested, gathering my wits, 'Hawkins entered after us, and your back has been to him all the time.

How did you know it wasn't Mr Baden-Powell who had entered?'

'Simplicity itself; When the serveur brought in the soup, he was carrying five dishes. Someone had obviously

entered behind me. It must have been either Baden-Powell or Hawkins, since they are the only other first

class travellers.' He leaned back and steepled his fingers upon the tablecloth. The candle on the table cast a

hawk-like shadow behind him. 'When we received the soup, we began immediately. There was a gap of

almost forty-five seconds before I heard the clink of a spoon on a dish behind us. Conclusion: the Reverend

Hawkins had been saying grace.' Holmes smiled. 'Either that or Mr Baden-Powell had been straining the soup

for botanical specimens. I chose the most probable alternative.'

'Bravo!' said the Colonel. His wife applauded daintily.

'As usual, Holmes,' I said, a touch acerbically, 'you make it appear so simple.'

Before Holmes could reply the imposing figure of the chef de train appeared at our table. Bending low, he

murmured something into my friend's ear. Holmes stood, and turned to the Colonel and his wife.

'I'm afraid that I will have to leave you for a moment,' he announced, and turning to me he said, 'Watson,

perhaps you would like to accompany me.'

Together we made our way from the dining carriage to the smoking salon. Baden-Powell was slumped in a

heavy leather fauteuil with a sketchbook in his hands. As the chef de train led us past I noticed that the

naturalist was painstakingly filling in patterns on a butterfly's wing.

Beyond the smoking salon, stairs had been lowered to the snowy ground. The white train lay twenty feet

away. Footsteps led from that train to ours and back again. There was a chill in the air, but no worse than the

bite of an April morning in London.

The chef de train halted and turned to us.

'Gentlemen,' he began, his breath steaming in front of his face. 'In the history of the Compagnie Internationale

des Wagons-Lits this has happened not once before. Not once. We have been...' he searched for the right

words, '...flagged down!'

'By whom?' Holmes inquired softly.

'By one whom I may not disobey,' the chef said, crossing himself briefly. 'Your presence is requested. We will

wait for ten minutes. The schedule will allow no more.' With that he turned on his heel and strode back inside

the salon.

'You saw it pass us by earlier?' Holmes asked, indicating the distant carriage. I nodded. 'That crest is

familiar,' he continued. 'I have seen it before, on a letter or a document of some kind.' He shook his head.

'There is, of course, only one way to find out. Are you game?'

'I would consider it a privilege,' I replied.

We set out together across the snow-laden ground towards the white train.

The snow crunched underfoot. I could feel the cold begin to bite at the tips of my fingers. Behind us I could

hear an increasing number of voices from the second-class compartments demanding to know of the chef de

train what was causing the delay. I could not make out his answer.

Within moments we were approaching the train.

'Are you armed?' Holmes asked.

'No,' I replied. 'I had not anticipated the need. Are you?'

'My hair-trigger pistol is back in my valise.'

As we reached the steps leading up to the lone carriage a door opened above us. Back-lit by the light spilling

from the carriage, a spindly, cloaked figure cast its shadow over us. I could make out nothing apart from the

unnatural smoothness of its head. It gestured us inside, then retreated.

Holmes and I looked at each other, then Holmes climbed the steps. Casting a longing glance back at the

Orient Express, I did likewise.

The bright light blinded me momentarily as we entered the carriage. Shielding my eyes, I managed to make

out three figures before us. One was seated in an ornately carved chair in the centre of the otherwise empty

space. The others stood behind. As my eyes grew accustomed to the glare I began to make out more. The

carriage was lined in white silk, with the scarlet velvet curtains across the windows standing out like splashes

of blood. Three massive gas-lit chandeliers hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly. The carpet was deep and

red.

The figures standing behind the chair were tall and thin. Both wore long black robes with scarlet scarves

draped across their shoulders, scarlet sashes around their waists and scarlet skullcaps half-covering what

sparse hair they had. Each had a face that seemed to be made up of vertical lines. Neither showed any

expression.

The man in the chair, swamped by his white robes, was the least impressive thing in the carriage. Thin and

greyhaired, he might have been a banker or a grocer. His tiny white skullcap looked as if it could fall from his

head at any moment.

Holmes walked to the centre of the carriage and stood before the man in the chair. I expected one of them to

say something, and so I was completely unprepared when Holmes knelt upon one knee. The man extended

his hand, upon which I saw a massive gold ring. Holmes's face tightened for a moment, then he knelt and

kissed the ring.

I was hit by a sudden crashing realization, and so when Holmes turned his head and said, 'Watson, may I

introduce His Holiness, Pope Leo XIII,' I was at least half prepared. I bowed from where I stood. One of the

men who flanked the Pope frowned and opened his mouth as if to rebuke me, but the Pope raised his hand.

The other man spoke in excellent English.

'His Holiness understands that Doctor Watson shares the majority of his countrymen's antagonism towards

the Holy See. There is no transgression.'

Holmes stood and took two steps backwards to join me.

'We are grateful, your Holiness,' he murmured. There was a undertone of sarcasm in his words.

The man spoke again.

'I am Cardinal Ruffo-Scilla, and this,' he gestured to his mirror image on the other side of the chair, 'is Cardinal

Tosca. His Holiness wishes to express his regret for disrupting your journey.'

'His Holiness has no need to apologize for anything,' Holmes said. 'I have served the Holy Father from a

distance before, although I had never expected to meet him in person.'

'His Holiness was most pleased with your discreet recovery of the Vatican cameos,' Ruffo-Scilla continued

smoothly. 'Your actions prevented a scandal, and justified his Holiness's faith in you.'

'I did wonder how I had come to the Vatican's attention,' Holmes said carefully. 'After all, given Mr Gladstone's

belated acknowledgement of the annexation of all papal lands by King Victor Emmanuel II, and the

subsequent withdrawal of the Apostolic Delegation from British territory, I had assumed that his Holiness

would use the extensive resources of the Vatican rather than resort to a British detective who regards himself

as an atheist and whose fame,' and he spread his hands modestly, 'barely extends beyond the borders of a

country currently regarded as non grata.'

His Holiness Pope Leo XIII smiled gently.

'His Holiness has followed your career with interest,' Cardinal Ruffo-Scilla said. 'There are certain things that a

free agent can do that members of the Sacred College cannot. His Holiness believes, however, that such

business should be "kept within the family", whenever possible and, despite your own regrettable lapse in

faith, your family have served the Holy See faithfully before.'

Holmes nodded and turned to me.

'I remember Sherringford writing to tell me,' he murmured, 'that one of our distant ancestors had been

Commander in Chief of the Naval Forces of his Holiness the Pope. I had never credited the story until now.'

I was amazed, not so much at what had been said, but at Holmes's uncharacteristic revelations concerning

his family. After all, it had been five years before he revealed to me that he possessed a brother. I made a

note to ask who Sherringford was when we got back to London.

His Holiness raised a hand, still smiling enigmatically.

'Time is short,' Cardinal Ruffo-Scilla said. 'Your train will be leaving shortly. His Holiness wishes to retain your

professional services. You may demand any recompense that you wish.'

'My fees are on a fixed scale,' Holmes said severely, 'except in those cases where I remit them altogether.

The problem is everything. Pray explain what you wish of me.'

His Holiness twisted his ring around his finger and looked thoughtful.

'Have you heard of the Library of Saint John the Beheaded?' Ruffo-Scilla, asked.

I saw Holmes's fingers twitch. Had we been back in Baker Street I knew he would have been demanding:

'Watson, pass my index for the letter L down from the shell Oh, and whilst you are at it, you may as well

recover J and B as well.' Now, however, I could hear the chagrin in his voice as he admitted, 'The name is

familiar, but I am afraid I cannot place it.'

'I would not expect you to,' the Cardinal said calmly. 'The Library does not advertise its presence. It is a

repository for books which have been, or are, or may be, banned - either by us or by some other . . .

authority. Books so extreme and unusual that we cannot even acknowledge that we are interested in them,

for fear of exciting general opinion. Books that, some say, should never have been written. However' - he

spread his hands wide in an unofficial benediction - 'we are reasonable men. We allow selected scholars and

researchers to examine these books in the hope that they may shed a little light into the darker corners of

God's creation for us. Because England is the centre of the rational world, and has always seemed to us to

be more stable than many other countries, the Library is based in London. The present . . . discommodation .

. . between our countries has, paradoxically, made things easier. The greater the perceived gap between the

Library and the Church, the better.'

'Suppression of knowledge by the Church,' Holmes said bitterly. 'Why am I unsurprised?'

I cleared my throat. His Holiness looked up at me and smiled.

'I find myself confused,' I said. 'What sort of books are we talking about?'

'One of the three unexpurgated versions of the Malleus Maleficarum is in the Library' the Cardinal replied from

the Supreme Pontiff's side, 'the other two being held in the Vatican Library. The only complete transcript of

Galileo Galilei's trial resides there, along with shelves of books on the Chinese Si Fan society and its leader,

Doctor Fu Manchu - a man whom we in the Vatican believe to be as huge a menace to civilization as you

believe anarchism to be. Five lost plays by Aristophanes. The only known copy of the Basra Fragment of the

lost Dictionary of the Khazars, along with the proof of Fermat's Last Theorem. And,' he smiled, 'a copy of

notes made by Doctor Watson and picturesquely entitled The Affair of the Politician, The Lighthouse and the

Trained Cormorant, the publication of which was, I believe, suppressed at the highest levels.'

I took a step forward, ready to remonstrate with the Cardinal. Holmes raised a hand to stop me but His

Holiness the Pope coughed, attracting my attention. The small man in the loose-fitting white robe who was

believed by many to be God's mouthpiece on Earth looked full into my eyes for the first time, and I was so

struck by the calm and wise intelligence that shone like a beacon in his gaze that I stood with my mouth

hanging open until Holmes interjected, 'This is all very interesting, but I'm afraid we have a train to catch.

Perhaps you could get to the point.'

'The Library was been robbed,' Ruffo-Scilla, said quietly. 'In the thousand years that the Library has existed,

such a thing has never happened. Wars, fires, disasters . . . these things have been as the beating of a

moth's wing to the Library. And yet now, after all those long years, books are missing.'

Cardinal Ruffo-Scilla seemed genuinely upset, although I could not see why. Admittedly, the theft of historical

relics was unfortunate, but the Cardinal was making it seem like a world catastrophe. I had seen enough

looting in Afghanistan and in India to show me that nothing lasts forever.

Holmes cut to the nub of the issue.

'Do you have any idea who the thief might be?' he said.

'None.'

'When was the theft discovered?'

''Two days ago, when a member of the Library asked to see one of the books.'

'The news came through rapidly.'

'We have our methods.'

'I shall have to visit the scene of the crime, of course, although the evidence will almost certainly have been

cleaned away by now.'

The Cardinal smiled. 'Cleaners are not allowed in the Library,' he said. 'Some of the documents are so old

that a careless touch would crumble them to dust.'

'The police have not been informed?'

His Holiness frowned. For the first time Cardinal Tosca spoke from the other side of the Papal Throne. His

voice was sibilant, his accent pronounced.

'The authorities must not be made aware of the Library,' he hissed. 'The whole point about conspiracies is

that they have been suppressed by those in power.'

Outside a train whistle hooted mournfully.

'I believe that is our train,' Holmes said. 'I shall take your case, but I will require the location of this mysterious

Library, and a letter of introduction to its custodian.'

Ruffo-Scilla reached into his robes and pulled out a sheaf of documents, which he passed to Holmes.

'His Holiness would like to extend his gratitude,' the Cardinal said. Holmes, uncomfortable with the display of

subservience but too experienced in the ways of the world to object, knelt to kiss the ring on the Pope's

outstretched hand again, and this time I did the same. Leo XIII leaned forward and made the sign of the cross

above Holmes's forehead, and then above mine.

'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

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ALL-CONSUMINGFIREbyAndyLaneTo:ChrisAmies,TinaAnghelatos,IanAtkins,MollyBrown,MrFandango,CraigHinton,LizHolliday,BenJeapes,RebeccaLevene,AndrewMartin,JimMortimore,AmandaMurray,MikeNicholson,DavidOwen,JustinRichards,GusSmith,HelenStirling,CharlesStrossandJamesWallis.Ifyoudon'tlikeit,youknowwhotoblame....

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27 - All-Consuming Fire.pdf

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27 - All-Consuming Fire

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