A sudden thought struck me as we approached the Cathedral. "Holmes," I said, "Why are we pursuing this matter? You don't have a client."

Sherlock Holmes shot me a piercing glance. "His Grace the Bishop will see to our expenses, Watson," he reminded me. "In the meanwhile, we do have an unmannerly policeman, a grieving widow, a place of worship with an unseemly supply of corpses, and a missing head. Don't you want to get a head, my dear fellow?"

He left me standing with my mouth open, as he strode swiftly off, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

After I recovered, I caught up with Holmes outside the Cathedral. As we watched through the arched windows, strange lights flickered within.

"Dark lanterns, Watson. There's deviltry afoot!"

Sherlock Holmes, with a finger to his lips, glided silently through the partially opened door of the side entrance and melted into darkness.

Inside, we hugged the walls and watched as a black-cowled figure swept a light over the stained-glass image of St. Alban.

"Holmes!" I whispered. "The shield! A St. Andrew's cross!"

"Hisst!" His hand sealed my lips.

"Here's a saltire, Father, as the cipher foretold," the black-cowled figure said.

"Yet that is St. Alban, not St. Andrew," the other replied. "Can this truly be the sign we seek? Press it. See if anything happens, Sir Mordred."

"Nothing," said the knight.

"It must rest here!" cried the other in dismay. "It moved with Queen Eleanor along her road to London, until Longshanks himself buried it secretly beside Harold's grave at Waltham. This we know! Respess was here. The saltire is here! The blood must be here!"

He threw back his cowl and I recognized the imposter who had given us the slip in London.

"The blood is here, gentlemen, and the game is up," said Sherlock Holmes, as he drew his revolver and stepped away from the shadows on the wall. He fired as an axe whistled past his ear.

II

"These cinctures are certainly effective for securing one's prisoners, Watson! How does Sir Mordred?"

"He is fading, Holmes."

"The blood," the wounded knight gasped.

"Quite so," said Holmes. "I believe I know its hiding-place. Take my revolver, doctor."

It seemed an hour before Sherlock Holmes returned, but it was really only a matter of minutes. He made his way down the nave to the high altar and around the restored screen that once had separated the cathedral's monks from the lay congregation.

Before the altar, he surveyed the ornate Walsingham screen, whereon a white crucifix hung, surrounded by newly restored statues of the saints and the apostles.

As he later told me, Holmes then removed several candelabra, the altar cloth, and his shoes, before clambering up and searching the niche behind the statue of St. Alban. He smiled as his hand grasped that which he had sought.

"St. Alban substituted for St. Andrew, rather than St. Amphibalus, this time," he cried, as he returned to us bearing an ornate cylinder, worked in gold. "The diagonal X or saltire on his shield indicated the probable respository."

"What is this object, Holmes?" I said.

"Unless I am wildly mistaken, my dear fellow, it is a relic of St. Andrew, missing from Scotland since roughly the end of the thirteeth century. Am I correct?" he asked the priest.

"Yes," he replied. "That is the sacred reliquary of the precious blood of St. Andrew, first called of the disciples of Christ. I do not know how you divined its hiding-place, but neither of you knows the wonders it can work. You must allow me to aid Sir Mordred."

"That will not do," said Holmes.

"You must, man, before he dies!"

"Holmes--," I remonstrated.

"Very well," said Sherlock Holmes. "Keep him covered, Watson, while I untie him."

My friend handed over the reliquary, and the black-cowled priest knelt beside his sinking comrade and opened the lid. "Sir Mordred," he said. "Do you heartily repent of the sins you have committed in this world, especially for the lives you have taken to preserve your sacred trust?"

The knight nodded, almost imperceptibly, and groaned.

>From within the reliquary, the priest drew forth a slender vial of glass and began to pray.

As we watched, astounded, the dried blood within the vial began to flow. Reverently, the priest anointed his comrade with the Sign of the Cross. With a deep sigh, Sir Mordred breathed his last.

"I don't understand," I said. "I thought it would save him."

"It did save him," said the priest. "St. Peter will recognize the blood of his brother and allow Sir Mordred's soul to enter into paradise." He closed the eyes of his companion and replaced the lid of the reliquary. "I shall miss Sir Mordred," he said. "But it is now imperative to keep this relic from falling into the wrong hands, for it is capable of great evil as well as great good, and there is One who will search for it, forever."

III

The chimes struck eleven as we gathered in the pleasant study of John Festing, Bishop of St. Alban's. His Grace rushed in unceremoniously, tying the cord of a silk dressing-gown over his pajamas. He was shortly followed by Father Craft, hurriedly removing his spectacles.

"Be seated, all," said His Grace, choosing a low armchair before the fire.

"I regret arranging for this audience at so late an hour, your Grace, but I surmised that you would prefer to hear the story directly," said Sherlock Holmes.

"Indeed, I do," said Bishop Festing. "The matter concerns, if I properly understand Father Craft, not only the double murder in our abbey, but also the restitution of one of the holiest relics of Scotland. Dear me! I wonder if I shall ever be able to take it all in! The decanter and glasses are at your elbow, Father Craft. For medicinal purposes only, doctor." He smiled self-deprecatingly at me. "We would all be the better for a restorative, I think."

"This case will not feature among my great successes," said Sherlock Holmes, taking a sip of brandy. "There was little detecting to do. Once we had deciphered the code, I rapidly understood the game. Perhaps you would care to tell the story, Father James," he said.

"Yes, thank-you, Mr. Holmes." Our prisoner cleared his throat and began one of the most interesting narratives to which I have ever listened. A more fanciful author might well call it `The Knight's Priest's Tale.'

"My name," he said, "is Father James of the Holy Sepulchre. I am a priest of the Order of Augustinian Canons. As such, I am bound in obedience to the holy rule of St. Augustine, to our prior, to our abbot, and to the Holy Father in Rome.

"My order was scattered during the dissolution of the monasteries, but over the centuries, we rebuilt our strength in Ireland, returning within living memory to establish ministries in St. Monica's Hoxton Square and at Shoreditch. However, it is not of our ministry that I would speak, but of our mission.

"My late companion, Sir Mordred Langdon, was one of a unique fraternity of knights sworn to watch over the most precious relics of Christianity. They are the Wardens of the Church Apostolic, answerable only to papal authority and to God. Under dispensation, Sir Mordred recently became a deacon of the Cathedral here, and as such, carried out his duties to the Bishop. By night, he assumed a black habit and lurked in the Watching Chamber, waiting for those who would seek to remove the relic. They waited, he knew, for a buyer, a man known only as the Professor."

Sherlock Holmes sat upright and looked keenly at Father James. "You fill me with interest," he said.

The priest continued on. "Sir Mordred believed, from an intercepted message, that an attempt to move the relic would be made on the Feast of St. Andrew, and he communicated with me at St. Monica's. I could not go to the police in such a matter, so I disguised myself and called on you, Mr. Holmes. Sir Mordred was a man of faith, but also of violence, and I feared for bloodshed within the Cathedral.

"The disguise I chose was that of Harold T. Respess, a former Methodist, who had belonged, under that alias, to the Waltham Abbey Society. Several of their number, it may be remembered, were blown up in the Quinton Hill Tragedy at the Government Gunpowder Factory last year. I believe the events to be unconnected.

"Such would also now be my assumption," said Sherlock Holmes.

"This Respess," the priest continued, "was a dangerous man, but of that I will say more later on. For now, I must move further back into history to make clear the series of events.

"Many centuries ago, after the resurrection of our Lord, St. Andrew carried the Gospel into Russia as far as the River Volga and then into southern Greece, being martyred at Patras by Roman soldiers around the year 70. He felt unworthy to be crucified in the manner of our Lord, so he was instead bound upside down upon a diagonal cross and preached to the faithful for two days before he expired. His body was buried there, along with a reliquary containing some of his blood.

"After many long years passed, an Irish bishop called Regulus, serving the church and the faithful in that place, beheld in a dream an angel of God. The angel told him that the Emperor Constantine would remove the relics to the new capitol at Constantinople. He, Regulus, was charged to remove the blood, lest it wreak devastation in the hands of the Emperor, and also such relics as he could remove from the body of Andrew, and then to fly with them to the ends of the earth.

"Regulus removed a kneecap, an arm bone, three fingers of the right hand, a tooth, and the reliquary, and took ship. For him, the ends of the earth was the Kingdom of the Picts, for his ship was lost off the coast of Fife, and there he made a church to house the relics at St. Mary of the Rock. Lost in the shipwreck was his Bible, a great cross, and a book he wrote in Irish detailing the wonders and destructions that could be wrought by the blood.

"In later years, enriched by the offerings of the faithful, Regulus poured out some of the blood beneath the foundation stone of a great new cathedral, raised to the gracious memory of the saint. Named St. Andrew's, it became the holiest place of pilgrimage in Scotland."

"It's a lovely spot for golf," I said.

"Watson!" Holmes cautioned.

"Sorry, Holmes."

"That is but one legend of how the relics came to St. Andrews. As the tower of St. Regulus or St. Rule still stands in that place, perhaps the tale is true. The other bones were removed to Constantinople, from whence they were stolen and taken to Amalfi.

"In the ninth century, in the reign of Canute, a Christian Viking named Tovi the Proud also had a prophetic dream. It was of a miraculous cross, buried on a hill near his home in Somerset. He went to the place to dig, and there, indeed, he found a huge cross of flint, a Bible, and an old book in Irish, full of stories of life at sea and of a holy reliquary of blood and of its miraculous powers. This was the so-called lost Boke of Regulus.

"With the aid of his churls, Tovi loaded the cross on a wagon drawn by twelve white oxen and twelve red oxen. He meant to take the cross and the books to the Cathedral at Glastonbury and there offer them to Almighty God. But the oxen had other ideas. They would not take the road to Glastonbury, but went their stubborn ways cross country to Waltham, where they stopped and would not move neither forth nor back. There the cross was raised to the glory of God and the village became known as Waltham Holy Cross.

"This great cross, or Rood, as it was called, worked many wonders for the cure of the sick. It is said that when Harold Godwinson was carried to that place in 1060, in a state of paralysis, he was cured of his ills by this selfsame cross and went back, rejoicing, to his mistress, Edith Swan Neck.

"It is known that several years thence, as King, he carried the cross before him and his army into battle against William of Normandy. When Harold was killed (some say by an arrow through his eye) in the Battle of Hastings, he and the cross returned to Waltham, where he still lies, the last of the Saxon kings."

"What became of the cross and the books?" said Father Craft.

"They were lost, like many treasures of the Church, in the time of the dissolution of the monasteries. When Waltham fell in 1540, last and wealthiest of the great abbeys to be dissolved, the Augustinians housed there were disbanded, and the cross and books destroyed, all then believed. But since, we have come to know that the Boke survived. The hour grows late and all this is but the preamble to my tale. Shall I continue, your Grace?"

"Please," said the Bishop, stifling a yawn. "Yet I would welcome your coming speedily to a conclusion."

"Thank you, your Grace, yet with your indulgence, I must touch upon a bit more of our history to bring you to a full understanding of the facts of the case."

"Very well."

"As you know, King Edward I, called Longshanks, was known as The Hammer of the Scots. As a prince of fifteen, he was betrothed to Eleanor of Castile, a maiden then nine years old. When she came of age, they were wed in London. The princess accompanied him on Crusade, for he would not be parted from her.

"According to legend, Edward was stabbed at Tunis by an infidel with a poisoned knife, but such was Eleanor's love that she sucked the poison from the wound. Yet, this story may not be true, for it was not told until after their deaths; nevertheless, it is a beautiful tale of wifely fealty."

"Indeed," said I. "It is inspiring to hear about this noble deed of the princess."

"Stick to the facts," said Sherlock Holmes.

"They never reached the Holy Land, for King Henry died, and Edward was recalled to London, where he and Eleanor were crowned in 1274. The new king limited the powers of the feudal lords, instituted laws, and rained war and terror on the French, the Welsh, and the Scots to assert his claim of primacy, while the queen in those years bore him some sixteen children.

"Thus matters continued until 1286, when Alexander III of Scotland died. The successor to the throne was his granddaughter, Margaret the Maid of Norway, who was not of age to reign.

"It was decided that a group of six regents would control the great families who also had a claim to the throne -- the Bruces and Balliols. The regents approached King Edward to ask him to restore order among the claimants by asserting his rights as feudal lord of the Scottish kings through their Anglo-Norman roots.

"Accordingly, two treaties were drawn up, one at Salisbury in December 1289 and the other at Birgham in July 1290. The terms included the provision that Margaret the Maid was to succeed to the throne under the custody of Edward, she was also to be betrothed to his first-born son, the Prince of Wales. Scotland's independence was to be guaranteed, 'separate and divided from England according to its rightful boundaries, free in itself and without subjection'.

"Unfortunately the seven-year-old Margaret was drowned in a storm in the Orkneys, which meant the wedding was off. Going from bad to worse, Edward's clerks had added some clauses to the treaties, which undermined Scottish independence. Further, he kept the wedding tributes, which included the reliquary of St. Andrew's blood. Through instruction from the Bishop of St. Andrews, he knew it held great power for woe or weal.

"Queen Eleanor, delivered of a child in London, rose up from her bed to follow her Lord to Scotland. The good queen fell ill of a fever on the road, near Lincoln. Longshanks, learning of her illness, rushed to her side with the miraculous reliquary, hoping to restore her, but by the time he arrived, the queen was dead. He ordered her body embalmed and the entrails buried before the sad journey homeward began.

"The grieving King accompanied the solemn cortege on its long way to Westminster, stopping twelve times to rest. Wherever Queen Eleanor's coffin rested, Edward caused a great cross to be raised to her memory, that pilgrims might ever remember his love and pray for the repose of her soul. The crosses stood at Lincoln, Grantham, Stamford, Geddington, Northampton, Stony Stratford, Woburn, Dunstable, St. Albans, Waltham, Westcheap, and Charing. Only three now remain.

"While praying for his wife's soul at Waltham Holy Cross, the King was inspired to bury the relic beside the Rood, knowing that the blood could be retrieved at need. He believed he did this in secret, but there are always eyes that watch a king.

"Such a one was an Irish scribe of the Augustinians, who had been charged with copying some of the inscriptions in the Boke of Regulus. The King saw him out of the corner of his eye and gave furious chase, but the young scribe, in great fear of his life, ran faster even than his long-legged liege and so escaped to St. Alban's, where he joined the Benedictines and was bound by the vow of stability to that house for the remainder of his days. The only mention ever found of his association with the relic was in marginalia to a life of the saints, which he enriched with a drawing of the reliquary and a mention in mirror writing of its location near the grave of Harold.

"The King never returned to Waltham, preferring to press his claims by right of arms. Calling himself the Overlord of Scotland, he insisted that all thirteen claimants to the throne pay him fealty. He placed English lords in Scottish castles and made all ready for war. For years, he hammered down upon the Scots, harassed first by William Wallace, and then by Robert the Bruce.
"It was not until 1306, as we now know, that Robert the Bruce defeated Edward II at Bannockburn, but the years of war with both Edwards aroused in the Scots a hatred of England that endured for generations.
"For long years following the dissolution, all knowledge of the Boke and the reliquary passed out of ken, but in 1889, the Boke of Regulus was offered for sale at Christies, along with several early illuminated manuscripts, including the one with the drawing of the reliquary.

"During the public exhibition, the Boke and the manuscripts were examined by an impoverished antiquarian scholar. Realizing that great power lay within the reliquary, he resolved to find it, and under the name Harold T. Respess, became a member of the Waltham Abbey Society. These men and women were not attached to the abbey, but worshipped in the small Methodist community of St. Paul's.

"Respess took a job as gardener at the abbey, and every day searched for the reliquary. At last, turning over the soil for a new flowerbed, he came upon the item, close to the grave of King Harold. He immediately abandoned the society at Waltham, removing to St. Alban's, where he hid the reliquary and received religious instruction under the previous Bishop.

"Knowing that he had uncovered an item of great value, he inquired circumspectly for a buyer. These covert communications came to the ears of two individuals: myself and the man known only as the Professor.

"Holmes—!" I interrupted, but my friend's upraised hand stopped me in mid-speech.

Father James continued, "I should perhaps mention that I am the Augustian liaison with Rome and responsible for reporting on the re- appearance of any early relic of the Church. I sent Sir Mordred to keep watch, and the Professor communicated by note. Can you guess what it said?"

"I never guess," said Sherlock Holmes, reaching for his pocketbook and reading aloud: "'My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not. If they say, Come with us, let us lay wait for blood, let us lurk privily for the innocent without cause: Let us swallow them up alive as the grave; and whole, as those that go down into the pit: We shall find all precious substance, we shall fill our houses with spoil: Cast in thy lot among us; let us all have one purse.'"

The priest's eyes grew round as saucers. "Your knowledge quite astonishes me, Mr. Holmes. How do you know that?"

"The news of the offer reached ears in Whitechapel," said my friend. "I visited an informant there, while also looking in on Mears and Stainbank at their bell foundry. Did you really name the Service Bell after Lord Grimthorpe?"

"We really did," sighed the Bishop. "I gave thanks at morning prayer that he is away on holiday. Could you imagine having his Lordship present while we investigate a double murder in the Cathedral? I have little to be thankful for in this grave business, but I am grateful for that small comfort. It's bad enough having the impertinent Inspector Conyers poking about."

"Amen," said Father Craft.

"Perhaps I should continue?" said Father James. "From this note, Sir Mordred knew that a buyer had surfaced and would either arrive shortly or send a messenger. He was hidden away in the Watching Chamber on the eve of St. Andrews'.

"He had agreed to meet the stranger in the Lady Chapel. Being concerned about the nature of the transaction, Respess was careful to meet the messenger reasonably far from the relic. About his person, he carried two notes: one alluded to his possible death and the other, we assume, to the hiding-place of the reliquary." The first note said—"

"Watson—" Sherlock Holmes interrupted.

I pulled out my notebook and read:

"My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on;
Judge not the play before the play is done:
Her plot hath many changes; every day
Speaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play."
'If you find this, then there's an end of me
But not the play, the name's a pun you see.
Those are awake who lay in wait for blood.
St. Alban's aid alone can stay the flood.'

"Thank you, Watson," Holmes continued. "Respess's punning name was from his trespass (sic) in stealing the reliquary almost from the very grave of Harold. The `many changes of plot every day' recalls the twelve resting-places of Queen Eleanor, and also puns lightly and successfully on his gardening work, turning over plots of soil within the churchyard.

"He was aware, I believe, that the Church was interested in recovering the relic. `There are those awake who lay in wait for blood,' and he felt he had hidden the reliquary successfully from them behind the statue of St. Alban, `whose aid alone' insured they would not find it.

"The other note was a cryptogram giving the location of the reliquary. Respess was praying at the altar of the Lady Chapel when the messenger arrived. Rising and turning to face the man, he beheld his supposed friend, Deacon Fredericks, who shot him in the head, scattering both blood and brains. Quickly searching the pockets, he found the note about the location of the reliquary, but not Respess's poem. He started to run down the nave to escape.

"At almost the same moment, Sir Mordred flew down the stairs and gave chase to Fredericks, who fled up the stairs of the North Transept to the ringing chamber. In his madness, he began to toll a bell, calling for help against the man who pursued him.

"Mordred, hard behind, felled him with his ax, cracking his skull. He quickly examined the cipher and saw the broad X, but dropped the paper in his flight. Carrying Fredericks swiftly up the remaining stairs, he opened the door to the roof. Below, he could hear the discovery of Respess's body by horrified clergy. Swiftly he worked, removing the deacon's shirt, coat, shoes, and head. The head, he wrapped in the shirt to absorb some of the blood, and replaced the coat to puzzle those who would eventually find the body. Then, with the shoes and the head, he hid in a protected corner of the roof until the hue and cry subsided. Then, he privily made his escape. He weighted the shoes with rocks, and sank them and the head, he told me, in an unused well.

"As you may imagine, I was horrified to hear his story. Not only were two men dead, but we still had no idea where the reliquary might be hidden. It was impossible to search the abbey with the body lying in the chapel and the police on guard. It was only this evening that we were able to return safely. The rest has occurred as you know, Mr. Holmes, but what will become of the reliquary now?"

" We will come to that in a moment," said Sherlock Holmes. "I have several questions first. Father Craft, you had informed us that Fredericks had returned to his house upon receiving news of Respess's death. Clearly, you cannot have witnessed this personally?"

"Yes, I am sorry for that," said Father Craft. "When I did not see him about, I naturally assumed he had been told and was at home, in shock."

"What did I teach you in the matter of young--"

"It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the data?"

"Quite so. Pray do not take up investigation as an alternative career. Father James, what had you planned to do with the reliquary if you had been so happy as to recover it?"

"I intended to send it, under Sir Mordred's protection, to the Holy Father in Rome."

"I see. What are its properties?"

The priest paled. "The blood replenishes whenever it is poured out. In priestly hands, the blood flows and it works great miracles in curing illnesses, strengthening the foundations of holy buildings, and in saving souls. In excommunicated hands, it remains dry, but O, I may not tell you of the destruction it can cause when blown as powder in the faces of one's enemies! Even the Cardinals in Rome do not know of this, and that which we believe it can do to blast the souls and bodies of men has not been done for centuries. Forgive me, but I may not speak further of this evil. Even the warlike Edward buried the reliquary, rather than test it."

"Hmm. Quite so." Then Holmes straightened his shoulders and quietly asked the question I had been dreading: "What do you know of this Professor who is on the trail of the reliquary?"

"Very little. He is a shadowy figure of immense wealth, a brilliant mathematician. He was crippled, one hears, in a an accident in Switzerland."

Holmes's fingers, I noticed, had deeply gripped the fabric of his chair. The clock ticked the seconds away. "I can arrange for you to take the relic under diplomatic immunity to Rome," he said, finally. "All will be done to see that you travel incognito, but with a well-armed escort. You are wise to understand that the man on your track is a formidable adversary."

"Then I am not to be arrested?" cried the priest with relief.

"I have no official standing, and neither do these gentlemen. None of you, I take it," he said to the rest of us, "are prepared to press charges in this matter?"

"No, indeed," we variously replied.

Just then, a large ginger cat sprang through the open window and bounded onto the Bishop's lap, where it curled up, purring. "There you are!" he said. "I've been wondering what had happened to you! Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my pet, the Ghost of St. Alban's? The way he carries on when he catches one of our church mice is enough to give rise to the legend that our belfry is haunted."

IV

The hour had grown so late that we gratefully accepted the Bishop's hospitality. As I made myself comfortable for the night, I hoped Holmes, in the opposite guestroom, was also settling down to sleep.

Instead, he knocked on my door. "Watson? May I come in?"

He sat on the foot of my bed, in silence. "I am a fool," he finally said. "They never found his body."

"They never found yours, either."

"Indeed." A long pause followed. "The fall should have killed him."

"Apparently not."

"Apparently not. Good-night, my dear fellow."

"Holmes, what are you going to do about it?"

"I shall construct a nest of pillows, fill my pipe, and plan the next move. Be thankful my violin is in Baker Street, Watson."

"Amen," I said. Good-night, Holmes."