Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) (32 page)

“Fragments such as this idol?” Challenger asked.

“This is from the Maldives’ earliest mythic cycle,” Lord Whitecliff explained. “Its exact beginning is unknown but it certainly predates the Dravidic Invasion, which brought the first inhabitants of the islands, probably fishermen from the Subcontinent, in the Third Century before Christ.”

“The belief in this M'tollo predates human habitation of the Maldives?” Challenger questioned. “How can that be?”

An expression of discomfort passed over the ethnologist’s features. “You must know that our knowledge of man’s prehistory is woefully incomplete, filled with gaps and inaccuracies.”

“The blank spots of the map reach deep into time,” Challenger said. “And there might easily be peoples unknown.”

Lord Whitecliff’s eyebrows arched in surprise “Quite.” He minutely examined the statue with a glass. “The worship of M’tollo in the Indian Ocean is extremely ancient, just how ancient no one can say, but the earliest ancestors of the present Maldivians found it already established among a semi-mythical people known as the Children of M’tollo, or the Ki’M’tollo. Because of the bloodthirsty nature of M’tollo worship, it was suppressed from the beginning, but was carried on in secret on the numerous remote atolls of the Maldives. There were reported enclaves of M’tollo worshipers as far a-field as Madagascar, India, Hadramut and Siam, but its center was definitely the Maldives, Wherever it was found, however, it was persecuted for it was a most loathsome religion—even the Thugee considered it a repellent devotion. It is an almost unknown episode of the Indian Mutiny in ‘57 that a group of Thugee and a squadron of Her Majesty’s Royal Lancers fought side by side against murderous Ki’M’tollo seeking blood-victims of all races during the conflict.”

“What about M’tollo itself?” Challenger asked.

Lord Whitecliff looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“What about the origin of the creature they worshipped,” the naturalist explained. “Could it have some basis in fact?”

Eminent ethnologist Lord Cecil Whitecliff looked as if he had swallowed an insect. He sputtered his indignation, balled his fists, and fumed at Challenger’s impertinent suggestion. There might have been an actual out-and-out brawl in the hallowed halls of the British Museum had not Sherlock Holmes intervened.

“Lord Whitehall,” he snapped, peremptorily but not abrasively, “many people become involved with ancient religions with the hope of uncovering lost treasure troves. Would anyone entering the service of M’tollo have reason to hope for such a situation?”

With great effort, Challenger turned to inspect some wall-hanging, and Lord Whitecliff was forced to look at Holmes. For a long moment, the question seemed lost on the ethnologist. His eyes seemed somewhat unfocused, blazing with fire fueled by the conflict, both scientific and personal, that existed between him and Challenger. By degrees, however, the fires died, and he turned his attention to Holmes’ question.

“It’s…it’s odd you should mention that Mr Holmes,” he finally said. “One of the curses of my chosen avocation is that I am at times pestered by petty men who see humanity’s past as nothing more than a treasure trove waiting to be plundered solely for personal gain. To me, ethnology is purely an intellectual pursuit. It was early last year when I was approached by a man asking questions about M’tollo and the survival of M’tollo worship in the modern world. At first his questions seemed harmless enough, even academically stimulating, but it was not long before his enquiries turned toward less than academic concerns—hidden temples, lost treasure, secret writings and the such. Done in with his attitude, I finally shooed him away. I assumed at the time that he was nothing more than an opportunist seeking gold and jewels, but, looking back, it seems to me now his questions may have been about more esoteric treasures, and perhaps some kind of occult power based within the framework of M’tollo’s worship, much as a pilgrim might gain from possessing a fragment of the Holy Rood.” He paused and sighed wearily. “I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but I cannot be more specific than that—it was some time ago, and I try not to dwell on things I find upsetting.” He glanced venomously at Challenger. “No matter the provocation.”

“I understand, Lord Whitecliff,” Holmes said. “Do you recall the man’s name?”

“He was a tall man, dark-haired, about fifty. He said his name was Aleister Crowley, but the name seemed an ill fit for him,” the ethnologist answered. “I saw him a few months later in the Museum’s reading room. In a fit of curiosity, I prevailed upon Mr Higgens to permit me access to his application. The name listed was Laslo Bronislav.” He paused. “Please excuse me.”

“Certainly, Lord Whitecliff,” Holmes said. “Thank you for your time. Should anything else come to mind, please contact me.”

“Yes, I will.”

The ethnologist fled the room. Holmes rewrapped the object that had brought them to this repository of knowledge.

“For whose death does Lord Whitecliff hold you responsible?” Holmes asked quietly.

Challenger shot Holmes a sharp glance.

“Although men of science are often passionate and parochial beyond the understanding of the common public, the rift between the two of you is much more than a conflict between opposing theories.” Holmes explained. “Your chosen fields of study have some common ground, but not enough to nurture such seeds of discord. If your specialties had more in common, you would not have had to refer me to his expertise. He at first attacked your academic pursuits, but it was clear that he knew little and cared less about your theories. There was a personal basis for his enmity. You suggested him as an expert, but reluctantly. Obviously, you were not eager to encounter him, but knew him to be the best point of contact. How could the two of you have come into association long enough to foster such hate? The hatred by the way, was more his than yours, else you would never have suggested seeking him out in the first place, no matter our need. Academic society meetings would hardly provide the context, so it must have been on one of your infamous expeditions.”

“Infamous!” Challenger blasted.

“Calm yourself, Challenger,” Holmes advised. “You often find yourself at loggerheads with academic tradition and mainstream beliefs, which are written up gleefully in the papers. I believe one of your favorite sports is heaving journalists into the street.” He paused as a tiny smile played about his thin lips. “If I am not mistaken, one of those abused journalists recommended you for the nation’s next Olympic team as a shot-putter.”

Challenger uttered a laugh that sounded like a fierce tempest. “He did go quite far!”

“It is highly unlikely that Lord Whitecliff would ever be found on one of your expeditions.” Holmes continued. “His aristocratic manner and pale skin suggest he is more inclined toward academic research, gaining what he needs from the reports of others, rather than seeking sources himself. For such a one as he, who sees his field of study as an avocation rather than a vocation, any field trips are likely to be limited to whatever can be seen on Cook’s Tour. Since he is unlikely to have journeyed with you, it had to be someone he knew, perhaps a relative, someone who never returned. The person would be close but not extremely close, else you would not have hoped that time had somewhat sealed the wound.”

After a long moment, Challenger said, “It was his nephew, Reginald Whitecliff. Several years ago, I led an expedition up the Rotunda to Lake Nyasa searching for a creature the natives called a Loghombo, a beast that could have been a survival from the saurian age. We did not find it, but one day when young Reginald was by the lake shore exposing some photographic plates he was attacked by some animal—we never learned what—and was killed. Lord Whitecliff holds me responsible for that young man’s death…as do I. Despite the years, I have not forgiven myself for that tragedy, but I hoped he had. Let’s get out of here, Holmes.”

With Challenger hefting the burden of the mysterious idol, they walked down the steps of the British Museum’s Montague Place entrance, where, early in his career Holmes had taken rooms. It was a cool, misty London morning, but the last vestiges of the previous night’s noxious fog were reluctant to release the great city.

“What about this Laslo Bronislav?” Challenger asked. “If that is his real name.”

“Most likely it is,” Holmes replied. “Those desirous of using the Reading Room must apply in writing to the Principal Librarian, furnishing name, address, profession and a recommendation from a London householder. Then there is a two-day waiting period before a time-pass is issued. Even a certain consulting detective’s notoriety did not save him from the Reading Room’s strict protocol when he desired to peruse a copy of Eckermann’s
Voodooism and the Negroid Religions
.”

“But the name he gave Cecil Whitecliff?”

“A jest by a man of odd humors,” Holmes replied. “There is a man in London by the name of Aleister Crowley, but it was not he who called on Lord Whitecliff that day.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I have a passing acquaintance with the most evil man on earth,” Holmes said.

Chapter Five

Geoffrey McBane sat back in the hansom he had engaged earlier that morning and had stationed outside the British Museum’s lesser entrance. He grimaced as he saw the package hefted by the man who had to be Professor George Edward Challenger. If not for that bull of a man, he might have considered hiring a covey of robbers to take the object from Holmes’ possession, but, on the other hand, Holmes was a man whom one underestimated at his own peril, as Colonel Moran discovered to his chagrin, and Professor Moriarty to his mortal peril. Normally McBane would not have considered such a direct tactic, but Bronislav was anxious to take custody, and he was not a man who endured delays.

He watched the two men clamber with their burden into a waiting hansom, and drive off, heading in the direction of Totenham Court Road. He smartly tapped the roof of the hansom twice with the head of his walking stick.

Sitting on the driver’s perch, Alfred Paisley heard the signal and frowned. Frowning still, he snapped the whip above his horse and they started after the two familiar figures that had exited the British Museum.

“Where are we going, Holmes?” Challenger asked.

“Since the enigmatic Laslo Bronislav considered it a fitting jest to use Aleister Crowley’s name in a minor deception,” Holmes replied, “it seems only fitting we consult Mr Crowley about Mr Bronislav. It is almost certain that if Crowley does not actually know Bronislav, he must know of him, for in his very small pond, Mr Crowley is a very large frog.”

“But who is he?” Challenger queried. “You earlier called him the most evil man in the world, but what does that mean?”

“It means Mr Crowley is more showman than sinner,” Holmes said. “He is very influential among London’s occult societies, a man who professes to know the secrets of magic, who conducts arcane ceremonies attended by London’s rich and powerful.”

“Humbuggery!” Challenger blasted. “Holmes, I find it quite impossible to believe you would countenance….”

Holmes interrupted him with a good-natured laugh, the first Challenger had heard him utter since his initial visit. “I believe in what I can see and what I can deduce, my good Challenger,” Holmes said. “However, it would be a cardinal mistake to offhandedly dismiss the beliefs of others, for crimes are often committed with no more motivation than a person’s belief. When investigating a crime precipitated by a belief, it often best to put aside questions of the belief’s validity and proceed as if it were true. In regard to beliefs, I make no distinction between the Archbishop’s Church of England, the Hindoo’s dizzying array of deities, or a pagan’s rites held in one of the Isle’s many stone circles. The validity of any religion is of no consequence to the criminologist, only the legitimacy of the acts committed in supposed service to that religion.”

“What a mercenary attitude,” Challenger remarked. “I dare say Inspector Wilkins would be appalled.”

“I dare say he would,” Holmes agreed.

The consulting detective leaned toward the outside of the hansom, peering through the small side window, over the large wheels, toward the direction from which they had come. Holmes called up for the driver to make a change in their route.

“What is it, Holmes?” Challenger asked.

“We appear to have acquired up an unwanted shadow after leaving the Museum,” Holmes replied. “I wish I could make out who the driver is, but these cabbies are always so bundled against the weather they always appear more like bee-hives than humans, especially at a distance.”

“Well, let’s pull over and see who is so interested in us,” Challenger said, slamming his fist into his palm with a sound of a thunder-crack. “We can make short work of it.”

“There is a time for confrontation, and this is not it,” Holmes told the scientist. “If I can throw him off our track without letting on we know he is following, he will feel confident enough to follow when a shadow will be less injurious to our investigation; for the moment, it is best simply to take him off the scent.”

They swung down a side street and Holmes scribbled a short message on a scrap of paper with a pencil. Ahead was a group of street Arabs. As the hansom drew nigh to them, Holmes tossed the message to one of the older lads. As soon as he did so, he called to the driver to pick up the pace. A few more turnings along London’s labyrinthine byways and Holmes instructed the driver to resume his course to their destination.