“And when was that?” Holmes asked.
“Last year, I believe,” Crowley replied. “During break, after my return to London. You remember, Holmes, just before that unfortunate Alpine adventure of mine.”
Holmes nodded.
“May I enquire what Bronislav sought under my name?”
Challenger looked toward Holmes. At a nod, he unwrapped the object that fate and a dying sailor had delivered into Holmes’ hands.
“Good God, what a monster!” Crowley exclaimed when he saw the object. “But, oddly familiar…though I cannot say I’ve ever seen anything like it previously. A native fetish?”
“So it would appear,” Holmes said. “From some sort of ancient devil-cult operating in the Indian Ocean.”
“The Maldives,” Challenger added.
“Wait a minute,” Crowley cried, rummaging through a stack of antique folios. “I recall now…a reference Bronislav made at one of our encounters, one that so mystified me at the time that I searched it down, finally discovering it in a tome called The Secret Empire. Have you heard of it?”
Neither Holmes nor Challenger had.
“I can’t say I’m surprised," Crowley continued. “Ah, here it is. An obscure volume, to say the least, which I found only after much searching among the bookstalls one finds in the lee of the wall of Bethlehem Hospital in Moorfields. Listen to this, gentlemen: ‘Know that in primal Albion monsters dwelt in the deeps of river and sea, calling themselves Orms, calling themselves gods. Men were cattle and slaves, making obeisance to them and such sacrifices as were necessary to propitiate the blood-lust of the Orms. When men learnt to rise against their water-borne masters, the Orms retreated to their dark places, to their secret places in the Sea called Red by the Hellenes in Egypt, in the Line Isles where the people built sacred mounds and temples.’ That last, I believe, is a reference to the Maldives, which appear on maps as a straight line running north to south. Early travelers wrote about mounds and temples where sacrifices were made before the coming of Mohammed’s faith.”
Challenger frowned. “But in the Red Sea?”
“What we now call the Red Sea was known to the Greek geographers as the Arabian Gulf,” Crowley explained. “The Red Sea to them is what we call the Indian Ocean.”
“And this would be an Orm?” Challenger asked, gesturing to the idol.
“The Orms are part of the mythology of Britain, anciently called Albion,” Crowley said. “You might know them as Wyrms, Wyverns or, more commonly, dragons. There are dozens of places in Britain with connections to the mythology, as evidenced by their very names—Wormhill, Drakfeld, Ormby…well, it’s a long list.”
“What could any of that have to do with this idol or the dead sailor from whose care we received it?” Challenger demanded.
“Well, it’s all a matter of power, isn’t it,” Crowley said.
Challenger frowned, but Holmes remained inscrutable.
“What I mean,” the young man continued, “is that people like Bronislav are not explorers of the occult simply through a desire for illumination or to achieve a higher level of consciousness. They have no knowledge of spiritual ways, what I call thelema, nor will they ever possess that insight. They seek sacred objects, be it a scroll from the Alexandrine Library, a jewel form Atlantis, or that Orm-idol, all for the same reason another man might seek gold or high political office, for the power they may bring.”
“As the knights of old sought the Grail, or the True Cross?” Challenger suggested.
“Empowered by mythology,” Crowley replied with a nod. “The source of the mythology really makes little difference.”
Before Challenger could continue his questioning about belief and the nature of occult power, Holmes said: “Do you know anything further about Bronislav?”
“As I indicated, he really is rather an enigma, even within the occult circles of London and elsewhere,” Crowley answered. “He’s obviously from the Continent, but no one knows just where. He does not appear to be very old, yet he seems to have been around forever. He has no friends that I know of, and I believe I was the only one who ever extended a hand to him—obviously, everyone else knew better—but everyone seems to know of him, at least by reputation. He has a large house in Kensington, him and a servant. No one I know has ever been invited within, but rumor has it that it’s like a museum inside, filled with wonderful things.”
“I see,” Holmes mused. “Other than the slight he gave you and your dogmatic polarity, why do you consider him an evil man?”
Crowley frowned, but it was an expression born of perplexity and hesitation rather than anger. “You’ve a keen intellect, Mr Holmes, but your life is firmly rooted in the workaday world, so I am not sure I can explain it properly.”
“Yes, I live by observation and deduction,” Holmes admitted, “but even you might be surprised by what the world provides for the observant to see. Besides, what I believe or disbelieve is irrelevant. If you tell me truly about Laslo Bronislav, I will do my best to understand. Please speak freely, and frankly.”
“You know I believe in an occult world, a world of magick and hidden mysteries,” the young man began.
Holmes nodded.
“Bronislav is an embodiment of that occult world, though I cannot say quite what I mean by that,” he continued. “We believe in powers beyond sight; he lives with them. We work our ceremonies and incantations; his life is like one. We wonder; he knows. There is a certainty and confidence about him that I will never achieve, even with my admittedly vaunted ego, yet, there is also about him an aura of darkness and fear, a palpable sensation of evil. I sensed it when we met, but I tried to ignore it. It’s rumored he can project his astral body at will, can perform acts such as would have baffled even the mages of old Atlantis and Lemuria, and has carried out rites that even I would consider blasphemous, which is saying much. The damndest thing is, that although no one can give an eyewitness account of any of his powers and actions, I have no doubt that not only is there more than a grain of truth in all these whisperings and rumor mongering, but that it does nothing more than prick the surface of…of a skin of evil.” He grinned self-consciously. “And all this sounds like a load of tripe, I’m sure, Mr Holmes.”
“Over the years, I have come to the conclusion that the eye is a severely limited organ, adequate to the basic task of living within our structured society, if only men would only choose to use it,” Holmes said. “But it may not be nearly as adequate when it comes to the greater world around us. No one can see the electricity which is beginning to replace gas, but we see its results, nor will disbelief prevent electrocution. An acquaintance in Germany recently wrote about an entity invisible when viewed under normal light, but which was rendered discernable to the eye when bathed in radiation of a certain wavelength.”
“Then you understand what I am saying?” Crowley said excitedly. “You don’t discount my beliefs.”
“I admit the possibility of the unseen,” Holmes answered. “But that is yet leagues away from an admission of belief.”
Unfortunately, Crowley could furnish them with no further information about Laslo Bronislav other than the location of his house in Kensington. Challenger wrapped the idol in its covering again and they made their way back to the street, where the trade of late-morning Soho was bustling.
Again, Challenger felt suddenly immersed in a world outside the mainstream of the great city. The cafes and theatres, the women standing on corners or boldly strolling the boulevard, the gangs of ragged street Arabs, the roving costermen hawking their wares, the wretched poor at the elbows of the wealthier classes, the gin-foozled masses, the break-neck traffic—how he longed for the simplicity of some unexplored jungle realm, the comprehensible unknown rather than the unfathomable familiarities of London.
“What a very odd fellow,” Challenger commented, his thoughts returning to their encounter with ‘the most evil man in the world.’ “How much countenance do you give what he said?”
“As to
his beliefs about the illusion of the world, of being surrounded by a magical reality, not as much as he would hope,” Holmes replied. “A great deal more, though when it comes to our adversary, his actions and his intent.”
“Then you believe Laslo Bronislav is our adversary in this matter?” Challenger asked.
“It seems an inescapable deduction,” Holmes said.
“And the person who tried to follow us from the British Museum?” Challenger asked, “Bronislav?”
“More likely a confederate,” Holmes said. “We should be able to find out more when we speak to Michael later, but, first, we must pay a call upon Inspector Wilkins.”
They secured the first cab they saw, a four-wheeled ‘growler,’ and told the driver to take them to Scotland Yard. As Holmes was about to climb aboard, however, his attention was suddenly taken by an urchin hawking the Telegraph in a voice far beyond his physical size. He purchased a copy of the newspaper.
“What is of interest?” Challenger enquired as the cab rumbled into motion, its two-horse team pulling mightily, its low wheels dragging against the pavement rather than pushing forward like the high wheels of a hansom.
Holmes did not immediately answer. He flipped through the pages of the Unionist-viewpointed newspaper until he came to a small item. His normally placid brow furrowed at what he read, and, moments later, he passed the paper to Challenger.
“Mysterious events in Rotherhithe,” Challenger read. “According to a binsman walking near Swing Bridge Road in Rotherhithe Parish in Bermondsey, several large creatures emerged from the Thames at midnight and attacked sheep penned for shipment at Norway Dock. Mr Thaddeus Dyers of Camberwell told PC Odkin the creatures were each large as a house and moved with a slithering or wiggling motion, attended by a high smell. The ‘high smell’ was attributed to dyers, who was initially arrested for public drunkenness, though was later released when the Constable found the pen broken into and all the sheep missing, except for various dismembered pieces. The night watchman of Norway Dock, one Oscar Pringle, is being sought for questioning by both Scotland Yard and owners of the Northern Export Company, but he has apparently abandoned his post.” He looked at Holmes. “Is it possible? Could the Orms be real?”
Sherlock Holmes rested his sharp chin on his peaked fingertips. “You yourself told Inspector Wilkins that at times ancient life forms may survive unsuspected in our modern world. It takes no great leap of faith, then, to propose that creatures hitherto relegated to the realms of legends and folklore may have an existence beyond the bard’s imagination. But we shall see.”
Chapter Six
The traffic on Whitehall Place, especially in the vicinity of Number Four, Scotland Yard, was heavy. Holmes and Challenger had the driver of the four-wheeler drop them near the Victoria Embankment, from where it was but a short stroll to the home of the Metropolitan Police. As they climbed the flight of steps from the building’s arched entrance, one of the bobbies standing guard gave Sherlock Holmes a small, but unbegrudged, salute. They discovered Inspector Wilkins in his tiny office. He wore an uncharacteristic scowl upon his face.
“Ah, gentlemen,” he said when he saw his visitors, forcing a smile that did nothing to dispel the weariness that lined his features. “Please be seated. What news have you of that hellish idol?”
“Only that it belongs to some native cult centered in the Indian Ocean,” Holmes said. “Precious little that would be of use in a criminal investigation, I fear.”
“My superiors are unconvinced there should be a criminal investigation at all,” the inspector reported.
“How can they possibly say that?” Challenger demanded, his deep voice booming against the walls. “Did they not see the body of that poor sailor?”
“That is precisely what moves them to believe the perpetrator is some kind of animal loose in the heart of London rather than a murdering human,” Wilkins replied.
“It’s true the wounds appear to have been made by claws, but they could have been made by weapons wielded by men, or the animals could have been controlled by men,” Challenger said.
Wilkins looked at the naturalist askance. “My superiors made it more than abundantly clear that they do not want to raise the specter of another Ripper at large, as in ’88, nor do they want any human agency cited or implied. No madman. No bloody cult going on a murder spree. Given the dead man’s unsavory character, they are quite in favor of an inquest ruling death by misadventure—the man tried to smuggle into the country some beast that went amok, killed him and was later drowned in the Thames.”
“Preposterous!” Challenger barked.
“I tend to agree, Professor,” Wilkins said, “but my instructions are explicit.”
“What about the incident at the Norway Dock?” Challenger demanded. “The beasts!”
“Ah, you’ve read of that,” Wilkins said. “My superiors want no connection between the two events.”
“Only a village idiot could not see a connection between the two,” Challenger spat, “And with the idol.”
Inspector Wilkins sighed, smiled faintly, and said quite softly: “Unfortunately, Professor, the upper echelons of Scotland Yard deprives many villages of perfectly good idiots.”
Challenger laughed to shake the foundations.
“Who was the dead man?” Sherlock Holmes asked.
Adopting a more sober expression, Wilkins consulted a file on his desk. “His name was John Neville, also known as India Jack Neville, arriving last night on the Eastern Zephyr, a general packet out of Alexandria. Fortunately for us, he still owed a rather large sum of money to the First Mate—dicing wagers made on a marker prior to the deceased confining himself to his cabin—so it was not difficult to find someone anxious to identify him from among ships recently docked in the East End,”
“Good work, Wilkins,” Holmes said. “Odd, thought, that the Mate would let Neville get ashore without satisfying the debt first. Sailors are, on the whole, an untrusting lot, especially when it comes to wagers made with transient passengers.”
“Neville told him he was about to come into a great deal of money, a ‘bloody fortune,’ as he put it,” Wilkins explained. “Besides, Neville swore upon his tattoos, and you know how much that counts with that lot.”
“A solemn oath among men of the sea,” Holmes agreed. “What of Neville’s character, of which you spoke so disparagingly?”
“A bad sort, given over to the casual evil that afflicts many men away from the strictures of society,” Wilkins replied. “A review of the Central Records Office revealed serious form—accusations of murder, mayhem and theft abound. Had he not made himself a resident of the world’s hinterlands, he would no doubt have met the hangman long ago, hence the eagerness of my superiors to consider his fate a case of delayed justice. It’s a wonder the scoundrel had the temerity to return to London at all.”
“Yet, for all his faults, India Jack Neville was an honorable man,” Holmes mused. “Mind you, not the sort of honor as would pass in Fleet Street, or even the halls of Parliament, but a sense of honor all the same, whose word earned the trust of the Eastern Zephyr’s First Mate. And he was also trusted by he who engaged him to bring that idol to England.”
“Who was that?” Wilkins asked. “What have you found out?”
“It is as yet unclear,” Holmes said, earning a startled gaze from Challenger.
“Well, I don’t suppose it matters, now that the case has been taken out of my hands,” Wilkins said with a slight sigh. “What will you do now, Holmes?”
“Continue my investigation, as time permits,” the consulting detective replied. “This man Neville may indeed have met a fate of his own making, though not in the sense intended by your superiors, but he yet deserves justice and a final rest nonetheless.”
“Good show, Holmes, well done,” Wilkins said softly. “What about the idol?”
“It is the key to the whole mystery, but I have yet to find the proper lock,” he said. “I may continue to hold it then?”
/> Wilkins nodded. “No crime, no evidence. Seeing as how it is made of stone rather than gold or silver, not much interest was taken in it. What will you do with it afterwards?”
“The British Museum has evidenced an interest in it for its ethnological gallery,” Challenger said. “I would assume Scotland Yard would have no issue with its donation, ultimately.”
“Seems a fitting end for it,” Wilkins said. “What about the man Neville was bringing it to?”
“He lingers in the shadows,” Holmes said. “Now that the idol is beyond his grasp, he may never step from those shadows.”
“Ah, well,” Wilkins sighed. “It’s unfortunate we cannot point to some bloody cult or a grand conspiracy—it would be the easiest way to force my superiors to believe there has indeed been a crime. I, for one, believe there has been a crime, but my hands are tied.”
“We will keep you informed, Inspector,” Holmes said.
“Thank you, Mr Holmes, Professor Challenger.”
As the men stood to exchange handshakes, the building seemed to lurch, one way, then the other. Simultaneously, they heard a loud explosion and debris began falling around them.
Challenger found himself on the floor. He accepted Holmes’ assisting hand. Back on his feet, he grasped an edge of the desk until the world stopped spinning.
“A gas main must have exploded,” Challenger gasped.
“If that had been the case, the tenor, duration and pattern of the explosive concussion would have been much different,” Holmes pointed out. “Most likely a deliberate attack, perhaps the work of a group like the Dynamiters.”
“Blast and damnation!” Wilkins blurted uncharacteristically, his features twisted into a pained grimace. The left sleeve of his jacket had been ripped open by the jagged end of a falling timber. The material was soaked with blood. “It’s been more than ten years since they were active!”
Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) Page 27
