After Whittaker’s murder, but before Lazarus’, there came an odd twist, one which put Lestrade’s dander up. Jacket, however, was dubious about its relevancy and sided, silently of course, with Superintendent Curberry when Lestrade was told to drop the line of inquiry. A Norwegian sailor named Olaf Jensen was dragged out of a Stepney rooming house, gibbering mad and trying to batter his own brains out upon the walls. It was none of Lestrade’s concern, nothing really at all to do with the case they had been saddled with, Jacket thought ruefully, but somehow the Inspector found out about the green stone idol discovered in the mad sailor’s tiny room, a loathsome heathen monstrosity—a fantastic beast-god with masses of tentacles, vesperian wings, and limbs like a long-dead saurian. What connected it to the series of murders, at least in Lestrade’s mind, was the bloated star symbol on the four sides of the plinth upon which the beast crouched. It was identical to that which had been carved into each victim’s forehead.
Jacket fought back a sigh as he thought of all the blind alleys the wretched little glyph had taken them. An ethnologist at the British Museum had told them from the beginning that the star with an eye at the center was a frequent motif among woggish tribes, found the world over, from the Esquimaux of the northern wastes to the dusky savages of central Africa, from the sands of Arabia to the islands of the Malay Archipelago. It was commonly called the Elder Sign and was nothing more than a oft-used magical symbol. It was Lestrade’s preoccupation with the symbol, intensified after Lazarus’ murder, that led them to the Brethren of the Eldritch Gate, and of course to… (and here Jacket did vent a long-suppressed sigh) …to Lord Alathon. No wonder the Superintendent had been so cross and suggested consulting Sherlock Holmes.
“What is it, Jacket?” Lestrade demanded, sotto voce.
Jacket glanced up guiltily. “Sir?”
“You sighed, rather peevishly, I thought,” Lestrade replied. “I wondered if you had something to get off your chest.”
“No, sir,” Jacket gulped. “I was just thinking…”
“Though I will likely regret asking,” Lestrade said. “Thinking about what?”
“It probably isn’t…”
“Spit it out, man!” Lestrade snapped, his voice still low.
“Wondering if we are not making too much of the Elder Sign, the Brethren of the Eldritch Gate, and Lord Alathon,” Jacket blurted, unable to stop himself. “I mean…”
“So, you’re in the Superintendent’s pocket, are you?”
“Yes, sir. No, sir. Oh,” he murmured miserably, “I hardly know what I mean anymore, sir.”
“Well, that’s not surprising, you lacking anything like the experience I have in the job, Jacket,” Lestrade said with startling equanimity. “I know what that Museum toff said about the Elder Sign, but I also know that the cult uses the sign frequently in their magical jim-jams—Lord Alathon admitted as much.”
“Lord Alathon was very open about the Brethren of the Eldritch Gate, stating plainly that their purpose was to bring Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth and other monster-gods out of banishment for the purpose of destroying the Earth, to enslave and feast upon humanity,” Jacket said. “Yes, it’s a loathsome cult, even if its membership is rather posh, but I don’t think Lord Alathon would have been so quick, even eager, to share the details of their club…”
“Club?”
“…of their group if there was anything really untoward about it,” Jacket said. “I mean, you even asked him about human sacrifice and he laughed it off, made their meetings sound as dull as supper at the Young Conservatives Club.”
“Really, Jacket,” Lestrade sneered. “Sometimes I think…”
The Inspector froze, staring over Jacket’s shoulder, across the room. Jacket started to turn about but Lestrade subtly motioned for him to stay as he was.
“Do you recall Sir Martin Fields?” Lestrade asked.
“Yes, sir, he was at Lord Alathon’s residence when we called,” Jacket replied. “He did not stay long after we arrived.”
“No, he did not,” Lestrade agreed. “In fact, he left rather soon after, rather quickly, don’t you think?”
“He did make excuses, something about a prior appointment at the Foreign Office,” Jacket recalled. “Why do you ask, sir?”
“Because he just came out of a back room,” Lestrade explained. “Don’t you think it odd to see him in a place like…” He paused. “Hold a sec. He’s having words with a sailor, a dark chap.”
Jacket very much wanted to turn about, but Lestrade’s hand still held him in place. He did not know what a gentleman like Sir Martin would be doing in such a low place but if he could look for himself he might actually tender a suggestion unthought of by the overwrought Inspector Lestrade.
“All right, lad, up with you,” Lestrade snapped.
Jacket almost upset the table, but the Inspector kept the glasses from tumbling. The Detective Sergeant swiveled his head almost fast enough to unscrew it, but all he saw was the door to the outside closing…that, and nearly everyone looking at him.
“Sir, I…”
“Never mind about that, Jacket, they all knew what a fresh-face lad like you was about from the first,” Lestrade consoled, in a most unconsoling fashion. “You know what the fop looks like, so you see where he goes. I’ll take after the other. We’ll meet at the Three Crowns. Off you go, Jacket. Be quick about it.”
By the time Jacket erupted into the early evening dusk, just behind Lestrade, he caught a glimpse of Sir Martin Fields rounding a corner. He turned to say something to Lestrade, but the Inspector was already gone, onto his quarry like a hound after a hare. Jacket ran just far enough to bring Sir Martin into view, then held back as he trailed the man westward. Personally, he thought Lestrade was onto the wrong scent—surely a man like Sir Martin could have no more to do with these murders than Lord Alathon—but Lestrade was like a hungry dog with a bone when he latched onto something. Like others, Lestrade was not only his own worst enemy, but his greatest strengths were also his greatest weaknesses. Lestrade may be Scotland Yard’s most successful detective, but in this instance, Jacket thought, he was proving the Superintendent’s point.
As soon as Lestrade turned his back to Jacket, he concentrated fully on the tall figure of the dark-skinned sailor striding through the dusk. An old hand at trailing, Lestrade attracted no attention, either from his quarry or the polyglot denizens of the East End.
From his dress and gait, it was obvious to Lestrade the Lascar was a sailor. The encounter between the foreigner and Sir Martin had been brief, almost in passing; it might have been accidental, might have nothing to do with the case, but Lestrade was not about to let go till he knew one way or another.
The encroaching darkness and the paucity of gaslamps in the East End caused Lestrade to draw nearer the man than he liked, but he could not afford to lose the trail. He definitely wanted to know the Lascar’s ultimate destination, but if it became a choice between a forced encounter or losing him to the night, he would clamp a hand on the Lascar’s shoulder and bring the full weight of British law down on him.
The Lascar turned a corner at Whalburg-street, then left into a narrow alley about halfway down. Lestrade approached cautiously. There was not another soul in sight, and the only sounds were the faint murmur of river traffic southward. He paused just before the alley. All was quiet within, not a footfall, not a breath, but since the Lascar moved with the grace and silence of a jungle cat Lestrade did not expect to hear anything. There was nothing to betray the presence of any lurker, but Lestrade knew someone lay in wait. It was his gut again, and he always trusted his gut.
“Come out of the alley, you,” Lestrade barked softly but with all the authority of the Metropolitan Police. “Out now! Police!”
A pause, a breath, then the Lascar stepped into view. He was a surly looking man, bearded jaw jutting prominently, mouth turned down, cap pulled low over insolent eyes. He regarded Lestrade with hostility and suspicion.
“What you want?” the Lascar de
manded. “I do nothing wrong.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Lestrade replied. “Show me your seaman’s papers and be quick about it.”
“How you know I sailor?”
“You never mind about that, boy-o,” Lestrade snapped. “Out with those papers, and no monkey-tricks.”
Slowly, the Lascar reached inside his sailor’s coat. Lestrade knew he had an equal chance of seeing the flash of a knife or the man’s papers, but there was nothing in the Inspector’s attitude that betrayed any anxiety. Fear, self-doubt and nervousness were much more deadly than any cove’s shiv.
Lestrade opened the booklet, examined the photograph inside and compared it to the Lascar standing before him. A poor image and the lighting here was not good, but both were adequate enough for Lestrade to know this was Habib Ahamdeen, ABS aboard the Eastern Raja out of Bombay.
“All right, Mr Ahamdeen,” Lestrade said, returning the identity card, “what was you business in The Fair Wind?”
“Drinking.”
“Just drinking?”
“What I said.”
“Then what was your business with Sir Martin Fields?”
“Who him?”
“The sahib you met on the way out of the pub,” Lestrade said.
“Just bump, is all.”
“Oh really,” Lestrade drawled. “Then what did he say to you?”
“Sahib tell darkie to watch where going.”
“That’s all?”
“Is all.”
“Then what did you say back to him, and he back to you?” the Inspector demanded. “Before you tell me another lie, I saw it all. It was a nice little chat you and he had, back and forth, so don’t tell me anymore of your porkies, ‘less you want to sit in the chokey while your ship sails on.”
The Lascar looked about furtively, his surliness replaced by apprehension. It was obvious to Lestrade he was weighing his options, choosing between flight and cooperation. With those long legs the sailor could probably get clean away, but Lestrade had his name and ship, and the Lascar also knew that if he attacked Lestrade there was no hole deep enough for him to hide in.
“I not know sahib,” Habib Ahamdeen finally said. “He did talk harsh, as I said, but then see mark.”
“Mark?” Lestrade frowned. “What mark?”
The Lascar again looked around, then uplifted his chin, baring his throat. There was just enough light to make out the tattoo etched in reddish-black ink.
“All right, lad, what did Sir Martin say when he saw the Elder Sign?” Lestrade asked, his gaze never leaving the Lascar’s eyes.
“How you know about…”
“I’m asking the questions here, so speak up,” Lestrade snapped. “And be quick about it.”
“He say, ‘Yog-Sothoth is the way, Yog-Sothoth is the gate’.”
“He did, did he?”
The Lascar nodded.
“And you, my fine lad, what did you say?”
“I tell him, ‘Dūra tuhāḍē nāla, duśaṭa’…it mean, in my tongue, ‘Away from me, evil one’.”
“And why do you wear the Elder Sign?”
“Protect from harm,” the Lascar explained. “Protect from Great Old Ones. Yog-Sothoth is…”
“I know what Yog-Sothoth is,” Lestrade said.
The Lascar drew back in surprise.
“Did Sir Martin say anything in reply?” Lestrade asked.
“He say, ‘Eldritch Gate open tonight’,” the Lascar replied. “He say, ‘Key is blood, key is hand’.” A moment, then the Lascar added: “I call Shiva against sahib, call Elder Gods. Then flee.”
“Why were you waiting in the alley for me?”
“Thought maybe sahib sent. Scared.”
“How long you been in port?”
“Three days,” the Lascar answered.
Lestrade nodded with knowledge already held. He often left the news reports unread—bleeding fiction most of the time, as far as he was concerned—but everyday he made time to minutely peruse the agony columns and the shipping news. He had picked up the habit from his association with Sherlock Holmes, not that he would have willingly admitted it to anyone.
“All right, you can be on your way,” Lestrade finally said.
“Thank you, sahib.”
“But don’t get up to no tricks.”
The Lascar shook his head vehemently.
“Off with you then,” Lestrade said sharply. “You best hope I don’t have to see you again.”
“Yes, sahib; thank you, sahib.” But the Lascar’s words were fading, and he had already vanished into the mist and the dark.
Lestrade turned and headed back, his mind filled with thoughts and possibilities. There was to be another murder tonight, blood spilled for the sake of Lord Alathon’s hoodoo, a sacrifice to open the Eldritch Gate and prepare the way for the return of his heathen Great Old Ones. It was all rubbish, of course, but dangerous rubbish that had already cost four lives. Tonight he would put an end to it, and when he clapped irons on Alathon’s lordly wrists no amount of peerage or friends in high places would save him.
As Lestrade headed westward, the Lascar glanced out the alley. Inspector Lestrade reminded him very much of a hound on a hot scent, concentrating on the trail alone. When Lestrade vanished from sight, the Lascar emerged and followed.
About a mile from The Fair Wind, Detective Sergeant Jacket looked about, panicked. He had had Sir Martin Fields in sight ever since leaving the pub, but now, near Southwark Bridge, there was no sight of him. Jacket still thought Lestrade was on the wrong track in thinking Sir Martin, or Lord Alathon for that matter, had anything to do with the murders, but he had been assigned a task by his Inspector, almost a sacred quest in the book by which he lived his life. He had no desire to tell Lestrade he had failed in such a simple assignment. Given Lestrade’s propensity for glaring, shouting and generally overreacting, Jacket would almost rather have poked hot wires into his eyeballs instead of informing Lestrade of his failure.
“Want to buy a shoelace, guv’nor?” a voice asked. “Maybe a thimble for your good lady or a candied-apple for your sourness.”
Jacket jumped at the unexpected intrusion, at the voice so loud at his elbow. He turned and started again, seeing a sooty face so close to his own.
“Come on, guv, ‘ow about ‘elping a chap what ain’t got but one arm,” the street vendor pleaded. “Even a ha’-penny o’ charity goes a long way to ‘elp a bloke in this city o’ endless night.”
Jacket stepped back from the man. He had a flat tray attached to a leather strap across the back of his neck. He saw the chap did indeed only have one limb, his dirty left sleeve pinned to a dirtier coat. The coat was of military issue.
“Lost that arm in bloody Afghanistan, I did, bein’ in service to ‘Er Majesty the Queen, Lord love ‘Er,” the veteran said. “Bleedin’ savages took it, they did.”
“Well, that is most unfortunate, my good…”
“Took it for their ‘eathen gods, to open the Gate, you know.”
“No, I don’t quite…”
“But I escaped getting me throat slit…”
“Quite lucky to…”
“…and ‘aving the Elder Sign carved on me forehead.”
“Did you say…”
“Bloody Yog-Sothoth worshipers!”
“Hold on now,” Jacket said. “What…”
“Just like that toff what went by just a sec’ back,” the grimy and voluble veteran claimed. “Almost knocked me down, ‘e did, and me a loyal subject of ‘Er Majesty, what lost ‘is…”
“Just a moment, sir!” Jacket interrupted. He provided the man with a description of Sir Martin Fields.
“Oi, now!” the veteran cried. “Don’t tell me a fine young fellow like you is…”
“You saw him?” Jacket demanded. “Where did he go?”
“Saw ‘im big as life, guv, and muttering something awful ‘bout Yog-Sothoth an’ gates o’ blood an’ takin’ left ‘ands to open the way for ‘eathen gods,�
�� the street vendor babbled. “It ain’t right, guv, a-sayin’ such things in London, where ‘Er Majesty…”
“Where did he go?” Jacket asked again. He wanted to take the man by the lapels and shake the answer out of him, but he feared his hands would never come clean afterwards. “Where?”
“Why, ‘e went down that street there, an’ into the warehouse ‘bout ‘alfway on the left,” the one-armed man said. “I ‘ope to God Awlmighty ‘e ain’t one o’ them bloody…”
“Thank you!” Jacket cried, digging into his pocket. He tossed the first coin to come into his hand onto the vendor’s tray, then with dismay realized it was a half-crown.
“Thank ye, guv!” the vendor exclaimed, scarpering down a side street before the daft young fellow could change his mind. “Ye’re a prince, guv, a regular prince!”
Detective Sergeant Jacket sprinted down the street the man had indicated, but pulled up when the warehouse hove into view. A few toughs lounged around the entrance, but from the way the men kept watch they were no regular gang of idlers. Jacket withdrew before he was noticed and headed for the Three Crowns.
The one-armed man watched Jacket’s hasty departure from the shadows of a narrow cobbled alley. He slid his left arm out of the coat, lifted the tray from around his neck, and set it on the ground where some poor soul might find some use for the wares. He flipped the heavy silver coin into the air, watching it turn end over end in the feeble light. He caught the coin in a surprisingly delicate hand, smiled, and pocketed it.
Inspector Lestrade groaned softly as Detective Sergeant Jacket entered the Three Crowns like a bull dancing in a china shop. Well, Lestrade thought, it wasn’t as if the lad were betraying any secrets; even though he had rozzer written all over him, Lestrade had chosen the Three Crowns precisely because he was known here, would be left alone unless some nose came angling for a tanner.
“All right, Jacket,” Lestrade said as the young man dropped into the chair across from him. “Say what you got to say before that grin splits your loaf in half and your wig drops on the floor.”
Jacket shared all he had learned about Sir Martin. He included the testimony of the one-armed monger, but left out the part about losing Sir Martin’s trail.
Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) Page 17
