Shadows Over London: A Shadow Council Archives Novella

by James Palmer

  Challenger holstered his revolver and glared at Burton. “Those fiends! Take me back there. I’ll burn them all out.”

  “Calm down, Professor,” said Burton. “You may yet get your chance. But they have us at an advantage right now, I’d say.”

  “Good heavens,” declared Herbert. “That was quite a ride. Let’s never do it again, shall we?”

  “Agreed,” said Abberline. “I wish I could go back to rounding up pickpockets.”

  Everyone climbed out of the carriage, Officer Murphy reclaiming his rightful place atop the driver’s box. He appeared a bit dazed, and had a small cut on his temple, but he insisted he was in fine fettle.

  “What do we do now?” said Challenger.

  “I need to make sure our lads back there have enough help to deal with that angry mob,” said Abberline. “I also need to check in with Mr. Holmes.”

  “Let’s go and call on our mutual employer,” said Burton. “Not only does he have Herbert’s property, but I think he knows more about this cult business than he previously let on.”

  Abberline conversed briefly with the driver, then they all climbed back into the police carriage.

  “Off to the infamous Diogenes Club again?” asked Burton.

  “Not this time,” said Abberline. “Mr. Holmes is at his office, in the Tower of London.”

  The Tower of London

  An hour and a half later the policeman’s carriage pulled up to the gray, imposing walls of the Tower of London. After a quick word with an attendant, the driver guided the horses in through Traitor’s Gate, the banks of the Thames on Burton’s left. He had never been to the Tower before, and the great edifice managed to look no less imposing up close than it did from a distance.

  The driver guided the carriage into a roundabout, stopping before a yawning entrance atop a formidable set of wide stone steps.

  Everyone alighted and looked up at it.

  “I feel like a bloody tourist,” said Challenger to Abberline. “Are you sure Holmes is here?”

  “Oh yes,” said Abberline. “The British Intelligence Ministry has its offices here.”

  Burton thanked their driver Murphy, urging him to go home and rest, then looked to Abberline. “Lead the way, Frederick.”

  Abberline nodded, and everyone followed him up the steps and through two heavy oaken doors set in the wide stone archway.

  Men in tweed suits moved about inside, carrying bundles of paperwork, seemingly in a hurry to go absolutely nowhere. They walked up a narrow hallway, past rooms that had been turned into makeshift offices, but yet still held the effects of their previous purpose. Burton watched as a man stamped papers atop an ancient wine rack that still held a few dusty bottles. Another leaned against a creaking lectern, holding a monocle and reading something from a heavy bound volume.

  “His office is in the White Tower,” said Abberline, veering to the right. “This way.”

  They went through a labyrinth of hallways and corridors, past a veritable warren of rooms, many of them dark and empty and piled high with old, dusty furniture, until they came into a vast open space surrounded by curving stone columns. This was St. John’s Chapel, its original religious purpose giving way to the needs of the Intelligence Ministry. Desks took up the center of the chapel, where clerks sat busily copying things from one ledger into another, sorting paperwork, or consulting strange-looking charts and muttering to themselves.

  “This way,” Abberline said again, and they moved on from the chapel into another maze of hallways. At the far end of one was a black wooden door. Abberline knocked three times and opened it.

  Mycroft Holmes hunched like an enormous toad behind a wide wooden desk in a windowless room. His look told Burton that he was not in the least surprised to see them.

  “Where’s my Time Machine?” said Herbert.

  “What a pleasure, gentlemen,” said Mycroft Holmes in mock sincerity. “Would you care for something to drink?”

  “Sod off,” said Challenger.

  “What have you done with Herbert’s property?” said Burton. “And what else do you know about the King in Yellow?”

  The elder Holmes glared up at them from behind his massive desk. “Are we so full of questions that we have forgotten our manners? How sad.” He steepled his sausage-like fingers and heaved a sigh of exasperation.

  “Damn your civility,” said Burton. “We demand answers.”

  “You are in no position to demand anything, Captain Burton. What I do, I do for the good of the Empire.”

  “But sir,” said Abberline, squeezing between Burton and Challenger. “Even you have to see this is highly irregular.”

  “These are irregular times,” said Holmes. “They call for irregular measures.”

  Burton glanced at the wall to their left. Tacked upon it were a series of engineering diagrams. The largest appeared to be Holmes’ best guess as to the dimensions of the Nautilus, and he was not far off. The other drawings were all of Herbert’s Time Machine, showing the machine from different angles in precise details.

  “It’s a remarkable machine,” said Holmes to the Time Traveler. “I’m sure you are proud of it. My best engineers have been practically frothing at the mouth wanting to take it apart to see how it works. I told them to hold off until I had spoken with you. There is an element missing, isn’t there?”

  “What do you want with it?” asked Burton.

  “Such an invention could be put to great use for the good of the British Empire,” said Holmes. “It is much too powerful to be in the hands of one man.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Herbert. “Better it be in the hands of one rational man than that of a hundred fools!”

  “I assure you I am no fool,” said Mycroft Holmes, an edge of anger seeping into his voice. “And I see many noble uses for your Time Machine. And the Nautilus as well, once we capture and reverse engineer it. Imagine, a whole fleet of such submarine vessels plying the seas. The greatest Navy in the world would become even better, unstoppable. None could stand against us.”

  “You sound as if you are preparing for war,” said Burton.

  “No,” said Holmes. “I am preparing to prevent one, and to make war itself obsolete.”

  “What war?” said the Time Traveler. “We’re not at war.”

  “Not yet,” said Holmes. “But we will be. It is years hence, but it is coming. The signs of its coming are as clear as the scar on Captain Burton’s face. You have no doubt seen glimpses of it during your first journey forward through Time.”

  Herbert’s mouth fell open.

  Mycroft Holmes smiled. “I’ve been reading your copious notes. Yes, a rational, forward-thinking fellow such as yourself could not resist using your new invention to travel into the future, to see if your naïve ideas about the glories of mankind were true. I suspect you returned disappointed. I intend to change all that.”

  “You’re a fool!” declared Challenger. “Your attempts to change one thing will inadvertently alter another. Tell him, Burton.”

  “He’s telling you the truth,” said Burton. “Our journey back through time changed something. This current world is not the same one I remember leaving. In that original world, my Isabel was safe and sound, and spiritualist mediums were going mad all over the city. Something changed, just by going into the deep past.”

  “We won’t be flying blind,” said Mycroft Holmes. “The same guides who told us that war is coming will help us build a new tomorrow, one in which the British Empire will shine forever.”

  “What the blazes are you talking about?” said Challenger, his face turning red, hands clenched into fists.

  Mycroft Holmes placed his hands flat on his desk. “You are aware of the recent interest in esoteric knowledge? The Akashic Record and the legend of Agartha?”

  “Bismillah,” said Burton. “You’re one of those hollow earthers, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” said Mycroft Holmes evenly. “And I’d watch that tone if I were you. I have seen and heard things
you could scarcely fathom.”

  “Or believe, I’d wager,” said Burton, his eyes locked with Mycroft’s.

  “These esoteric sources only confirm what an astute observer such as myself can glean from history,” said Mycroft Holmes. “They tell us that a great war is coming that will overtake the entire globe. Every nation will take sides in the conflict. It is my duty to make sure that the British Empire emerges the victor, so that we may fashion a new world order. An order in which war is no longer necessary.”

  “You’re mad!” said Herbert.

  “I’m a visionary,” said Mycroft Holmes. “War is always inevitable. It is a release valve for man’s innate hostility. The pressure comes to a head, and then…”

  He balled his hands into fists, then spread them out again, an implied explosion.

  “The only difference is, now we know when it is coming, and with your Time Machine, my dear Herbert, we will know the how.”

  “You will change whatever you attempt to observe,” said Herbert. “We learned this the hard way. The war you witness by skipping ahead will not be the same one that engulfs you.”

  Mycroft blinked, saying nothing.

  “That’s not all, is it?” said Burton.

  Mycroft slowly shook his head.

  “The Dagon cult,” said Challenger. “An irritant, certainly. A wild card. But something more.”

  Mycroft Holmes nodded.

  “The docks,” said Burton. “Whatever the cult has stored there, you think it’s a cache of esoteric weapons. Weapons you can use to build this new world order of yours.”

  “I knew I had chosen you gentlemen wisely,” said Mycroft Holmes. “You are worthy of the Shadow Council.”

  “I don’t know what sort of fellow your brother is,” said Challenger. “But his sibling is blinking mad.”

  “Careful,” said Mycroft Holmes. “You have been of great assistance to me, but I will not cotton any disobedience. I can have you arrested for treason.”

  “On whose authority?” said Burton.

  “On mine!” shouted the elder Holmes, smacking his palms on the desk. “Detective Abberline, get these men out of my sight before I lose my temper.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” said Abberline. “Sod off! I’m resigning my commission effective immediately and returning to my rightful place in the police force. If you want them to leave you can damn well give them the heave-ho yourself.”

  Mycroft Holmes glared at them each in turn for a long moment.

  “Where’s my Time Machine?” Herbert said again.

  “Safe,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Where it can be put to good use. Once we have the control rods. I know one of you has them in his possession. In fact…guards!”

  Within moments three very large men came rushing into the small office.

  “Search Mr. Herbert there,” ordered Mycroft Holmes.

  Two of the guards brandished pistols, aiming them directly at Challenger’s and Burton’s head, while the third grabbed the Time Traveler and patted him down, finding the lumps in his left coat pocket that indicated the presence of the Time Machine’s control levers. He reached in and fished them out. Burton backed away a step, but the guard held his gun steady. One wrong move, and Burton wouldn’t survive the encounter. Challenger glared at the man holding him at gunpoint, but did nothing.

  “Here you are, sir,” said the man who had searched Herbert, handing the crystalline levers across the desk to Mycroft Holmes.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “How did you know?” asked Burton.

  “It was simple to deduce,” said Mycroft Holmes. “The police interrogated Herbert’s housekeeper, a Mrs. Whatsit. She said you paid our friend the Time Traveler a visit yesterday morning. I surmised it was you who must have the control levers, though I can’t imagine why you would want to take another jaunt through time. It was another simple logical leap to surmise that you returned them to the one you deemed their rightful owner, our friend the Time Traveler.”

  “What are you going to do with my machine?” said Herbert, on the verge of tears.

  “We’re going to learn how it functions,” Mycroft said calmly. “Then we are going to mass produce it, and send spies into the future to see just what awaits us and, depending on the nature of these wonders, either figure out how to stop their occurrence or ensure that they happen.”

  “You’re out of your tree,” said Challenger. “You have the ultimate weapon in your hands and you have no idea what to do with it.”

  “Gorblimey,” added Abberline.

  Mycroft scowled at Challenger and said, “You three may go now. Your commissions are hereby dissolved. Go home. If I see any of you again I shall have you arrested on the spot and tried for treason. Is that understood? As for you, Chief Inspector Abberline, I shall have words with your superiors.”

  “Fine by me,” the policeman snapped. “They shall hear my side of it first.”

  The four of them turned and walked out, shoving past the brutes Mycroft Holmes employed as guards, who followed them through the maze of rooms and out the nearest exit.

  “Well that’s that,” said Challenger, stopping to produce a cigar from his coat and light it with a lucifer. He offered one to Burton, who readily accepted, and the four of them stood in a loose circle, thick smoke billowing around their heads.

  “What are we going to do now?” said the Time Traveler, almost whining. “That scoundrel has my Time Machine! I should have destroyed it when I had the chance.”

  “Herbert,” said Burton. “Can you reproduce the Time Machine’s control levers?”

  The young inventor nodded. “Of course, I have more of the materials on hand, hidden where the police didn’t find them.”

  “How long will that take?”

  He shrugged. “A couple of hours. Why?”

  “Do it,” said Burton. “Then meet me back here. We’re going to get your Time Machine back.”

  “I can’t be a party to this,” said Abberline. “What Mr. Holmes did was illegal. What you’re talking about is—”

  “Treason?” said Challenger with a grin. “Count me in.”

  “I’m sorry, Professor,” said Burton. “You’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I need you to help me track down this abysmal King in Yellow before he does any more damage.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” asked Challenger.

  Burton grinned. “Simple deductive logic. I think I know who this yellow fellow is, and where to find him.”

  “I will see if I can find out what Holmes is planning,” said Abberline. “Maybe I can give you gents a heads up.”

  Burton nodded. “Splendid. Now let’s go. We may not have much time.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” Herbert quipped.

  “If only there was a way to get a warning to Captain Nemo,” said Burton, ignoring his manic friend’s little joke. “Besides, we could really use his help. We need to destroy whatever is in those buildings along the docks before Mycroft Holmes gets his hands on it.”

  “As I stated earlier, I might know a way,” said Herbert. “But for it to work, I need my Time Machine.”

  “Let’s go then,” said Burton, and the four men left the grounds of the Tower of London at a slow jog.

  The King in Yellow

  The Lyric Theatre’s large auditorium was dark when Burton and Challenger entered it. Once their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they found seats in the last row, to the left of the rear exit.

  The room was vast, but only a few dozen people were in attendance. The only light came from sputtering gas lamps set into the walls at intervals. A yellow robed figure stepped onto the stage from the wings, a grotesque mask fashioned in the likeness of the Deep Ones covered the figure’s face.

  “How do you know this King in Yellow chap will put in an appearance here?” grumbled Challenger.

  “Simple deductive reasoning,” said Burton with a smile. “Provided I am right about the gentleman’s identity.”

  Challenge
r scoffed at Burton’s mockery of Mycroft Holmes and scanned the room.

  Suddenly the heavy velvet curtains concealing the stage began to undulate and pull back—Burton could hear the drone of the building’s hydraulic pumps that used water from the Thames to move the thick drapery—and a familiar robed and masked figure appeared.

  “The King in Yellow,” Burton whispered.

  “Brothers and sisters,” the King in Yellow intoned when the curtains had fully parted, his arms spread wide. “We are at the threshold of a higher state of being. The stars are right. The time of man’s reign upon this earth is over. But we do not have to suffer man’s fate. We can ascend.”

  He trod the boards like an orator, his voice rising and falling. The audience swayed to the sound of his voice, as if mesmerized.

  “We will reside in the house of Father Dagon and Mother Hydra forever and ever,” he said.

  The crowd clapped loudly and stomped their feet, but the King in Yellow waved his hand, silencing them.

  “The way is dark, my brothers. The goal is not without challenge, my sisters. Sacrifices must be made. They will come for us, but we must not waver, we must not falter. Ours is the kingdom of Dagon!”

  “Beneath the waves,” the audience droned.

  “Ia Ia,” said the King in Yellow.

  “Cthulhu fhtagn!” the crowd answered.

  A chill fled up Burton’s spine.

  “But the time for hiding in the shadows, behind masks, is over.”

  The King in Yellow reached up and removed his mask, lowering his hood.

  “Bismillah!” muttered Burton. “I knew it! I thought his words sounded familiar.”

  “Who?” Challenger whispered.

  “Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton,” said Burton.

  “Blimey, what a mouthful,” said Challenger. “Isn’t he a famous writer?”

  “Among other things,” said Burton.

  “How did you know he is the King in Yellow?”

  “I recognized certain phrases he used the other night,” said the explorer. “‘The great unwashed,’ and so forth. These phrases were famously written by Bulwer-Lytton. Combine that with his well-known interest in esoteric subjects, and…”