James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“Safe,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Where it can be put to good use. Once we have the control rods. I know one of you has them in his possession. In fact…guards!”

Within moments three very large men came rushing into the small office.

“Search Mr. Herbert there,” ordered Mycroft Holmes.

Two of the guards brandished pistols, aiming them directly at Challenger’s and Burton’s head, while the third grabbed the Time Traveler and patted him down, finding the lumps in his left coat pocket that indicated the presence of the Time Machine’s control levers. He reached in and fished them out. Burton backed away a step, but the guard held his gun steady. One wrong move, and Burton wouldn’t survive the encounter. Challenger glared at the man holding him at gunpoint, but did nothing.

“Here you are, sir,” said the man who had searched Herbert, handing the crystalline levers across the desk to Mycroft Holmes.

“Thank you,” he said.

“How did you know?” asked Burton.

“It was simple to deduce,” said Mycroft Holmes. “The police interrogated Herbert’s housekeeper, a Mrs. Whatsit. She said you paid our friend the Time Traveler a visit yesterday morning. I surmised it was you who must have the control levers, though I can’t imagine why you would want to take another jaunt through time. It was another simple logical leap to surmise that you returned them to the one you deemed their rightful owner, our friend the Time Traveler.”

“What are you going to do with my machine?” said Herbert, on the verge of tears.

“We’re going to learn how it functions,” Mycroft said calmly. “Then we are going to mass produce it, and send spies into the future to see just what awaits us and, depending on the nature of these wonders, either figure out how to stop their occurrence or ensure that they happen.”

“You’re out of your tree,” said Challenger. “You have the ultimate weapon in your hands and you have no idea what to do with it.”

“Gorblimey,” added Abberline.

Mycroft scowled at Challenger and said, “You three may go now. Your commissions are hereby dissolved. Go home. If I see any of you again I shall have you arrested on the spot and tried for treason. Is that understood? As for you, Chief Inspector Abberline, I shall have words with your superiors.”

“Fine by me,” the policeman snapped. “They shall hear my side of it first.”

The four of them turned and walked out, shoving past the brutes Mycroft Holmes employed as guards, who followed them through the maze of rooms and out the nearest exit.

“Well that’s that,” said Challenger, stopping to produce a cigar from his coat and light it with a lucifer. He offered one to Burton, who readily accepted, and the four of them stood in a loose circle, thick smoke billowing around their heads.

“What are we going to do now?” said the Time Traveler, almost whining. “That scoundrel has my Time Machine! I should have destroyed it when I had the chance.”

“Herbert,” said Burton. “Can you reproduce the Time Machine’s control levers?”

The young inventor nodded. “Of course, I have more of the materials on hand, hidden where the police didn’t find them.”

“How long will that take?”

He shrugged. “A couple of hours. Why?”

“Do it,” said Burton. “Then meet me back here. We’re going to get your Time Machine back.”

“I can’t be a party to this,” said Abberline. “What Mr. Holmes did was illegal. What you’re talking about is—”

“Treason?” said Challenger with a grin. “Count me in.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” said Burton. “You’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I need you to help me track down this abysmal King in Yellow before he does any more damage.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” asked Challenger.

Burton grinned. “Simple deductive logic. I think I know who this yellow fellow is, and where to find him.”

“I will see if I can find out what Holmes is planning,” said Abberline. “Maybe I can give you gents a heads up.”

Burton nodded. “Splendid. Now let’s go. We may not have much time.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Herbert quipped.

“If only there was a way to get a warning to Captain Nemo,” said Burton, ignoring his manic friend’s little joke. “Besides, we could really use his help. We need to destroy whatever is in those buildings along the docks before Mycroft Holmes gets his hands on it.”

“As I stated earlier, I might know a way,” said Herbert. “But for it to work, I need my Time Machine.”

“Let’s go then,” said Burton, and the four men left the grounds of the Tower of London at a slow jog.

The Lyric Theatre’s large auditorium was dark when Burton and Challenger entered it. Once their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they found seats in the last row, to the left of the rear exit.

The room was vast, but only a few dozen people were in attendance. The only light came from sputtering gas lamps set into the walls at intervals. A yellow robed figure stepped onto the stage from the wings, a grotesque mask fashioned in the likeness of the Deep Ones covered the figure’s face.

“How do you know this King in Yellow chap will put in an appearance here?” grumbled Challenger.

“Simple deductive reasoning,” said Burton with a smile. “Provided I am right about the gentleman’s identity.”

Challenger scoffed at Burton’s mockery of Mycroft Holmes and scanned the room.

Suddenly the heavy velvet curtains concealing the stage began to undulate and pull back—Burton could hear the drone of the building’s hydraulic pumps that used water from the Thames to move the thick drapery—and a familiar robed and masked figure appeared.

“The King in Yellow,” Burton whispered.

“Brothers and sisters,” the King in Yellow intoned when the curtains had fully parted, his arms spread wide. “We are at the threshold of a higher state of being. The stars are right. The time of man’s reign upon this earth is over. But we do not have to suffer man’s fate. We can ascend.”

He trod the boards like an orator, his voice rising and falling. The audience swayed to the sound of his voice, as if mesmerized.

“We will reside in the house of Father Dagon and Mother Hydra forever and ever,” he said.

The crowd clapped loudly and stomped their feet, but the King in Yellow waved his hand, silencing them.

“The way is dark, my brothers. The goal is not without challenge, my sisters. Sacrifices must be made. They will come for us, but we must not waver, we must not falter. Ours is the kingdom of Dagon!”

“Beneath the waves,” the audience droned.

“Ia Ia,” said the King in Yellow.

“Cthulhu fhtagn!” the crowd answered.

A chill fled up Burton’s spine.

“But the time for hiding in the shadows, behind masks, is over.”

The King in Yellow reached up and removed his mask, lowering his hood.

“Bismillah!” muttered Burton. “I knew it! I thought his words sounded familiar.”

“Who?” Challenger whispered.

“Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton,” said Burton.

“Blimey, what a mouthful,” said Challenger. “Isn’t he a famous writer?”

“Among other things,” said Burton.

“How did you know he is the King in Yellow?”

“I recognized certain phrases he used the other night,” said the explorer. “‘The great unwashed,’ and so forth. These phrases were famously written by Bulwer-Lytton. Combine that with his well-known interest in esoteric subjects, and…”

“This goes far beyond mere interest,” muttered Challenger. “I guess he finally snapped, eh?”