Sherlock Holmes and the Ravenclaw Codex

Chapter Eleven: Priori Incantatem

"Well, young Stebbins," I said as the four of us who had remained at Hogwarts trudged up the grassy slope towards the castle in the hazy afternoon sunlight, "what a fine nose your pet has! To follow the trail of a man who fled in the middle of a rainstorm four days previously - I would not have believed it if I had not witnessed it with my own eyes!"

"Really, Watson," said Holmes, still in high good humour, "Porthos is an excellent beast (aren't you, doggy?), but you give him more credit than is his due in this case, for what you suggest is materially impossible for any animal, magical or otherwise. No, the cloak was not Easingwold's but Goyle's. The man meant well, and it seems likely that he has genuinely turned over a new leaf, but he is a numbskull of the first order - by defying me in that ludicrous manner yesterday, he brought himself to my attention when he would have done much better to keep out of my sight, considering that our last encounter ended with him in the dock. It was clear that he was sheltering a fugitive, and since Goyle's partners in crime were generally good, straightforward, mundane London thieves of the type that would hardly go unnoticed in a school such as this, that fugitive could only be one person. Goyle was always deplorably careless with his belongings (that was his downfall last time), and laying hands on an article of his clothing was child's play.

"Well, you're still a good boy, aren't you Porthos?" said Stebbins, affectionately ruffling the beagle's ears. "And I think Goyle was an absolute brick to look after old Godfrey like that - he deserves a second chance!"

"What I would like to know, Mr Holmes," said Miss Hawkes, "is why we are not bringing the Codex back to the castle, after all the trouble we went to find it."

"The Codex will return to Hogwarts in due time, you may rest assured of that," my friend replied. "It is merely taking a slightly more circuitous route, the better to ensure the safety of the innocent. I trust, Miss Hawkes, that you have no objection to that?"

"None in the least," replied Miss Hawkes, blushing becomingly.

"And what I would like to know," I interrupted, "is the identity of the hooded figure at the door of the Chamber, for he was surely the malefactor himself! I wonder who it could have been? There are several members of staff we have not spoken to at any length, not to mention one or two of the older boys. And what of the mysterious, missing Professor Llewellyn? His absence at the crucial time is most suspicious. Might he not be the culprit?"

To my surprise, Holmes, Miss Hawkes and Stebbins all burst into peals of laughter.

"Tut, tut, Watson," said my friend at last, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, "you have not been paying attention! Professor Llewellyn is a woman - an elderly lady of refined habits and impeccable connections (not that that is any guarantee against criminality, to be sure), who has a name at Hogwarts as something of a peacemaker, suffers from asthma, is considerably below average height, teaches what passes for classics at Hogwarts and returns today from five days' compassionate leave to attend the funeral of her grandson, who was mauled by a wild beast."

"Indeed?" I said, somewhat nettled, "and you deduced all that from a cast-off pen-wiper, or abandoned slipper, no doubt - or did you break into the poor woman's study while our hosts' backs were turned?"

"Nothing of the kind," replied Holmes imperturbably, "I merely consulted a copy of the Daily Prophet (the wizards' newspaper): the obituary column was, as ever, an invaluable source of information. For the rest, Nelson Lucas of Ravenclaw is a talented amateur photographer, and has captured several excellent likenesses; the rest was easily ascertained through tea and conversation with the delightful students of Ravenclaw House. And in answer to your original question, I know exactly who the criminal is. The precise manner of his exposure will depend on the results of my next interview with Professor Black, but exposed he will be - you have my word. Now, let us make haste - the hour for dinner is almost upon us, and it would be a shame to keep the Headmaster waiting amid all his other troubles. Onward and upward, my friends! Excelsior!"

And with that, he strode off up the hill towards the castle.

***

We arrived back at the castle barely five minutes before the evening meal. Stebbins and Miss Hawkins dashed at once to the end of the queue of students lining up outside the Great Hall, while Holmes and I headed for the anteroom where the staff were accustomed to take their sherry before dinner.

We were greeted in the doorway by a glowering Phineas Nigellus Black, fob watch in hand.

"You are late, Mr Holmes," he said coldly. "I trust that you have good news with which to make amends for your tardiness? Has the Codex been found?"

Holmes regarded the Headmaster thoughtfully. Phineas Nigellus Black's scowl deepened still further.

"You could say so," said Holmes at last. "That is to say, I have located Master Godfrey Easingwold - you will be relieved, no doubt, to learn that he is safe and well, and suffering from nothing worse than a bad case of chicken pox. He will no doubt need a long convalescence at home after his ordeal, but he is expected to make a full recovery. And now, Headmaster, despite the lateness of the hour, I must request a personal interview with you at once on a matter of great urgency."

"Out of the question!" snapped Black. "I am most displeased with you, Mr Holmes. Despite my better judgement, I hired you to return the Codex to Hogwarts, and despite the facilities I have placed at your disposal, this you have failed to do. Plainly, reports of your powers were greatly exaggerated. In short, I am most disinclined to humour any more of your fancies at present. At this hour, sir, we at Hogwarts are accustomed to take our evening repast, and I see no reason to alter the hallowed custom of centuries to suit your convenience. Any small matter you may wish to discuss with me can very well wait until ten o'clock tomorrow morning, when I may find myself at leisure."

"Professor Black," said Holmes in tones of the deepest gravity, "pray believe me when I say that I do not make this request lightly; nonetheless it is essential if you wish to avert a very public scandal. I ask again: will you not consent to a private interview?"

"I shall see you tomorrow, sir, at ten," came the glacial reply. "That will be all."

"Very well," said my friend with a shrug, "then events must take their course - I have done all that I could. Come, Watson, we have just time for a glass of sherry before supper - the Headmaster's watch is a good two and a half minutes fast. I suspect it has been over-wound."

With that, Holmes squeezed past the Headmaster and into the antechamber. I followed, nothing with interest that the dialogue in the doorway had not gone unnoticed by the other members of staff, and that Black flinched and stood aside as my friend brushed against him on his way through the door.

***

Despite the excellence of the Hogwarts sherry, and the oxtail soup and poached salmon that followed it, I did not enjoy my meal. Holmes had attached himself to Binns as soon as the gong rang for supper, expressing a keen interest in their previous conversation that left that dusty young pedant stunned, delighted and only too eager to say anything that might be of the slightest assistance. In the meantime, I sat isolated at the far end of the high table, prey to the gloomiest forebodings, for I knew now that despite the fine food and convivial buzz of conversation, there was a black-hearted sorcerer lurking in our midst. Judging by his expression, Weaselby, who was sitting opposite me, shared my opinion: he scarcely touched his food, drumming his fingers on the table, a study in frustration and anxiety.

My other neighbour was Professor Llewellyn, a plump, elderly lady, clad in the deepest mourning, but whose kindly, apple-cheeked, dimpled face seemed better fitted for mirth than sorrow. Plainly still deeply affected by the recent tragedy (her eyes filled with tears when I condoled with her on her loss), she soon rallied enough to thank Holmes and me most graciously for our efforts on her student's behalf. A few minutes were enough to demonstrate that her reputation for popularity was well deserved: Weaselby's frown faded after a minute's conversation with her, O'Connell came as close to relaxed in her presence as I had ever seen him, and even the Headmaster so far unbent to address her cordially as "dear Cousin Richenda", a wintry smile briefly illuminating his gaunt features.

Holmes's voice rang out loud in a lull in the conversation.

"My dear Binns, nobody could have explained the spell with greater clarity, I assure you!" he declared. "The fault is mine entirely: I have no experience of these matters, and I simply cannot envisage what you are trying to explain. Might I beg you the great favour of a practical demonstration?"

"A practical demonstration?" said Binns dubiously in his papery voice. "Dear me, that is highly unorthodox, but perhaps in this case... do you really believe that it would be of assistance?"

"I am certain of it," replied Holmes. "One small demonstration from you and your entire argument will spring to vivid life in front of my eyes! Pray do consider it - the expense of time and effort would be trivial for a wizard of your power, I'm sure."

"That is all very well," replied Binns, his face a picture of vacillation and uncertainty, "but the spell in question requires a second wand..."

"That need not be an obstacle," my friend replied briskly. "Observe, I have even come prepared with a wand - I stumbled across this one in the course of my investigation. Do honour me with a demonstration, most excellent Binns - I am convinced that no further explanation will be required."

With these words, he removed a small ivory-coloured stick from the pocket of his dinner jacket, and passed it to Binns, who took it in his left hand, drew out his own wand and pointed it at the other.

At the very moment that Binns raised his wand and uttered the words "Priori Incantatem", Phineas Nigellus Black leapt to his feet, crying:

"That's my wand! You thief, you've stolen my wand!"

The silence in the Great Hall was absolute, as every eye turned to the High Table, and the pale wand clutched in Binns's trembling hand. A shower of yellow sparks burst from the end, only to be sucked away into nothingness as water falls down a drain; then came a musical chime and a series of bright lights. For a second it seemed that the wand had told us all that it could, but then I noticed a faint mist seeping from the tip, which grew in brightness and intensity and slowly coalesced to form a human figure. Soon the image gained greater definition and I recognised the face of Godfrey Easingwold, a vacuous smile most oddly imposed on his serious young features, climbing the narrow spiral staircase that led to the Codex Chamber. The higher he climbed, the more reluctant he seemed to proceed, and the more unnatural and rictus-like the smile became. Several times he turned back, and on each occasion more white light poured into his body, causing him to writhe and shudder until he resumed his course, and by the time he reached the Codex Chamber the light cast by the ghostly figure outshone the candles of the Great Hall. When the boy approached the chest where the Codex lay, the struggle intensified once more, and yet more light poured into his body until it was almost painful to look upon, before, sweat pouring down his face, he took the crowbar in his hands. Twice he brought it to bear on the lock, and twice his will prevailed at the last minute and he left no more than a scratch, but the third time was too much for him, and weeping with despair, he forced the crowbar upwards with all his strength. The lock gave, and in a second the Codex was in his hands. In an agony of remorse, the youth cast his wand on the floor, and at that point some last effort of will must have broken the chains of enchantment binding him, for his image burst into a thousand dazzling fragments, leaving nothing but darkness and silence.

The silence was broken by the stentorian voice of Professor Drummond, as he sprang to his feet in a shower of gravy and cutlery.

"You unspeakable swine, Black!" he bellowed, face purple with righteous fury. "Use the Imperius curse on a defenceless student, would you? I'll see you in Azkaban for this, you blackguard, or my name's not Enobarbus Drummond!"

"Oh, poor Godfrey - the Imperius curse - a mere child!" gasped Professor Blenkinsop, her face blanched with shock. "For shame, sir - for shame!"

"Hush, Drummond, there's a good fellow," said Professor O'Connell, placing a restraining hand on Drummond's sleeve. "Pas devant les enfants, Professor Blenkinsop! Professor Black has a great deal of explaining to do," this with a hard look at the Headmaster, who returned his gaze stonily, "but we must not permit the situation to descend into anarchy. I suggest that we withdraw to the staffroom and listen to his excuses in private - if there can be any excuse for such behaviour."

"I have no reason to excuse myself in the face of this rank insubordination," said Black, face and voice as hard as granite, "but I will withdraw, since you wish it."

With those words he drew his robes close around him and swept from the hall, followed by the rest of the High Table.

Behind us, the Great Hall exploded into uproar.