Professor Moriarty: The Hound Of The D’urbervilles (14 page)

‘I saw no one yesterday.’

‘In the Strand, outside Simpson’s. Moran would have seemed, ah, irrational. Lord knows, we all act like cuckoos. With what we have in our heads. It’s only to be expected. A big man, Moran. Red-complected...’

I remembered. The madman who was taken away by the hump-backed policeman.

‘Moran brought me into the League. He’s a big-game hunter and adventurer. He found the first of the eggs, in a temple in India. It was the eye of an idol worshipped by an obscene cult. When the light fell into the temple on certain days of the year, the portal opened and the cultists saw their “gods”. You know what they really saw, Stent. The men of Mars. Those tentacles, those eyes, those mouth parts! Another crystal was looted from the collection of the Emperor of China, carved into a goblet. I would not drink from that goblet for all the tea in its rightful owner’s dominions, would you? A third was found fresh, among the hot fragments of a new-fallen meteorite in the California desert. All these came to the League, and all have been
taken
– taken
back,
one might say.’

Og kept glancing at the crystal. I worried that he would snatch it from the telescope and flee the house.

‘This one was sent here, to England. I don’t know how Cave came by it. Dishonestly, I suppose.’

‘It is mine,’ I reminded him. ‘Paid for and bought.’

He wasn’t listening to me. ‘Stent, have
they
seen you? The portal opens both ways. That we can see them is incidental, an accident, a flaw in the great plan. From the other side, from
Mars,
they spy us. Spy
on
us. It’s what the eggs are for. They are taking our measure, making a study. Drawing plans. At first, the meteorites just brought the eggs. It’s only recently that
they
have come. Just a few, but enough – for their purpose. Across millions of miles of empty space! What explorers they must be, what conquerors! They ready their armada, Stent, their fleet...’

I concede that Og was alarming me. A great deal of what he said struck me as fanciful drivel. Conquerors, indeed – what nonsense, as if creatures without hands or clothing could hope to stand up to the military might of Great Britain! But I worried there were eggs in other hands. Dangerous hands – other scientists eager to ‘scoop’ the Great Stent. If half of what Og said is true, someone else might publish first.

I cannot let that happen.

The doorbell rang. Mrs H. came into the study, and presented a
carte de visite.

Colonel Sebastian Moran, Conduit Street.

‘Your comrade in the League has extricated himself from the police,’ I told Og.

The fellow looked further stricken, which was not what I expected. I got little sense from him. I feared this would also be true of Moran – yesterday, he had been singing from the same hymn book.

‘Don’t let him in,’ said Og, grabbing my lapel. ‘In the name of all that’s...’

‘There’s a policeman with the caller, sir,’ said Mrs H. ‘Constable Purbright.’

I could not have been more relieved. With all the ranting, raving and lapel grabbing, a policeman might be just what the doctor ordered. Clap these madmen in irons, and leave me to conclude my Marsian studies.

‘Show them in,’ I said.

‘Very good, Sir Nevil. Don’t you be straining yourself. Remember you’re not a well man.’

Og threw himself into an armchair, in a pose of stark terror. Under his sunburn, he even went pale.

‘Hullo... Sir... Nevil... Hullo... Ogilvy...’

It was the madman from the Strand, but much changed. His demeanour was more sober, respectable. His voice was uninflected, somehow metallic. And, since yesterday, he had grown a humpback. A long, red scarf wound around his neck, ends trailing down his back.

‘Good... morning... gentlemen,’ said the police constable beside Moran.

They could have been brothers, with the same shifting deformity, the same strange manner of speech.

‘Keep them away from me,’ shrieked Og ‘They’re...
them
!’

‘Don’t... make... a... fuss... old... chap.’ Moran and Purbright spoke in unison, like a music hall turn. Their voices scraped the nerves. I was overcome by a powerful wish that all my visitors would leave. I could do with a medicinal tot and some peace.

The constable walked, stiff-legged, across the room, to the telescope. He laid a hand on the crystal egg.

‘That’s delicate scientific equipment,’ I warned Purbright.

‘Evidence... sir,’ he said, twisting the egg free.

‘I must protest...’

‘Obey... the... law...’ Colonel Moran said.

Moran was in my way. Beyond him, I saw the constable slipping the crystal egg into his tunic.

‘I paid five pounds for that!’

‘Stolen... goods...’ Moran said.

I tried to strong-arm him out of the way, but he was immovable. My hand fell on his hump, and his long scarf unwound, showing where his jacket seam was split by the swelling. An angry, inhuman eye looked out from the hole! Sinewy, venous scarlet ropes wound around Moran’s exposed neck. A beak-like barb was fixed to his throat, under the ear, blood dribbling from the conjunction.

A cowardly knee met my groin and I doubled over.

When I righted myself, Moran had rearranged his scarf. I knew what I had seen.

Og leaped up from the chair and flew at Moran.

From a pocket, Moran pulled a curious object – a tube with a burnished copper disc at one end. A beam of light seemed to project from this – and fell on Og, whose jacket started smoking. With a scream, Og fled from the room, down the hall, and out of the house. His clothes were on fire.

Moran turned to me. Purbright had also produced one of the heat-casting devices. Both were aimed in my direction.

I was in danger. But if the egg left the house, I would have no proof, no basis for my findings!

Og’s screams still echoed.

‘We... must... be... going...’ Moran said.

‘Not with my crystal egg.’

The copper discs were glinting at me. But I was resolute. No somnambulists, puppeteered by angry-eyed inhuman humps, would stand between me and recognition for my achievements.

‘I am Sir Nevil Airey Stent, the Astronomer Royal,’ I reminded them. ‘I will thank you to return my property. On this world, sirs, I am not to be sneezed at.’

‘Sneezed... at?’ they both said.

At that inopportune moment, my cold struck again – and I had a sneezing fit.

This had the most peculiar effect on my threatening guests. They turned tail, in something like panic, and ran. Purbright dropped the egg which – mercifully – did not shatter. As they ran, they slumped over, arms dangling uselessly, heads lolling – as if they were piloted by their tentacular humps, who could no longer concentrate on even the semblance of normal conduct.

My sheer physical presence, and the dignity of my office, had overwhelmed these creatures.

But I did not doubt they would be back.

I took some brandy, for my chest and sinuses, and reflected over my triumph in this skirmish of the spheres.

Mrs H. called me to the garden. On the gravel driveway lay a human-shaped pile of ashes, already drifting in the wind. I don’t have to worry about Ogilvy horning in on my findings any more...

Feeling much better, despite sniffles, I returned to my study.

In Lady Caroline’s continued absence, attempted congress with Polly – but, for some reason, was thwarted. Have much on my mind.

D--- this cold!

September 8: Later. I capture a Marsian!

Mrs H. is has obtained a supply of a patent medicine, Dr Tirmoary’s Infusion for Coughs, Colds and Wheezes. According to the label, it is mostly
diacetylmorphine hydrochloride.
The stuff burns in a basin, and is inhaled under a damp towel. I spent ten minutes breathing acrid fumes before supper – dressed Cornish crab, lamprey
surpris,
calamari, conger mousse, langoustines – and, finally, gained some measure of relief from congestion, sniffles and associated symptoms. Not only am I sneezing less, I am thinking more clearly.

After a fresh, post-prandial infusion of Dr Tirmoary’s, I retired to my study, determined to tinker with the crystal egg until it yielded its secrets. But, light-headed and with a sense of fullness in my stomach and other parts, I fell into a doze in an armchair...

I was awakened by a whirring which I recognised as the sound of the telescope when the egg-portal is open. The room was bathed in a red, flickering light. The window to Mars!

Again, I saw Stent’s Plain, the Victoria Regina Chasm, the Caroline Range. Now, there was great activity. Structures had changed, been erected or expanded. Many Marsian creatures could be seen, crawling about their purpose – which seemed to me to be the construction, within the Chasm, of a great cannon-like device. This could be aimed, I saw at once, at the tiny bluish speck on the Marsian horizon.

I recalled Og’s ravings about a Marsian armada readying for a trip across the gulf of space.

Poppycock and nonsense!

My study door opened, and Polly came in. The possibility of renewed attempt at congress arose and I bound from my chair into the beam of egg-light. For a moment, I was distracted by my own silhouette, cast on the wall as images from Mars played across my body.

Something was amiss. Polly, hunched over, wore a heavy shawl – not suitable for indoors. She carried a wicker basket which I had not asked to be brought to me. Emboldened, I tore away her shawl. A red, wet creature pulsed on her shoulder, tentacles wound around her neck, face buried in her throat.

My maid was host to a Marsian!

I tripped over the carpet and fell back into the armchair. My nerve was resolute, but my limbs betrayed me – some side effect of Dr Tirmoary’s, I’ll be bound, for which the manufacturer will receive a stern letter. I could not stand. The room became a swirling red blur, as much Mars as Greenwich. I fancied the beings I saw working on their cannon could see me across the void and might crawl through the portal.

Polly set down the wicker basket.

She attempted a clumsy curtsey and craned her cheek against her Marsian master, stroking its slimy hide as if she were indulging a kitten. The creature, bereft of its native atmosphere, was in evident difficulty. I’ll wager they can’t last long among us. Susceptible to all manner of Earthly ailments, drowning in our alien air, boiling in what was to us a cool evening.

The lid lifted from the basket, and a curious contraption rose from within – like a brass diving bell, on three mechanical legs. Some sort of clockwork enabled it to ‘stand’, and ‘walk’. A thick window showed the tentacle-fringed, scarlet face of a Marsian. Within the sphere, it was comfortable – sustained by liquid atmosphere, doubtless rich with the nutrients of Mars.

This must be the chief of the Marsians on Earth, leader of the expedition, the planet’s most able diplomat. I looked it – him! – in the eyes, and began to introduce myself.

‘We... know... who... you... are... Mr... Stent...’

The words came from a hooded figure who had slipped into the room. I realised at once that the superior creature in the bell could exert mental control over a human without the need for physical contact. This facility must be developed among the higher castes of the planet. The hooded figure was a meaningless person. His head bobbed from side to side like an imbecile’s as the Marsian Master spoke through him.

‘It strikes me that you have not conducted yourselves in the proper manner,’ I told him. ‘You should have come to me first, not wasted your time with this ragtag Red Planet League.’

Meaningless syllables stuttered from the hooded puppet. The laughter of Mars!

‘Well you may laugh, sir! A serious misunderstanding could have come about between our two great planets, as a result of your involvement with the likes of George Ogilvy. He holds no great office. Now you have come to the proper person, the Astronomer Royal. You are in communication with someone best placed to reveal your presence to the worthies of Great Britain. Treaties can be brokered, as trade agreements are being made in our world’s Orient. If travel between planets is possible, we may send you missionaries, medical staff, advisers. We must form a limited company. Anglo-Marsian Trading. I perceive you get scant use from your famous canals, but a few Scots engineers will have a railway system up and running across your red sands in no time. You have a surfeit of coolies, I see.’

The syllables continued. Not laughter, I think – but song! A native hosanna at the prospect of deliverance from a state of ignorance and depravity.

I looked into the Marsian’s huge, lidless eyes.

The hooded man spoke. ‘I... speak... for... you... would... call... him... Roi... Marty... King... of... Mars.’

I was impressed that such an exalted personage should be my guest.

‘And what service may I do the King of Mars?’

Polly and the hooded figure raised now-familiar copper tubes, which caught the red light from the telescope. I sensed Marsian treachery!

‘You... can...
burn...’

Then, things happened swiftly.

A sturdy broom scythed down on Polly’s shoulder, squelching her alien master – which detached from her with a hideous shriek and flew across the room to explode against the mantelpiece, swollen organs bursting through its skin. The redoubtable Mrs Huddersfield was in my study, swinging her broom like a yeoman’s quarterstaff. The hooded figure turned, and fire broke out on the wall where fell the beam from his copper tube. Mrs H. tripped him and he tumbled in a heap.

‘Take that, you fiend from another world, you,’ Mrs H. shouted, with some relish. ‘I’ll not have you botherin’ the
Astronomer Royal
!’

Polly, bereft of a controlling mind, stood staring, still as a statue, angry weals on her neck and bosom. Mrs H. took to battering and sweeping the King of Mars’ puppet, driving him from the room, and – indeed – out of the house.

The King’s Bell began to move, edging away on its three legs. With all the skill of my days as a varsity three-quarter, I fell on the contraption, pinning it down, preventing its escape.