by James Palmer
Looming over the machine was the Time Traveler himself, standing there in his nightclothes, his face a mask of sweat and pain. He had a long pipe wrench raised over his head, which he was about to bring it down on the contraption with all the strength his frail form could muster.
“Herbert, no!” The explorer lunged at him just as he brought the wrench down toward the machine with great force, tackling him. The heavy wrench clattered to the floor.
“Hey!” shouted the housekeeper from behind them. “Get off him. He’s out of his tree.”
Burton rose to allow Herbert to get up. The Time Traveler stared at him with contempt, and Burton could tell by the set of his eyes that he didn’t even recognize the explorer. “You’ll not stop me from destroying that infernal machine, Morlock! I will not let you get your fungoid hands on it. You’ll not drag it down into your tunnels. You will never get access to all of Time.”
“Herbert, it’s me. Captain Burton. Don’t you remember?”
Herbert stared at him, trying to recall. A spark of recognition appeared on his face. “Shoggoths,” he said.
“Yes,” said Burton. “The shoggoths. R’lyeh. Nemo. Ms. Marsh.”
“Elizabeth,” said Herbert slowly, smiling. “Weena. My Weena.”
“If you say so,” said Burton. “I really must hear that story sometime. But you cannot destroy the Time Machine.”
“Why not?” Herbert said, scowling.
“Because we still need it.” Burton glanced self-consciously at the housekeeper before proceeding. “Something has happened. Something terrible. We have to go back.”
Herbert appeared to consider this, stroking his chin in thought. Then his eyes narrowed. “You lie, Morlock. You only want to steal the machine from me.”
Herbert closed the short distance between them and swung a weak right hook that Burton easily dodged. Even in his weakened state, Herbert was an inventor by trade and an academic by inclination. He was clearly no fighter.
“Please,” murmured Burton. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Herbert roared as he closed in on Burton once more, reaching for the explorer’s throat. Burton grappled with him, pulling his arms down easily before jabbing him as hard as he dared on the chin. The Time Traveler collapsed in an unconscious heap.
Burton turned toward the Time Machine, remembering something Herbert had told him aboard the Nautilus about its operation. He reached for the twin control levers, unscrewed them, and put them in his coat pocket. Then he glanced at the housekeeper. “Help me.”
Together, he and the housekeeper—whose name, he discovered, was Mrs.Watchett—helped Herbert up the stairs to his bedroom, where Burton laid him on his bed. “Is there a key to the basement?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Watchett.
“Good. Lock the door and hide the key. Don’t let him back in there until you’ve heard from me.”
“Just what in blazes is going on here?” asked Mrs. Watchett.
Burton considered her for a moment before answering. “I wish I could tell you. You wouldn’t understand half of it, and you would scarcely believe any of it. Suffice it to say that he must not further tamper with the Time Machine. Is that understood?”
The old woman nodded quickly, fearfully.
“Good,” said Burton. “I must go, but I will return as soon as I can to check on him. Do not let him near that contraption.”
Without another word, the explorer left the Time Traveler’s bedroom and bounded back down the stairs to see himself out.
The Diogenes Club
Burton hailed a passing coach and returned to London proper, giving the driver the address of Bartolini’s dining rooms on Fleet Street. It was unlikely anyone from the Cannibal Club would be around at this time of day, but it gave Burton a sense of purpose to his movements that he found somewhat soothing. And if anyone was there, he could ask if they knew the present whereabouts of Professor Challenger, as well as get more confirmation as to which set of his memories was true.
Given his current state, it was obvious the Time Traveler would be of little use, and Burton feared for the poor man’s sanity. But there was nothing to be done about it now except check in on him later. He still had no idea exactly what he was going to do, only that he would need the Time Machine intact to do it.
Once again, those conflicting memories of recent events began the battle for his mind. The coach turned onto Fleet Street, and Burton rapped on the roof of the conveyance with his walking stick and instructed the driver to let him out. He paid the man and disembarked, deciding it would be best for his continued sanity if he walked to clear his head.
Fleet Street was alive with people and crowded. Burton pushed his way through the press of bodies. The crowd thinned as he continued moving east. He could see the building containing Bartolini’s in the distance, and stopped briefly to catch his breath and adjust his top hat.
He had the vague feeling of being watched. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a man moving quickly behind him, stopping when Burton did. But he did not continue onward as he would have if he were merely trying to avoid a collision and then be about his merry way. He stopped and waited for Burton to move on, as if he wanted to keep himself firmly behind the explorer.
Burton continued walking, though keenly aware of the other man. He moved deliberately, then glanced behind him to see if the stranger did the same. He did.
Grinning now, Burton quickened his pace, intrigued that the man did the same. He was definitely being followed. But by whom? And for what purpose?
Burton walked faster now, threading his away in among a group of three women and one man, then on beyond them. He shrank into a narrow alley on his right and waited.
A scant span of moments later, the man appeared, looking around frantically, no doubt wondering how he lost his quarry. Burton stepped from the alley, jamming the knob of his walking stick hard into the man’s solar plexus. The man doubled over and sputtered.
“Who are you?” demanded Burton. “And why are you following me?”
The man sputtered again, squinting at Burton dumbfounded. He tried to speak, but nothing came out but a wheeze.
“Who are you?” Burton said again.
The man held up his right index finger, his left hand reaching into his coat, producing a shiny metal object. He stuck it out for Burton to see. It was a police inspector’s badge.
“I’m very sorry,” said Burton. “But I don’t take kindly to being followed.”
The man shook his head. “No…my fault.” He wheezed some more before recovering his breath.
“Chief…Inspector…Frederick George…Abberline…Metropolitan Police…at your service.”
He finally stood upright. “I’ve been looking all over the city for you, Captain Burton.”
“Well,” said the explorer, “whatever for?”
He looked around quickly. “Not…here. Out on the street.”
“Let’s go to my club,” Burton said. “It’s just up the street there.” He pointed with his stick, and the policeman nodded.
“After you, Captain,” said Abberline cordially, and Burton stepped out of the alley and continued on his original course.
Old Bartolini was surprised to see him but greeted him warmly enough. He allowed Burton and Abberline entry, the latter following Burton up the stairs to the upper room where the Cannibal Club held their weekly debaucheries.
Burton was surprised to find the room already had an occupant. A skinny young man with long red hair sat hunched over the table, fiercely writing something. He turned as they entered.
“Algy?” said Burton.
“Richard! My hat, but you still look a fright. Your housekeeper is falling behind on her duty to fatten you up, what?”
“I just got out of bed this morning,” said Burton, removing his topper and hanging it on the coat tree by the door. Abberline did the same with his bowler. “What are you working on there?”
Swinburne shook slightly, involuntarily, quivering with
a nervous electricity that never ceased to fascinate the older explorer. “Oh, just some new lines of poetry.” He recited, “Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division make barren our lives.”
“A bit morbid,” said Burton. “But I like it.”
Swinburne shook. “Oh, it needs a spot more polishing.”
“That’s all right.” To Abberline he said, “Is this private enough for you? I can ask Algy to leave.”
“No, no,” said the Scotland Yard man. “That won’t be necessary.”
“And right so,” added Swinburne. “For wild horses could not drag me away.”
Burton scowled at his young friend. “Inspector Abberline, meet Algernon Charles Swinburne. Algy, meet Chief Inspector Frederick George Abberline.”
The two hastily shook hands before Burton offered Abberline a seat. He regarded the man now for the first time. Of average height and build, a simple brown tweed suit covering his lean frame. He wore furry muttonchops that curved into a thick mustache, and had a high forehead made all the more prominent due to his receding brown hair.
“May I get you a brandy?” asked Burton. “It’s the least I can do for assaulting you.”
“No, no,” said Abberline, dismissing the notion with a wave. “That won’t be necessary. And anyway, I’m on duty. But not on official Metropolitan Police business.”
“Oh?” said Swinburne, swinging a wooden chair around backward and straddling it. “Do tell.”
Burton shot Swinburne a warning look before taking a wingback chair opposite Abberline.
“I’ve been following you all morning,” said Abberline. “I was sent to retrieve you by a man named Mycroft Holmes. Do you know that name?”
“Should I?” Burton countered.
“He’s rather well known in British intelligence circles. Perhaps you’ve heard of his more famous younger brother, the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.”
“Yes, I believe I have,” said Burton.
“My Aunt Flora’s pretty pink bonnet,” blurted Swinburne. “What intrigue.”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Abberline, “that is, the elder Mr. Holmes, requests your presence for a very important—and discreet—matter. I am to escort you to meet him immediately.”
Burton nodded. “And where is this meeting place?”
“The Diogenes Club,” said Abberline.
Swinburne quivered in his seat, making a noise like he was going to say something, then fell silent. Burton considered the inspector’s words. He had heard of the Diogenes Club, but so much was still shrouded in mystery. It was a gentleman’s club not unlike his own Cannibal Club, yet one open only to intellectual elitists and misanthropes. Burton had once heard a rumor that no talking was allowed at all within its walls. To violate this sacred law was grounds for immediate expulsion from the club.
Burton nodded finally. “I must say, Inspector, you have aroused my interest. I will accompany you to meet with Mr. Holmes.”
“Excellent,” said Abberline, rising from his seat. “He is expecting us.”
“Well, that’s settled,” said Swinburne. “You must go at once. And I must have another drink and tackle my verse.” He glanced at the grandmother clock in the corner. “My hat! I’m due for the lash in a bit. What ho what ho!”
Swinburne jumped from his chair and returned to the table where his lines of verse awaited him.
“Let’s get going then,” said Abberline, and the two men, taking up their hats and Burton his gentleman’s stick, left the room.
“My,” said Abberline when they emerged back onto the street once more. “If you don’t mind me saying so, your friend Swinburne is a bit of an odd duck, isn’t he?”
Burton chuckled. “You have no idea.”
“Did he say he was due for a lashing?”
Burton nodded once. “Yes. Algy has a rare condition that apparently causes his body to sense pain as pleasure.”
“Remarkable,” said the policeman.
“Indeed. There’s not another one like Algy. He also possesses a keen intellect for one so young, and he can drink ten men under the table.”
“Extraordinary,” said Abberline. “But we have bigger fish to fry. I’d best get you to Mycroft Holmes.”
Abberline hailed a hansom and gave the driver the address for the Diogenes Club. Burton sat back and pondered this new situation he found himself in, the mystery keeping his dueling memories at bay for the moment. He turned his stick in his hands and looked out the window at the hustle and bustle of London. The sky above, a cloudless blue when they entered Bartolini’s dining rooms, was now a dirty gray, as bruise-colored clouds rolled through to shroud the sun.
The Diogenes Club loomed over them frolm a nondescript, somber gray building on Piccadilly Circus, though Burton didn’t recall that being the infamous club’s original location. They got out, Abberline paid the fare, and they went up to the door. He glanced at Burton sternly. “There is to be no talking except for in the room where we are meeting Mr. Holmes.”
“I am familiar with this bizarre protocol,” said Burton. “Proceed.”
The policeman knocked three times slowly, and the door opened. A taciturn butler in the finest livery greeted them with a frown Burton took to be the man’s natural state, and they entered quietly.
Abberline stepped inside and Burton followed. The butler disappeared.
Burton’s boots sank into a dense pile of lush, lurid red carpeting. Every wall was covered in fine oil paintings and Italian frescoes. There wasn’t a speck of dust in evidence, and every stick of furniture was of the finest manufacture. It reminded Burton of Isabel’s parents’ home, formal and decadent and not the least bit inviting.
He choked up. No. Must not think of her now.
Here and there a few men sat, all well dressed, most of them scowling into a book or reading a newspaper, careful not to rustle the pages. In one room off to Burton’s right was a great fireplace with a huge boar’s head hanging upon it. Near the fireplace two men sat opposite an ornate marble chessboard, each of them staring down at their hand-carved armies of enormous marble chessmen as if frozen, like one of the paintings on the walls. Neither of them made a move in the time it took Burton and Abberline to cross their path and out of sight.
Abberline stepped up to a formidable-looking oaken door. A placard set in it proclaimed it the Stranger’s Room. Burton had heard that name uttered among his friends in hushed tones. This was the Diogenes Club’s inner sanctum. Abberline tapped on it three times, leaned his head toward the wood, listening, then opened it. Burton followed him inside.
A large man, Mycroft Holmes sat in a green wingback chair that faced the entrance to the Stranger’s Room, his right elbow resting on an ornate wood and marble side table upon which sat a cup and saucer. He wore a crisp suit obviously tailor-made for him, and he projected a haughty, self-assured air that was almost palpable. This, Burton knew, was a formidable fellow. One who was used to being obeyed.
Abberline closed the door and breathed a heavy sigh, as if relieved to speak again. “Mr. Holmes, sir. I present Captain Richard Francis Burton.”
Mycroft made no move to get up or shake Burton’s hand.
“Please have a seat, Captain Burton. We have much to discuss.”
Burton took a similar chair across from Holmes, while Abberline leaned against the wall next to the side table and crossed his arms.
“You are a very interesting fellow,” said Mycroft Holmes. “You are a soldier, ethnologist, spy, writer, the first white man to journey to Mecca, and one of the finest swordsmen the Empire has ever produced.”
“I try,” said Burton, glib.
Holmes ignored his quip and continued. “But what is more interesting, to me, is that some weeks ago you departed England with one George Edward Challenger and a young inventor from Kew and returned almost four weeks later. How you left England is a mystery. You did not book passage on any passenger or cargo ship, nor did you leave t
he city over land by any route or mode of transport. In fact, you seem to have just up and vanished, traveling on some mode of conveyance unknown to current science.”
“You are quite well informed,” said Burton. “Am I to take it that you have had me under some sort of surveillance?”
“Not at all,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Just a bit of deduction on my part. I am skilled at taking many disparate, seemingly unrelated details and putting them together to form one broad, clear picture of an event.”
“I see,” said Burton.
“After I learned of the mysterious circumstances of your departure, I recalled an odd item from a few years ago.” He tapped a sheaf of yellowed papers on the table next to him. “It seems several years ago that a French marine biologist named Professor Pierre Arronax joined a unique expedition to track down an unknown sea creature that was believed to be attacking several ships.”
“I recall reading about that,” said Burton.
“Monsieur Arronax was tossed overboard in an encounter with the beast, along with a harpooner named Ned Land. Several weeks later, they were discovered on a small island off the Norwegian coast and had a very strange story, which has been recorded in these pages and kept under lock and key by me. Arronax claimed that the sea creature they were tracking was nothing of the sort, but was, in fact, a large submarine vessel piloted by an enigmatic captain who called himself Nemo. I believe this is the self-same vessel in which you, Professor Challenger, and the inventor departed London.”
Mycroft went silent, keen eyes staring into Burton’s. The explorer considered him for a time, wondering how much he should tell him. After all they had been through together, he respected Captain Nemo’s privacy. But the proverbial cat was already out of the bag. Mycroft Holmes knew about Nemo and his fabulous underwater vessel. And what could he do to Nemo anyway? The man was untouchable. No one on Earth could find him, let alone match the power and agility of the Nautilus.