Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) (23 page)

Well done, Jacket
, Lestrade thought, though it almost hurt to give the daft young man any credit.

Their leader felled by Jacket’s shot, the crowd instantly ceased their actions against Lestrade. He pushed the nearest ones away from him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jacket climbing down to go to the aid of the would-be victim.

“The Gateway will open!” Alathon screamed, dragging himself up from where he had fallen, using one of the posts of the Gateway for support. He had recovered the knife but he was not close enough to the altar to do the girl any harm. “Yog-Sothoth will rise!”

Lord Alathon drew the knife across his own wrist, the  keen blade passing easily through flesh and muscle, cleaning severing the joint. He dropped the knife, grabbed the detached hand, and climbed up the post toward the lintel, fighting the slickness of the blood that gushed from his left arm.

“Come, Yog-Sothoth!”

Lestrade raised his weapon.

“Infidel!” yelled a cultist, rushing Lestrade with a dagger.

Lestrade’s aim did not waver. The blade would plunge into his chest, but in his gut he knew it was more important to keep Alathon from completing the pattern on the Gateway, and he always listened to his gut, even when it was about this heathen hoodoo rubbish.

An instant before the cultist reached Lestrade, the robed figure fell heavily to the mist-covered floor. A throwing knife protruded from his throat.

Lestrade did not spare a moment to either question his good fortune or the source of the throw. All that mattered was stopping Alathon before he completed the Gateway. He fired his penultimate bullet, striking Alathon in the back.

Lord Alathon was a dead man, but he refused to turn from his goal. Yog-Sothoth would rise, even if it took his last breath to bring the Great Old One forth. Alathon stretched toward the lintel.

Only one bullet stood between Lestrade and the still-restive cult members. Once spent, there was no way to control them. He was used to scrapping, but even he was no match against a mob.

Well, nothing to do about that
, he thought grimly.

He raised and aimed his revolver.

Detective Sergeant Jacket clambered up to the altar. All he saw was the beautiful blonde girl who needed his help. In his eagerness to help her he stumbled, crashing against Lord Alathon.

The leader of the cult screamed as he fell into the writhing blackness of the Gateway, but Jacket hardly noticed. He only had eyes for the Most Beautiful Girl in the World. He lifted her from the altar and carried her to safety.

“Well done, Jacket,” Lestrade murmured in tones too low to carry even to his own ears.

A flash of movement caught Lestrade’s eye inside the space between lintel and posts. He saw suggestions of tentacles and claws, of burning eyes and dripping fangs. It was a terrible sight, made all the more horrible by the incomplete view he had of the monster trapped within. But what made Lestrade smile was a final glimpse of Lord Alathon’s face.

He was not smirking.

The image vanished, the darkness cleared, and all that could be seen through the blood-smeared Gateway of Yog-Sothoth was the rear area of the warehouse.

“All of you, sit against those stones,” Lestrade commanded. “I swear to God Almighty, I will shoot dead the next one of you who so much as twitches.”

Jacket appeared, the blonde girl at his side, unbound, ungagged and now clad in his coat.

“Those lags on guard have probably flown,” Lestrade said, “so go blow your police whistle to attract the local plod. We’ll need at least two Black Marias for this fine catch.”

“Yes, sir.” He escorted the blonde girl away from the prisoners. “You just sit here, miss. Everything will be all right now.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

Within a half-hour all prisoners were transported. Miss Jean Graeling, the girl who would have been their fifth and final victim, was taken to Guy’s Hospital in St Thomas-street by a pair of St John’s corpsmen. Jacket accompanied her, and Lestrade did not protest. The lad had earned that much, and probably much more. The building was sealed, guards were set, and eventually those in power would decide what was to be done.

More likely what is to be covered up
, Lestrade thought.

The privileged would be protected, all the occult rubbish would be broken up and carted away, and the press would print some fairy tale. None of that mattered, not really. He knew he might or might not be credited with solving the crime, but that, also, did not matter to Lestrade. Nor did he care the world might have been saved from an ancient apocalypse, for he still counted it all nothing but drug-addled mumbo-jumbo, despite what he had seen, or thought he had seen, through the Gateway. Even the fact that the murders had been avenged and one prevented was, for him, a side issue.

What was truly important was that he had solved the case, and with no help whatsoever from Mr Sherlock-bloody-Holmes. He gave the now-mundane warehouse one last look.

“Damned cultists,” he murmured.

“Henna?” Dr John H Watson asked.

“Yes, a form of it,” Sherlock Holmes replied, wiping away the tattoo with an alcohol-moistened cloth. He removed the putty that had made his nose more prominent and wiped the dark coloring from his skin. “Lestrade and his sergeant handled themselves quite well under the circumstances, don’t you think?”

“Rather! Did you retrieve your throwing knife?” Watson asked as he cleaned sooty makeup from his face.

“No need to,” Holmes replied. “It cannot be traced to me, and since the follow-up will be lackadaisical, to say the least, it will be lost among the other mysteries of the night.”

“I was surprised at Lestrade’s steely nerve.”

“Lestrade is often underestimated, occasionally by me.”

“It all ended well,” Watson said. “That is what’s important.”

“Thanks, old man, for assisting me in…”

“Think nothing of it, Holmes.” Watson laughed, flipping a coin into the air. “Made me a ‘alf-crown out of it, I did, guv.”

The voice most often heard in the stories of Sherlock Holmes is that of Dr John H Watson, who met Holmes 16 July 1881. In the Canon of stories, Holmes himself tells “The Lion’s Mane,” and a nameless narrator relates “The Mazarin Stone” and “His Last Bow.” But his activities were prolific beyond Watson’s jottings or Holmes’ own claims. Sherlock Holmes touched many lives before, during and after his association with Dr Watson. Some would have been motivated to write of the encounter, whether for publication or not, either in their own voices or with the anonymity of an unknown (and non-actionable) narrator. Some may have had stories pulled from their  memories by others, as in the case of Professor Angus Hamish MacCullaich, DSc, EngD, FRSA, FRGS, lecturer in geology at the University of Edinburgh. He was interviewed in 1891 by Martin H Williams, a reporter on
The Scotsman
. Professor MacCullaich does not specify the date he met Holmes, but it was surely very early in the detective’s life. The following is based mostly on Williams’ daybook and shorthand notes, discovered in office files during remodeling in 1963, rather than the heavily edited and rather fanciful story published Sunday, 17 May 1891, which at the time was considered a total fiction and resulted in a lawsuit by Professor MacCullaich, in which he did not prevail. The “Mr Cooper” mentioned by the Professor is Charles Alfred Cooper, who edited the newspaper 1880 – 1905.

Aye, I knew Sherlock Holmes, but years ago, afore he became such a great noise, a light amongst his people, ye might say. He was just a fresh-faced bairn newly sent down from university. Ye heard me, mon! I said ‘sent down,’ and sent down is what I…

Now, listen here, laddie, I normally don’t have truck with ye ravagers of the printed page. If I had me way, I’d’ve given ye a good hiding when ye darkened me doorway, then set the hounds after ye. Ye are lucky, laddie, very lucky, that yer Mr Cooper is such a good and long-time friend o’ mine, and that I don’t hold against him that he edits such a foul and scunner rag, or that he gives employment to such goamless bauheids as yerself. Now, I’ve told ye: aye, I knew the great Sherlock Holmes many years yont, that he was but a bairn to me, and that it was just after he had been sent down. No, I don’t reckon he ever told that sawbones pal of his about what happened awa back then, when he took the train out of Aud Reekie, but do ye want to hear this or no? Fine. Close yer mouth, open yer ears, and put down in yer jotter exactly the words I tell ye, though ye will print what ye want, I reckon.

When first I saw Sherlock Holmes on the railway platform at Kilglarig, I paid the lad almost no attention whatsoever. He was a pale stick of a fellow just alighted off the morning train from Edinburgh, carrying a carpet satchel and looking about. I might have though he was a tad confused, perhaps a first-time visitor to Kilglarig, nae that there was much to see in our wee village, but he seemed to fit in, as if he understood everything his gaze lit upon. It was his air of familiarity, even though he was obviously a stranger to me, that made me dismiss him so quickly. Besides, as the saying goes, I had other kippers to fry.

For several days I had anticipated the arrival of a shipment of geologic samples from Professor Otto Lidenbrock, who had by then returned to his teaching position at the Johanneum in Hamburg. Each day, I had early departed Slate House in time to meet the morning train, and each day, so far, I had returned disappointed. I had, of course, hoped that day would be different, but the scowl from the scunner porter gave me the worst of it afore I even voiced me standard query. I admit I was already put out for the day. No one ever called me a patient man, so when the red-faced fellow, who was nae even a proper Scot but a jump-up from London, gave me a look like curdled milk on cold porridge, I stomped up like I was going to give him a good blatter with me walking stick.

“Don’t give me that impudent look when I haven’t even yet asked ye a single question,” I told him.

“But, Professor MacCullaich, you only ever ask ‘bout one blasted thing,” the porter protested. “Where are the rocks? Is that not what you were going to ask? About them bloody rocks?”

“Aye,” I grumbled, giving him the evil eye, though he seemed nae to have the wits to be moved by it.

“Well, I don’t have anything labeled rocks or addressed to you, do I?” He gave me a smug look. “All I got addressed to anyone in this whole pitiful one-horse dorp is to a Mr Zebra Chilich, and that ain’t you, is it? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got…”

The porter cringed and fell back as I raised me walking stick to give him a few whacks for being so impudent. He would have got a good hiding too, something to remember, but me wrist was seized from behind and I could nae break the grip. I turned, expecting to see someone twice me size, but it was the stick-thin stranger.

“Let go of me this moment!” I yelled.

I was surprised when he instantly released me. I was so taken aback at his sudden compliance I lost me balance, and would have gone aspawling on the platform in front of God and everyone had he nae caught and arighted me. Again, I felt the impression of great strength, as if the stranger, slight though he be, had the means to easily bend a fireplace poker.

“What do ye mean by…” I started to demand.

“Pardon my intervention,” he said calmly, “but I imagine that even in Scotland there are laws against giving people what they so richly deserve?”

Me brow furrowed and I shot a scowl at the porter. Aye, he was just such a Sassenach to swear out a warrant to the magistrate rather than take his comeuppance like a man. I nodded to the stranger.

“You are obviously not Scottish,” he said to the porter. “A Spitalfields man. You were a sailor in the Far East, South China Sea obviously. You ran afoul of the law upon returning to London, but you fear the fellows of your rookery more than the law. To escape both, you took an anonymous post with the Scottish railways.”

The look in the porter’s eyes told me all that had been said was God’s truth. His mouth was agape, and I admit mine was as well, so I shut it and tried me best to look stern, though me former ire had now been replaced by a sense of befuddled wonderment.

The young fellow looked to me. “I take it, you know of no one in Kilglarig with the unlikely name, Zebra Chilich?”

“Nay,” I told him. “The lad is daft!”

The stranger shook his head. “Less daft and more linguistically ignorant, trying to pronounce something unfamiliar.” He looked to the porter. “Show us the cargo destined for Mr Zebra Chilich.”

“How you know those things ‘bout me?” the porter demanded.

“Do as ye’re told,” I snarled.

The porter glared at us, seeing an old man and a man nae much more than a boy. But he’d also seen me swing me walking stick, and how easily the stranger had stopped me arm.

“All right, all right,” the thick-headed porter finally said. “It’s again’ the rules, but if it’ll get rid of you two loonies, fine.”

We followed the porter into the darkness of the freight carriage, him leading us past cargo destined for villages further up the rails to some crates marked for Kilglarig. He pointed to one in particular.

“There you be, Zebra Chilich, stenciled right above Kilglarig,” the lout proclaimed. “I don’t know who that is, but it ain’t you, so I got to cart this in so the stationmaster can…”

“
Zerbrechilich
,” the young man said.

“Well, ain’t that what…”

“It is German for ‘fragile’,” he continued. “On the ends of the crate is stenciled the word
Gesteinsprobeh
, another German word, meaning ‘rock samples’.”

“Me specimens!” I exclaimed.

“If you will turn the crate over,” the young man said, “you will discover the real name of the intended recipient.”

“Of all the stupid things…” I started to say.

“Who you calling stupid!”

“Ye, ye queern-headed fool!” I shouted. “Ye loaded the damn thing in downside-up, ye goamless bawheid! Now, get that out to me cart, and be quick about it, ‘less ye want yer employers to ken what a witless dolt ye be, and our constable to ken ‘bout a knave who should be tossed in the chokey. Move it!”

For an instant I thought the porter would attack me, but the fire in his eyes was quenched by his rank cowardice. He unlashed a hand-truck from the wall, wrestled the crate onto it, and wheeled it out onto the platform.

“I cannae thank ye enough, young man,” I told him. “I ken the stationmaster would have eventually sorted out that fool’s mess, but I am eager to…” I paused, rather abashed. “I am letting me emotions run afore me manners. I am Professor Angus Hamish MacCullaich…”

“Yes, of the University of Edinburgh, author of ‘The Evidence of Anomalous Fossils in Igneous Strata’ and ‘Identifying Geologic Location Markers Through Microscopic Examination,’ and, of course, other papers, but those are the most important.”

“Aye, they are,” I replied slowly, stunned to immobility, while the porter puffed away from us. “But I’m surprised ye ken them.”

It was quite unusual for me to be recognized outside Edinburgh, for though the Kilglarig villagers who had truck with me called me by me title, it was purely honorific; to them, I was merely the ill-tempered old man who lived in Slate House, a baukie-bird of a gaffer who loved his aqua-vitae almost as much as he loved tramping about the land looking for odd bonny rocks, and who had to be tolerated because he was rich, hot headed, and quick to swing his walking stick at slow-witted bawheids. And, in all that, they were more right than wrong, weren’t they?

“I read anything that interests me,” the young man said. “Any monograph that furthers my practical knowledge.”

“It’s the first time any of me papers have been accused of being practical,” I told him. “I take it ye are a university man, then?”

He glanced down, then up. “Cambridge, until recently.”

“Ah, I see.”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

I offered him me hand, we shook, and I motioned for him to accompany me as I headed to me cart. “I am pleased to meet ye, Mr Holmes. I do nae ken how to thank ye for quickly sorting out me problem back there.”

“It was nothing,” he said. “Anyone with a working knowledge of German could have cut through the Gordian knot he made of the word. It was immediately obvious to me that the crate had been loaded into the luggage van with the address facing downward.”

“And the details about that scunner porter?” I prompted. “How did ye ken so much about him from a glance.” I paused and gave him a baleful look. “The rascal was nae aknown to ye, was he?”

“No, not at all,” Holmes assured me. “At his first word, I had his city of birth, at his second, his home within a few streets. The dialects of London are a study of mine. With but a few sentences I can plot a man’s journey, from birth to instant. As to his trade, his gait revealed him as a man accustomed to walking a rolling deck, the browning of his skin was not gained in London, or Scotland for that matter, and the skill of the flesh artist—his tattoos—revealed all his ports of call, though he does take care to keep them hidden, a sense of caution flung to the wind during his argument.”

“Aye, that’s all well and good, I suppose, and does sound rather obvious when all laid out…”

Sherlock Holmes sighed softly.

“…but what about his criminal past?’ I demanded. “Surely, ye can’t claim to ken the heart of a man just from looking at him, which is beyond even the vicar at the kirk.”

“No, matters of the heart are a mystery to me, and ever will be, I fear,” Holmes admitted. “But just beneath his collar are two pale scars, parallel to each other, the result of a branding initiation by the criminal brotherhood of the rookery in Shoreditch. The fact he has taken pains to hide the marks tells me he was not honest with his employers. The fact that he has taken such a low and obscure post tells me he is on the run from the police, and, since he is not hiding among his brother thieves and cut-purses, that he is also at odds with his brethren in the rookery, who are much more dangerous than the police. His trespasses against the law are not serious enough to issue a general hue and cry, so he remains a rather minor villain on the run, more pathetic than dangerous.”

I shook me head in wonderment. In days of old, such a young man as this Sherlock Holmes might have been beset upon by the Witchfinder General, but there was no denying the iron logic of his summations. By that time, we had reached the cart, and the porter had placed the crate in the bed, and none too softly, and now stood about looking like a lost doddie, and nae as intelligent by half.

“Be about your business, ye menseless galik!” I told him.

“But…my time…my trouble…” he muttered.

“Time and trouble?” I shouted. “Time and trouble is what ye cost me. Bless me but I do nae ken why I should nae take it out of yer worthless hide.”

The porter scurried away, and I was glad to see his back. I turned to me young acquaintance.

“I am pleased to have met ye, Mr Holmes,” I said. “Ye have a keen mind and a sharp wit, I’ll say that much.” I paused. “Have ye considered applying to…”

He shook his head. “The pace was much too slow, the methods of teaching unsuited to this burgeoning age of steam and galvanic energy, and not at all compatible with my nature, or my goals.”

“And what be those goals, if I may ask?”

“I see myself in the role of a consulting detective.”

I frowned. “A policeman? An enquiry agent? A worthy goal, I suppose, for some, but…”

“Nothing of the sort,” he assured me. “Such investigators are bound by rules inimical to the pursuit and attainment of justice. More than that, though, the very environment in which they work fosters the belief that some people, by birth, rank or achievement are above or beyond the law. They are not.”

“But the law is nae always itself just,” I pointed out.

“No, it is not,” he agreed, and there was such a hardness in his tone and his eyes that I decided not to pursue the question further, though I did wonder what could have happened in so short a life to have such an effect on the young man.

“What brings ye to these parts?” I asked. “A man of yer insight would do well in London, whatever yer profession.”

“No doubt I shall base myself in London eventually, for that is where the forces of history and society seem to converge in this age,” young Holmes conceded. “But, for the moment, I am content to roam for as long as two years, observing the world and the ways of its peoples. Also, there are many avenues of research I would pursue, in the fields of chemistry, botany, geology and biology, that would be most ill-suited in an urban environment.”