James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“He’s a man of breeding,” said Abberline. “The way he spoke and comported himself.”

“The way he ran when the shooting started,” added Challenger around a mouthful of eggs.

“He’s not from the East End, that’s for sure,” said Abberline. “He’s obviously educated. A royal perhaps? Maybe a count or a duke? There was a Marquess of Waterford that caused some trouble a few years ago. A right scoundrel as I recall.”

“He’ll show himself again,” said Burton. “Whoever he is. He’ll have to.”

“Mr. Holmes was also irritated that you chose to investigate on your own,” said Abberline to Challenger.

“It’s a good thing I had,” said the zoologist. “Or you two would be dead right now, your bones floating in the protoplasm of a shoggoth.”

“That was very nearly our fate even with your intervention,” said Burton.

Challenger glared at the explorer for a long moment before returning his attentions to his plate of food.

“I also told him about Moriarty’s assistance last night,” said Abberline. “He did not seem perturbed, or surprised. I sometimes wonder if the man can predict the bloody future.”

Abberline took another sip of coffee before sitting the cup down on the edge of the table. “I’m to head back to that ruined church in the East End. About thirty detectives will be going over every inch that’s left. The fire we inadvertently started finished it off pretty good. Took the East London volunteers the rest of the night to put it out. Anyway, I’d like both of you to accompany me.”

“Of course,” said Burton. “But first we have a stop to make.”

Abberline arched an eyebrow. “Where?”

“Kew Gardens.”

An hour and a half later they arrived by policeman’s carriage at the home of the Time Traveler, only to find it surrounded by police. A group of uniformed patrolmen were streaming out the front door of the home, their arms laden with boxes containing stacks of papers, while Herbert’s thoroughly perplexed housekeeper looked on.

“Bismillah,” said Burton, alighting from the carriage. “What is going on?”

“Excuse me,” said Abberline. “What is happening here, Lieutenant?”

“Confiscation of material deemed to be a threat to the British Empire,” said a broad-shouldered, uniformed Sikh in a blue turban.

“What utter poppycock,” said Burton.

“On whose authority?” demanded Abberline.

“Mycroft Holmes, sir,” said the policeman. “Under the orders of Prime Minister Disraeli.”

“Disraeli,” said Burton. “I might have known.”

“I work closely with Mr. Holmes,” said Abberline, “and I was not informed of this.”

The Sikh shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir. My orders were to quarantine the house and confiscate any and all notes and materials inside.”

“There was a device in the basement,” said Burton. “Most unusual-looking. Is it still on the premises.?”

The policeman eyed him suspiciously.

“He is an agent of Mr. Holmes as well,” said Abberline. “Answer his question.”

“Uh, no sir. It was taken as well. Those were our orders.”

“And where was it taken?” demanded Burton.

“I don’t know, sir. Some government chaps loaded it up a little while ago. We were ordered to gather up any and all notes that might have anything to do with its creation or operation.”

“Is the master of this house still here?”

The Sikh nodded. “He is, sir. Right inside there.” He pointed toward the open front door.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Abberline, and the big man went back to overseeing the placement of heaps of paper into carriages.

“This is most peculiar,” said Abberline. “I’ve never even heard of such a thing.”

“My guess is neither has anyone else,” said Challenger.

As they followed Abberline into the house, Challenger said, “This is why I did not take Mycroft Holmes up on his dubious honor of service to the Crown.”

“You didn’t trust him,” Burton said.

“Aye. I still don’t.”

“I’m starting to wish I hadn’t,” said the explorer.

They entered the home, past the housekeeper Mrs. Watchett, who eyed Burton cruelly, as if this was somehow his fault. He was starting to feel that it was.

Herbert sat in a high-backed chair, still in his pajamas, his head in his hands while two policemen hovered over him asking questions while a third yanked books off his numerous shelves, thumbing through them for loose bits of paper before tossing them to the floor.

“Herbert,” said Burton.

The Time Traveler looked up at the sound, lines of worry marring his young, handsome face. “You! Here again. What is happening? These ruffians barged in an hour ago. I had scarcely recovered my wits when they started tearing the place apart!”

“I don’t know what is going on either. We only just found out ourselves.”

“And Challenger! How good to see you, old boy.”

“Hello again, Herbert,” said the zoologist. “I’m glad to see you as well, though I detest the circumstances of our reunion.”

“And who is this?” asked the Time Traveler, staring up at their companion.

“Chief Inspector Frederick George Abberline, at your service, sir.”

“You did this!” Herbert said, lunging from his chair. “Where’s my Time Machine?”

Burton held him at bay while Abberline took a step back. The other policemen in the room moved to intervene, but Abberline waved them off.

“Oh, rot!” Herbert slumped back into his chair. “What does it matter now? This is all your fault, Captain Burton. I was going to destroy the infernal thing. But now they have it.”

“I’m sorry, Herbert,” said Burton. “That’s what I came to talk to you about.” He stared at the other policemen warily.

“May we have the room, please?” said Abberline.

The others, nodding, left. Mrs. Watchett slammed the front door closed when they were gone.

“I couldn’t let you destroy the Time Machine because we need it,” said Burton. “Something went wrong. Things have changed. And we have to change them back.”

“What are you talking about?” said Herbert, staring at Burton with bloodshot eyes. “Everything is exactly as we left it.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Burton. “There was no madness among the mediums, and my fiancée Isabel is missing, taken in broad daylight from Hyde Park.”

“My wife no longer knows me,” said Challenger.

“I have memories of this other time,” said Burton. “Memories that conflict with what we know to be true.”

Herbert stared up at Burton, blinking. “I, too, have had these memories. I’m remembering things I know could not possibly have happened. I thought I was going mad. I dreamed I was being stalked by shoggoths, and that the Morlocks had come to take my Time Machine.” He gaped at Burton open-mouthed.

“You. You were here. Yesterday morning. You stopped me from…” He touched his cheek, wincing as if stung.

“Yes,” said Burton. “I’m sorry about that. You were out of control. I had to stop you from destroying the Time Machine before we used it for one last jaunt.”

The Time Traveler cradled his head in his hands once more. “Oh. My dear fellow. I almost brained you with a wrench, didn’t I? I am extremely sorry.”

“No harm done,” said Burton. “I’m just glad you’re over your, um, spell.”

“I am, for the most part,” said Herbert. “Those awful police certainly snapped me out of it. What the devil do they want with my Time Machine, and how did they find out about it in the first place?”