The Dark Missions of Edgar Brim

by Shane Peacock

  Edgar hated to admit it to himself, but he missed Tiger. In fact, he missed her dearly. It got worse as the weeks passed. He sat alone in his room night after night, remembering the things they had done together and thinking about the fact that he had no idea where she had gone. He might never see her again. He had pushed his dear friend away, for the crime of trying to get somewhere in the world. He began to wonder if there was any way he might find her. A solution came to him. But in order to do it, he had to attempt a “Tiger thing.”

  He remembered hearing Usher speaking to her as they moved away from his door, down the hallway to meet the waiting driver and his black horse on her last day. The porter was a man of few words. “We are making up your records. Once you are settled in the city, they shall be sent to you.”

  Edgar knew that students’ personal records were kept locked in the headmaster’s office and the only way to find her address was to get into Griswold’s files. He tried to imagine how Tiger would go about it. It occurred to him that much of her technique was simple boldness. She bravely went right to the thing she wanted and pounced at the perfect moment.

  Then he thought about the headmaster. Everyone in the school feared him so much that no one in their right mind would enter his room when he was not there. Not even Lear. That meant Griswold would never expect such a thing and likely kept his door unlocked.

  Since Edgar was a final-year student, many of his classes were on the third floor, the same level from which Griswold ruled his empire. The day after he’d made his decision, Edgar took a slightly different route between classes than usual so that he passed directly by the headmaster’s office. He saw the old man come out, slam his door and head off down the hallway with his whip at his side. There were just a few students in the corridor. Edgar kept walking, then did an abrupt turn and headed back toward the office. This time, the hallway was clear. He opened the door quickly and darted inside, closing it behind him.

  The room smelled of old man, stinky with the body odor and secret farts of the headmaster of the College on the Moors. The Reverend Spartan Griswold was a connoisseur of cheese, and Edgar could tell. He held his nose. There was a large wooden desk directly in front of him and on it were what appeared to be a series of upright knives and needles on little stands, and skewered upon them were Griswold’s memos to himself. He liked to impale things. The stone room was dim and filled with stacks of papers, wooden filing cabinets and a bookshelf along the wall with just a few volumes in it. Edgar ignored the portrait of old Emeritus staring down on him and moved to the cabinets and examined the labels on the outside. STUDENTS, read one. He slid a drawer open. It creaked as if it hadn’t been oiled since the 1600s.

  Edgar froze. Would that sound be heard out in the hall? What would Griswold do to him if he found him here? The headmaster had never whipped him. He was certain the beating would be vicious. But all was quiet outside.

  The file was alphabetical and, unfortunately, he had opened A, the wrong drawer. He pushed it back in a half inch at a time. He examined the others. How many drawers down would he have to go to find T? He chose the bottom one. Because it bore the weight of the whole ancient cabinet, he knew it would squeak like a rat. He pulled it back, slowly. It squealed as if it were alive and he was killing it, still no sound from the hallway. He made up his mind. He couldn’t stay here forever, pulling out the drawer inch by inch. Griswold could return at any minute.

  He yanked hard and pulled it right out. It screamed. But there were the T files. He flew through the students’ names until he came to Tiger’s and seized her pages. There was her new address on Mordaunt Street in Brixton, in London! But written across it was a slash of handwriting: Moving to America.

  It was like a dart to his heart. He gasped and slammed the drawer shut.

  As the sound settled, he heard footsteps in the hallway. They were coming his way and moving fast. They thundered on the floor.

  Edgar turned and made for the door. But the footsteps were picking up speed. In a second, they were right at the entrance. Edgar saw the knob turn and the door open. Big-nosed Spartan Griswold, giant in height and strength, and a vicious practitioner of the whip, stood before him.

  11

  Mission

  With a terrifying smile, the headmaster began to slowly close the door behind him. But suddenly a hand stopped it from sealing shut.

  “Yes, Lear, may I help you?” asked Griswold impatiently. “I am about to deal with this trespassing child.” The excitement in his face betrayed his intention: to exact brutal blows to the flesh of another student, this particular one.

  Edgar couldn’t move a muscle. Do not be afraid, he ordered himself. He didn’t know which of these two enemies was worse. He dreaded the thought of the whip, but Lear, who was glowering down upon him, made him tremble. “Where is the ink!” thundered the one-armed man at Edgar.

  “Ink?” asked Brim, barely able to get the word out.

  “Don’t be smart with me. You know why I asked you to come to the headmaster’s office! Do you have your head in the clouds again?”

  “Ink?” asked Griswold, beginning to appear disappointed.

  “I told him you would have a good supply here,” said Lear, motioning to the bottom shelf where the headmaster indeed kept big bottles. Among Griswold’s eccentricities was his desire to control all the supplies at the school. “Do you not recall that, Brim?” He seemed to nod slightly as he said it.

  Edgar paused. “Yes, yes, I recall that, sir. I am very sorry.”

  “No need for that. Pick up a bottle and come with me.”

  “But—” sputtered Griswold.

  “Yes, Headmaster?”

  “He came in here when I was out. He must be punished.”

  “My fault. I told him to go in if you were not here. I know you leave your door unlocked. It is an admirable choice and a great lesson to the boys about honor and trust.”

  “But—”

  “Brim, shall we be on our way? We must not keep the headmaster.”

  Edgar swept up an ink bottle, rushed past the open-mouthed Griswold and was out in the hallway with Lear in an instant. They moved silently down the stone floor for a while. The professor took the bottle from him.

  “I didn’t know we needed ink, sir.”

  “We don’t. What were you searching for in there? And don’t say nothing.”

  “Miss Tilley’s address.”

  “She is in London. Did you find it?”

  “Yes, sir. But there was a note on it saying she was going abroad.”

  “Would you like to investigate this further?”

  “Yes, sir, though I’m not sure how to proceed. I’m not sure I should pursue this at all. I would need permission to go to the city, and money, and I don’t know how to get either.”

  “Come with me.”

  Lear led Edgar to his classroom. The thick wooden tables were littered with test tubes, mortars and pestles, and Bunsen burners. Rubber tubes led from vats into flasks. There were floor-to-ceiling glass cabinets filled with containers of liquid and powdered chemicals. Skeletons hung on stands. It was the sort of place where you could make a monster, like Victor Frankenstein had.

  Lear looked up and down the hallway and then locked them in. Edgar kept his distance. If he was going to find Tiger, he had to do so immediately. She could be gone forever any day now. It was Wednesday. There were no classes on Saturday and Sunday, and a train left Altnabreac Station each Friday evening for London. He could take it and be back to the moors by Sunday night. Graduation was next week. But even if he could muster the courage to go, how in the world would he do it? Alfred Thorne had made it clear that he was not allowed, under any circumstances, to leave school, except for the Christmas holidays.

  Lear moved closer to him. Edgar stepped back. The bearded man halted just inches from him.

  “You indeed need consent to leave the college, Brim.”

  “My stepfather, Alfred Thorne, will not give it.”

  “Then you ar
e in an intriguing situation.”

  Edgar thought of the strange card Lear had given him that night in his room years ago. It was still in his bedside table. “Were I to decide to go, would you help me?” Edgar asked, though he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

  “You could consider it done,” said Lear and turned back to his desk and began rummaging in a drawer.

  At first, Edgar didn’t know how to respond. Then he found his tongue. “May I ask how you would accomplish it, sir?”

  “The Royal Mail is delivered here Mondays and Wednesdays, as you know. I shall forge a note from your adoptive father now, giving you permission to go to London on Friday and return by the Sunday evening train. I shall make up a reason for your absence, something about a family gathering. I will deposit said letter in the bag tonight before Usher distributes its contents tomorrow. I know his habits. It shan’t be a difficult thing. Griswold is a lazy man, my boy. He will not recall Alfred Thorne’s handwriting nor will he investigate any of this further. I can assure you there will be no inquiries made to Thorne House, London. He will simply call you to the office, likely by Friday noon, to give his official permission and let you go, as long as you return at the required time. If you decide not to leave, you can tell him you are ill, or some such thing.”

  Lear closed his desk drawer. “Take this.” He handed the boy several pound notes. “Return them should you resolve to stay.”

  “Th-thank you,” Edgar sputtered. Why was Lear helping him?

  “You are dismissed, Brim.”

  Edgar wanted to ask the old man much more, but he had gotten what he needed and didn’t want to push his luck. It might be a mistake to ask Lear why his name was in the journal. It might not even be him anyway. Edgar turned to leave, but as he unlocked the door, he heard the professor’s voice.

  “Oh, Brim?”

  When he turned, he saw that Lear had put his spectacles on and opened a thick novel.

  “Should you go to London, I would impose one condition in exchange for my assistance.” He lifted his eyes up above the spectacles. “You must visit the society named on the card I gave you some time ago.”

  Edgar gulped. “All right, sir.”

  “And Brim.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You could give my regards to Miss Tilley.”

  As Edgar stepped out into the hallway, he thought he caught a glimpse of the edge of a hooded cloak disappearing around a corner.

  Edgar spent the rest of the day moiling about what he should do. It would be a daring move, perhaps not worth it if Thorne found out. But Tiger could be lost forever.

  That night, he went to the infirmary for another visit with G. Lancelot Newman, and because he knew he might not see the boy for a while, brought a special book to read aloud: The Personal History of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. It began: “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.”

  Master Newman was delighted with that beginning. He sat up and looked as bright as a shilling, brighter than he had ever appeared before. He listened intently. There were no monsters, but a good deal of truth and a few nervous moments. When Edgar finished, the child smiled.

  “I should like to be the hero of my life. Do you think that possible?”

  “Absolutely. You will be, Master Newman, trust me.”

  “I know the monsters are real, sir, but I think I shall challenge them. I think I shall choose not to be afraid.”

  “Good for you, my friend.”

  G. Lancelot Newman went to sleep immediately after that, drifting off with a smile on his face as Edgar watched over him. His eyes did not move under his lids and his rest was undisturbed. A magic moment had come.

  Edgar thought of the little boy’s last words and repeated them. “I know the monsters are real, but I think I shall challenge them. I think I shall choose not to be afraid.” But he didn’t smile when he said them, for as he spoke a cold sensation came over him, as if a breeze had entered the room and gone through his heart. He couldn’t explain it, but it seemed as if there was a presence nearby. He suddenly felt that the child was in danger. He pulled the covers up over Lancelot’s little chest and tucked them under his chin. He got up and surveyed the room, sure they were not alone.

  “Is someone there?” he asked, his voice trembling. All he could make out were shadows in the corners. Then, for an instant, he thought he saw something move on a distant bed, but when he trained his eye there was nothing. Of course there was nothing, he told himself. He had much to do the next day, so he left, closing the door slowly behind him, with one last glance back at the middle cot in that sea of white.

  The next morning he awoke to the news of Lancelot Newman’s death.

  They held the funeral on Friday morning. The entire school—one hundred and ninety-nine students, twelve professors, one driver and groundskeeper, one cook and one headmaster—were gathered about in the rain in the graveyard at the rear near the rugby field, dressed in black. Lancelot’s parents were not in attendance, although the rumor was that they were home in England and had simply instructed the school to bury their only son “without fuss.” The black horse brought the body on the rugged carriage, a bible passage was read, the small coffin was lowered into the hole that Usher and the driver had dug, and G. Lancelot Newman was put to rest in an unmarked grave at the back of the cemetery.

  Most of the students and school officials seemed put out by the inconvenience of having to attend the funeral for this weakling in the rain. Only three people appeared even the least disturbed: Edgar Brim had to fight with every ounce of willpower he had not to break down and cry; Professor Lovecraft wept uncontrollably and didn’t seem to care that others noticed; and Lear looked ghastly that day, suit in disarray, cravat poorly knotted, hair more than usually disheveled, as pale as the ghosts that it was said walked upon the moors. Lear’s black eyes never once left Brim throughout the service. Edgar felt as if the old man were trying to tell him something—something he couldn’t say aloud.

  Edgar Brim was not only crushed by Master Newman’s death, he was terrified by it. Had he, in fact, felt a presence in the infirmary the night the child died? And why was Lear now giving him that unblinking stare? GO, it seemed to say.

  There was only one person he could talk to about this, and she lived in London, he hoped. He lay on his bed after the funeral, his heart pounding, staring at the ceiling. There was a knock on the door.

  “Master Brim,” called out Usher. “The Headmaster wishes to see you.”

  Griswold had the letter in hand, tapping it against his desk, but regarding Edgar.

  “Your presence is required in London,” he said, “at a family gathering. Your stepfather says it is important.”

  Edgar thought of the night in the infirmary, of the pitiable little coffin, of Lear’s warning look. What was happening at the College on the Moors?

  “Well, sir,” he said, “then I suppose I must go.”

  12

  The Crypto-Anthropology Society of the Queen’s Empire

  Edgar arrived in London in the early hours of Saturday morning, his black school jacket rumpled from his restless sleep on the hard third-class train seat. He was rumpled too—his flaming red hair unkempt and the dark circles under his blue eyes re-appearing for the first time in months. He was sad and frightened and excited.

  He strode from the station on Drummond Street into a crush of pedestrians just beginning their day. He had come here on a mission and there was no time to waste. His first job was to find his friend. But he didn’t just want to be near her anymore, simply seek her friendship again; he needed to share with her what had happened the night Lancelot Newman died. She knew about his nightmares and how they affected his life and had always been sympathetic. But he had never mentioned the idea that the monsters might be real, nor had he shared with her Lear’s late-night visit long ago, or shown her the card he now carried in his pocket.


  Finding directions to Brixton from the map he had copied out at the college, he took the underground railway southeast to Aldgate, near Whitechapel where the Ripper had ruled, and then got out and walked briskly to Monument Station and rode in one of the little electric cars on the new City and South Railway “tube” under the River Thames to its last station in North Brixton. From there, he walked along wide, crowded Stockwell Road, past shops and shouting hawkers and the smells of horse droppings and mongers’ wares—pungent fish, aromatic flowers and vegetables a little past their prime—keeping his hand on his wallet to protect it from the street urchins and pickpockets. Five minutes later, he turned and followed a narrower residential road until he came to Mordaunt Street. It was filled with row housing. He approached Tiger’s address.

  But when Edgar stepped through the little brown-iron gate and walked up two short steps to the door, everything appeared quiet inside. He hesitated, lifted the brass knocker, and tapped lightly. No response. He tapped again, this time harder, and still no one came. He could slam it down with a bang, make sure she wasn’t there, but he was reluctant. Though part of him was terrified she was gone forever, another part was almost relieved. It might be best to forget her and Master Newman and the monsters and his past, just graduate from the College on the Moors and return to the Thornes and the future their money could provide for him. It might be easier to never see Tiger again.

  But as he turned to retreat down the steps, he heard the door open behind him and then that voice, her real voice. “Edgar?” She sounded sleepy. “Is it you?” He turned back to see her rub her eyes. Then her face hardened. “What do you want?”