Jonathan Howard - Johannes Cabal the Detective

“We followed the trail until it met with a small stream running out of the hillside and turned up the slope. I was about to continue the hunt when I noticed that my mysterious companion had paused by the stream. I guessed that he wanted to get some water, which seemed to be an excellent idea. I crouched by the bank, scooped up a cupped handful of water, and supped.

“The liquid was barely in my mouth before I spat it out again. I cannot communicate how foul that water was.”

“Well, at least have a go,” prompted Munroe. “Can’t be as bad as one of Kay’s gin slings.”

“I say!” Kay said.

Enright shook his head, and continued, “It didn’t simply taste bad; it was bad. As it touched my tongue, it was as if all the world’s corruption had gathered there — a horrible rancorous sensation that made my heart quail and touched my soul. I staggered back from the stream, retching violently.

“‘As I was about to say,’ commented the stranger evenly, ‘I wouldn’t drink from this stream if I were you.’ He gestured to take in the banks, and I saw what he had already seen, what had attracted his attention. They were barren, completely devoid of plant life up to their upper edges, where a few stunted and somehow unwholesome specimens clung disconsolately. ‘There’s something very wrong with the water here.’

“‘You might have said something earlier,’ I said, coughing.

“‘I didn’t realise what you were doing until you’d done it,’ he said, and smiled that cold smile again. I was about to remonstrate that he’d had every opportunity to stop me when I abruptly realised something that left a taste in my mouth almost as filthy as that accursed water.

“He hadn’t stopped me for a reason. He wanted to see what effect the water would have.”

There was a pause while the usual mutters of “Cad!” and “Bounder!” were aired. “Then, to add insult to injury, he produced a notebook, presumably recorded the results of his little experiment, and said, ‘Let’s see where this comes from.’ We followed the stream up the hill in silence until it vanished into the earth in a hollow, overshadowed by an embankment. My companion knelt at the edge of the stream and tried to see exactly where the water bubbled out from, but there seemed to be a cave, for want of a better description, barely large enough to kennel a dog, overgrown with weeds that hung down from the slope above, safely away from the herbicidal qualities of the spring. Displeased with his vantage point, he lay flat out and peered into the gloom.

“‘It’s just a spring,’ I said, exasperated with his behaviour.

“‘Just a spring,’ he repeated. He took some sort of small, black, leather folder from his pocket and opened it to reveal the heads of several test tubes. Selecting one that contained a clear liquid and an eyedrop pipette, he took a small quantity of water from the stream. He held the tube and the pipette up for me to see and then, without fanfare, let a drop of the stream water fall into the tube. The result was immediate and dramatic. The two liquids reacted violently, fizzing furiously and flashing with a strange cobalt-blue phosphorescence that lasted for a few moments after the initial hissing had calmed.

“‘Good Lord,’ I said. I may have said something stronger, I was so moved by the idea that I’d had that filthy liquid in my mouth however briefly. ‘What is in that tube?’

“‘This?’ He stoppered the tube and put it in his breast pocket. ‘It’s holy water. And that ’ — he pointed at the stream — ‘is very unholy water.’ He craned to look into the tiny cave again. ‘There’s writing in there.’ He produced his notebook and began laboriously transcribing what he could see.

“I stood over him, uncertain what to think. ‘Unholy water,’ I ventured at last. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

“‘It’s not the sort of thing Mother Church tends to advertise. And with good reason — you can combust a bishop with this stuff. Just as well for the serried ecclesiasticals of the world that it’s so uncommon. All of which makes such water bubbling out of the ground by the gallon all the more interesting, wouldn’t you say?’

“‘Who are you?’

“He didn’t look up, but I noticed that he stopped writing. ‘Does the name Johannes Cabal mean anything to you?’

“It didn’t even seem familiar, and I said as much.

“He started writing again. ‘Then that is who I am.’

“When no further elucidation was forthcoming, I said, ‘You behave as if I might know you.’

“‘I make enemies easily. I have a good memory, but it gets difficult to keep track of all the people who might have an interest in me. It’s a substantial list. To return to the matter at hand, however.’ He sat up and studied the writing that he had transcribed. I looked at it over his shoulder, but it simply looked like chicken scratchings to me, no alphabet that I’d ever seen. ‘The head of the spring isn’t natural. It’s worked stone and looks more like a drain to me. These markings are carved into the stone of the head. Look a lot like Ugol letters, wouldn’t you say? Rather pithy, too. Look at the figure that starts and finishes the inscription; that’s a triple imperative, the so-called black exclamation. Failure to obey carried the death penalty back in the time of the Hass. As to what it’s enforcing — ’ He paused, frowned and looked up at me. ‘ Do not block .’

“‘They took their plumbing very seriously,’ I joked, but Cabal was not in the mood.

“‘Seven hundred years ago, you couldn’t move in these valleys for Ugol raiders with fur hats and ridiculous little horses. They swept westward, carving swathes through several empires en route, and nobody seemed able to stop them. The incursion started to slow down not long after they came through here before petering out entirely. Their leader, the Great Hass Majien, was an old man by that point. His ill health was probably what stopped the hordes in their tracks. He’s supposed to have died somewhere around here and they buried him and all his wealth beneath a hill. Unimaginable riches just sitting there, waiting to be found.’

“I couldn’t help but look at the hill upon whose slopes we were standing with widening eyes. ‘Good heavens, Cabal! You don’t suppose —?’

“‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged and seemed maddeningly unconcerned by the possibility. ‘One cannot help but wonder, however, why any treasure trove would require running unholy water, only to let the stuff pour down a hillside. The answer lies closer to the summit, I fancy, along with those thieves and their horses.’ So saying, he continued up along the trail. Biting back all too many questions, I had little choice but to follow.

Within a few minutes, however, Cabal resigned the lead as the bandits’ den hove into view. A cave mouth ahead of us showed signs of frequent congress; footprints and hoofprints led in and out and, as we listened, we heard a horse neigh from within. Cabal started to say something, but I tersely gestured him to silence as a pair of the brigands walked out, chattering with foolish disregard for their own security. I recognised them immediately as the two who had robbed me of whatever belongings had remained with me through my period of amnesia. My grim anger at seeing them again must have been apparent, as I looked sideways at Cabal to discover him smiling quite openly at me. Friends of yours? he mouthed with faux innocence. I glared at him and turned my attention back to the men. One was hanging close by the cave mouth, the one who had been so concerned that I might return from the dead to punish them. The other was already heading for the tree line down the slope. He said something dismissively and plunged into the gloom. After a moment, and with clear misgivings, the other followed him. As soon as they were out of sight, Cabal was up and running for the cave. I followed him closely.