James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“I have experienced the same,” said Burton, “only much of it during waking hours.”

“Hallucinations?” asked Herbert.

Burton nodded. “That’s what I thought. At first. Now I’m not so sure. Remember the museum security guard’s account of the robbery, Frederick? It was exactly like that.”

“Blimey! You too? But you didn’t say anything.”

“I’m sorry, my friend. I needed to be sure I wasn’t going insane.”

“Well, while we’re all sharing I suppose I should fess up too,” said Abberline. “The other night I was out for a walk to clear my head. I turn a corner, and blimey, but I’m in a completely different locale. The buildings were of this strange pink brick, all glittery like, and it was broad daylight! And the people. You never seen such strange looking folks about. They wore these green cloaks, and had yellow, rheumy eyes.”

“What did you do?” asked Herbert.

“What did I do? Why I turned and got out of there. I kept moving until things were familiar and dark again. Then I headed straight home.”

“When was this?” asked Burton.

“A few nights ago.”

“You think it’s the Awakened playin’ with them queer stones of theirs?” asked the Inspector.

“No. While I believe the Wold-Newton stones may give the Awakened this power, I think this is something or someone else,” said Burton. “During one of my visions, a voice told me I am the Dream Key, whatever the bloody hell that is. It holds some special significance, but I don’t know why. I was shown things. Different versions of myself. In one I wore an eye patch and commanded the Nautilus . We were at war with the Deep Ones, and losing. In another the Nautilus was attached to a huge canvas gasbag, like a dirigible, and we were flying over a vast desert, chasing a black pyramid that rose from the sand.”

“Bloody hell!” Challenger swore.

“What do you think is happening, Captain?” asked Abberline. “I’m used to rounding up cutpurses. This is too much for an old copper like me.”

“I think someone is trying to communicate with us,” said Burton. “I think someone, or something, is trying to help us.”

“That would be a refreshing change if true,” said Challenger. “But for now we have no idea what this friendly force might be. But I think I know a method I can use to find out.”

“Let’s get started then,” said Herbert.

“First we need to learn more about what the Awakened are up to. Though we must be careful. They have shoggoths protecting them and watching us.”

Burton quickly explained to Abberline the events of the previous evening. The policeman’s face turned the color of milk. “I need to inform Mr. Holmes.”

“You do that,” said Burton. “The rest of us are going to trail Swinburne and Goforth again. Professor, I need you to be our guard against the shoggoths. Can you do that?”

Challenger grinned. “It would be my honor and my pleasure, Captain.”

An hour and a half later, Burton and Herbert were in heavy disguise, standing out front of Swinburne’s home at 7 Chester Street, Grosvenor Place. Challenger was half a block away in a heavy coat large enough to conceal his shoggoth gun. No more police had been assigned to track the poet’s movements since the last one had disappeared, and Burton was wary of any shoggoths that might be lurking about standing guard. Around nine o’clock Swinburne—or rather, the entity wearing his skin like a suit of clothes—exited the home and walked up the street toward Hyde Park, whistling an ethereal tune. He met up with Goforth in front of the entrance to Hyde Park, and the two hailed a hansom. Burton hailed another one, and he, Herbert and Challenger bade the driver follow the carriage for several miles before it stopped and deposited Swinburne and Goforth off at a familiar street.

“They’re returning to the watchmaker’s shop,” Burton said after he paid the fare and they alighted from the cab. “Let’s go. Keep your distance, but don’t lose sight of them.”

Sure enough, just as Burton had predicted, they went down the narrow maze of side streets to the watch and clock shop Burton had watched them enter before he had been waylaid by the shoggoth. Burton looked about fearfully for any signs of another of the foul creatures, but none presented itself. At any rate, they had the protection of Challenger’s shoggoth gun this time. Perhaps the Professor’s presence was keeping them at bay.

Burton and Herbert pretended to be interested in watching the candle maker practice his art through the window of his shop while Swinburne and Goforth conducted their business in the clock shop. When they exited, Swinburne held the door open for Goforth, who was carrying something covered in a piece of oilcloth. It was small but heavy, judging by the way Goforth hefted it in both hands. Burton and Herbert stayed where they were until Swinburne and Goforth passed, oblivious to their presence and chattering on in that alien tongue of theirs.

“What the devil do you think that could be?” Herbert muttered when they were out of earshot.

“No idea,” said Burton. “Some clockwork contraption I should think. Let’s go and ask the clockmaker.”

“Good idea,” said Herbert. “Before I became interested in optics, I was somewhat obsessed with the clockmaker’s art.”

“Splendid,” said Burton. “You do the talking.”

Burton turned as they entered the shop and found Professor Challenger crouched in a narrow alley between too buildings. He nodded to Burton. Sure that they would be safe from shoggoths, Burton followed Herbert into the shop.

A little bell hanging over the door announced their arrival. A little old man peeked up from behind the high glass counter. “May I help you?” He wore a threadbare tweed suit and a pair of thick spectacles perched atop the bridge of his beak-like nose.

“Hello there,” said Herbert jovially, his mouth stretched into a friendly smile. “Those two men who were just in here. One of them is an old acquaintance of mine, though blast it if I can remember his name. I wanted to speak with him out in the lane earlier, but I was too embarrassed. Might you know his name?”

“Which gentleman are you talking about?” said the horologist.

“The red-haired gentleman.”

“Oh yes. I believe he said his name was…what was it? Swinburt? Swanson? No. Swinburne! Yes. That’s it. And his companion was a Mr. Goforth. How do you know these men?”

“Oh, they were old colleagues. I used to be somewhat of an amateur watchmaker, and the three of us enjoyed indulging in our mutual hobby together.”

The old man arched an eyebrow. “Oh? I see. Well, I don’t know about that. They told me they were psychic mediums. I never had much truck with that sort of thing, but they’re the talk of the town. They requisitioned a most peculiar instrument from me. Not a clock, but I certainly had to use all of my skills as a clocksmith. It was good money too. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and I am not as adept at maintenance and repair as I used to be.”

Herbert gave the man a sincere frown. “Oh you poor man. How dreadful. What did you make for them?”

The clockmaker stepped back from the counter. He glanced uneasily at Burton. “Why do you want to know?”

“Oh, I was just curious, that’s all,” Herbert said, glancing at Burton.

“My good man,” said Burton, stepping forward and reaching into his coat. “I am Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, and I am an agent of the Queen.” He showed the man his card, given to him by Mycroft Holmes, showing his credentials and the Queen’s official seal. The man stared at it through his thick glasses, transfixed. “Oh my,” he said shakily. “Have I done something wrong?”