The Angel of the Opera Read online

  Lowell’s smile had returned. “Quite so, Mr. Holmes, and a good end we have seen to this troublesome business.” Sherlock stared at him so long before replying that the old man began to fidget nervously with his cigar.

  “A very convenient end, two of the men dead, including the priest who led them, and the other two in police custody. How fortunate, also, that those two speak not a word of English. It would be interesting to discuss their fierce goddess with them. Alas, I have studied most European languages, but not Hindustani.”

  The Major shook his head. “A barbaric and ugly tongue, Mr. Holmes, hardly worth your trouble.”

  “Ah, but as a near relative of Sanskrit, the mother tongue of all our Western languages, it would be fascinating. Anyway, Major, all your enemies are conveniently eliminated, and now you may dwell in peace during the remainder of your days.”

  “All thanks to you, Mr. Holmes.”

  Sherlock set down his pipe on the table next to the statue. “I fear that there is still one complication.”

  “Complication?” Lowell echoed.

  “Yes, Major Lowell. The complication is that you yourself are a thug.”

  I have never seen a man so transformed as Lowell was at that moment. The cigar fell from his lips, and all the color went out of his face, his lips turning bluish. I would have been more concerned for his health had I not been so totally surprised myself. “Sherlock, what are you saying?”

  “I am saying that Major Lowell is and has been a thug, and not in the quaint, colloquial usage of the word, but in its darker, original meaning. Instead of acting with Broderick and Davidson to suppress the thugs, he was secretly a devotee of the black goddess. As such he has betrayed everything: his compatriots and his commission as a British officer, his country and queen, even the Christian God.”

  Lowell put one hand on his chest, then turned and sank back into a massive oaken chair. The thick sturdy oak contrasted with his own frail and aged frame. “This is... a monstrous lie, some terrible joke.”

  Holmes shook his head grimly. “Not at all. Your devotion to your hideous goddess has blinded you, made you careless and stupid. Why would a man who had spent many years trying to stamp out murderous fanatics keep an image of their deity prominently displayed in his home?”

  “A memento only,” Lowell mumbled. Unconsciously he had begun to wring his hands.

  “Surely it has some appeal as a work of art,” I said. “This cannot be true.”

  “Yes, yes.” Lowell nodded eagerly.

  Holmes again shook his head. “Are you blind, Henry? Look at that thing, study her closely. She reeks of blood and death. You carry aesthetic detachment too far. Besides, I have further proof, even though it was the statue that first convinced me that Major Lowell was not the man he pretended to be.”

  “Proof?” Lowell whispered.

  “Yes, proof. There were many small details which did not fit, and of course there was your obvious zeal to shoot the two men, one as elderly and infirm as yourself.”

  “He was dangerous! I knew his powers! I have seen his tongue mesmerize the masses, their black eyes fill with the love of blood and slaughter! No one would have been safe while he lived.”

  “Least of all you, Major Lowell.”

  “This is... preposterous, an outrageous insult!” Somehow the old man managed to stand up, but he clung desperately to the chair with both hands. “You have no proof–this is all supposition! Get out of my house–go, at once!”

  Briefly I thought I saw pity in Sherlock’s face, but it was gone almost at once. “I have all the proof I need, Major Lowell.” He withdrew a folded paper from his coat pocket and opened it. A large reddish-brown splotch, clearly dried blood, marred one corner. “This is the letter you wrote the priest to entrap him and his friends. This explains their walking right into our hands. I found this on the dead man, despite your efforts to get rid of the body as quickly as possible. You were not so stupid as to sign this, and you made some attempt to disguise your writing. Not enough, however, to fool me or any other handwriting expert. You address the priest as an old friend and fellow believer, Major. I suspect, although I do not yet have proof, that you were an accomplice in the killings of Broderick and Davidson. One did die, after all, under your roof.”

  I felt a sickening dismay and could not bear looking at the frightened old man. “Can he be such a black traitor, such a... monster?”

  Sherlock gave a curt nod. “Yes.”

  Lowell’s hands tightened on the chair back, his knuckles white. He opened his mouth, a grimace baring his brown, worn teeth. “You are so smug, so condescending–the great Sherlock Holmes! What do you know of evil, real evil! Have you ever cut open a man, torn his heart from his chest and bathed your arms in blood? I have killed more men than you will ever save.” He stared at the statue, a shuddering sigh slipping from between his bluish lips, then a dreadful energy animated him, filling his eyes with power.

  “You yourself cannot be such a fool as to believe in the Christian God, that comical hodgepodge of banal goodness and petulant destructiveness–I am certain of it! But you are too weak to turn to the dark one, the Black Mother. Evil rules the world, Mr. Holmes, touching all things with her black fingers–even you and that youthful fool with you. Can you blame me for choosing the winning side? The goddess of death and destruction will reign long after this ridiculous empire of ours has fallen and only our absurd monuments remain. Can you blame me for choosing Kali? You understand–I know you do! You feel her power! You know she is no mere statue, but the true goddess who must be obeyed and worshiped! Look into her red eyes, into those bloody orbs, and then tell me I am wrong!”

  Tears ran from his eyes, but he began to laugh. He was so old and sick that the sound was feeble, yet I heard such madness, such hatred and pain, that I wanted to clap my hands to my ears.

  Sherlock wrenched the chair away from Lowell, then used both hands to raise and swing it. The blow sent the statue crashing to the floor. The oriental carpet did not go all the way to the wall, and the marble struck the stone of the castle floor and shattered. The impact broke off two of the black marble arms and the fearful head itself.

  Lowell had slumped against the wall, but he screamed, “No!” Where he got the strength for such a cry I do not know. He staggered forward, but I seized his arm.

  “It is finished–you will make yourself ill.”

  “My statue! My statue!” He began to weep, and if I had not held him up he would have collapsed. “You have killed her, you have killed her. She was so beautiful.”

  “Good Lord, Major–sit down. You are not well.” I helped him to another chair, the mate of the one lying on the floor. I turned to Sherlock. “Are you all right?”

  He was fearfully pale, and I could see his large white hands quivering at his sides. The fury still showed in his eyes. He nodded. “Yes. I’m fine.” He bent over to retrieve his pipe, then raised the chair. He was of such a tall and slight build that these occasional feats of strength always amazed me. I have seen him so weary from lack of proper sleep and diet that he could hardly stand up, and yet he could hurl an oak chair of a good five stone as easily as if it were a pillow.

  “For God’s sake, Mr. Holmes, spare me–spare me!”

  “A moment ago you mocked the Deity, Major Lowell.”

  “Please, Mr. Holmes, if not for my sake, for my daughter’s. It would destroy her to know. She has no inkling. She and her mother were the only good things that ever happened in my wretched life. Her mother was gentle–while she lived I turned from the black goddess. My fellow officers mocked me, and there was no longer a place for me in the regiment. What did I care? But when she died, when she left me, I grew weak again, and your wretched God–he blinded my little one when she was hardly more than a babe! Can you blame me for choosing Kali? Don’t tell her, Mr. Holmes, I beg of you!”

  Holmes and I stared at one another. “You need some brandy, Major,” I said. “Calm yourself, please–as you say–for your daughte
r’s sake.” I walked to a nearby table and poured brandy from a heavy crystal decanter.

  “Please, Mr. Holmes. What would be the harm? You are a gentleman, I know, and a reasonable man. Let us forget this disturbing business. They were only dirty Indians. We are white men, are we not? As a white man and an Englishman, I implore you...”

  Sherlock’s pipe toppled from his hands, and he stepped forward. I dropped the glass, spilling its contents onto the carpet, then lunged forward and grabbed his arm. “Sherlock, he is old and sick–you cannot strike him!” He turned, and for a moment I thought he would hit me instead.

  “Tell him... to keep silent.”

  The old man was still weeping and blubbering about his daughter. “Major, please,” I murmured. “I think we could all use some brandy. I know I could.” I let go of Sherlock.

  “I’m sorry, Henry,” he whispered. “Yes, get me some brandy.”

  Soon we were all sipping silently at the Major’s excellent Cognac and not tasting it. Outside we heard the icy, lonely howling of the wind. At night there is no more melancholy a sound. I remember as a boy cowering in my bed in the cold and dark of a winter night, listening to that unceasing moan. None of us said anything for a long while.

  Finally the Major spoke, but the furor which had possessed him was gone. He sounded old, sick, and weary. “You are right, Mr. Holmes. I have betrayed every trust given me, save one. My daughter will tell you that I have been a loving father. I have cared for her. That is why... If only myself were involved, I could bear the disgrace, but she has done nothing–nothing at all. Some merciless god has already punished her enough. Why should...?” The old man’s voice faded, and he began to weep in earnest.

  Holmes and I stared at each other. He was tired and discouraged, his own energy spent. I stood and helped the old man up. “Go to bed, Major. You are weary. We shall continue this discussion in the morning when we have all rested.”

  The old man tottered in my grasp. He felt unbelievably light, the flesh and muscle wispy nothingness over the hard bone.

  He took a few steps with my aid, then turned again to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, I have but one final thing to ask of you.” Holmes raised his head, but his eyes were evasive. “Promise me, promise that you will look after my daughter.”

  “What?”

  “Promise me you will look after her. I have no other living relations. She has little experience with men save her father. When the two of you played that German music yesterday, I could see that you understood her. She respects you. Her musical powers are a mystery to me, the more so because of her blindness. Whatever happens to me, howsoever I am punished for my sins, I beg of you to look after her. Will you promise me that? I beg of you, sir. Please.”

  The blood suffused Sherlock’s face in a slow flush, and he looked away.

  “Good God, Mr. Holmes–you have destroyed me! It is only fair. Promise me you will watch over her for me.”

  “Major Lowell, it is late, and...” I began.

  Sherlock did not look up, but he spoke softly. “Very well. You have my promise.”

  The old man sagged in my arms, and again I thought he would collapse. “Thank you.”

  He let me lead him down the long corridor to his bedroom. The butler and I exchanged knowing looks. The Major shuffled along, taking very small steps and not saying a word. The cry of the wind was fainter here. We stopped before the doorway.

  “I will look in upon you shortly, Major. I can give you something that will calm your nerves and help you sleep.”

  “You are very kind, Doctor Vernier.” His eyes were red from weeping, but the bluish tinge had left his lips. I doubted he could live more than another six months.

  He closed the door, and I started back down the hallway, a prey to the clash of conflicting emotions. The man was guilty of terrible bloody crimes, but I questioned his sanity. Moreover, he was old and sick, only a step away from the grave. What would be the benefit to anyone should he go to the gallows now? It would bring back none of his victims, and there was his daughter. She was as innocent as he was corrupt.

  Sherlock had crossed his legs, the upper foot bobbing rhythmically. His pipe was relit, and the empty brandy glass sat on the table beside him. I shared his melancholy sentiments.

  “What is to be done?” I asked.

  He shrugged and shook his head.

  “It was kind of you to promise to look after his daughter.”

  His sardonic smile returned briefly, even more harsh and humorless than usual. “He had cornered me. He left me no choice.” He inhaled deeply from the pipe.

  I poured myself more brandy, shivered, then took a deep swallow. “Lord, it’s cold in here. This business has shaken me, I can tell you that. You may be used to it, but I... What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

  He shrugged. “What’s right, Henry? Nothing. Nothing at all. The great Sherlock Holmes reduced to striking a sick old man in a rage. If you had not restrained me...”

  “You were provoked.”

  He gazed at the statue on the floor. “At least that thing is destroyed. There was, Henry, a certain perspicuity in his ravings.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Do you think one can stare into the face of evil as I have, the face of the Black Mother, follow her every manifestation, and still remain untouched? I struggle with my opponents at the edge of an abyss, and even if I win, they may pull me over. Hamlet has a line, which escapes me, about a virtuous man being caught up in the general censure. It is the greatest danger I face. I have seen too much that is sordid and wicked; it is hard not to despise the human race–including myself. Evil and hatred are powerful forces. Who indeed can face them without being corrupted? I was ready to kill that pathetic old man.”

  “You might have struck him, but you would never have killed him.”

  “No?”

  “Of course not.”

  Holmes sighed. “This is one of the blackest cases I have ever seen; yet if I turn the Major over to the police, am I not killing him in a slower, more ruthless and brutal manner? Would it not be better if I struck him dead or put a bullet through his heart?”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it.

  We both remained silent, then he smiled. “Watson would no doubt have had a ready answer for me.” I glared at him, which made him laugh. “Who am I punishing if I expose him? He cannot live much longer.”

  “Six months, at most.”

  “Exactly. One way or another, he is dead in a year’s time, but his daughter will not be. She will have to live the rest of her life knowing her father, her only relation, was a great villain. Where is the justice in that, Henry?”

  “There is none.”

  “Then you think I should remain silent?”

  I hesitated, then finally said, “Yes.”

  He ran his hand back through the dark, oily hair over his broad forehead. He did not look particularly well himself. “I am glad to hear you say so.”

  We were both relieved. “Perhaps I will go tell him, Sherlock. He will sleep better, I am sure, if one can sleep with such crimes blackening one’s soul. He seemed so distraught I...”

  The same thought struck us both. I set down my glass, and Sherlock stood abruptly. “How could we–how could I-be so blasted stupid?” He turned and strode toward the hallway.

  I followed. “Perhaps...” But I was too sick at heart to speak.

  The wind was louder now, even in the corridor. The door was not locked, and when Sherlock opened it, the chill of the stormy night and a few snowflakes swirled about us. For some reason, Major Lowell had opened the shutters to his window. He hung in the center of the room, snowflakes shimmering about him in the gray-white light. His face and his bare, bony feet were bluish white, and he turned slightly with the wind. A piece of silk had been tied to a hook in the ceiling, the noose placed about his thin throat; now his weight stretched it tight; and in the dim light, I could barely make out that the silk was red, the color of blood.

  I had seen many dead
and dying men, but this was all too much for me. My own hands felt icy. I turned away and stepped back into the hallway.

  Holmes’s voice was steady and distant. “His goddess has claimed her final victim.”

  Holmes and Susan Lowell played well together; even I could hear that. With Watson’s emphasis on the cerebral–the rational side of Sherlock’s nature–the violin seemed another oddity, an eccentricity like revolver practice in the parlor of his rooms. However, anyone who ever heard him play, who heard him actually spinning out the long quivering lines of Beethoven’s melodies, bringing the mere notes alive, filling the room with their power and sensual warmth, knew better than to consider him some mere brain, some unfeeling lump of intellect. Beneath all that ice was fire. Mastering any instrument requires intelligence, yes, but that which separates the mediocre from the inspired is a matter more of instinct and feelings.

  Miss Lowell was equally inspired. They had been very good before, but today they outdid themselves. As she played, her unseeing eyes remained locked straight ahead, but she managed unerringly to make the leaps in the bass to the left of the keyboard. Although she had no real sight, seeing only shapeless gray light, she had total command of the instrument. She had related how, as a child, she had picked out melodies by feel alone and how she had begged her father for lessons. Finally he had relented. Within a few years, she could hear her teacher play a piece once or she could attend a concert, then play back the music without missing a note. Sherlock had remarked on both her perfect pitch and her incredible memory. He had never met her equal. All in all, seeing her play was like watching a miracle, some great mystery, manifest itself.

  The last movement, the presto, went very quickly. The end was sudden: her hands struck the final chords even as Holmes’s bow glided across the strings for the last time.

  “Bravo,” I cried, rising to my feet and applauding. “Bravo!”

  Holmes lowered his violin, set down the bow, then took the white handkerchief off his shoulder and wiped his face. “Bravo, indeed, Miss Lowell. You are among the foremost musicians I have ever been honored to hear, let alone accompany.”