Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) Page 2

  Sherlock Holmes and the Cthulhu Mythos.

  Not really such an odd couple.

  I would have never written this story, or have become a writer, had I not been introduced to H.P. Lovecraft by a high school teacher. By tenth grade, I had been writing for about almost a decade, all bad juvenile efforts, none with any idea of publication. I might have kept on that dead-end path had Mr Robert Vigil, my homeroom teacher, not asked to see the story I was writing in class (all homework done the night before), He made the suggestion that I not only look up Lovecraft but start to think about publication. It was a small event in his life, but huge one in mine, and it’s a turning point I’ve never forgot. In Beneath Strange Stars (2015), a short story collection covering 40+ years of writing, I was able to share the event with the world and dedicate the book to Mr Vigil.

  The Adventure of the Ancient Gods

  I am compelled to speak of the events which occurred in the summer of 1927, only two short years ago, though I vowed then to never again think of them. It has been a most difficult decision, and not one I take lightly, especially since I was at the time he who was most adamant that all involved swear an inviolate oath of absolute secrecy. I trust all will understand my reasons for what I now do.

  I am breaking my self-imposed silence partly because of the vague yet palpable cloud of danger and doom I now sense gathering about me. Mostly, however, this change in my attitude is due to the mysterious disappearance of Sherlock Holmes, the famed English consulting detective formerly of 221-B Baker Street, London. Two letters posted to Holmes at his villa on the southern slopes of Sussex Downs have gone unanswered. An enquiry directed to Scotland Yard was replied to, but brought me no enlightenment.

  I must admit I fear the worst.

  My name is Martin Philips. For more than thirty years, I was a professor of linguistics and comparative mythology at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, in which city I was born and have lived all my life.

  I first met Sherlock Holmes in Boston, his initial stop on what was to be a sightseeing and speaking tour of the entire Eastern Seaboard before journeying to the western states and former territories of this country. Upon reading in the Arkham Advertiser that the famed detective was temporarily residing in the Commonwealth, I determined that I would seek him out and implore him for his help in a situation that had driven me beyond the brink of frustration.

  Abhorring that raucous, intrusive and increasingly invasive beast of modern technology, the telephone, and fearing that simply posting a letter would either miss him, or, worse, be ignored, I decided a personal meeting was the only answer. The truth, however, was that I doubted my ability to express in mere written words the dread and apprehension I felt. If nothing else, I decided, Sherlock Holmes could look me in my eyes as I told my story and decide for himself whether of not I was a lunatic.

  Lord knew, I needed to know as well.

  I journeyed to Boston by the next available train. The trek from Arkham to Boston seemed interminable, and during the long cab ride from the station I was quite apprehensive and anxious. It was all I could do to still the trembling of my hands. The cabbie must have thought me quite mad, always looking around, suddenly shifting from one window to the other, but he kept his comments to himself, though his glances spoke volumes.

  My extreme nervousness stemmed not from my fear of a refusal from Holmes. When I left my home I suspected I was being followed, and was certain after stopping by an office I maintained at Miskatonic on the way to the station. Though I saw no one in particular, I could not escape the feeling that I had acquired one or more unseen watchers, a sensation I could not shake no matter how many times I looked over my shoulder to see either empty streets or milling crowds.

  Holmes was staying at the Copley Plaza Hotel. After sending up a visiting card bearing only my name, the desk clerk called me from the lobby where I waited anxiously and told me to go up. At the elevator, I nearly gave in to my trepidation and turned around, but eventually overcame my fears, entered the cage, and told the operator my floor number.

  The man who answered my knock was tall and thin, almost skeletal. His hair was white, but his skin surprisingly smooth and relatively unmarked by the passage of time. For all his years, Sherlock Holmes appeared quite hale. Both his handshake and his greeting were unexpectedly firm for a man of seventy-three years. I thought he carried his age much better than did I my own, though I was at least a sesquidecade younger.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Professor Philips,” Holmes said. “What brings you from Arkham and how long have you been retired from teaching at Miskatonic University?”

  I was astounded. I should have been prepared for a statement of that nature, having often read and being very familiar with the accounts written by Holmes’ friend Dr. John H. Watson, but I still found myself at a disadvantage. I finally discovered my voice.

  “Mr. Holmes, I don’t understand how…”

  Holmes held up a thin, pale hand. “Please. That you are a bookish man of some intellect is obvious; yet you are comfortable in the presence of strangers, which suggests you are accustomed to being the center of attention, perhaps in the context of a lecture hall since you are obviously no extrovert. Your clothes are years out of date – do not take offense – typical of the academically cloistered. Your card bears only your name, hence you now find yourself retired from teaching and freed of the pressure of identifying yourself with your profession. That you are from Arkham and thus formerly a member of the Miskatonic University faculty is painfully obvious – the ticket stub protruding slightly from your pocket is there for all to see, but few to notice.”

  “Amazing.”

  Holmes shook his head. “It is discouraging to see how much escapes the attention of my fellow humans. Evidently the advance of science in this new century had done nothing to advance the human condition or extend the senses. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “My cousin, Carter Randolph, has vanished under very mysterious circumstances,” I explained.

  He sighed. “I fear you have traveled to Boston for naught. The years of the chase are behind me, and even crime has taken on the mediocrity of this modern age, undemanding of my attention. I now devote my time to traveling, writing and beekeeping.”

  I could not control the disappointment that surged through me at Holmes’ words, a deep sigh escaping my lips.

  “Still, you have traveled a long way to see me,” Holmes said quickly and with something of an encouraging smile. “It would do no harm, and would perhaps provide some small comfort to you were to listen to your problem. I need no special deductive abilities to see you desperately need to unburden your heart. Please, sit, tell me what you have come to say, without omitting any detail, and forgive an old man’s abrupt manner.”

  Once we were in facing chairs and he had provided me with a brandy, I said: “As I told you, my cousin has vanished. That was eight weeks ago. During that time, I have hired private detectives, but to no avail, nor have the police agencies of Arkham and the surrounding towns, as far as Providence and Boston, been able to shed any light on what may have happened to Carter. It is as if he were plucked from the face of the earth.”

  “Do you suspect foul play, Philips?”

  “I do not know,” I admitted. “As far as I know, he has no enemies, neither has there been evidence of violence.”

  “What sort of man was Carter Randolph?”

  “Quiet and very bookish, separated from the mainstream of life,” I replied. “He had no occupation except that of scholar, made possible by a large inheritance from his grandfather. He is the most intelligent man I know, but I would be the first to admit that his interests are…odd.”

  “Odd?” Holmes said. “Odd in what way?”

  “It was his belief that certain cycles of myth were founded in reality,” I explained. “The major mythic cycle he was investigating postulated the worldwide worship of monster-gods and a view of history that allowed Man as only the most recent master of the
Earth. He also claimed to have discovered cults around the world dedicated to reestablishing the worship of those prehistoric gods. He often asked my opinions of certain documents or affidavits from suspect sources. For all that, though, I knew of his work only in general terms, for it was difficult to establish the true meaning of the documents extracted from context.”

  “Is your cousin sound of mind?” Holmes asked.

  “Of course, but I admit you are not the first person to pose that question,” I answered. “I assure you, Mr Holmes, that, despite the bizarre nature of his research, he is quite stable of mind, very practical and discerning in nature, and definitely not prone to flights of fancy or delusion.”

  “And yet believed these legends are founded in fact?”

  “As was Troy,” I said, a bit too sharply. I glanced away in embarrassment. “Please, forgive me, Mr. Holmes. I have been under a great strain.”

  “However, the point is well taken,” Holmes conceded. “It is quite true that time has a way of garbing fact in fiction, not just in the case of the Homeric epic but in other tales of discovery from the ancient world But it is also true that sometimes stories are just stories. We do, however, possess a spiritual nature that at times allow us to rise above our limitations and perceive a greater universe.” He paused and contemplatively touched his chin. “Still, the reality of ancient gods…”

  “The ‘gods’ may have been beings poorly observed or ill understood,” I pointed out. “Real or not, that would make little difference to those who believe – the cults which Carter claimed to have discovered.”

  “Quite possible,” Holmes agreed. “The Thuggee of India are an example of that mindset. Whatever you make of their beliefs, they must be taken seriously.” He paused a moment. “You feel your cousin may have suffered at the hands of one of these cults?”

  “It is possible,” I admitted. “Carter may have stumbled into an area in which man was not meant to probe.”

  “Nonsense, my good fellow,” Holmes laughed. “There is nothing into which the human mind is not meant to delve.”

  “In this case, the danger…”

  “Danger be damned!” Holmes cried. “If we let fear rule our lives, Professor Philips, we would be no better than our savage ancestors who prayed for gods and demons to let the sun rise each morning. The German scientist Heisenberg has shown us a cosmos quite complex enough without adding gods and demons to his theories of dimensional pluralities and principal of uncertainty.”

  “What if the gods are real, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Then the gods had better beware, as wary as they should have been of the mortal Odysseus.” Holmes smiled. “Do you believe in the gods of Carter Randolph?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I don’t have to believe in them to fear those who so.”

  Holmes nodded and stroked his chin.

  “Will you help me, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Yes, I will,” he said after a moment. “There are certain aspects of the case which intrigue me as no others have recently. Would you be so kind as to assist me, accompany me, as I look into this matter? Your familiarity with the country and the subject matter would be invaluable.”

  “I would be honored.”

  “Where does your cousin live?”

  “In Arkham, not far from the University.”

  “Then Arkham is where we must start.” Holmes decided. “Let us leave as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, I’ll arrange for the tickets.” I told him. “I’ll meet you at the station within the hour.”

  Before I had reached the door, Holmes had pulled out a battered bag and had started packing his belongings. I watched him a moment longer, knowing there was no possible way I could properly express my gratitude.

  “Ah, the game is afoot,” I heard him murmur softly. “If only you could hear those words, Watson, my poor friend…”

  I guiltily shut the door.

  As I left the Copley Plaza, I noticed a short swarthy man who seemed to be following me. Knowing the bad reputation of Boston, I was firmly convinced that this man was a criminal of some sort. I walked several more blocks, then turned back upon my steps, surprising my shadow. As I watched, he disappeared into a shadowed alley. I did not like the look of the man. He appeared ill to me – there was a certain tinge and scalinesss about his skin. His eyes seemed to bulge in a very disturbing way, almost batrachian in nature, and his mouth seemed wide enough to split his head in twain. He was also ill dressed for the weather, bundled in a heavy coat that reached to his knees. All in all, there was something repulsively abnormal and inhuman about the man.

  He did not venture from the alley, and I was not about to follow him in. I continued on my way. Later, when Holmes joined me at the station, I told him of the odd incident.

  “You are certain as to the man’s intentions?” he asked.

  “What else could he have been after but my pocketbook?”

  “I do not know, and it would be foolhardy to speculate without further information,” Holmes admitted. “Still, a man such as you describe, one seemingly so far physically from the common run of humanity, is worthy of note.” He paused. “Such as the man now standing forty yards to your left, but do not alert him any making any sudden movements.”

  I chanced a sly covert glance. “Not the same man, but he could certainly be a brother.”

  We boarded the train eventually, waiting till almost the last moment, at Holmes’ direction. I watched the strange man from our compartment. He watched the train depart, but made no attempt to board the train himself.

  “What do you think it means, Mr Holmes?”

  “I think,” said Holmes, steepling his thin fingers under his chin, “that we shall be close to the proper track if we continue to see men such as that.”

  I tried to press Holmes for more information, but he fell into a silence from which he would not be roused. He stretched his long legs before him and closed his eyes, leaving me to my own thoughts and fears.

  Upon reaching the quaint, ancient town of Arkham, we made a quick stop at my home, where I lived alone, and refreshed ourselves. Then we crossed town by trolley and soon stood before the house of my cousin Carter Randolph. I admitted us with the latch key Carter had given me years before.

  The interior was in shambles.

  “Someone’s been here!” I exclaimed.

  “Obviously,” Holmes murmured dryly, motioning me to silence, “Other than yourself, who has access to the house?”

  “Just Carter,” I replied. “A housekeeper comes around twice a week, but she hasn’t been here since his disappearance. I’ve admitted the police and various detectives.”

  “It is unlikely any of them ransacked the house.”

  “They looked about but that was all.” I explained,

  “Since there appears no sign of forced entry,” Holmes said, “it is likely whoever did this used your cousin’s key.”

  I did not give voice to the dread thought that flitted through my mind.

  “This house was searched rather thoroughly by at least two men,” Holmes declared after a moment. “One of them was taller than the average man, while the other was quite wide and probably a good deal shorter.”

  I surveyed the disorder. “They must have found what they were looking for.”

  “An unwarranted conclusion,” Holmes observed. “Your cousin must have known he was in some sort of danger and would surely have taken steps to safeguard anything of value. Is there any part of the house which your cousin held in higher regard than any other, perhaps where he carried out his research or studies.”

  “That would have been his den,” I replied. “It was where he kept his library and research materials. He probably spent more time there than in any other part of the house.”

  “Lead on, Phillips.”

  I was aghast at the scope of the destruction in the den. Not a single book remained on the shelves that lined the walls; they were in great piles about the floor. The sight almost made me weep,
knowing as I did how important these rare and ancient books were to my cousin.

  “The vandals!” I growled.

  Holmes sniffed the air. “An odd odor for a den, is it not?”

  I sniffed and realized that a strange, fishy smell had met us upon first entering the house. I had not paid much attention to it, I admit, passing it off as nothing but the result of some spoiled food left unattended in the kitchen, but the odor was stronger here, and, as Holmes had pointed out, a den was an unlikely place to encounter spoiled food.

  “What does it mean, Holmes?”

  Holmes did not answer. Instead, he walked to the desk, which was empty save for a single book nearly centered upon it. The drawers had been pulled and dumped, but the top appeared not to have been touched at all.

  “Odd that the book was left untouched,” I commented, “in the midst of so much vandalism.”

  “Not untouched, but tossed back as being useless,” Holmes said. “Originally, if we may believe the faint lines of dust, the book was placed at the precise center of the desk, very deliberately.”

  Holmes lifted the volume and read the printing embossed on the spine.

  “Your cousin was an admirer of Poe?”

  “As well as the more modern masters of fantasy and terror,” I answered. “Carter’s literary tastes were quite unique.”

  Holmes’ gaze settled on the table of contents. “Ah, Carter Randolph was quite a clever man indeed.”

  I moved closer.

  “Observe,” Holmes said, pointing at one of the titles with a long, bony finger. “A shape has been drawn around the words ‘Ms. Found.’ This is a message to you or someone else who would be interested in more than just pulling books from the shelves.”

  “But what does it mean?” I asked.

  “Look at the shape of the design, man,” Holmes suggested.

  The more I looked upon the blockish design, the more familiar it seemed. When I noticed the shape of the design and shape of the desk beyond. I felt incredibly stupid – they were the same, right down to the unique projecting leaves on either side of the desk.