James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“Herbert, no!” The explorer lunged at him just as he brought the wrench down toward the machine with great force, tackling him. The heavy wrench clattered to the floor.

“Hey!” shouted the housekeeper from behind them. “Get off him. He’s out of his tree.”

Burton rose to allow Herbert to get up. The Time Traveler stared at him with contempt, and Burton could tell by the set of his eyes that he didn’t even recognize the explorer. “You’ll not stop me from destroying that infernal machine, Morlock! I will not let you get your fungoid hands on it. You’ll not drag it down into your tunnels. You will never get access to all of Time.”

“Herbert, it’s me. Captain Burton. Don’t you remember?”

Herbert stared at him, trying to recall. A spark of recognition appeared on his face. “Shoggoths,” he said.

“Yes,” said Burton. “The shoggoths. R’lyeh. Nemo. Ms. Marsh.”

“Elizabeth,” said Herbert slowly, smiling. “Weena. My Weena.”

“If you say so,” said Burton. “I really must hear that story sometime. But you cannot destroy the Time Machine.”

“Why not?” Herbert said, scowling.

“Because we still need it.” Burton glanced self-consciously at the housekeeper before proceeding. “Something has happened. Something terrible. We have to go back.”

Herbert appeared to consider this, stroking his chin in thought. Then his eyes narrowed. “You lie, Morlock. You only want to steal the machine from me.”

Herbert closed the short distance between them and swung a weak right hook that Burton easily dodged. Even in his weakened state, Herbert was an inventor by trade and an academic by inclination. He was clearly no fighter.

“Please,” murmured Burton. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Herbert roared as he closed in on Burton once more, reaching for the explorer’s throat. Burton grappled with him, pulling his arms down easily before jabbing him as hard as he dared on the chin. The Time Traveler collapsed in an unconscious heap.

Burton turned toward the Time Machine, remembering something Herbert had told him aboard the Nautilus about its operation. He reached for the twin control levers, unscrewed them, and put them in his coat pocket. Then he glanced at the housekeeper. “Help me.”

Together, he and the housekeeper—whose name, he discovered, was Mrs.Watchett—helped Herbert up the stairs to his bedroom, where Burton laid him on his bed. “Is there a key to the basement?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Watchett.

“Good. Lock the door and hide the key. Don’t let him back in there until you’ve heard from me.”

“Just what in blazes is going on here?” asked Mrs. Watchett.

Burton considered her for a moment before answering. “I wish I could tell you. You wouldn’t understand half of it, and you would scarcely believe any of it. Suffice it to say that he must not further tamper with the Time Machine. Is that understood?”

The old woman nodded quickly, fearfully.

“Good,” said Burton. “I must go, but I will return as soon as I can to check on him. Do not let him near that contraption.”

Without another word, the explorer left the Time Traveler’s bedroom and bounded back down the stairs to see himself out.

Burton hailed a passing coach and returned to London proper, giving the driver the address of Bartolini’s dining rooms on Fleet Street. It was unlikely anyone from the Cannibal Club would be around at this time of day, but it gave Burton a sense of purpose to his movements that he found somewhat soothing. And if anyone was there, he could ask if they knew the present whereabouts of Professor Challenger, as well as get more confirmation as to which set of his memories was true.

Given his current state, it was obvious the Time Traveler would be of little use, and Burton feared for the poor man’s sanity. But there was nothing to be done about it now except check in on him later. He still had no idea exactly what he was going to do, only that he would need the Time Machine intact to do it.

Once again, those conflicting memories of recent events began the battle for his mind. The coach turned onto Fleet Street, and Burton rapped on the roof of the conveyance with his walking stick and instructed the driver to let him out. He paid the man and disembarked, deciding it would be best for his continued sanity if he walked to clear his head.

Fleet Street was alive with people and crowded. Burton pushed his way through the press of bodies. The crowd thinned as he continued moving east. He could see the building containing Bartolini’s in the distance, and stopped briefly to catch his breath and adjust his top hat.

He had the vague feeling of being watched. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a man moving quickly behind him, stopping when Burton did. But he did not continue onward as he would have if he were merely trying to avoid a collision and then be about his merry way. He stopped and waited for Burton to move on, as if he wanted to keep himself firmly behind the explorer.

Burton continued walking, though keenly aware of the other man. He moved deliberately, then glanced behind him to see if the stranger did the same. He did.

Grinning now, Burton quickened his pace, intrigued that the man did the same. He was definitely being followed. But by whom? And for what purpose?

Burton walked faster now, threading his away in among a group of three women and one man, then on beyond them. He shrank into a narrow alley on his right and waited.

A scant span of moments later, the man appeared, looking around frantically, no doubt wondering how he lost his quarry. Burton stepped from the alley, jamming the knob of his walking stick hard into the man’s solar plexus. The man doubled over and sputtered.

“Who are you?” demanded Burton. “And why are you following me?”

The man sputtered again, squinting at Burton dumbfounded. He tried to speak, but nothing came out but a wheeze.

“Who are you?” Burton said again.

The man held up his right index finger, his left hand reaching into his coat, producing a shiny metal object. He stuck it out for Burton to see. It was a police inspector’s badge.

“I’m very sorry,” said Burton. “But I don’t take kindly to being followed.”

The man shook his head. “No…my fault.” He wheezed some more before recovering his breath.

“Chief…Inspector…Frederick George…Abberline…Metropolitan Police…at your service.”

He finally stood upright. “I’ve been looking all over the city for you, Captain Burton.”

“Well,” said the explorer, “whatever for?”

He looked around quickly. “Not…here. Out on the street.”

“Let’s go to my club,” Burton said. “It’s just up the street there.” He pointed with his stick, and the policeman nodded.

“After you, Captain,” said Abberline cordially, and Burton stepped out of the alley and continued on his original course.

Old Bartolini was surprised to see him but greeted him warmly enough. He allowed Burton and Abberline entry, the latter following Burton up the stairs to the upper room where the Cannibal Club held their weekly debaucheries.

Burton was surprised to find the room already had an occupant. A skinny young man with long red hair sat hunched over the table, fiercely writing something. He turned as they entered.

“Algy?” said Burton.

“Richard! My hat, but you still look a fright. Your housekeeper is falling behind on her duty to fatten you up, what?”

“I just got out of bed this morning,” said Burton, removing his topper and hanging it on the coat tree by the door. Abberline did the same with his bowler. “What are you working on there?”