by James Palmer
“Confiscation of material deemed to be a threat to the British Empire,” said a broad-shouldered, uniformed Sikh in a blue turban.
“What utter poppycock,” said Burton.
“On whose authority?” demanded Abberline.
“Mycroft Holmes, sir,” said the policeman. “Under the orders of Prime Minister Disraeli.”
“Disraeli,” said Burton. “I might have known.”
“I work closely with Mr. Holmes,” said Abberline, “and I was not informed of this.”
The Sikh shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir. My orders were to quarantine the house and confiscate any and all notes and materials inside.”
“There was a device in the basement,” said Burton. “Most unusual-looking. Is it still on the premises.?”
The policeman eyed him suspiciously.
“He is an agent of Mr. Holmes as well,” said Abberline. “Answer his question.”
“Uh, no sir. It was taken as well. Those were our orders.”
“And where was it taken?” demanded Burton.
“I don’t know, sir. Some government chaps loaded it up a little while ago. We were ordered to gather up any and all notes that might have anything to do with its creation or operation.”
“Is the master of this house still here?”
The Sikh nodded. “He is, sir. Right inside there.” He pointed toward the open front door.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Abberline, and the big man went back to overseeing the placement of heaps of paper into carriages.
“This is most peculiar,” said Abberline. “I’ve never even heard of such a thing.”
“My guess is neither has anyone else,” said Challenger.
As they followed Abberline into the house, Challenger said, “This is why I did not take Mycroft Holmes up on his dubious honor of service to the Crown.”
“You didn’t trust him,” Burton said.
“Aye. I still don’t.”
“I’m starting to wish I hadn’t,” said the explorer.
They entered the home, past the housekeeper Mrs. Watchett, who eyed Burton cruelly, as if this was somehow his fault. He was starting to feel that it was.
Herbert sat in a high-backed chair, still in his pajamas, his head in his hands while two policemen hovered over him asking questions while a third yanked books off his numerous shelves, thumbing through them for loose bits of paper before tossing them to the floor.
“Herbert,” said Burton.
The Time Traveler looked up at the sound, lines of worry marring his young, handsome face. “You! Here again. What is happening? These ruffians barged in an hour ago. I had scarcely recovered my wits when they started tearing the place apart!”
“I don’t know what is going on either. We only just found out ourselves.”
“And Challenger! How good to see you, old boy.”
“Hello again, Herbert,” said the zoologist. “I’m glad to see you as well, though I detest the circumstances of our reunion.”
“And who is this?” asked the Time Traveler, staring up at their companion.
“Chief Inspector Frederick George Abberline, at your service, sir.”
“You did this!” Herbert said, lunging from his chair. “Where’s my Time Machine?”
Burton held him at bay while Abberline took a step back. The other policemen in the room moved to intervene, but Abberline waved them off.
“Oh, rot!” Herbert slumped back into his chair. “What does it matter now? This is all your fault, Captain Burton. I was going to destroy the infernal thing. But now they have it.”
“I’m sorry, Herbert,” said Burton. “That’s what I came to talk to you about.” He stared at the other policemen warily.
“May we have the room, please?” said Abberline.
The others, nodding, left. Mrs. Watchett slammed the front door closed when they were gone.
“I couldn’t let you destroy the Time Machine because we need it,” said Burton. “Something went wrong. Things have changed. And we have to change them back.”
“What are you talking about?” said Herbert, staring at Burton with bloodshot eyes. “Everything is exactly as we left it.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Burton. “There was no madness among the mediums, and my fiancée Isabel is missing, taken in broad daylight from Hyde Park.”
“My wife no longer knows me,” said Challenger.
“I have memories of this other time,” said Burton. “Memories that conflict with what we know to be true.”
Herbert stared up at Burton, blinking. “I, too, have had these memories. I’m remembering things I know could not possibly have happened. I thought I was going mad. I dreamed I was being stalked by shoggoths, and that the Morlocks had come to take my Time Machine.” He gaped at Burton open-mouthed.
“You. You were here. Yesterday morning. You stopped me from…” He touched his cheek, wincing as if stung.
“Yes,” said Burton. “I’m sorry about that. You were out of control. I had to stop you from destroying the Time Machine before we used it for one last jaunt.”
The Time Traveler cradled his head in his hands once more. “Oh. My dear fellow. I almost brained you with a wrench, didn’t I? I am extremely sorry.”
“No harm done,” said Burton. “I’m just glad you’re over your, um, spell.”
“I am, for the most part,” said Herbert. “Those awful police certainly snapped me out of it. What the devil do they want with my Time Machine, and how did they find out about it in the first place?”
Burton’s head dipped toward the floor. “I’m afraid that is my fault. “I was brought before a gentleman named Mycroft Holmes yesterday, who knew of our little adventure. He said he was also a member of the Shadow Council and recruited me for another endeavor. He asked me several questions about your Time Machine, and I answered them. I figured he knew so much about us already, what could it hurt? Now I am afraid I have been played the fool.”
“Mr. Holmes must have had a good reason for taking it,” said Abberline. “I can’t imagine he would use it for evil ends.”
“He may not have evil intentions for its use,” said Challenger, but its use clearly causes more problems than it solves, hence our current predicament. I told you before, Captain Burton, that Time would make for the ultimate weapon. And now Mycroft Holmes has it. What can’t the Empire do that can strangle the despot in his cradle, or stop an enemy invasion before it is contemplated?”
“Good heavens!” said the Time Traveler. “Trying to untangle such events before they happened would cause a paradox.”
“How so?” said Challenger.
“Well,” said Herbert, rubbing his stubbled chin. “Suppose you went back in Time to kill your grandfather before he met your grandmother and conceived your father. Well then, you never existed.”
“And if you never existed, how did you go back in Time and kill your grandfather?” finished Challenger.
“Exactly,” said Herbert. “We must have done something similar to alter our familiar course of events.”
“Bismillah,” said Burton. “We’ve got to get the Time Machine back.”
“Does this Micron Holmes fellow know how to activate and use the machine?” asked Herbert.
“Mycroft,” Burton corrected. “And yes, he does. But fortunately for us, he does not have the means to do so.”
Burton reached into his coat pocket and produced the two crystalline control rods he had removed from the Time Machine the previous morning.
Herbert gasped. “You remembered what I told you, then. About the machine’s operation.”
“Yes,” said the explorer, handing the rods to Herbert. “Without those, your Time Machine goes nowhere. Uh, no when.”
“He can’t substitute them in some way?” asked Abberline.
“No,” said Herbert. “The crystals in these control rods are essential to the machine’s operation. No other material will do. But by careful reading of my notes, he’ll be a
ble to fabricate new ones. My notes! That loathsome devil took everything.”
“Now see here,” said Abberline. “Mycroft Holmes has done more for the Empire than you will ever know. I grant that he took your property without due course of law, but you will not disparage him.”
Burton placed a hand on the Chief Inspector’s shoulder. “My dear Frederick, I understand and respect your loyalty, but even you must admit that there is something strange afoot. Are you saying that, after all this, you still fully trust your employer?”
Abberline stared at Burton wide-eyed. His mouth opened, closed. Opened again. At last he said, “I must. Honor and duty require it. But in deference and respect to you, after all we went through last night, I will demand a full explanation from him right this very afternoon.”
“Good enough,” said Burton. “I must also ask that you do not breathe a word about these control rods to Mycroft Holmes.”
Abberline considered this, then nodded slowly in agreement.
“I should like a word with this Mycroft Holmes as well,” said Herbert, standing up. “If you will allow me to get dressed, I will accompany you.”
“Certainly,” said Burton. “We just have one more stop to make. It appears you are once more a member of the Shadow Council.”
Burton handed the rods to Herbert. They clinked together softly in his palm.
Herbert nodded. “This time I had best learn the secret handshake. Make yourselves comfortable. I shan’t be a moment. Mrs. Watchett?”
The poor housekeeper moved from where she had stood, silently quivering in the corner by the door, to follow her master up the stairs.
The front door opened, and the policemen who had been ransacking the place earlier entered to resume their vandalism.
“You’re done here,” said Abberline. “Pack up and move out.”
The three officers exchanged dumbfounded looks before the highest ranking-policeman and departed.
Burton and Challenger gave him surprised looks.
“Well,” said Abberline. “I think the poor fellow’s been through enough, don’t you?”
Father Dagon
The four of them crammed into the police carriage en route to the Cauldron, Herbert fidgeting, crossing one leg over the other, then switching, all the while making perturbed noises.
This rankled Professor Challenger to no end, but to his credit he held his peace, and before long they were moving through the grimy streets of the East End, dirty street toughs glaring bleary-eyed at them as they rolled past.
The carriage trundled through the labyrinthine streets until at last coming to a stop before the still smoking skeleton of the church Burton, Challenger and Abberline had barely escaped with their lives hours earlier. They hopped from the carriage to join a group of police officers who were busy gathering whatever paltry evidence to be found and scaring away looters.
“By Jove,” said the Time Traveler while Abberline had a word with the ranking officer. “Did you gentlemen do this?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Burton. “Not that we’re proud of it.”
“Speak for yourself,” declared Challenger, leaning over to yank a wet, filthy cultist robe from under a singed wooden beam, only to toss it away a moment later in disgust.
Herbert studied the damage in silence. They had filled him in on what happened on the way over, but he still looked unable to come to grips with it. Or maybe he just worried about the fate of his Time Machine. Burton couldn’t tell which.
Abberline turned to them when he was done conversing with the leading duty officer. “Only one body found. That bloke you shot, Professor Challenger. Burned to a crisp, of course. No way to identify him. It seems everyone else got out.”
“What about the tunnel?” asked Burton.
“Some men followed it back to the old house,” said Abberline. “No one there but some street urchins what bolted as soon as they saw the coppers come through that hidey-hole. No signs of any regular occupants, and no trace of this King in Yellow.”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Burton said irritably.
“He’s still around somewhere,” said Challenger, his dark eyes scanning the surrounding buildings. “Probably watching us right now, laughing at us.”
“But where?” asked Abberline. “How?”
“Remember Professor Moriarty’s carriage?” asked Burton. All eyes turned to him.
“Something struck me about it this morning. It was designed for not only security, but comfort. Like Captain Nemo’s Nautilus.”
“Odd’s Bodikins!” declared Challenger. “The blackguard lives in it.”
“Perhaps,” said Burton. “At least some of the time. Maybe our King in Yellow has a similar setup. He’ll want to stay mobile yet remain close to his operations here in the East End.”
“And he no doubt has a small legion of people helping him,” said Abberline. “Keeping him hidden. And we’ll never be able to pry his whereabouts from them.”
The four of them thought on this for a while.
“Ho!” the Time Traveler called from amid the blackened rubble. “What’s this?”
Burton, Challenger and Abberline stepped carefully through the ruins toward their companion.
“What is it?” said Abberline.
Herbert pointed to the blackened shape resting on the ground. Burton still recognized it as the blasphemous carved visage hanging above the tabernacle.
“That is a rendition of Dagon,” said Burton.
Herbert’s knees buckled, and he placed his hands on his hips to steady himself. “No. It can’t be. It’s happening here, in London, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Burton.
“We didn’t stop it at all, did we?” asked Herbert. “Our jaunt through Time did nothing. Nothing.”
“We stopped that damnable island from returning to the surface,” said Challenger.
“We may have done more damage than anything,” Burton murmured.
“We have to stop this,” said Herbert.
“I admire your zeal, my friend,” said Burton. “But what else can we do? We’ve destroyed the cult’s meeting place and sent their leader into hiding. It’s a matter for the police now.”
“I’m afraid he’s right,” said Abberline.
The Time Traveler appeared to consider this for a moment, then shook his head. “This is bigger than the police. Bigger than all of us. We need Captain Nemo.”
“And how do you propose we contact him?” said Challenger. “He could be anywhere in the seven bloody seas.”
“I might have a way,” said Herbert. “But it requires my Time Machine.”
“All right, then,” said Burton. “Let’s pay Mycroft Holmes a visit.”
“Of course,” replied Abberline.
The four men returned to the carriage, where Abberline gave the driver the address for the Diogenes Club.
As the carriage moved away from the ruins of the church, Burton noticed a large group of people watching them, their dirty, wretched faces filled with anger. Someone hurled a large rock, striking the carriage’s driver. He fell from his box with a heavy thud, the horses slowing to a halt at the loss of their driver.
“Stop that, you wretches!” called Abberline.
The policemen who had been inspecting the ruins ran over to chase off the ruffian rock-thrower, but the crowd was quite vocal, and some had picked up burned pieces of wood and other implements to use as makeshift weapons.
“Help him, Frederick,” said Burton, indicating the carriage’s driver. “I’ll drive us out of here.”
Abberline nodded and exited the carriage from the side facing away from the crowd and went to assist the fallen police officer.
Burton hurried out of the carriage and up onto the driver’s box, picking up the reins and giving them a strong tug. The horses obeyed, pulling the carriage a foot or so forward.
Burton glanced down at Abberline who, along with two other policemen, were helping the driver to his fee
t.
“He’s all right,” said Abberline. “Just got the wind knocked out of him.”
“Get back I say!” said one of the policemen.
“This crowd is getting full of themselves,” Challenger called from inside the carriage. “And they have us outnumbered. A hasty retreat would be in our best interest.”
“We’ll take care of them, sir,” one of the officers assured Abberline. He blew into a whistle hanging round his neck, calling for more men. Abberline returned to the carriage and Burton started the horses off at a fast trot.
“You’re not wanted here!” a member of the crowd shouted.
Something else was thrown, but it went in a high arc over Burton’s head and was gone. He had never seen Londoners act this way. It had to be this abysmal cult, he reasoned. He and his group were being attacked on purpose. The Dagon cult would not let them leave the East End alive.
Other objects flew past Burton’s head, much too close for his liking. More police came running, but more people joined in the revolt, and it was a mob the officers greeted. Burton lashed the horses into moving at their top speed, Challenger shouting something from the carriage, no doubt a barrage of profanity at their attackers.
Burton drove the carriage west as fast as the gray beasts would carry it, his eyes ever wary for another assault. Suspicious eyes looked out at them from darkened doorways and partially boarded-up windows. An old woman made the sign of the evil eye at them as they passed.
Burton heard a gunshot and felt something hot fly much too close past his left ear. The gunshot was met with an answering volley of gunfire from the carriage below, Professor Challenger brandishing his revolver in the general direction of where the shot had come from. Burton spurred the horses onward and did not slow them until they reached the relative safety and congested traffic of Tower Bridge.
Burton went a few blocks more, then slowed the beasts to a stop and climbed down from the driver’s box. He opened the left-hand carriage door and peered in at Challenger, Herbert, Abberline, and the carriage’s poor police driver, who introduced himself as Murphy. They all looked thoroughly jostled.
“Is everyone all right?” asked Burton.