THE SECOND THEFT OF ALHAZRED’S MANUSCRIPT
Bradley H. Sinor
“Watson, would it surprise you to know that there is an organization that once rejected me for membership, but also has declined my offers of assistance on no less than two other occasions?”
I looked up at my friend, Sherlock Holmes, who had been standing silently at the window of our Baker Street quarters for nearly a quarter-hour. It was now two months since he had “returned to life,” as the tabloid London newspapers had proclaimed it.
“Are you perhaps referring to the Diogenes Club?” I asked, as I set down the copy of the Times that I had been reading. Holmes had mentioned, a few months after I first learned of his brother, Mycroft, and the queerest club in London, that he had chosen not to seek membership in the organization.
“I would not want to give Mycroft the pleasure of blackballing his own brother,” he had told me. “No, the group I am referring to is far less well-known than the Diogenes Club and, in fact, has no name.”
I must admit that I was puzzled, given that beyond its membership, there were few people who knew of the Diogenes Club and certainly fewer that knew of its connections with the British government.
Since Holmes was not one to dwell overmuch on the past, save where it concerned information he needed in order to deal with one of his cases, there had to be another reason for his bringing up this subject. That was when I heard the familiar squeaking on the stairway, which meant that someone was approaching our door.
“So, why would someone from that group be coming now to call on you, Holmes?” I asked.
“Watson!” Holmes laughed. “You amaze me. I go away for three years and then I find that you have taken over the mantle of the consulting detective. I suppose now I will find myself taking up my pen to chronicle your cases.”
I would be lying if I said that this sudden praise did not inflate my ego more than a little bit. “I take it my little deduction was correct?” I said, trying to inject a note of commonplaceness into my voice.
“Indeed, I saw the man in question getting out of a hansom cab not three minutes ago. He and his companion seemed quite agitated,” Holmes said.
As if on cue, there was a knocking on the door and the page boy stepped into the room.
“Two gentlemen to see you, sir.” He held out a tray with the visitors’ card on it.
Holmes walked across the room and picked up his clay pipe from its place on the mantel. After examining the tobacco in it, he plucked a thin ember from the fire place and lit the bowl.
“You may show them in,” he said.
One of our visitors was an exceptionally plain-looking man, the sort whose face you might forget a few seconds after he walked away from you, while the other was a big fellow reaching up to six foot three or four inches, if not more.
“Good evening, Mr. Holmes. I ‘m sure you are quite surprised that we have crossed your threshold on this day.” The first stranger removed his silk top hat. He lifted the ebony walking stick and held it under his arm.
“Your presence is not surprising.”
“Is that your ego speaking?” From their words and Holmes’ earlier statement, I felt there was obviously history between them.
“Ego? Hardly! If you think that, then you do not truly understand either me or my methods.” Holmes gestured toward his chair, where a pile of clippings from the last several days’ newspapers lay. “I have eyes, sir, and a mind. When I see that there have been three robberies in the past two weeks, all unsolved, two of them the homes of men I know to be members of your organization and at one at the office of your brother-in-law, I know that something is afoot regarding your group.”
“I see that your powers of observation are as sharp as they ever were, in spite of, or perhaps because of, your recent ‘extended holiday’,” the plain-faced man said.
The words were obviously intended to injure Holmes’ ego, but the man did not know my friend, or he would have understood that he was wasting his breath.
“Oh, where are my manners?” said Holmes, making a point of ignoring our visitor’s last words. “My ‘extended holiday’, as it has just been called, has atrophied my manners. Watson, allow me to introduce you to Sir James Marsden, Baronet, who also is the leader of the organization that I mentioned to you earlier.”
“It’s a pleasure, Sir James,” I said. The man had a firm, dry handshake, but it his eyes struck me the most. They were hard, dark and distant, reminding me of some of our men who had ventured into the tribal areas of the mountains and seen things that had ripped into their souls.
“The pleasure is mine, Doctor. I read of the passing of your wife some months ago. My condolences,” he said, nodding toward the other man, who nodded but said nothing. “My companion and bodyguard, Davis St. John.”
Mention of Mary brought a feeling of sadness to the pit of my stomach. It was a feeling that I embraced, but had learned to put aside, with memories of our all-too-brief happiness together.
“So, Sir James, the facts, if you will,” Holmes said casually.
Sir James sank into the plush chair at the far corner of the fireplace. “It has been stolen,” he said.
“What has been stolen?” Holmes voice was even and unemotional, though I suspect it had the exact sound he wanted.
“The manuscript, as you predicted so many years ago that it would be, although we had taken every step within our power to prevent this. I will say that there have been at least a dozen attempts over the years and this is the only one that has succeeded,” said our visitor.
“It matters not how many, just that there was one who managed to pull it off. I warned you years ago that it perhaps would have been better had the thing been burned and the ashes scattered to the four winds,” said Holmes. I had never heard such vehemence in my friend’s voice.
“You may have been right in your idea. I admit that, now,” said Sir James.
“When did this happen?” asked Holmes.
“As best we can tell, some four days ago. The vault that it was being kept in is only opened when something is being added to its contents,” said Sir James. “We had come into possession of some small, star-shaped stones that could be used to command certain situations.” Our visitor glanced over at me, as if weighing what – and how much – to say.
“Please continue, Sir James. Simply be aware that anything you can tell me, you can tell Dr. Watson, and know that if you insist on his not being present, I will terminate this interview at once,” said Holmes.
“Of course,” Sir James said. “Watson’s trustworthiness is well known.”
Holmes began to pace slowly across the room, puffing on his pipe as he went. It was as if the three years of his absence had melted away. I could tell he was mulling over possibilities.
“Then you will accept the case?” asked Sir James.
“No, because I suspect that you will find it is one of your own who has ‘liberated’ the manuscript, a book collector who decided that it would make a fine addition to his personal collection,” said Holmes, looking toward me. “You will find, Watson, that the Machiavellian doings of some bibliophiles almost put them on a level with the late Professor Moriarty. I believe that this was the tale that you spun me when you asked me to get involved in the first matter.”
I had to admit that Holmes was right. In my life, I have known several bibliophiles who were, to say the least, willing to go to any extent to add a lusted-after first edition, or a rare volume, to their collection.
“You seem to forget the events of ten years ago. You saw what happened.” Sir James’ voice had grown louder to emphasize his words.
“I saw a number of things; many of them had explanations that could be traced back to hysteria, rather than reality,” said Holmes. That last remark was enough to cause the Baronet to leap to his feet and be out of our door in less than a minute, his companion close behind him.
I turned toward my friend and said, “Holmes, you were a bit ru....” How
ever, I did not get to finish the sentence. Holmes had doffed his dressing gown and was grabbing his coat from the rack. His attitude had turned from that of disdain to one of intensity.
“Quick, Watson, the window. Make sure you are not seen.”
I didn’t understand, but knew that Holmes had reasons, good reasons. From the edge of the window, I could see Sir James and his companion standing on the edge of the street.
“He’s hailing a hansom, from down the street.”
“That would be Bisang. He always hangs about there when he is waiting for a fare. That gives us just the time we need. Bring your revolver; this may be a nasty business.”
Since I had only just cleaned my pistol, not out of need from having fired it recently, but simply out of habit in caring for one’s weapon, I had no trouble in laying my hands on it.
Holmes was already standing at the street door, which he had opened just a crack. He motioned me to wait as I came down the stairs.
A moment later, we were out the door. A tall, thin boy, one of Holmes’ band of street Arabs, appeared at our side. “Anything I can do, Mr. Holmes?”
“Indeed, Wiggins, your timing is excellent. Get yourself and several of the others after that cab that just pulled out,” Holmes said.
“The one with the green stripe? I can follow that one on me own.”.
“Nevertheless, take help. Waverly is always good. I want to know where the men in the cab go and then, wherever that is, watched.”
The young fellow nodded and then vanished into the crowd.
“We have much to do and, I suspect, not all that much time to do it in,” said Holmes, as he waved another cab to us, to which he gave an address that I did not recognize.
Once we were en route, my friend did not say anything for nearly ten minutes. I had seen him in this mood before, so I waited. There were times when he could be forthcoming with answers; there were times when getting the slightest information from him would be like pulling teeth.
“I imagine you are somewhat confused,” he said finally.
“It’s obvious that you are not turning your back on this case, in spite of what you told Sir James,” I said.
“You yourself have noted in your rather florid chronicles of my cases that there have been a number of matters for which the world is not yet ready. This would qualify as one of those,” he said. “It happened some six months before young Stamford brought you to the laboratory at Bart’s. The organisation that Sir James represents claims to have been in existence for centuries, protecting the world from things of a dark and possibly supernatural nature. Of course, I did not know it at the time. He approached me through young Musgrave; apparently, he was a friend of the family, wanting my assistance in finding a book that had been stolen.
“The book in question was actually only a portion of an Arabic manuscript called the Al-Azif, dated from around 730 A.D. It was written by a man who used the name ‘Abdul Alhazred’. Since that is not an Arabic name, I suspect it was a nom de plume. It purports to be a spell book and history of ancient gods called ‘The Great Old Ones’, who seem intent on taking command of this world.”
“‘Ancient gods’?” I hoped that Holmes could hear the tone of sneering in my voice. This hardly seemed the domain of my friend. I must confess that some part of me wondered if it was all part of some elaborate practical joke on Holmes’ part. But that would be so unlike him that I ruled that possibility out at once.
“‘Gods’, hardly. I did not rule out the possibility that the author and many of those who read his work were completely insane. I do not believe in ghosts, vampires or such creatures as that. Everything can be explained rationally and within the realm of logical thought.”
“Sir James said you had seen things,” I continued.
“Indeed, the recovery of the manuscript brought me into an occult underworld that was bloody and without mercy, and that stretches from even the lowliest East End hovel to the highest drawing rooms in the land. I suspect that even the late Professor Moriarty would have found himself repulsed by it. I did see things that, quite honestly, I could not explain, but I am certain, even to this day, that there are valid scientific explanations for them. I told that to the members of Sir James’ organization when I applied for membership. It was one of the reasons, I suspect, that they blackballed me. They claimed it was because that their ‘psychic’ members had foreseen my rise to fame and I would bring too much notice to their little group. I crossed paths with them, on two additional occasions during cases, and both times they refused my assistance.”
I chuckled. I did not believe in any of the spiritualist occult nonsense and had been in many an argument with Doyle over the matter, but at least in this one case, these so-called psychics had been right: if anything, he was more famous now since he had “returned from the dead”.
“The problem, Watson, is that, regardless of what you or I might believe, there are people who think that possession of that manuscript might give them power beyond belief and are not adverse to harming a great number of people in the process. That is why it is imperative that it be retrieved from whatever hands that those pages have fallen into. If they are the same ones with whom I crossed swords a dozen years ago, this is not a matter that I can ignore.”
“But you told Sir James that this was not a matter of any consequence.” I paused for a moment. “Are you being a bit petty over that blackballing they gave you?”
“Say simply that I don’t completely trust Sir James and his compatriots. Just as there are people who would do anything, including murder, for power, there are also those who would protect us from them that can be tempted to the dark side.” I could have sworn I saw a slight smile pass over Holmes’ face as he added, “Besides, when have you ever known me to be petty?”
A half-hour later, Holmes and I found ourselves standing in front of a large grey building with dozens of people moving in and out. Several were loading boxes onto a wagon; it looked as if one of them had a large animal skull under one arm.
“And this place is...?” I asked.
“One of the most unique and unknown places in all of London. It is one of a number of additional storage areas operated by the British Museum,” said Holmes. “I stumbled on the place many years ago, and, thanks to the kindness of several of the directors of the Museum, have been permitted to visit here on occasion.”
Given the size of the British Museum, I could well understand that they would have far more in their collection than could either be displayed or stored at their main building. I had a sudden vision of unending streams of items marching from the four corners of the empire to find their new homes in the British Museum.
It was obvious Holmes had been to the place a number of times; he wound his way through the maze of shelves and stacked boxes with ease. Everywhere I looked, I could see Greek statues, South African masks and black stone monoliths inscribed in some unknown tongue, standing next to each other.
“Ah, here we are,” said Holmes. He gestured at a door that stood flanked by a strange black statue of an octopus-headed creature and a pure-white polar bear, which reared up to its full height. It was one of those places that, if you didn’t know it was there, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, you would never notice it.
“This is the domain of Professor Richard Chadbourn Sanderson, perhaps one of the foremost experts in the world on the folkloric roots of civilization as we know it,” said Holmes. “But this is most unusual....”
“How so?”
“He generally keeps his door bolted.” As we stepped into the room, I noticed the heavy-duty lock below the door handle, as well as several others along the door’s frame. The workroom on the other side was only about ten feet long and half that wide, but it was crowded with an eclectic collection of items so that it felt more like a closet.
“I gather he likes his privacy.”
“More that he dislikes people. Were he more outgoing, I would have said he might be an ideal candidate for the Diogen
es Club.”
With that introduction, I expected to find an aged, stooped little man with white hair and inch-thick spectacles. That was definitely not what Professor Sanderson turned out to be. He was six feet tall, with blonde hair, an eye patch and a scar that ran half the length of his face, definitely not your typical academic and definitely not what I expected to see. Of course, I had not expected to find him very dead, impaled on a spear. I knew before I reached the body that the man was dead, but checked for a pulse, anyway.
“He’s gone, Holmes,” I said. Since rigor was not fully set in the body, that meant that he had been killed just over three to four hours ago. The large amount of blood that had dried on the floor indicated that the body had not been moved since the attack.
Holmes knelt next to me to examine the spear with his small magnifying glass. The weapon was a good five feet long and at least two inches thick.
“There was something freshly painted on the shaft,” said Holmes. Looking over his shoulder, I could see nothing but the streaks of blood and bits of flesh that were clinging to the carved surface of the weapon. “Additionally, this weapon should not be here.”
“I’m sure Sanderson would agree with you on that point,” I said.
“Of that I have no doubt, but what I was referring to was the fact that this is a South American spear, from a tribe along the upper Amazon. This warehouse is devoted to Africa and eastern Europe; South American artifacts are kept at another location. So, whoever the killer was brought this weapon with him.” Not that anyone would have thought it odd to bring a spear into the British Museum; people were no doubt highly used to seeing odd items coming and going and would have made no comment at all.
Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time Page 25
