I have discovered more. I don't know whether this was fortune or folly, but I had the chance to delve deeper into this mystery that beset me and I took it. Now my mind is even more mired in questions and fears. I sought to find answers, but what I have learned has only taken me further along this path of uncertainty and question.
Palin and I had completed all our work, and the business of Earl Edgar's probate was finally resolved. All the required paperwork had been created and filed, and I knew that at last I could put my malefic trip behind me. With what I know of Earl Sebastian's plans and ambitions I am all but certain that I shall never have to consider his sinful father ever again. All I had remaining was to archive our reports and the papers I had brought from Argentina, including Earl Edgar's ravings.
These had been neatly bound in a leather cover for storage. Both Mr. Dennings and Mr. Caine had poured over them to ensure they contained no lost points of legal interest, but seemed happy with my initial judgement that there was nothing that should concern us. Neither of them had been struck by those haunting words as I had. While all that anyone else sees are the nonsense writings of a madman, to me they remain an elusive riddle that lurks in the back of my mind.
The firm's long term archives are kept in the basement of the building. Walls of covered shelves store forms and reports dating back decades. As I was putting all the new documents in their place in the section devoted to the Leer family, it suddenly occurred to me there would be extensive reports on the death of Earl Andrew here. Mr. Dennings' story of the Endeavour came back to me, and I realised that if the storm that struck that ship had indeed been the same as the one that hit my own then I could likely find evidence here. Perhaps, I thought, the old man's memory had simply made up the connection. Here would be proof. If I wished to know for sure the facts of the sinking I had only to search for them. Morbid curiosity overtook me and, to my own foolishness, I began to search back along the shelves.
It took me only a few moments to locate the answers I sought. Tucked away in a dusty folder I found a collection of papers all pertaining to the death of Earl Andrew, collected and bound by the firm at the time. Alongside other pertinent documents was a copy of the Admiralty report regarding the Endeavour and its final voyage. I took it aside to the nearby reading desk.
Endeavour had been a fairly modern ship for its time. It had been sailing up from the Mediterranean Sea, where it had been carrying cargos from the African continent. For some reason not documented, for it would seem to me to have been far out of its way, the ship sailed by way of Ireland and docked in Cork before beginning the final leg of its journey to London. It was here Earl Andrew and the Lady Annabel boarded the ship. They had been travelling back from overseeing the family's Irish estates and joined the vessel for the fateful final leg of its voyage, where it was struck by the storm and sunk with the loss of all hands.
Reading the report, a shiver went down my spine. Hard storms had been reported across the entire channel in the days preceding the sinking, but nothing of such ferocity as that final tempest. The report stated that the storm came in unusually quickly, and that the sinking happened within sight of Portsmouth harbour.
I shuddered at reading these words, and the basement seemed almost to grow darker around me. Could it have been just a coincidence? I pray so. Earl Edgar's words, written in his final, maddened days, floated back into my mind. He wrote of his father's death, and of something within the Endeavour. What had Edgar known?
Despite knowing it was folly to continue, I recovered Edgar's papers, now in their leather cover, and laid them upon the desk. All the time my soul beseeched me not to continue in this foolish path, to leave these dark murmured thoughts to the past and retreat from that place. Yet an unshakeable fascination pulled me on. Such a mood as draws crowds to Newgate on execution day; we know good men should not feel so, but macabre fascination pulls at our baser instincts and overwhelms rational sense.
Letting the pages fall open, the familiar handwriting stared up at me from the tattered and burned sheets as I sought out the relevant passage.
So little did father know. Oh Andrew, Earl Andrew and foolish mother. All alone and son far away. No idea could he have had what all at once lay within Endeavour. So evil, so dark.
That one phrase had lain upon my memory, drawing me back; "lay within Endeavour." What did he speak of? Surely not more coincidence and happenstance? Once more I went to the old file, searching for more information that might disprove my fears. Within I found a shipping manifest; a list of passengers, the Earl and his wife's names amongst them, and a long list of cargo. Amongst the more mundane items, the ship had been carrying crates from Egypt bound for the British Museum.
My blood ran cold. Egypt? That other mention made by Edgar; Ptalantohtep. When first I read it I had thought the name had an Egyptian feel. Could this be linked? Perhaps in other circumstances I might have managed to think otherwise, but in that dark basement, lit only by the glow of my oil lamp, the connection hung over me like a shroud.
This was enough, at last, to throw me from this foolish curiosity. A mortal fear gripped my heart and I once again felt that same strange presence behind me. I spun around, but saw no one. Grabbing the lantern I turned and cast it around the study, but its light fell on nothing but insubstantial shadow. In a sudden desperation I gathered the papers from the desk. In my haste I tripped, sending the sheets to fall haphazardly across the floor. Dropping to my knees, I pulled them back into a rough pile. Panic had taken hold of me and I could make no sense of the order I should have striven for. My mind was filled with the need to get out of that dark, enclosing room as soon as possible.
It was at that moment that my eyes were caught by a report that by chance had worked its way to the top of the untidy pile. It appeared to be a cutting from a news-sheet, dusty and yellowing, that made mention of the Endeavour. Perhaps it was that word that caught my eye. Whatever the reason, I stopped my hurried shuffling and began to read.
The report spoke of a remarkable discovery made in Egypt regarding the cargo believed to be carried by the Endeavour. The ship was engaged to transport a number of artefacts from an excavation in Egypt, led by a Professor Windome. It seems he had uncovered some ancient tomb, and the relics he had recovered therein were bound for London to be displayed at the British Museum. Obviously, when Endeavour sank, all those concerned were devastated at the loss of such important and valuable archaeological finds. Yet barely days after the sinking, news arrived from Egypt that the cargo that had supposedly been aboard the doomed vessel had been discovered, unharmed, in a warehouse in Cairo. Through some twist of happenstance it had never been loaded onto the ship.
I shook as I read this. My panic had subsided by now, replaced by an eerie disquiet. This only added to the list of the uncanny associations to my voyage. I had noted, when first I read Edgar's notes, how certain words had smacked of the Egyptian. Could this have been what had intrigued Edgar? He mentioned things that "lay within Endeavour". Such a mystery could indeed have interested such a mind as his.
At last common sense overtook me. I hastily thrust the papers back on the shelves before fleeing the cloying basement to cleaner air above.
Yet although I fled the building, I can not escape the knowledge I had uncovered. Oh how I wish I had possessed the strength to ignore the perverse urge to seek out more! I could almost consider myself bewitched that I had continued in this folly.
I know it is a childish whim, and far below one of my station, but I cannot shake the idea that the two storms are connected. That there is some link between the force that sank the Endeavour and that which so desperately tried to do the same to the April Mercy. Recalling the condition of the April Mercy as it had finally limped into the harbour, I thank God it was a more modern and robust vessel and thus able to face the tempest and come through where the Endeavour had floundered.
I have since found it impossible to relax. My investigations have set me on edge. I will leave my lamp burning tonig
ht. I chide myself for a fool, but I cannot face again the darkness that has haunted my mind since I fled the archives.
Saturday, 12th October 1816
I have at last had the opportunity to seek out new accommodation. With my increased salary I had decided upon better lodgings nearer to the office. My recent long hours have highlighted the distance I travel each day, and living closer will allow me greater freedom with my time.
I have found rooms overlooking a fine street in Holborn, and on taking a walk this morning I found myself near the British Museum. I had visited there before, though with little purpose other than idle education. With my afternoon free, I decide the day would be well spent bettering myself and made my way towards its magnificent edifice.
At least, I told myself it was merely a whim, but before long I found myself in the Egyptian rooms. I do not know what delusion led me to that place. Perhaps it was simply coincidence, and idle wandering simply brought me there by chance. Whatever the reason, once I was there a morbid curiosity overtook my mind. All yesterday I had felt foolish for the childish fears I had felt in the archives. A man of my station should show a sterner mettle than I had done that night, and so I determined to face this mystery head on. My mind, I told myself, was simply overcome with suspicion and superstition, and so I determined I would smother such base, animal fears with cold, established facts.
I sought out one of the staff and enquired about anyone who might know details of the voyage of the Endeavour, or the work of Professor Windome. So many years after the event I held little hope anyone present would recall it. However, I was introduced to a gentleman about twenty years my elder, one Dr. David Soll. He was one of the curators of the museum and, as it turned out, a student of Windome's work. Being such an unusual event, the business of the Endeavour was one that had always stuck in his mind, and he was happy to recount it and answer whatever questions he could.
The thin, scholarly man took me aside to a small office, away from the curiosities and displays. Settling in, he asked me what I wished to know. Unwilling to make mention of my more foolish worries, I merely told him my position and that the name had come up during an investigation into the history of the Leer family. I passed it off as a simple fancy; a peak of interest after reading of the work of Professor Windome and the artefacts that had supposedly been bound for London.
Dr Soll leant back in his chair and took on an air of one used to teaching such histories. Professor Windome, he told me, was a scholar and explorer who had been travelling Egypt, searching for the treasures that history and rumour promised lay waiting for those lucky or skilled enough to discover them. Around this time, reports of a lost temple uncovered by a rogue sandstorm had reached him. He had hurried to the location and rapidly established a camp in order to fully excavate it before the desert could once again reclaim it. Apparently the site was a marvel, with an astounding number of artefacts and items amazingly well preserved by the desert sands. Once the excavation was established, Windome engaged a shipping company to aid him in delivering some of his finds to the then newly opened British Museum, in order to gain public interest and greater funding for his efforts. The artefacts were transported to Cairo, and from there onto the Endeavour.
When the news of the sinking reached Egypt, Windome had been sent into an incalculable fury. Some of the greatest finds in archaeological history, not to mention months of work, lost to the ocean floor on the very last leg of the voyage. It was then, Dr. Soll told me with an undisguised relish for the mystery, that all the artefacts thought lost were discovered in the warehouse in the city. The company employed to load the finds onto the ship had been doing an inventory of their stock and found the crates, safe and undisturbed. Windome refused to allow them to be shipped over sea again and they remained in Egypt until after his death.
This event caused no small amount of uproar, as all involved were certain that some cargo had been loaded aboard the ship and been lost in its place. I pressed Dr. Soll for more details. There had been an investigation, of course, but no missing cargo was ever identified and no one ever came forward to claim on the loss. Here he leant in conspiratorially to tell me how many believed some kind of smuggling had been involved. He could give me no hard facts.
I had hoped for something more concrete, some earthly information about this strange recovery. Something that had come to light since the initial report. So far his words had simply verified those facts I had learned from that dusty report in the basement. I wanted more knowledge, something that would dispel the air of the supernatural rather than substantiate it. With nothing to reassure me I felt my apprehensions returning. I had just one more question, and how I wish I had not stayed to ask it. Steeling myself for the answer, I enquired whether the temple Professor Windome had been investigating had any particular name or patron.
Dr. Soll sat back. It is not an easy thing, he informed me, identifying Egyptian ruins. The hieroglyphics those ancient people used are all but incomprehensible. Those who study such things are forced to resort to documents written in Greek and Latin. He told me there were several known to refer to the area and using those, along with local rumour and legend, Windome had collated a list of probable names. There had been several thrown around by scholars over the years, but the general consensus, Dr. Soll informed me, was that this temple had been based around the tomb of a priest known as Ptalantohtep.
My blood froze. That name. It follows me. It lodges in my thoughts. Dr. Soll continued to speak, but I heard none of it as Edgar's mad words came unbidden to my mind. The Earl had spoken both of Ptalantohtep, and cursed cargo. Of the dark evil that had lain within the Endeavour. How much had he known? Had he learnt of this mystery as I had, and sought out more? Had he too become inexorably engrossed in this riddle, until it consumed his mind and left him a maddened husk?
Seemingly unaware of my growing distress, Dr. Soll continued with his lecture. I was only half listening as he told me what local lore was known about Ptalantohtep. He had been a king or high priest, no source was definitive, in the earliest days of ancient Egypt. He gave the names of various periods, but not having made any study of history they meant nothing to me. Differing stories had him as either a great sorcerer or a cruel and vicious ruler. In either case, whatever his life had been, the actions he had filled it with were enough to ensure his name had lived down through the millennia. I was no longer asking questions, but Dr. Soll seemed happy to lecture me further with no encouragement. As I sat there he went on to the custom of sealing tombs with spells and curses. The primitive locals would still avoid archaeological digs for fear of such magic. He offered, if I was interested, to dig out and recount a few of those stories regarding this particular tomb. Finally able to find my voice, I hastily declined. I had no wish to know any more of this darkness than had already been awakened.
Desperate to be away from all the artefacts and curios from that damned continent, I thanked my guide and quickly fled the museum.
My mind is still reeling. The words of Earl Edgar seem once again fresh in my head. What had he done? What exactly had he known? What did he search for, and what did he find? What was happening?
Tomorrow I must pack my few belongings, but now I must sleep. The night is dark and I grow tired. My eyes are heavy, yet still I feel as if somebody's gaze is upon me. The darkness is oppressive.
Sunday, 1st December 1816
Here! I had thought I would not find this journal again. I thought I might have thrown it out when I first moved to my new rooms back in October, as I have had no need of it since then. It was simply purchased to keep notes of my investigation of Earl Edgar, and further entries were more from habit than need. I have no memory of having unpacked it, and yet here it was sitting behind another book on my meagre bookshelf.
Now, with my situation falling around me and my mind wandering and confused, I found myself thinking of it once more. Perhaps, as has aided me before, the act of writing my thoughts on paper might allow me to filter through these confoun
ded memories to make some sense of factors that otherwise go unseen. I am hoping that this, along with re-reading the notes I made at the time, might allow me to put to rest the fears and worries that have been stirred up by my visit to Buenos Aires. So much seems to consist of naught but coincidence and impossibility, that the guidance of some supernatural hand seems the only possible explanation. As sensible thought rejects this absurd notion I must seek out a logical frame for it. My brain fails to see past the unreality of it all.
Perhaps I should use some fresh book to do so, but it seems efficient to use this old thing. It already contains my notes of that time, and so will allow me to find any points that elude me. Carrying two notebooks around would be pointless.
Also, and more irrationally, I find I do not wish to spread these words and thoughts from these pages. I feel that I must keep them together, rather than allowing them greater freedom to further contaminate the world. I had truly hoped to forget those events I had chronicled within these pages. I believed I was beyond them. But I am wrong. They haunt me, and I can not wrestle my mind free of their insidious influence.
What has happened to me that I allow myself to indulge such childish notions?
I shall start, in order to arrange my thoughts, at the point where I made my last entry. With my advancement in the company, I was assigned new work regarding the business of the Leer family. It was a great boon for my career, and also meant I was kept busy enough that I spent little time thinking of Earl Edgar. However, some kind of mania had begun to grow within me. While most days I was as healthy as ever I was, on occasion some paper or invoice would come across my desk that would send my mind into a flash of recollection. Each time this happened it affected me more, until each attack would leave my concentration fractured for the remainder of the day. I would suddenly find myself unable to focus; my breath rapid and my pulse sour. All the mysteries and impossibilities I had encountered, and endeavoured to forget, would throw themselves back into the forefront of my mind and I would find myself racked with an unassailable panic.
The Serpent's Eye Page 8
