The Cthulhu Casebooks

by James Lovegrove

  The ripples in the pool deepened, and then all at once they broke up, their regularity of pattern disrupted. The entire body of water was filled from bank to bank with a welter of slapping, overlapping waves. The waves’ peaks intensified, becoming taller and sharper. At the same time, the music grew even more discordant, its tempo increasing and its notes skirling towards a screeching crescendo, until the unseen musicians, as though on a cue from some conductor, abruptly went tacet.

  Their silence heralded an arrival.

  In the black depths of the pool, something was stirring.

  Something was rising.

  It came up ponderously, unhurriedly from the aqueous gloom. Through the surface refractions I saw the same entity I had caught glimpses of when the shadows assailed Gong-Fen’s carriage under the railway bridge. It was a creature of countless eyes and no fixed shape. It rolled and roiled like wind-driven clouds. It twisted and expanded and contracted and reconfigured. It seemed to be a thousand different beings at once, all crammed together in the same space, vying for supremacy. Now it resembled an insect, akin to a locust. Now it had the features of a woman, bloated and obscenely fat. Now I discerned something of the Sphinx about it, and then all of a sudden it was more like a bull, and then, no less abruptly, a lion. Amidst that melange of elements were also a pharaoh, a dwarf, an ebony-skinned man, an angelically glowing fair-haired white woman, a snouted demon, a winged beast.

  These and others manifested and vanished, Nyarlathotep’s countless incarnations and avatars, the host of forms by which he was known throughout time and space. Watching him was fascinating, and at the same time I could hardly bear to look, for his body moved too much, too rapidly, too intricately, folding in and around and over and under itself, as though it conformed to none of the known laws of biology or physics.

  And those eyes. Nyarlathotep had so many eyes. Far too many. And each was as avaricious and cruel and calculating as the next.

  How, I asked myself, could something be in such constant churning metamorphosis and live? How could it hold itself together? How could it possibly be cogent? Coherent? Sane?

  The rational part of my mind posed these questions, trying to make sense of what I saw. But Nyarlathotep defied interpretation. He defied intelligibility. He was pure illogic, a riposte to all the assertions of science that there was nothing that could not be codified, classified and quantified. He was an affront to everything that was enlightened and right.

  As he neared the surface, I could restrain myself no more. “Holmes!” I hissed. “For the love of God, man, what is taking you so long?”

  At that very instant, the scarlet liquid completed its task. With a loud click the manacle fell open.

  Holmes did not hesitate. He sprang forward, pulling hard with his still-manacled hand so that the chain rattled through the eye-bolt at speed. The open manacle slipped cleanly through, and now Holmes was fully free. He continued forward apace, charging at Professor Moriarty, the loose chain flailing behind him. All this took place within the space of a few heartbeats, so rapidly that Moriarty scarcely had time to register that one of his would-be sacrificial victims was at liberty before Holmes was upon him.

  In a straight physical contest between the two of them, man against man, there was no doubt in my mind that Holmes would have been the victor. He, however, had an added advantage: the chain that dragged behind him. This he pressed into service as a makeshift weapon. In a single, swift motion he swung it up and caught it with his free hand, then whipped the trailing end at Moriarty. It struck the academic in the face with enough force both to send him reeling and topple the Triophidian Crown from his head. Moriarty let out a shrill, girlish yelp that was audible even above the snake men’s raucous clamour. He staggered, clutching his cheek in agony.

  Holmes brought the chain back, gathering it to unleash it a second time at his foe.

  That was when Nyarlathotep broke the surface of the pool. He did so by extruding a part of himself that was like a gelatinous tentacle, thick as a man’s thigh and tipped with a bloodshot, unblinking eye the size of a tennis ball. The tentacle’s outer membrane was a hideous yellow, the colour reminiscent of the worst kind of effluvium the human body can produce, and it squirmed clear of the water, reaching out towards the dais.

  At the sight of this long fleshy protuberance, Inspector Gregson, I am afraid to say, entirely took leave of his senses. He began screaming and sobbing, and frantically pulled at his bonds as though he hoped to be able to break them through sheer hysterical force. Even Mycroft’s sangfroid deserted him, and I saw his mouth shaping the words of the Lord’s Prayer.

  The tentacle slithered across the dais floor, leaving behind a damp trail that was part water, part some loathsome, glistening molluscan secretion. It probed towards the stalagmite, where, from long experience, Nyarlathotep knew nourishment lay. The eye at its tip radiated hunger and greed.

  Holmes lashed at Moriarty again with the chain. The first time he had caught him unawares. This time, however, our enemy was prepared. He seized the end with the open manacle as it hurtled towards him. He grinned. His cheek was bleeding, a great welt rising there like a split plum.

  “One free hit,” he said. “That is all you get, Mr Holmes. The rest you must earn.”

  He yanked the chain hard, pulling Holmes off his feet.

  Or so it seemed. In fact, Holmes was shamming. He stumbled towards Moriarty, as though he had lost his balance and was struggling to regain it. Then at the last instant, when he was within arm’s reach of his adversary, he righted himself. He aimed a lightning-like jab at Moriarty’s chin.

  Moriarty surprised him, and me, by ducking aside, so that the blow whistled past his temple. His retaliation was an uppercut which caught Holmes firmly under the jaw and snapped his head backwards.

  My companion reeled. He and I alike had been guilty of underestimating Moriarty’s prowess as a combatant. Sickly and spindly though he looked, the academic knew a thing or two about the pugilist’s art. He was no Jem Mace, no bare-knuckle champion, but he definitely looked as though he could handle himself in a fist fight.

  He was devious, too. While Holmes was still recovering from the uppercut, Moriarty grasped his end of the chain with both hands and ran. Holmes’s manacled arm shot up and he was tugged helplessly forward, straight into the path of a small stalagmite which rose to waist height. He collided with this at some speed, unable to avoid it. He doubled over, the breath knocked out of him.

  Moriarty pressed home his advantage by clouting Holmes on the back of the head with the same manacle that had opened up his own cheek. Holmes gasped in pain, and I groaned in dismay. A couple more blows like that, and my friend would surely be put out of contention.

  Holmes was harder-skulled than I gave him credit for, however. As Moriarty prepared to deliver a second swinging strike, he rolled sideways off the stalagmite. Almost simultaneously he struck at his opponent’s knee with his heel. There was a distinct crunch which told me that the joint had been dislocated. Moriarty’s anguished howl confirmed it.

  All the while, Nyarlathotep’s tentacle crept ever nearer the large stalagmite, groping with repugnant purposefulness. It was now so close to the three of us as to be within kicking distance, and I proceeded to do just that, in hopes of deterring it. But the thing was dexterous and possessed of quick reflexes. It danced out of the way of my foot. My kicks, besides, were weaker and less accurate than they would otherwise have been, for I was feeling again that awful debilitation I had felt beneath the railway bridge as the shadows of Shadwell had advanced, which befell one whenever one was in proximity to Nyarlathotep. The sensation seeped into my marrow, into my soul, a kind of spiritual chloroform. The Crawling Chaos must seldom have known his prey to struggle. His very presence was enough to anaesthetise his victims, robbing them of the will to live.

  His enfeebling influence had spread to both Mycroft and Gregson. No longer was the elder Holmes murmuring a prayer to the Christian god; nor was the police official stra
ining at his manacles. Passively, strung to the stalagmite like a trio of forgotten marionettes, we awaited the inevitable.

  I retained enough of my sense of self, however, to understand that our one chance of salvation lay with Sherlock Holmes. While he was still in the fray, all was not lost.

  Moriarty might have been hobbled but he was far from defeated. Teeth gritted against the pain from his knee, he threw himself upon Holmes, who was still somewhat winded and dazed. The two of them grappled on the ground ferociously, more like brawling animals than men. Now one seemed to have the upper hand, now the other. They rolled, clawed, pawed, grunted with exertion. Moriarty had the raw energy of madness on his side. Holmes, by contrast, fought with the fervour of a man who understood that three other lives were at stake, not merely his own, and that perhaps the entire world was imperilled if he lost this battle. For should Moriarty defy expectation and gain Nyarlathotep’s preferment as he planned, then it was a sure bet that he would not wield his newfound divine power with wisdom and benevolence. He would become the worst kind of dictator, riding roughshod over his fellow humans in the same manner that he lorded it over the snake men through the auspices of the Triophidian Crown. He would be an unholy terror, a rival to Genghis Khan, Herod, or Caligula. He would be a new Napoleon.

  Nyarlathotep’s tentacle reared before me, and I could swear the Crawling Chaos was savouring the moment, drinking in the scent of me like a wine connoisseur testing the “nose” of a claret. His uncanny eye roved towards Mycroft, then Gregson. It was as though he was trying to select which of us to latch onto first and suck dry. He was taking his time, deriving pleasure from the anticipation, the choosing.

  The fierce wrestling match between Holmes and Moriarty had been edging ever closer to the lip of the pool, and was now almost at the point where the tentacle emerged. This was no accident. Holmes had, it transpired, been propelling them that way by design.

  With a sudden surge of effort he threw Moriarty from him, so that the academic sprawled across the questing tentacle.

  Immediately the tip of the tentacle whipped round, curving towards Moriarty. Its eye glared at him balefully.

  “Nyarlathotep,” the academic gasped. “I apologise. Forgive me. I did not mean to touch your personage. It was not my fault.”

  He tried to push himself away, but it was a fumbled attempt. Already Nyarlathotep’s will-sapping aura was affecting him.

  The Crawling Chaos seemed intrigued. All at once, with a shocking turn of speed, the tentacle moved. It curled around Moriarty like a boa constrictor, encircling first his torso, then his legs.

  “No…” Moriarty protested dully. “No… This is not… not what…”

  But the tentacle only tightened its grip. Nyarlathotep had taken a taste of Professor James Moriarty, and seemed to like it.

  Holmes, lying prone nearby, said, “Ah-ha, Professor. Your god desires quality, and has found it. What could be more to his liking than you? A great brain wedded to a diseased temperament. Your essence will be more flavoursome than any of ours.”

  “No. No!”

  In an abrupt burst of vigour, Moriarty grabbed the loose end of the chain, which lay just within his reach, the other end of which was still fastened to Holmes’s wrist.

  “I shan’t go alone,” he declared. “He shall have you as well as me!”

  The tentacle began retracting, withdrawing into the pool, taking Moriarty with it. Moriarty, in turn, dragged Holmes after him. He had both hands clamped around the chain in a remorseless death-grip, and my companion was hauled bodily across the dais. Holmes fought every inch of the way, digging his heels in, doing all he could to counteract the pull exerted on him. But there was little for his feet to gain purchase on, and his own strength, though formidable, was no match for that of the tentacle. He even tried pounding Moriarty’s hands with his fists, but could not for the life of him get the man to relinquish his desperate, vindictive hold on the chain.

  Moriarty slipped over the edge of the dais into the pool. I had a last sight of his face before it disappeared under the water. It had taken on a resigned cast, as if he had come to terms with the fact that his grand plan had ultimately backfired on him. Yet there was also a strange glint in his eye, as if somehow he had also won. It was not simply that he had managed to ensure that Holmes was condemned to the same grisly demise as himself. It was almost as if he was working out how he might yet turn the situation to his profit. Even in the face of an appalling death, Professor Moriarty schemed on.

  Then he was gone, pulled under, and Holmes, still gamely resisting, followed. He tumbled from the dais, slithering into the pool in an unwieldy fashion, led by his tethered arm.

  The loud splash echoed across the cave, and when those echoes faded there was nothing but silence. Even the snake men were struck dumb. It had all happened so quickly. One moment, Nyarlathotep had been preparing to accept the sacrifices being rendered up to him, as he had done so many times in their history. The next, their god had rounded on the priest officiating at the ceremony, the human who had imposed himself on them as their leader, and had taken him as an offering instead, along with one of the originally intended victims. The snake men were, for a time, bewildered and bereft.

  But not so bereft as I was. I stared at the pool, while the ripples caused by Holmes’s immersion ebbed and petered out. I willed him to return. I waited for his head to break the surface. I expected him to reappear at any second, safe and sound.

  Although we had been acquainted for only a month or so, I was convinced that Sherlock Holmes was the best and wisest man whom I had ever known, or ever would know. I could not bear the thought that he was spiralling inexorably down into those dark depths, gone for good.

  MYCROFT HOLMES, BESIDE ME, WAS AS APPALLED and grief-stricken as I, if not more so. He showed it by cursing volubly, telling his brother not to be “such a dashed fool”, to stop “mucking around” and come back up for air.

  “You can swim, can’t you?” he berated the absent Holmes. “Then for heaven’s sake swim!”

  “You can’t just shout him back to life,” I said despairingly.

  “I can and I will,” Mycroft rejoined.

  Meanwhile the snake men lamented their erstwhile master, keening his name over and over: “Roffsssor Mearty.” They had been his hapless thralls, oppressed by the power he exercised over them through the Triophidian Crown. They had not loved him or even wanted to be ruled by him. Yet his death nonetheless left a vacuum in their lives. They had been conditioned to obey him, and were unsure how they would cope without him now.

  Their period of abstract mourning did not last long, however. Sorrow curdled to disgruntlement, then resentment. I heard them grumble to one another in their lisping dialect of R’lyehian. Gazes were directed towards Mycroft, Gregson and myself, who remained locked in our manacles, shackled ineluctably to the stalagmite. The gazes became glares. The grumbling became growling. A few of the snake men prowled towards us, looking surly and vengeful.

  “Well, this is a pretty pass,” said Gregson, who had collected himself somewhat after his frenzied fit a short while earlier. “The wretched things are turning on us, as if we’re to blame for what’s happened. A mob is forming. I’ve seen it before, on the streets. This is how lynchings come about.”

  A number of the snake men were now on the dais, and others were heading in our direction. It looked as though we had been spared one manner of death, only to have another foisted upon us. The gathering throng, consisting mainly of adult males with a few females amongst them, snarled insults at us. Many of these I could not understand, but those I could consisted of uncomplimentary references to our clothing – for the snake men wore none – and to our hair, which, as far as bald Homo sapiens reptiliensis was concerned, was a freakish and unnatural physical attribute.

  “What are you saying?” Mycroft barked at them defiantly. “I can’t make head or tail of your jabber. No use speaking to us like that if it’s only so much mumbo-jumbo to our ears.”
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  The lynch mob – Gregson’s description was entirely apt – loomed, and I knew at last that my time was up. I had had so many brushes with death in the past months, starting in Afghanistan. The grim reaper’s scythe had swept over my head on several occasions, close enough that I could feel the chill breeze of its passing. Again and again it had narrowly missed – but now my luck had finally run out, and I was about to feel the terminal kiss of its blade. I was twenty-eight years of age. Mine had hardly been a long life, but it had not been without its pleasures, or its rigours. It had been full enough. It would have to do.

  The cobra man appeared before me, the same fellow who had so nearly envenomed me in the crypt. He seemed to be the leader of the mob, the alpha male, inciting the others to move in for the kill. I reckoned he would have been the snake men’s chieftain, had Moriarty not usurped the position. Now he was reclaiming that role, and his first point of order was to resume what he had been prevented from doing up above.

  With a gleeful hiss he opened wide his maw, revealing those wicked fangs affixed to the roof of his mouth.

  “Go ahead then, you degenerate,” I managed to say. “I hope you choke on me.”

  “N’rhn!” said a voice I knew well, a voice I had expected never to hear again.

  The cobra man spun round.

  To the rear of the mob, his hair plastered wetly to his scalp, water pouring from his sodden clothing and pooling at his feet, stood Sherlock Holmes.

  * * *

  In two of my published stories, “The Final Problem” and “The Adventure of the Empty House”, I depicted Holmes’s apparent death and subsequent miraculous-seeming resurrection. I wrote how he perished in mortal combat with Professor Moriarty, stating my presumption that the both of them had plunged into the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, only for him to re-enter my life three years later, having faked his death in order to evade the attention of certain still-extant enemies.