The Bedlam Detective

by Stephen Gallagher

  My own situation was far less certain. Forcing myself to remain calm, I dropped to one knee and reloaded. I was aware of a tail sweeping over me like the boom of a yacht, missing by inches. Within moments, the gun was back to my shoulder and I fired again.

  That second shot did it. There was a sudden scream, like no animal sound that I had ever heard before, and the creatures scattered like a mob, crashing off into the jungle on every side. All except for one, this being the beast that I had hit.

  The beast did not panic like the others; instead, pain had concentrated his attention on me, his tormentor. I had the river at my back, while the beast stood between me and any chance of escape. I saw it clearly for the first time. Its shape lay somewhere between that of an ape and a dinosaur, only one of the many fantastical forms that I was to encounter in the dark days ahead. Blood was leaking down its hide from a chest wound. Its yellow eyes were fixed upon me, and they blazed with fury as the creature lunged.

  I had no chance to load and fire again. I could only run in one direction, and that was to the river. The river held terrors of its own; they were beneath the surface and out of sight, but those terrors were there nonetheless. I had, however, noted the presence of a line of rocks in the shallows and the rapids, that when taken together might serve as a series of islands in the manner of large stepping-stones. Of course, a pursuing creature might cross these as easily as I; but this creature was wounded, and though it could run on two legs, on less certain footing I was gambling that it would be happier on four, and so would be unable to reach for its prey.

  As I leapt from rock to rock, I was aware of the beast following me; and when I reached the largest of the rock islands with the rapids all around, I looked back to see that it had left the shore. Along with all the pain and rage, there was a growing uncertainty in its movements. With more confidence, it might have strode across this natural causeway through the boiling stream and reached me in seconds; but by attempting to gain its balance with all four of its limbs on one stepping-stone at a time, it was severely compromising its ability to progress.

  Here was my chance. And just as well, for I had reached the last island and could run no farther. With my back against the rock, I reloaded and took aim. Spray from the river was lashing me, but while running I had kept the gun held high, and my ammunition was dry. My target was no more than fifteen yards away, and the size of a house.

  My gun spoke, and my bullet did not miss. And yet my pursuer did not drop; he roared in pain, again that terrible sound that I’d encountered nowhere else in nature, and rose to his full height so that those great, broad claws could clutch at a second chest wound. Though my large-bore rounds were doing certain damage and had the power to drop an elephant, even these were not enough to stop him on their own.

  Fortunately, I had two good allies to come to my rescue; the force of gravity, and the forces of the river. In rising so hastily, the creature caused himself to overbalance and now he lost his footing. He hit the surface with an almighty splash and immediately began to tumble away from me in the raging current. That on its own would have been enough, but there was more to follow. Within seconds, shadow-shapes were rising from the depths and flocking to him.

  What I felt then was something close to pity, as teeth fastened on his body and one tentacle after another wrapped over the beast and finally drew him under, silencing his dying cries. He went down like a pig among crocodiles, the whole angry, battling mess being borne away around a bend in the river as I watched.

  I took the precaution of reloading before I returned to the bank. There were more of the creatures about, after all, and one or more of them might return. However, all was silent as I crossed the site of the nest, and after listening for a while I was confident that all had flown. I called out to Pablo, and after a few moments was rewarded with the sight of his cautious face peeping out from the bushes.

  I do not think that any man has ever expressed his gratitude to another more eloquently, or with greater enthusiasm, than that simple peon in his moment of deliverance. While he did not quite grovel at my feet nor place my foot upon his head, his actions left me in no doubt as to his feelings. I raised him, and by one means and another gave him to understand that while I appreciated his thanks, there were still dangers all around us. In this more somber mood, I supervised as he used the broken gourd to scrape out shallow graves for the remains of those fallen Englishmen. After a few simple prayers, to which a lack of comprehension didn’t prevent Pablo from adding a broken and charming Amen, I led our way back to the main camp.

  There was a cheer when we were spotted emerging from the jungle and it was seen that I had not returned alone, but the general jubilation turned to sadness as my party learned the fate of their own people. That night, while Pablo celebrated with his fellow camaradas and no doubt embroidered the tale of his rescue until my actions gained some heroic stature, ours was a more subdued campfire gathering. During my absence, this new camp had been set up within a palisade of sharpened pickets with their points angled outward; though we heard many a worrying sound from the jungle that night, we suffered no further attack.

  When all of our injured had either died or recovered sufficiently to travel, we broke camp and moved on. We followed the trampled “road” until we reached the clearing by the river. I was surprised to see how the broad avenue was already beginning to vanish, and how all signs of the creatures’ nesting were gone. Fresh bamboo was growing up through the broken vegetation, and I was unable even to locate the shallow graves of our lost companions in order to point out their final resting places. Everything in the jungle consumed something else, I concluded; and failing that, the jungle consumed itself.

  My name among the camaradas was now Assassino da Alimarias, which I’m given to understand means “slayer of beasts.” I received the news with grim amusement.

  We had far to go, and many more such perils to face. I decided then that where the slaughter of such monstrous game was required, I would forever stand ready.

  ELEVEN

  Breakfast the next morning was taken in the bar, because the dining room was in use. The true prophets, those senior detective officers with the city’s glamour on them, had arrived to take over.

  Sebastian sat behind his kippers at a corner table and watched all the comings and goings with mixed feelings. The tall, straight detectives in their immaculate overcoats and bowler hats were attended by a squad of clerks and sergeants that ran ahead of and around them. Messages were flying, and there were scenes to be visited. Despite the tragedy at the heart of it all, he felt a certain nostalgia. Such had been his life, once.

  After that he went up to his room and prepared himself to go out. This time, he found his belongings undisturbed. There was little he could do to protect himself against further searches, whether by curious staff or by someone with a more sinister motive, other than to ensure that he kept his notebook and valuables about his person. An intruder would find nothing of advantage in his shaving kit or linen.

  He’d cleaned up his own boots, knowing that he could expect little in the way of extra service under the circumstances. He stowed his letters of authority in one pocket, his copy of Sir Owain’s book in another.

  An Amazonian expedition had taken place. That was beyond doubt. And that it had met with disaster could not be doubted either. But as he’d told Stephen Reed, no true or satisfactory account of that disaster had ever been given.

  Lancaster had funded the trip himself, with the intended purpose of taking celestial measurements from one of several key points around the globe. The measurements were needed to support his patented system for aiming large guns by the stars. He had set off into the jungle with vehicles, mules, experts, porters, and an enormous caravan of instruments and supplies. He’d returned with none of them. Just himself, and one other survivor. The survivor had suffered injuries and a level of delirium that had left him permanently hospitalized.

  As a consequence, Sir Owain’s Royal Society lecture,
in which all was to be revealed in detail, had attracted wide attention. The promise of sensational revelations, with no hint as to what those revelations might be, had stoked the public’s interest. The original meeting-hall venue had been ditched in favor of the Queen’s Hall in Langham Place, a concert theater of much greater capacity. Several newspapers requested advance interviews, but were turned down. Sir Owain’s book was scheduled for publication within a matter of weeks, but no page proofs or early copies could be located.

  Even the society’s president had known nothing of what was to come. Following his introduction, Owain Lancaster had begun with a warning: that what followed might be hard to believe, but was true nonetheless. For much of it, he could offer no evidence beyond his own observations. His public testimony was underwritten by his private grief. He owed it to the dead to tell the whole truth.

  The whole truth, as he told it, was that the expedition had been wrecked by an early accident on the river that was carrying them downstream, after which the party’s survivors had been stalked by monsters. The monsters rarely showed themselves and were mainly known from the evidence of their attacks. Of all the party, Sir Owain was the only one who saw them fully with his own eyes. They included a serpent that tried to wreck the rescue boat that was carrying him home.

  The first ten minutes of Sir Owain’s talk were received in silence. The next five played to a growing rumble of conversation among the rows. His lantern slides were met with loud heckling and open derision, and the rest of his words went unheard; most of the audience was on its feet by then, and the ushers struggled to keep any kind of order. Some object was thrown, and something close to a riot followed. The speaker persisted and had to be stopped. Sir Owain was hurried from the building by a service door. His lantern slides, which featured some photographs but were mostly artists’ realizations of the monsters made under Sir Owain’s direction, were stolen during the upset.

  But they were no loss. Those same images appeared as plates in the published account, which went on sale shortly after. Its publishers, who’d been hovering over a decision to withdraw the book, found themselves with a runaway success.

  They were half embarrassed, half elated; they did their best to follow a line that allowed them to keep both their dignity and their profits. And so, as Sir Owain suffered public opprobrium and the censure of the society and withdrew to his West Country estate, they continued to sell copies of “this remarkable document, the subject of so much lively and continuing debate.”

  Stalked by monsters, torn by beasts. And an estate on which, it now seemed, people vanished and young girls of a certain age and development could not play in safety.

  As Sebastian’s predecessor had first noted, there seemed to be something more than coincidental misfortune at work here.

  When Sebastian stepped out into the main street, he could see that new activity had begun around the assembly rooms. Locals were again gathering outside. A hearse wagon and two undertakers’ men waited by the doors. Becoming aware of two women passing behind him, Sebastian tipped his hat to them; they didn’t even notice. He heard one telling the other that the parents had arrived and had gone in with the police. The women went on to join the assembly room crowd, and Sebastian turned away.

  The grief of the parents would be a hard sight to bear. He understood that there was a low point in any journey such as theirs. Some called it the hour of despair; others, the suicide hour. The notion was that if one could pass through it, then hope would begin. The hour could be deferred, or it could be ignored for a while. But if life were to continue, it could not be avoided. How did one pass through a loss so profound? He couldn’t begin to imagine it.

  The town’s one-roomed museum and library was on a steep little street that led down to the harbor. It was a humble whitewashed building with a surprisingly grand door. There was an imposing house above it, and less imposing houses below.

  Sebastian tried the door. It was unlocked, so he went inside.

  It was historical exhibition and reading room combined. Arnmouth’s modest history was covered by six glass cases of coins and other objects, some Roman stones, and a dozen or more framed oil paintings of local estates. The farther part of the room featured two long tables with eight chairs to each. Beyond them was a counter, behind which was a woman. She seemed surprised by his presence.

  Raising her voice to reach him, she said, “I don’t open until nine thirty.”

  Sebastian glanced back. “Your door isn’t locked,” he said.

  “I don’t need to keep it locked,” she said. “Everybody knows I don’t open until nine thirty. What do you want?”

  He’d reached the counter now. The woman had iron-gray hair, pinned up. She wore a high-collared blouse and she held herself straight. Despite his transgression, she didn’t seem ready to order him out, and so he decided to press his luck.

  Sebastian said, “Do you keep a local newspaper?”

  “In the racks,” she said, “over there.” And she pointed to a frame where three or four broadsheets hung from rods, cafe-style. “Leave it out on the table when you’re finished.”

  Sebastian glanced briefly and said, “I meant old newspapers. Whichever volume might have the story of Grace Eccles and Evangeline Bancroft.”

  The woman’s manner seemed to chill, and her face became set.

  “What story would that be?” she said.

  “About the time where they were lost on the moors,” he said. “I understand that it was a good few years ago.”

  “I’m afraid all those issues are at the bindery.”

  “Can you check that for me?”

  Her face betrayed nothing.

  “I don’t need to,” she said.

  “Perhaps I’ll talk to Miss Eccles, then. Can you tell me where to find her?”

  “I don’t advise it.”

  “All the same, I’d like to.”

  “Grace took over her father’s cottage on the Lancaster estate. You can try talking to her, but I doubt she’ll have much to say to you.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “No,” she said, “I can’t.” And she walked off into an inner room behind the counter, leaving him alone.

  He got back to the Sun Inn at five minutes before ten. Sir Owain’s car was already waiting, its engine idling and Sir Owain’s chauffeur behind the wheel. When the driver saw Sebastian, he hopped out and had the passenger cab door open by the time he reached it. There was no one else in the car.

  “Thank you,” Sebastian said, and climbed aboard. He settled back into the buttoned leather seat as the driver returned to his place.

  Sebastian tried to look as if he were used to this. But of course, he wasn’t. The landaulet was a rich man’s transport, and Sebastian was not a rich man. It was, in essence, the coachwork of the finest horse carriage built onto a heavy motor chassis. The passenger rode in comfort while the driver faced the elements behind the engine, bundled up in leather and goggles with just a short windshield for protection.

  But to drive one was a mark of prestige for any servant. And this man knew it. Small boys stopped to watch as the car swung around in the street and they headed out of town, along the road that Sebastian had come in by. Instead of crossing the river to the station, they turned inland.

  Sebastian leaned forward and knocked on the glass that separated him from the driver. He had to knock again, and harder, before he was heard.

  The driver unhooked a catch, and the window cracked open an inch or two. The wind roared through the gap. The driver cocked his head toward it, without taking his eyes off the road.

  Sebastian raised his voice and half-shouted, “Where’s the cottage that Grace Eccles lives in? Is it on this road?”

  The driver shook his head. Then said, “It’s over toward the river.”

  “Can we reach it by car?”

  “Not without making you late. Sir Owain’s waiting.”

  “Sir Owain can wait a while longer. I want to visit her f
irst.”

  The road hit a patch of bad repair, and Sebastian did nothing to gain the driver’s favor by having distracted him so that he failed to avoid the worst of it.

  When they were done bumping, the driver said, “I can’t do that, sir. I take my instructions from my employer.”

  Watching the man’s gloved hands on the wheel, Sebastian said, “And do those instructions include rummaging through the hotel rooms of his visitors?”

  He saw the driver’s grip tighten for just a moment, which gave him his answer before the man said, “I have no idea what you can mean by that, sir.”

  “Never mind,” Sebastian said. “Today your employer answers to me. So you’ll take me first to Grace’s cottage, please.”

  TWELVE

  As they followed the course of the river inland, the estuary plain was wide and sandy. But the sand gradually turned to a mixture of sand and mud, that in turn grew a surface of moss and vegetable scum, that in turn became wide open fields where animals grazed. On a raised bank overlooking these flats, they passed a row of upturned boats and dinghies like the shells of sleeping turtles.

  After another mile or so, a bare track led to an open place by the water. At the end of the track was a collection of mismatched wooden buildings, at the heart of which stood a ramshackle stone cottage. The roofs of the buildings had all been repaired with tarpaper. There was a straw-covered yard before the cottage and beyond the yard, a gate in a rail fence led out into open paddock and grazing land. This was poor land, low-lying and liable to flood.

  As they were approaching, Sebastian thought that he saw a figure flit between two of the buildings. The track was growing rougher, and the driver stopped the car with at least a dozen or more yards still to go.

  He clearly didn’t expect to be staying here for long. He kept the engine running as he got out to open Sebastian’s door.