James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“Algy,” said Burton.

Swinburne turned his attention from the window. “Yes, Richard?”

“Are you back now?”

Swinburne fixed him with a grin. “Yes, Richard.”

“It’s a bloody miracle,” said Monckton Milnes. “His singular physiology must have stood him in good stead.”

“Perhaps,” murmured the explorer, looking deeply into Swinburne’s eyes. What he saw there was not Swinburne. What he saw there was something else, something black and inhuman that flitted away from Burton’s scrutiny as Swinburne returned his attention toward the window.

“Algy, look at me please.”

The poet returned his gaze, a playful look on his face. Burton reached up and touched the sides of Swinburne’s face, his fingers tapping gently against the temples and jawline.

“I want you to look at me. Concentrate on me. Look deeply into my eyes.”

Swinburne did as instructed.

“Take slow, deep breaths. Your whole body is relaxed.”

Swinburne’s body went limp. Burton increased the speed of his taps on the poet’s face.

“Listen to me closely. I want to talk to Algy. Talk to me, Algy.”

At first, there was no reaction; then Swinburne convulsed. His cheeks puffed outward as if he were about to blow out a candle, then a familiar voice said, “Richard?” The word came out as if unbidden by the speaker, as involuntary as a burp.

“Algy!”

“Richard? Is that you? My hat, everything is ghastly!”

Swinburne collapsed backward, pulling away from him. He fell back onto the bed and shook his head before snapping back upright and staring at Burton with a look of puzzlement. Then he rose from the bed and went to the window to stare out at the fog-shrouded city.

“Gloucester Place,” Swinburne said again. He stared out the window like a child seeing the world for the first time.

“Mesmeric touching,” said Monckton Milnes. “I’ve read about the practice but never witnessed it until now. And Algy’s reaction!”

“We’ll be right back, Algy,” Burton told him. The poet turned and smiled before going back to staring out the window at the street below.

Burton tugged Monckton Milnes out into the hallway.

“What’s wrong, Richard? What was that about just now?”

“I don’t think that is Algy,” said the explorer.

“Well, he’s not back to full strength yet, that is true. But of course, it’s our Algy. Who else would it be?”

“I don’t know. But that’s exactly what I want to find out.”

Monckton Milnes glared at Burton, a look of worry painting his face. “You’re frightening me, old friend.”

“I know I must sound demented,” said Burton. “But look at him. Can you honestly tell me that’s Algernon Swinburne? He’s not only completely different, but I think he’s hiding something. I made real contact with him just then, but there’s something else in there too. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Monckton Milnes nodded. “I suppose you might have a slight point, though I don’t know about him hiding something. James Hunt said it would take some time for his wits to return completely.”

“James Hunt has never seen anything like this before,” Burton added. “No one has. We are treading through wholly unknown territory here. And I’m telling you, there is something bloody off with him!”

“All right, Richard. I’ll humor you. I’ve learned to trust your instincts. What do you want me to do?”

“Help me keep an eye on him. I may require your expertise in parapsychological matters. You are still a member of the Society for Psychical Research?”

Monckton Milnes arched an eyebrow. “Yes, of course. But what does that have to do with poor Algy?”

Burton shrugged. “Nothing, I hope. I must go take care of something. Will you stay here? Watch him close?”

Monckton Milnes patted Burton on the shoulder. “Of course. It is my duty to both of you, as your friend and fellow Cannibal.”

“Good man,” said Burton as he headed downstairs. Donning his coat and topper, he disappeared out the front door.

Burton moved through the fog-shrouded gloom up Gloucester Place toward Baker Street. It was afternoon, though one couldn’t tell by the amount of coal smoke in the sky. The sun was almost completely obscured, existing only as a ruddy disk high over Burton’s shoulder as he moved up the crowded sidewalk.

Burton winced at inhuman shapes in the fog and had the terrible sensation that his fellow Londoners had transmogrified into physically abhorrent entities. There a tall, chitinous and many-segmented creature in a long black coat and top hat. There a street vendor with bulbous, watery eyes and a wide, gaping, toothless mouth. Burton shuddered and looked again, but the apparitions were just regular folks going about their business. But something lingered on the periphery of his vision, a feeling there was more to what he was seeing. As if the people he saw were merely facades concealing bizarre shapes beneath coats and corsets. It seemed as if the people he saw contained a vast multitude of different people. “Bismillah,” Burton murmured, shaking this feeling away and hailing a hansom. A carriage pulled up, and Burton climbed inside, trying to ignore the driver’s wave. For it wasn’t a hand that made the gesture, but a black, insect-like feeler.

“The Diogenes Club,” Burton called up and settled into the seat with a shiver. The carriage started, the horse clopping on the cobbles as they moved through the thickening fog.

I must be going mad , he thought. I can’t do so just now. Algy needs me.

Twenty minutes later the hansom deposited Burton in front of the nondescript building that housed the infamous Diogenes Club. The explorer was just about to knock on the solid oak door when it opened, and a familiar figure stepped out.

“Captain Burton!” said Abberline.

“Frederick. Just the man I was coming to see. You and our mutual employer, of course.” Burton said this last with a sneer.

Abberline nodded. “I just delivered my report on the Awakened, as the press is calling them. How is your friend Swinburne?”

“Not himself,” said Burton. “A condition I’m sure he shares with the others.”

Abberline gave him a fearful look and nodded. “You are more right than you know. Come inside. Mr. Holmes will be pleased you have decided to lend your expertise.”

Burton followed the detective through the maze of rooms, the Club’s assortment of brilliant misanthropes gravely silent as usual. They reached the Stranger’s Room without incident and Abberline rapped on the door three times before entering.

Mycroft Holmes was stuffing his jowls with the remains of a bloody T-bone steak. Burton’s stomach growled, and he realized with embarrassment he had neglected to eat that day, having been so preoccupied with Swinburne’s strange condition.

“I see you’ve finally decided to join us,” said Mycroft Holmes after swallowing a mouthful of meat. “I assume it was your friend Swinburne who persuaded you.”

“You assume correctly,” said Burton. “Something isn’t right about him. I believe some entity has taken his place.”

Mycroft nodded, gobbling up the remains of his lunch and dabbing his mouth with a white linen napkin stained pink from his repast before speaking. “All of the Awakened exhibit this unusual behavior. That was Inspector Abberline’s assessment as well, after observing them and interviewing close friends and family members. The only question now is what do we do about it?”

“I want to know more about these other Awakened,” said Burton. “Who they are, where they live. We need to observe them carefully. Only then will we discover who or what they are and what they want.”