James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“What is it?” said Abberline.

Herbert pointed to the blackened shape resting on the ground. Burton still recognized it as the blasphemous carved visage hanging above the tabernacle.

“That is a rendition of Dagon,” said Burton.

Herbert’s knees buckled, and he placed his hands on his hips to steady himself. “No. It can’t be. It’s happening here, in London, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Burton.

“We didn’t stop it at all, did we?” asked Herbert. “Our jaunt through Time did nothing. Nothing.”

“We stopped that damnable island from returning to the surface,” said Challenger.

“We may have done more damage than anything,” Burton murmured.

“We have to stop this,” said Herbert.

“I admire your zeal, my friend,” said Burton. “But what else can we do? We’ve destroyed the cult’s meeting place and sent their leader into hiding. It’s a matter for the police now.”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” said Abberline.

The Time Traveler appeared to consider this for a moment, then shook his head. “This is bigger than the police. Bigger than all of us. We need Captain Nemo.”

“And how do you propose we contact him?” said Challenger. “He could be anywhere in the seven bloody seas.”

“I might have a way,” said Herbert. “But it requires my Time Machine.”

“All right, then,” said Burton. “Let’s pay Mycroft Holmes a visit.”

“Of course,” replied Abberline.

The four men returned to the carriage, where Abberline gave the driver the address for the Diogenes Club.

As the carriage moved away from the ruins of the church, Burton noticed a large group of people watching them, their dirty, wretched faces filled with anger. Someone hurled a large rock, striking the carriage’s driver. He fell from his box with a heavy thud, the horses slowing to a halt at the loss of their driver.

“Stop that, you wretches!” called Abberline.

The policemen who had been inspecting the ruins ran over to chase off the ruffian rock-thrower, but the crowd was quite vocal, and some had picked up burned pieces of wood and other implements to use as makeshift weapons.

“Help him, Frederick,” said Burton, indicating the carriage’s driver. “I’ll drive us out of here.”

Abberline nodded and exited the carriage from the side facing away from the crowd and went to assist the fallen police officer.

Burton hurried out of the carriage and up onto the driver’s box, picking up the reins and giving them a strong tug. The horses obeyed, pulling the carriage a foot or so forward.

Burton glanced down at Abberline who, along with two other policemen, were helping the driver to his feet.

“He’s all right,” said Abberline. “Just got the wind knocked out of him.”

“Get back I say!” said one of the policemen.

“This crowd is getting full of themselves,” Challenger called from inside the carriage. “And they have us outnumbered. A hasty retreat would be in our best interest.”

“We’ll take care of them, sir,” one of the officers assured Abberline. He blew into a whistle hanging round his neck, calling for more men. Abberline returned to the carriage and Burton started the horses off at a fast trot.

“You’re not wanted here!” a member of the crowd shouted.

Something else was thrown, but it went in a high arc over Burton’s head and was gone. He had never seen Londoners act this way. It had to be this abysmal cult, he reasoned. He and his group were being attacked on purpose. The Dagon cult would not let them leave the East End alive.

Other objects flew past Burton’s head, much too close for his liking. More police came running, but more people joined in the revolt, and it was a mob the officers greeted. Burton lashed the horses into moving at their top speed, Challenger shouting something from the carriage, no doubt a barrage of profanity at their attackers.

Burton drove the carriage west as fast as the gray beasts would carry it, his eyes ever wary for another assault. Suspicious eyes looked out at them from darkened doorways and partially boarded-up windows. An old woman made the sign of the evil eye at them as they passed.

Burton heard a gunshot and felt something hot fly much too close past his left ear. The gunshot was met with an answering volley of gunfire from the carriage below, Professor Challenger brandishing his revolver in the general direction of where the shot had come from. Burton spurred the horses onward and did not slow them until they reached the relative safety and congested traffic of Tower Bridge.

Burton went a few blocks more, then slowed the beasts to a stop and climbed down from the driver’s box. He opened the left-hand carriage door and peered in at Challenger, Herbert, Abberline, and the carriage’s poor police driver, who introduced himself as Murphy. They all looked thoroughly jostled.

“Is everyone all right?” asked Burton.

Challenger holstered his revolver and glared at Burton. “Those fiends! Take me back there. I’ll burn them all out.”

“Calm down, Professor,” said Burton. “You may yet get your chance. But they have us at an advantage right now, I’d say.”

“Good heavens,” declared Herbert. “That was quite a ride. Let’s never do it again, shall we?”

“Agreed,” said Abberline. “I wish I could go back to rounding up pickpockets.”

Everyone climbed out of the carriage, Officer Murphy reclaiming his rightful place atop the driver’s box. He appeared a bit dazed, and had a small cut on his temple, but he insisted he was in fine fettle.

“What do we do now?” said Challenger.

“I need to make sure our lads back there have enough help to deal with that angry mob,” said Abberline. “I also need to check in with Mr. Holmes.”

“Let’s go and call on our mutual employer,” said Burton. “Not only does he have Herbert’s property, but I think he knows more about this cult business than he previously let on.”

Abberline conversed briefly with the driver, then they all climbed back into the police carriage.

“Off to the infamous Diogenes Club again?” asked Burton.

“Not this time,” said Abberline. “Mr. Holmes is at his office, in the Tower of London.”

An hour and a half later the policeman’s carriage pulled up to the gray, imposing walls of the Tower of London. After a quick word with an attendant, the driver guided the horses in through Traitor’s Gate, the banks of the Thames on Burton’s left. He had never been to the Tower before, and the great edifice managed to look no less imposing up close than it did from a distance.

The driver guided the carriage into a roundabout, stopping before a yawning entrance atop a formidable set of wide stone steps.

Everyone alighted and looked up at it.

“I feel like a bloody tourist,” said Challenger to Abberline. “Are you sure Holmes is here?”

“Oh yes,” said Abberline. “The British Intelligence Ministry has its offices here.”

Burton thanked their driver Murphy, urging him to go home and rest, then looked to Abberline. “Lead the way, Frederick.”

Abberline nodded, and everyone followed him up the steps and through two heavy oaken doors set in the wide stone archway.

Men in tweed suits moved about inside, carrying bundles of paperwork, seemingly in a hurry to go absolutely nowhere. They walked up a narrow hallway, past rooms that had been turned into makeshift offices, but yet still held the effects of their previous purpose. Burton watched as a man stamped papers atop an ancient wine rack that still held a few dusty bottles. Another leaned against a creaking lectern, holding a monocle and reading something from a heavy bound volume.