Shadows Over London: A Shadow Council Archives Novella Read online

  “It’s true,” Burton said at last, and told the tale of his strange journey across oceans and Time with Captain Nemo. He held nothing back, even adding the strange circumstances that led to his departure, the spiritualist madness that had so piqued the curiosity of Professor Challenger, as well as the trouble brewing in the South Seas that led Captain Nemo and the American woman Elizabeth Marsh to seek Burton’s and Challenger’s help.

  “Good Lord,” said Abberline when Burton had finished. “I need a drink.”

  Mycroft Holmes looked at Burton appraisingly.

  “You don’t believe me,” he said.

  “On the contrary,” said Mycroft. “Under the circumstances, I have no choice but to believe you. As my brother is fond of saying, once you have eliminated every possibility, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, is the truth. Now, what of this Herbert?”

  “He’s mad,” said Burton. “He tried to kill me this morning because he thought I was something called a Morlock. Of course, seven days ago I thought my fellow Cannibal Club members had all been transmogrified into the creatures we encountered on our voyage aboard the Nautilus.”

  “And I take it these Morlocks were not present during your adventure,” said Mycroft.

  “No. They were something he encountered the first time he activated his Time Machine, on a journey into far futurity.”

  Mycroft nodded. “I see. Is he the only one who can operate the machine?”

  Burton stroked his beard, staring off into space. “Well, no. I don’t think so. He explained its operations before our journey back through time aboard Nemo’s submarine. It seemed simple enough. The controls are composed of only two levers made of crystal. One controls the motion—forward or backward—through Time. The other controls the speed.” Burton returned his gaze to Mycroft Holmes.

  “Why did you visit him this morning?”

  “I wanted to know if his memories surrounding our return to London are the same as mine.” Burton told them of his conflicting memories, and the differing events that took place before he left. “I needed to see if Herbert had the same recollections. If so, it would point to…” He let his voice trail off. Chief Inspector Abberline stared down at him as if he had just sprouted a second head. Mycroft appeared more understanding.

  “This spiritualist madness sounds interesting,” he said. “I do not recall any such incidents. But let’s table this for now. I’d like you to forget about the Time Traveler as well for the time being, for we have more pressing concerns. And I think you are just the man for the job.”

  “Why me?” said Burton. “Why not Challenger?”

  “You know what a difficult man Challenger can be,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I have sent him several invitations to meet me here at the Diogenes Club; he has denied them all. I have sent messengers around with an official summons, and he has thrown them out bodily, sometimes violently. Besides, he is much too boisterous. What I need requires tact and subtlety.”

  Burton nodded. “Neither a quality the good professor possesses in abundance.”

  “Exactly,” said Mycroft.

  “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” asked Burton. “I’m not here just because I boarded a secret submarine.”

  “Your brother recommended you,” said Mycroft.

  “Edward? You know Edward?”

  Mycroft nodded once. “As you well know, your brother Edward Burton holds a vaunted position within the British government, as do I. He thinks you are just the man I need, and after careful investigation, so do I.”

  “And what of your famous younger brother?” asked Burton. “Why not the illustrious Sherlock Holmes?”

  “He is otherwise engaged. Like yourself, my brother is a member of the Shadow Council.”

  Burton leaned back in surprise. “You know of it?”

  “I know everything I need to know,” said Mycroft Holmes. “If it happens anywhere in the British Empire, you can be assured I either know of it or had a hand in orchestrating it.”

  “Well,” said Burton. “Be that as it may, I am no longer a member of this mysterious group. I did what was asked of me when I stepped aboard the Nautilus, and that’s that.”

  “The appointment,” said Mycroft, “is for life. It is not a commission one can decline. I assume you were given the chance to do so before you left on your little jaunt?”

  Burton nodded. He disliked where this was headed.

  “Well then,” said Mycroft Holmes, steepling his fingers. “As a fellow member of the Shadow Council, would you like to know why I have brought you here?”

  “I would indeed,” said Burton. So I can get back to my life. So I can fix whatever damage I’ve done to Time. So I can save my Isabel.

  “What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room.”

  Burton nodded. Abberline simply looked bored. He had obviously heard Mycroft’s spiel before.

  “We have evidence of a weird cult operating in the East End,” said Mycroft. “They call themselves the Esoteric Order of Dagon, and they are growing in numbers. They are engaging in strange occult rites, including, we believe, ritual human sacrifice.”

  A chill fled up Burton’s spine at the mention of the cult’s all too-familiar name. Mycroft saw the spark of recognition on his face.

  “You know of this cult?”

  “I have heard of it,” said Burton warily. “There was an American woman traveling with Nemo who hailed from a seaport town called Innsmouth, its history tangled in this dark cult.”

  Burton didn’t tell Mycroft and Abberline the story of her experiences with the cult, but decided it best to keep some things to himself. He didn’t not fully trust this Mycroft Holmes. Not yet.

  Mycroft smiled briefly. “Well then, it appears I have chosen wisely. You are just the man to look into this cult and stamp it out before it spreads to the rest of London.”

  “What? Stamp it out? And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “You’re resourceful. I have confidence you’ll figure something out. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how important this is.”

  “I know all too well the power and the danger this Esoteric Order of Dagon represents,” said Burton flatly.

  “Good. Then you will act with the utmost haste to see this mission to its only acceptable conclusion.”

  “Mission? Am I to take it I’m to be a foot soldier in some sort of war?”

  “We are already at war, Captain Burton,” said Mycroft, rising to his feet. He moved to the far corner of the room, which was crowded by a small table and a set of chairs. Sitting atop the table was a wooden box Burton hadn’t noticed when he and Abberline had entered the Stranger’s Room.

  “At first,” said Mycroft, “the actions of this cult were little different from the normal crimes in the Cauldron. Disappearances, murders. The usual rot and ruin. Until this turned up.”

  Burton rose from his seat to join Mycroft beside the box. Only Abberline stayed put where he was. Mycroft lifted the lid, and what Burton saw inside chilled his blood.

  It was a tall, elaborate tiara, worked in a strangely tinged gold and covered in images of marine life. Burton took an involuntary step back from it.

  “You’ve seen this before,” said Mycroft Holmes, regarding him expectantly.

  “One very similar,” said Burton. “Aboard Captain Nemo’s submarine. I had hoped to never see another one. Where did you get this?”

  “In a pawn shop on the edge of the Cauldron,” said Mycroft Holmes. “The gold itself is of a peculiar quality. I’ve had experts from all over Europe and the United States examine it, and none of them have ever seen its like. The only thing we know for sure is that the gold used to create it was not mined anywhere on Earth.”

  “Nowhere overland,” Burton corrected.

  “What?” said Mycroft.

  “When did you first become aware of this cult?” asked Burton.

  “Some three weeks ago, during your absence. And through a most bizarre contact. A crimin
al, the self-described arch-enemy of my brother, one Professor Moriarty.”

  “He’s been running most of the East End gangs for many years,” added Abberline. “If it’s dirty and in the Cauldron, Moriarty’s got his grubby hands all over it.”

  “He came to my brother shortly after you departed London,” said Mycroft, “filled with a most uncustomary fear. He told Sherlock of strange things taking place in the East End, of people going missing, numerous drownings, and large objects being heaved up out of the Thames late at night and stored in buildings along the wharf. There have also been reports of strange creatures, including fish-like entities and amorphous, iridescent blobs, like an oil slick, but that are said to move as if guided by a cold intelligence. My brother, being too preoccupied with another important matter, told me of his encounter with Moriarty, and I began putting my great intellect toward the problem. The police have scoured the Cauldron but returned with more questions than answers. Chief Inspector Abberline here has been most helpful toward that end.”

  Abberline nodded. “This Esoteric Order of Dagon is growing in strength and numbers. Folks in the Cauldron have always been reluctant to talk to the police, but they are afraid to speak a word against anyone part of that cult. I think the ones not in it are afraid of the ones who are. And one of my men saw one of them blobs Mr. Holmes spoke about. And another man hasn’t been seen since Tuesday last.”

  “The day I returned,” said Burton absently.

  “You must root out the organizers of this cult,” said Moriarty. Because it is spreading. I fear that soon the whole city will be caught up in this madness.”

  “I will do what I can,” said Burton. “If the trouble has just started, perhaps it’s not too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve heard a similar story from the American woman I met on my journey. If what happened there is taking place here, we must move quickly to contain it.”

  “What happened there?” asked Mycroft.

  Burton considered his words carefully. “Let’s just say the entire town slipped into a state from which it will probably never recover.”

  “Sounds like you are the man we need,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Just as I surmised.”

  “I’m flattered, but it’s going to take a lot more than just me.”

  Mycroft motioned toward the policeman. “Inspector Abberline is at your disposal. You are welcome to recruit anyone else you need for this venture. Discreetly, of course.”

  Burton couldn’t think of anyone else he disliked enough to want to drag them into this madness, so he changed the subject. “And how exactly am I to root out the founding members of this cult?”

  Mycroft reached into a pocket of his coat, producing a scrap of paper. “Moriarty gave my brother this.”

  Burton took the proffered scrap and unfolded it. Scrawled on it was a strange yet simplistic design he had never seen before. It appeared to be a stylized pentagram with a horizontal oval in its center. In the center of the oval was a kind of flourish that put Burton in mind of either the pupil of an eye or, more likely, a burning campfire. “I’ve never seen this before.”

  “Nor have I,” said Mycroft. “And I can’t find it in any occult text. But this emblem is popping up all over the East End, scrawled on buildings, in alley ways. And there is a pup in the East End called the Elder Sign. This insignia hangs above it from a wooden placard. I want you to go there with Chief Inspector Abberline and get to the bottom of this Dagon cult.”

  “I don’t see as we have any other choice,” said Burton to Abberline. “This is our only lead. We’ll need to go in disguise, of course.”

  “I’ll leave you two to manage the particulars,” said Mycroft Holmes. “It’s settled then. God speed you on your journey.”

  “There’s just one more thing,” said Burton.

  Mycroft Holmes arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “My fiancée Isabel is missing. She was last seen in Hyde Park. I’d like you to put your considerable intellect and resources toward finding her.”

  The large man heaved a sigh. After a beat, he said, “Consider it done.”

  The Elder Sign

  Burton followed Chief Inspector Abberline out of the Diogenes Club and back out onto the street. It was late afternoon, with the sky now obscured by dirty gray clouds, all evidence of the beautiful morning erased.

  “Sorry to get you roped into all this, old boy,” said Abberline. “I’m afraid Mr. Holmes can be quite persuasive. My superiors have more or less assigned me to his service for the foreseeable future.”

  Burton arched an eyebrow in surprise. “He is quite formidable, isn’t he? Well, I suppose there is nothing for it but to go along. We should probably make our plans for this evening. Not a wise time to go venturing into the Cauldron, but a perfect opportunity to ferret out this weird cult. Though I’m not precisely sure what Mr. Holmes wants us to do about it. I’ve never even heard of such a thing.”

  “It grew to prominence while you were away. There has been some speculation about it in the papers. Speaking of which, those strange incidents you mentioned…”

  “The spiritualist madness,” said Burton.

  “Yes. You seem to have a very good memory of it, but I don’t have any recollection of it at all. Nor did Mycroft Holmes.”

  “Yes,” said Burton with a nod, “that is one of my main concerns, and the reason I called on the, um, Time Traveler. I read several newspapers discussing it before I left. One of them was still on my writing desk when I returned home, only now it has a completely different front page headline and story.”

  “What? But how is that possible?”

  Burton pulled a cheroot from the pocket of his coat, struck a lucifer and lit the tip. He puffed on it thoughtfully before continuing. “There are only two possibilities. Either I am completely mad, or my journey through Time has inadvertently changed some small, minute detail that somehow led to this new turn of events, and this cult.

  And Isabel’s disappearance, he thought.

  Abberline nodded. “The problem with that is, how can you prove it? It’s your word against…well…the whole of London’s.”

  Burton watched a passing hansom, the smelly dray pulling it clopping on the cobblestones. “Exactly. Everyone will simply think I’m mad, which, as I just pointed out, I very well could be.”

  “Well,” said Abberline, “if the story you told us in there is true, they’ll need to lock me up in Bedlam right beside you. But I can tell you one thing, this cult is real enough. I don’t know exactly what they’re up to in the East End, but I don’t like it.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” said Burton with a smile. “Of that you can be certain. Now, let’s go to my rooms at Gloucester Place.”

  Abberline scowled. “For what?”

  “To try on disguises.”

  “Blimey. This day just gets stranger and stranger. Scotland Yard is going to owe me double time for this.”

  It was approaching midnight when two ne’re-do-wells stepped into a decrepit pub called the Elder Sign. Both men were tall, but one man was several years older than the other, and had a very pronounced Y-shaped scar on his left cheek, no doubt a memento from some long ago scrape in which he obviously emerged the victor. He wore a long, ragged coat, threadbare and one size too large for him. The top of his head was stuffed into a dirty, misshapen bowler.

  His companion was thin, with graying whiskers. He wore a brown tweed suit that had definitely seen better days, and a worn slouch hat perched at a jaunty angle on his head, casting his features in semi-shadow.

  “I look ridiculous,” said this man to his companion.

  “What matters,” said his compatriot, “is that you don’t look like a policeman. And you’d best not act like one either, or we’re both in for it.”

  Chief Inspector Frederick George Abberline stared at his companion Captain Richard Francis Burton, seeing the man beyond the petty disguise, and took a deep breath, steeling himself. He nodded to
the older man. There was a lot he could learn from the explorer, he told himself. After all, the man journeyed to Mecca—a place forbidden to the white man—and no one was the wiser. If he could blend in with the Mohammedans, he could bloody well fit in with the degenerate denizens of some dodgy East End pub. All Abberline had to do was follow his lead.

  The two men looked around the dingy pub, which was packed despite the late hour.

  “Do you have a plan?” asked Abberline.

  “Yes,” said Burton, “don’t get found out.”

  “Capital,” said Abberline, and the two men ordered pints—which arrived in chipped, dirty glasses—and waded into the thick of it.

  For the first hour, the two gentlemen in disguise got nothing for their time and trouble save a repertoire of bawdy limericks. Then they noticed a man in the back corner of the place, having a spirited yet secretive discussion with a trio of men Abberline identified as well-known cutpurses.

  Burton leaned into the bartender, a tall, swarthy man with a thick red beard, cleaning a glass with a dirty rag.

  “Who is that man?”

  The bartender looked where Burton pointed and scowled. “That’s John Gingham. He showed up in here one night about two weeks ago, talkin’ all crazy. Says he knows where anyone can get all the money they want, just by askin.”

  The barkeep shook his head and went back to making the glasses appear less dirty.

  Burton shot Abberline a sidelong glance, and the two men threaded their way toward the table of John Gingham.

  “These strange events all seem to have started while I was away,” said Burton. “There must be some connection.”

  The stepped up to the table John Gingham occupied and listened.

  “That’s right, gents. No more silly prayers and all that genuflectin’ to a god that does nothin’ fer you. I know some gods that’ll give ya whatever ya want, whatever ya need. I know some gods that will actually do ya some good in yer lives. Real gods ye can see, that’ll swim up to ya outta the deeps, all nice and proper like.”