“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?”
“Heavens no,” said Burton, pocketing the card. “We just need to ask you some questions about those two men and the item they purchased from you. I apologize for our previous subterfuge. We must keep a low profile.”
“Oh yes, I understand,” said the old man, winking as if he understood very well. “The item doesn’t have a name, at least as far as I know. They came in a few weeks ago and asked me to build it. They gave me these plans.”
He puttered around a cluttered workbench behind the counter and hefted two sheets of paper. Drawn on them with almost machine precision was a set of plans. He passed them over the counter to Burton. He examined them with Herbert.
“They paid me an enormous sum,” said the old clocksmith. “Five hundred pounds.” He whispered this last, as if it were an obscenity he feared would be overheard.
“Remarkable,” said Herbert.
The old man nodded. “They paid half then, and the other half just now.”
“Do you know what this device is supposed to do?” asked Burton.
The old man threw up his hands. “No idea. I was just happy to have the work. Business has been slow of late. No one comes down to these shops anymore.” He stared wistfully past Burton and Herbert toward the shop’s front window and the empty street beyond.
“Well, I appreciate your cooperation,” said Burton, rolling up the plans. “May we keep these?”
“Yes, I suppose. Mr. Swinburne and Goforth didn’t care to have them back. So why not?”
“You’ve been most helpful,” said Herbert, opening his wallet and handing over a twenty-pound note.
“Oh, no. I can’t accept this,” said the old man.
“Please, your time today was more than worth it.”
The old man graciously accepted the proffered money, and Herbert and Burton turned and left the shop. Challenger greeted them in the street, the flame-thrower evident under his bulging coat.
“Well?” the Professor rumbled testily.
“They had the clocksmith make this,” said Burton, showing him the papers. Challenger scowled over the schematics before eying Burton. “So? I’m a zoologist, not a bloody engineer. What the deuce is it?”
“We have no idea,” said Burton. He glanced at Herbert. “I suppose you should hang on to these. The mechanical is your purview, and these plans might yet come in handy.”
“If you say so, Captain.” Herbert took them and folded them carefully before putting them in a pocket of his coat. “But it appears we are at somewhat of a dead end. We didn’t even follow them to see where they went.”
“Where they are going is no mystery,” said Burton. “No doubt they are returning to the Theosophic Society meeting hall to hold another of their psychic sessions. And this time we are all going to be there.”
12. Confronting the Awakened
The Theosophes meeting hall was filled almost to capacity by the time Burton, Herbert and Challenger arrived. Every seat was filled by expectant people hopeful for a glimpse into a past or even a future life. Challenger remained near the doors in the shadows, his shoggoth gun still hidden under his greatcoat, wary for any sign of the foul protoplasmic entities.
“Wait here,” said Burton as he entered the crowded hall, where people in black robes muttered in hushed tones.
Herbert and Challenger started to protest, but Burton ignored them as he wedged himself into the crowd. He received a few vacant stares, but no one questioned his attendance. He watched Swinburne, Whiteside and Goforth enter a room at the far end of the central space, beyond the huge black stone standing at the room’s center. A circle of candles sputtered around it, illuminating the garish glyphs carved into it so long ago they had almost worn away.
Burton entered the antechamber where Swinburne and the others were commiserating before their presentation. Swinburne looked up at the explorer and grinned. “Richard! So good of you to come.”
“Might I have a word, Algy?”
Swinburne looked at Goforth and Whiteside, who exchanged wary glances, and nodded to them. The two other members of the Awakened left the room.
“What is it, Richard? Why so serious? Are you ready to explore new realities? I have learned so much since my awakening, as the papers are calling our shared experience.”
Burton lunged for the poet, grabbing him by his lapels and slamming him against the wall. “No more games, whoever you are. I came here for answers. Who are you?”
Swinburne’s expression hardened. “Now Captain Burton, is that any way to treat the body of one of your contemporaries? One of your closest friends? I’m not sure his diminutive frame can take much of a beating.”