by Unknown
“I’m afraid there’s been another killing, Sir,” Brahm said, looking him straight in the eye. “We request that you accompany us, Sir.”
His feet turned to ice. His mouth grew dry. “Am I a suspect, Inspector?” he asked without thinking, a tremor in his voice.
Brahm stared at him, oddly. “Oh, no Sir. Nothing of the sort. In fact…we’re not even sure the killer is human, at all. We still haven’t been able to determine if these horrid events are murders, or animal attacks of some kind. We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on the matter for us, Professor. As a…scientific consultant, if you will.”
Roger wasn’t entirely sure whether to feel relieved or concerned. “Why me, Inspector?”
Brahm glanced again at the lab set-up, and slid his fingers across the timeworn covers and yellowed pages of the antique books stacked on the table: arcane volumes bearing strange, unrecognizable symbols and characters, sketches of monstrous creatures and charts of the moon and stars. “We had hoped to handle this ourselves, Sir, and avoid any undue publicity, but…” He leaned in close by Roger’s ear and spoke softly. “This does look like a strange one, Sir. We don’t know what to make of it. And, given your reputed interest and savvy with regards to such … unusual phenomena … we didn’t know who else to turn to, Sir. Now, if you would please dress, gather any tools you may require and accompany us, our carriage is waiting.”
Kearns was still a bit numb. “Where are we going, Inspector?”
“To the scene of the crime.”
Kearns found himself travelling through a most disreputable part of London. Seated beside Inspector Brahm in the rattling, jostling carriage, he found the journey most uncomfortable as the wheels bumped over the rough, pitted streets. A light rain had begun to spatter the carriage windows. The street lamps cast a ghostly, pale, yellow shimmer through the thickening fog. It all began to look disturbingly familiar.
“At first, we wondered if the Ripper had resumed his old craft,” Brahm remarked. “But this isn’t any work of man, by the look of it.” Since learning of the first death, Kearns had scoured every newspaper account, hoping desperately to find details that did not match his nightmares. He hadn’t. As the deaths had accumulated, all hope of coincidence fading, he had begun poring over a dozen old volumes, studying the lore of clairvoyance and precognition. He and Hazelwood had studied such matters. Some of their drug-induced experiments with mental telepathy had been most intriguing. He prayed it was a case of extra-sensory perception, not wanting to face the alternative.
He bundled his cloak about him, a chill rushing through him as the driver brought the carriage to a stop. Roger started, the carriage shaking as the horses bucked and neighed. Brahm opened the carriage door, and they climbed out into the cold, rainy darkness. The driver was struggling to calm the horses. Their eyes were wild with fear, their mouths foaming as they reared high, their hooves furiously clapping the pavement. “I can’t get ‘em to settle, guv’ner,” the driver said. “Something’s spooked ‘em.”
“Get them out of here, man,” Brahm ordered, as he led Kearns to the crime scene.
With every step, Kearns felt more certain he’d walked this path before, in his nightmare. That vile stench from his dreams wafted past his nose on the damp air. There she lay, what was left of her. An officer held a lantern over the body, the flickering light illuminating a half-devoured corpse. Kearns looked away in revulsion, holding a kerchief over his mouth.
“Steady on, Professor,” Brahm said. “You can take a quick stroll if you like, to clear your head.”
“I’m all right,” Kearns said, turning slowly back toward the body. As he looked at the atrocity, he actually felt a strange sense of relief. Brahm had told the truth; this was not the work of any human being. Insane or not, Kearns couldn’t have done it. “Who was she?”
“A prostitute, most likely, given the time and the area,” Brahm replied. “Of course, positive identification will be rather difficult, as you can see, Sir.”
It was hard to look at the dead woman’s face. The mouth was still open, frozen in her final anguished scream. Her flesh was a waxy gray, stretched taut over the bones. And, the eyes were gone. Two seared, blackened, gaping holes remained, as though a red-hot iron poker had been thrust into each eye and deep into the brain. A liquefied gray mass of cerebral tissue had trickled out through the gutted sockets, staining the pavement. Kearns could hardly speak. Then a thought came to him. “There’s no blood. Has it been cleaned away?”
“No, Professor. We left everything just as we found it. There was no blood at all, Sir. None.”
Crossing himself (a habit he thought he’d banished long ago), Kearns knelt by the body and opened his Gladstone bag, extracting his instruments. Using a pair of tweezers, Kearns studied the frayed edge of the woman’s blouse with a magnifying glass. “The fabric’s not torn. It looks as if it was dissolved, as though by some kind of acid.” He used a surgical knife to pick at the dull gray residue of clinging mucous that had congealed under the body. The substance, which still clung to the victim’s half-stripped bones, was unlike anything he’d ever seen. He pulled a string of it gingerly up off the forearm, into the light. It was slightly translucent, and somewhat elastic. Most disgusting.
“What would you say it is, Professor?”
“Some kind of secretion, I think. But, I’ve no idea from what. Some insects have been known to secrete natural solvents in devouring their prey. But, something of this size…” He feared to picture the creature capable of it. “The flesh isn’t cut or torn. I once saw a porter’s body half-devoured by a lion in Africa. This isn’t like that. It’s as if the flesh was softened by some chemical and then… sucked off the bone, as by something like a gigantic leech. And, see, move your light here…the bones are oddly discolored…” He touched his knife to the half-stripped rib cage, and the greyish bone crumbled to a dry, flaking powder. “Dear Lord. It’s drained the marrow.”
He touched the woman’s cold, rigid fingers, looking for any remaining drop of blood. Then his eye caught a glint of gold beneath her hand. Recognizing it for what it was, he froze in horror. “What is it, Professor?” Brahm asked.
“Uh, nothing … Constable, would you please throw that light on the victim’s shoes, there? Yes, well…as you can see, there’s no sign of damage to the fabric here,” he said, running his ivory-headed cane along the folds of the dead woman’s dress. “No sign of a struggle, or wounds indicating how the victim was brought down.” As he talked, trying desperately to sound convincing, he discretely slipped the tiny golden find into his waistcoat pocket. “It’s all quite perplexing, I’m afraid,” he said, standing up. “But, you were definitely correct about one thing, Inspector; this was unquestionably some kind of animal attack. Definitely not the work of human hands.”
“But, you would hazard no guess as to what sort of animal, Professor?”
“Without further evidence, I’m afraid I can’t. Except to say…I believe this to be a creature as yet unknown to man, something previously recorded only in myth and legend, perhaps. Or…something that simply does not belong here at all. There is much we still do not know, Inspector, of our world, or…of the many others. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Yes, well…thank you for coming out here, Sir. We appreciate the effort. May we expect you tomorrow, at the coroner’s inquest?”
“Er…yes, by all means, Inspector. A most intriguing case, indeed, for all its tragedy. I will help in any way I can. Good night.”
“Good night, Sir.”
As Kearns left the crime scene, he overheard a ragged-looking older woman talking to one of the policemen. “It were a gentleman’s carriage, I tell ye. Black, with a symbol on the door. Like a knight’s shield, it was. White, with a band of silver.”He paused at that. “Gentlemen come here sometimes, for the young things, y’know. Heh-heh. Can’t have been long before, or after the deed. If whatever gent rode in that carriage had nothing to do with it, I’ll lay odds h
e knows somethin’ about it. You mark my words.”
Kearns dabbed his kerchief to his forehead, wiping away the beads of cold sweat. What had he gotten himself into now? Time might be dangerously short, he realized. He stepped out into the street to hail a carriage. “Professor Kearns?” He was startled by the young woman’s voice. He turned and there she was, coming towards him with great haste, a spare young thing with dark, chestnut hair, wearing a dark green dress. “Professor Roger Kearns?”She seemed a rather plain young woman, perhaps nineteen or so, with large, dark eyes. She was not unattractive, but lacked the sort of refinements most men found appealing.
“You have the advantage of me, Miss…”
“Rachel Cummings, Professor. My father is Professor Nathan Cummings. As I’ve indicated in my recent correspondence with you, Sir, my father was a member of Professor Julian Hazelwood’s ill-fated expedition to Egypt.” Kearns’ blood ran cold, his mind spinning. Not her. Not now. “My father remains missing to this day, Sir,” she said, her voice urgent. “Professor Hazelwood may be my only hope of locating him, or at least learning of his fate. But, I regret to say, Professor Hazelwood remains resolute in his refusal to see me, and will not answer my letters. As you are his closest friend, Professor Kearns…you are my last hope.”
Kearns groaned, his shock turning to anger. He clapped the tip of his cane against the pavement. “And, to that end, you’ve been spying on me, is that it? You’ve been watching my lodgings, and of course, you followed my carriage here.”
“I was certain the police would consult you in the matter of these murders eventually, Professor Kearns. My father has told me a great deal about you, and your…most interesting experiments with Professor Hazelwood.”
Kearns ground his teeth, and forced himself not to look away. “Miss Cummings, as I thought I had made abundantly clear in my reply to your letter, Professor Hazelwood’s report stated that his party was scattered during an earth tremor while they were exploring a subterranean cavern system beneath a crater they discovered in the Kebir region. The Professor was the only survivor. I am truly sorry for your loss, Miss. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“Professor, I beg you…” There was more anger in her voice than desperation as she laid a hand on his arm. “Do not let a misguided loyalty divert you from doing the just thing. My father always believed you to be an honorable man. I believe you know as well as I that Professor Hazelwood knows more of my father’s disappearance than he has revealed. The final letters my father sent me from Egypt spoke of…unnatural things…horrible things Professor Hazelwood was involved in. Sir, I doubt even you fully comprehend what that man is capable of.”
Irritated, he pulled his arm away from her, raising his cane to hail a carriage. “I have known Julian Hazelwood since before you were born, young lady. Your father was not the first to have risked all on one of his expeditions,” he barked at her. Rachel Cummings looked somewhat startled by his tone, but not chastened. “There is nothing you could tell me of him. And I am well aware of what he is capable of.” Kearns felt a cold shiver travel up his spine as he pulled open the carriage door, remembering the nightmares. “I would strongly counsel you, Miss Cummings, to distance yourself from the affairs of Julian Hazelwood. ”
She looked frightened but then quickly pulled herself straight, the fear in her eyes transmuting to anger. “Do you threaten me, Sir?” she demanded in a low voice, her fists clenched.
“Quite the contrary, Miss Cummings,” he said, softening his tone. “I am attempting to keep you out of danger. Do not take my warning lightly, if you value your safety. Good night!” He glanced up at the driver. A scruffy-looking rogue this one, obviously acclimated to the kind of unsavory business common to such an area. Good, Kearns thought. This kind kept their secrets if their palms were greased well enough. Whispering his destination to the driver, he climbed into the carriage and slammed the door. He tapped his cane on the carriage roof to spur the driver on. He sighed, feeling rather like a scoundrel as he fingered the gold button in his pocket. He silently cursed himself for a fool, realizing that in his fear for young Miss Cummings’ safety, he’d said far too much. He hoped for her sake she would heed his warning. He remembered Cummings talking about his daughter often, with great pride and affection. Her mother had apparently taken ill and died when Rachel was quite little, he recalled, and Cummings had raised the child on his own.
It could hardly have been much of a life for a young girl. She had accompanied her father often, travelling through rough country to some of the most remote and benighted corners of the world. Rachel had received her education largely on the move, from tutors and mainly from her father, Kearns had heard, and had learned to rough it as no young lady should have to. She must be very much alone now, he ruminated darkly, clenching the gold button in his fist. He wished he could help her, but he shuddered to think what might befall her if she pursued the truth. He thought of those poor women in the street and let his head fall back against the cushioned wall, wincing in pain. Best to keep her in the dark. For her own good. At least until he could sort things out, he reasoned, trying to assuage his guilt.
As the carriage rounded a corner, he pulled the button from his pocket. He stared at it by the feeble light of the street lamp as it lay glinting in the palm of his hand. There was absolutely no question. It was indeed one of the distinctive gold buttons he’d seen on Julian’s coat.
Dawn was still hours away, the sky overcast and black when Kearns reached his destination on the outskirts of London. The black carriage with the distinctive white-and-silver emblem stood in front of Julian Hazelwood’s residence. Kearns walked nervously up to the large, darkened house, not entirely sure what he expected to find. A part of him was berating himself for hiding what he knew from the police. Guilt stabbed at his heart when he thought of those women, and of Rachel Cummings. But Julian was his friend.
More than that, he was the man who had entrusted Kearns with his darkest secrets, who had opened for him a door into a world few even believed existed. As a young man, Kearns had been lost, desperately longing for escape from a repressed, regimented existence that had strangled his ravenous scientific curiosity. He had always been alone, driven exclusively and almost addictively by his research, shunned by men and women alike. He might in all probability have ended up dead of a drug overdose or imprisoned in Bedlam had Julian not opened his eyes to the dark wonders that had stimulated his intellect and let his imagination soar.
His heart hammered as he ascended the steps to the front door and reached for the ornate brass knocker. He was surprised to find the door unlocked and slightly ajar. When he tried to push it open, however, he found the portal blocked by some weight cluttering the hall on the other side. Putting his shoulder to the door, Kearns forced it open slowly, puffing at the exertion. He stepped through and fumbled to light a lantern by the door. Then he looked down. He gasped and dropped the burned match. The half-devoured remains of Hazelwood’s carriage driver lay in the hall at his feet. The body was in very much the same condition as the dead woman he’d examined earlier.
Kearns’ breath quickened as his eyes darted about in the dimly lit interior of the quiet house. His first instinct was to run, but he forced himself to stand and face what was to come. This was his responsibility. He’d obstructed a murder investigation on Julian’s behalf, and he had to see this through to the end. He had to give Julian the benefit of the doubt. If he was in danger, Kearns had to help. The police would surely not have understood.
His eyes adjusting to the gloom, he discerned a dark trail on the carpeting, leading from the body to the stairs. Kneeling, he touched it with his finger. It was not blood. It was cold, and sticky as treacle, not unlike the substance he’d found on the other body. Finding a candle in the hall, he touched it to the lamp, and followed the grotesque slime trail up the stairs to the upper hall. It had been a long time since he’d visited this house, but he realized the trail led toward Hazelwood’s laboratory. His breathing was raspy,
his heart pounding as he moved down the dark corridor. The trail ended at a cabinet. On the handle, a mass of the slimy film had congealed, imprinted with the pattern of something resembling human fingers. Using a kerchief to cover his hand, he turned the handle and pulled open the cabinet door. A cry of horror issued from his throat as the thing lunged at him out of the cabinet. He leapt back, his heart faltering. He exhaled, slumping against the wall. It was another half-eaten cadaver. The body had been stuffed whole into the cabinet and had fallen out when he opened the door. His back pressed to the wall, he stared down at the corpse. The candle dripped wax onto the body as it shook in his trembling hand. This one was even more horrible than the street woman, if that were possible. Judging by the clothes and gray hair, he realized it must have been Mrs. Durbin, Hazelwood’s housekeeper. His eyes rolled back in his head. He slumped back against the wall and stared up at the dark ceiling, mopping the icy sweat from his brow. “I know it’s you, Roger,” a familiar voice said.
He jumped. “Julian?” he called out, weakly, realizing the voice had come from the room across the hall.
“Come in, Roger. It’s been far too long.” Gathering his courage, Kearns raised himself and stepped over the body, into the hallway. He was shaking violently as the door slowly creaked open. The room was almost pitch dark. He could barely discern the silhouetted figure seated behind the table. “Sit down, Roger, and leave the candle outside. I’m sure you have many questions.” The voice was definitely Julian’s. But, there was something else. Another sound, coming from where Julian sat. An odd sucking sound he couldn’t identify. And … a sound as of a rough leather bellows pumping. And then, from slightly further away, somewhere beyond the seated figure … a curious squishing and sloshing noise, like eels in brine. The stench in the room was of rot and vile sewage. His skin crawled. But he knew it was too late to run.
