Chapter 1

Ned sat quietly waiting for daylight to creep into his darkened receiving room. The sole source of light was the occasional, rhythmical glow of Holmes's churchwarden. A soft footfall made Holmes turn his head slightly to the right, he silently nodded at the shadowy figure.

"I say old chap, up with the lark aren't we?"

"Before Hove. No dawn chorus. Anyway darkness suits my mood."

"More bad dreams? What ails you so?"

"Brighton, it is best left."

"Really? Is it? This drains you Holmes, makes you maudlin. These dreams, and that damnable pipe!"

"The pipe is my solace, my retreat Brighton. Without it..."

"Without it... You would confide in me, your friend." Hove replied quietly.

"Hove, you know. You were there."

"I was and the dead are now gone. Try as we might, we can not change history."

"The dead are very much alive... In my dreams Hove, I see each and every one of them. Every soldier I failed." Ned's voice faltered.

"You failed no one! The strategy failed, the General failed, you sir, did not!"

Holmes smiled and then shielded his eyes from the gas mantles which Hove lit. Soon the room was bathed in a yellow light. Hove spoke once more. "It is always darkest just before the dawn. Something will come along to solve your melancholy mood."

"You are a good egg Brighton. I trust you are right. Now how about some tea? Hmmm, that will wash away the dreams."

"Tea, capital. I will see if cook is awake." Hove started to walk towards the door.

"I suppose a camp brew is out of the question then? There is some fresh mint in the yard."

Hove laughed as the mention of mint tea swept away the years. "Yes sir, Captain Holmes, one brew coming up." Hove stood to attention and saluted.

"Dismissed," barked Holmes, in a mock order. His mood began to dissipate behind his grin.

The day wore on. At half past seven precisely the mail arrived. Hove dutifully picked it up. "One here marked for your immediate and personal attention, dear chap."

Holmes stirred from his armchair for the first time that morning and crossed to his desk. He retrieved the envelope, "Written by a confident hand..." Ned slid the paperknife between the flap and the unknown wax seal. Once open he unfolded the letter and read it to himself with increasing interest.

'Dear Mr Holmes,

I write to ask your assistance in a most delicate matter. I am the vicar of Saint Peter's Church in the town of Henley. Our church is one of the oldest in the locale, being listed in the Domesday Book and since those early days, we have been charged with the care and protection of an ancient icon. To our eternal shame, we have failed in this regard; Tuesday last, the vestry was broken into and the icon seized. The fact that it was the only thing taken causes me great concern. If this has been stolen for the reason I suspect, then we are all in great moral danger.

I can not and will not attempt to describe the icon, save to say that what it depicts is an outrage to all god-fearing men. If you forgive my presumption I will visit you to discuss this in person on Monday sixth of May. I will be arriving in Paddington at Eleven-fifteen, and I will travel by cab to your premises at 2C Chester Row in Belgravia. I hope for you forbearance with my presumptive plans.

Yours sincerely.

William Carter Pearson.

Reverend of St. Peter's Church, Henley-upon-Thames.'

"Hove we should prepare for a visitor, a cleric wishes to engage our services."

"A cleric? What can the church need from us?" asked a slack jawed Brighton.

"For once I am unsure myself, but there are some minor clues in the letter."

"The letter was addressed to you Holmes..."

Ned waved away the protest. Hove read the letter and then cocked his head to the left, as was his habit upon being confused.

"What on earth can this icon depict?"

Holmes shrugged.

The long room echoed the shuffling steps in muted tones. Soon the hushed group was fully assembled. They stood erectly with their flowing robes stilled in the silent air. One stepped forward from the ranks, confidently he made his way to the rear of a mock- altar. Once there, he reached up and grasped an unseen cord. An intake of hallowed breath sounded around the room as dark eyes gazed upon their prize, drinking in the depravity depicted.

"Brothers, the 'Madonna's fall' is back with us. The true depiction of Mary succumbing to our dark lord's caress. Few know that Joseph sired one less of his 'mortal' children than he thought. Jude was the child of our own dark lord, the founder of our ancient tribe and the head of the 'illuminati'. Let us celebrate our lord's possession of god's whore. Bring the girl!"

Two more brethren appeared through the door at the far end of the chamber. Between them a woman garbed in a white tunic struggled furiously. She stilled momentarily when her eyes fell on the icon and then her panic increased. It was to no avail; resistant as she was, she soon stood before the altar. It was then she noticed the bulge distorting the front of the robe of the brother behind the altar. Her scream rent apart the still air.

"No, no you can not! Please have mercy..."

Her voice was stilled as soon as the brother's hand anointed her head, the foul water was dragged across her forehead in the shape of an inverted cross. She stood still, feeling the urgent, unwanted desire course through her. She was determined not to be led into temptation. Then the chanting began.

"Our father, who art in hell,"

Clarice moaned as her nipples hardened into stiff peaks.

"Feared be thy name, thy kingdom come,"

Clarice felt the flow of want spill down her thighs.

"Give us this day our darkest need,"

Clarice felt her clitoris part her lower lips in insistent erection.

"Support us in our trespasses, and smite those who trespass against us,"