Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) (34 page)

Again, Challenger felt suddenly immersed in a world outside the mainstream of the great city. The cafes and theatres, the women standing on corners or boldly strolling the boulevard, the gangs of ragged street Arabs, the roving costermen hawking their wares, the wretched poor at the elbows of the wealthier classes, the gin-foozled masses, the break-neck traffic—how he longed for the simplicity of some unexplored jungle realm, the comprehensible unknown rather than the unfathomable familiarities of London.

“What a very odd fellow,” Challenger commented, his thoughts returning to their encounter with ‘the most evil man in the world.’ “How much countenance do you give what he said?”

“As to his beliefs about the illusion of the world, of being surrounded by a magical reality, not as much as he would hope,” Holmes replied. “A great deal more, though when it comes to our adversary, his actions and his intent.”

“Then you believe Laslo Bronislav is our adversary in this matter?” Challenger asked.

“It seems an inescapable deduction,” Holmes said.

“And the person who tried to follow us from the British Museum?” Challenger asked, “Bronislav?”

“More likely a confederate,” Holmes said. “We should be able to find out more when we speak to Michael later, but, first, we must pay a call upon Inspector Wilkins.”

They secured the first cab they saw, a four-wheeled ‘growler,’ and told the driver to take them to Scotland Yard. As Holmes was about to climb aboard, however, his attention was suddenly taken by an urchin hawking the
Telegraph
in a voice far beyond his physical size. He purchased a copy of the newspaper.

“What is of interest?” Challenger enquired as the cab rumbled into motion, its two-horse team pulling mightily, its low wheels dragging against the pavement rather than pushing forward like the high wheels of a hansom.

Holmes did not immediately answer. He flipped through the pages of the Unionist-viewpointed newspaper until he came to a small item. His normally placid brow furrowed at what he read, and, moments later, he passed the paper to Challenger.

“Mysterious events in Rotherhithe,” Challenger read. “According to a binsman walking near Swing Bridge Road in Rotherhithe Parish in Bermondsey, several large creatures emerged from the Thames at midnight and attacked sheep penned for shipment at Norway Dock. Mr Thaddeus Dyers of Camberwell told PC Odkin the creatures were each large as a house and moved with a slithering or wiggling motion, attended by a high smell. The ‘high smell’ was attributed to dyers, who was initially arrested for public drunkenness, though was later released when the Constable found the pen  broken into and all the sheep missing, except for various dismembered pieces. The night watchman of Norway Dock, one Oscar Pringle, is being sought for questioning by both Scotland Yard and owners of the Northern Export Company, but he has apparently abandoned his post.” He looked at Holmes. “Is it possible? Could the Orms be real?”

Sherlock Holmes rested his sharp chin on his peaked fingertips. “You yourself told Inspector Wilkins that at times ancient life forms may survive unsuspected in our modern world. It takes no great leap of faith, then, to propose that creatures hitherto relegated to the realms of legends and folklore may have an existence beyond the bard’s imagination. But we shall see.”

Chapter Six

The traffic on Whitehall Place, especially in the vicinity of Number Four, Scotland Yard, was heavy. Holmes and Challenger had the driver of the four-wheeler drop them near the Victoria Embankment, from where it was but a short stroll to the home of the Metropolitan Police. As they climbed the flight of steps from the building’s arched entrance, one of the bobbies standing guard gave Sherlock Holmes a small, but unbegrudged, salute. They discovered Inspector Wilkins in his tiny office. He wore an uncharacteristic scowl upon his face.

“Ah, gentlemen,” he said when he saw his visitors, forcing a smile that did nothing to dispel the weariness that lined his features. “Please be seated. What news have you of that hellish idol?”

“Only that it belongs to some native cult centered in the Indian Ocean,” Holmes said. “Precious little that would be of use in a criminal investigation, I fear.”

“My superiors are unconvinced there should be a criminal investigation at all,” the inspector reported.

“How can they possibly say that?” Challenger demanded, his deep voice booming against the walls. “Did they not see the body of that poor sailor?”

“That is precisely what moves them to believe the perpetrator is some kind of animal loose in the heart of London rather than a murdering human,” Wilkins replied.

“It’s true the wounds appear to have been made by claws, but they could have been made by weapons wielded by men, or the animals could have been controlled by men,” Challenger said.

Wilkins looked at the naturalist askance. “My superiors made it more than abundantly clear that they do
not
want to raise the specter of another Ripper at large, as in ’88, nor do they want any human agency cited or implied. No madman. No bloody cult going on a murder spree. Given the dead man’s unsavory character, they are quite in favor of an inquest ruling death by misadventure—the man tried to smuggle into the country some beast that went amok, killed him and was later drowned in the Thames.”

“Preposterous!” Challenger barked.

“I tend to agree, Professor,” Wilkins said, “but my instructions are explicit.”

“What about the incident at the Norway Dock?” Challenger demanded. “The beasts!”

“Ah, you’ve read of that,” Wilkins said. “My superiors want no connection between the two events.”

“Only a village idiot could not see a connection between the two,” Challenger spat, “And with the idol.”

Inspector Wilkins sighed, smiled faintly, and said quite softly: “Unfortunately, Professor, the upper echelons of Scotland Yard deprives many villages of perfectly good idiots.”

Challenger laughed to shake the foundations.

“Who was the dead man?” Sherlock Holmes asked.

Adopting a more sober expression, Wilkins consulted a file on his desk. “His name was John Neville, also known as India Jack Neville, arriving last night on the
Eastern Zephyr
, a general packet out of Alexandria. Fortunately for us, he still owed a rather large sum of money to the First Mate—dicing wagers made on a marker prior to the deceased confining himself to his cabin—so it was not difficult to find someone anxious to identify him from among ships recently docked in the East End,”

“Good work, Wilkins,” Holmes said. “Odd, thought, that the Mate would let Neville get ashore without satisfying the debt first. Sailors are, on the whole, an untrusting lot, especially when it comes to wagers made with transient passengers.”

“Neville told him he was about to come into a great deal of money, a ‘bloody fortune,’ as he put it,” Wilkins explained. “Besides, Neville swore upon his tattoos, and you know how much that counts with that lot.”

“A solemn oath among men of the sea,” Holmes agreed. “What of Neville’s character, of which you spoke so disparagingly?”

“A bad sort, given over to the casual evil that afflicts many men away from the strictures of society,” Wilkins replied. “A review of the Central Records Office revealed serious form—accusations of murder, mayhem and theft abound. Had he not made himself a resident of the world’s hinterlands, he would no doubt have met the hangman long ago, hence the eagerness of my superiors to consider his fate a case of delayed justice. It’s a wonder the scoundrel had the temerity to return to London at all.”

“Yet, for all his faults, India Jack Neville was an honorable man,” Holmes mused. “Mind you, not the sort of honor as would pass in Fleet Street, or even the halls of Parliament, but a sense of honor all the same, whose word earned the trust of the
Eastern Zephyr’s
First Mate. And he was also trusted by he who engaged him to bring that idol to England.”

“Who was that?” Wilkins asked. “What have you found out?”

“It is as yet unclear,” Holmes said, earning a startled gaze from Challenger.

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters, now that the case has been taken out of my hands,” Wilkins said with a slight sigh. “What will you do now, Holmes?”

“Continue my investigation, as time permits,” the consulting detective replied. “This man Neville may indeed have  met a fate of his own making, though not in the sense intended by your superiors, but he yet deserves justice and a final rest nonetheless.”

“Good show, Holmes, well done,” Wilkins said softly. “What about the idol?”

“It is the key to the whole mystery, but I have yet to find the proper lock,” he said. “I may continue to hold it then?”

Wilkins nodded. “No crime, no evidence. Seeing as how it is made of stone rather than gold or silver, not much interest was taken in it. What will you do with it afterwards?”

“The British Museum has evidenced an interest in it for its ethnological gallery,” Challenger said. “I would assume Scotland Yard would have no issue with its donation, ultimately.”

“Seems a fitting end for it,” Wilkins said. “What about the man Neville was bringing it to?”

“He lingers in the shadows,” Holmes said. “Now that the idol is beyond his grasp, he may never step from those shadows.”

“Ah, well,” Wilkins sighed. “It’s unfortunate we cannot point to some bloody cult or a grand conspiracy—it would be the easiest way to force my superiors to believe there has indeed been a crime. I, for one, believe there has been a crime, but my hands are tied.”

“We will keep you informed, Inspector,” Holmes said.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, Professor Challenger.”

As the men stood to exchange handshakes, the building seemed to lurch, one way, then the other. Simultaneously, they heard a loud explosion and debris began falling around them.

Challenger found himself on the floor. He accepted Holmes’ assisting hand. Back on his feet, he grasped an edge of the desk until the world stopped spinning.

“A gas main must have exploded,” Challenger gasped.

“If that had been the case, the tenor, duration and pattern of the explosive concussion would have been much different,” Holmes pointed out. “Most likely a deliberate attack, perhaps the work of a group like the Dynamiters.”

“Blast and damnation!” Wilkins blurted uncharacteristically, his features twisted into a pained grimace. The left sleeve of his jacket had been ripped open by the jagged end of a falling timber. The material was soaked with blood. “It’s been more than ten years since they were active!”

Holmes sprang to Wilkins’ side as he began to swoon. He tore away what remained of the Inspector’s sleeve and tied it tightly about his upper arm, somewhat staunching the flow of blood.

“The door won’t open” Challenger reported. “it’s either blocked or the frame is warped.”

“We must get Wilkins to a doctor,” Holmes said.

Challenger grabbed the door with both hands and exerted all his strength. His large, powerful frame trembled with the effort. The back of his jacket split open. Suddenly, the door came off its hinges; Challenger tossed it aside as a child might discard a broken toy. He grabbed the paper-wrapped image of M’tollo. Holmes carried Wilkins through the chaos and once outside Scotland Yard entrusted him into the care of an orderly who had rapidly organized care for the wounded. Wilkins’ cries against the ‘Irish devils’ were silenced only when his pain and loss of blood rendered him unconscious. Holmes and Challenger only abandoned Wilkins when he was finally taken away by an available ambulance to the French Hospital on Shaftsbury Avenue.

“Back to Baker Street,” Holmes said. “Take care not to lose the idol. This great confusion would make the perfect cover for someone to make an effort at snatching it.”

“Surely this was not engineered by our unseen adversaries,” Challenger asserted. “No one could be so inhumane.”

Holmes looked about, at the people rushing like ants from a disturbed hill, at the fire-fighters watering the shattered ruins, at the less-wounded constables and clerks tending to the more seriously wounded, at the rumbling ambulances and clopping horses, at the mobs that always appear, as if by magic, whenever calamities plague society. He tried to see more than a sea of faces.

“No, probably not,” Holmes replied. “Likely, it is the work of the Irish Dynamiters, attacking the Yard as they did in ’84, though not nearly as thoroughly.” He gazed at the staring faces. “Still, the confusion would work well to our adversary’s advantage.”

With great difficulty, Holmes and Challenger made their way out of the area, not finding a hansom till they were in the vicinity of Charing Cross Station.

“Mr Holmes! Professor Challenger!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed when the two men entered. “My Lord, what has happened?”

In as few words as possible, Challenger told her about the explosion at Scotland Yard. When he saw the look of horror on her face when he told her about Inspector Wilkins, he hastened to assure her of his well-being. As he spoke, he suddenly felt overcome by a weariness, a weakness, a dizziness. The wall seemed to rush at him. He then became aware of Holmes at his side, steadying him.

“Brace yourself, Challenger,” Holmes said.

“Thank you, Holmes,” Challenger murmured. “It’s…”