Shadows Over London: A Shadow Council Archives Novella

by James Palmer

  Moriarty

  “You still haven’t explained how you infiltrated the cult,” Burton said when the laughter died.

  “Same as you,” said Challenger. “And I had to listen to such blinking rot once I got in.”

  “Give us the short version,” said Burton.

  “What’s he planning?” asked Abberline

  “This King in Yellow chap is in league with the Deep Ones,” said the zoologist. “I’ve seen them.”

  “What’s a Deep One?” said Abberline.

  “You don’t want to know,” said Burton.

  “He also has shoggoths doing his dirtier business. Anyone who won’t pay him tribute gets a visit from them.”

  “Human sacrifice,” said Burton.

  Challenger raked a hand through his beard. “For starters. Some of his ‘great unwashed’ have already started mating with those undersea devils. It’s Innsmouth all over again.”

  “Innsmouth?” Abberline looked from Burton to Challenger and back again. “The place you told Mr. Holmes about?”

  Burton nodded. “They have already gone through what we are now up against, and if this King in Yellow succeeds…” He didn’t dare finish the sentence.

  “London isn’t some quiet sea village,” said Challenger. “If that mad blighter succeeds, it’ll mean the end of the British Empire.”

  They heard a low noise, as of something oily and slick were sliding toward them. It was an all too familiar sound to Burton, one he had hoped he would never hear again.

  “Shoggoth,” Challenger whispered.

  Burton nodded. His mouth had gone dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

  “What’s a shoggoth?” asked Abberline.

  “That,” Professor Challenger said, pointing behind the policeman, iIs a shoggoth.”

  The three men turned as a slimy, bulbous glob of iridescent goo congealed up the narrow hallway toward them. Burton’s lantern light illuminated a multitude of undulating pustules that blistered and popped along its heaving, jelly-like bulk. In the dim light Burton saw the skeletal remains of rats and other vermin suspended within the shoggoth’s mass. He had no interest in joining the poor creatures.

  “Bloody hell,” swore Abberline.

  “Run,” Challenger advised.

  They ran.

  Discovering a door, Abberline pushed through it and into the darkness outside. Burton came next, leading them with his lantern, moving away from the crumbling tenement as fast as their legs would carry them. Burton could feel the shoggoth behind them, closing fast.

  They turned a corner and darted to the right, caring little for where they ended up. Their priority was to put as much distance between themselves and the protoplasmic thing as they could.

  “Where are we?” Challenger heaved.

  “Not sure,” said Abberline. Few, if any, gaslights, coupled with a lack of street signs made everything look the same. Black tenement houses leaned over the narrow cobblestone streets, threatening to topple over at the slightest provocation. The lantern bounced in Burton’s hand as he ran, sending strange shadows fleeing into the distance.

  “We must…slow down,” Challenger panted. “My heart…will get me…before that…thing does.”

  They rounded another corner, moved to the left, and then stopped, Burton shining the lantern in the direction they had come.

  “Maybe…we lost it,” Abberline said, gasping.

  In a moment they heard the telltale sliding sound, as the thing moved over the rough cobbles.

  “No,” said Burton. “We did not. Move.”

  Challenger spun around, raising both pistols from their holsters and firing into the dark.

  “Professor,” said Burton. “It’s no use. Come on.”

  Challenger snarled at the amorphous blob and joined them in their flight up the street.

  “There’s a gaslight flickering up ahead,” said Abberline, pointing. “We can get our bearings at least.”

  They ran toward the comforting light, the sounds of the shoggoth growing closer.

  If we can just get to where there are people, Burton thought. From somewhere in the distance they heard a harlot’s laughter.

  “Look,” said Challenger, pointing to the gaslight. Quivering in its glow was another shoggoth.

  “There are two of them?” said Abberline.

  “Come,” said Burton. “Up this alley. Move your feet, gentlemen.”

  Burton led them up an alley so narrow they had to walk sideways to traverse it. At the other end was a rotting wooden fence that stymied their efforts to climb over it, so Challenger began kicking the impediment to smithereens. When this was done, they twisted right, then left, then emerged onto another street. But that feeling of being followed, being hunted, did not go away.

  Burton glanced to the left or right at intervals, always with the feeling that there was something there following them from the shadows.

  “They’re getting closer,” said Abberline. “This way!”

  They passed a cross street, turned a corner and found themselves in the mouth of a blind alley.

  “Bismillah, we’re trapped,” said Burton.

  “They’ve been herding us,” said Challenger.

  The three men turned and watched as the two shoggoths slithered into view and slid closer.

  “Bloody hell” Abberline swore again, panic cracking his voice.

  They heard the clop and neigh of horses as a pantechnicon—a carriage designed for moving furniture, only this one was black and heavily armored—moved across the mouth of the alley from a side street, pulled by two hulking drays stomping nervously. The black-garbed driver cast a wary eye toward the shoggoths, his gloved hands holding tightly to the reins. A panel in the side of the carriage slid open, and a voice cried, “Get on!”

  Burton leapt onto the side of the strangely outfitted carriage, grabbing a brass handle bolted to the side, his feet finding narrow purchase on the ridges between sections of armor plate. Abberline and Challenger joined him, and in a moment the carriage rattled up a wide lane at great speed. Burton looked back to see the amorphous blobs of the shoggoths receding into the distance.

  The carriage continued on for some time, and twice Burton almost fell off as it bounced along the cobbles. Finally a door opened in the contraption’s side, and Abberline—who was closest to the portal—climbed in, followed by Challenger and Burton.

  They found themselves in a plush, dark enclosure, richly appointed, that smelled of rich pipe tobacco. A wan lantern hung from a hook to their savior’s left, sputtering fitfully.

  “Please, gentlemen,” said a man sitting across from them. “Have a seat.”

  They sat on a padded bench opposite their host, who stared at them with a cool malevolence. Dressed in the latest fashion, he looked set for a night out at one of the shows along the Strand. He wore a black top hat and held a polished walking stick across his lap. He was devoid of facial hair save for a thin, neatly groomed goatee.

  “Blimey,” said Abberline. “I know you. You’re…”

  “Professor Moriarty,” the man finished for him with a tip of his hat. “At your service. I am flattered you know me by sight, Chief Inspector. There are few among the police who have ever seen me and lived to tell the tale.”

  “You’re the one who alerted Mycroft Holmes about the cult,” said Burton.

  Moriarty nodded once. “I am.”

  “What are you going to do with us?” asked Abberline.

  Moriarty gave them a bemused grin. “Well, I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re intimating. If I wanted you dead, I would have left you for the shoggoths. But I didn’t want to see Mycroft’s precious assets murdered.”

  “Assets?” said Challenger. “Bah!”

  “How did you find us?” Abberline asked.

  “I have eyes everywhere,” said Moriarty. “I heard about the commotion you caused at the old church and thought you might need some assistance.”

  “Why are you he
lping us?” asked Burton.

  “Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” said Professor Moriarty. “This damned cult must be stopped. It’s eating into my trade.”

  “You mean your opium trade,” Abberline said.

  Moriarty smiled. “Yes. Among other things. The buildings along the wharf have been overtaken by the cult. I do not know what they are storing there. My attempts to ascertain this information was met with…violence. All I know is that large objects are being heaved up out of the Thames and stored in those buildings. Whatever this group is up to, you will find it there. But I will give you a fair word of warning: I have suspended my activities along the wharf. Do not look for a link back to me. You will not find it. Not even my nemesis Sherlock Holmes could sniff out such a connection.”

  “So you want us to do your dirty work for you, is that it?” said Challenger.

  Moriarty shrugged. “You are already doing Mycroft’s dirty work. I just thought I’d do you a favor and point you in the right direction. That and save your lives.”

  They rode in silence for a time, the pantechnicon never once slowing, taking dangerous turns as it moved toward its mysterious destination.

  At last the large wagon slowed to a stop. “This is where you gentlemen get off.”

  The door of the pantechnicon flew open as if controlled by a hidden spring, and Burton recognized his home at Gloucester Place.

  “How did you know where I live?”

  “Oh, I know a great many things about the three of you,” said Moriarty. “You should be flattered that one such as I has taken an interest in you. Now begone. I have other business this night.”

  “Now see here!” Challenger said, but Burton silenced him with a shove out the door.

  No sooner had they alighted onto the pavement than the door of the pantechnicon sealed itself shut and the strange vehicle’s black-clad driver urged his two drays into motion once more. The three men watched, perplexed, as the thing rolled out of sight.

  “Blimey, that was strange,” said the policeman.

  Challenger shook his fist in the direction of the retreating carriage. “Damn it all. This Moriarty character is more of an effete snob than Mycroft Holmes!”

  “He may indeed be snobbish,” said Burton. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to call him effete. He is far from ineffectual. In fact, he just saved our lives.”

  “He’s also a criminal, and a dangerous one at that,” Abberline added. “My superiors will have my badge if they learn that I was that close to the infamous Professor Moriarty and did not make an arrest.”

  Burton patted Abberline’s shoulder. “Yours is a different assignment, Frederick, and we have bigger concerns. Besides, Moriarty was right: the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  Challenger barked laughter. “Quite right, Burton. Though to cast our lot with a fiend such as that. . .”

  “I don’t like it any more than either of you do. But what else can we do?”

  “I must report to Mr. Holmes,” said Abberline. “He needs to know what happened tonight.”

  “Won’t you come inside?” asked Burton. “Have a drink first?”

  “No. I’m still on duty. Good evening to you, gentlemen.” He tipped his hat and marched up the street and disappeared into the thick fog that began roiling in from the East.

  “I’ll have a drink with you, if you don’t mind,” said Challenger. “I have no one to go home to, not really anyway. Not anymore.”

  “Yes,” said Burton. “Come in. No doubt you and I have much to discuss.”

  The night was already late, but Burton and Challenger sat up for the next hour in Burton’s study, drinking brandy and talking over recent events, as well as their thoughts about their journey aboard Captain Nemo’s incredible Nautilus.

  Burton got Challenger up to speed on his own experiences since returning home, including his bout of madness that began after his hallucinations at the Cannibal Club. He even revisited his shock and confusion at learning Isabel had disappeared in broad daylight from Hyde Park, and his conflicting memories of recent events. Challenger nodded politely through all of this, smoking one of Burton’s finest cheroots and drinking his brandy. When Burton had finished his tale, he asked, “What do we do now?”

  “In the morning I want to call on Herbert,” said the explorer. “He was not well when I checked on him this morning and seemed to be suffering under the same sort of delusion that felled me. He was trying to destroy his Time Machine.”

  “And you believe his madness has passed?”

  “I hope it has,” said Burton. “For all our sakes. I fear the only way to correct what has happened is by making a return journey through Time.”

  “And how do you know he won’t try to destroy it again? Or make some journey on his own?”

  “I have little control over the former,” said Burton. “But I do over the latter.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the control levers he had taken from the Time Machine that morning.

  “Ah.” Challenger nodded appraisingly. “Perhaps this will be enough to sway him from destroying it as well. I want to go with you. Perhaps together we can snap him back into coherence, and he can once again be of use to us.”

  “That would be much appreciated. Thank you. But the hour grows late. For us to be effective we should probably both get some sleep. I have a spare bedroom if you’d like.”

  “Sounds splendid,” said Challenger. “I thank you for your hospitality, my good sir.”

  Burton put on his jebba and climbed into bed, using a Sufi meditation technique to help him relax. His body was bone tired, but his mind whirled with recalled events and memories of that other Burton’s life their jaunt through Time had inadvertently created. Finally, he drifted off, the distant drone of Challenger’s snoring lulling him to sleep. He dreamed of tentacles in the darkness and a strange sliding sound coming from behind.

  The Time Machine

  It was eleven in the morning before Burton or Challenger awoke and, after explaining to Miss Angell why she suddenly had a new house guest, he and Challenger were treated to a sumptuous brunch of eggs and sausage.

  “I must say,” said Challenger after taking a sip of coffee, “there’s nothing like a hearty breakfast to make one feel like himself again. I could almost believe the events of last night happened to someone else.”

  “As could I,” Burton agreed. “But we must hurry, for we have much work to do.”

  Burton heard a distant knock at the door and listened. Miss Angell answered it, and in a moment Frederick Abberline was lumbering up the stairs, a tired look on his face.

  “Inspector!” said Burton. “Come, sit down and break your fast.”

  “No thank you,” said Abberline. “I ate this morning. I would love some coffee, if it isn’t too much trouble. Two sugars.”

  Wiping his mouth, Burton got up and poured the policeman a cup.

  “What did our mutual employer have to say about the events of last evening?” said Challenger with a sneer.

  “He was pleased that we broke up the cult’s ritual but was dismayed that we were not able to catch their leader.”

  “That is your job, is it not?” asked Challenger.

  Burton handed the steaming cup to Abberline, who took a testing sip. “It is. But we have no idea who he is under that damned robe and mask. He could be anyone for all we know.”

  Challenger scowled at this and impaled another sausage with his fork before jamming it into his mouth.

  “He’s no doubt lying low,” said Burton, returning to his seat. “But even with his features obscured, I think we can figure out who he is. Some things he said sounded very familiar to me for some reason.”

  “He’s a man of breeding,” said Abberline. “The way he spoke and comported himself.”

  “The way he ran when the shooting started,” added Challenger around a mouthful of eggs.

  “He’s not from the East End, that’s for sure,” said Abberline. “He’s obviously educated. A r
oyal perhaps? Maybe a count or a duke? There was a Marquess of Waterford that caused some trouble a few years ago. A right scoundrel as I recall.”

  “He’ll show himself again,” said Burton. “Whoever he is. He’ll have to.”

  “Mr. Holmes was also irritated that you chose to investigate on your own,” said Abberline to Challenger.

  “It’s a good thing I had,” said the zoologist. “Or you two would be dead right now, your bones floating in the protoplasm of a shoggoth.”

  “That was very nearly our fate even with your intervention,” said Burton.

  Challenger glared at the explorer for a long moment before returning his attentions to his plate of food.

  “I also told him about Moriarty’s assistance last night,” said Abberline. “He did not seem perturbed, or surprised. I sometimes wonder if the man can predict the bloody future.”

  Abberline took another sip of coffee before sitting the cup down on the edge of the table. “I’m to head back to that ruined church in the East End. About thirty detectives will be going over every inch that’s left. The fire we inadvertently started finished it off pretty good. Took the East London volunteers the rest of the night to put it out. Anyway, I’d like both of you to accompany me.”

  “Of course,” said Burton. “But first we have a stop to make.”

  Abberline arched an eyebrow. “Where?”

  “Kew Gardens.”

  An hour and a half later they arrived by policeman’s carriage at the home of the Time Traveler, only to find it surrounded by police. A group of uniformed patrolmen were streaming out the front door of the home, their arms laden with boxes containing stacks of papers, while Herbert’s thoroughly perplexed housekeeper looked on.

  “Bismillah,” said Burton, alighting from the carriage. “What is going on?”

  “Excuse me,” said Abberline. “What is happening here, Lieutenant?”