“Why wouldn’t they?” Christine demanded, sounding rather offended.
Griffin unsuccessfully tried to hide a smile behind his napkin. “As fascinating as your studies are, Doctor, I think it would take more than the lure of knowledge to inspire them to create monstrosities.”
“Or would it?” They both looked at me, and I hunched my shoulders under their scrutiny. “What if the Brotherhood’s motives are no different than ours? What if they wish to regain some bit of lost knowledge? If they stole Blackbyrne’s body to resurrect him with some abominable ritual, perhaps they mean to do the same with Nephren-ka.”
Christine’s eyes widened. “My mummy! Those bastards are after my mummy!”
Griffin frowned slightly at us; no doubt he believed we were jumping to conclusions. “Is there anything special about Nephren-ka?”
Christine and I exchanged a look. “Nyarlathotep?” she asked.
“Nyarlathotep,” I agreed.
Chapter 10
“I have no idea what you mean,” Griffin said, looking bemused. “Care to share?”
“Nephren-ka was erased from history,” Christine said. She sat on the edge of the seat, her hands clasped eagerly before her, her eyes alight at the chance to expound on her favorite subject. “His name was chiseled off monuments of the era, painted over on papyrus scrolls, even scratched off potsherds. I’ve never seen such a complete attempt to destroy even the memory of an individual. It took years of searching, but just enough clues remained for me to locate his tomb.”
“Which, if the papers were to be believed, was a spectacular find.”
“The papers—bah! They go on and on about gold and gems, and ignore the true wealth of the tomb. The entrance wasn’t just hidden—it was literally buried beneath tons of rubble. Between the rubble and his effacement from history, no looters got to it. We were the first to step inside after the last mourners left him over four millennia ago.”
“I see. And what has this to do with the Brotherhood?”
“In the few references to him which survived, Nephren-ka was called the Black Pharaoh due to his reputation for dark sorcery. Some scholars argue he was mad, and certainly he did a great many odd things, including ordering the construction of an utterly lightless temple to house an object referred to as the Shining Trapezohedron. He was also a heretic and worshipped a being known as Nyarlathotep.
“At any rate, Nephren-ka’s enemies feared his wrath enough to bury him in splendor when he at last met his fate, although they did raze the lightless temple to the ground and grind the very masonry into dust. The tomb was typical for its era, aside from one curious thing. Rather than being designed with traps to keep looters out, it seemed more designed to keep its occupant in.”
A shudder crawled up my spine, and Griffin’s mouth tightened. “I see,” he said.
“The name Nyarlathotep appears occasionally after,” I said, “although much has been lost to history.”
“Or to the follies of my so-called colleagues,” Christine muttered.
Knowing she could go on for hours about the incompetence of other archaeologists, I hastily said, “Interestingly enough, the name reappears in the Middle Ages, several thousand years after Nephren-ka lived. Again, the references are fragmentary, but they are always associated with alchemy, sorcery, and occultism of various kinds. One of Nyarlathotep’s aliases, ‘the Man in the Woods,’ appears in testimony regarding Theron Blackbyrne, when he was accused of witchcraft in Salem.”
I trailed off, remembering again the hooded figure in the Draakenwood. But, uncanny as the apparition had been, I couldn’t believe it to be anything more than a creature of flesh-and-blood. Not if I wanted to retain my sanity, at any rate.
Griffin’s eyes darkened, and I suspected he was thinking along the same lines. “You mean to say there is a connection.”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “However, the question as to why remains. What does the Brotherhood want?”
“They want what these sort of men always want.” Griffin steepled his fingers in front of his chin and watched us thoughtfully. “Power. Whether such power takes the form of money, knowledge, or something else is probably immaterial to them. If they believe Nephren-ka has something they need, then they will stop at nothing to get it. Tell me, what sort of precautions is the museum taking after last night?”
“The director is practically hiring an army,” Christine said. This was news to me, since I’d not paid as much attention as I should have during the meeting. “With the full cooperation of the trustees and the president. There will be no less than twenty guards on the premises, day and night, with four stationed in the exhibit hall itself. The press are going mad, so add in a second army of reporters crawling around the place, snapping pictures, and poking their noses where they don’t belong.”
“The Brotherhood might raise an army of their own, but not without drawing attention,” Griffin murmured thoughtfully. He tapped his fingers against his lips. I clasped my hands in my lap to keep from reaching across and smoothing away the lock of hair tumbled across his furrowed brow.
“Then this is a good thing?” I suggested.
He glanced up at me, and a smile replaced his frown. “Indeed. You and Dr. Putnam have dealt them a serious blow.”
I stared down at my hands awkwardly. Christine only snorted. “You had best believe I’ll be better armed the next time. Things would have gone far worse if Whyborne hadn’t been there. Which is not something I admit lightly; I rather prefer to think I can take care of myself.”
“You can,” I protested. “Had we been attacked by a charging hippopotamus, I would have left it to you.”
“A what?” Griffin asked, bemused.
“A hippo,” Christine said. “The most dangerous animal in Africa. One decided to charge my excavation team while we unloaded equipment from the boat. They move quite quickly when they are motivated, so I was forced to shoot the poor thing. And I must say, Mr. Flaherty, you seem very blasé about all of my adventures. Most of the time, I have to put up with men telling me to stop talking, get married, and stay at home. Except for Whyborne, of course.”
Griffin chuckled. “Have you ever heard of Kate Warne? If Timothy Webster was Allen Pinkerton’s right hand man, she was his left. She formed and headed up the division of Lady Pinkertons. I have worked with determined women before.”
“Good. Then you won’t object to my assisting you and Whyborne in your investigation.”
Griffin arched a brow. “That depends. Can you be of assistance?”
“With all due respect to Whyborne, no one knows Nephren-ka better than me.”
“It’s true,” I said. “Perhaps if we knew what exactly they want from him, we could find some way of preventing them from getting it. After all, the museum can’t keep on an army of guards indefinitely.”
“True. Although I doubt the Brotherhood will wait very long.” Griffin said thoughtfully. “Between the newspapers and the hired guards, they’ll probably strike at a time when a large group of people coming into the hall won’t seem out of place.”
“The gala,” I blurted.
Griffin nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking. There will be caterers, guests, all sorts of people wandering about. The guards will no doubt be pulled back to avoid upsetting the wealthy donors, some of whom may well belong to the Brotherhood. It would be the perfect moment to make their move.”
“I told the director the blasted gala was a bad idea,” Christine said with a sigh.
“How are we to stop them?” I asked. A sour feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. “We can’t just walk into the director’s office and tell him a secret society is plotting to steal the mummy, because they mean to raise him from the dead to gain his secret knowledge. He’d have us locked up in a madhouse!”
Griffin went pale; had I not been watching him at the moment, I’d never have noticed it. Then he seemed to remember himself, and his expression shifted back to something approaching normal. “Quite right,”
he said. “Believe me, I face the same difficulties with my client.”
“We could show him your-your spell, Whyborne,” Christine said.
Griffin gave her a wry smile. “You can barely accept it yourself, Dr. Putnam. Tell me, if you hadn’t seen it under the circumstances in which you did, but rather in a well-lit office in the middle of the day, wouldn’t you have thought it some sort of cheap trick? A magic act—elaborate, but still an act?”
Her mulish expression suggested she wanted to deny it, but after a moment, she shook her head. “You’re right. I’ve seen plenty of similar tricks on the streets of Cairo, performed in exchange for a few coins.”
“Well, then,” I said, setting down my fork beside my largely-uneaten meal. “I suppose it’s up to us.”
~ * ~
Even though totally exhausted, I couldn’t sleep that night.
It wasn’t simply the enormous task which lay before us, although how a private detective, an archaeologist, and a comparative philologist were to thwart the plans of a powerful secret society, I had no idea.
The Arcanorum haunted me; or, rather, some of the rituals within its pages did. I couldn’t stop thinking about the lists of chemicals, the methods of preparing the bodies, the salts, the chants.
I sat in bed, the covers pulled up securely to my chest, and held the old photograph of Leander in my hands. It had been such a long time. Whole days passed now when I didn’t think of him at all.
If I had been stronger and less selfish, he’d still be alive. If I had been better, if I had deserved him, how many nights might we have sat across from one another over dinner, or in front of a fire? How brilliant a life might he have had; what gifts would he have brought to the world with his wonderful mind?
What if I could fix my old mistake? What if I could use the Arcanorum to bring him back?
I put down the picture and took the Arcanorum from my nightstand. Turning to one of the pages I’d marked, I read the passage again: “Yog-Sothoth opens the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate.”
I didn’t know what sort of entity Yog-Sothoth might be, but there were many cryptic references to “other spheres” and “those from Outside.” Whatever these beings might be, they were clearly not of this earth.
If I brought back Leander, would it really be my old friend? Or something else, something unspeakable and terrible?
Wasn’t it a chance worth taking, though? How could I let my cowardice condemn him a second time?
Could I talk to Griffin about this? But it would mean confessing my part in Leander’s death, and I didn’t want him to think badly of me. Quite the contrary.
Perhaps I’d gain some answers as we went further into our investigations. If we were correct, if the Brotherhood had brought Blackbyrne back to life and not simply some horror wearing his likeness, then I would go to Addison. I would lay everything out before him; I would show him my little trick with the fire. He was Leander’s father; the decision rightfully belonged to him.
And if he refused?
I put the photo back in its drawer, along with the Arcanorum. I’d find no answers tonight. After blowing out the candle, I pulled the covers up around my shoulders and tried not to think.
~ * ~
Sunday afternoon, I was surprised by a knock on my apartment door.
No one ever visited me. Someone must have mistaken my door for another. I ignored the knock, until it was repeated even more insistently. “Whyborne? Are you home?” Griffin called.
I sprang up, annoyed by the way my heart suddenly sped. Why would Griffin call on me at home? A dozen fantasies instantly came to mind, each more unlikely than the last. I wiped my sweating palms on my trousers, tried to compose myself, and opened the door.
Griffin leaned against the wall, dressed like a laborer in a frayed scarf, battered cap, heavy knit sweater, and scuffed boots.
“I, er,” I said stupidly. “That is…will you come in?”
His green eyes flashed mirthfully from beneath the brim of his cap. “Thank ‘ee, sir, I believe I will,” he said in a lilting Irish accent, as if he’d stepped off the boat yesterday. “If yer neighbors willna be thinking it odd.”
“This is Widdershins—we keep to ourselves,” I reminded him, as I stepped out of the way. “And, forgive me, but why on earth are you talking like an Irishman?”
“I am an Irishman.”
“From Kansas.”
“It’s something I learned from my time in the Pinkertons,” he said, dropping the accent and strolling further into the room. “People are quicker to trust those who look and sound like themselves. I intend to pay a little visit to the district near the docks this evening, to speak with one of my informants. I thought you might wish to accompany me.”
“I don’t think I could pass myself off very convincingly,” I said, shutting the door. I glanced around the barren confines of my apartment. How must its drab brown walls and threadbare carpets look to him?
Griffin stood in front of the bookcase and studied the titles. “I don’t know; you’d make a convincing clerk.”
“Why?” But wasn’t I the one who had insisted on being a part of his investigations? What had I been thinking? “I’m willing to accompany you, of course, but I don’t see what I have to offer.”
He turned from the books and gave me an enigmatic smile. “I suspect you have a great deal to offer, my dear Whyborne.”
My ears grew hot—and my trousers uncomfortably tight, even though he surely meant nothing untoward by the remark.
“Well?” he asked. “Will you come with me?”
“Y-yes. Yes. Just let me get my coat and hat.” I donned my overcoat hastily, buttoning it closed to hide my erection. What was it about Griffin which strained my control like no one else I’d ever met? His flashing eyes, no doubt, combined with his tousled hair and wicked grin.
Nothing to do with the way he’d helped pick up my things the first day we’d met, or how he’d stood up for me against Bradley, or the way he’d hurried over to the museum to see for himself I was all right.
Blast it.
~ * ~
The icy air outside quelled my unruly member quickly enough. Griffin led the way at a brisk walk, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the wind. The air smelled of sea and snow, and I guessed there would be another few inches added to the slush already on the ground by morning.
We made our way to the southern part of the dock district, where brothels, gambling dens, and saloons mixed with cheap boarding houses and rather questionable groceries. The streets were narrow and crooked, and the alleys choked with garbage and sleeping men.
Those we passed on the street eyed us warily. Many of them were unshaven, with faces seamed by the sun. Some were missing hands, arms, or legs, the victims of whaling accidents or shifting cargo. They were a rough-dressed lot, and I was glad I’d taken Griffin’s advice and left my pocket watch at home.
“I rather feel as if I stand out here,” I confessed in a low voice. It was an uncomfortable sensation; normally my clothing allowed me to blend in and go unnoticed. Even my ties were brown or gray, with no splash of color to catch the eye. Here, though, the quality of my suit set me apart even if the drabness didn’t.
“With any luck, we’ll be able to turn it to our advantage,” Griffin murmured. “If they think you’re some innocent clerk come slumming, they may be less cautious of what they say in front of you. Speaking of which, as far as the people we’re about to meet know, I’m a day laborer by the name of Greg Flannery. You can be…hmm, how about Weatherby? You’re a clerk at the Second Bank of Widdershins.”
“What if they bank there? They’re sure to know I’m an imposter.”
Griffin patted my arm. “My dear Whyborne, banks have this strange habit of requiring people to actually have money in order to do business with them. I assure you, there’s only one person in the establishment likely to have ever set foot in a bank, and you won’t be speaking with her.”
The buildin
g we halted in front of was two stories, with solid brick walls and weathered cornices. Nothing from the outside gave any particular clue as to what its nature might be. Griffin looked at it for a moment, and when he turned to me, he was grinning.
“Well, Mr. Weatherby, will ye come along, then?” he asked, before opening the door and ushering me inside.
I entered despite my misgivings. A rather large man stood just within, eyeing me in a most unfriendly fashion.
Griffin slipped around me and gave the man a nod. “Evenin’,” he said easily. “Figured I’d bring me new friend Mr. Weatherby around for a spot of fun, eh?”
The man only nodded. Griffin took my arm and pulled me after him.
The end of the hall was covered in a beaded curtain, which let us out into a very large room. Along one wall ran a bar, well-stocked with bottles and kegs. Directly across from the entrance was a sort of low stage: two women wearing very little clothing danced to the tune of an upright piano. A good number of men sat at their ease around tables between bar and stage: drinking, gambling, catcalling, or lavishing attention on the scandalously-clad women sitting in their laps. A stair led up to a long second-floor balcony, lined with doors, and men and women made their way up and down the steps in pairs. The air smelled of spilled beer and floral perfume.
I grabbed Griffin’s arm. “Dear heavens, man! You’ve brought me to a house of ill-repute!”
Chapter 11
“Don’t be absurd,” he murmured back. “It’s also a saloon and gambling den.”
“B-But I…that is, we—”
“Sometimes an investigation means we have to go to unsavory places. Don’t worry—it’s quite reputable, as these things go. No one’s been murdered here in at least a week.”
I started to point out that the law didn’t allow saloons to open on Sundays, before realizing the absurdity of my comment given the circumstances. Griffin was apparently known here already; a man called out to him, and he laughed and waved back.
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 9
