Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) Page 26

  “What about M’tollo itself?” Challenger asked.

  Lord Whitecliff looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “What about the origin of the creature they worshipped,” the naturalist explained. “Could it have some basis in fact?”

  Eminent ethnologist Lord Cecil Whitecliff looked as if he had swallowed an insect. He sputtered his indignation, balled his fists, and fumed at Challenger’s impertinent suggestion. There might have been an actual out-and-out brawl in the hallowed halls of the British Museum had not Sherlock Holmes intervened.

  “Lord Whitehall,” he snapped, peremptorily but not abrasively, “many people become involved with ancient religions with the hope of uncovering lost treasure troves. Would anyone entering the service of M’tollo have reason to hope for such a situation?”

  With great effort, Challenger turned to inspect some wall-hanging, and Lord Whitecliff was forced to look at Holmes. For a long moment, the question seemed lost on the ethnologist. His eyes seemed somewhat unfocused, blazing with fire fueled by the conflict, both scientific and personal, that existed between him and Challenger. By degrees, however, the fires died, and he turned his attention to Holmes’ question.

  “It’s…it’s odd you should mention that Mr Holmes,” he finally said. “One of the curses of my chosen avocation is that I am at times pestered by petty men who see humanity’s past as nothing more than a treasure trove waiting to be plundered solely for personal gain. To me, ethnology is purely an intellectual pursuit. It was early last year when I was approached by a man asking questions about M’tollo and the survival of M’tollo worship in the modern world. At first his questions seemed harmless enough, even academically stimulating, but it was not long before his enquiries turned toward less than academic concerns—hidden temples, lost treasure, secret writings and the such. Done in with his attitude, I finally shooed him away. I assumed at the time that he was nothing more than an opportunist seeking gold and jewels, but, looking back, it seems to me now his questions may have been about more esoteric treasures, and perhaps some kind of occult power based within the framework of M’tollo’s worship, much as a pilgrim might gain from possessing a fragment of the Holy Rood.” He paused and sighed wearily. “I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but I cannot be more specific than that—it was some time ago, and I try not to dwell on things I find upsetting.” He glanced venomously at Challenger. “No matter the provocation.”

  “I understand, Lord Whitecliff,” Holmes said. “Do you recall the man’s name?”

  “He was a tall man, dark-haired, about fifty. He said his name was Aleister Crowley, but the name seemed an ill fit for him,” the ethnologist answered. “I saw him a few months later in the Museum’s reading room. In a fit of curiosity, I prevailed upon Mr Higgens to permit me access to his application. The name listed was Laslo Bronislav.” He paused. “Please excuse me.”

  “Certainly, Lord Whitecliff,” Holmes said. “Thank you for your time. Should anything else come to mind, please contact me.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  The ethnologist fled the room. Holmes rewrapped the object that had brought them to this repository of knowledge.

  “For whose death does Lord Whitecliff hold you responsible?” Holmes asked quietly.

  Challenger shot Holmes a sharp glance.

  “Although men of science are often passionate and parochial beyond the understanding of the common public, the rift between the two of you is much more than a conflict between opposing theories.” Holmes explained. “Your chosen fields of study have some common ground, but not enough to nurture such seeds of discord. If your specialties had more in common, you would not have had to refer me to his expertise. He at first attacked your academic pursuits, but it was clear that he knew little and cared less about your theories. There was a personal basis for his enmity. You suggested him as an expert, but reluctantly. Obviously, you were not eager to encounter him, but knew him to be the best point of contact. How could the two of you have come into association long enough to foster such hate? The hatred by the way, was more his than yours, else you would never have suggested seeking him out in the first place, no matter our need. Academic society meetings would hardly provide the context, so it must have been on one of your infamous expeditions.”

  “Infamous!” Challenger blasted.

  “Calm yourself, Challenger,” Holmes advised. “You often find yourself at loggerheads with academic tradition and mainstream beliefs, which are written up gleefully in the papers. I believe one of your favorite sports is heaving journalists into the street.” He paused as a tiny smile played about his thin lips. “If I am not mistaken, one of those abused journalists recommended you for the nation’s next Olympic team as a shot-putter.”

  Challenger uttered a laugh that sounded like a fierce tempest. “He did go quite far!”

  “It is highly unlikely that Lord Whitecliff would ever be found on one of your expeditions.” Holmes continued. “His aristocratic manner and pale skin suggest he is more inclined toward academic research, gaining what he needs from the reports of others, rather than seeking sources himself. For such a one as he, who sees his field of study as an avocation rather than a vocation, any field trips are likely to be limited to whatever can be seen on Cook’s Tour. Since he is unlikely to have journeyed with you, it had to be someone he knew, perhaps a relative, someone who never returned. The person would be close but not extremely close, else you would not have hoped that time had somewhat sealed the wound.”

  After a long moment, Challenger said, “It was his nephew, Reginald Whitecliff. Several years ago, I led an expedition up the Rotunda to Lake Nyasa searching for a creature the natives called a Loghombo, a beast that could have been a survival from the saurian age. We did not find it, but one day when young Reginald was by the lake shore exposing some photographic plates he was attacked by some animal—we never learned what—and was killed. Lord Whitecliff holds me responsible for that young man’s death…as do I. Despite the years, I have not forgiven myself for that tragedy, but I hoped he had. Let’s get out of here, Holmes.”

  With Challenger hefting the burden of the mysterious idol, they walked down the steps of the British Museum’s Montague Place entrance, where, early in his career Holmes had taken rooms. It was a cool, misty London morning, but the last vestiges of the previous night’s noxious fog were reluctant to release the great city.

  “What about this Laslo Bronislav?” Challenger asked. “If that is his real name.”

  “Most likely it is,” Holmes replied. “Those desirous of using the Reading Room must apply in writing to the Principal Librarian, furnishing name, address, profession and a recommendation from a London householder. Then there is a two-day waiting period before a time-pass is issued. Even a certain consulting detective’s notoriety did not save him from the Reading Room’s strict protocol when he desired to peruse a copy of Eckermann’s Voodooism and the Negroid Religions.”

  “But the name he gave Cecil Whitecliff?”

  “A jest by a man of odd humors,” Holmes replied. “There is a man in London by the name of Aleister Crowley, but it was not he who called on Lord Whitecliff that day.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “I have a passing acquaintance with the most evil man on earth,” Holmes said.

  Chapter Five

  Geoffrey McBane sat back in the hansom he had engaged earlier that morning and had stationed outside the British Museum’s lesser entrance. He grimaced as he saw the package hefted by the man who had to be Professor George Edward Challenger. If not for that bull of a man, he might have considered hiring a covey of robbers to take the object from Holmes’ possession, but, on the other hand, Holmes was a man whom one underestimated at his own peril, as Colonel Moran discovered to his chagrin, and Professor Moriarty to his mortal peril. Normally McBane would not have considered such a direct tactic, but Bronislav was anxious to take custody, and he was not a man who endured delays.

  He watched the two men c
lamber with their burden into a waiting hansom, and drive off, heading in the direction of Totenham Court Road. He smartly tapped the roof of the hansom twice with the head of his walking stick.

  Sitting on the driver’s perch, Alfred Paisley heard the signal and frowned. Frowning still, he snapped the whip above his horse and they started after the two familiar figures that had exited the British Museum.

  “Where are we going, Holmes?” Challenger asked.

  “Since the enigmatic Laslo Bronislav considered it a fitting jest to use Aleister Crowley’s name in a minor deception,” Holmes replied, “it seems only fitting we consult Mr Crowley about Mr Bronislav. It is almost certain that if Crowley does not actually know Bronislav, he must know of him, for in his very small pond, Mr Crowley is a very large frog.”

  “But who is he?” Challenger queried. “You earlier called him the most evil man in the world, but what does that mean?”

  “It means Mr Crowley is more showman than sinner,” Holmes said. “He is very influential among London’s occult societies, a man who professes to know the secrets of magic, who conducts arcane ceremonies attended by London’s rich and powerful.”

  “Humbuggery!” Challenger blasted. “Holmes, I find it quite impossible to believe you would countenance….”

  Holmes interrupted him with a good-natured laugh, the first Challenger had heard him utter since his initial visit. “I believe in what I can see and what I can deduce, my good Challenger,” Holmes said. “However, it would be a cardinal mistake to offhandedly dismiss the beliefs of others, for crimes are often committed with no more motivation than a person’s belief. When investigating a crime precipitated by a belief, it often best to put aside questions of the belief’s validity and proceed as if it were true. In regard to beliefs, I make no distinction between the Archbishop’s Church of England, the Hindoo’s dizzying array of deities, or a pagan’s rites held in one of the Isle’s many stone circles. The validity of any religion is of no consequence to the criminologist, only the legitimacy of the acts committed in supposed service to that religion.”

  “What a mercenary attitude,” Challenger remarked. “I dare say Inspector Wilkins would be appalled.”

  “I dare say he would,” Holmes agreed.

  The consulting detective leaned toward the outside of the hansom, peering through the small side window, over the large wheels, toward the direction from which they had come. Holmes called up for the driver to make a change in their route.

  “What is it, Holmes?” Challenger asked.

  “We appear to have acquired up an unwanted shadow after leaving the Museum,” Holmes replied. “I wish I could make out who the driver is, but these cabbies are always so bundled against the weather they always appear more like bee-hives than humans, especially at a distance.”

  “Well, let’s pull over and see who is so interested in us,” Challenger said, slamming his fist into his palm with a sound of a thunder-crack. “We can make short work of it.”

  “There is a time for confrontation, and this is not it,” Holmes told the scientist. “If I can throw him off our track without letting on we know he is following, he will feel confident enough to follow when a shadow will be less injurious to our investigation; for the moment, it is best simply to take him off the scent.”

  They swung down a side street and Holmes scribbled a short message on a scrap of paper with a pencil. Ahead was a group of street Arabs. As the hansom drew nigh to them, Holmes tossed the message to one of the older lads. As soon as he did so, he called to the driver to pick up the pace. A few more turnings along London’s labyrinthine byways and Holmes instructed the driver to resume his course to their destination.

  “Have we escaped surveillance?” Challenger asked. “If so, how? We could not have outraced the other cab.”

  “We did not have to,” Holmes told him. “Our adversary will either be detoured or delayed beyond hope of recovering us.”

  “Those lads?”

  Holmes nodded. “The children of London are really quite resourceful, and intelligent in a cunning sort of way. The message I tossed was to Michael, the leader of the group we saw. They’ll stage some sort of distraction that will seem perfectly natural to the cabby and his fare. If we’re fortunate, Michael will be able to provide us with a description of them when he drops by Baker Street to pick up the payment I promised.”

  “They are very much like savage tribes operating within the civilized environs of London,” Challenger said. “Fascinating!”

  “More like unseen mice in the wainscoting of society,” Holmes observed.

  The address where the cabby dropped them in Soho was above a music-hall not far from Charing Cross Road. It was a low sort of establishment catering to the howling mob who thought two and six too much payment for even the pits. But it was in keeping with the tenor of a neighborhood that derived its name from a cry to hounds. Soho was, on the whole, to paraphrase Galsworthy, an untidy quarter, full of Greeks, Ishmaelites, cats, Italians, restaurants, theatres, signs with queer names, and dark faces looking out from upper windows. It could be safely claimed that of all the boroughs of that fantastic and terrible city called London, it was the one that dwelt most remote from the British Body Politic.

  Here, in the realm of Will Hazlitt, England’s best God-damner and an eros-lost soul until his death in 1830, Challenger felt as if he had crossed some invisible boundary, entering a world lost from the mainstream of life. He often regaled acquaintances with accounts of his journeys into the lonely, often desolate, places of the world, but here, in the heart of London, he was confronted with the truth contained in a statement by that other Holmes: “No person can be said to know London. The most anyone can claim is that he knows something of it.”

  Aleister Crowley opened the door of his flat, just a little at first, then wider when he saw his callers. “Please come in, Mr Holmes. Your friend as well.”

  “Pardon this intrusion, Mr Crowley, but we come upon a matter of some urgency,” Holmes said,. “This is Professor Challenger.”

  “How do you do?” Challenger said. He tried to look at the young, silk-garbed, smooth-faced man before him, but his gaze was captured by the contents of the room: Near Eastern wall-hangings, hookahs, antiques, relics, piles of old books and parchments, and paintings of the most decadent and bizarre craftsmanship. Nearby, a pipe smoldered, lazily venting aromas of rum and perique. The air was also heavy with the scent of sandalwood and other less identifiable odors. It was a startling change, completely out of step with the rather squalid surroundings of the area.

  “Challenger?” Crowley mused. “The name is not unfamiliar.” He snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes, in the records of the CCC last year, brought up on charges for bodily ejecting a newspaper reporter from your house and giving him as bad a case of, as I like to call it, cobble-rash.”

  Challenger scowled. “The blighter had it coming, insinuating himself into my residence on a pretense.”

  “I have no doubt,” Crowley agreed. “Journalistic vultures!”

  Besides, Challenger thought, the charges had been dismissed. The papers had garnered a few quotable, and misquoted, phases, for which he would have pursued legal action had it not interfered with his then plans.

  “Mr Crowley,” Holmes ventured. “Does the name Laslo Bronislav hold any meaning for you?”

  This time it was Crowley’s turn to scowl, making Challenger’s expression seem as clear as a spring day. “He is a devil! And I may be speaking literally here, Mr Holmes.”

  “What do you know of him?” Challenger asked.

  Crowley’s scowl took on a crafty cast and he looked from man to man. “Why do you ask after Bronislav? He is as well known within certain occult societies as he is unknown to the general public. Not that he belongs to any group, mind you. He pilfers them all for information from time to time, all the while remaining an enigma to them. He is a dangerous man. If you knew anything about him, you would be very circumspect in asking after him.”


  “I admit to an ignorance regarding Bronislav,” Holmes said. “His name has not previously appeared in connection with any crime committed in England, the Continent or the Americas.”

  “Bronislav is a very careful man,” Crowley pointed out.

  “He impersonated you at the British Museum,” Challenger said.

  Crowley’s eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon!”

  “More accurately, he used your name to identify himself when consulting with Lord Cecil Whitecliff, the noted ethnologist,” Holmes explained.

  Crowley shook his head. “I’ve never met Lord Whitecliff.”

  “As I surmised when Lord Whitecliff provided us with a description at variance with what I knew your appearance to be,” Holmes continued. “I detected in his use of your name not an attempt to usurp your identity but something of a jape, an inner jest for his own amusement. He could have given any name, if his intent were merely to conceal his identity, but he chose one as meaningful to him as it was meaningless to Lord Whitecliff.”

  “I have encountered Bronislav only a few times, the first being through the agency of Gerald Festus Kelly, an artist I met after the publication of my Alcadama in the Cambridge bookstore,” Crowley explained. “Bronislav does not say much, but what he does utter hints at knowledge totally unknown to even the world’s adepts. Most occultists, for all their pretended devotion to Lucifer or Belial or Whatever, are secretly sincere Christians in spirit, and inferior Christians at that, for their beliefs are just as puerile, but Bronislav is nothing like them. When I foolishly offered to sponsor him at the Golden Dawn, he laughed at me. He actually laughed at me, and called me a blind man with a broken cane! Words were exchanged, and that was the last time we spoke.”