Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time (23 page)

“And this place is...?” I asked.

“One of the most unique and unknown places in all of London. It is one of a number of additional storage areas operated by the British Museum,” said Holmes. “I stumbled on the place many years ago, and, thanks to the kindness of several of the directors of the Museum, have been permitted to visit here on occasion.”

Given the size of the British Museum, I could well understand that they would have far more in their collection than could either be displayed or stored at their main building. I had a sudden vision of unending streams of items marching from the four corners of the empire to find their new homes in the British Museum.

It was obvious Holmes had been to the place a number of times; he wound his way through the maze of shelves and stacked boxes with ease. Everywhere I looked, I could see Greek statues, South African masks and black stone monoliths inscribed in some unknown tongue, standing next to each other.

“Ah, here we are,” said Holmes. He gestured at a door that stood flanked by a strange black statue of an octopus-headed creature and a pure-white polar bear, which reared up to its full height. It was one of those places that, if you didn’t know it was there, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, you would never notice it.

“This is the domain of Professor Richard Chadbourn Sanderson, perhaps one of the foremost experts in the world on the folkloric roots of civilization as we know it,” said Holmes. “But this is most unusual....”

“How so?”

“He generally keeps his door bolted.” As we stepped into the room, I noticed the heavy-duty lock below the door handle, as well as several others along the door’s frame. The workroom on the other side was only about ten feet long and half that wide, but it was crowded with an eclectic collection of items so that it felt more like a closet.

“I gather he likes his privacy.”

“More that he dislikes people. Were he more outgoing, I would have said he might be an ideal candidate for the Diogenes Club.”

With that introduction, I expected to find an aged, stooped little man with white hair and inch-thick spectacles. That was definitely not what Professor Sanderson turned out to be. He was six feet tall, with blonde hair, an eye patch and a scar that ran half the length of his face, definitely not your typical academic and definitely not what I expected to see. Of course, I had not expected to find him very dead, impaled on a spear. I knew before I reached the body that the man was dead, but checked for a pulse, anyway.

“He’s gone, Holmes,” I said. Since rigor was not fully set in the body, that meant that he had been killed just over three to four hours ago. The large amount of blood that had dried on the floor indicated that the body had not been moved since the attack.

Holmes knelt next to me to examine the spear with his small magnifying glass. The weapon was a good five feet long and at least two inches thick.

“There was something freshly painted on the shaft,” said Holmes. Looking over his shoulder, I could see nothing but the streaks of blood and bits of flesh that were clinging to the carved surface of the weapon. “Additionally, this weapon should not be here.”

“I’m sure Sanderson would agree with you on that point,” I said.

“Of that I have no doubt, but what I was referring to was the fact that this is a South American spear, from a tribe along the upper Amazon. This warehouse is devoted to Africa and eastern Europe; South American artifacts are kept at another location. So, whoever the killer was brought this weapon with him.” Not that anyone would have thought it odd to bring a spear into the British Museum; people were no doubt highly used to seeing odd items coming and going and would have made no comment at all.

Holmes turned his attention to the area around the corpse. In the chaos, I had to wonder how he would discern any evidence of the killer. Although I suspected that, had Sanderson been alive, he would have been able to immediately lay his hands on any required material. I had to admit that at times, my study had been like that and Mary had frequently remonstrated with me, with that gentle stare of hers. I would have given anything right then to hear that disapproving sigh of hers even one more time.

Holmes worked his way from one end of the room to the other, picking up one item here and another there, plucking at something with a pair of tweezers he took from a table and staring intently through his magnifying glass at other things.

“It is not often that we have been the first on the scene at a crime, Watson. Were it not an old acquaintance now lying dead, I would say it was a most refreshing and enjoyable experience. I have seen all I need to and now know that the killer was a big man who moved with an economy of skill. He was acquainted with Sanderson and did not find what he was looking for.”

“Should I bother to ask how you know all this?”

“You know my methods, Watson. Given what I have said, what would you say I have seen?”

I pursed my lips for a moment. “Given the man’s preference for solitude that you described, unless there is a back door, I would say that the Professor let the person in the door.”

“Excellent, Watson. There is a side door to the room, but it is still locked, and from the inside. Go on,” said Holmes with a smile.

I scanned the room again, trying to see the most minute detail, but everything seemed to be drowned in the overabundance of things in the area. I shrugged my shoulders and admitted defeat.

“Worry not, old friend. The clues are there It is just a matter of knowing what you are observing. In some cases, however, it is not what is there, but what is not there. That spear is big and heavy; it would take a large man to have the strength to drive it through another man. That, along with a half-footprint in the blood, gives us his size. That there is not a large number of broken items in the area indicates that our killer could move with some dexterity.”

“And the fact that he did not obtain what he was looking for?” I asked.

At that point, Holmes dramatically picked up a leather portfolio that I had noticed him looking at earlier. “Because I have it,” he said, passing his prize over to me. “After dealing with Sir Charles the first time, I discovered that the Professor had apparently acquired a page of the manuscript. I spoke with him about it several times, but got no satisfactory answers.”

There were several designs drawn on the page and line after line of cramped Arabic writing. I touched the paper and it felt odd to my finger, like something I did not want in close proximity to me. “This was worth killing over?”
“There are those who would swear on their immortal souls that it is,” said Holmes.

We left quickly, using the side door, and were away from the building in only a matter of minutes. Holmes knew the maze-like passages like the back of his hand, a fact that, given this was Sherlock Holmes, did not surprise me in the slightest.

“But shouldn’t we notify the police?” I said.

“Under normal circumstances I would not have hesitated in doing just that, but these are not normal circumstances. While much was smeared, I could make out several symbols that had been painted on the shaft of the spear, similar to ones I glimpsed in the
Necronomicon.
”

“Necronomicon
?” I said.

“My apologies, Watson. That is the English title for the
Al-Azif.
”

The two of us walked quickly along the street in front of the Museum warehouse, each one watching and listening for some sign that the murder had been discovered. I would have preferred to be in a cab racing away from the area, but the very act of walking helped dispel any nervousness that the last few minutes had caused.

Yet, as we walked, I could not shake the feeling that we were being followed. It was more a feeling in the pit of my stomach, rather than anything else, but it was the same that I had had on more than one occasion during my days in Afghanistan. I tried to casually look over my shoulder, catch reflections in windows, but there was nothing, or else, it was that I did not recognize whoever it was that was following us.

“Holmes ....”

“Yes, we are being followed, Watson, by two small men in sailor’s jackets, with caps pulled down low on their faces. They have been dogging our trail since we left the warehouse.”

“Police?”

Holmes chuckled, “The Metropolitan Police may at times scrape the bottom of the barrel when it comes to recruiting, but these fellows are far below that level.”

We were several blocks from the warehouse and the evening had spread quickly, especially since what gas lights there were in this area that were not broken had yet to feel the lamplighter’s touch. What businesses we passed had been locked up and shuttered, or had been long since abandoned by their owners.

“We are just a few blocks from a pub called ‘The Long John’. I propose we stop in there and see if our companions are willing to come into the light,” Holmes said.

“What is to prevent them from simply lingering outside until we leave?” I said.

“Let them ,” Holmes said. “There is a smugglers’ tunnel in the back that we will make use of.”

However, they say that even the best laid plans go astray, which applied on occasion to even the ones that were developed by Holmes. The two of us had turned into an alley that would lead to the pub on the next street, our earlier companions hanging back half a block, when three other figures appeared out of the shadows and came at us. One, a big man, had a crooked-looking knife in his hand, while the other two were unarmed. All of them were wrapped in ragged coats, with mufflers and hats masking their faces.

Holmes charged toward one of them, grabbing his left arm and throwing the man to the ground in a single swift movement. He followed it with two swift kicks to the fellow’s torso. I had my revolver out and drove the butt hard against the second one’s skull, the sound being enough to know that I had done some damage. He tottered for a moment and went over onto the cobblestones of the street.

The third one, the big man who had the knife, had held back, but now he moved toward us, brandishing the weapon and jabbing it into the air. Holmes stared at him, matching his movements to the other man. The dance between them went on for several seconds before Holmes acted. He feinted in one direction then whirled around and launched a drop-kick that impacted hard in the center of the man’s chest; a quick two-handed smash put his attacker unmoving on the ground.

“Was that last an example of Baritsu?” I asked. That Japanese style of wrestling had, according to Holmes, saved his life at the Reichenbach Falls.

“Hardly. Merely something I picked up,” said Holmes.

I looked back along the street, but our other pursuers were nowhere to be seen. If they were allied with these men, then they had presumably retreated when they saw their comrades go down, no doubt now
en route
to report on the outcome of the battle.

My opponent had not moved from where he had gone down and I could not at first be certain that he was even breathing. When I touched his wrist to check for a pulse, the skin under my fingers felt slimy, almost like that of a fish. I pulled the scarf and hat away from his face and found myself staring at something I was hard-pressed to be sure was not an hallucination. The face of this, I hesitate to even call him a ‘man’, looked like some cruel cross between a human and a fish. On the side of the neck were what might even be gills. I have seen strange things in my life, in places that ranged from the battlefields to the darker places that my career with Holmes had taken me, but this ranked as the strangest.

“Holmes, this is not right,” I said, in a voice that sounded strained to my ear.

“How so, Doctor?” he said coming to my side. His face was impassive, even in the darkness, as he studied the being.

“Given what I found, this does not bode well,” he said, and gestured toward the other man. Holmes had stripped him of his facial coverings and I knew at whom I was looking. It was Davis St. John, Sir Charles’ companion of this morning.

“It all makes sense,” was all that Holmes would say,
en route
back to Baker Street. I had long ago learned that asking for details from him, until that moment when he was ready, was a waste of time. The most I could expect would be vague words and half-muttered statements, which were exactly what I seemed to be getting. So, as we drove, I satisfied myself with lighting my pipe and watching the city roll by.

The cab had barely pulled to a halt in front of our quarters before Wiggins’ lanky figure had appeared out of the shadows and leaped up onto the cab, clinging to the edge by his long thin fingers.”We have him, Mr. Holmes!” said the young Irregular. “It’s a house, eight blocks from Condign Square,” he said, spouting out the address so quickly it sounded like a single word.

“Good man, Wiggins. Get in!” The youth clamored inside, without bothering to open the door, squeezing in between the two of us. Since our cab was a smaller one, the fit was tight, but that did not matter at the moment.

“I know the area: private homes, a few shops. Not the best part of town, but certainly not the worst. Hardly the area in which I would have expected to find Sir Charles residing,” I said.

“I imagine that, officially, he doesn’t,” said Holmes.

Again, he would say no more until we had arrived at our goal, having walked the last few blocks, since it would not do to announce our presence. We found the other Irregular in an alley a half-block from the house; the view was an excellent one of the front and side of our goal.

“Well, Alexander, what have you to report?” said Holmes.

“Sir Charles went inside two hours ago and hasn’t left,” the second Irregular replied.

“Excellent job, boys,” said Holmes. “It’s time for you to be elsewhere. Things might get a little dangerous in the next few hours.” He extracted two coins and tossed them over to Wiggins and Alexander; both were gone with a nod.

“So I take it it’s time for a bit of burglary?” I said. This wouldn’t be the first time that Holmes and I had violated the law in pursuit of a case.

“I think not; I feel an urge to go in the front door.”