The Apocalypse Club (3 page)

As you can see, I have changed hotels. I was forced to do this with little notice and did not believe it wise to leave a forwarding address. My new establishment is a distinct step down from the Eddie in terms of comfort and service, but neither of these factors played any role in its selection. This is little better than an old sailor’s flophouse near the docks. The mattresses are like bags full of rotting potatoes (and from its taste, the tea they serve has apparently been strained through them). The proprietor is an emphysemic old criminal with a nose half-eaten by either syphilis or rats (judging by the kitchen and the women who loiter in the alley, it could be either). Most of the other guests, if I can call them that, come and go mostly at night, shuffling past in the hall with hats pulled low over their heads and downcast eyes. The front desk has a sign advertising select rooms that are available for time periods as short as 30 minutes.

As you would expect, only the direst necessity has brought me to such a place, the only advantage of which is that no one who knows me would ever think to look for me here.

By way of explanation, two points:

1. My room at the King Edward was broken into and searched; and
   
2. Villiers has disappeared.
   

On the first point, I discovered this after returning from my first meeting with Hudson, of which more later. On first glance, nothing of any importance appeared to have been stolen. I brought both the scrolls and their translations with me to the meeting and left my copy of Hudson’s report in my private safe. Since I was going to be meeting the great man, I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot by displaying a copy of a document of which I was supposed to have no firsthand knowledge. I didn’t know how he might react to seeing his life’s work in the hands of a complete stranger and thought it best to play it cautious on the first go-round. Besides, I didn’t know what kind of a fellow he might turn out to be. My strategy was simply to present some of my findings and try to get a sense of whether or not he may have seen anything during his time that might relate to my work.

I knew something was out of sorts as some of the bureau drawers had been left open and their contents spilled out onto the floor. Nothing of importance – some old pieces that I had written for the Journal, for the most part – but I knew instantly that my room had been searched.

My first thought was that whoever it was might still be in the vicinity. I grabbed my silver walking stick in one shaking hand and proceeded nervously to the bed chamber, swinging it like some sort of electrified orchestra conductor and demanding loudly that whoever was in there had best show himself now if he wished to emerge with his occipital lobe unmolested. A quick reconnaissance demonstrated that I was alone in the room and the party or parties responsible had scarpered. I ran to the hall, but it was deserted. A glance through the window revealed only the usual afternoon traffic on the street below.

It didn’t take an excess of deductive reasoning to determine that they hadn’t been after money. My pocket watch, cufflinks, snuff box and mother of pearl shaving kit were still in the top drawer where I had left them. The thief or thieves had not bothered much with the lavatory or the closet or anywhere they might normally have expected to find items of value. They had quite clearly concentrated their efforts on the area around my work desk.

I thanked my lucky stars that I had brought my important papers with me. Had they been waiting until I departed before engaging in their little raid? What might have happened had I been here at the time? Would they have knocked me on the head and done me in? Fear took hold of me. I ran to the door and locked it. But then, I had locked it when I went out, I was sure of that, and it had done nothing to keep them out. How had they gotten in? Did they know someone who worked at the hotel? I could see no evidence that the door had been forced. My room was on the third floor and faced a busy street, so I doubted very much that they would have tried to climb in through the window.

Realizing that the scrolls were still in my unsecured briefcase, I quickly fished them out and rushed to deposit them in the safe.

The safe, however, was gone.

My personal safe was not a large one. In fact, it was the smallest model available at the time from the Steugelhauser company. I doubt it is more than a foot wide in any dimension. It is, however, made of solid iron and weighs more than any one man can comfortably carry unless that man’s name is Heracles. It has special fittings that allow it to be anchored to the floor or the wall, but I certainly don’t believe that the Eddie would have consented to drill four large holes through their polished Carrara tiles.

I must admit that I laughed so hard at that moment that the stevedore in the next room began hammering on the wall in protest (somewhat impolitic, I thought, considering the noises emanating from his domicile at the most ungodly hours of the night, noises that I will go to no lengths whatsoever to describe). The thought of it made me absolutely demented with its irony. Out there were two – for it would take at least that many – nefarious and as yet unidentified individuals running around and no doubt expending great energy attempting to break into a safe that was heavy in the least important way imaginable, as it was completely empty of the contents for which they had nicked it. I could almost see these men, who, in my mind’s eye, wore heavy overcoats with the collars pulled up to obscure their faces and dull, flat caps pulled down over their brows, staggering down the narrow alleys of Whitechapel carrying 20 stone or so of hollow cast iron. What would they do when they discovered there was no treasure secured within?

Well, that was the thought that broke me out of my reverie. What they would do, no doubt, was become extremely incensed at having foolishly carried such a weight for so long for no reason and immediately try to restore their dignity by locating the items they thought they had secured. It was not unreasonable to assume that such an operation might also involve physical harm to the individual in possession of those items.

I grabbed my valise and began flying around the room packing up what essentials I could. My mind was in a cyclone of confusion. Who were these men? How long would it take them to realize the safe was empty? Could they already be on their way back at that very moment? I pictured clubs and knives and chains and weapons of the most horrible description being deployed at my expense. Who were they working for? Haliburton? Had Villiers said something to somebody of my meeting with Hudson? Hudson is sure that he is being shadowed everywhere he goes by government agents. At first, I had thought he was perhaps indulging in the paranoia that often goes in hand with those making great discoveries, but in light of recent events, I am compelled to reconsider that hypothesis. There is someone or some organization out there that wants to know what I am working on and is not prepared to wait until I choose to share that discovery with the world. Although I do not doubt the integrity of His Majesty’s letter service, I have taken the liberty of having this delivered to you by personal messenger. He may seem like a rough, even menacing fellow, and I suppose he is. Forgive me for that, but I thought potential thieves might think twice before attempting to delay or impede him for that very reason. When one’s fate is in another’s hands, sometimes it makes sense to select the fiercest pair of mitts one can find. I am told he is as reliable a man as you can find, at least in this part of town. Not much, relatively speaking, but I have no choice but to settle for it.

In short order, I had cleared out my belongings and decamped to The Wellsley, although I doubt that I will be here for long. Hudson also believes that he is being watched closely and is keen to mount another expedition as soon as possible. Because of his notoriety, it is not possible for him to simply disappear as I have done, and so much of the planning has fallen to me.

Hudson was tremendously excited about the map and the partial translations of the scrolls, which he says explain much of what he saw during his previous expedition. Few have set foot where he has gone. Indeed, the interior of Greenland is as remote to exploration as the moon itself and much of it is as yet unseen by human eyes. I cannot say anything more about it here for fear that this letter may be intercepted and read before we are aboard and underway. I will do my utmost to write again before I leave. Until then, I am, as always…

Yours,

T.

∅

1st February 1923

The Calliphon

Pip,

I have asked my man (although he is not that in any sense of the word) Gilbert to hold on to this letter until two days after we have left Portsmouth, so by the time you receive this I will be somewhere in the dark and frigid north Atlantic, steaming west.

After years of preparation, during which time I have endured an avalanche of mockery, doubt and derision, I finally feel that my ultimate destiny is, if not within my grasp, then at least within hope of discovery. This vessel is little more than a Portuguese fishing tug, but Hudson is confident that it will be enough to meet our needs. He knows the captain, a small man with bare, ropey forearms and skin the colour of pickled Kalamatas, from a previous expedition and has vouched him reliable. As I do not speak a word of Portuguese and only met the fellow for the first time five minutes after climbing the wobbly gangplank to gain entry to the ship, I am obliged to take him at his word on that point.

The last few weeks have been madness and expense in equal measure. We have booked everything under false names and moved our supplies in the dark of night using covered lorries, horse carts and even wheelbarrows (when obliged to move sensitive items through narrow closes). Only yesterday was all loading completed.

I am writing this from my tiny cabin, which is on the starboard side and close enough to the engines that I am compelled to stuff my ears with cotton to be able to sleep or think straight. At least I have a view through one of the small portholes, although it isn’t enough to alleviate my seasickness, which has left me feeling physically wretched even as my mind and spirit soars. A dull reminder of our prosaic duality, I suppose.

It is just before dawn and the ship will be underway in less than an hour. I cannot tell you how anxious I am to cut all connections to land and be on our way. Not just to be free of those who might seek to stop us, but to finally start a journey…not only for myself, but for all humankind.

Hudson and I have been reviewing the maps and the scrolls over the last few days and stumbled across something astonishing that completely upends many of our previous assumptions. As you know, there is no shortage of supposedly respected people who have called my work amateurish, fantastical, even supernatural twaddle. I always did my best to ignore such chatter. I knew that my search for Piotrsgete was far too important to be derailed by doubters, dullards and lesser men.

Now I think we may know what it means.

All of those years of crawling through dusty tombs, enduring baking heat, choking sand and lethal scorpions…of hacking through fetid jungle swamps…hanging on for dear life to some icy crag ten thousand feet up the face of a frozen mountain pass…even negotiating the Byzantine multiple filing systems of the Society archives…the purpose of it all has become evident.

This journey is going to be the greatest in the history of human discovery. Although I have every confidence that we will return, this is a step into the ultimate unknown, and I didn’t want to take that without first letting you know what it is all for.

As with many discoveries, it was right in front of us all along. I had been looking through a previous draft of one of the translations when Hudson pointed out th