The Apocalypse Club (2 page)

With good reason.

Before I go any further, dear Pip, I must ask that you speak not a word of what I am about to tell you to any other living soul. Not to Elspeth or Carstairs, or especially mother, who would, I fear, become the most hysterical of all. I know this seems a trifle extreme, but once I have made it clear how this connects to my own research, I believe you will understand.

Based on Boltwood’s latest radiometric dating technique and careful analysis of his samples, Hudson has determined that the rock of the central island is less than 7,000 years old, which makes it several million years younger than the soil of its closest neighbours. Furthermore, it seems that if one were strolling around on that central island at that time, one would have found the climate to be as lush and warm as Tahiti is today. Hudson has found samplings of animals, plants and all manner of other species no scientific practitioner worth his salt would ever in his most remote imaginings have ever associated with the place. Snakes. Tropical birds. Lizards.

And – most controversial of all – a variant of our very own
homo sapiens
.

Now, the fact that there were humans on Greenland is not an eyebrow raiser in and of itself, of course, but the fact that they were not of Paleo-Eskimo origin and were there almost three thousand years before we know of any evidence for the first humans in that place most certainly
is
.

Villiers tells me that reaction to Hudson’s paper has been decidedly mixed, if you can consider a combination of horror, embarrassment, shock and disbelief to be a mix. There are whispers growing louder every day that Hudson is simply mad, that he lost his mind by spending too much time in the frozen wastes climbing glaciers and drilling thousands of holes in the ground. By all accounts, he certainly does not look like a madman, though. I have not laid eyes on him myself, but Villiers tells me that Hudson does not look like a man who just spent ten years crawling over an ice floe. Men who are lucky enough to return from such expeditions usually do so in a state of frostbitten emaciation, short a finger or an ear or a nose (poor Gladstone – to this day, he still wears an ill-fitting prosthesis that makes him look like a drunken stork), worn to the bone and sporting haggard beards and haunted eyes. Such places seep into the marrow, altering forever not just a man’s appearance but his very soul, hollowing out the fire and replacing it with ice and wind. Many look like they have returned from the dead, but not by much of a margin. Hollow wasteland scarecrows, come back to frighten the living away from their particular patch of riches.

Hudson, by all accounts, is bouncing around London with the look and energy of a teenage boy, which is a rare behaviour for a man of almost 64. Villiers has seen him and swears that the transformation is both genuine and almost supernaturally eerie.

“He doesn’t just
look
younger, Tristan,” he whispered to me when handing over the pages. “I swear the man
is
younger. I was meeting the man I had always pictured in my head based on a photograph taken of him at the 1887 ceremony where he was named a Fellow. The man I shook hands with matched that photograph
in every detail
.”

I tried to mollify Villiers as best I could, although I must admit I found the fervency of his declaration unsettling. “Come man,” I said. “Anyone could be forgiven for feeling their senses overcome when meeting one of their professional heroes.” (Villiers’ interest in paleontology was piqued after reading one of Hudson’s accounts of a trip to Olduvai with Reck’s group before the Great War.) “The man is also something of a minor celebrity. All celebrities radiate a glamour that takes a year or two off the skin.”

Villiers, however, was unmoved. “I tell you, Tris,” he said, dropping his voice and employing a nickname he had not used since my recent troubles, “the man looked younger than you or I. If you were to see him on the street, you would assume him a man of only 25.”

I tried to laugh this off with a smallish amount of humour. Villiers was, after all, doing me a great favour by secreting the paper to me, and I didn’t want to give him the impression that I didn’t believe him or thought him a fool. But there was simply no way that he could be anything other than mildly deluded. No man of 60 could pass for one barely two decades old, especially one who had just returned from five years’ worth of freezing privation and hard labour. Not wanting to seem patronizing or ungrateful (and uneasy with the thought that Villiers could simply decide to change his mind at any moment, slide the paper back into his valise and vacate the premises, in a thrice free from the commission of misconduct if not the appearance of it), I kept all further comment to myself. Besides, my curiosity extended only as far as determining why the paper had caused such a stir. Not for a moment did I believe it would have any impact on my own work.

But then that, as old professor Lanark used to say, was when things got extremely interesting.

As you know, the focus of my planned expedition up until now has long been Iceland. I believed that it was the best possible match based on the descriptions provided in the scrolls. Or at least, that’s what I believed until we saw Hudson’s drawing of the centre island buried below the ice cap. Iceland had always been an approximation of my target. I had been forced to ignore a great many geographical and topographical discrepancies because it was the only location that came remotely close to the one I was seeking.

The centre island, however, is an exact match.

I cannot tell you how long I sat there, staring at that drawing. All of this time, the thing I was searching for was hidden in plain sight! My first instinct was to steal the paper and flee the city. In fact, I was well into making preparations for an imminent departure before common sense took hold. Had I run off, word of the theft would have spread through the scientific community like lightning, making it all but impossible to obtain any of the supplies or logistical assistance I would need to make my expedition possible (the world is a large one, but the expeditionary component of that world is not). Not to mention the hash it would make for poor Villiers, who had surreptitiously entrusted it to me in the first place.

Instead, I settled for making the best possible copy of the drawing that I could. I employed, of all people, an out-of-work ship’s architect for the purpose, and he knocked together a serviceable reproduction using a light table on a thin piece of onion skin paper. Needless to say, this piece of paper has now become as precious an artefact as the scrolls themselves, and I keep both locked securely in the vault in my room. As for the replication of Hudson’s paper itself, I did not trust my secretary with the task and copied it out myself using my old Daugherty Visible. I managed the entire thing in less than an afternoon, which I thought no small feat considering I have not used the blessed thing since father gave it to me when I left for Caius.

Needless to say, this new discovery has knocked much of my preparatory work into a cocked Homburg. Not only will I need to totally re-envision my plan, but the explosive nature of Hudson’s report has added an additional and ungainly element of secrecy as well. It is no small thing to organize a major expedition to one of the most remote places on earth without being able to tell anyone where you are going or why. In truth, I think some of the cloak and dagger elements Villiers insists on dabble with paranoia, but it would benefit me little to voice such concerns.

I believe my next step will be to try to meet with Hudson myself. In secret, if possible. There’s a rumour floating around that the man may be trying to mount another expedition and I am still known as a man of means (if not necessarily a man of science, thanks to Conrad’s slanderous tongue) even though I am no longer sitting on the expeditionary committee. I’m sure Villiers would oppose the idea, but I believe this is what Carstairs likes to call a calculated risk. The man may have seen much more than he has documented in his paper, and may be willing to part with some of that information if I am willing to do likewise with my own private stock of secret knowledge. Failing that, I hope that simple currency will do the trick. The man is rumoured to be living in a Whitechapel flophouse and even a patina of health does little to hide an infestation of lice or moth holes in one’s shirts.

Please forgive my rabbiting on, Pip. Here we are with less than a fortnight to go and all I can talk about is the same old thing that has preoccupied me since we were children. Speaking of children, I trust you will locate a suitable item for Elly to receive from Father Christmas this year. I know she claims that she is too old to believe in such childish nonsense any longer, but I believe she still has some of her father’s foolish naiveté in her veins nonetheless. I do wish I could be there with you all. The house does look marvellous at this time of year in particular. Do remind Addy to trim the ivy around the north wall. The damnable stuff is insidious and will rip the windows from their hinges and take up residence in the drawing room if not beaten back.

Love,

T

∅

10th January 1923

King Edward Hotel, London

Pip,

A difficult day, as always. I was awoken quite suddenly this morning by a horrible wailing in the street. I fell out of bed and stumbled to the window to see a ragman’s horse that had been knocked to the street by a large mechanical lorry. I believe, based on their relative positions, that the cart driver had taken a shortcut through the narrow lane and emerged most unexpectedly in the middle of the road, where it was most violently intercepted. The poor animal made the most anguished screams for what seemed an eternity before a bobby emerged from the massing crowd and recruited a few other strong men to put the beast out of its misery. The driver of the cart was little more than a boy, perhaps fourteen, and his wails were almost as loud and painful as his charge. I do not believe he was injured, but he screamed the most unrepeatable insults at the two men who restrained him. Even from my vantage point, I could see they were holding him back for his own safety – the horse’s back legs were broken, but its front hoofs were flailing wildly, giving one incautious fellow quite a thump as he tried to assist – but the boy was having none of it. He screamed and kicked almost as hard as his animal. When the deed was finally done and the animal at peace, he collapsed in racking sobs, pushing away even the women who tried to offer him comfort. He was so violent, in fact, that I think there was a moment when the bobby considered taking him to the Old Bill, if only temporarily. The lorry driver received the worst of it, which seemed to me not entirely fair as the fault probably lies more with the boy than with him.

When another lorry arrived to cart the remains of the horse away, the boy disappeared. The animal was undoubtedly his livelihood. Who knows what will become of him now. It was only when I noticed that he had gone (he was wearing a red hat that at first made me think he was injured and that made him instantly identifiable) that I realized he was about the same age as Eddy would be today.

The realization hit me with such force that I started sobbing as violently as the boy. Horrible events stalk us like jungle cats, moving silently and invisibly through the undergrowth, only to spring on us when we are alone and vulnerable and had almost forgotten they were there. It took me so long to recover myself that I was forced to tell room service to leave my tea and scones on the floor in the hall.

Eddy did so dislike having his birthday so close to Christmas. Not because he received fewer presents, of course (if anything, the opposite was probably the case) but because he was usually contained within the house by the dreary winter weather. I trust Grantham is vigilant that the fence he constructed around that accursed pond is as high and impenetrable as a vault. This frigid bout of weather no doubt means the water has frozen over again, offering dangerous temptations to the village children. When I return, I will have the damned thing filled in and a hill built on top of it though it costs me my last farthing.

Elspeth is too young to remember these things, mercifully, although she has asked some difficult questions about her mother. In the past, I have always told her that Mummy got sick after Eddy’s accident, but I believe as she gets older, she has become suspicious of that account. Lord knows what horrible things she may have heard from the local children. You mentioned that she was starting to keep much more to herself in her room and spending less and less time with her Aunty Pip, but that is probably normal for a girl of her age (I remember a certain younger sister of mine doing just that!).

Once I had recovered myself, I immediately threw all my efforts into completing the translation of the Yedra Scrolls. I must have them finished, or as close as possible, before I meet with Hudson. I have been able, through various intermediaries, to establish contact with the great man and am confident that something can be arranged within the week. I am sleeping little and eating only when I am too exhausted to do anything else, but progress is swift.

I am sure there are many who would think me a madman. From a clinical perspective, the cause and effect would be only too easy to diagnose. Death of wife and son, a much exaggerated but brief over-reliance on medicinal opiates, and a single-minded pursuit of a theory that many consider legend at best and trumped-up hoax at worst (no need to attach additional names to
that
group) leading to a somewhat tarnished professional reputation. Add in the miscommunication with the Exchequer about the tax status of the family estate and I’ll wager many of them are surprised I haven’t turned my lavatory into an improvised gallows.

They have no idea. Every line I translate further cements my belief that I am on the right path. If the advancement of science is about the slow and steady conquest of death, then this discovery will represent a titanic leap forward.

Yours,

T

∅

21st January 1923

Wellsley Road House, London

Pip,

I beg your pardon if your last letter did not find me, but much has happened of late that has forced me to take greater precautions, both for myself and the expedition.