Bronislav moved with a viper’s swiftness, grabbing McBane by the lapels of his coat and lifting him effortlessly. With his teeth bared and his face mere inches from McBane’s, Bronislav seemed less like a human being and more like a rabid animal braced for the devouring of its prey.
“Tell me what you want, and tell me now,” Bronislav snarled. “Tell me, or I’ll rip your throat out and give your beating heart to the Darkness.”
“Neville is dead,” McBane said.
Bronislav’s grip tightened. “I know that much.”
“I know where he went,” McBane said quickly. “I know where he died and where the package he carried is now.”
“Do you know what was in the package?”
“No,” McBane said, squeezing words through his constricted throat. “Only that it is important to you, and that an information man in your employ, such as myself, might serve you well.”
Bronislav eased his grip on the young man and lowered him to the floor. “A plan can succeed or fail depending upon the reliability of information.”
“Precisely, sir,” McBane agreed. “That was my function within Professor Moriarty’s organization. I tried to provide the same service to Colonel Moran, the Professor’s successor, but he was certainly not the man the Professor was. At least the Professor never stood in the dock at the Central Criminal Court—an ignomious end for a man who had so much ambition, and the final blow to the organization started by the Professor.”
Bronislav gestured for McBane to sit. “Why would I want to employ a criminal?”
“I have never committed a crime as far as the police are concerned,” McBane protested. “My name never surfaced in any enquiries. I am known at the British Museum and the various libraries of London, and many abroad, as a scholar, though none know me by any one name. I am a careful man.”
“I can appreciate that,” Bronislav agreed. “What have you done since falling upon…hard times?”
“Consultant for a few big jobs, but all went awry.” He then added quickly: “The information and planning were sound, but the executors were idiots, unable to make use of the facts they were given. Mostly, I have bided my time and kept my ear to the ground, gathering information of every sort from my network of spies and covies, which was always mine and never Moriarty’s. That is how I came into possession of the information regarding the mission and fate of poor India Jack. I will give you that information as the price of buying my way into your employment.”
“What do you know of me?” Bronislav asked.
“More than anyone else in the world,” McBane replied, “and that still amounts to almost nothing. You are a brilliant and dangerous man, whom ignorant people might call an adventurer. You are an explorer who has been all over the world, as well as an occultist whose very name others fear to whisper. You are suspected of various crimes, ranging from smuggling to murder, but the authorities have never been able to amass enough evidence to even question you. There are very few records about you, and even your age and homeland are matters of speculation.”
“I usually kill people who know even a little about me, but, as you say, there is not much to know.”
“I can help in that regard as well,” McBane told him. “Information is my life-blood. Just as I can gather it I can also make it vanish, forever if necessary, a record lost here, destroyed there. You can become even more of a phantom that you already are, if you agree to employ me.”
“Aside from seeking an end to your own hard times, why should you wish to enter my employ?” Bronislav asked. “If you know as much as you profess, you must know I often toss aside people I employ, often unfit for future employment. What makes your services so valuable I would treat you any differently?”
McBane was silent for a moment. Then he said: “It does not matter what you do to me. I sense that in your employ I may gain what always escaped me when I served the Professor.”
“And what is that, Mr McBane?”
“A reason.”
“A reason?” Bronislav frowned. “A reason for what?”
“For everything,” McBane explained. “Professor Moriarty, as brilliant as he was, never saw my information as anything but a means to commit a crime, to amass wealth and power, to consolidate his control over London’s criminals, and to insinuate his influence in foreign crime underworlds. I believe you will use my information to rip aside the illusions of reality and lay bare the raw and primal world beneath, to change the very fabric of the world. I expect to become very rich working for you, but that will be an unimportant side-effect of illumination.”
For the first time since McBane had entered the room, Bronislav permitted himself a smile, a thin one.
“Very well, Mr McBane,” he said. “Where is the object being transported for me by the late India Jack Neville?”
Despite the acknowledgement of his employment, McBane did not return the smile. “In the hands of Sherlock Holmes.”
Laslo Bronislav scowled.
Chapter Four
“I have never seen anything like that idol,” Challenger said. “It must have come from some fever-dream.”
“If it is some tribe’s god, it is a monstrosity of a god,” Sherlock Holmes remarked. “Is it totally a product of the imagination?”
“You mean, could the native artisan have intended to represent an actual creature?” Challenger asked. “A living one?”
“Precisely.”
Challenger frowned and peered closely at the object that had been carried by the dead sailor, which Inspector Wilkins had left in Holmes’ care. It was the only token remaining from the night. The blood was cleaned from the entryway and the body remanded to the care of the police pathologist. Even the fog had dissipated just before dawn, and were it not for the continued existence of the hideous stone idol it might have been possible to convince oneself that the events had been nothing more than a nightmare brought on by weariness and too much sherry.
The black stone of idol had so far resisted identification, despite Holmes’ prodigious geologic knowledge. The idol itself was evidently some sort of marine creature of tremendous size, judging by the comparatively smaller whales attached to its sides. In form, it had the shape of a writhing wormlike thing, its body segmented. Clawed appendages and several paddle-tipped structures were arrayed along its sides. Erupting annularly from its head, if the hood-shaped affair could be called that, were a mass of tentacles and other less familiar appendages.
“As I mentioned to Wilkins—God, was it just last night?—the world is rife with unknown animals, and the remains of creatures of primal times,” Challenger said. “And, as I was unable to convince the good Inspector, the processes of evolution does allow for new life forms, though springing from known creatures and over, most would agree, geologic periods of time. The beast represented by this fetish does not fit into the taxonomy of any known species, but, rather, seems to combine the aspects of many. Though it is squid-like in many respects, it has a body more like that of a planarian, though adapted, apparently, for an aquatic existence, further evidenced by the whales accompanying it—Good God, the size of that monster!—the arrangement of clawed and ridged structures around its torso would speak for a subterranean mode of travel, perhaps overland as well. Its tentacles appear to have graspers and suckers, but are augmented by talons, nippers and organs too much like human hands for my comfort. Believe me, Holmes, there is no creature remotely like this one in the fossil record, at least has ever been discovered, and I hope to God there is no creature like this in the world today.”
“Direct your attention to the talons and nippers you noticed,” Holmes said. “Could they, or something like them, account for the nature of the wounds on the body?”
Challenger looked closely at the idol. “When I suggested that Wilkins have a photographic plate of the wounds looked at by an oceanic biologist, it was only because I could not account for the marks being made by a land-based animal. I thought vaguely of the giant squid due to the slashes, bu
t, as you might know, a specimen of the giant squid has never been captured. No, it could not possibly be this creature.” He gestured to the carving. “That is the wild imagination of some fearful primitive savage, ignorant of biological science, a beast cobbled from nightmares and old stories.”
Holmes lit his pipe, leaned back with his fingers laced behind his head, and puffed contemplatively for a moment. “It has been my experience, Challenger, that primitive peoples have less imagination than civilized folks, if only because they are much better observers of their world. It is a curious quirk that our own society equates primitivism with stupidity.”
Challenger frowned, then, by degrees, his brow unfurrowed as he recalled all the sensible, sound-minded, right-headed ‘savages’ he had encountered in his travels to the hinterlands of the Earth, people to whom he had often trusted his life. They were honest, decent folk, by and large, except when they came into contact with and under the control of whites. But still…
“How could this monstrosity be a real creature, Holmes?” he demanded. “It’s a nightmare beast.”
Holmes shrugged. “I only suggest primitive peoples are astute observers of the world round them. Just last night you championed evolution’s role in the engine of creation to poor, overmatched Inspector Wilkins. Who better to notice the fruits of evolution?”
“You believe in evolution, Holmes?”
Holmes smiled vaguely. “I neither believe nor disbelieve, because it is a biological theory that has, as far as I can determine, no effect on the world of crime, unless one were to argue for a social Darwinism, but, even then, it has no effect upon crime and punishment, which are my sole concerns. When it comes to putting a murderer upon the gallows, it makes no difference to me whether man descended from apes, apes from man, or both were created from sacred mud.”
Challenger sighed, sounding like a nearby storm, “Holmes, you are the most infuriating man I have ever known.”
“I am not one for acknowledging titles and honors,” Holmes admitted, “but that is an epithet in which I could almost take pride.” He paused. “You are hardly alone in your estimation.”
Challenger threw his hands up in exasperation. “What about this statue?”
“Who at the British Museum would be the best person to speak to about native fetishes?” Holmes asked.
“Lord Cecil Whitecliff, if he has not been devoured by savages.” He quickly added: “Observant savages, of course.”
“Would you care to accompany me?” Holmes asked. “Despite my solitary nature, I have over the years become accustomed to the company of others in my investigations. Unfortunately, Dr. Watson is away on a matter of some importance to his former regiment.”
“After last night’s excitement,” Challenger said, “I would not miss this. Thank you, Homes.”
“Come then, Challenger, but you may not feel like thanking me as this adventure unfolds,” Holmes said, fixing Challenger with a severe gaze. “There is danger here, and not just of the sort which killed that sailor as he fled to my door. We have adversaries about whom we as yet know almost nothing, except that they engaged that poor wretch to deliver this object into their hands. It is unknown whether they are yet cognizant of his decision to deliver it to me when death came to claim him, but they will know before long, and they will eventually find their way to us. When they do, whatever killed this sailor may seem the lesser evil.”
Normally a trip to the stately, colonnaded British Museum so early in the morning would have been a waste of time, as the administration of that venerable institution is quite serious about hours and protocols. But Holmes was well known to the Director due to his service to the Museum that spring in the matter of the venomous Irish serpent. Challenger was also well known to the staff and administration of the British Museum, but his presence was not held against Holmes, and he was allowed to pursue his business inside before the customary opening time.
Lord Cecil Whitecliff was available for interview at the British Museum. They found him in a restoration room just off the Ethnographical Gallery on the upper floor. He was a florid-faced, rotund man with a wild shock of white hair and grand muttonchops. He greeted Holmes with enthusiasm, but granted Challenger only a desultory nod .
“Good to meet you, Holmes,” he said. “Read many of your exploits, but only believed about half.”
“You would do well to believe a good deal less than that, I should think Lord Whitecliff,” Holmes said with a deprecating wave of his hand. “My good friend Watson often sacrifices deductive science to lurid narrative for the sake of story-telling. Would you have a moment to look at an object connected to a case I have recently undertaken?”
“A case?” Lord Whitecliff scowled at Challenger, then looked back to Holmes. “What’s he got to do with it?”
“Just lend the man a hand, Cecil, without your usual sarcasms and witticisms,” Challenger said. “A man was killed.”
Lord Whitecliff’s already-red face seemed to burst into flame, and his eyes bulged from their sockets. When he spoke, however, his voice was icy calm.
“You have the reputation of being a careful man, Mr Holmes, not given over to wild theorizing,” he said. “Your association with this Challenger fellow can only do harm to that reputation. He is a proponent of some of the wildest, unbounded ideas it has ever been my misfortune to hear in an open meeting of the Royal Society.”
“If only you and the other pompous windbags were not so close-minded, you might see that…”
“That you’re a fraud and an opportunist!”
“Gentlemen!” Holmes said sharply. “Please hold your differences, whatever they might be, at bay for the moment. As Professor Challenger said, a man has been killed, and you, Lord Whitecliff, have an opportunity to shed some light on the matter.”
The two scientists stood scowling at each other for several long moments, much in the stance of two old mismatched battlers facing off in the ring, fighting for a grudge rather than a purse.
Finally, Lord Whitecliff said: “You’re quite right, Mr Holmes. I assume the object you have brought to me is some native craft and is wrapped in that paper?”
The paper about the object that had passed from the possession of the late India Jack Neville was not the same wrapping that had covered it the night before. The blood-soaked covering had been taken into the custody of Inspector Wilkins. Though Holmes was of the opinion that little good would come of any investigation undertaken by Scotland Yard’s forensic laboratory, Wilkins had been more hopeful.
“My God,” Lord Whitecliff breathed when the object within was revealed. “The Great God M’tollo, as I live and breathe. At least that is one of its names.”
“You have seen this carving before then?” Holmes asked.
“No, not precisely,” the ethnologist replied. “However, I have read a number of accounts in which it, or rather its mythology, figured prominently.”
“We’ve come to the right man,” Holmes said. “Challenger was quite right when he recommended your expert opinion.”
Lord Whitecliff cast a dubious glance in Challenger’s direction. “Where, may I ask, did you obtain this statue? The Museum would pay quite handsomely to acquire it.”
“We pried it from the blood-soaked hands of a dead sailor.” Challenger said, watching Lord Whitecliff for some reaction.
“I see. Had he been in the Indian Ocean?”
“Yes, he had,” Holmes replied. “At a great many ports, both within and without the Empire.”
“The Maldives?”
“Yes, within the past three months.”
“How can you be so certain, Holmes?” Challenger asked. “Does it have something to do with the tattoos?”
“No, with his boots,” Holmes replied. “The Maldive Islands are unique in the Indian Ocean in that they are formed of coral and limestone outcroppings rather than granitic extrusions; several fragments were wedged between the soles and the vamps of his boots, in addition to a few pollen specimens and a seed from a
breadfruit plant.”
“I’m beginning to believe the other half of those stories, Holmes,” Lord Whitecliff said.
Holmes waved away the ethnologist’s comments. “This object comes from the Maldives, Lord Whitecliff?”
“I would say, yes, but you would not get the present inhabitants of the islands to admit to it. You see, gentlemen, your average Maldivian is now a slave to Mohammed, and, as the Mohammedan often does, he renounced his own history, denying the existence of everything prior to the Conversion. The Maldives have a rich history, but because that history is pagan, whenever a Maldivian comes across a fragment of anything from before he sold his soul to the gentleman from Mecca, he usually destroys it.”
“Fragments such as this idol?” Challenger asked.
“This is from the Maldives’ earliest mythic cycle,” Lord Whitecliff explained. “Its exact beginning is unknown but it certainly predates the Dravidic Invasion, which brought the first inhabitants of the islands, probably fishermen from the Subcontinent, in the Third Century before Christ.”
“The belief in this M'tollo predates human habitation of the Maldives?” Challenger questioned. “How can that be?”
An expression of discomfort passed over the ethnologist’s features. “You must know that our knowledge of man’s prehistory is woefully incomplete, filled with gaps and inaccuracies.”
“The blank spots of the map reach deep into time,” Challenger said. “And there might easily be peoples unknown.”
Lord Whitecliff’s eyebrows arched in surprise “Quite.” He minutely examined the statue with a glass. “The worship of M’tollo in the Indian Ocean is extremely ancient, just how ancient no one can say, but the earliest ancestors of the present Maldivians found it already established among a semi-mythical people known as the Children of M’tollo, or the Ki’M’tollo. Because of the bloodthirsty nature of M’tollo worship, it was suppressed from the beginning, but was carried on in secret on the numerous remote atolls of the Maldives. There were reported enclaves of M’tollo worshipers as far a-field as Madagascar, India, Hadramut and Siam, but its center was definitely the Maldives, Wherever it was found, however, it was persecuted for it was a most loathsome religion—even the Thugee considered it a repellent devotion. It is an almost unknown episode of the Indian Mutiny in ‘57 that a group of Thugee and a squadron of Her Majesty’s Royal Lancers fought side by side against murderous Ki’M’tollo seeking blood-victims of all races during the conflict.”
Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) Page 25
