“Atlantis?!” Watson exclaimed. “But that is only a myth!”
“Is it?” Holmes asked, sceptical. “I wonder. In any event, apparently Albion and her rulers grew… mm, cocksure, is perhaps a good way of putting it. Under the rule of one Goëmagot, whose title it seems was Gaawr Maddoc, ‘the Great Good,’ as I make it, the Albions constructed a device—a weapon—which frightened their allies and outright terrified their enemies. Insofar as I can tell, it was this device, and not a man, to which was given the title, ‘King of All Armaments.’ I gather it was not so much the capability of the actual device built that alarmed, as that was in nature by way of what engineers term a ‘prototype,’ but rather the potential of the overall concept which was dangerous. Were it to be brought to culmination, it seems Albion would have had the capacity to destroy Atlantis itself, in its entirety. Given that the entire nation of Atlantis seems to have consisted of a main island—named ‘Ætalente’ as nearly as I can make it—somewhat smaller than the main island of Britain, and a few accessory islands similar to the Hebrides, this might not have been as difficult as it at first appears. Though the archipelago would have been rather more spread out if the group were really the size of northern Africa. In any event, apparently Atlantis, in its technological dominance—at least, until this Albion weapon—was responsible for keeping the world peace. There were, apparently, numerous civilisations of that ancient day, both in the Old World and the New, of some considerable sophistication, and not all of them were of a peaceable nature. Some were, apparently, altogether vicious. So there existed a kind of ‘Pax Atlantea’ one might say, as once there was the Pax Romana, as now we have the Pax Britannica. Loss of the nation at the head of the coalition would have allowed Atlantis’ enemies—not all of whom were ALBION’S enemies, mind—to run rampant, descending the entire world into war, chaos and ruin such as has never been seen. A world war, Watson. Just imagine it. And so the coalition decided it must take action. It gathered a fleet and blockaded Albion.”
“What?! They started a war?”
“Not quite. They threatened it. With such a military force as would have ravaged the British Isles and laid waste.” He tapped the parchment in his hand. “From the tiny islands in the North Sea to the chalk cliffs overlooking the Channel, the land would have been left so desolate that nothing could have lived upon it.”
“But… but how? Nothing can do that!”
Holmes shook his head.
“I cannot tell, Watson. There are references to weaponry, to colossal war machines of land, sea, AND air, that I cannot translate, because they have no correspondence to our modern weapons.” He waved the parchment for antecedent. “There are gleaming silver airships, fleeter than the wind; swift naval vessels powered by something far stronger than coal; cannon the like of which we cannot imagine; something I can only describe as ‘death rays’…and explosives, Watson, explosives which bring down the lightning when they detonate, which wipe out entire cities in a single blast, which raise titanic clouds of, of, poisonous… dust, to settle on the surrounds in a black rain of death.” An appalled Holmes shook his head in perplexity, waving his hands in the air. “I am only able to derive this much from the descriptions in the parchment. I cannot begin to tell you how they function.”
“But that’s simply not possible, Holmes! It makes no sense,” Watson reasoned. “How can an ancient culture have weapons more powerful than our modern ones? Weapons not even we understand? Surely your translation is in error.” An earnest Watson leaned forward; his long-forgotten pipe extinguished itself, the thin trail of smoke drifting away and dissipating as it ceased altogether.
“I can assure you, it is not. And I shall get to the ‘how’ in a moment, Watson. Obviously, since we do not live upon a bleak, lifeless, Godforsaken rock, war did not ensue. This was because evidently Premier Goëmagot and his staff came to their senses when they looked out and saw the vast armada, and promptly sued for peace. A treaty was drawn up, and pursuant to that treaty, Goëmagot was deposed and later executed. The weapon at the centre of the structure we now know as Stonehenge was in essence destroyed: it was removed, completely disassembled, and sent to the Atlantean capital. Then Stonehenge as it existed at that point in time—merely the outermost resonance, support and aligning structure, for that was all which remained when once the weapon itself was removed—was partly dismantled, with a slab of that most peculiar blue diabase or dolerite stone being sent to every nation of the coalition as affirmation of the pact. Yes, yes, I know—we do not know how they moved such huge stones to begin with, let alone sending them to every continent of the known world. But however it was done, Stonehenge was left in large part even as we see it to-day, and never rebuilt.”
“Why have we not heard of this before now, then?”
“Because it would appear that there may be more than merely Beaumont still guarding the secret. And, like Beaumont, it seems the… cabal… is willing to do whatever it takes to guard their ancient enigma. There may even be a chief, someone at the head of the conspiracy, pulling the threads; I find there is something vaguely familiar about their modus operandi. So I contacted… a high member of the government’s accounting office, shall we say for now… to see if he had any information on the matter.”
“And did he?”
“He did. It took him a bit of doing; the matter is evidently quite effectively hidden even at his level, but he was able to confirm that, to date, there have been some dozen other slabs of bluestone found… elsewhere in the world; the majority being found by various archaeological groups on different continents, though several of the most recent finds were by, er, especially-formulated… mm, teams, we shall term them… dispatched by Her Majesty’s government. A total of five such teams were sent out. Three of the teams sent back word of their finds… but did not themselves return alive. Two more were never heard from again. Which is telling.” Holmes drew a deep, thoughtful breath. “And do you remember Professor Whitesell remarking on the death of Professor Gärtner, of Heidelberg University?”
“Yes. Tunnel collapsed on him, didn’t it?”
“Indeed. While he was attempting to excavate a Viking funeral boat. And do you know what was in that boat?”
“Probably some dead Viking king, I suppose.” Watson shrugged indifferently.
“No, Watson. It was another slab of bluestone dolerite. Likely from Stonehenge. Does that suggest anything to you?”
“Good Lord, Holmes! He was killed for the sake of this bloody secret, as well?”
“That is how I read it.” He tapped the scroll. “At any rate, in the end the peace treaty did little good, either to Albion, Atlantis, or much of anyone else. Only five years later a substantial meteor, of a size which a,” Holmes’ expression grew grim, his lips twisting in patent distaste, “an expert I consulted asserted to be an asteroid, struck Atlantis nearly perfectly centrally—‘a bolt from heaven,’ one might say. The island was obliterated by the impact, leaving, presumably, a gigantic Barringer-style crater in the ocean bed for scientists of some future time to find. The monstrous tidal wave that resulted, combined with mammoth earthquakes, devastated not only Albion, but much of the then-civilised world. Beaumont’s document, here, indicates worldwide devastation, chaos, a collapse of civilisation as they knew it, and finally a subsidence into their own dark ages. Whether this was the source of the Biblical great Flood of Noah, I cannot say. But the catastrophe was certainly nearly of a proportion to it, so it may well be. Ironically,” he added, “it may also be that the Albion weapon might have provided an adequate defence against the asteroid, had it been allowed to continue.”
“So… that is how their inventions would have been lost to us. They—all of it, of them—were wiped out in some horrible, world-wide cataclysm.”
“That is how I make it, yes. For there is an appendix on the parchment, written much, much later, if the cuneiform style is to be adjudged, that purports to fill in a few subsequent details. The beings of Irish myth, the Tuatha de Dana
nn—which have direct parallels in the legends of all of the ancient peoples of the British Isles AND the Celts of the Continent, so we may readily assume them all to be the same—seem to have been in truth Atlantean refugees, by some miracle escaping that disaster which destroyed their homeland, cast up on the shores of these islands. They were likely charged with the task of maintaining the treaty—their much-vaunted treasures, and the ‘clouds’ on which they arrived, probably some sort of airship fleet, were likely the last functioning advanced devices of Atlantis… which were, like their homeland, lost to time as whatever provided their power gradually exhausted itself. Later, as the tribe of Danae intermarried with the remnants of the Albions, and their Atlantean blood—and allegiance to that shattered land—waned, the Milesian Spanish invasion served a similar purpose, for evidently their leader, Amergin the ‘Druid,’ was in fact of pure-blooded Atlantean descent, likely made possible by his being from a larger outpost of that race, possibly an original colony that survived the cataclysm. In the end, whatever the reason, Stonehenge was never rebuilt. Which may be as well.”
Holmes paused in thought, staring at the record in his hands.
“Perhaps Stonehenge really was some fantastical, powerful weapon, and perhaps it was not. But in the end, it was the ‘weapon’ that preserved an island nation—the nation we call home, the nation in which we dwell: Great Britain.”
There was a long silence. Finally Watson spoke.
“Now what?”
“Hm?”
“What do we do now, Holmes?”
Holmes gazed pensively at his friend. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?!”
“Indeed. In fact, I left orders with Udail to have the slab and its crypt reburied, and the location hidden as well and as deeply as our current science permits. And I must swear you to absolute secrecy on the matter, my dear Watson. This is one adventure that must never be published.”
“But Holmes—!” Watson half-stood from his chair in shock and dismay. “The truth! Surely we must tell the world the truth!”
“In the end, some truths are too dangerous to be known, old chap. Consider, Watson,” the detective explained patiently. “We know that this is indeed a part of Stonehenge, not merely a piece of the same bluestone, whatever its source and origins—the chemical analysis proved as much. Beaumont claimed he had seen a scroll and a bluestone as well, from some lost ruin buried deep in the South American jungles, with a seemingly outlandish tale about ancient war machines from Atlantis and the slabs of dolerite that were removed from ‘Albion’—England. We know that we found precisely such a slab… in an ancient Egyptian archaeological site. We have the scroll of the treaty which was hidden there… which was written in Sumerian proto-cuneiform. We know that other blocks, other copies of the treaty, have been found around the world. We know that this man Beaumont believed it sufficient to kill. Maybe it was; maybe it was not. We do know that several other expeditions sent deliberately in search of these bluestones have been wiped out, to a man. At least two teams were never seen nor heard from again, their fates completely unknown.
“So, was Beaumont simply a malaria-ridden madman, or… something more? Perhaps one day mankind will be sufficiently advanced to determine if his claim to be Atlantean was true; the chances are vastly against it being his personal history, of course, let alone of the royal family, as he claimed at the end. But… what if it WERE true? In all, or even in part? What if Atlantean blood did run in his veins, however diluted? And what if there are others like him? For it is almost certain that the message conveyed by the Professor’s highly ritualistic killing was directed at them, so that they might be confident that the matter was dispensed-with in this instance and the discovery lost; Beaumont could not know that it was I who identified the stone for Whitesell… and I have sent word to Nichols-Woodall to be silent, and burn all records he has of the matter, as his life depends upon it. I have his assurances he has done so, and that he is strongly advising young Phillips, and Leighton, of discretion on the matter into the bargain. The Earl of Trenthume, I gather, has all but forgotten the matter, and moved on to another archaeological dig, so we need not to be concerned on that account.
“But, Watson, what if these secretive enforcers are in positions of power, for good, or for evil? By the evidence we have uncovered, there can be no doubt but that the modern Aletean confederation is as world-wide as the antediluvian one claimed to be. What dangers do we open to Mother England, by revealing this to the world? What advantages do we accrue in the reveal, and can they possibly outweigh the dangers? I see many dangers, and few—if any—advantages. No, Watson. I am afraid I must ask you to bury any notes you have made for this case, deep, deep, in that bank vault of yours, and never let them come to light. A deal is a deal. No matter how ancient.”
“But… what about… about the Professor? How are we to explain his death? You saw the newspapermen waiting on the quay. If you hadn’t slipped us off the ship, incognito, by the cargo gangplank, we would have been swarmed.”
“I… have taken care of the matter,” Holmes responded obliquely, avoiding Watson’s worried gaze.
“But… how?”
Holmes raked a hand through his hair, then confessed, “I dropped a little flea in your agent’s ear.”
“Doyle? What on earth did you tell him?”
“Do you remember the faked stone tablet?”
“The one with the supposed curse that caused us so much trouble with the workers? I should think I do.”
“I quoted it, so: ‘Death shall come on swift wings to him who disturbs the peace of the Pharaoh.’ And implied that Professor Whitesell had brought it all down upon himself by disturbing Ka-Sekhen. And then Beaumont followed suit.”
“Oh,” Watson said, somewhat blankly, as he settled back into his armchair. “Did he buy it, as the Americans say?”
“Have a look at to-day’s newspaper.” Holmes tossed it across. Watson picked it up and read the headline, Archaeologists Killed by Mummy’s Curse? He snorted.
“Well, I suppose it is as good as anything,” he decided.
“Indeed. More, it sends a message to any who may consider themselves guardians, as Beaumont did.”
“And what does our message say?”
“That we agree with them. The secret remains safe… as will Albion. For now, at any rate.”
Holmes carefully rolled up the venerable old scroll, slipped its fragile leather thong tie about it, and eased it into its protective cylinder. Then he opened his strong box, placing the cylinder safely in the rear of the interior, shutting it away from the light once more. He spun the dial on the lock and slid the portrait of General Gordon back over the safe. Then he turned as young Billy entered.
“Telegram from Scotland Yard, suh,” he murmured, offering the flimsy paper to Holmes on a tray. “I expect as Inspect’r Lestrade is wantin’ ye again. He was right put out at your not bein’ available whiles you were gone. Kept coming by, wanting to know when you was gonna get back, most once or twice a week! An’ ’cordin’ to th’ papers, I don’t think one single case got solved while you were away. Mrs. Hudson an’ I kept a running tally on her slate in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, Billy,” Holmes said with a slight smile, taking the telegram and glancing over it. “Mm. Yes, lad, you may go. Watson?”
“Yes?”
“Are you available, old chap?”
“Is the game afoot?”
“It is, indeed.”
Watson shook his head. “And us scarcely complete with the last one.”
“So it goes, my dear Watson. Neither time, nor the forces of evil, wait for mere mortals such as ourselves. Now, into your coat and come! A case awaits!”
The pair threw on their greatcoats and cravats, caught up canes and silk hats, and ran for the stairs.
# # #
Author’s Notes
—::—
As usual, there are numerous people I need to thank for this work in your hands. First and foremos
t is publisher Tommy Hancock, who likes and reads my other books, most notably the Displaced Detective series with Lida Quillen’s Twilight Times Books, and so asked me in the first place, for what we are now calling the Gentleman Aegis series. This new series will chronicle the adventures of Continuum 114’s version of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, beginning with the pair as young men, just establishing themselves as gentlemen businessmen in London, with all the excitement, problems, personal foibles and more, that that entails.
There’s also my husband Darrell to thank, who brainstorms with me when I get stuck and is VERY supportive and encouraging, as are my parents, Steve and Colene Gannaway. Without these four—five, counting Lida Quillen—this book would never exist to begin with.
Historical assistance came from numerous sources, including Bob Buelow, Cie McCullough, Karen Ramsey McGinn, Christopher McArthur, Paul Dion, Deb Fuller, Wesley Thomas, and the other members of Lady Osborn’s Pub fan group on Facebook.
Research into certain medical matters was verified by my uncle, Dr. Robert R. Murphy, M.D.
Fellow author and native Portuguese, Sarah A. Hoyt, helped me verify Dr. Beaumont’s Portuguese remarks. This was a HUGE help, as it is a language that “skews” just a bit for me, relative to the Spanish and Latin I’ve studied. My very great thanks to her for taking time to help, in the middle of moving her domicile, no less.
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