James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

Mycroft Holmes settled back into his seat. “Suppose for argument’s sake you are correct. What would you have me do about it?”

“Take this seriously, for one,” said Burton. “Let me investigate for another.”

“And be honest with us, sir, about anything strange that comes to your attention,” Abberline said. “Mr. Swinburne said Time was off kilter and that you knew about it.”

Mycroft Holmes shook his head. “I have no idea what he’s talking about. Everything seems to have gone back to normal, more or less, save for that strangeness in the sewers beneath Shoreditch. Morlocks, you say?”

“Yes,” said Burton. “But it may be that what poor Algy warned us about hasn’t happened yet. Time travel is a strange business. A business that I warned you not to meddle in.”

Mycroft Holmes gave Burton a patronizing wave and a nod. “Talk to your associate the Time Traveler about the Morlocks.”

“We called on him already,” said Burton. “He wasn’t home.”

“Well, in that case, I’m afraid I can be of no further help. But if I find any evidence of Time being off kilter, according to your friend, I shall alert you immediately. Good enough?”

“I suppose,” said Burton. “For now.”

Mycroft Holmes snorted laughter. “When next we meet you shall keep your place, Captain Burton. And I won’t have you bloody barging in here every time you feel like it. The Diogenes Club abides by certain rules.”

“Stuff your rules,” said Burton as he and Abberline left the room, one of the Club’s attendants staring daggers at them all the way to the front door.

“Aye,” said Abberline when they emerged from the darkened building. “He’s even more cross than usual.”

“He’s hiding something,” said Burton.

Abberline gave a derisive snort. “When is he not?”

“I mean about what I told him. He knows something. He was quick to dismiss Algy’s words, but something about them resonated with him. I could tell by his expression.”

“Bloody hell,” said the detective. “You think Time really is off kilter somehow, and he knows about it?”

Burton shrugged. “It’s possible. Bismillah! We must find Herbert!”

The explorer hailed a hansom. As it clopped up to the curb, Burton said, “Can you follow Mycroft Holmes for me? Without him discovering you?”

The inspector blinked at him. “I think so. But why?”

Burton glanced at the door of the Diogenes Club. “I believe he’s up to something, and we must know what. I think Algy was trying to warn us about something involving our former employer.”

Burton climbed into the carriage and gave the driver his address at Gloucester Place.

“Following the brother of the late Sherlock Holmes won’t be easy,” called Abberline. “But I’ve learned a thing or two running about with you, Captain.” He tipped his bowler and gave Burton a playful wink.

“Good man.” Burton sat back in the seat as the hansom started off.

On Wednesday, they hunted Morlocks.

At midnight on the dot, Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, Inspector Abberline, and Burton’s friend and fellow Cannibal Club member Richard Monckton Milnes met outside a sluice gate in Shoreditch. Milnes’ lantern bobbed up and down before the gate, which was covered by a rusted iron casting. Dark, foul-smelling water trickled from the gate onto the ground between their feet.

“I was able to get the flow redirected,” said Abberline. “But there’s nothin’ I can do about the smell. Sorry, gents.”

“This had better be good, Dick,” Milnes grumbled. “You and I should be firmly in our cups by now at the Cannibal Club, instead of traipsing through sewage.”

Burton gave his friend a bemused grin, a wasted gesture in the dark. “Did I not promise you an adventure? This should be of great interest for you, given your penchant for the strange.”

“It must be strange indeed,” said Milnes, “to wander about in the sewers after midnight. Very well. Let’s get this business done.”

Abberline was fiddling with the padlock that held the casting secure. “My watch commander assured me this was the correct key,” he said. “If you could hold the lantern steady, please.”

Milnes stopped his lantern from swaying so much, and eventually Abberline had the hasp on the lock open. He pushed the casting open with a steady screech of rusted, wet hinges. “My study of the city’s sewer system confirms this is the quickest route to that underground laboratory we found.”

“Perfect,” said Burton. “The less time we spend down here, the better.”

Milnes handed the lantern to Abberline, who drew his pistol as he stepped up into the opening, followed closely by Burton and then Milnes. Burton was also armed, but he refrained from drawing his weapon as of yet.

They walked through smelly darkness for several minutes.

“Are we almost there?” Milnes whispered, his voice muffled by the silk handkerchief he held tightly over his nose and mouth.

“Not much farther, gents,” Abberline said. Their voices echoed strangely up the large clay pipe, the lantern casting furtive shadows as it swung back and forth in Abberline’s shaky left hand.

Soon, the pipe ended, and the three men found themselves in a high, open chasm. The rumble of rushing water surged somewhere off to their right.

“That should be the underground river we found last time,” said Abberline. “And over here…”

He directed the lantern directly ahead. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, Burton gasped. The police had collected almost everything into evidence, but the great iron cages still remained, as did the stainless-steel table someone had been using as part of a portable laboratory setup. They were back in the underground lair of the Morlocks.

“Cripes!” said Monckton Milnes. “Is this the place you were telling me about?”

“The same,” said Burton as he looked around. “There’s the laboratory. There’s a pile of tattered garments from the poor retches the Morlocks kept prisoner.”

“And what the bloody hell is that?” said Monckton Milnes, pointing toward the far corner.

Burton and Abberline looked in the direction Monckton Milnes indicated. There, crouching behind a crate, blinded by lantern light, was a Morlock. Its skin was pale white, like a mushroom, and it had long white hair that spilled onto its bare shoulders. Its only clothing was a tattered loincloth, and its beady eyes seemed to glow with their own yellowish green light. It shielded its eyes from the light, but Burton caught a glimpse of a huge mouth filled with crooked teeth. It gave them a wordless grunt, but remained where it was.

“They’re real,” said Burton. “I only caught a glimpse of them before, but this confirms it.”

“But what is it?” said Abberline. “And where did the pitiful creature come from?”

“Yes,” said Monckton Milnes. “What are they?”

“In the simplest terms,” said Burton, “they are us.”

A voice boomed from somewhere, echoing human laughter, and every head turned to look for its source. With the lantern light pointed elsewhere, the Morlock grunted and slunk quickly up a side tunnel and vanished.

“Who’s there?’ said Abberline, raising his pistol. “Show yourself.”

“Do you want to know who I am?” said the voice. “Or do you want to shoot me? You can’t have both.”

“Who is that?” said Burton, scowling into the gloom. “Show yourself!”

“In due time, Captain. In due time. I see you’ve been admiring my Morlocks.”

“ Your Morlocks?” said Monckton Milnes. “You created them?”

The voice chuckled. “No. You hold that high honor. I merely brought them home.”