Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) Page 28

  Holmes sprang to Wilkins’ side as he began to swoon. He tore away what remained of the Inspector’s sleeve and tied it tightly about his upper arm, somewhat staunching the flow of blood.

  “The door won’t open” Challenger reported. “it’s either blocked or the frame is warped.”

  “We must get Wilkins to a doctor,” Holmes said.

  Challenger grabbed the door with both hands and exerted all his strength. His large, powerful frame trembled with the effort. The back of his jacket split open. Suddenly, the door came off its hinges; Challenger tossed it aside as a child might discard a broken toy. He grabbed the paper-wrapped image of M’tollo. Holmes carried Wilkins through the chaos and once outside Scotland Yard entrusted him into the care of an orderly who had rapidly organized care for the wounded. Wilkins’ cries against the ‘Irish devils’ were silenced only when his pain and loss of blood rendered him unconscious. Holmes and Challenger only abandoned Wilkins when he was finally taken away by an available ambulance to the French Hospital on Shaftsbury Avenue.

  “Back to Baker Street,” Holmes said. “Take care not to lose the idol. This great confusion would make the perfect cover for someone to make an effort at snatching it.”

  “Surely this was not engineered by our unseen adversaries,” Challenger asserted. “No one could be so inhumane.”

  Holmes looked about, at the people rushing like ants from a disturbed hill, at the fire-fighters watering the shattered ruins, at the less-wounded constables and clerks tending to the more seriously wounded, at the rumbling ambulances and clopping horses, at the mobs that always appear, as if by magic, whenever calamities plague society. He tried to see more than a sea of faces.

  “No, probably not,” Holmes replied. “Likely, it is the work of the Irish Dynamiters, attacking the Yard as they did in ’84, though not nearly as thoroughly.” He gazed at the staring faces. “Still, the confusion would work well to our adversary’s advantage.”

  With great difficulty, Holmes and Challenger made their way out of the area, not finding a hansom till they were in the vicinity of Charing Cross Station.

  “Mr Holmes! Professor Challenger!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed when the two men entered. “My Lord, what has happened?”

  In as few words as possible, Challenger told her about the explosion at Scotland Yard. When he saw the look of horror on her face when he told her about Inspector Wilkins, he hastened to assure her of his well-being. As he spoke, he suddenly felt overcome by a weariness, a weakness, a dizziness. The wall seemed to rush at him. He then became aware of Holmes at his side, steadying him.

  “Brace yourself, Challenger,” Holmes said.

  “Thank you, Holmes,” Challenger murmured. “It’s…”

  “Concussion and shock finally catching up with you,” Holmes said. “Your mind and body are finally letting you experience what you’ve been through. You’ll be all right.”

  Challenger nodded. The weakness that had suddenly plagued him ebbed quickly. How resilient the mind and body are, he thought as the worst of it passed him. And how weak.

  “There’s a street boy waiting for you, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson said. “It wasn’t Wiggens or any of the others I’ve seen, not that I trust any of the lot, so I sat him on the landing outside your door and told him not to move, if he knew what was good for him.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Hudson, that was quite appropriate,” Holmes said. “As soon as you can, please bring up some hot water.”

  “Very good, Mr Holmes.”

  They found Michael, the leader of the gang of street Arabs they had seen that morning, waiting where Mrs Hudson had left him,. At the sight of the two men coming up the stair, he leaped to his feet and stood gaping.

  “Cor, Mr Holmes!”

  “Come inside, Michael,” Holmes said. “This is Professor Challenger.”

  “Pleased to meet you, guv.”

  Challenger nodded.

  “We threw off the Hanson after you with the dead boy,” Michael reported after they entered Holmes’ rooms.

  “Always a good ploy, providing you don’t have a cabby too wise or indifferent,” Holmes replied. “But this cab driver, I take it, was neither.”

  “Too right, Mr Holmes,” Michael said with a huge, self-satisfied grin. “’Bout broke his horse pulling back when he saw the poor lad spread on the cobbles. His fare yelled to drive on, but he held back, least long enough for us to come on like a mob of gaggers with palms up. That was when he came wise, but it was a moment more till he got going, long enough for him to lose sight of you and your friend, more than long enough for me to sling low and under, hitchin’ down behind the driver.”

  “Hung on to the back of a hansom?” Challenger exclaimed. “Given the driving skills of the average London cabby, that was an extraordinarily dangerous thing to do.”

  “Resourceful and daring,” Holmes corrected.

  “Wasn’t nothing,” Michael said, quite pleased with himself and the attention garnered. “Easy as palming a penny.”

  Challenger put down the idol and slipped off his ripped jacket, uttering a small groan of pain as he did so—the door had come off its hinges at some cost to his muscles.

  “Why don’t you pour yourself a brandy, Challenger,” Holmes suggested. “You could do with a bracer.” He looked back to his young informant. “Go on with your report.”

  “The fare shouted out to find you,” the lad said. “He had a slight build and auburn hair, was dressed in a Norfolk jacket and carried an old solicitor’s case.”

  “He specified me? Not to follow the cab!” Holmes leaned forward. “Pray be precise in this.”

  “He said. ‘Don’t lose Holmes, you fool!’ and quite put out, he was,” Michael explained. “The driver didn’t say anything in return, but whipped his horse forward. Even the dead boy sprang sprightly, lest he be a real one. They went down one way, then another, but it wasn’t no use. You was good gone, and didn’t the driver catch blazes for it. The fare gave him an address in Kensington, but I took free just afore they turned on the High Street so no one would give out a peel and them catch me clinging.”

  “And the address?” Holmes prompted.

  “I wrote it down, Mr Holmes.” The boy handed over a small slip of paper with letters writ almost too large, hesitating only for a moment at the last.

  Holmes fished into his waistcoat pocket and tossed Michael a half-sovereign. “I trust that will compensate you for your risk and the time of your fellows.”

  “Ten bob! Lord love a… Yes…yes…sorry, Mr Holmes.”

  At that time, Mrs Hudson entered the room carrying a basin of hot water.

  “Michael, please go down stairs with Mrs Hudson and carry up another basin,” Holmes instructed. “Mrs Hudson, could you possibly find something in the kitchen for our young messenger, and maybe a little he could take with him?”

  The landlady did not look particularly pleased at the prospect, but she nodded. “And I might possibly find some hot water he could use himself as well.”

  It was Michael’s turn to look put out.

  “That address in Kensington, Holmes,” Challenger said, sipping his brandy. “Is it…”

  Holmes nodded. “Laslo Bronislav.”

  Chapter Seven

  Geoffrey McBane picked himself off the floor, touching the stinging fresh of his cheek.

  “You failed miserably in obtaining that package for me,” Laslo Bronislav spat. “I should kill you for that failure.”

  “I can still make good on my promise, sir,” McBane said quickly. “I have no intention of failing.”

  “You are becoming more of a liability than I care to carry,” Bronislav shot back. “You were thrown off with a simple elusion tactic perpetrated by children. Demons help you if your foolishness comes back to haunt me.”

  “No danger of that, sir,” McBane assured him. “The driver has been taken care of, and that will not come back to you either—I entrusted it to one of my East End operatives.”

  After a mom
ent Bronislav nodded, mollified by McBane’s craven assurances. “Whom did Holmes and Challenger consult in the British Museum?”

  “According to one of the attendants, a man named Whitecliff.”

  Bronislav frowned. “That could be bad.”

  “How so, sir?”

  “Some time ago, I made some enquiries with Lord Whitecliff,” Bronislav explained. “Since I did not wish to divulge my identity, however, I used the name of a casual acquaintance, a bug of a man named Crowley.”

  “Crowley, the amateur occultist?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him,” McBane replied. “The occult circles of London involve so many rich and influential folks these days that it literally pays to know who moves among them. Crowley is neither rich nor influential in the traditional fashion, but he makes a big noise in the ears of those with money to burn and favors to grant. In effect, he is a large frog in a small pond.”

  “He is an irksome toad in the pond,” Bronislav commented. “I was in the process of deciding whether to kill him when Whitecliff asked my name, and I, rather foolishly, gave his.”

  “Does Whitecliff know who you are?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  McBane frowned.

  “What is it?” Bronislav asked.

  “When Challenger and Holmes threw me off the track, they were in the vicinity of Soho,” McBane answered. “I could not find them, but Soho could have been their destination.”

  “Yes?” Bronislav asked. “What of it?”

  “I believe Aleister Crowley resides there at the moment,” McBane said suggestively. “If they learned his name…”

  “Perhaps I should not have let myself be distracted from his destruction, after all,” Bronislav mused. “Too late now—if Holmes made contact with him, his death would bring too much attention. If the connection was not made, no need to furnish the means now. Whitecliff, however, may be another matter. He is a fool, but he is a rather well-informed fool about his area of expertise. He may be more of a liability than an asset, especially if his pedestrian mind begins to piece together disassociated bits of knowledge.”

  “He can be taken care of,” McBane suggested, still hurting from the blow that had felled him. “I have an agent who can handle that for us. Very discreet.”

  Bronislav stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It would absolutely have to appear as an accident, even to the scrutiny of a man like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “It can be done,” McBane assured him. “I know an antique dealer in Mayfair who delights in problems such as that, both in their planning and in their execution. If I send him a note in the mid-afternoon post with a name on it, the person will be dead before nightfall.”

  Bronislav thought for a moment. “Do it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about Holmes and Challenger?” Bronislav asked. “Where are they now?”

  “At Holmes’ flat in Baker Street,” McBane answered. “They were at Scotland Yard during the explosion.”

  “Ah, the Irish Dynamiters.”

  “Yes, sir, but I did not discover they were there till after the fact, otherwise some of my agents might have made a play for that package Challenger is carting about,” McBane said. “The confusion would have made a perfect cover for their activities. I wish I had known about the attack. I have some informants within the Irish separatists, but they are a closed group, so any intelligence coming from them is highly unreliable.”

  “Fools with their petty causes,” Bronislav spat. “The idol might have been destroyed because of their quarrel with the Empire.”

  McBane nodded, but made no reply. So, it was an idol. The nature of his new master’s work had made him suspect the wrapping paper hid some object of arcane importance, but this was the first intimation Bronislav had given of its true nature. He did not know whether it was a slip on Bronislav’s part, or an indication that he was being drawn deeper into Bronislav’s confidence, but he did not think it prudent he should question it at this moment.

  “We do not have much time,” Bronislav said. “The incident in Rotherhithe is sure to attract Holmes’ attention.”

  McBane nodded. He had read several accounts of the incident from various city news services, and had received more informative reports from agents in the area. The accounts had been fantastic, to say the least, and he had been ready to consign the information to that region of his files comparable to the theologian’s purgatory, where were to be found reports of lake monsters, the unexplained noises along the Thames in 1892, and recent incidents of strange lights in the skies above the English countryside. Bronislav’s interest told him not to dismiss it out of hand.

  “I wanted to avoid the use of obvious force in retrieving what is mine,” Bronislav continued, “but the emerging situation is moving me toward employing more drastic measures.”

  “I can arrange for a force of men, if that is what you want,” McBane offered. “I know a small group, ex-Indian Army, who can strike swiftly, cleanly.”

  Bronislav shook his head. “No, not quite yet. I have other methods in mind, such actions as will baffle a logical mind such as Sherlock Holmes is reputed to possess, if even half of what is said of him is true.”

  “My information is that all that has been written of him, as unbelievable as it may be, is but a shadow of the man,” McBane assured him. “You would be unwise, that is, it would be imprudent to underestimate him in any fashion.” McBane glanced at his master, but noted no change in his demeanor. “What will you do?”

  “That is not your concern at this point,” Bronislav told him sharply.

  “Do you have some way for me to serve then, sir?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Bronislav said. “Do you know a man so rooted in this world, and so dull and unimaginative that nothing would scare him?”

  “In stupidity, yes,” McBane replied after a moment. “As intellectual as common dirt, as imaginative as a bent nail, but able to carry out commands, as loyal as a terrier. His name is Harkeen, a German who speaks some English. More beast than man. He will do what he is told, exactly as he is told, and he will concentrate solely on the task he has been set to.”

  “Very well,” Bronislav said. “Arrange for your man to be at Hammersmith Bridge around midnight. He will take the idol away from Holmes and Challenger.”

  “He’s an enormously strong brute, but one man…” McBane started to say.

  “He’ll have no problem, I’ll see to that, don’t worry how,” Bronislav answered. “And I want you standing nearby so he can deliver it directly to you.”

  McBane hesitated. It was not his way to be in the field with his agents, taking an active part. Even this morning’s jaunt outside the British Museum had been unusual, but he had had no choice. What a bollix that turned out to be. At least he had salvaged something of his status with Bronislav by dealing adequately with the cabby when his usefulness had come to an end. That had been distasteful as well, but these were, as Bronislav had impressed upon him, desperate times, calling for extreme measures.

  “How do you know Holmes and Challenger will be at the Hammersmith Bridge at that time?” McBane asked.

  “Because,” Bronislav replied, “I will arrange it, like unwitting pawns sacrificed in an end-game maneuver.”

  McBane was doubtful of Bronislav’s implied boast. Colonel Moran had thought to dispatch Holmes with an air-rifle, and that ill-advised act had brought him to an evil and ignomious end. Also, Professor Moriarty, who had been Moran’s superior in every respect, had also come to no good at the hands of Sherlock Holmes. Even in the short period of time he had been associated with Bronislav, he had come to recognize him as Moriarty’s master, but he was still uncertain whether that pedigree would be enough to best the likes of the famed consulting detective.

  “You should not doubt me,” Bronislav said coolly. “There are legions of men in the boneyards of the world who underestimated or doubted me. You are as yet more full of yourself than anythin
g, but you show more promise than any other who has come my way. You must serve me without question or reservation. Only then will you partake of the darkness that is to come.”

  McBane’s heart leapt at Bronislav’s words, but hated himself even as he basked in the reflected praise. Neither Moriarty nor Moran had truly appreciated his talents and his own calculating intellect. He had ever been a lap-dog to them. Was that all he was to Bronislav? Could he ever be more? He had come to Bronislav in the hopes of participating in the coming world changes, but he now wondered whether those arcane changes were to benefit Bronislav and Bronislav alone. Would he gain illumination? Or oblivion, like so many before him?

  “Yes, sir,” he said after a moment. “I’ll instruct Harkeen to conceal himself in the vicinity of the bridge…Hammersmith terminus?”

  Bronislav nodded.

  “For what shall I tell him to watch?”

  “Two dead men at the foot of the bridge,” Bronislav answered. “That is all he should watch for; he should ignore all else and stay totally out of sight until he sees the dead men.”

  “Very good,” McBane said softly. “After I pay him off, I’ll bring the object to you.”

  “You will kill Harkeen afterwards,” Bronislav said.

  “That won’t be necessary, sir,” McBane protested. “He will know nothing of you, nothing of what he carries. He is ignorant even of who I am. He knows only that I pay him.”

  “He will have seen too much.”

  Harkeen would not think past the silver he would receive, would not remember much beyond the haze that would envelop him when he began to spend the silver in some low-dive tavern in Spitalfields. He was as childlike in his mind as he was in his aggression and cruelty. Looking into Bronislav’s smoldering eyes, however, he saw that none of his arguments would turn aside the man’s murderous intent. And if he did not carry through on his instructions, he himself would die. Lowering his eyes somewhat, he finally nodded.

  “Good,” Bronislav declared. “I was beginning to wonder whether your heart is really in this, Geoffrey. After you have taken care of Harkeen, you will meet me in an upper room at the Dove Coffee-house. Do you know of it?”