“Holmes, it is preposterous to think that the princess—”
“Calm yourself, man,” Holmes said, and I lowered my voice. “I believe that she merely discovered the book, which I suspect belonged to her half brother Alexander. There were other books cached there; including Von Junzt’s despicable Nameless Cults and certain texts possessed only by high-order Freemasons.”
“Then she’s only guilty of hiding it again.” I sighed, quite relieved.
“Yes, Wells—though I pray her innocent young mind cannot grasp the dark implications of whatever she’s read so far. But the fact remains—the book is here, and that raises the stakes considerably, in my estimation. I found also a collection of correspondence from a woman named Elisabeth Cookson, who was illicitly involved with one if not both of the princes, and quite possibly with the king himself.”
“Do you have those letters with you as well?”
“No, I replaced them. And in any event, they were penned in Dutch. She’ll be the subject of tomorrow’s delicate inquiry.” At this, Holmes outstretched his hand to retrieve the book and I handed it back, somewhat disturbed by the intensity he displayed.
“Now sleep, Herbert. I’m on tonight’s ghost watch.”
“Holmes, does nothing tire you?” I asked, dazzled by his vigor.
Holmes got up and moved for the door, answering, “Not while such devilry may be afoot.” Extinguishing the room’s single candle, he left me to my troubled slumber.
Owing perhaps in equal parts to my natural wanderings, the horrific tale I’d offered the princess, the eldritch atmosphere surrounding the palace, and the profane sickness contained within the pages of that evil book, I fell prey to the most elaborate nightmare.
It began with a lone meteorite that came streaking earthward from the outer cosmos—crash-landing in some barren, uninhabited place, displacing tons of sand and gravel for miles about. It was nowhere on earth that I could readily identify; though I shuddered to think what would happen were such a rock to fall upon an inhabited city like our London. As I moved closer, I saw bits of debris crumbling away to reveal the thing’s true nature—not a meteor at all, but a cylindrical canister of sorts, some thirty yards in length, composed of a metal I could not distinguish and a color that defied comparison.
I was both rapt and unnerved when the circular top of the cylinder began to rotate and I realized there was life aboard the thing that had fallen from the stars! I floated there, transfixed, dreading what damaged thing might emerge—then willed myself awake to no avail as the first grisly tentacle came slithering from the wreckage. Then, to my horror, it was succeeded by several more flailing appendages—their number difficult to gauge because of their lashing, billowing movements—each terminating in something roughly akin to eyes. Then came a grayish rounded bulk of enormous size, rising slowly and painfully out of the cylinder. The Dark Thing was gruesome and certainly not of this earth.
I was repeatedly startled as dozens more of these cylinders rocketed down in like manner, and soon there was assembled no less than a battalion of the loathsome creatures. As I observed them in their makeshift settlement, I became aware that their alien intelligence and ability far exceeded that of mankind. These Dark Things had language I could not decipher, composed of high-pitched wailing, each utterance giving rise to primal fear within me.
Time flashed by me in terrible increments and I came to realize, quite thankfully, that this vision was not of earth’s future, but of its distant past, as I observed the creatures colonizing and taming the primordial wilderness that surrounded them.
Life on Earth had not yet developed past rudimentary multicelled organisms and early vegetations, but the Dark Things utilized techniques I could not fathom to induce and persuade this indigenous life to evolve as they required. From the oceans they raised and fused together great protoplasmic globules, and from the newly risen tree life they incubated pulpy, bulbous bipedal creatures, experimenting upon each by molding their tissues into all sorts of temporary organs.
Bred as slaves, these mindless elementals worked tirelessly by night and were penned like cattle during daylight, wholly mistreated and controlled by some sort of telepathic bond to their masters. The Dark Things used these slaves, engineered with limbs more suitable than their own, capable of hauling and manipulating tremendous weights, to build their city and perform all manner of tasks. It brought to mind the impossible pyramids of the Egyptians, though their scale was paltry when compared to the mammoth spires of the emerging city of Dark Things.
Millennia passed and the slave things began to develop periodic rebellious tendencies, most prominent during specific phases of the stars. The trouble apparently stemmed from the fact that these slaves were now hunting and feeding off several new species of earth life that had begun to evolve unchecked by their masters. They’d acquired a taste for blood and it began to alter them in subtle ways. The bothersome ones were disciplined by the use of an alien alloy, closely resembling silver, that when brought to bear would somehow numb the things back to submission. The dangerous ones were exterminated by various means; those from the sea by sonic dismemberment, and those from the land by curious handheld incendiary devices.
Then some unseen grand disaster rocked and hammered our prehistoric world, so great that it burned away the atmosphere and ripped the very moon into existence. The Dark Things survived, though their great city was plunged many leagues beneath the sea. They were forced to observe helplessly as their entire colonization process came undone beneath the advance of great sheets of ice that spread and shackled the earth.
The sunken, star-born Dark Things sealed themselves into cocoons and fell into deathlike slumber in the lower depths.
Eons passed and slowly the world began to thaw, eventually giving rise to all manner of races and civilizations, while the Dark Things remained trapped beneath the sea. Epochs passed again before mankind finally walked erect upon dry land, and then somewhere—a Dark Thing stirred. For some reason, those primitive Cro-Magnon brains were susceptible to the telepathic communications of the entombed Dark Things, who called to them in their dreams, manifesting most unnatural behaviors that stunted their evolution. Secret rites were transmitted to these early men, of methods lost in ages past; and mankind was divided between those tribes that heeded the call of the Dark Things and those which remained deaf to their influence. I watched, horrified, as this very division introduced the concept of murder to our predecessors.
The Dark Things whispered to their faithful that someday, when the earth had sufficiently warmed, their great city would rise again from the depths, rejoining the coastline from which it broke free, and I was . . .
Thankfully startled awake from the dreadful slumber by Holmes’s insistence that we take our breakfast before embarking on the workday he’d mapped out.
I dressed hastily as the nightmare waned, offering little by way of conversation during our meal together; perplexed by my own heightened level of grotesque imagination.
By the time I’d finally shed the dream, I found myself being jostled about in a coach, with Captain Gent seated across from me and Holmes to my left. “Where are we off to exactly?” I demanded.
“The public sanatorium in Leiden,” Gent said.
“Which one of us is that far gone? It must be me.”
“Quite comedic, Wells,” Holmes said. “This morning, when I explained to Captain Gent that His Majesty had confided the name Elisabeth Cookson to us as a possible suspect, I found, much to my surprise, that he was already acquainted with her.”
“Aye,” Gent replied. “I brought her from the palace to the sanatorium myself not six months back. The very route you both are taking now.”
“What exactly do you know about this woman?” I asked, playing along with Holmes’s ruse.
“Under strict confidence, I tell you that she was a prostitute, involved for a time with young Prince Alexander. After his death she came demanding recompense from His Majesty, spouting all sorts of th
eatrical nonsense, the last time with a concealed dagger on her person. I assure you, she’s quite mad.”
“Odd that the king allowed an audience to a prostitute,” I remarked.
“Our good king makes himself available to his subjects,” Gent responded, defending his sovereign.
“Of course,” Holmes said.
The sanatorium gates swung wide on rusted hinges and we entered hurriedly. An attendant accompanied us to Miss Cookson, heaping accolades upon the captain all the while. To describe the barbarism glimpsed from cell to filth-strewn cell in our passing would be an exercise in the repulsive with which I will not burden the reader of this tale.
Elisabeth Cookson was a disheveled woman whose age was indeterminate because of a lack of proper hygiene. Hard to imagine her once capable of eliciting the desire of a nobleman. Her dark hair was cut short, doubtless to minimize lice and other infestations. Barefoot she trod, dressed in a simple gown of burlap, wringing her hands and whispering incessantly. One look at the captain and she began shrieking, the corridors echoing with her cries.
“Captain, do please remove yourself,” Holmes requested, and Gent left us alone with her. Immediately, she grew calm and resumed her pacing.
“Vrouw Cookson,” Holmes entreated in Dutch, which I here shall translate. “Please tell us of your claim upon the royal family. We are here to help set things right.”
With alarming speed, she turned and grasped Holmes by his cloak, dragging him close. “The servant of Het Duivelsche Volk, of the Dark Things,” came her cracked and unsettling growl. “It comes to call. We are owed. We are owed at a terrible price!”
At her mention of the Dark Things, I was taken aback, first considering, then abandoning, the idea that she’d entertained dreams similar to my own.
“Who owes you?” Holmes cooed in a settling voice.
She released him and threw her arms in the air, raving, “They all do, the whole lot! Promises broken and blood let!”
“What promises, Miss Cookson? Whose blood let?”
“Yes, yes—she’ll come then. Blood from royal blood.”
Holmes took her roughly by the arm and twirled her toward him. “Who is she? I demand that you tell me!”
The old courtesan cackled. “Yes, she will be blood.”
It was then I took note of the object hanging round the woman’s neck, and shouted, “Holmes, the locket!”
Holmes grasped the thin cord and tore it from her throat, sending the madwoman into a swinging rage that forced us to withdraw from the room. The waiting Captain Gent slammed and bolted the door. Her face against the viewing grate, contorted to violent proportions, Cookson cried out, “Geef het Terug! Give it back! Give it back!”
Gent slammed the grate with his great fist, yelling, “Stand back or forfeit your life!”
“Outside,” Holmes ordered. “This hysteria’s contagious; we need to remove ourselves.”
We left swiftly, fleeing her taunting scream, “We’re promised she’s dead!” I was glad of daylight as we reached the sanatorium steps and regained our composure.
“Forgive me my outburst, Mr. Holmes,” the captain said.
“Understandable, Captain,” Holmes assured him, snapping open the locket and examining the villainess’s photograph within. We looked over his shoulders to view the image of a young girl. Although the quality was poor, her resemblance to the royal family was clear.
Gent’s ruddy cheeks went white. “That’s her,” he exclaimed. “Godverdomme, she’s real!” He stormed back into the building, returning minutes later with the attendant in tow.
“Do you know this girl?” Gent demanded. Holmes brought the photograph up for inspection.
“Yes,” the man replied, still on edge from Miss Cookson’s outburst. “It’s the daughter, Sarah. She visits her mother from time to time, the poor soul.”
“And where might we find her?” Holmes asked.
The orderly shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps the red-light district in Utrecht or Den Haag?”
“The apple falls close to the tree,” Gent said. “Come along, we shall find this young villainess!”
We sped back toward The Hague, where, with picture in hand and guldens to follow, we were soon directed to a guest house on red-light row. Gent entered the house with us tight on his heels. We whisked past enraged bruisers, held back by their distraught madame, to the rooms above, where Gent began kicking in doors and accosting each occupant as to the girl’s whereabouts. Scantily dressed women and their clients vacated the premises by all possible routes. Minutes later, Gent found her, alone and asleep. He barreled through the room, rousing her roughly.
It was indeed the girl in the photograph; as she rose up, struggling to retrieve her thin wrist from the captain, her resemblance to Princess Mina was unmistakable.
“What have I done, what’s the meaning of this?” she cried out, in obvious pain.
“Let her go, Captain,” Holmes insisted. “At least till we’ve made our inquiry.”
Gent grunted and released the girl. She rubbed her injured wrist and began to weep. “What have I done?” she repeated.
“Are you Sarah Cookson, daughter to Elisabeth Cookson?” Holmes asked.
“I am, sir,” she sobbed, her pale skin luminescent. I found myself taken with her.
“Have you been visiting the Palace Noordeinde?”
“Of course she has,” Gent answered for her. “I’ve seen her there with my own eyes.”
“Please, sirs,” the girl entreated, looking at us with tearful eyes that beamed, “I assure you I’ve never stepped foot in Noordeinde. I have no idea what you want of me.”
“Liar!” Gent shouted. “You are a whore and a murderer!”
That she was dumbfounded at his assertion was revealed in her breathtaking body, every inch of which trembled. She rose unsteadily from her bed and reached out clumsily to touch my hand. “Een Moordenaar?” she whispered. “I assure you, kind sir—though I am shamed by my profession, I—have never hurt a living soul.”
In that instant I believed her innocent with every fiber of my being.
“Save your charms, temptress,” Gent said, seizing her once more by the wrist and dragging her from the room in her bedclothes, ignoring Holmes’s entreaty that he stay his hand. Turning back, he called, “Gentlemen, I trust you’ll find your way to Noordeinde. The culprit is apprehended. I’m taking her to the guardhouse for questioning. Your service is much appreciated.”
We followed them out of the brothel as Gent coerced the girl into the coach and drove off.
As Holmes and I walked the cobblestones, asking directions, it began to rain, and for a time neither of us spoke. I broke the silence with, “Holmes, that girl was of royal descent or I’ll lay down my life.”
“Agreed, Wells—the resemblance is uncanny.”
“And here in this country it seems as if guilt is presumed without trial.”
“So it would seem,” Holmes agreed. “Though the man’s a reputed eyewitness.”
“Circumstance and convenience is all—” I stopped then, astonished by the implication of his statement, rain coursing down my face. “Then the case is concluded?” I asked.
Holmes lowered his head. “It would appear so.”
“Then an innocent girl is to be imprisoned and subjected to who knows what tortures, as a result of our diligence and your grave misjudgment of Jan Gent’s character. Blast it, Holmes, at this moment I’m quite sorry I joined you!”
Holmes said nothing as we packed our bags, save “Thank you” to the servant who attended us, and, “Do come along, Wells,” when we were summoned by the queen. So incensed was I at the conclusion to our investigation that I pleaded sudden indisposition and told Holmes to beg the queen’s pardon for my absence.
Once Holmes was gone, I cursed the captain and the royal family, sure in my belief that the poor sobbing girl was incapable of infiltrating these halls and perpetrating such crimes. Parting the curtains, I watched the rolling clouds subm
erge the final daylight in darkness. Surely there was foul intent amidst these walls, and I was powerless against it.
Suddenly a gentle footfall and an odd smell, like woodlands, caught my attention. I turned, and was astounded to behold the girl, Sarah Cookson. Her bare feet left dark tracks on the marble as she stepped before me, gowned in translucent white fabric, her cheeks ruddy, her dark eyes radiating youthful abandon. So excited was I by her presence, unshackled, that I failed to consider the absurdity of the situation. Before I could speak, she pressed one finger to her crimson mouth to gain my silence, then twirled about, displaying her charms. I watched her, transfixed, overcome by desire. Then, in a movement so swift it brought wind through my hair, she was in my arms, her lips against mine.
A kiss unlike any other; sweet at first, then impassioned, then nearly overwhelming, then a taste in my mouth, not unfamiliar, startled me to my senses. It was blood. I looked at the two of us reflected in the mirror—and caught my breath. This was not Sarah Cookson in my arms but a hideous and shocking creature carved in slick, black, whalelike flesh, a face devoid of features save a gaping mouth hole, entangling me now with several writhing coiled limbs.
I hurled the awful thing away and again it was Sarah; her beauty restored, but now tarnished by a most disturbing grimace. She reached for me; I raised my hands in defense. Upon contact with the silver band across my finger she recoiled, shrieking, and fled from the room with netherworldly speed.
I shouted an alarm, then rushed headlong toward Princess Mina’s room, my heart pounding with each pace, fearing I might be too late. From down the corridor, I heard Mina issue one terrified and prolonged scream. I arrived in time to find the girl caught between a menacing, flaming-candelabra-wielding Holmes and an open window. Holmes forced her backward toward the ledge, where she dove outward and disappeared from view.
Shadows over Baker Street Page 9
