Chapter 4

William had spent most of his day completing the preparations for the forthcoming baptism of baby Howlett, soon to be Martha Howlett. He always enjoyed the process of welcoming a new small soul into the family of god. Even this could not maintain his mood, as gradually the memory of the previous night returned to haunt him. William recoiled when he recalled his barely- provoked attack on Mary. What must she think of him? The poor woman must have felt he was denying her this morning, what a Judas he was!

The Reverend locked the door of the church and sullenly walked away. At least Mary would be gone now and he need not face his sin. Cowardice had persuaded him to put things right in the morrow. His mind turned to the cause of his behaviour, he was certain that this had something to do with the accursed icon. Since he'd first laid eyes on it, he had detested it. William's mind took him back to that fateful happening in his childhood.

The night had been wild, storms lashed at the vicarage and the insistent tapping of the branches on Will's window had filled his head with unwanted images. In his young mind, witches flew and the dead whispered from the adjacent graveyard. A loud peal of thunder was the final straw. Will left the scant comfort his bedclothes had provided, and headed off to find reassurance.

His quest eventually led him to his father's study. The room lay in darkness but Will could just make out his father's figure. He stood on this side of his desk facing the window, his head bowed as if in prayer. Will hesitated, he did not want to interrupt his father's commune with god, even at his tender age he understood its importance. That was when the lightning struck and young Will learnt of the icon.

Multiple flashes of intense blue light rendered a nightmarish scene; the icon, the virgin Mary, the beast, his obscenely large appendage, the look of hatred in his father's eyes. More flashes; the staccato motion of his father's hand, his grotesquely large organ. The spurts that issued from it. The pool of seed on the icon. Will fled, his young mind sure that he had just seen the devil incarnate, both in the icon and in his beloved father.

Will never spoke of this; neither as a child nor as an adult. Over the years he saw his father's health fail; the doctors called and named the illness, consumption. But William knew that although the name was apt, it was not the disease that consumed his father, burnt his youth and laid him to waste.

No, he knew the true source. He had seen it. The irony became complete a year ago, when finally his father's brave struggle ended; William took over his job and his responsibilities. One of these was most sour; to guard the very icon that had corrupted and killed his father.

William stopped walking; he had reached the door to his manse. He opened it, and crossed more than one threshold.

Hove had walked briskly on, not even, as was his habit pausing in Green park for his favourite stroll up Constitution Hill. No, on this day, Brighton strode on by making his way rapidly along Piccadilly soon he turned left, finding his way through to Saville Row and finally into the heart of Regent Street.

His pace slowed, he was unsure of the precise location of the shop but he was fairly sure it was a quarter of a mile or so further, on this side. He scoured the shop fronts as he walked, then he spied it - just the other side of Prince's street; J Brown and Brothers, Purveyors of Fine Maps, Charts and Astronomical instruments.

Brighton smiled, his sense of direction had not failed him, it was innate, but Infantry training and the pressure of the Sudan had honed his skill to perfection. He sighed, damn it all, he was getting as bad as Ned, the Sudan and the Mahdi were long gone. This was civilisation not the killing fields of Abu Klea. Sadly he shook his head and crossed Prince's Street.

Once in the shop he approached the vendor, a largish gentleman with a handlebar moustache. "I wonder if you can assist me. I am looking for maps of a very specific area of Buckinghamshire. They must be highly detailed. Oh, and before I forget both ancient and modern. The places of interest are West Wycombe, Henley and..." Before Brighton could complete his list the moustachioed man did.

"Medmenham! How odd. Very specific but identical to the last gentleman. What a co-incidence."

"Incredible yes. Erm, the last gentleman was?" Hove felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

"Behind you, the man browsing at the London Street guides. If you will excuse me I will just retrieve your maps."

"Yes thank you." Hove replied, then stole a sideward glance at his fellow customer. An unremarkable but clearly foreign chap, squarish forehead and lantern jawed. 'Could be a Hun' Hove thought to himself, suddenly Brighton found himself staring directly into the man's intense, dark eyes. He blinked once, and the man had diverted his gaze concentrating on the guide once more. Hove thought it odd that he had not taken his gloves off to do this, surely it would be easier?"

"Here we are Sir, six maps just as requested." The shopkeeper did a quick mental calculation, "That will be £2.11s .6p and one farthing, please."

Ned reached for his wallet and smiled, he handed the shopkeeper a £5 note. Hove heard the bell on the shop door sound, he glanced around and noticed the Germanic man had left. He made up his mind in an instant and rushed to the door himself, ignoring the surprised shopkeeper's cries.

"Sir! Sir, your change!"

Holmes was gleeful, he enjoyed nothing more than perusing books and discovering gems of information. As an only child, books ad been his one constant companion, they taught him and provided his fertile imagination with lands, indeed whole worlds to explore. Yes he truly loved books, even so, some of the works he delved into today taxed him sorely.

The woodcut illustrations of demons and rituals abhorred him. Not the practices so much, for he thought it very unlikely any of this was true. If anything he was a little ambivalent about god, but as for the fallen angel and hell, these were just tales to scare the uncertain. No, his abhorrence was for the darkness that resided in the human, and the fact that it could be communicated so effectively to others, slowly eroding their morality.

The morality he, and all others, depended on for civilisation. The one true and honourable thing the Empire stood for, the only reason for laying one life down; as he so nearly had. No this was tumour, eating at the heart of civilised behaviour, cut it out - or surely it would spread. Ned suppressed a shudder of revulsion at the very idea.

Ned's next read was more enlightened, a treatise on the 'Knights of St. Francis'. Reasonably it pointed out that the 'Knights' of Francis Dashwood were men of standing, in politics, the arts and society. As such these men may have a liking for fine wine and women, but that the occult stories were mere fantasies created by the press of the time and subsequently, the product of nothing more sinister that jealousy. Although this cheered Holmes somewhat, it did add weight to the theory of the illuminati being involved. For the illuminati and power went hand in glove.