The Chaos of Chung-Fu

by Edmund Glasby

  Kyle Thorndyke was one of the latter, getting to rub shoulders with the great and the good of British society. He was in his early thirties, tall and lanky, with blue eyes and prematurely greying hair. Taking a glass of champagne from a tray carried by a passing waiter, he tried to blend in, become inconspicuous. It was something he was particularly skilled at: the ability to fade into the background when the need arose and yet become noticed by those that mattered when he desired.

  The champagne was excellent and, taking a sip, Thorndyke sauntered over to where the retired colonel was now holding court, a small group gathered around him.

  “Can I just say how pleased I am to see you all here today? I never expected there to be quite so many. Maybe I didn’t think that my father’s collection would prove to be of such interest. We can begin the tour as soon as everyone’s ready,” announced Stanthorpe in his plummy voice—a dyed-in-the-wool, authoritative military voice. He talked in a way that commanded respect.

  Chatting animatedly amongst themselves, the guests began to congregate near the large double doors that led from the room.

  “I would like to say a few words before we go in.” Stanthorpe cleared his voice. “The collection that you’re about to see represents some forty years of my father’s life, with curios and artefacts gathered from his many travels abroad. And whilst the majority of the collection originates from India, where both he and I were stationed for what seems like an eternity now that I look back on it, there are bits and pieces from all over the world. Some he bought from traders. Some he actually found in the long-lost temples scattered all over the Near and Far East. I could go on, but I think I’ve gone on long enough, as no doubt some of you would agree. So, please, let us go in. Feel free to take photographs. If you’ve any questions about any of the curios, do ask. If I can’t answer your question—then, I can’t answer your question.”

  This got some chuckles from the expectant crowd. Some, particularly the academics, were chomping at the bit to view the collection of the weird and the wonderful. Others were there solely for the champagne and the delicious canapés.

  Thorndyke was there to take a general look and, if lucky, have a one-to-one with Stanthorpe, get some juicy material for the column he would write for his paper. Maybe get something with a bit of derring-do from the old man, something with a hint of adventure and mystery—things he could later embellish and romanticise to garner interest and boost readership. His editor had informed him that a dry account of whatever old relics the retired colonel might have assembled would not be good enough. It wouldn’t sell. Consequently, he had to get something a bit meatier and, a bit like the stuffed tiger he was now passing, he liked to consider himself a bit of a predator, stalking down stories.

  It was a museum of sorts that they entered: a repository of the mundane, the weird and the wonderful, lit solely by authentic, tallow-dripping, flaming torches, giving it a slightly menacing atmosphere. The main entrance was flanked by leering, fanged, tongue-protruding statues of grotesque beings that stood sentinel by the doorway. Inside, there were numerous glass cabinets in which a wide-range of mysterious items of exotica were on display: tribal dresses, jewellery, weapons, and other odds and ends. One side room had been devoted purely to works of a religious nature, with several marble statues of various Hindu deities and lavish wall coverings. Incense burned in censers attached to the walls to provide a bit of extra ambience.

  The guests spread out. Champagne glasses in hand, they strolled around. There was some banter, small talk, and a few photographs taken. Some remained chatting to Stanthorpe.

  Thorndyke had to admit none of the material on display particularly interested him. Yes, some of the things were odd, such as the neatly ordered assemblage of tiny man-like statues that seemed almost too lifelike, or the strange collection of carved, skull-painted death masks which hung on one wall. There was even a huge, stuffed saltwater crocodile suspended from wires, its jaws spread wide. It was a true monster, perhaps thirty feet or so in length. In the main, though, at least as far as he was concerned, it was just one man’s amassed junk.

  He spent another quarter of an hour or so walking around, pretending to look interested.

  A sign on the stairs that lead down indicated that there was more to the exhibition in the room below, so Thorndyke hastily went in that direction, hoping to be the first to get there. There was a door before him, which he opened, finding himself in a smaller room. Unlike upstairs, this room was lit by electric lights and, whereas above, the spacing of the exhibits had been more open, down here, it was much more constrained, the rows of cabinets separated by narrow walkways. It was the kind of place where one accidental trip could bring down everything.

  With that thought in mind, Thorndyke gingerly stepped inside. To his untrained eye, the displays in here were much the same as those above. There were more collections of antiquated forms of weaponry, as well as some pieces of strange, Oriental-looking clothing. The shelves of one cabinet were strewn with hundreds of old coins. Below that were some ancient pieces of pottery.

  Carefully walking between the display cabinets, Thorndyke panned his eyesight up and down, side-to-side, taking in the plethora of the weird and the unusual. In essence it was just more of the same; antiques and trophies, oddities, and—

  Thorndyke stopped. What on earth was this? He stooped low in order to better examine the stuffed thing—dare he call it an animal?—that stood upright in the glass cabinet before him. It was about the size of a large monkey, but there all real comparison ended. For a start, it had two heads, the larger one positioned atop the neck like that of most bipedal creatures whilst the second protruded from high up on its right flank. Both heads were repulsive in appearance, bearing such ghastly features as two-inch long fangs, bulging, unsightly eyes, and bat-like ears. The nose on the larger head was flattened, that on the smaller, beak-like. The larger head also looked warped, half-melted, the left side reduced to a sagging flap of drooping flesh. Its torso was shallow-chested, its ribs clearly visible beneath the taut skin. Short, coarse brown hair covered most of it in mangy patches. A pair of half-formed, membranous wings lay flat against its knobbly-spined back. Both arms were extended, vicious clawed hands spread wide. Its legs were spindly, the three toes of one foot splayed like that of a chicken, the other more man-like. A sinuous tail sprouted from its rear end. There was something both reptilian and mammalian about it: an unnatural hybridisation. One could even go so far as to say an incompleteness—almost as though it had been killed midway through some kind of horrible transformation. For killed it had been—a slender bolt of brass sticking from its abdomen.

  A tattered display sign, yellowed with age and written in bold letters, merely said: ‘Freddy’.

  Thorndyke was aware that he had been joined by a plump woman and her tall husband, an ex-military man if ever there was one, clean-shaven, dignified, his back ramrod straight. Two Indian men came down after them. They were looking about curiously and talking to one another in a language he didn’t understand.

  “I see you’re admiring my great-grandfather’s little pet.”

  Thorndyke turned. He had not heard the other approach but he recognised David Stanthorpe. He turned his gaze back on the thing in the cabinet. “What is it? And why call it ‘Freddy’?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Ugly little blighter though, isn’t it?”

  “I don’ think I’ve ever seen anything like it in all my life. It’ not like any animal I’ve ever seen or read about. Obviously, it’s a hoax. I mean, surely the two heads is a bit of a giveaway? It looks more like a kind of patchwork animal. Monkey, rooster, vampire bat. A stitched-together monstrosity. A bit like what they did with that Piltdown man-thing, where some idiot stuck an orangutan’s jaw onto a human skull in order to try and baffle the experts.”

  “My grandfather might know more about it. What I can tell you is that it’s been in the family a long time. I think it must have been my great-grandfather who found it and calle
d it ‘Freddy’. Used to give me nightmares as a boy.”

  “I can see why.”

  “Anyway, I’m afraid to have to inform you all that my grandfather’s not feeling too well, and that unfortunately he’s decided to retire for the day.”

  “Oh, nothing serious, I trust?” asked the tall man.

  “No, I think it’s just the sense of occasion that’s finally got to him. He’s eighty-three, you know. Doesn’t look it and he certainly doesn’t act it. I believe he’s planning to reopen the exhibition next week sometime when hopefully he’s feeling better, so I do hope you can all make it. There’s a full room of stuff upstairs that I’ve still to go through.” David smiled. “I’m sorry about this, but obviously I’ve got to consider my grandfather’s health first and foremost.”

  “But, can’t we stay and have a look around?” asked the woman. “We’ve come all the way from Oxford.”

  “Come dear, let Colonel Stanthorpe have his rest. We can always come back next week. It’s not as though these things are going anywhere, now is it?” replied her husband.

  Thorndyke was annoyed. It looked like he wasn’t going to get the chance to ask the old man about anything, at least not today. Resignedly, he followed David and the others back up the stairs. Well, that had been an almighty waste of time, he thought, as he was guided out of the mansion.

  * * * * * * *

  That night, Thorndyke tossed and turned in the throes of a terrible nightmare. One moment everything was black and empty, a nebulous void, and then a speck appeared, growing larger. He tried to look away, to scream, for as the image became clearer he realised it was that horror in the cabinet, that unidentifiable creature, ‘Freddy’. It was motionless, suspended almost in a whirling vortex and then, the thin brass bolt slipped from its side as though pulled by an invisible hand. Suddenly all four of its eyes opened, revealing vertical, violet pupils. It arms jerked as though controlled by a diabolical puppeteer. It began jigging a crazy dance, leaping and hopping from one foot to the other. Dark red blood bubbled and slavered from its twin mouths.

  And then there was a sound in Thorndyke’s ears, in his mind. An unearthly, high-pitched piping that sawed through his brain: a truly fiendish noise. Voices accompanied the soul-burning music, male voices chanting, humming, crying. It rose in crescendo to a demonical cacophony, like the wailing of a thousand tortured souls crying out for an end to their suffering.

  And then ‘Freddy’ came closer, filling his entire inner vision. The hideous eyes in those twin heads glared at him, fixing him with a malignancy not born of this earth. Its mouths opened, and some form of foreign, alien speech that he had never heard spoken before poured out, shaping words that meant nothing to him. A clawed hand came up, reaching out for him, ready to grasp and tear, to scratch and rend, to pull him to pieces.…

  It was almost as if it was trying to get inside him, to become him.

  * * * * * * *

  It was his phone ringing just a few short hours later that finally woke him up. Throwing on a dressing gown, he rushed downstairs to answer it. It was still dark outside, so he wondered who on earth it could be. He picked up the receiver.

  “Thorndyke.” It was his editor, he recognised the voice immediately.

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “I want you to get yourself over to the Stanthorpe place pronto. You were there yesterday, weren’t you? Well, I’ve just had a tip off from a friend in the police that something big’s going on over there. I think there’s been a break-in. Unconfirmed reports are that there has been at least one fatality.”

  “Good God!”

  “Get yourself over there and find out what’s going on. If there’s a story, I want you to be the first to it.”

  “On my way.” Hastily, Thorndyke rushed upstairs and got dressed. Without stopping for any kind of breakfast, he threw on his jacket and left the house. He got in his car and sped towards the colonel’s country mansion. Thankfully, there was hardly any traffic, and twenty-five minutes later he pulled into the wide driveway, tyres crunching on the gravel of the large car park where an ambulance and three police cars were parked.

  There were five policemen, and a plainclothes detective stood near the doorway.

  Getting out of his car, Thorndyke grimaced somewhat as he saw two male ambulance staff emerge from the house carrying a stretcher, a white sheet covering the man-shaped lump underneath.

  “Can I help you?” asked the plainclothes detective.

  “My name’s Thorndyke. I work for The Gazette.”

  “Is that so? Well, clear off, can’t you see we’re conducting an investigation here? The last thing we need is someone from the press sticking their—”

  Thorndyke saw David Stanthorpe come out of the house. He looked withdrawn and shaken, but at least he was alive. Ignoring the policeman he walked over.

  David stared at him. It was abundantly clear he was suffering from shock. “You? What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “What happened?”

  The detective stepped between the two. He was facing Stanthorpe when he spoke. “I’m sorry, sir. This man’s from the press. I’ll get rid of him if you want me to.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. News of this will get out sooner or later. Perhaps the sooner, the better. We have to find whoever did this and why.”

  Thorndyke already had his notebook out. So far he had seen no sign of the colonel, and he was now beginning to suspect the worst. After all, he had witnessed one body being taken out. Could be there were more in the ambulance. He would have to be tactful in his questioning. “I understand completely if you don’t want to tell me—” he began.

  “My grandfather was murdered in the early hours of this morning. Strangled. Killed in cold blood.”

  “I am truly sorry. Please accept my deepest condolences.” Thorndyke felt sorry for the other. What a tragic occurrence. “If there’s any way I can be of assistance, I will.”

  “There must be a connection between the opening of the exhibition and what happened.”

  “Sir,” said the detective, “we will obviously get round to an intensive search of the property to see if anything has been stolen, but in the meantime can I once more urge you not to tell this reporter anything regarding the details of your grandfather’s death?”

  “Why’s that?” asked Thorndyke impudently.

  David paused for a moment, clearly considering the detective’s warning. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, uncertain. It was clear he was contemplating just how much he could confide in this man whom admittedly he had only met yesterday. He had always considered himself to be a good judge of character, so in the end, he spoke up, much to the policeman’s displeasure: “It’s just that certain things were found near my grandfather’s…body. Certain things to suggest that he was ritualistically murdered. Then there was also the positioning of his body. You see, I found him this morning lying dead in his museum, sprawled out before one of those infernal statues.”

  “The goddess Kali, to be exact,” said the detective. “The Hindu Death Mother. The Queen of the Night.” When the other two looked at him in surprise, he went on: “I haven’t been a policeman all my life. I studied anthropology and theology at Cambridge before joining the force.” He offered his hand to Thorndyke. “Well, now that Mr. Stanthorpe has filled you in, I might as well introduce myself. Detective Inspector Carson, Jim Carson. I think I know who or rather what’s behind Colonel Stanthorpe’s murder. The method, the crushed larynx, no traces of blood, the positioning of the body. All the signs suggest to me a Thuggee assassination.”

  “A what?” enquired Thorndyke.

  “Thuggee? I’ve heard of them,” said David. “It’s a religious organisation or something, isn’t it? An Indian sect?”

  “Yes and no,” said Carson. He reached into an inner jacket pocket and removed a packet of cigarettes. Opening it, he offered one to the others, but both declined with shakes of their heads. He then lit up and took a d
eep drag before exhaling a cloud of eye-watering cigarette smoke. “Thuggee was a religion based on homicide, ritual murder, and robbery, all carried out in the name of Kali. Although long-thought to have been wiped out by the British in the mid-Nineteenth Century, it’s unlikely that it was completely eradicated. The Thugs’—the practitioners of Thuggee—favourite weapon was the garrotte with which they would sneak up on their victim and strangle them, a stealthy and silent means of murder. Sometimes they improvised, using a scarf with a knot tied in the middle to add extra pressure and crush the larynx. Their religious taboos prohibited them from spilling blood.”

  “But even assuming this perverse cult is still active today in Britain, why target an old man in a wheelchair? Why go after Colonel Stanthorpe?” asked Thorndyke. His journalistic mind was working overtime, convinced that there was a juicy story here.

  “Perhaps I could answer that question.” David had regained some of his composure, and the shocked, vacant look in his eyes had faded. “My grandfather and my great-grandfather were actively involved in stamping out this Thuggee cult, ensuring that it was no longer a threat. It seems that they weren’t entirely successful.”

  “You’re going to have to make sure that no one enters the main museum until we’ve conducted a full forensic examination,” said Carson, addressing David.

  “Of course. I’ll also—”

  “Freddy!” Thorndyke spluttered.

  “What about Freddy?” David looked confused.

  “I had a nightmare. That thing was in it.”

  “Who the hell’s Freddy?” enquired the detective, looking at David.