by G. L. Gick
“It’s Colleen,” Kritchna murmured sleepily next to me. “She climbs upon the roof at nights. You get used to it.”
“Mmm,” I mumbled, slipping back down. Mentally I admonished myself. It must have been all the talk of Spiritualism earlier, I thought. Playing games with my subconscious, making me jump at every little sound as if afraid a Spirit might jump out and seize me. Foolish. You know better than that, Dickson.
Above, Colleen continued with her contented mewling. Enjoy yourself, my girl, I thought and started drifting to sleep again.
That was when I heard the other noise.
I say without exaggeration that it was the strangest sound I have ever heard. Heavy, and regular, spaced precisely like footsteps. Thump. Thump. Thump. But there was something odd, something wrong about each noise. Something incomplete I should say, as if whatever was causing it was something very big and very heavy and yet—somehow not fully solid. Like something only partly filled, something not quite fully complete. The best way I can describe it is as if someone had a great rubber bag half-filled with water and was steadily dropping it upon the roof, so its echo sounded more like “Schtwhump.” And it was continuing—Schtwhump, schtwhump, schtwhump….
“What the hell is that?” Kritchna grunted, rising up in the bed.
“Dunno,” I replied. “Could someone have gotten on the roof?”
Whatever it was, it was moving steadily, if wetly, down toward the edge. Directly above us, Colleen the cat was still meowing, but suddenly fell silent just as the schtwhumping stopped. We could hear her hiss violently. Then there was a great, frightened “MRRROOWWWWWW!!!” and suddenly the little porthole that served as our window shattered into pieces! Kritchna and I both clambered up clumsily, knocking into each other and trying to avoid falling glass, as we stumbled to the edge of the bed and over.
“Damnation!” roared Kritchna. “What the bloody hell is going on? Where’s that damn candle?” There was the scratch of a match and the tiny pinprick of flame shone dimly. Kritchna raised the candle up. “What happened?”
“Something came through the window,” I snapped obviously, climbing back upon the bed. My hands pressed against several pieces of glass, cutting myself, but I ignored it. “But God knows—oh my!” I drew back. Kritchna leaned forward, holding the candle out. He swallowed.
There on the bed, lying in a bloody heap, was the tiny, twisted body of Colleen.
Her head had been completely severed from her neck.
CHAPTER FOUR
Shards of falling glass had rained on our hair, skin and clothing, or bit painfully into our feet as we stepped blindly about in the darkness. But our discomfort was as nothing compared to the still, small form lying grotesquely upon the pillow before us; a small, intensely crimson geyser of lifeblood pouring out of the maw of her neck.
Where her head might be, neither of us could say.
“Hell,” I heard Kritchna mutter blackly, unable to tear his eyes from the horrible sight. “Is that Colleen? What could have done this? An owl?”
I refrained from replying. I was too busy snatching the candle from my reluctant roommate, leaning forward for a closer examination of the body. It was true owls often preyed upon cats. My mentor had made a point once of showing me how various animals killed, and owls had been among them. The one I had witnessed had struck the back of the creature’s neck with its beak, instantly snapping it, but did not shear the head clear off. For a moment, I debated whether a shard of glass might have severed through the cat‘s neck, but no; I would’ve expected the wound to be more jagged. This was very neat and even. I felt a wave of disgust as I ran my fingers through the bloody fur, trying to peer through the gusher of life, but after a moment, I found tiny marks about what remained of the neck, bearing no sign of having been made by beak or glass. They were deep and even, and could possibly have been made by talons, but somehow I found myself doubting it. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I could swear these were…
…teeth marks.
Scthwump, schtwump wump wump wump—
Kritchna and I shot looks at each other. There it was again—the wet, sucking, peculiarly incomplete sound we had heard just before the cat had come crashing down upon our heads. It pattered with its strange sloshing swiftly along the edge of the eave outside—and then, what small sliver of the moon Kritchna’s tiny window let in was suddenly darkened and we heard a great whuffing sound and the snapping of branches. Whatever it was had either leaped or fallen out off the roof, down to the bushes some three stories below!
Hastily, I scrambled to my feet on top of the bed, ignoring the glass and slippery pools of blood soaking into the mattress. If I could just get my head out the window—no good. Not all the pane had shattered, but what remained had turned into transparent jagged knives of glass: I’d behead myself like Colleen if I dared try stick my head out the opening. I fumbled with the lock but was again frustrated. Disuse had rusted the hatch. Below I could hear something struggling in the foliage. Leaping to the floor (and nearly knocking Kritchna over in the process), I yelled: “Come on!” and threw open the door. If we hurried, we might just make it in time—
—To slam right into Mr. Appleby.
“Great God Almighty!” the butler exclaimed—and for such a devout Christian to say something like that meant he was very annoyed indeed. “What is the meaning of this ruckus? Do you wish to wake the masters? Explain yourselves at once!”
“See for yourself,” I snapped back, jerking my thumb back toward the bed. Obviously I was being rude, but time was of the essence. I pushed past the butler, dashed down the small flight of stairs, through the hall, down the main stairway and out the huge front door to find—
—Nothing, save for the chirruping of insects and the occasional call of night birds. The gardens surrounding the House were silent. Nothing stirred, nothing appeared. The full Moon beamed down benevolently, bathing trees and bushes in an ethereal halo. You’d never imagine something slinking about it had just slaughtered an animal.
But the shrubs I wanted were along the west side of the House, and whatever it was might not have been able to have extricated itself yet. Still clad in nightshirt and bare feet, the dew cold on my still-bleeding soles, I made my way along the length of the House as swiftly and silently as possible, my ears pricked to catch the slightest disturbance. The window to Kritchna’s garret would be right around this corner. I paused to listen; I could hear no rustling; no schtwhumping, nothing unusual to speak of. Taking a deep breath, I whipped around the corner, prepared for anything, to find—
—Nothing again. Absolutely nothing. Just a clump of flattened rosebushes, the stems bent and broken as if a great weight had crashed upon them. My prey, whatever it had been, had escaped.
I scanned the ground for footprints, indentations, anything that might tell me the direction my fugitive went. But even in the soft, dewy grass, I found no sign of anything. Yet something was shining on the flowers in the moonlight, something thick and sparkling, like dew only much more viscous.
“Find anything?”
I nearly jumped as I found Kritchna waiting beside me. So intent had I been on my examination, I hadn’t even heard him approach. I also noted he had had the presence of mind to pull on a pair of pants and shoes before joining me. As well as having brought an electric torch. I felt rather like kicking myself.
“Appleby’s upstairs trying to find a hatbox or something for Colleen,” he said. “Discovered anything?”
“Nothing yet,” I admitted reluctantly. “But, here, shine that torch here a moment. I want to see something.”
Kritchna complied. As the beam flashed over the broken flowers, his face screwed up in distaste. “What on Earth is that mess?”
That mess was a concoction the like of which I had never seen in any chemistry laboratory; a clear, sticky, pus-like substance dribbling slowly down the stalks and petals like slow, cold treacle. The bushes were saturated with it, like those I tossed my water-filled paper bags upon o
ut the windows of my brownstone as a boy in New York. It pooled slowly at the base of the plants, steadily soaking down into the ground. Wait—no, it wasn’t! It was drawing into itself, shriveling into smaller blobs, evaporating into the air.
“What is it?” Kritchna asked.
“I’m not certain.” I knelt to carefully swab a bit up, rubbing it between my fingers. Cool to the touch. Odorless, as well. I found myself wishing I had brought a specimen jar. The goop clung to the crushed branches and petals of the rosebushes. Peculiarly, I could find no trace of the same substance on the grass.
“Funny, though,” Kritchna was continuing absently, having also taken up a bit to examine. “I could almost swear I have seen something like this before. If only I could remember where...”
With a sigh, I stood and wiped my hand on my shirt. “Well, whatever it is, it evaporates quickly. See? It’s almost all gone already. Who knows what it is, but it’s clear we’re not going to learn anything else about it tonight. We might as well go back inside.”
We must have made a sorry sight as we tramped back upstairs, half-dressed, disheveled, and scratched in several places on our arms and legs. Appleby failed to be impressed. “Darshan, your blankets and sheets are simply soaked with blood. They’re completely ruined!”
“Better them than us, Mr. Appleby,” Kritchna stated wryly.
“Well…yes,” the butler sighed, looking down at the bed. Resting on what remained of the mattress was a plain brown hatbox, lid closed. It didn’t take a detective to guess what was inside. “Mrs. Mulligan shall not be pleased. Did you find out what it was?” I shook my head. “Well, perhaps it was an owl, then.”
Somehow I sincerely doubted that, but as I had no better theory, I did not contradict him. Gently he made a little “cross” over the box with his fingers, and then picked it up.
“Well, I’d best get this somewhere for the night.” He ran his gaze over us. “And find you some iodine and bandages. You’ve probably been bleeding all over the carpets, like as not. Heaven knows where I’m going to put you two; but you obviously can’t sleep here tonight. You might as well take my room. I’ll sleep on a divan in the hall.”
Pleased and more than a little surprised at this generosity, we thanked him gratefully. He coughed. “Yes—well. I’d best be getting that iodine. Wait here.” He quickly darted downstairs.
Kritchna turned to me and smiled. ‘Told you he was all right. Just comes on a bit strong sometimes.”
“You were right.”
We moved to sit side-by-side on the steps, shaking the glass from our clothing. “Do you think it was an owl?” Kritchna asked at last, shuffling over to give me more room.
I shook my head. “I can’t think of what else it could have been. Although I’ve never seen an owl do anything like that before. The only other creature it could be is a dog or a fox, and neither of those could’ve gotten up to the roof. Could they?”
Now it was Kritchna’s turn to shake. “No. Colleen could climb just about anywhere she wanted, but nothing else. Still, that had to be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”
I smiled, wryly. “Says the man who watches Little Neddy pictures.”
“Hm?” Kritchna glanced at me puzzled. “What are you talking about? I hate Little Neddy.”
I blinked at the confession. Had I or had I not very definitely heard him tell Appleby he had slipped away from his duties to see a motion picture in Wolfsbridge, only now to hear him say he couldn’t stand the very star of the same?
The question must have been plainly visible on my face, for no sooner had it crossed my mind than Kritchna quickly changed the subject:
“So. How did you get into detective work? Did you always want to be one?”
The sudden change in topic did nothing to ease my suspicions, but I decided to go along with it for the nonce. “Pretty much. I’ve always admired great American detectives like Nick Carter and King Brady, and my father knew this old actor who used to be a Secret Service agent. He’d tell me and my sister all these old stories about his partner and himself in the Western states. I‘m certain he made half of them up, but I didn’t care. And so, one day, I simply decided to make my living as a detective. Runs in the blood, I suppose. My father once tackled a few cases himself, with a master thief as a partner, of all things, and my sister even married a very influential private inquiry agent back in the States. Had a son. Little Franklin should be—oh, going on two or so by now. I’ve asked them to name the next after me, but for some reason my sister is dedicated to calling it ‘Joseph’ if it’s a boy.”
“Anyway, when Father sent me here for my education, I made a point of seeking other detectives out. Shortly after, I met my mentor, and the rest, as the cliché goes, is history. And you? Your family?”
“Ah.” Kritchna shifted uneasily in his seat and for a moment it looked as if he’d almost rather talk about Little Neddy. “Well, my family’s a bit difficult to talk about.”
“Oh?” My eyebrow arched. “I only know a little of Indian society, but it’s not a caste problem, is it? You’re not an Untouchable or anything like that?”
“No!” Kritchna shook his head violently. “No. No, no, no. Nothing like that. We’re Brahmins.”
“Brahmins?” My astonishment only grew. “Then why on Earth are you in...”
“Service? For my own reasons, Dickson. But, back to my family—as I said, it’s a bit difficult to explain them. We’re not just of the Brahmin caste, you see—at least, so my family claims. What we are, what we’ve always traditionally been, is—well, I guess you would have to call us wizards.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Wizards?”
“You know—Indian wizards. Fakirs and yogis and all that rot. We’re supposed to come from a long line of them; Protectors of the Ancient Secrets and so on. It’s all rubbish, of course. What we are is a bunch of street magicians—you can find thousands of them in any Indian city. Snake charmers, fire-walkers, things like that. We’re just higher-caste than most.”
I nodded, smiling, beginning to understand. “Yes, I know. My father’s a magician; he taught me half those tricks himself.”
“I’m sure. But to listen to my family, it was all real, at least once. We’ve just fallen on hard times, according to them. Once, we were supposed to be court magicians to Chandragupta himself, or so the stories go. The power’s still in our blood, my great-uncle Nadir used to say—it’s just waiting to be rediscovered. But my father was having none of it. He’d seen the signs—the English ruled India now, and it was their ways, not ours, that was going to shape the future. So he turned his back on it. My great-uncle was none too happy about his decision, for he wanted my sister and me to be his apprentices, but Father refused and that was that. My uncle’s in the Philippines now, trying to re-find the magic, or so I’ve heard.”
“You have a sister, then?”
“Had. She’s gone now.” The young Indian fell silent. Part of me wanted to ask more, but Kritchna’s face had gone cold and stony. So I decided to refrain. Besides, Appleby was just coming back up with the iodine. Neither of us felt like playing Ishmael and Queequeeg now, so after retiring to Appleby’s room, I slumped into a chair while Kritchna collapsed into the bed. As I was just about to drop off, I heard Kritchna murmur something softly that should have shot me straight up if I wasn’t so exhausted. I forgot about it almost immediately.
“Y’know, I do remember where I’ve seen that stuff before. My great-uncle showed me some once.”
“Really?” I yawned, not able to stay awake a moment longer. “What was it?”
“Oh, just something he said was used in his work. Ectoplasm, I think he called it.”
Mrs. Mulligan was indeed not pleased upon learning the fate of her beloved Colleen the next morning, and spent most of breakfast sobbing inconsolably.
Mr. Appleby tried to comfort her as best he could, but to little avail. As for Kritchna and myself, we blinked, and yawned, and looked guiltily into our eggs, but said noth
ing. Things only became worse when Appleby admitted they would probably have to toss Colleen into the incinerator. With so much going on, the loss of a kitchen cat was low on the list of priorities.
Still, my duty was to assist with the conference, not deal with dead pets. So I dismissed Colleen and turned my mind to the matter at hand. The rest of the security should be arriving that afternoon, and Sir Henry would no doubt have a completely incompetent plan about what to do and when. I’d have to see what I could rearrange without his knowledge. And then there was—
I almost didn’t notice Old Jack slipping a paper next to my plate. “This just came for ye,” he said in the longest sentence I had heard from him yet and turned away. I tore it open. It was the response to the telegram I had sent to Joseph, answering the query I had about Miss Annunciata’s mysterious employer the Sâr Dubnotal. It was short and sweet and simply read:
Harry:
Trust him.
Joseph.
I gazed bemusedly at the words. Trust him? Trust an obvious fraud, a man who preyed on the lonely and gullible, who espoused occult nonsense for a quick sou? I wondered what was wrong with Joseph. He was usually much more reliable.
“What’s that, Dickson?”
“Oh,” I crumpled the telegram in my hand. “Nothing, Kritchna. Just an answer to a query I had about the Rutherfords. I had the pleasure of meeting them yesterday.”
“The Rutherfords,” Mrs. Mulligan paused from her tears long enough to sigh. “Poor people. They’re such dears. It’s a shame, all the tragedy in their life.”
“That reminds me. There’s something Old Jack said to me yesterday I didn’t understand. I mentioned Miss Christina and he asked ‘Did she howl?’ What on earth did he mean?”
Mrs. Mulligan and Appleby exchanged glances. “I’ll speak with him,” the butler rumbled and rose from the table. Mrs. Mulligan rubbed her forehead and sighed again.
I paused, waiting.