“No, it most certainly does not,” said Burton. “But tell me, as an officer of the law, can someone be found guilty if they were not in charge of their faculties?”
“The basic madness plea,” said Abberline. “I’ve seen it work before, but it usually gets the perpetrator a lifetime in Bedlam instead of a prison. And he would have to prove he was not in control at the time of the crime, and not just playacting.”
Burton nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s go to the museum. I want to see the crime scene firsthand.”
“I can arrange that. Come with me.”
Thirty minutes later, Burton and Abberline exited a hansom at the steps of the British Museum. The entrance to the geology exhibit was bustling with policemen and a pair of confused museum docents who stammered and stared wide-eyed at the officers who questioned them. After showing their credentials, Burton and Abberline were ushered down a wide corridor lined with rows of pedestals containing every rock and mineral specimen imaginable. The display cases reminded Burton of Challenger’s extraordinary museum, as well as the room outfitted for that purpose aboard Nemo’s wondrous Nautilus. The rocks and crystals, pretty as they were, paled in comparison to those unique specimens. Burton was surprised to find rather large lumps of gold, silver, and platinum among the museum’s collection. If anything was stolen, he mused, surely those precious elements would have been pilfered before some plain old meteorite.
The corridor led to a large circular alcove at the far end, at the center of which was an empty pedestal surrounded by a cluster of shattered glass. Smaller displays covered the walls of the alcove, these also containing meteorites of varying sizes and shapes. An older man in a dark suit was speaking gruffly to what appeared to be an elderly, stoop-shouldered security guard employed by the museum.
“My men have been over this place with a fine-toothed comb,” said Abberline. “Mr. Holmes even sent for his brother, the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. But he received a bit of bad news this morning.”
“Oh?” said Burton.
“Yes. Mr. Sherlock Holmes is dead. He fell from the Reichenbach Falls last night, tangling with that dastardly Moriarty chap. It appears both men fell to their doom.”
“Bismillah! That’s horrendous.”
“Yes. So, it appears we are on our own.”
They waited until Abner Donenfeld, the museum’s curator, was done berating the poor security guard. Burton knew Donenfeld from the Royal Geographical Society, though the two were hardly friends. He cast a sidelong glance at Burton before dismissing the guard.
“Hold on there,” said Abberline, flashing his credentials again. “I am Inspector Abberline, and this is Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, assisting me on behalf of Mycroft Holmes. We have a few questions.”
“Richard?” said Donenfeld. “Working with the police? I thought you’d be halfway to some mosquito-infested diplomatic post on the far side of the world by now.”
“Not quite, Abner,” said Burton. “I’m here about the meteorite theft. It’s part of another case I am assisting Inspector Abberline with. We have a few questions for you and your man.”
Abner Donenfeld was tall, with a noble bearing and an aquiline nose. Receding, silver-gray hair topped his head, becoming thick, mutton chop sideburns. He wore an expensive tailored top coat and crisp trousers, and glared at Burton with cold gray eyes.
The guard looked up at Burton, confused. He was a short, stoop-shouldered man who quivered involuntarily. Thin wisps of white hair clung to a tight-skinned, liver-spotted head, and he seemed the very epitome of frailty. “I told the coppers all I know. That bloomin’ space rock has been nothin’ but trouble since it came here, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so, Mr. Donenfeld.
“It’s all right, Harvey. Tell them whatever they wish to know.” He fixed Burton with an officious stare. “Mr. Dunn has been dismissed as of this morning.”
“It’s all my fault,” said the former guard, a tinge of sadness choking him. “But I saw it all. At least, I think I did.”
“Good,” said Burton. “Tell us everything you can.”
There were eight of them, kind of hangin’ round near closin’. I didn’t pay ‘em no mind at first, but when I finished lettin’ folks out and lockin’ up, I came back here to start my rounds and there they was, all standin’ around the pedestal, holdin’ hands and chantin’ this strange chant, like nothin’ I ever heard. Almost inhuman it was, all gutteral like. More like animal sounds than actual words.”
Burton reached into his coat pocket and removed a photograph of Swinburne he had brought along for this purpose. “Was this one of the men?”
Harvey Dunn took the photo and studied it closely. “Yessiree. That’s one of the blokes all right. “I’d recognize that shock o’ flame red hair anywheres.”
“Mr. Dunn already identified the rest of the Awakened from portraits provided by their families,” Abberline explained.
The old guard nodded. “Aye. That was them all right. They was standin’ around like they was in some kinda trance or somethin’. Gave me the willies if you catch my meanin’. There’s been lots of queer goings on around that stone. I’m not sorry to see it go.” He glanced at Donenfeld as he said this last, expecting a final rebuke. The museum curator regarded him coldly but said nothing.
“After the chanting, what happened?” asked Burton.
“Well, that was the strange part. Things got all fuzzy like, and the scenery changed. The lights flickered, and all of a sudden there were these giant braziers all lit up with fire, like something out of the Egyptian Room here at the museum. Now there’s a place that’ll give a bloke the willies late at night. All them mummies—.”
“Mr. Dunn,” said Donenfeld.
“Uh, yes, as I was sayin’, everything changed, and the men changed too. They were suddenly wearin’ these queer robes, like they was doin’ some kinda queer ceremony. You never heard such strange chantin’. I tells ‘em to stop and get out, the museum’s closed. They just turned and looked at me and kept on chanting. Them some slimy thing, like a clear sack full of eyes, came squeezing through the window yonder.” He pointed to a narrow window spaced more than ten feet from the floor of the museum. “It plopped onto the floor and started sliding toward me. I turned and lit out on the double.”
“Then what happened?” asked Burton.
“Well, when I turned the corner, I wasn’t in the museum no more. I was in this crowded outdoor market, only like nothing anyone has ever seen. People were sellin’ this strange sorta fruit, all big and purple, with these pointy bits like spikes stickin’ out every which way, and it stank to high heaven. And the people! Lordy, but they weren’t people at all. Some of them looked just like you an’ me, only with green scales like a lizard. Others were funny shapes, like oblongs covered in quiverin’ feelers, and green barrels with starfish heads. I was frightened, but I couldn’t go nowhere. Back the way I had come it was more of the same. I wandered around for hours. Nobody could help me. Nobody could even understand me. And when I looked up at the sky! Oh, Lordy! The sky! Pink it was. Pink! And there were two moons up there! And neither of them was our old Moon, with the man in it. No, these was smooth and gray like. An’ one of ‘em had all these silvery lines goin’ across it, like spiderwebs and and…as I live an’ breathe…there was people up there! Oh Lordy be! I seen ‘em! They was flyin’ around up there and laughin’. Laughin’!”
Harvey glanced up at Donenfeld. “Oh God! I can’t tell no more! Please don’t make me tell any more.”
The old museum guard was sobbing now, and obviously embarrassed at his behavior. He glanced from Burton and Abberline to Donenfeld and produced a well-used handkerchief to wipe his face.