Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) (4 page)

“Based upon research you conducted into certain authentic religions and beliefs,” Holmes said. “A great portion of which you passed on to Carter Randolph.”

“So dear Carter showed you the file?” Lovecraft said. “He was interested in the subject, dear boy, so I saw no reason not to loan the file to him. Many times in the past he has related dreams and experiences to me, which I have been able at times to incorporate into my tales, stories written mostly for the amusement of my friends and acquaintances. How is young Carter?”

“That is what we are trying to discover,” replied Holmes.

“I am afraid I do not understand, Mr. Holmes.”

“My cousin disappeared some weeks ago,” I explained. “Mr. Holmes has agreed to help me find him.”

“Professor Philips and I went to Carter Randolph’s home in Arkham,” Holmes added. “There, amid general disorder and a rather potent fish odor, we discovered the hiding place of the file, as well as many letters written to him by you. When was the last time you saw Carter Randolph?”

“As I recall,” Lovecraft said, “it was about two months ago, approximately two weeks after I had given him the Cthulhu file.”

“And what was his state of mind?” Holmes asked.

“He impressed me as being very nervous,” Lovecraft replied. “Though he did not impart to me the reason for his nervousness, we spoke for a very long time about what we have come to call the Cthulhu Cult – worshippers of a race of beings which in far periods of the past once ruled the earth. It is a concept I have used in stories before and plan to use in many more to come.”

“Might there not be danger in that?” Holmes asked.

For a moment, Lovecraft sat in contemplative silence. Then he said: “Perhaps there is, Mr. Holmes. However, I cannot allow myself to be concerned with that. I long ago decided not to let whatever danger posed by these modern worshippers of ancient gods deter me from what I have set out to do. I will not let them guide my actions. I do not fear them.”

“You have no belief in their gods, Mr. Lovecraft?”

“I do not believe in gods at all,” Lovecraft said evenly. “In my stories, I call them gods because their followers call them that, and because the term is more easily comprehended by the rabble who monthly exchange their nickels and dimes for reading material that is, more often than not, puerile and vapid.”

“I see,” Holmes said. “I long ago deduced the indiscriminate nature of the reading public. What else transpired during Carter Randolph’s visit?”

“We talked at length about the cult, which he seemed to take more seriously than did I,” Lovecraft replied. “I gave him a name that is whispered in Arkham. Some claim him a cult member or even a leader, while others say he only provides a front operation for the cult; still others claim he is nothing more than a charlatan.”

“What is the man’s name?” Holmes asked.

“His name is Enoch Bowen and the group he leads in Arkham is called the Starry Wisdom Sect, located at the end of Circle Court, a rather seedy neighborhood,” Lovecraft answered.

“I know it well,” I said. “Calling it seedy is a kindness.”

“Little is known about him or the group,” our host continued. “Some people claim Bowen has spent much time in Egypt, that land of nighted mystery. The Starry Wisdom Sect is a rather closed band, admitting few, and those few generally do not speak much.”

“What did Carter do after you gave him this information?” Holmes asked.

“He said he was returning to Arkham on the night train,” Lovecraft said. “He was adamant about returning, even though I offered him lodging for the evening.”

“He planned on investigating the Starry Wisdom Sect?”

“He did not confide that to me, Mr. Holmes, but I had that impression.”

“You said earlier he appeared nervous,” Holmes said. “Did he intimate any reason, any at all?”

Lovecraft hesitated, then said, “I think he may have feared he was being followed.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Several times during the visit he rose from his seat and walked to the window,” Lovecraft said. “I did not think much of it at the time, but looking back…”

“Have you ever felt yourself to be followed?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Lovecraft admitted, “but, to tell you the truth, I rarely leave the house if I can help it.”

Holmes stood and I followed suit. “Thank you for seeing us, but we must return to Arkham immediately.”

“I am quite disappointed to hear that, Mr. Holmes,” Lovecraft said as he shook our hands. “I had hoped we would be able to visit at great length. I have read of you since a young man, and was anxious to speak of dear England with you.”

Holmes smiled. “Perhaps we will have the opportunity another time, Mr. Lovecraft.”

“I sincerely hope so, Mr. Holmes.”

“A word of caution, Mr. Lovecraft,” Holmes said seriously. “You must realize that there are those who will be quite displeased with your tales, no matter how much you couch the facts in fiction. They may perceive you as an obstacle in their path.”

“I realize that, Mr. Holmes,” Lovecraft said, nodding. “I do what I must do. No true Englishman could do less.”

“Yes, of course,” Holmes murmured, nodded and we took our leave of the odd young man.

Holmes did not speak to me again until we were on the train to Arkham, and I did not disturb him. I had never seen another human being sunk so deep into concentration.

“Lovecraft,” Holmes finally said in the creeping darkness of the compartment, “is, in his own way, a very brave man. I shall try to visit him again, but I think we have seen each other for the first and last time. A most unusual individual. However I fear he may meet death at an all-too-early age.”

“Because of his investigations?” I suggested.

Holmes gave a rather uncharacteristic desultory shrug, and I wondered what he had observed that I totally missed.

“Do you think Carter became involved with the Starry Wisdom Sect?” I asked.

“Less involved than ran afoul, I fear, “ Holmes replied. “Since he was so deeply invested in learning about the Cthulhu Cult, he would certainly contact Enoch Bowen, one way or another.”

Finally I broached the subject I had been most fearful to bring up. “Do you think Carter is still alive?”

“I do not want to raise false hopes in you,” Holmes replied, speaking softly, “but I think there is a chance that your cousin is still alive.”

I uttered a sound between a sigh and a sob.

“Bear in mind, though, Professor, I put forth this conjecture solely based on the calendar by which the cultists must order their lives and worship.” He gave me a very faint smile. “After all, gods much be propitiated in their season, mustn’t they?”

“Do you believe in gods?” I asked Holmes.

Silence reigned in the darkening compartment. Shadows and light from outside the train played over Holmes’ sharp features as we hurtled through the gloom.

“In my younger days, I professed an absolute disbelief in the supernatural,” Holmes said softly. “I still do, but now I am ready to admit reality may be composed of more than our poor human senses are able to convey to our brains. The German physicists insist we are well bathed in invisible radiations, that reality may not be a constant.” He shook his head. “I once dismissed science as not being worth my study except as it affected my work as a consulting detective, yet we are moving into a world where the scientist may one day wield more power than the elected politician. Science and superstition; philosophy and technology – how thin the dividing line is drawing.”

“And gods?” I persisted. “Specifically, the monster-gods of these Cthulhu devotees?”

“Whether or not I personally believe in gods is immaterial to this case,” Holmes said. “If they truly manifest themselves in our world, they may be creatures as mortal as are we. I am reminded of a story written some years back by my good friend Herbert Wells, in which our green world was attacked by neighboring Mars. The narrator of the tale knew they were nothing more than living beings, different in form, yet still as physical as we are, but his knowledge stemmed from his scientific education and outlook. Now, had such beings come to earth in the age of unpolished stone, they might have indeed been taken for gods.” He chuckled. “And are there not those in the world who are always looking for gods?”

“I see what you mean, Mr. Holmes,” I said. “I think.”

Darkness was fully upon Arkham by the time the train pulled into the station. I was fatigued from the journey, and I could see that my companion was weary as well. I looked forward to a good night’s rest before investigating the Starry Wisdom sect. I hailed a taxi and gave my address.

“They are still with us,” Holmes whispered before we had gone a full block.

I started to turn in my seat but he stopped me.

“A rather squat man wearing the dark coat of a common sailor in the merchant marine,” Holmes replied. “He does not realize that we are on to him, and I plan to put his ignorance to good use.”

After we reached home, not far from Miskatonic University, Holmes instructed me to go through all my usual procedures for turning in for the night, doing nothing out of the ordinary. When I happened to look through the window overlooking the street, I caught a glimpse of he man in the dark overcoat. I thought I heard Holmes leave by the back entrance, but I could not be sure. After turning out all the lights, I noticed the man was gone from his post. A quick tour of the house showed that Sherlock Holmes had indeed left me alone. I did not sleep soundly after that.

I awoke the next morning to find Holmes in his room. His shoes were at the end of the bed; they were wet and smelled of the sea. He was sleeping soundly, and I did not see any reason to wake him. I spent the day puttering around the house, reading and writing letters, perusing review copies of books from various publishers attempting to solicit comments, trying my best not to make any noise. I was eager to try to pick up the trail of my poor cousin, but I deferred to Holmes’ experience and wisdom.

Holmes awoke late in the afternoon but refused to speak of anything that might have happened in the night. The afternoon and evening wore on, but Holmes did not seem disposed to do anything more energetic than sit and smoke. As darkness fell, he went upstairs. A moment later he returned and asked me to lower, then raise the front window shade. Puzzled, I complied with his request.

“What is going on, Holmes?”

“Patience, my dear Philips,” he said. “All in good time.”

Several loud shouts shattered the silence of the night, and there was the sound of a fight outside. Moments later there was a loud knocking at my door.

At Holmes’ direction, I opened the door. Two very large men rushed in. Between them was the man in the dark overcoat I had seen earlier. Upon closer examination, I decided this was the same man I had seen outside the Copely Plaza Hotel, either that or of the same repulsive stock, possessing wide batrachian features, scaly skin and bulging eyes. When I told Holmes my suspicions about our captive, he merely nodded.

“These two gentlemen,” Holmes said, “are operatives of the Pinkerton organization, the nearest thing America has to a competent national police force. I realized our curious friend would be back this evening. However, I knew he would not readily accept an invitation to join us for an elucidating conversation, hence the service of the Pinkertons was required.”

Holmes motioned for the Pinkerton men to bring their captive into the living room, which took some effort since the man was still struggling mightily to free himself from their grasp. His motions reminded me of a captured fish. They forced him to sit, then sat themselves, very close to him to keep him from bolting.

For long moments, Holmes stood before the repellant little man, regarding him with piercing eyes. The longer Holmes stared, the more agitated the man became.

Finally Holmes said, “What did you tell Master Enoch Bowen last night?”

The man instantly stopped struggling and stared at Holmes as if he been unmasked as a demon from the lower depths of hell.

“I don’t know what you’re be talkin’ about,” the man slurred in an odd accent, with archaic diction.

“Oh, come now,” Holmes said, turning his back. “After leaving here last night, you traveled the back streets to the wharf area along the River Miskatonic. You went to the building of the Starry Wisdom Sect and met Enoch Bowen, a dark man though obviously not of Negro blood. You spoke some time to him.” Holmes paused. “You also licked his hands.” He smiled at the man’s expression. “Afterwards, you went to a flophouse where you passed the night.”

The man’s huge eyes had grown ever more bulbous.

“No one followed me! I seen no one!”

“Of course you saw no one,” Holmes snapped, turning about. “What did you tell Enoch Bowen?”

“
Ph’nguli nglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wagah’nagi fhtagni
!” the man screamed.

The two Pinkerton men startled by the man’s outburst, momentarily loosened their iron grips on the prisoner. The man immediately leaped free, shoved Holmes from his path, and ran toward the large living room window. He crashed through the window. The Pinkerton operatives were instantly after him and probably would have brought him down again if circumstances had not intervened. I helped Holmes to his feet.