The Cthulhu Casebooks

by James Lovegrove

  Holmes had drawn the same conclusion, although I have no doubt he arrived at it earlier than I did. “So the obelisk is not an obelisk at all,” he said to Moriarty. “It is, rather, a projection of something much larger. The tip of the proverbial iceberg.”

  “The pyramid in which we presently find ourselves,” said Moriarty, “dwarfs any of those at Giza for height. It is also considerably older.”

  “May I ask how you discovered it? The Necronomicon, perchance?”

  “Its location is hinted at in the book. I assembled the various clues and references salted throughout the pages, then applied the geomancer’s art. First I dangled a crystal dowsing pendulum over a map of London to triangulate the pyramid’s whereabouts. Then I investigated the crypt of St Paul’s with a pair of divining rods, thereby pinpointing the exact spot. Within the first night’s excavation I had uncovered the apex, a mere couple of feet under the flagstones. It was a satisfyingly quick validation of my methodology. I was perhaps a trifle surprised that a structure like this should be lying directly beneath a church, but then…”

  “But then Christianity has a history of adopting sites of great pre-Christian significance for its own use,” said Holmes. “It has long been the practice of the Church, and was so especially in its infancy, to flatten shrines, temples and other places deemed sacred to pagan cultures and build over them. In the same way the religion has annexed heathen festivals for its own. Hence Saturnalia became Christmas, and Samhain All Hallow’s Eve. In this manner early Christianity asserted its dominance, supplanting its rivals’ loci and traditions so that their worshippers were left with little option but to leave the area to find somewhere else to conduct their rites, or convert.”

  “St Paul’s Shadwell is a perfect example of that. Before it existed, this was a Neolithic sacred site. Standing stones, dolmens and suchlike, frequented by druids for their harvest-time and equinoctial rituals. Before that, the ground level was lower, and what appeared to be merely an onyx obelisk stood proud of the earth.”

  “Its presence marking the spot where one world intersected with another, the subterranean with the surface.”

  “Holmes,” I said, butting in, “how can you engage the man in conversation like this? As though making parlour chit-chat? He is our executioner and we are being led to our deaths.”

  “There is no need for incivility, Watson, whatever the circumstances. Besides, intellectual curiosity demands to be fed. It is never sated.”

  “You really are a man after my own heart, Mr Holmes,” said Moriarty. “Would that fate had not set us on divergent courses, that your basic temperament was more aligned with mine. We could have been tremendous colleagues. Instead we are, regrettably, obverse and reverse of the same coin, destined never to see each other’s point of view.”

  “In that same spirit, the satisfaction of curiosity,” Holmes continued, “I should like to ask about these snake men.”

  “Homo sapiens reptiliensis, as I like to call them.”

  “An accurate-seeming taxonomic classification.” My companion gave an approving nod. “To judge by the variety of physical characteristics they present – some more humanoid than others – there has been crossbreeding with humans in the past.”

  “I agree. I believe there must have been. I believe, further, that the hybridisation goes both ways and that there are people walking around in the world today with some vestigial traces of the reptiliensis bloodline in them, entirely unknowing. Are there not individuals with an icy, aloof affect whom we think of as ‘cold-blooded’? Have we not all met someone who can be said to possess a distinctly reptilian aspect?”

  “One such person is not too far from me right now, Professor,” I said, recalling my first impression of him as he had oscillated his head like a snake fascinating its prey.

  “I shall not take that as an insult, Doctor, assuming it is meant as one. I am in that category, yes, and I am of the view that that is the reason I am able to exercise my will over the snake men so adeptly with my Triophidian Crown. I would also submit that my ability to mesmerise, a talent I have honed in recent years to a fine degree, has its roots in a far distant serpentine heritage.”

  “Creatures who combine the qualities of man and snake abound in folklore,” said Holmes. “It would seem that they have been less mythical than we think.”

  “Absolutely,” said Moriarty. “Cecrops, the first king of Athens, was purportedly half snake.”

  “So were the Lamia and the Gorgons.”

  “Also the Aztec god Tlaloc, the Hindoos’ Naga, the Greek god Glycon, and not forgetting the Chinese Adam and Eve, Fu Xi and Nu Wa… Who is to say that these myths do not have their roots in fact? And who is to say I am not the distant descendant of one such being?”

  “Satan was a serpent too, wasn’t he?” I said.

  My barb, like its predecessor, found no purchase in Moriarty’s hide. I was, it seemed, beneath his dignity. Compared with Holmes, whom he abundantly admired, I was a mere irritant.

  “What an odd couple you are,” the academic said with a chuckle. “Here is Mr Holmes, with his enquiring mind, always open to new knowledge. And here is Dr Watson, a gruff, bluff fellow who would rather lash out than learn. I could see no future in this mismatched partnership, even if it were to survive beyond tonight. Each of you hardly seems compatible with the other. Does Mr Holmes regard you, Doctor, as anything more than a pet or mascot, I wonder?”

  I responded with a vicious growl, which, I will allow, might have appeared to lend affirmation to Moriarty’s rhetorical question.

  I would have chased it up with some sort of uncomplimentary riposte, but it so happened that just then our party’s long, winding descent reached its terminus.

  We stepped through a low, broad vestibule, emerging into a cave which, though nowhere near as immense as the cavern that housed Ta’aa, was of sizeable proportions nonetheless. A smattering of torches shed their light over the scene, enough of them to hold back but not entirely banish the dark. They revealed the cyclopean bulk of the pyramid behind us, which disappeared into the rock roof above like a mountaintop into clouds. Only the apex was adorned with onyx, it transpired. The rest – the vast majority – was raw, undressed stone. The torches also revealed a pool of black water in front of us. Some forty yards in diameter, its gleaming surface was so still and untroubled it looked like a sheet of pure volcanic obsidian.

  Around this were ranged snake men, a couple of hundred of them in total, of both genders and all ages. They squatted on the banks of the pool, lay athwart table-like rock outcrops, or perched upon rugged shelves and projections on the cave walls. Many were gnawing upon the bodies of rats, which must have been their principal food source. Those that were not sedentary or recumbent prowled about in a slithery, undulating way. Now and then a couple of them might bump into each other and there would be an elaborate display of aggression, a baring of fangs, a flurry of hisses, sometimes even a brief altercation that ended in one or the other being wrestled to the floor and having to give some sign of submission.

  For the most part, however, the snake men’s attention was directed upon us, the new arrivals. When Moriarty showed his face, there was a ripple of appreciative murmuring and even a few fumbled, mangled attempts at his name: “Roffsssor Mearty. Roffsssor Mearty.” He acknowledged the recognition with a regal wave.

  “Sherlock!”

  The cry came from a raised section of the cave floor by the pool, a kind of natural dais. From its centre rose a tall stalagmite some twenty feet in circumference. Its pointed summit reached upward to a corresponding stalactite, of somewhat greater dimensions, that hung down from above. Set into the stalagmite at head height was a large iron eye-bolt, through which were threaded a number of thick chains. These ended in manacles, and currently two of them were being used to shackle a pair of men, one of whom I knew and the other of whom, though unfamiliar, I readily identified.

  The former was Inspector Tobias Gregson, who presented a very sorry sight. He
sat slumped, legs straight out in front of him, arms suspended above his head by the manacles. His drooping head and glum expression spoke of incredulity, regret and resignation.

  The second man, who reclined straight-backed against the stalagmite, was Sherlock Holmes, but with the addition of perhaps half as much again in weight. He shared Holmes’s physiognomy, although on him it was softened at the edges, like a smudged portrait. There was the same hawklike intensity about the eyes, the same aquilinity to the nose, but he sported a flabby second chin and his brow was puffy. His attire was more flamboyant than any Holmes might have worn, too, down to a paisley silk cravat and a brocade waistcoat, the latter stretched across an ample corporation. For all that, there was no doubting that he and my companion must be close kin. I was looking at none other than the mighty Mycroft.

  He it was who had called out Holmes’s name across the cave, and his younger brother answered with a clipped “Mycroft.”

  “About time you showed up,” said Mycroft. “It’s awfully damp down here. Plays havoc with the sinuses.”

  To hear him, you might not think he had been abducted from his home forty-eight hours earlier and held captive since. He spoke as though addressing a waiter who had neglected to add a slice of lemon to his gin and tonic as requested. This was in marked contrast to Gregson, who was the very picture of dejection. The official had perked up briefly when Mycroft had spoken, but sank into despondency again upon perceiving that Holmes was Moriarty’s prisoner and that his appearance in the cave did not signify salvation. I caught a look from him which was bitter in every way, and I was unable to respond with any visible measure of reassurance. I felt as pessimistic about our prospects as he.

  At an unspoken command from Moriarty, the snake men forced Holmes and me towards the stalagmite and the empty pair of chains which awaited, ready to bind us alongside Mycroft and Gregson.

  “Really, Sherlock,” the elder Holmes chided as we approached, “what kept you? This policeman and I have been stuck down here for a good day or two, with barely a morsel to eat. It has been most inconvenient. Could you not have come looking for us sooner?”

  “I apologise, brother. I sprang into action the moment I learned you were missing. What more do you expect?”

  “You found my little clue, I take it.”

  “The one Moriarty obliged you to leave.”

  “Yes. He gave me no choice, really. I felt compelled to do as he said. Some form of hypnosis, I would hazard. Dashed hard to resist. I knew I shouldn’t obey but couldn’t help it. I consoled myself that you would search for me regardless, so would it hurt to make the task more straightforward? It was quite obviously a stratagem designed to ensnare you, but I reasoned that you would see through such a patent ruse in a trice and turn up with a large contingent of men, mob-handed, ready to mount a siege. Which,” he added, a touch ruefully, “it is clear you have not. Instead you have brought only a single ally, and it has not worked out well for you. What a pity.”

  “All is not lost.”

  “So speaks a true Holmes. I daresay the tables may yet be turned, but you will forgive me if I don’t foresee much likelihood of that happening. These snake creatures have been anticipating our demise with eagerness. Look at them. They’re like Romans at the Circus Maximus, waiting for the Christians to be thrown to the lions. I doubt very much they’re going to be disappointed.”

  “Horrible beasts,” Gregson muttered. “They’ve no right existing. Vermin.”

  “Oh come along, old chap,” said Mycroft. “Let us not deride them just because they are so different. Perhaps we seem no less offensive to them than they do to us.”

  “They stink. They’re vile.”

  The exchange continued, but I ignored it. Manacles were being clamped around my wrists and Holmes’s, and once more I did my best to resist. I thought that if I could just break free, I might somehow yet snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. If, say, I were able to reach Moriarty, might I not throttle the life out of him with my bare hands? Failing that, knock the Triophidian Crown from his head. Without him controlling them, the snake men would then become a rabble, confused, rudderless. We could take advantage of the disarray and effect an escape.

  But my efforts came to naught. The snake men continued to exert their superior strength and I remained overpowered. It was damnably frustrating. The manacles were locked tight with a crude screw-like key, and there I stood, arms bent, hands hanging at shoulder height, helpless. There was sufficient slack in the chain for me to have sat down, like Mycroft and Gregson, but I elected to stay on my feet while I could. I was not beaten yet – although I was close to it.

  Holmes, for his part, acquiesced in being fastened. It was almost as though he was accepting the inevitable. Yet that, to my mind, was unlike him. I might not have known him long, but he was no fatalist. I could not but think that he had some plan of last resort, that there was still an ace up his sleeve.

  Once we were both secured, the snake men backed away, leaving the rocky dais and merging with their brethren and sistren scattered around the cave. The key which secured the manacles was passed to Moriarty for safekeeping.

  He in the meantime had opened a casket and retrieved an object wrapped in an oilcloth. This covering he unpeeled, slowly, reverently, to expose a large, thick book. It was the size of two volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica combined, and was bound in leather so black it seemed not to reflect light, but rather to absorb it. The page edges were stained to match the binding, so that the book, taken as a whole, was a rectangular cuboid of perfect darkness, like a chunk of solid void, a three-dimensional absence in space.

  There was no lettering inlaid into the leather, no tooling of any description either on the cover or on the spine. In other words, nothing at all that indicated the book’s title.

  Yet I knew full well what it was. There was only one book it could be.

  Here, before me, was the copy of the Necronomicon purloined from the British Museum.

  MORIARTY HANDLED THE DREAD GRIMOIRE WITH due caution, supporting it with both hands. He seemed wary of dropping it, as though the thing were made of gelignite and the least jolt or unsettlement might have disastrous consequences. He laid it on a flat-topped rock – a crude lectern for a profane Bible – and having opened the cover, began stroking a finger through the heavy pages.

  Holmes spoke up. “It would appear, Professor, that you are making a final, all-or-nothing bid to appease your deity. The human sacrifices you have offered so far have failed to earn you the special favour you seek. They were insufficient.”

  Moriarty glanced up from the Necronomicon. “It is true that he has not been satisfied with the lesser souls I have presented to him. I thought if I gave him enough of them at regular intervals, he would reward me with munificence. I misjudged. The issue, I therefore determined, must not be one of quantity, but rather of quality.”

  “And that is where Gong-Fen Shou came in. He was the first of the ‘quality’. Now we are to follow.”

  “I considered other candidates. It could have been a High Court judge or one of our more statesmanlike politicians. It could even have been a member of the royal family. In the end, I decided it should be you, Mr Holmes, the much-vaunted young detective whose prospects seemed considerable.”

  “To be set above such august company – I am flattered.”

  “Don’t be,” Moriarty said. “I chose you in large part because of that insolent telegram of yours. It may seem petty, but I really will not tolerate disrespect. I am your elder and in every regard your better, and you would have done well to appreciate that. This way, I am able to provide an offering of some calibre and show an impudent whelp that I am not to be trifled with.”

  “If I am of such value, then why not release these others?” said Holmes, indicating his brother, Gregson and me with a nod of his head. “Surely I alone will suffice. Let them go.”

  Moriarty gave a sardonic shake of the head. “Not a chance.”

  “You have me,
” Holmes persisted. “They are surplus to requirements.”

  “Dr Watson is, I admit, a man of little significance.”

  I bristled at the jibe and murmured a few choice words at Moriarty, even as a small, craven part of me hoped my lack of importance might just earn me my freedom.

  “But,” Moriarty continued, “his association with you makes your humbling that much sweeter, so he stays. The same goes for your brother and the policeman.”

  “Gregson and I are barely acquainted.”

  “That is not quite true, Mr Holmes, is it? The two of you are not merely acquainted but on cordial terms.”

  “Hmm. And how would you know that, I wonder. Ah yes. Of course. You observed us together at the scene of Gong-Fen’s death. You were amongst the crowd of onlookers, were you not? I knew I had seen your face before we met in your rooms, ostensibly for the first time.”

  “Yes, I may have misled you on that front. Your powers of recall did not deceive you. I was there, witnessing the aftermath of my handiwork. And, upon hearing Inspector Gregson call you by name, I realised you were none other than the Sherlock Holmes with whom Gong-Fen had become so smitten. I perceived that you and Gregson were friendly, so when it came to enticing you here to St Paul’s Shadwell, I thought why not make the inspector part of a double-baited lure? The other, juicier worm being, of course, Mycroft Holmes.”

  “Worm!?” Mycroft expostulated.

  “Merely a figure of speech, sir.” Addressing himself to the younger Holmes again, Moriarty said, “Abducting your brother in order to draw you in was my primary plan. Then I thought, ‘Sherlock Holmes is an observant fellow but even he might not notice if just one member of his inner circle goes missing. Two, on the other hand, would put him on the alert and send a very clear message.’ Given that you are here, my surmise was correct, and it means that I now have a splendid repast to offer up. There is the good doctor as the hors d’oeuvre. Then there is the worthy Inspector Gregson, an esteemed representative of the law, the piquant palate cleanser. Finally, the twofold entrée: Mycroft Holmes, peerless political fixer and manipulator, hallowed through the corridors of power, and his brother Sherlock, the budding private detective of great repute and promise. Two of England’s foremost. All in all, a gourmet feast!”