Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) (22 page)

“Quite lucky to…”

“…and ‘aving the Elder Sign carved on me forehead.”

“Did you say…”

“Bloody Yog-Sothoth worshipers!”

“Hold on now,” Jacket said. “What…”

“Just like that toff what went by just a sec’ back,” the grimy and voluble veteran claimed. “Almost knocked me down, ‘e did, and me a loyal subject of ‘Er Majesty, what lost ‘is…”

“Just a moment, sir!” Jacket interrupted. He provided the man with a description of Sir Martin Fields.

“Oi, now!” the veteran cried. “Don’t tell me a fine young fellow like you is…”

“You saw him?” Jacket demanded. “Where did he go?”

“Saw ‘im big as life, guv, and muttering something awful ‘bout Yog-Sothoth an’ gates o’ blood an’ takin’ left ‘ands to open the way for ‘eathen gods,” the street vendor babbled. “It ain’t right, guv, a-sayin’ such  things in London, where ‘Er Majesty…”

“Where did he go?” Jacket asked again. He wanted to take the man by the lapels and shake the answer out of him, but he feared his hands would never come clean afterwards. “Where?”

“Why, ‘e went down that street there, an’ into the warehouse ‘bout ‘alfway on the left,” the one-armed man said. “I ‘ope to God Awlmighty ‘e ain’t one o’ them bloody…”

“Thank you!” Jacket cried, digging into his pocket. He tossed the first coin to come into his hand onto the vendor’s tray, then with dismay realized it was a half-crown.

“Thank ye, guv!” the vendor exclaimed, scarpering down a side street before the daft young fellow could change his mind. “Ye’re a prince, guv, a regular prince!”

Detective Sergeant Jacket sprinted down the street the man had indicated, but pulled up when the warehouse hove into view. A few toughs lounged around the entrance, but from the way the men kept watch they were no regular gang of idlers. Jacket withdrew before he was noticed and headed for the Three Crowns.

The one-armed man watched Jacket’s hasty departure from the shadows of a narrow cobbled alley. He slid his left arm out of the coat, lifted the tray from around his neck, and set it on the ground where some poor soul might find some use for the wares. He flipped the heavy silver coin into the air, watching it turn end over end in the feeble light. He caught the coin in a surprisingly delicate hand, smiled, and pocketed it.

Inspector Lestrade groaned softly as Detective Sergeant Jacket entered the Three Crowns like a bull dancing in a china shop. Well, Lestrade thought, it wasn’t as if the lad were betraying any secrets; even though he had rozzer written all over him, Lestrade had chosen the Three Crowns precisely because he was known here, would be left alone unless some nose came angling for a tanner.

“All right, Jacket,” Lestrade said as the young man dropped into the chair across from him. “Say what you got to say before that grin splits your loaf in half and your wig drops on the floor.”

Jacket shared all he had learned about Sir Martin. He included the testimony of the one-armed monger, but left out the part about losing Sir Martin’s trail.

“Yog-Sothoth, huh,” Lestrade said, pursing his lips.

Jacket nodded.

“Gate, left hands, blood, keys, the key is hand, blood is key, the way is opening, Yog-Sothoth is the key.”

Jacket leaned forward, hands clasped under his chin. There were many things in the world he did not know, but one thing he absolutely knew was to never disturb Inspector Lestrade when he settled into one of his meditative fugues. The senior officer’s eyes were half-closed, his lips barely moving as he repeated elements of the case and the names of people involved over and over. He knew Lestrade was linking events, locations, theories and personages in various combinations. He had seen this happen twice before, and he understood none of it.

“Jacket!”

“Yes, sir?”

“You have a revolver?”

“Well, I…”

“Do you, or do you not?”

“Yes, sir,” Jacket gulped.

“Good, we’re going to run Lord Alathon and the other cultists to ground before they take another life,” Lestrade said. “I hope it will be without violence, but that will be their choice, won’t it?”

“Should we call into the Yard for reinforcements, sir?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “We were given this case to solve, not to admit we can’t. Besides, if two of Scotland Yard’s…” He cast a worried glance at Jacket. “…two of its finest can’t handle a rabble of bally cultists, then what’s the world coming to?”

“Absolutely,” Jacket agreed, wishing he felt as confident as he tried to sound. “So, you think Lord Alathon and…”

“Come along, Jacket,” Lestrade snapped. “We’ve no time to piddle over facts already in evidence.”

Jacket led Lestrade back to the warehouse that had been Sir Martin’s final destination. The street was black except for a hissing gaslamp at each end, but the small red embers of gaspers showed the guards were still in place. They climbed to the roof of an adjoining building, made their way across, then penetrated into the depths of the warehouse.

Before they saw a light within, they heard the soft murmur of perhaps two dozen people chanting, following a single voice. Even at this distance Lestrade recognized the leader as Lord Alathon. And he heard other sounds, of someone trying to scream through a gag, of a victim frantically struggling against bonds.

“Cor,” Jacket breathed softly.

“Shhh,” Lestrade cautioned.

They had emerged from a narrow stairway onto a wide landing that stretched around the upper story of the warehouse. Crates and bales were stacked around the broad deck, giving them plenty of cover. The only light that reached them was what spilled up from below. There was, however, no chance of the cultists seeing them, so concentrated were they upon their leader and the victim trussed upon a altar shrouded in black silk.

If Lestrade and Jacket had not known they were in the midst of the largest city in Christendom, they might have guessed they had been transported to some heathen temple deep in the heart of darkness. The ground floor of the warehouse had been transformed into a temple to Yog-Sothoth and the other Great Old Ones, the minions of Cthulhu that Lord Alathon had spoken of so openly and breezily, obviously an effort to allay any suspicions.

Detective Sergeant Jacket blinked, shook his head, then blinked again. There was something not quite right about the architecture of the place. It lacked parallel lines and had few straight ones. It was such a sight as would give his frustrated geometry master at school a migraine. The pillars leaned this way and that, always seeming on the verge of collapse, yet enduring. The corner angles of the stone slabs arranged around the worship area were all either obtuse or acute, and upon those stones were depicted such monstrosities and horrors as never could have crawled from the minds of Bedlam, creatures which should never have lived, and yet were undeniably taken from hideous life. Thick mist drifted along the floor, tendrils of the yellowish vapor seeming to pluck at the supplicants’ robes, almost like serpents.

The only illumination came from torches mounted in the tops of the stone slabs and from bronze braziers at either end of the altar. Standing behind the altar, robed and arms upraised, was Lord Alathon; in one of his hands was a knife with a long, thin, wickedly curved blade, a perfect instrument whether for slitting a throat or cleanly severing a hand.

Upon on the altar was the prone figure of a beautiful blonde girl wearing almost nothing. Her arms and legs were tied. She thrashed against the bonds, but she could not break them. She was gagged by a black silk band and could only make muffled gasps. Her eyes were wide with terror. Detective Sergeant Jacket thought he had never seen a more beautiful girl in his life.

Behind Lord Alathon rose a kind of gateway constructed from black rectangular stone into which were incised silver symbols, none of which, Jacket noted, were representations of the Elder Sign. On the posts of the gateway were mounted four human hands, all left hands, and there was a space at the top ready for another. The hands had been dipped in wax, turned into macabre tapers. Jacket should have been able to see the rear of the warehouse through the gateway, but it was filled with an impenetrable darkness, an oily shimmer which swirled and pulsed.

Jacket nearly jumped out of his skin when a large hand landed on his shoulder. He found himself facing Lestrade’s scowl.

“Keep your wits about you, Jacket, or what you have of them,” Lestrade murmured into the man’s ear. “This is no time to let all this hoodoo rubbish get to you.”

“No, sir,” Jacket whispered. “I mean, I won’t let you down.”

“Good man,” Lestrade responded, but did not look entirely convinced. “Look, I want you to make you way around till you’re behind Lord Alathon.”

Jacket nodded, then noticed how close he would be to the gateway. “Why do you suppose we can’t see through that gate, sir?”

“Concentrate on what’s important, Jacket,” Lestrade urged. “Don’t focus on the tomfoolery he’s using to mesmerize the sheep. I’m going down there, and I’m counting on you.”

“Me?”

“God help me, but, yes, you, Jacket,” Lestrade sighed. “I doubt anyone down there poses a real threat except Alathon, them being all toffs and dilettantes, but you never know when a sheep is going to bare a wolf’s teeth.”

“I’ll watch over you, sir,” Jacket said.

Lestrade’s lips flattened into a grim line, but it was too late for an alternate plan. “Be off with you, lad,” Lestrade said.

Jacket nodded and swiftly made his way amongst the stacks of goods. He was quickly lost to sight. Lestrade mentally marked the young man’s progress, seconds seeming like hours. Knowing from the mounting chants that he could delay no longer, Lestrade made his way to the stairs, moving silently but with purpose.

Standing behind the robed worshipers, Lestrade slipped his revolver from his coat pocket. He pushed the nearest cultists to both sides, sending them sprawling into each other.

“All right now, let’s break this up!” Lestrade shouted into the confused hubbub. “Everyone stay where you are. I am Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and you’re all under arrest.”

“Blasphemer!” screamed a cultist, rushing forward to throttle Lestrade. “Praise to Yog-Sothoth! Praise to…”

The revolver in Lestrade’s hand barked once and Sir Martin fell into the swirling mist, a neat hole marking his forehead.

“Let’s have no more of that,” Lestrade warned, moving his gun in a slow arc around him, back and forth. “You’ve all been properly nicked, so let’s have no foolishness from you.”

The cultists regarded him with undiluted hatred, their mouths twisted into animalistic snarls, eyes wide and staring as if drugged. But they made no attempt to rush him. Though filled with strange drugs and their passions raised to hysterical levels by the spilling of blood and the prospect of more, they were still just swells and posers, whose debauchery was more than matched by cowardice.

“Inspector Lestrade, you have come at an inopportune time,” Lord Alathon called from behind the altar. “I don’t suppose there is anything I could offer you to depart and leave us in peace?”

“No, I don’t suppose there is, bucko,” Lestrade replied, keeping one eye on him while making sure the cultists remained properly cowed. “Put the knife down and untie the young lady.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Lestrade raised his weapon, aiming it at Alathon.

“I do not see that you have a choice, Your Lordship.”

Lord Alathon smiled. “There is always a choice. We made a choice to open the Eldritch Gateway so Yog-Sothoth could reenter our realm, could rouse Great Cthulhu from his long slumber in the sunken city of R’lyeh, could pave the way for all the Great Old Ones to return from their places of banishment, whether in this dimension or in others, whether from beyond time or from beyond the wall of sleep. They will walk again where in elder times they walked before, serene and hungry, and when they do they will invest us, their loyal servants, with such power as would sear the mind of a mortal such as you. We will be as gods! We will laugh and sing as the Great Old One’s crunch your bones!
Ia! Ia! Fwatagn moz’tl Yog-Sothoth! Cthulhu sh’kina dul…
”

“Enough of that blather!” Lestrade interrupted.

“The Gateway will be opened!” Alathon screamed. “Stop him or the Great Old Ones will feast upon your souls!”

The cultists swarmed Lestrade as if they were motivated by a single mind. They were lords and ladies, businessmen and members of Parliament, lost souls and seekers after power, but at the moment they were naught by an extension of Lord Alathon’s will, pawns eager to sacrifice their own lives to ensure his mad dream of power came to pass.

The sheer mass of them attacking so suddenly after Lestrade had discounted them as a threat startled him, He fired at Alathon, but a hand grabbed his arm. The bullet vanished upward.

“The Gateway will open!” Alathon screamed.

Lestrade fought against the tide, but it was too much. Three of the cultists fell away with bullets in them, but the others refused to turn from their bloodlust. He watched in helpless horror as Alathon lifted the knife, preparing for the slash across the throat, the taking of the left hand to complete the Gateway.

A shot rang sharply through the gloom. Alathon paused in mid-incantation. He remained still, as if paralyzed, then collapsed behind the altar. The knife clattered away noisily.