Holmes was more at home in a well-stocked laboratory, I thought, than anywhere else. As he’d hoped, the police had indeed secured a couple of corpses from the Thames disaster for our study. Most of the bodies, I knew, would have been claimed by the undertaker. The only corpses available for study, as was typical, would be from the dead who had no family or close friends.
The technician pointed to a series of slides in a box by a microscope.
“I prepared the tissues for you.” His expression made it clear he had no idea why we were there and wanted to study brain tissues. His superiors had simply told him to prepare the slides. “I don’t know what you hope to find, but I’ll leave you to it, gentlemen,” he said, leaving us and closing the door behind him.
Holmes’s total focus was on the slides in the box. His fingers flicked through them, his eyes examining the tiny print that identified each sample. I stood between two lab benches, each arrayed with jars of chemicals, powders, mortars and pestles, beakers, tubes, and slides.
“Perhaps, Holmes, I can be of service,” I said.
He shot me a sharp glance, then returned his attention to the slides.
“See what you can make of this one, Watson,” he said.
He thrust a slide at me, then put several others on the lab bench by the microscope.
I nudged the first slide into place and secured it with the screw pin. I peered through the microscope. Nothing out of the ordinary. I gestured at Holmes, feeling somewhat useless, and he took my place at the bench. He stared long and hard at the bit of brain tissue clamped between the two slides under the lens.
“I see nothing unusual,” he said finally.
We both studied every sample the technician had supplied.
When we’d studied a sample under the microscope from the corpse of Willie Jacobs’s father, while trying to determine the cause of his death in the tram machine building, we’d seen blood cells that didn’t appear to be either human or animal in nature. The corpse of Amos Beiler—whose death, in a Dagonite chair of his own creation, had brought his son Kristoffer to Baker Street—had given up similar inexplicable clues: peculiarly, inhuman hairs, bits of oddly shaped bone, an exotic insect.
But this time, we saw nerve cells, long tangled fibers. The cells varied in size, but this was normal.
“It was a long shot.” Holmes frowned. “These poor devils might not have been infected by whatever has hurt Willie Jacobs and those in the vicinity of Thrawl Street. They were on a boat, on an outing for just one pleasant afternoon that turned out to be not so pleasant.”
“Nor do we know that the victims from whom the hospital took these brain tissues were users of the dens or Old Ones Serum.”
Holmes was already at the door with one foot in the hallway.
“These brains are no longer functioning, so even if these people were in the early stages of infection on that very day, the dead tissue displays nothing novel. We need living tissue, Watson.”
20
PROFESSOR MORIARTY
Moriarty’s Whitechapel Eshocker Den
I am a man of my word. A gentleman. If one of my workers fails to execute my instructions, I don’t immediately kill him. Of course not. That is not a gentleman’s way.
If my workers possessed my capabilities, they would be in my position rather than living in squalor and doing my bidding.
The men forming a semi-circle around the crumbling fireplace were some of my most capable henchmen. Men are motivated by money: to impress a girl, feed a family, satisfy addictions and demons. But the best workers are motivated by the thrill they get from the work itself.
A few such men stood out—Timmy Dorsey, Sr. and James Buckles, in particular, who towered over the others, eyes keen with intellect and determination.
Dorsey and Buckles, one a meat man and the other a welder, had both worked for me for as long as I could remember. They kept the lower men in control, those others who now huddled by a weak fire, wondering why I had called them to the back room of one of my dens.
My eyes swept to Dorsey, who, like his son, met my stare levelly.
“There are times,” I began, “when even the most distinguished among us must turn our backs on our core beliefs to achieve critical goals and provide for all of the men.”
James Buckles looked at the shapes ground into the dusty floorboards by countless shoes. He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right.
Dorsey didn’t move, just continued to meet my gaze with his own.
A welder—Buckles—would be more useful to me than a butcher—Dorsey. To seize control of the tram machine, I needed men adept at machinery, not the carving of delicate choice cuts. However, my butcher, Dorsey, was stronger, faster, and smarter than my welder, Buckles.
Yet, did I really need to terminate the employment of either man? Or could I retain them both, for neither had committed the ultimate sin of disloyalty?
Two men, both from Buckles’s gang, had committed this ultimate sin. Gregory Choir and Theodore Mann. Both had stolen for me, raped for me, killed for me. Both enjoyed their work and excelled in the quick, efficient execution of my commands. Of the few men allowed into my inner circle, unfortunately, these two had betrayed my trust.
Walking to the fireplace, I lifted an iron poker from the mantle, then turned to face my employees.
I felt no joy in what I was doing. This was an unpleasant business, but necessary.
“Order must be restored,” I said. “Professor Henry Fitzgerald, a key leader of the Dagon gang, languishes in jail, where I am certain he will either rot or die, and if the latter, let us hope it is a painful and terrible death. The tram machine building is now under police control, and the machine itself idles and does not produce gold. This is an utter waste.”
Murmurs ran through the group. Gregory Choir nodded, as if agreeing with me. He clasped his beefy hands and spread his legs farther apart, rocking nervously on his heels. A stocky man with hard muscles and a thick neck, he was a thug I paid to break down doors and keep various people in line.
Theodore Mann blanched. Short and thin, he could slip into places where few men could go. He hid easily in crowds, and after snatching what he wanted—money, handbags, jewelry—he scampered off as quickly as a rodent. Now, he sucked on a cigarette, barely inhaling the smoke before sucking again.
I stooped and pushed the poker into the fire, let the blaze curl around the iron until it glowed. Standing, I pointed the bright end of the poker at each man as I spoke.
“I sent some of you to secure the tram machine building for me. You failed.”
Dorsey drew himself up, as did Buckles.
Fear is good, I thought. It keeps them under control. Control is good. It leads to power.
“Don’t worry,” I continued. “I have no designs on disciplining you for the failed maneuver. However.”
The sounds of their breathing halted, as the men waited for a pronouncement of judgment.
“You will attempt to secure the building again, and this time, you must succeed. Otherwise you will pay the full price of failure. Do you understand?”
I directed the question at Dorsey and Buckles, and both nodded. Gregory Choir unclasped his hands and darted a look at Theodore Mann, who trembled and stared at the floor as he ground out his cigarette.
“However,” I repeated the word, emphasizing it, “I believe you need extra motivation to succeed. You must understand, very clearly, how serious I am about owning the tram machine. We do not fail. We always win. There is no other way. Now, Mr. Dorsey, would you please escort Mr. Choir over to me? And Mr. Buckles, bring me Mr. Mann.”
Dorsey registered neither surprise nor fear, but James Buckles’s body trembled and his face tightened. Dorsey pinned Gregory Choir’s arms behind his back and shoved him toward me. Choir’s elbows dug into Dorsey’s ribs, but despite his muscle, Choir was no match for the butcher.
“What’re you doin’?” Choir growled. “Why me? What ’ave I done, eh?”
Mea
nwhile, James Buckles, still trembling, did the same with Theodore Mann, who whined, “Lemme go. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
I thrust the poker into the flames again and then held the orange tip to Mann’s throat. He craned back his neck and gulped air. Chuckling and shaking my head—what a fool he was—I moved the poker slightly. His neck strained farther back, his eyes grew wide, and he held his breath.
Gregory Choir’s body jerked as he tried to release himself from Dorsey’s clutch. The butcher’s grasp tightened, and a faint smile played on his lips.
A high-pitched wail rang out from a front room of the den. It was a female voice. It died rapidly. Probably some pathetic girl had swilled too much Old Ones Serum and passed out. My men did not react. They were accustomed to both the ecstatic and the pained shrieks of customers, and sometimes their death cries too. Old Ones Serum combined with Eshocking was especially dangerous, and we’d seen plenty of clients expire with their mouths still clamped to the bottle neck.
How amusing that my customers actually believed they were drinking a brew concocted of the strange creatures that plagued the river. Given that this was the prevailing notion, it stunned me that anyone would let so much as a drop pass their lips.
Theodore Mann cringed, as if he knew his fate. In the dim light, I might have seen a tear or two glistening on his cheeks. Pathetic. Gregory Choir, on the other hand, didn’t seem to grasp the situation. His eyebrows arched high over his dark eyes, his lips twisted slightly.
“Surely you ain’t gonna use that poker on me, are you?” he had the gall to ask.
“Surely,” I answered, moving the poker from Mann’s neck to Choir’s, “you’re not gonna fail me again, are you? Surely, you understand what happens to men who leave my employment for a low-life low-level operation such as this… this nothing of Dagon that dares to call itself a gang.”
“It’s true that I worked for the Order of Dagon, but only for a short while.” Gregory Choir’s voice cracked. He was losing his composure, but he remained quick-witted, for he added, “It enabled me to gain valuable information for you.”
“Yes, yes, important information.” Theodore Mann cringed again, although the poker threatened Gregory Choir’s throat, not his.
“Both of you were part of the Dagon gang, yes?” I asked.
“Never part of the gang, no,” Choir said. “I’ve only ever been loyal to you.”
“Both of you have families. A wife and several children apiece. London isn’t kind to widows, much less to orphans,” I said. “This organization is a family, and we stay together. When one of us strays, it hurts the family. Wives become widows, and if a man’s crimes are sufficiently grave, children become orphans.” I asked Dorsey and Buckles, “Do either of you know of this ‘valuable information’ these men claim to have gathered?”
“No,” they answered in near-unison.
“Now, Mr. Choir. Tell me what you know about the Dagon gang.”
Gregory Choir shook himself free of Dorsey, who stepped back, arms outstretched, as I nodded at him. James Buckles maintained his hold on the limp Theodore Mann.
“Mann tol’ me,” Choir said, rolling his massive shoulders and balling his fists, “that the most powerful leader of the Dagon gang is at ’alf Moon Bay. This leader ’as magic powers, Mann said, an’ all ’is followers are loyal an’ devoted… as I am to you, boss. The Dorset den, which you own, is in territory controlled by this Dagon leader an’ ’is—for lack of a better word, for wife or mistress don’t make sense to ’im—an’ ’is mate.”
“What’s the leader’s name? What’s his woman’s name?” I demanded.
“Amelia Scarcliffe. She ’as powers almost equal to those of the Dagon leader. But as for ’is name—” Choir nodded at Theodore Mann, whose lips moved rapidly, uttering nonsensical prayers, the fool.
“Yes?” I said, keeping my voice calm.
“Well, Mann tol’ me that ’e don’t know the leader’s name. But there’s another powerful one there, in an orphanage nearby.” Choir’s voice rose with excitement as he contemplated the potency of the information he was about to divulge. “An’ ’er name is Maria Fitzgerald!”
Theodore Mann ceased his praying and sputtered.
“Um, yes, yes,” he nodded, highly agitated, “an’ she’s the daughter of ’enry Fitzgerald, ’im that’s jailed in London.”
“Is the orphan with this Dagonite leader and his mate?” I asked Choir, ignoring Theodore Mann.
“I don’t know. The men in the gang tell us that she also ’as enormous an’ very strange abilities, just like the leader an’ ’is mate.”
Between the utterings of Choir and Mann, I also gathered that a book existed, a book of dark spells that brought forth creatures such as those in the Thames.
“It is the Dagonite Auctoritatem,” Choir spat out. “This Dorset leader probably ’as a copy. There’s said to be one elsewhere, owned by a man named Beiler, ’ose barn ’ad odd dimensions that cracked open an’ spilled deadly creatures into the countryside. The gold of the tram machine ’as somethin’ to do with all this.”
Nobody steals my den profits. Nobody steals my gang members. Nobody controls the criminal factions of London. Nobody but me.
“You will secure the tram machine?” I barked.
“Yes!” Gregory Choir cried. “I swear to you, I swear!”
“Good enough,” I said, then gestured at Dorsey. “Secure Mr. Choir again, would you?”
“Why? I tol’ you everythin’ you wanted to know!” Choir started to bolt toward the door, but Dorsey grabbed him, pinned his arms behind his back, as before, and held tight. Choir squirmed and kicked, but was no match for Dorsey.
I plunged the iron poker into the fire, and when it glowed with red-hot intent, this time, I did not wait.
I thrust it into Theodore Mann’s neck, right through his Adam’s apple. As soon as his scream erupted, it died. Blood gurgled from his lips. His eyes glazed. Dorsey sneered. Buckles released the body, which fell to the floor, twitching.
“Pull it out,” I told Dorsey, whose face lit with pleasure. He slammed Gregory Choir into a wall, then stooped and wrenched the poker from the dead man’s neck.
“Now kill Choir,” I instructed him, turning my back on the men. I contemplated the fire. It had done its duty, and now, Dorsey would do his duty.
“No!” Choir shrieked. “Don’t do it, don’t!”
I heard the poker squelch into the meat and crunch into the bones. I heard the screams, the gurgles, the moans, and the last breath of Gregory Choir. For a moment, it saddened me, for he had been a good soldier, but the rest of these men needed a hard lesson about loyalty and about performing one’s job, even if it meant death.
“One more,” I said. “Now kill James Buckles.”
Fear filled the room. I felt it. I basked in it. I had the power, the control, the potency to do as I wished with these men, and indeed, with all of London.
“Boss?” It was Dorsey, questioning my decision to kill Buckles. I knew they were close friends, my butcher and my welder; but in the end, my butcher was more valuable to me, and it was he who would live to see another day.
“Do it,” I ordered, “and make him suffer, for I want all of you to know—” I whirled and faced the shaking group of men, who shrank back from me—“what happens if you disobey my decisions, if you think for a moment you can work for another gang! This man allowed his closest associates to be lured into the Dagon gang. Watch him die, watch him carefully, for you will be next if you don’t mend your ways! And next time, I won’t stop with you! I’ll kill your firstborn sons. I’ll kill your families.”
James Buckles had sunk to his knees, his hands clasped in prayer, his eyes raised to a god that didn’t exist.
“Quit your whining,” I screamed, “and die like a man!” I swiveled to Dorsey, who had killed enough men not to mind. “Do it!” I screamed. “Do it, and don’t make it easy on him!”
Dorsey grunted with satisfaction. He was good with
meat, wasn’t he?
I barely paid attention as the poker pierced Buckles’s stomach, as Dorsey wrenched it out and plunged it into the man’s groin; wrenched it out, plunged it into a thigh, then into an ear—straight through James Buckles’s head.
My mind was already on the future.
I would visit the Dorset coast and obtain what was rightfully mine, and I would kill all who opposed me. This Dagonite leader would be no match for me.
If Amelia Scarcliffe and Maria Fitzgerald could fool a whole cult into believing they had magical powers, then they would be useful. I would kidnap them, and I would set them to work for me.
21
AMELIA SCARCLIFFE
Half Moon Bay, Dorset
Killing Mrs. Chatham had been a simple matter. In fact, looking back on how I’d killed the old woman in my flower shop—how the mistletoe had twisted around her neck and killed her for me—I figured that killing anyone would be a simple matter.
What made humans think it perfectly fine to tramp over flowers, or pull mistletoe off the trees? The plants were sacred symbols of fertility and tools that helped bring forth the Old Ones, who buzzed in these woods.
My neck flaps vibrated in harmony with the buzzing. Now that I was nearing the birth time, my flaps had swollen with blood. I touched a left flap. Velvet beneath my fingertips, and a temperature oscillating between warm and scorching.
I was on the beach with my acolytes and ready to fulfill my destiny. Soon, the brood would be with us. How many would hatch? Twelve? Two dozen? Perhaps more?
Bearing even one of Koenraad Thwaite’s offspring would make me unlike any other female who had ever bred, for Koenraad—and I felt it my right to refer to him only by his first name—was the Supreme Almighty of the Order of Dagon and of the slab of open waters at Half Moon Bay. Captain Obed Marsh, who had started the Order of Dagon in 1838 after learning of the Great Ones in the South Seas, would have devoted his life—given his life—to Koenraad, had Koenraad surfaced back then.
Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu Page 12