The Secret Files of the Diogenes Club - [Diogenes Club 02]

by By Kim Newman

  “There should be a cap on this,” announced Dick. “To prevent accidents.”

  “I doubt if Sellwood cares much about accidents befalling intruders.”

  “You’re probably right, Vile. The man’s a complete rotter.”

  Chains extended from the winch unto a solid iron ring in the ceiling and then down into the Hole.

  “This is an oubliette,” said Violet. “It’s from the French. You capture your prisonnier and jete him into the Hole, then oublie them—forget them.”

  Ernest, nervously, kept well away from the edge. He had been warned about falling into wells once, which meant that ever since he was afraid of them.

  Violet tossed her rock-chunk into the pool of dark, and counted. After three counts—thirty feet—there was a thump. Stone on stone.

  “No splash,” she said.

  Up from the depths came another sound, a gurgling groan—something alive but unidentifiable. The noise lodged in Dick’s heart like a fish-hook of ice. A chill played up his spine.

  The cry had come from a throat, but hardly a human one.

  Ernest dropped his candle, which rolled to the lip of the pit and fell in, flame guttering.

  Round, green eyes shone up, fire dancing in the fish-flat pupils.

  Something grey-green, weighted with old chains, writhed at the bottom of the Hole.

  Ernest’s candle went out.

  Violet’s grip on Dick’s arm hurt now.

  “What’s that?” she gasped.

  The groan took on an imploring, almost pathetic tone, tinged with cunning and bottomless wrath.

  Dick shrugged off his shiver. He had a moment of pure joy, the click of sudden understanding that often occurs at the climax of a case, when clues fit in the mind like jigsaw pieces and the solution is plain and simple.

  “That, my dear Vile, is your French spy!”

  * * * *

  V: “Obdijjbntp Gdmbqbgs”

  “Someone’s coming,” said Ernest.

  Footfalls in the passageway!

  “Hide,” said Dick.

  The only place—aside from the Hole—was under the water-trough. Dick and Violet pinched out their candles and crammed in, pulling Ernest after them.

  “They’ll see the door’s not bolted,” said Ernest.

  Violet clamped her hand over her cousin’s mouth.

  In the enclosed space, their breathing seemed horribly loud.

  Dick worried. Ernest was right.

  Maybee the people in the passage weren’t coming to this room. Maybee they’d already walked past, on their way to smash fossils or get a copy of Sellwood’s book.

  The footsteps stopped outside the door.

  Maybee this person didn’t know it was usually bolted. Maybee this dungeon was so rarely visited they’doublied whether it had been bolted shut after the last time.

  Maybee...

  “Fessel, Fose, Milder, Maulder,” barked a voice.

  The Reverend Mr. Daniel Sturdevant Sellwood, calling his brethren.

  “And who’s been opening my door,” breathed Violet.

  It took Dick long seconds to recognise the storybook quotation.

  “Who was last here?” shouted Sellwood. “This is inexcusable. With the Devil, one does not take such risks.”

  “En cain’t git ouwt of thic Hole,” replied someone.

  “Brother Milder, it has the wiles of an arch-fiend. That is why only I can be trusted to put it to the question. Who last brought the slops?”

  There was some argument.

  Maybee they’d be all right. Sellwood was so concerned with stopping an escape that he hadn’t thought anyone might break in.

  One of the Brethren tentatively spoke up, and received a clout round the ear.

  Dick wondered why anyone wouldwant to be in Sellwood’s Church Militant.

  “Stand guard,” Sellwood ordered. “Let me see what disaster is so narrowly averted.”

  The door was pushed open. Sellwood set a lantern on a perch. The children pressed further back into shrinking shadow. Dick’s ankle bent the wrong way. He bit down on the pain.

  He saw Sellwood’s shoes—with old-fashioned buckles and gaiters— walk past the trough, towards the Hole. He stopped, just by Dick’s face.

  There was a pumping, coughing sound.

  Sellwood filled a beaker.

  He poured the water into the Hole.

  Violet counted silently, again. After three, the water splashed on the French spy. It cried out, with despair and yearning.

  “Drink deep, spawn of Satan!”

  The creature howled, then gargled again. Dick realised it wasn’t making animal grunts but speaking. Unknown words which he suspected were not French.

  The thing had been here for over a hundred years!

  “Fose, Milder, in here, now. I will resume the inquisition.”

  Brethren clumped in. Dick saw heavy boots.

  The two bruisers walked around the room, keeping well away from the Hole. Dick eased out a little to get a better view. He risked a more comfortable, convenient position. Sellwood had no reason to suspect he was spied upon.

  Brother Fose and Brother Milder worked the winch.

  The chains tightened over the Hole, then wound onto the winch-dram.

  The thing in the oubliette cursed. Dick was sure “f’tagn” was a swearword. As it was hauled upwards, the creature straggled, hissing and croaking.

  Violet held Dick’s hand, pulling, keeping him from showing himself.

  A head showed over the mouth of the Hole, three times the size of a man’s and with no neck, just a pulpy frill of puffed-up gill-slits. Saucer-sized fish-eyes held the light, pupils contracting. Dick was sure the creature, face at floor-level, saw past the boots of its captors straight into his face. It had a fixed maw, with enough jagged teeth to please Ernest.

  “Up,” ordered Sellwood. “Let’s see all of the demon.”

  The Brethren winched again, and the thing hung like Captain Kidd on Execution Dock. It was manlike, but with a stub of fishtail protruding beneath two rows of dorsal spines. Its hands and feet were webbed, with nastily curved yellow nail-barbs. Where water had splashed, its skin was rainbow-scaled, beautiful even. Elsewhere, its hide was grey and taut, cracked, flaking or mossy, with rusty weals where the chains chafed.

  Dick saw that the thing was missing several finger-barbs. Its back and front were striped across with long-healed and new-made scars. It had been whipping boy in this house since the days when Boney was a warrior way-aye-aye.

  He imagined Jacob Orris trying to get Napoleon’s secrets out of the “spy.” Had old Orris held up charts and asked the man-fish to tap a claw on hidden harbours where the invasion fleet was gathered?

  Ernest was mumbling “sea-ghost” over and over, not frightened but awed. Violet hissed at him to hush.

  Dick was sure they’d be caught, but Sellwood was fascinated by the creature. He poked his face close to his captive’s, smiling smugly. A cheek muscle twitched around his fixed sneer. The man-fish looked as if it would like to spit in Sellwood’s face but couldn’t afford the water.

  “So, Diabolicus Maritime, is it today that you confess? I have been patient. We merely seek a statement we all know to be true, which will end this sham once and for all.”

  The fish-eyes were glassy and flat, but moved to fix on Sellwood.

  “You are a deception, my infernal guest, a lure, a living trick, a lie made flesh, a creature of the Prince of Liars. Own that Satan is your maker, imp! Confess your evil purpose!”

  Sellwood touched fingertips to the creature’s scarred chest, scraping dry flesh. Scales fluttered away, falling like dead moths. Dick saw Sellwood’s fingers flex, the tips biting.

  “The bones weren’t enough, were they? Those so-called ‘fossils,’ the buried lies that lead to blasphemy and disbelief. No, the Devil had a second deceit in reserve, to pile upon the Great Untruth of ‘Pre-History.’ No mere dead dragon, but a live specimen, one of those fabled ‘missing links�
�� in the fairy tale of ‘evolution.’ By your very existence, you bear false witness, testify that the world is older than it has been proved over and over again to be, preach against creation, tear down mankind, to drag us from the realm of the angels into the festering salt-depths of Hell. The City of the Damned lies under the Earth, but you prove to my satisfaction that it extends also under the sea!”

  The man-fish had no ears, but Dick was certain it could hear Sellwood. Moreover, it understood, followed his argument.

  “So, own up,” snapped the Reverend. “One word, and the deception is at an end. You are not part of God’s Creation, but a sea-serpent, a monstrous forgery!”

  The creature’s lipless mouth curved. It barked, through its mouth. Its gills rippled, showing scarlet inside.

  Sellwood was furious.

  Dick, strangely, was excited. The prisoner was laughing at its captor, the laughter of a patient, abiding being.

  Why was it still alive? Could it be killed? Surely, Orris or Sellwood or some keeper in between had tried to execute the monster?

  In those eyes was a promise to the parson. I will live when you are gone.

  “Drop it,” snapped Sellwood.

  Fose and Milder let go the winch, and—with a cry—the “French spy” was swallowed by its Hole.

  Sellwood and his men left the room, taking the lantern.

  Dick began breathing properly again. Violet let Ernest squirm a little, though she still held him under the trough.

  Then came a truly terrifying sound, worse even than the laughter of the fish-demon.

  Bolts being drawn. Three of them.

  They were trapped!

  * * * *

  VI: “wsff imjturq-tk bh M’fysr”

  Now was the time to keep calm.

  Dick knew Violet would be all right, if only because she had to think about Ernest.

  For obvious reasons, the children had not told anyone where they were going, but they would be missed at tea-time. Uncle Davey and Aunt Maeve could easily overlook a skipped meal—both of them were liable to get so interested in something that they wouldn’t notice the house catching fire—but Cook kept track. And Mr. and Mrs. Borrodale were sticklers for being in by five o’clock with hands washed and presentable.

  It must be past five now.

  Of course, any search party wouldn’t get around to the Priory for days, maybe weeks. They’d look on the beaches first, and in the woods.

  Eventually, his uncle and aunt would find the folder marked “Qrs Ndps ja qrs Dggjhbqs Dhhbrbfdqjm.” Aunt Maeve, good at puzzles, had taught him how to cipher in the first place. She would eventually break the code and read Dick’s notes, and want to talk with Sellwood. By then, it would probably be too late.

  They gave the Brethren time enough to get beyond earshot before creeping out from under the trough. They unbent with much creaking and muffled moaning. Violet lit her candle.

  Dick paced around the cell, keeping away from the Hole.

  “I’m thirsty,” said Ernest.

  “Easily treated,” said Violet.

  She found the beaker and pumped water into it. Ernest drank, made-a face, and asked for more. Violet worked the pump again.

  Water splashed over the brimful beaker, into the trough.

  A noise came out of the Hole.

  The children froze into mannequins. The noise came again.

  “Wah wah... wah wah...”

  There was a pleading tone to it.

  “Wah wah...”

  ‘“Water,”‘ said Dick, snapping his fingers. “It’s saying ‘water.’“

  “Wah wah,” agreed the creature. “Uh, wah wah.”

  ‘“Water. Yes, water.’“

  “Gosh, Dick, you are clever,” said Violet.

  “Wat war,” said the creature, insisting. “Gi’ mee wat war, i’ oo eese...”

  ‘“Water,”‘ said Dick, ‘“Give me—’“

  “‘—water, if you please,’“ completed Violet, who caught on swiftly. “Very polite for a sea-ghost. Well brought-up in Atlantis or Lyonesse or R’lyeh, I imagine.”

  “Where?” asked Dick.

  “Sunken cities of old, where mer-people are supposed to live.”

  More leftovers from Violet’s myths and legends craze. Interesting, but not very helpful.

  Ernest had walked to the edge of the Hole.

  “This isn’t a soppy mer-person,” said Ernest. “This is a Monster of the Deep!”

  He emptied the beaker into the dark.

  A sigh of undoubted gratitude rose from the depths.

  “Wat war goo’, tanks. Eese, gi’ mee moh.”

  Ernest poured another beakerful. At this rate, they might as well be using an eye-dropper.

  Dick saw the solution.

  “Vile, help me shift the trough,” he said.

  They pulled one end away from the wall. It was heavy, but the bolts were old and rusted and the break came easily.

  “Careful not to move the other end too much. We need it under the pump.”

  Violet saw where this was going. Angled down away from the wall, the trough turned into a sluice. It didn’t quite stretch all the way to the oubliette, but pulling up a loose stone put a notch into the rim which served as a spout.

  “Wat war eese,” said the creature, mildly.

  Dick nodded to Violet. She worked the pump.

  Water splashed into the trough and flowed down, streaming through the notch and pouring into the pit.

  The creature gurgled with joy.

  Only now did Dick wonder whether watering it was a good idea. It might not be a French spy or even a maritime demon, but it was definitely one of Granny Ball’s sea-ghosts. If Dick had been treated as it had been, he would not be well-disposed towards land-people.

  But the water kept flowing.

  Violet’s arm got tired, and she let up for a moment.

  “I’ oo eese,” insisted the creature, with a reproachful, nannyish tone. “Moh wat war.”

  Violet kept pumping.

  Dick took the candle and walked to the edge of the Hole. Ernest sat there, legs dangling over the edge, fingers playing in the cool cascade.

  The boys looked down.

  Where water fell, the man-fish was changed—vivid greens and reds and purples and oranges glistened. Its spines and frills and gills and webs were sleek. Even its eyes shone more brightly.

  It turned, mouth open under the spray, letting water wash around it, wrenching against its chains.

  “Water makes the Monster strong,” said Ernest.

  The creature looked up at them. The edges of its mouth curved into something like a smile. There was cunning there, and a bottomless well of malice, but also an exultation. Dick understood: When it was wet, the thing felt as he did when he saw through a mystery.

  It took a grip on one of its manacles and squeezed, cracking the old iron and casting it away.

  “Can I stop now?” asked Violet. “My arm’s out of puff.”

  “I think so.”

  The creature nodded, a human gesture awkward on the gilled, neckless being.

  It stood up unshackled, and stretched as if waking after a long sleep in an awkward position. The chains dangled freely. A clear, thick, milky-veined fluid seeped from the weals on its chest. The man-fish carefully smoothed this secretion like an ointment.

  There were pools of water around its feet. It got down on its knees— did it have spare brains in them?—and sucked the pools dry. Then it raised its head and let water dribble through its gills and down over its chest and back.

  “Tanks,” it said.

  Now it wasn’t parched, its speech was easier to understand.

  It took hold of the dangling chains, and tugged, testing them.

  Watering the thing in the Hole was all very well, but Dick wasn’t sure how he’d feel if it were up here with them. If he were the creature, he would be very annoyed. He ought to be grateful to the children, but what did anyone know about the feelings of sea-ghosts? Vio
let had told them the legend of the genie in the bottle: At first, he swore to bestow untold riches upon the man who set him free, but after thousands of years burned to make his rescuer suffer horribly for waiting so long.