--Holmes--
Certain parts of this narrative I have been asked by Watson to recount. I was unaccompanied during periods of crucial happenings and after much consideration, I have taken up the pen to write, if only to bring light to the fascinating details. My writing may appear a bit slipshod and almost haphazard, and for that I do apologize, for I am much more accustomed to writing quickly and in shorthand.
I parted from Watson after leaving the Reynolds Road Cathedral. The church had originally served as a Lutheran chapel, then for several years a Catholic cathedral, and now, of course, as a den for the cult.
As for Andrew McKinn, my observations had led me to deduce the following in addition to his first name, which had been changed from Francis at some point: he was born in Ireland but remained there for only 10-15 years at which point he made a permanent move to England—in the countryside; his residence in the city of London had only begun recently, within the last year or so. These facts I had concluded from his accent alone. His previous occupation had been that of a traveling salesman, due to the number of trinkets and knickknacks adorning his office. He was a very frugal man, I observed, as the furniture in his office was worn and old, although his church was very successful. Such a man would not have a fancy for buying worthless baubles; therefore I deduced that they were leftover from his trade.
He was without doubt involved in the cult dealings, as evidenced by the emblem of an inverted pentagram upon a thick volume on his bookshelf, which had recently been read. The other books surrounding it were covered in a sheer layer of dust.
My first instinct told me that he was the mastermind behind the cult, but after interviewing with him, I began to think that he was more likely a follower, but in a high position of power. His reactions to my accusations were genuinely angry, as if he were protecting his master whom I was callously attacking. He also lacked a certain self-assured quality that I would expect from a cult leader. Such a person would be unlikely to take a public position as McKinn had anyhow.
As I pondered these dealings, I headed to call upon my most recent source of information for the unusual matter at hand. One of the fine Irregulars, upon whom I rely for affairs of non-public information, referred me to a young woman who was a self-described "mystic." She was called Rose, but her given name was Rosetta Bianchi. She had immigrated from Italy at a young age, was in her early thirties, was never married, had no children, and had an allergy to silver. I had made several other observations that were less interesting. Miss Bianchi was the forerunner in knowledge on cult activity in the area, as many of her clients traveled from all across the British Isle to seek her so-called wisdom.
My first encounter with this woman was a great annoyance, as she was quite more interested in reading my fortune in tarot cards and trying to give me a spiritual divination than she was in trying to provide me with information. I had finally wrestled some scattered facts from her, and now I regrettably was forced to seek her again for her knowledge of the occult.
I entered her small basement home, which was underneath a tailor's shop. The smell of herbs, incense, and animals met me immediately. Miss Bianchi had an affection for small, furry creatures, which she occasionally cut up and used as methods of divining wisdom in her practices.
"Inspector Sherlock?" a voice called from within the recesses of the smells, the shimmering cloths, the altars, and relics. Somehow she knew it was me before I had even gotten a few feet inside. It was unsettling when I realized that she hadn't deduced my presence: she was only guessing.
"Yes, Miss Bianchi," I answered. "I have returned to ask you a few more favors."
I went further into her home, my eyes watering from the different incense smokes about the room. Two brown rabbits, a finch, several mice, and a cat ran about freely. Several other-worldly god statues adorned tables set around the living space, along with feathers, stones, shells, and Indian evil eyes.
"Call me Rose," said she, appearing from behind a dividing wall in a twirl of pink clothing. "You are here for more information about the cult."
"Quite," said I, sighing. "But, that should have been very obvious, Miss Bianchi, as I would have no other business to see to at your…abode."
She turned on me with a look of fierce seriousness. "Someday, sir, you will have no answers for the questions you seek. At that point you will turn to me for my wisdom. For, I am endowed with the insight of all the great spirits-of God, of the Buddha, of Vishnu and Shiva!"
I offered a congenial smile, if only to appease the woman. "I am turning to you now, my dear," I said, trying to affect a charming voice. "I must know what, if anything, the cult is planning to do next."
She walked forward, almost close enough to cause me to back away. In a split second she had grabbed the sides of my head, embedding her fingers in my hair and closing her eyes. "Madam!" I shouted at the indignation, not knowing what to do.
"Shh!" she warned. Then she started to emit a low hum, which lasted for a dozen seconds. "You are exhausted, Inspector Sherlock. You must allow me to revive your crown chakra."
"I have no time for this foolishness!" I said, removing her hands from my hair. What I had to go through with this ridiculous person just to garner a little information! I wished for all the world that I could just pay her and be done with it! "A young woman is dead," I insisted, switching my tactics, "and the same age as you. If you do not give me the information I need on this cult, others may die while we fritter the time away!"
--
I hadn't realized how little time there was after all. From the new information Miss Bianchi had permitted me, I had but a few hours in which to prevent another murder. I raced back to Baker Street to inform Watson of the development, only to find that he was absent. Upon inquiring to Mrs. Hudson for his whereabouts, I found that he was in surgery, and had been for about two hours. The nature of the surgery was trifling, and so I hastily wrote a note instructing Watson to meet with me at the cathedral by dusk. That gave my colleague an additional two hours to arrive home, read my note and arrive to assist me in hindering the cult's ritual. How unfortunate it was that I had miscalculated on this and another very critical account.
--
With the swiftness and caution of a burglar, I entered the foyer of the church. I began to creep upon the door to the main cathedral, listening and slowly opening it. The room was empty, as I would have expected. Their dark dealings must have been done in some alternate and hidden chamber. I searched around for a hidden door or passageway but found no luck. Then, upon a happy realization, I ventured into Father McKinn's private office. Indeed, a preliminary search revealed a door concealed behind his bookshelf. Being ever observant, I followed the darkened hallway which led steadily underground.
As I got deeper inside the mysterious chamber, I began to hear the faint sounds of chanting, and I saw the glimmer of several hundred candles from afar. I slowed my pace and skulked upon the scene. I remained just out of sight so that I could watch the proceedings without being spotted. I saw Father McKinn kneeling before an altar, his lips swiftly moving with the chant. There were at least two dozen participants, all cloaked in blood-red hoods and robes, save for McKinn, who remained in his priest's robe. A man, unknown to myself, but quite obviously the cult's leader, stood behind the altar, watching his fold with a chilling expression. The walls of the room were made up of dirt, as if the place had been carved out in the soil. Candles were staggered about the room, surrounding the chanters.
I realized with a sickening feeling that something was missing: the sacrifice. Bollocks. Just as I took a step backwards and had the beginning thoughts of what I was walking into, stars exploded before my eyes and the world faded into darkness.
--
Marill: I tried to vary Holmes' writing style from Watson, as I assume his would be very different. It's meant to be rushed and somewhat jumbled.