"Watson," Holmes turned with a sudden movement that made me wince in surprise. "You realize that, since the good Inspector Conyers is working his own side of the street, he hasn't the time to pursue other matters. That is understandable, since he is an entirely busy man."

With a slight smile on his lips, he turned back to look at the altar and continued: "I have said on many occasion that the current criminal investigative system possesses several inadequacies. One major flaw is that any official inquiry usually myopically centers on one area, and one area only, of the crime. It stays focused on the immediate area, then it flows slowly outward, if ever, toward the areas where, in effect, it may be more productive to begin." My face must have betrayed my wonder, for he considered my doubtlessly thoughtful expression. "And, knowing Conyers' clumsy methods at collecting relevant data, I surmise that he most likely will not consider my suggestion as to the other part of this mystery. Our honorable inspector obviously is too preoccupied with cleaning up to consider certain implications."

"Certain implications, Holmes?" I asked.

"You will recall that the story told by our errant reverend was a precursor of what would happen later, He gave uncanny details which would be included in this death scene: the location of a cathedral, the altar, the blood-stained cloth. And, there is that other curious point which drew my attention then, even as it does now. It is a singular point that Conyers knows about but will most likely fail to pursue."

My mind was sifting through the possibilities of what he meant, when Holmes turned on his heels and began to walk at a brisk pace down the length of the large Cathedral.

"Come along, Watson," he called, "we need more facts."

I dutifully followed him without a word. It is an eccentric part of the man's complex makeup -- quite disconcerting at times -- that Holmes leaves sentences unfinished. Understanding his habits, I have discovered, has become the only successful way to a workable friendship. I knew he would reveal his meaning when he was ready. That moment of revelation soon came when we stopped at the crossing beneath the great Norman tower, looking up at the oldest structure of the Cathedral. A long staircase caressed the walls, climbing steadily to a wooden platform, blocking the dizzying heights above. Holmes' words intruded on my concentration: "The bells, Watson, were an important part of our false reverend's story. You recall he made some emphasis of the bells drawing him from a nearby pub and into the Cathedral."

I nodded recognition, and he gazed upward. "And the Cathedral bells drew in the curious when our actual victim lay at the altar. Those very bells are located directly above us now, Watson. There is also an upper gallery, the ringing chamber, from where they are controlled. It is a recently restored area, just beyond the painted ceiling. So, I suggest that this direction is destined to be the way we must take."

"Do you think we may find anything of significance up there, Holmes?" "Perhaps something," he said enigmatically. "Perhaps nothing. I find it interesting that someone, by recreating this part of Repress' story, is drawing unnatural attention to those bells. All we can do is follow along with the clues. We may yet find deliverance from our perplexing burden."

With that, he trudged ardently up the first anticlockwise flight of stairs, while filtered light from above streamed over him in a continually-changing checkerboard pattern. I followed determinedly.

After the first flight of stairs, which deposited us onto a plain gallery landing, I felt the determination leave my limbs. My old war wound began to ache a bit from the strain. But, I could clearly see the next platform, where the ringing chamber was located, hang above our heads like a tempting prize. I stoically told Holmes to press on. I did not want to hinder our progress or interfere with Holmes' investigation. I looked at the other set of stairs which curved in a clockwise manner to the chamber.

Even before I could take another step, I heard the strangest sound. It was almost a moaning, as if our ascent was causing someone -- or something -- incredible pain. A low, prolonged wail, almost beneath the threshold of hearing. There was no apparent source for the macabre sound. It seemed to fill the tower. If Holmes noticed my apprehension, he did not show it. I told myself it had to be the wind rushing through the heights of this chamber. Something in the back of my mind, though, kept me from being absolutely certain. I involuntarily began to consider this tower in a new light.

Nevertheless, I forced my focus back to the matter at hand and kept on.

Though our walk up the next, longer set of stairs was decidedly slower, we eventually stepped onto the next wooden landing, the ringing chamber, our destination, where the various bell pulls hung like nooses from overhead. I searched for a seat and found a small bench nearby.

To my astonishment, Holmes did not walk over to the ropes, but rather headed toward yet another set of stairs in one of the corners. Then, he stooped down and started to examine the steps themselves. I was about to remind him of the bell pulls on the other side of the landing, when he further confused me by announcing he wished to again continue upward.

I opened my mouth to protest when he quickly explained: "Our mission has suddenly become darker, Watson. There are miniscule droplets of dried blood here."

Rising to my feet, I walked toward him, following his gaze. I exclaimed, "They seem to be on every step, all the way up."

"Indeed, Watson," he answered back gravely.

Understanding the urgency of this new development, I knew it would lead to another climb. Therefore, taking a deep breath, I braced myself, and we began our ascent steadily to the top of the tower. However, about halfway to the roof, there was a new discovery: Holmes halted suddenly, gave a small expression of triumph and picked up a piece of paper, folded small. He unfolded it and considered it for awhile.

"What do you make of this, Watson? It is a decidedly different type of note from what we have encountered before," he said, as he handed it back to me.

The series of numbers I saw were a complete mystery. At the bottom of the message, if indeed it were a message, was a large letter "X" in the midst of the last line. It was beyond me. Holmes offered no explanation. He merely told me to take care of our find.

He added, "It is time for us to continue to the roof." I thrust the note into my pocket.

As we were nearing the top, he called over his shoulder to me, "Do you recall what we discussed about St. Alban's life before, Watson?" I said I did.

"Did I mention that he is supposed to have been buried underneath this very Cathedral? And, in point of fact, it is said that his headless spirit has been seen on occasion walking through this tower."

I thought about the moaning sound I heard before and could only say, "Oh?"

"But, that is just a rumor of the nearby populace," he added casually. I could not tell if he was having a bit of fun at my expense. Again, I became introspective. Our ascent continued without further discussion.

When we finally arrived at the top step, Holmes opened the door to the roof with a slight tug and a bright shaft of light streamed in through the opening. He stared out for awhile before making a solemn announcement.

"Watson, I am afraid there may be yet another ghost roaming the Cathedral."

I rushed to the open door and looked out. There, lying prone on the roof, was the body of a tall man, in the midst of a large red stain, a dried pool of blood. He wore an inverness and trousers but no shoes. The reason for the great amount of blood was soon apparent as I approached the form, changing my perspective. For, I saw that the body did not have a head.

Proceed to Part Six