“Exactly, the desk,” Holmes said, seeing the expression on my face. “Your cousin understood that religious fanatics tend to be unimaginative sorts, their thought processes crude and lacking even the rudiments of sophistication. A message of such subtlety would be totally incomprehensible to such people.”
“You speak as if you know these people, Holmes.”
“In a sense they are not unfamiliar to me,” Holmes said. “I have encountered members of many cults over the years, though some would not have recognized them as cults in every case. Devotees of such groups invariably abandon their own beliefs in favor of those of the leader of the group.” He began to examine the desk in detail. “Let us find what your cousin’s kidnappers could not. It would be wise if we were not long here.”
I searched too, but it was Holmes who made the discovery. With a cry of satisfaction he stood, a large dark envelope gripped in his right hand.
“This was taped to the underside of the desk’s right pedestal,” he explained. “The shadows, its color and the dark wood of the desk served to hide it from casual inspection. Shall we see what was so important?”
He sat at the desk and opened the thick envelope. Inside were three files.
The first file contained correspondence from people all over the world. As Holmes read them, he passed them to me. The more I read, the more impossible it seemed that Carter could have taken any of them seriously. Yet, his replies, evidenced by carbon replies affixed to the letters were earnest enough. A pattern began to emerge, one which I sought to deny because it seemed to reduce the ordinary work-a-day world to little more than a mask.
The second contained correspondence from a single writer, a certain Howard Phillips Lovecraft of Providence, Rhode Island. I racked my brain. It seemed to me that Carter had once or twice mentioned him as a fabricator of tales of cosmic dread, and I mentioned that fact to Holmes.
“Judging from the letters, there seems to have been quite an intercourse between your cousin and this Lovecraft fellow,” Holmes observed. “Even a few visitations, it seems. My word, some of these letters are more than twenty pages long, and meandering in the extreme. I prefer short notes myself.”
The gist of the letters, we eventually discovered, was that Lovecraft had delved into some of the same areas of cult study and world mythology which had interested Carter Randolph. With the letters were clippings of Lovecraft’s short stories taken from pulp journals. Holmes read each of the clipped stories with more interest than I would have thought they warranted. After all, the themes of pulp fiction were hardly those of serious literature.
“Two of these stories,” Holmes said, “are built upon incidents which are familiar to me, but which were kept secret at the time because of the fear of public panic. True, they are sensationalized somewhat in these ’fictions’ but the basic incidents are more or less reported as they happened. Given the stations of the principals in the case, one has to wonder who Lovecraft’s informants were.”
The last file consisted of many close-written pages in the same hand as the letters from H. P. Lovecraft. Holmes passed the pages to me as he read them. Their contents both thrilled and chilled me, and some struck hauntingly familiar notes as they recalled to mind certain bits of information which my cousin had questioned me about. Lovecraft was a writer of cosmic fictions, so were these pages nothing more than notes for a novel or a series of stories? Or were they much more? I looked to Holmes for some indication of how I should interpret these notes, but his brow was furrowed in intense concentration, and I felt I durst not disturb those mighty thoughts; I was under no illusion but that the survival of my poor cousin might depend upon that keen mind.
Finally, Sherlock Holmes put the file aside and looked at me, his clear eyes belying the white hair which crowned his head. Fire shone in those eyes. Again, I experienced a feeling that my intellect and poor skills in observation were hardly equal to the task of assisting Holmes in his investigation.
“Believe me, my dear Phillips,” he said gently, “you are more than equal to the task of helping me.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “What are you – how could you possibly know what was in my mind?”
Holmes chuckled and patted my arm in a most amiable and encouraging fashion,. “You all but shouted your doubts, Phillips,”
I frowned and started to protest.
“Throughout our inspection of this last file,” Holmes said, “you paid more attention to me and my reactions to the information than you did to the information itself. Your cursory examination indicated some familiarity at least with that which was contained in the notes. You looked at me with all the trust and faith of a pilgrim before a prophet. Yet when I failed to give the expected revelation, you looked not at me but your own hands. Had you failed me in some fashion, you wondered. You then could not escape the natural corollary of such a thought – would you be of any help in the search for the whereabouts of Carter Randolph?”
“You now make me wonder more than ever, Holmes,” said I.
“Nonsense,” he said with a vague, quick smile. “There is nothing magical about me or my methods. I observe the world, and I observe those who live in it. Descartes was quite right about the mathematical nature of the world, you know. Truth to tell, Phillips, I have been observing and interpreting the world for so long that at times it is quite difficult for me to reconstruct the steps which led me to one conclusion or another, especially now that I have retired from active practice and am no longer called to give witness in a court of law, to make the blind see, as it were.”
“And you no longer have a biographer to amaze?” I ventured. “I am sorry, Holmes. That was unkind of me.”
“Poor old Watson,” Holmes sighed. “No, there is some truth in your words, Phillips. He was the truest friend I ever had, a dear and loyal comrade, but I can see all too clearly now I often took some measure of delight in confounding Watson with my deductions. My dear old friend Watson, he was very much a conductor of light, a way for me to collate my thoughts upon a subject.”
Holmes’ eyes softened and sparkled with remembrance of time past, friends lost. At that moment, Holmes seemed very old. Then he snapped out a laugh, shedding the burden of the years.
“Together we shall uncover the fate of your cousin,” Holmes told me. “We shall not fail.”
“I appreciate your confidence, Holmes.”
“And I yours, more than you know,” Holmes replied. He replaced the files in the dark envelope. “Our next move should be to call upon Mr. Howard Phillips Lovecraft,”
“To Providence then,” I said with a nod.
To Number Ten, Barnes Street, to be exact,” Holmes said. He fixed me with his penetrating gaze. “From this moment on, we must always be on our guard, Professor Phillips. Our adversaries are both desperate and ruthless. Our lives would mean less than nothing to these fanatics were they to believe we stand between them and the worship of their ‘gods,’ not to mention their ultimate goals.”
“Their goals, Holmes?”
He nodded, a grim look upon his face. “When it comes to cultists, no matter how outlandish the belief system, it is never just a matter of simple worship. There is always a goal sought by these people, whether its nature is transformational, as it was for the Thuggee, or apocalyptic, as with the End Times Theosophists of 1897, which so greatly damaged the reputation of the parent group.”
After taking the three files to my house and hiding them in a place of Holmes’ choosing, which I thought supremely ingenious, we made arrangements for the trip to Providence, Rhode Island. The train trip was unexciting, and we found ourselves in that quaint metropolis late on the afternoon of July 18, 1927.
Ten Barnes Street proved to be a large wooden Victorian double-duplex house, three blocks north of the Brown University campus. A call from the station determined that Lovecraft was at home, and he was more than willing to see us.
The door was answered by an elderly woman who presented herself as Lovecraft’s aunt, Lillia
n Clark. She shared half the house with Lovecraft, she living on part of the upper floor and he part of the lower. She conducted us to Lovecraft’s rooms, and it took us a moment to become used to the abnormally dim lighting.
H.P. Lovecraft was a tall, gaunt, almost cadaverous man with a thin face, a longish jaw, and dark eyes. He was dressed in a clean but well-worn coat and tie, and it seemed to me that Lovecraft would not have been out of place in a funeral home.
The warm and cordial greeting he gave us, clasping our hands and uttering archaic words of welcome, completely dispelled any negative first impressions. He was utterly charming. He made me feel as if I were a long-lost friend rather than a stranger who had just arrived without notice from Arkham. He gushed embarrassingly over Holmes, speaking fondly of England, as if England were his native home. We sat down to discuss the purpose of our visit.
“This has been a very stimulating week for me,” Lovecraft said as he sank into an easy chair. “Friends have been popping in and out, including young Donald Wandrei and H. Warner Munn, both amateur scribblers of some note. And just three days ago I received word from Farnsworth Wright, that venerable editor of Weird Tales, a pulp journal highly respected and valued by followers of stories of the macabre and terrible. He has decided to use one of my trifling scribblings in a future issue, a story he had rejected previously, though that is a pattern I have come to expect of that man.”
“What story is that?” I asked.
“A minor piece of fiction which I entitled ‘The Call of Cthulhu’,” Lovecraft replied.
“Based upon research you conducted into certain authentic religions and beliefs,” Holmes said. “A great portion of which you passed on to Carter Randolph.”
“So dear Carter showed you the file?” Lovecraft said. “He was interested in the subject, dear boy, so I saw no reason not to loan the file to him. Many times in the past he has related dreams and experiences to me, which I have been able at times to incorporate into my tales, stories written mostly for the amusement of my friends and acquaintances. How is young Carter?”
“That is what we are trying to discover,” replied Holmes.
“I am afraid I do not understand, Mr. Holmes.”
“My cousin disappeared some weeks ago,” I explained. “Mr. Holmes has agreed to help me find him.”
“Professor Philips and I went to Carter Randolph’s home in Arkham,” Holmes added. “There, amid general disorder and a rather potent fish odor, we discovered the hiding place of the file, as well as many letters written to him by you. When was the last time you saw Carter Randolph?”
“As I recall,” Lovecraft said, “it was about two months ago, approximately two weeks after I had given him the Cthulhu file.”
“And what was his state of mind?” Holmes asked.
“He impressed me as being very nervous,” Lovecraft replied. “Though he did not impart to me the reason for his nervousness, we spoke for a very long time about what we have come to call the Cthulhu Cult – worshippers of a race of beings which in far periods of the past once ruled the earth. It is a concept I have used in stories before and plan to use in many more to come.”
“Might there not be danger in that?” Holmes asked.
For a moment, Lovecraft sat in contemplative silence. Then he said: “Perhaps there is, Mr. Holmes. However, I cannot allow myself to be concerned with that. I long ago decided not to let whatever danger posed by these modern worshippers of ancient gods deter me from what I have set out to do. I will not let them guide my actions. I do not fear them.”
“You have no belief in their gods, Mr. Lovecraft?”
“I do not believe in gods at all,” Lovecraft said evenly. “In my stories, I call them gods because their followers call them that, and because the term is more easily comprehended by the rabble who monthly exchange their nickels and dimes for reading material that is, more often than not, puerile and vapid.”
“I see,” Holmes said. “I long ago deduced the indiscriminate nature of the reading public. What else transpired during Carter Randolph’s visit?”
“We talked at length about the cult, which he seemed to take more seriously than did I,” Lovecraft replied. “I gave him a name that is whispered in Arkham. Some claim him a cult member or even a leader, while others say he only provides a front operation for the cult; still others claim he is nothing more than a charlatan.”
“What is the man’s name?” Holmes asked.
“His name is Enoch Bowen and the group he leads in Arkham is called the Starry Wisdom Sect, located at the end of Circle Court, a rather seedy neighborhood,” Lovecraft answered.
“I know it well,” I said. “Calling it seedy is a kindness.”
“Little is known about him or the group,” our host continued. “Some people claim Bowen has spent much time in Egypt, that land of nighted mystery. The Starry Wisdom Sect is a rather closed band, admitting few, and those few generally do not speak much.”
“What did Carter do after you gave him this information?” Holmes asked.
“He said he was returning to Arkham on the night train,” Lovecraft said. “He was adamant about returning, even though I offered him lodging for the evening.”
“He planned on investigating the Starry Wisdom Sect?”
“He did not confide that to me, Mr. Holmes, but I had that impression.”
“You said earlier he appeared nervous,” Holmes said. “Did he intimate any reason, any at all?”
Lovecraft hesitated, then said, “I think he may have feared he was being followed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Several times during the visit he rose from his seat and walked to the window,” Lovecraft said. “I did not think much of it at the time, but looking back…”
“Have you ever felt yourself to be followed?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Lovecraft admitted, “but, to tell you the truth, I rarely leave the house if I can help it.”
Holmes stood and I followed suit. “Thank you for seeing us, but we must return to Arkham immediately.”
“I am quite disappointed to hear that, Mr. Holmes,” Lovecraft said as he shook our hands. “I had hoped we would be able to visit at great length. I have read of you since a young man, and was anxious to speak of dear England with you.”
Holmes smiled. “Perhaps we will have the opportunity another time, Mr. Lovecraft.”
“I sincerely hope so, Mr. Holmes.”
“A word of caution, Mr. Lovecraft,” Holmes said seriously. “You must realize that there are those who will be quite displeased with your tales, no matter how much you couch the facts in fiction. They may perceive you as an obstacle in their path.”
“I realize that, Mr. Holmes,” Lovecraft said, nodding. “I do what I must do. No true Englishman could do less.”
“Yes, of course,” Holmes murmured, nodded and we took our leave of the odd young man.
Holmes did not speak to me again until we were on the train to Arkham, and I did not disturb him. I had never seen another human being sunk so deep into concentration.
“Lovecraft,” Holmes finally said in the creeping darkness of the compartment, “is, in his own way, a very brave man. I shall try to visit him again, but I think we have seen each other for the first and last time. A most unusual individual. However I fear he may meet death at an all-too-early age.”
“Because of his investigations?” I suggested.
Holmes gave a rather uncharacteristic desultory shrug, and I wondered what he had observed that I totally missed.
“Do you think Carter became involved with the Starry Wisdom Sect?” I asked.
“Less involved than ran afoul, I fear, “ Holmes replied. “Since he was so deeply invested in learning about the Cthulhu Cult, he would certainly contact Enoch Bowen, one way or another.”
Finally I broached the subject I had been most fearful to bring up. “Do you think Carter is still alive?”
“I do not want to raise false hopes in you,” Holmes r
eplied, speaking softly, “but I think there is a chance that your cousin is still alive.”
I uttered a sound between a sigh and a sob.
“Bear in mind, though, Professor, I put forth this conjecture solely based on the calendar by which the cultists must order their lives and worship.” He gave me a very faint smile. “After all, gods much be propitiated in their season, mustn’t they?”
“Do you believe in gods?” I asked Holmes.
Silence reigned in the darkening compartment. Shadows and light from outside the train played over Holmes’ sharp features as we hurtled through the gloom.
“In my younger days, I professed an absolute disbelief in the supernatural,” Holmes said softly. “I still do, but now I am ready to admit reality may be composed of more than our poor human senses are able to convey to our brains. The German physicists insist we are well bathed in invisible radiations, that reality may not be a constant.” He shook his head. “I once dismissed science as not being worth my study except as it affected my work as a consulting detective, yet we are moving into a world where the scientist may one day wield more power than the elected politician. Science and superstition; philosophy and technology – how thin the dividing line is drawing.”
“And gods?” I persisted. “Specifically, the monster-gods of these Cthulhu devotees?”
“Whether or not I personally believe in gods is immaterial to this case,” Holmes said. “If they truly manifest themselves in our world, they may be creatures as mortal as are we. I am reminded of a story written some years back by my good friend Herbert Wells, in which our green world was attacked by neighboring Mars. The narrator of the tale knew they were nothing more than living beings, different in form, yet still as physical as we are, but his knowledge stemmed from his scientific education and outlook. Now, had such beings come to earth in the age of unpolished stone, they might have indeed been taken for gods.” He chuckled. “And are there not those in the world who are always looking for gods?”
Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) Page 3
