The Cthulhu Casebooks

by James Lovegrove

  In all honesty, I was not offended to be excluded from Gong-Fen’s category of “men of consequence”. I cannot speak for Holmes, but to me it was not a grouping to which I wished to belong if the diabolical Gong-Fen Shou was amongst its ranks.

  “We,” he continued, “are the ones who may change the world, shape it to our liking, if we so choose. And with the gods behind us, we may do it all the more readily.”

  “If you say so,” Holmes said with diffidence. “I personally am of the opinion that my own abilities will suffice in that sphere. Nor do I have any great desire to change the whole world. I work only to make my own small corner of it a place where honest men may prosper and wrongdoers the opposite.”

  “That is much as I suspect. It seems I should have known better. It seems that, in attempting to enlist you to our cause, I have erred.”

  This to me sounded like a threat, or at any rate the precursor to one. I half rose, my hands raised.

  “God help me, Gong-Fen,” I snarled, “I am prepared to throttle you if need be. Stop the carriage at once and let us out, else you’ll regret it. You are a self-professed murderer, a villain of the highest order, and—”

  “Watson, Watson.” Holmes pressed me gently back down into my seat. “Forgive my friend’s hot-headedness, Gong-Fen. He regards himself as my protector, amongst other things, but he sees peril where perhaps there is none. I note that you have dressed in some haste this morning. You are normally a dapper man, concerned about neatness of appearance. However, your shirt is misbuttoned and your hair less neatly combed than on the last occasion we met. That is indicative of distress, almost as much as the way your hands are shaking. All in all, I am led to the conclusion that the upshot of your error is not that I am in dire straits, but rather that you are.”

  Gong-Fen heaved a quavering sigh. “I come to you as a supplicant, Mr Holmes. A client, indeed. Far from wishing you ill, I seek your help. I hate to say it, but I need you to save me.”

  THE CLARENCE ROLLED ONWARD, ITS CAB SWAYING, its wheels emitting their distinctive growl on the cobblestones. Where we were, I could not judge. So far, we had gone a couple of miles and made more than several turns. I reckoned we had not travelled north, since we had climbed no significant gradients, nor south over the Thames, since a carriage crossing a river bridge makes a far different noise – lighter, hollower – than it does on a solid roadway. We had gone east or west, then, but beyond that I was in the dark, in more ways than one.

  “I have transgressed,” Gong-Fen said. “I have been, it is implied, intemperate and rash. I was acting on my own initiative and it seems I should not have.”

  “Who has told you so?” Holmes asked. “Whom have you offended? Is it Cthulhu or one of his brethren?”

  “No. In many ways it is worse. Permit me.” Gong-Fen drew a folded slip of paper from his pocket. “This was posted through the letterbox of my Belgravia house this morning.”

  It was a quaint note. All it said was:

  “A singular epistle,” said Holmes. “No superscription. No signature.” He passed the note back to Gong-Fen. “Yet I sense it is no mere anonymous admonition. The sender is not being cryptic. He knows you know who he is, and knows you will not misinterpret his meaning.”

  “No superscription or signature are needed. I recognise the hand. It belongs to someone of whom I have been a close associate for some while.”

  “On our drive to Dorking you mentioned having a mentor, before anointing yourself in a similar role for me. Unlike Watson here, I am not a betting man, but I would wager good money that this mentor and your ‘close associate’ are one and the same.”

  “You would be correct in that surmise,” said Gong-Fen. “He and I have been, I suppose you could say, coevals. He is a highly charismatic individual, and one with great ambition and aspirations. A true ‘man of consequence’. It was he who gave me my first inkling about the terrible powers that lurk at the fringes of our world. It was he, too, who proposed that those powers might be invoked for personal gain. He spoke to me of transcending mortal constraints, of becoming rich beyond riches, mightier than kings.”

  “Fine talk.”

  “It was. You have no idea. He was a complete stranger when he approached me out of the blue one day early last year. He invited himself into my home without a by-your-leave, sat himself down in my drawing room, and in minutes had me… the only word I can think of for it is captivated. There’s something about him, about the way he speaks, his voice…”

  “What about it?”

  “I cannot explain. He told me about a project he had, a scheme that would enable him and anyone he favoured to rise above the rest of humanity and, in his own words, ‘walk amongst the stars’. He did not strike me as merely some deluded fantasist. Even when he began talking about the Old Ones, the Elder Gods, Cthulhu, the kind of discourse I would normally have derided as utter nonsense, he was utterly compelling. I asked for proof of his outlandish claims, of course, and he said he could not furnish it, not yet. What he wanted from me was the one thing he himself did not have: money.”

  Holmes let out a droll laugh. “So all this clever, intriguing fellow was after was cold hard cash. Such high-flown talk, and yet he was coming to you cap in hand like a common beggar.”

  “It was little money, by my lights. Enough to enable him to travel abroad in search of various esoteric materials and artefacts. I wrote out a cheque, and thereafter did not see or hear from the gentleman again for several months.”

  “All the while thinking, no doubt, that you would never see or hear from him again at all,” I said.

  “Oh no, Doctor. Somehow I knew he would come back. And when finally he did, he showed me the proof I requested.”

  “Took you to Box Hill?” said Holmes.

  “No. Somewhere closer by than that. There I saw for myself that men are but fly-specks, tiny and insignificant. Everything we strive for is as nothing. Our lives are meaningless when held up next to the awesome, chilly majesty of aeons-old gods. But my newfound friend and mentor persuaded me it could be otherwise. And once I was fully won over and committed to the cause, together we set about putting his scheme into action.”

  “The killings in Shadwell.”

  Gong-Fen nodded. “Which was what brought you, Mr Holmes, onto the stage. When I learned of your exceptional talents, you struck me as well suited to joining us. But my colleague, now that he knows you are involved, is not best pleased. In his eyes, I have erred, and by erring put myself beyond the pale. The consequences will be severe.”

  “And can you not, with all your affluence and resources and your self-described pragmatism, defend yourself against this gentleman’s malignancy? Why must I be involved?”

  “Because, alone, even I might not prevail,” said the Chinaman. “With the aid of one such as you, however, I stand a chance.”

  “What if I am not predisposed to help you? What if I find you despicable and feel that your current plight is entirely your own doing and a well-deserved comeuppance?”

  “Hear, hear,” I said.

  “I can appreciate why you might think that way,” said Gong-Fen. “Obviously I have failed to endear myself to you. I can, however, make it worth your while to swallow your antipathy and come to my aid in my hour of need. Very much so. Name a figure. Double it. Treble it. Add a nought. I can set you up comfortably for life, Mr Holmes. You need never work again.”

  Holmes chuckled. “That would be tempting, were not the money you speak of gained largely from illegitimate activities. Tainted money.”

  “Do you know how desperate I am? I would have to be, to throw myself on another’s mercy like this.”

  “Perhaps you ought to tell me who your foe is,” said my companion archly. “Honour him with a name. He sounds fascinating and I should like to meet him.”

  “You would not say so if you knew him. You think I am ruthless? Not compared with him. That note might as well say ‘Fear me’, not ‘Dear me’. The sense is much the same. In hindsig
ht, I should have known better than to act independently of him. Now he is—”

  That was when the clarence slowed, the wheels’ growl and the horses’ hoofbeats diminishing into silence.

  “What is this?” Gong-Fen said. “I gave the driver explicit instructions to keep going until I told him otherwise.” He rapped on the front window, addressing the coachman outside. “Why the hold-up? Bad traffic?”

  Answer came there none. There was a creaking of springs, and the cab inclined somewhat to one side. Then it bounced back to the horizontal and we heard the sound of footfalls – the coachman’s – proceeding away in some haste.

  Gong-Fen wrenched back the front curtain. The driving seat was empty, the whip laid across it. The horses stood with their heads bent, idle. He thrust the door open.

  “Wherever are you off to?” he called down the street. “Hullo! Thacker! How dare you! I shall have your licence for this. When I’m through with you, you won’t be fit to lead pit ponies at a coal mine!”

  The only response from the coachman Thacker was a mumbled “I’m sorry, sir. Sorry to you all.” This was delivered from some distance away, after which his already rapid pace accelerated to a run.

  “He’s bolted,” said Gong-Fen. “Left us here. The impertinence of the fellow. That’s not like Thacker at all. What can have got into––?”

  Then something seemed to click in his head, like the final piece of a jigsaw falling into place. “Oh no,” he moaned, subsiding into his seat. Gone, suddenly, was every last trace of his self-assurance. “Oh no, no, no…”

  “Stop whimpering, Gong-Fen,” I said. “Collect yourself. What in heaven’s name is the matter?”

  “Not heaven’s name. No. Not heaven. I can’t believe it. This is not right. Not fair.”

  “Watson,” said Holmes, suddenly tight-lipped, “I am of the opinion that we are in considerable danger.”

  “How?” I said. “Where are we anyway?”

  I peered outside. We had fetched up beneath the arch of a bridge, where a railway line traversed an alley between rows of faceless factories. Above us and on either side was nothing but a tunnel of dark, dank brickwork, the mortar ribbed here and there with moss. No living creature was within view save a mangy black cat which, as soon as I looked at it, hissed, turned tail and fled. A train thundered overhead, wheels squealing, rolling stock clanking.

  A lonely spot, but I could think of worse places to be marooned than on a backstreet in the heart of a metropolis of some six million souls. We could not be more than a few hundred yards from a main road. We were hardly in the middle of nowhere.

  Gong-Fen remained agitated, almost beyond consolation, certainly beyond the level that our predicament seemed to warrant. To Holmes I said, “If we are in danger, it is far from apparent where it is likely to come from. We are quite alone. All one of us need do is climb out and take control of the carriage. I’m happy to volunteer for that—”

  “No!” Gong-Fen cried. “Stay in the cab. It can only be safer inside.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I told him. “If we are about to be set upon in some sort of ambuscade, then it makes no sense to stay put, not when there is the recourse of getting mobile again. Besides, I do not see where any likely assailants could be hiding.”

  “That is because they can hide anywhere,” said Gong-Fen. “Anywhere there is darkness, there they may be. That is why we have stopped here, of all places.”

  “Absurd.” Over the Chinaman’s protests, I clambered out.

  A hand grasped my arm, staying me. The grip was so strong it could only be Holmes’s.

  “Perhaps we had better do as Gong-Fen suggests,” he said.

  “Not in the least,” I declared. “I will not pander to that man. How is it safer to sit still than to move? If I learned anything during my time in Afghanistan, it is that to be stationary is to be vulnerable.”

  I shook off Holmes’s hand, irritated that he was opting for passivity over action. As yet I still could not descry any immediate menace. The tunnel was barely fifty feet in length, and we were at its midpoint. The road at either end was empty. The shadows beside the bridge’s buttresses were too slender to conceal a man. Nor were we overlooked directly by any windows, where a marksman might lurk. Once I goaded the horses to a canter, we would be swiftly in motion and back on the public highway in next to no time.

  As I grasped the arm of the driving seat in order to haul myself up, I glimpsed movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a flicker of blackness low near the ground, by the tunnel wall. I presumed it was the stray cat, ambling insouciantly back, having overcome its wariness of the carriage. Something uncoiled and coiled again, very much like the tail of a feline.

  A second look, however, showed me that the cat was nowhere in sight. If I had seen anything, it was merely the movement of some innocuous object. A piece of litter perhaps, caught up by a breeze.

  Ensconced in the seat, I gathered up the reins. The horses were suddenly very nervous, whinnying and pawing the cobbles with their front hooves. I clucked my tongue and made soothing sounds. “I know I am not your usual driver,” I said to them. “Just bear with me. I will do my best.”

  Ears pricked, the horses turned their heads this way and that. They seemed eager to be under way. I picked up the whip, all set to give them a light tap on the hindquarters.

  Then Gong-Fen screamed, a shrill, almost hysterical wail. “They’re out there,” he said. “Can’t you feel it? Dear God, they’re out there.”

  I looked around. I could not fathom what he was talking about. There was nobody nearby. I had an unrestricted view fore and aft, and we were quite alone. How could he see something from inside the cab that I could not from outside?

  Then, quite distinctly, one of the buttress shadows shifted.

  It seemed to extrude from the tunnel wall, articulating tendrils of itself towards the clarence. Ribbons of darkness reached for the carriage, and all at once I was conscious of a kind of torpor creeping up on me, a lassitude that was as much of the spirit as the body. Strength left my limbs. Light-headedness washed over me. I could not move, nor see the point in moving. The whip hung in my hand, inert, heavy as a lead pipe.

  The horses themselves were similarly afflicted, no longer keen to quit the spot, seemingly content to stand in the traces with their heads drooping. A part of me knew I must rouse myself, must resist the temptation to linger. But why bother? It was a futile effort. Better to watch the shadow continue to grow and spread. There was something fascinating, mesmerising, in its flower-like blooming, a hideous beauty. Pure void had come to life and was stretching out to gather me up in an octopoid embrace.

  A second shadow oozed out from the opposite wall, and a third began to descend from the tunnel roof, extending thin black fingers of itself downward like strange stalactites. Now I was doubly, triply, disinclined to make any attempt to escape. Everything was unfurling with a kind of weary inevitability. I felt that the touch of one of these shadows would be strangely welcome. They radiated a coldness, but that coldness would numb and anaesthetise, like ether. As when one steps into an icy lake, there would be an initial shudder followed by blissful insensibility.

  In my enervated state, I was only dimly aware of anything else that was happening. There was no one but myself and the ambulatory, encroaching shadows. I did not perceive, until he climbed into the seat beside me, that Sherlock Holmes had managed to exit the cab. His every movement spoke of exertion and exhaustion, as though he had just run a ten-mile steeplechase. His teeth were clenched tight, his brow furrowed in concentration. The shadows were sapping the life out of him, but he refused to succumb, resisting them with every erg of energy he had left.

  He took the reins and the whip from me. He raised the latter and brought it down on the flank of the right-hand horse. The beast flinched at the sting of the whip’s tip. It seemed to recollect its purpose in life, connecting the pain with the imperative to advance. Its legs stirred. Holmes lashed again, and the horse mov
ed. Its counterpart, remembering its duty as half of a pair, did likewise.

  In this manner, with excruciating slowness, the clarence pulled away.

  The shadows, however, were upon us. Their black tendrils were stroking the sides of the cab acquisitively and creeping up around Holmes’s legs and mine. I did not want to look directly into their darkness, yet somehow I was unable to help myself. My eye was drawn irresistibly to a shape that was visible in their depths. Faintly, as though through a fathom of brackish water, something could be discerned – something multifarious and kaleidoscopic, something awful. It had no fixed form. It churned and billowed like smoke. Yet it was solid, too; glossy, fleshy. It seemed to remake itself with each passing second, rippling, constantly evolving. Eyes. It had eyes. Dozens of them. They blinked and revolved and stared. They were watching me. They could see me. They hungered for me. They ached to devour me.

  At that moment I may well have shrieked. I do not clearly recall. What I do recall is Holmes repeatedly inciting the horses to go – go faster – switching at them again and again with the whip, and they striving forward as though into a powerful headwind. The whole episode had taken on the atmosphere of a nightmare, one of those in which you are trying to escape from a horror but your feet are mired in quicksand and you cannot budge.

  In the cab, Gong-Fen was in a frenzy. The shadows on either side had permeated through the gaps around the doors. He was howling and throwing himself about. I could imagine him enfolded in their nebulous clutches, vainly struggling to break free.

  The clarence crawled ever closer to the tunnel’s end, ever nearer the blazing daylight. Meanwhile, I strove to wrench my gaze away from the thing that lurked inside the shadows, even as my eyes kept returning to it remorselessly, helplessly. It was their progenitor. They were extensions of it, limbs it could project into the world. It was controlling them and using them to ensnare its prey. Its appetite was as foul as its appearance. It possessed no mouth and did not need one. It imbibed. It absorbed. It subsumed. To be ingested by it was to know one of the most horrendous deaths imaginable, as one’s emotions, one’s essence, one’s very self were decanted into it like blood into a leech.