“You will not find me easy pickings, you devil,” I said, mustering up all the bravado I could. The words rang hollow to my own ears but any kind of defiance was better than none. “I shall fight you to my last breath.”
The nightgaunt was undeterred. Now there was a mere two-yard gap between us. I began to move backwards, matching my pace to its. We must have looked as though we were engaged in a weird dance. My arms were spread wide, as were the nightgaunt’s. I was braced to wrestle with it, for all the good that would do. Anything to give Holmes crucial extra seconds.
“Watson!” he cried out. “I am close to completion. Can you lead that thing back this way? I need to have its undivided attention if this is to work.”
“That should not be a problem. I believe it has grown very attached to me.”
I began circling back towards Holmes, the nightgaunt with me. It seemed to enjoy our strange man-and-monster gavotte.
I muttered encouragement: “Yes, that’s it, my beauty. Stay with me. Pay no mind to the man over there with the big black book and the phial of potion that he is about to drink. Do not even think about that cantrip he is reciting. It is definitely not a spell that charges the potion up with magical essence. Oh no, definitely not.”
The potion was the result of an hour Holmes had spent at his acid-scarred chemistry bench, brewing together ingredients such as aconite, mandrake root and camphor in a flask suspended by a clamp from a retort stand. To these he had added the shred of the nightgaunt’s wing, heating the mixture over a flame until it reduced to a thick, dark brown sludge. The smell of it had been obnoxious, and one could only assume the taste of it would be no better. Moreover, the concoction was at least mildly toxic. Aconite alone, taken in sufficient quantity, can induce fatal hypotension and cardiac arrhythmia, camphor has been known to cause hallucinations and sometimes liver damage when ingested, and who knows what the effect of consuming nightgaunt meat might be?
This substance, however, was what Holmes was proposing to swallow, in the full expectation that it would grant him control over the nightgaunt. The potion, known as the Nangchen Lamasery Liquor of Supremacy, was first devised by Tibetan monks in order to counter the threat of rakshasas, their term for various anthropophagous demons. Abdul Alhazred has it that by eating the flesh of a flesh-eating demon one enters into a kind of compact with the creature, and it is through this weird reciprocity that the Liquor of Supremacy operates. Ludwig Prinn, in his De Vermis Mysteriis, agrees with Alhazred while adding the proviso that the potion leaves the user liable to develop lasting cannibalistic tendencies, a caveat which the compiler of the Necronomicon ought to have had the courtesy to mention and might indeed have done, had he been less of a lunatic.
Nightgaunts may not be flesh eaters, but the Liquor of Supremacy is equally effective on them. The same theurgical principles pertain, as do the same drawbacks.
Holmes, of course, was perfectly well aware of the risks involved in drinking it but, for him, a certain level of personal danger acted always as an incentive, not a constraint. The phial of potion was now at his lips, and I and the nightgaunt were within a few paces of where he stood. As the liquid perfused his system, so would influence over the nightgaunt radiate out from him. The closer he and the creature were, the quicker and more efficacious the Nangchen Lamasery Liquor of Supremacy would be.
Then, from the direction of the farmhouse, a voice rang out.
“No,” it said, softly but with a clarity that carried.
That was all, the one word, and whether it was aimed at Holmes, me or the nightgaunt, we all three went stock still.
From the front doorway of the farmhouse stepped a young man. He was somewhere in his mid-twenties and dressed with a smartness that was incongruous given our surroundings, his patterned silk waistcoat and dandyish pointed-toe shoes in particular looking out of place. He strode down the rise to join our little tableau of three, his bearing both commanding and condescending.
“Away,” he said with a sidelong sweep of the arm, and this time it was clear he was addressing the nightgaunt.
The creature instantly did as bidden, withdrawing to a distance of some ten yards and then settling into a squatting position, its arms upon its knees and its wings gathered about it like a cloak.
“Good boy,” the man said, much as one might compliment an obedient hound. The nightgaunt seemed to preen, basking in the approval.
The man extended a hand to my companion, who set down the phial in order to accept it and shake it.
“Please allow me to introduce myself.”
“No need,” said Holmes. “Mr Nathaniel Whateley, I presume.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Banquet of Terror
THE YOUNG MAN CHUCKLED. “YOU HAVE ME AT A disadvantage,” said he in his refined Yankee accent. “You know me, yet I do not know you. How can this be?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” said Holmes, disengaging from the handshake.
“Sherlock…?” One of Nathaniel Whateley’s eyebrows rose. “Oh well. Then it makes sense. The famous detective. No one’s identity can be a secret from him. Which must make you…” He turned to me. “Dr Watson, unless I very much miss my guess.”
“Your servant, sir,” I said warily. I clasped his proffered hand for a mere half-second. I was unsure what to make of this turn of events. Moments ago I had been battling for my life against the nightgaunt; now I was engaging in polite formalities with a stranger.
“I trust Nordstrom there did not cause you undue distress,” said Whateley.
“Nordstrom?”
“That’s what I call him.” Whateley pointed at the nightgaunt. “Cyrus Nordstrom was an emeritus professor at Miskatonic University, my former school. Still is, for all I know. Terrible old tyrant. Made my life, and many others’, a misery. So it’s kind of a joke, see, naming a nightgaunt after him. Retribution, after a fashion.”
“I see.” The name Nordstrom rang a bell. It had cropped up in the clipping from the Arkham Gazette that Holmes had been sent by his brother. “Well, I cannot say we had the creature on the ropes, but a knockout blow was definitely in the offing. Was it not, Holmes?”
My companion was subjecting Whateley to close scrutiny. “Hmm? What’s that, Watson?”
“I said we nearly had the nightgaunt beaten, didn’t we?”
“Yes. I should say so.”
“With a draught of the Nangchen Lamasery Liquor of Supremacy,” said Whateley, glancing at the phial. “Potent stuff. Disgusting, but potent.”
“You are familiar with it?” I said.
“How else do you account for my dominance over Nordstrom? A devastatingly magnetic personality isn’t enough. You’ve got to have something more. The question is, would it have worked, Mr Holmes using the liquor as well? I daresay it might have. It would have been a matter of his domination of Nordstrom supplanting mine – one man’s will overriding another’s. And from what I know of you, Mr Holmes, you are not lacking in willpower. Maybe you would have won the contest.” Whateley shrugged. “We shall never know.”
So saying, he snatched up the phial and raised it aloft to dash it to the ground.
I moved to seize the little glass bottle from him, but Whateley forestalled me, holding up the index finger of his free hand and wagging it.
“Ah, ah, ah, Doctor. Remember, I am still Nordstrom’s master. I can have him on you with but a thought.”
The nightgaunt shifted position, tensing as though ready to spring.
“Your revolver,” he added, “is empty, of course. I counted six shots, and you have not had the chance to reload. Keep it out if you wish, if its visible presence reassures you, but this would be so much more civilised if you were to stow it away. What do you say?”
“Might as well do as he asks, Watson,” counselled Holmes. “After all, Mr Whateley has the upper hand. He is holding us at ‘gauntpoint’, one might say. Still, I am convinced he intends us no harm. Is that not so, Mr Whateley?”
“It all depends. I gues
s as long as the two of you play ball, there won’t be any unpleasantness.”
“Unpleasantness?” I said, reluctantly returning the revolver to my pocket. “Sending your pet nightgaunt to molest us does not count?”
“Are you the worse off for it? Aside from that scratch on your face, I think not. I was being prudent, is all. Two men loitering outside the house, looking suspicious, like they’re spying on the place. What’s a fellow to make of that? Of course I was going to unleash my guard dog. Nordstrom wasn’t really going to hurt you, though. Rough you up a little, maybe. Get you to scram. Above all, give you a fright.”
“That last, in my case at least, he certainly achieved.”
“Yes, and I bet he got a big old bellyful out of it, too.”
“A bellyful? What do you mean?”
“Well, it is my understanding that nightgaunts feed off fear,” said Whateley. “So the scholarly arcane literature tells us. Not having mouths or any other kind of orifice, they have to derive sustenance somehow in order to live, and the general consensus is they obtain it from the fear that people naturally exude in their presence. You, Doctor, were giving Nordstrom plenty to get his teeth into. And now he’s pretty well fed. Aren’t you, boy?”
The nightgaunt craned its neck in a manner which, in the light of Whateley’s comments, did seem to suggest repleteness.
“You cannot imagine how delighted I am to have been a source of nutrition,” I said. “That does not alter the fact that this so-called ‘Nordstrom’ of yours gave every appearance that it was trying to kill me.”
“That was just him getting excited,” said Whateley. “Nordstrom would never harm anyone, except if I wanted him to. I have him fully under my sway at all times. You were never in any real danger. He’d never have used those talons of his to rip out your heart, even though he is perfectly capable of that. I wouldn’t have let him.”
How obliging of Whateley to spell out what the nightgaunt could have done to us, while reminding us that it might still happen unless we behaved ourselves.
“Now where was I?” he continued. “Oh yes. This.”
He hurled the phial down at his feet. It did not break, but its treacly brown contents began seeping from its open neck into the soil. Whateley placed his heel upon it and bore down until it shattered. Then he ground the smashed pieces to dust underfoot, mixing them and the potion together into a gritty paste.
“There. That’s that dealt with. Don’t have to worry about someone else commandeering Nordstrom any more. Oh, but where the heck are my manners?” He punctuated the remark with a comical slap of the forehead. “You two have travelled a long way, and not had an easy time of it, by the looks of you. You must be wanting to put your feet up. I’d be a poor host if I didn’t invite you in. Gentlemen?”
He made an ushering gesture, embellishing it with a small bow.
I glanced at Holmes. I did not think we were being asked. We were being ordered. Holmes appeared to agree.
“That would be most welcome, Mr Whateley,” said he. His tone was as amiable as the American’s, but his eyes betrayed a distinct steeliness. “A brief sojourn under your roof is something from which Watson and I, footsore and bedraggled as we are, would surely benefit.”
He gathered up the Necronomicon and bundled it back into the portmanteau. Then, with Whateley leading the way, we set off up the slope of the rise towards the farmhouse. The nightgaunt accompanied us to the front door, where it settled down next to the step like a sentry at his post. It was clearly not there to keep anyone out. It was there to make sure Holmes and I did not leave.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bearding the Lion in His Den
EFFORTS HAD BEEN MADE TO RENDER THE INTERIOR of the farmhouse more homely than its ramshackle exterior. The sitting room into which Whateley escorted us had a Turkish rug covering the bare floorboards and curtains which, if not brand new, were not the moth-eaten rags one might have expected. The furniture likewise, though clearly second-hand, or even third-hand, was of decent quality. The arms of the sofa were somewhat threadbare and its springs creaked as I lowered myself onto it, but I had sat in far less accommodating chairs while visiting households that considered themselves perfectly genteel.
“It’s customary in England to offer guests tea,” said Whateley. “What do you say?”
“A cup of tea would not go amiss,” Holmes replied brightly. “How about you, Watson?”
Taking my cue from him, I smiled and nodded. “I have never knowingly refused one.”
Whateley disappeared to an adjoining kitchen, whence we shortly heard the rattle of water gushing from a tap and then the clank of a kettle being set upon a stove.
I took advantage of his absence to whisper to Holmes, “Is this wise? I appreciate we did not have much choice, but still. Surely we have walked straight into the lion’s den.”
“Where better to beard the lion?” came the reply. “Besides, I am keen to learn more about friend Whateley, and this is as good an opportunity as I am likely to get.”
“I do not trust the man.”
“Never was a more justified statement uttered. Nathaniel Whateley, for all his breezy colonial charm, is a liar. Did you set any store by his tale of sending the nightgaunt out to confront us because he found us suspicious? Or his assertion that he thought we were spying on him?”
“Well, we were.”
“Yet the nightgaunt was already in the air before we even reached the house. Otherwise we would have seen it take flight while we were conducting our surveillance.”
“Yes, unless he is not keeping it here. What if it has a lair elsewhere?”
“You do not allow a creature like a nightgaunt free rein, if it is your thrall. You keep it close at hand at all times so that the bond between you and it is maintained. Distance weakens the Liquor of Supremacy’s effect. Separation for too long a period can erode the psychical connection altogether. No, the nightgaunt resides here at the farm, almost certainly in the barn. You observed, of course, how the barn’s windows were boarded up.”
“As a matter of fact, I did. What of it? Is that definitive proof that the nightgaunt is kept there?”
“It is if you consider the fact that the planks are new. They are light-coloured, fresh from the timber yard, and show almost no weathering. I would estimate they were purchased and nailed over the windows not more than a couple of months ago. The barn door, likewise, has been patched up with new planks. Every hole and rotten section has been painstakingly mended, and there are two bolts upon it that betray not a speck of rust.”
“One presumes Whateley is renting the property. Perhaps it is the landlord’s handiwork.”
“It does not matter whose the handiwork is – the landlord’s, Whateley’s, or the man in the moon’s,” said Holmes. “What matters is that nowhere else on the premises have repairs of that sort been carried out, at least not so far as we have seen, and these ones have made the barn the perfect daytime hideout for a nightgaunt: dark, dry and roomy.”
He had more to say, but just then, Whateley returned.
“The water is coming to the boil,” the American said. “It shouldn’t be long now. Perhaps the two of you are hungry as well. I have some ham, some cheese, a loaf of bread. The bread is a tad stale but still edible. Obtaining supplies out here in the boondocks is not easy. I am able, however, to purchase milk and eggs from a local dairy farmer, and the nearest village has a grocery store. The walk takes a couple of hours each way, but I enjoy the exercise.”
“All rather a far cry from Pimlico, eh?” said Holmes.
“Pimlico?” Whateley frowned briefly. Then his expression cleared. “Yes, Pimlico. Well, much though I appreciate the conveniences of city life, I am able to do without them. I travel a great deal, often to remote and inhospitable places, and am not unfamiliar with privation. In many ways I am better adjusted temperamentally to this mode of living than to a softer, more sophisticated environment.”
“In a place like this, too, one may
hide away a beast the size of a nightgaunt without fear of arousing curiosity, or for that matter inadvertently terrorising the neighbours.”
“There is that.”
“Is it the only specimen of exotic fauna you have here?”
“What do you mean?”
“At your Pimlico address you keep a host of zoological anomalies in jars. Dead ones. I was merely wondering whether this farmhouse serves as a repository for others. Live ones. Large ones. Like your nightgaunt.”
“Oh no. It’s just Nordstrom here. Nothing else.”
“And how long have you been using the house for that purpose?”
“Long enough. Long enough. Is that the kettle I hear? Excuse me. I shall be right back.”
“Holmes,” I whispered as soon as Whateley had exited, “what is behind this line of interrogation? You are probing with purpose, I can tell. You are onto something.”
“As yet, I have only the vaguest inkling of how things stand, Watson. There are undercurrents at work beneath the surface. I am beginning to grasp their direction of flow.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“Not while I myself remain largely in the dark. If there is anything more useless than a theory, it is a half-formed theory.”
Once more Whateley re-entered the room, now bearing a tray of tea things, which he held somewhat queerly. One hand gripped the tray’s handle, while the other, his left, supported the tray from underneath, although nothing appeared to be amiss with the handle on that side. This meant that, when he set the tray down upon an occasional table, he did so with some awkwardness.
The Cthulhu Casebooks--Sherlock Holmes and the Miskatonic Monstrosities Page 13