Burton looked behind him at the prostrate form of Inspector Abberline, who grumbled as he sat up. “Blimey. Where’s my gun?”
“Over there,” Burton pointed.
Abberline worked his jaw up and down, touched his hand to his mouth. “By Jove! My mouth is back! But where did it go?”
“I believe Yog-Sothoth was having some fun with us,” said Burton. “An illusion.”
“And you figured it out. But how?”
“The Man of Truth knows that Illusion is the One Reality, and that Substance is the Great Impostor.”
Abberline squinted up at him. “And what the deuce does that mean?”
Burton chuckled, helping the inspector to his feet. “I have no idea. But it helped me dispatch the Great Race of Yith. We need to get the gaslights back on.”
Abberline nodded, retrieved his gun, and headed for the double doors, where the policemen outside had begun striking it with their battering ram once more. In a few minutes the building was full of police carrying truncheons and lanterns, though they didn’t have to make use of the former. The so-called acolytes were dazed and confused and had little recollection of how they had arrived there and the strange ritual in which they had taken part.
Once the gaslights were restored, Burton went to his friend, gently rolling him onto his back. He looked like a pale cherub in the sputtering gaslights and appeared as if he were only sleeping. Burton gently slapped at his cheeks. “Algy. Wake up.”
The poet’s eyes snapped open, and in his characteristic high-pitched voice screeched, “Oh, yes, Madam! Spank me! For I have been a very naughty boy!”
Swinburne sat bolt upright and looked around, his wild fiery hair in his face. Every eye in the room was on him thanks to his outburst. “Gadzooks! Where am I?”
Burton cleared his throat. “You are at the Theosophic meeting hall, Algy.” Burton helped the poet to his feet as he looked around shakily.
Swinburne stood there a long moment, blinking at everyone standing or sitting around the large black stone. “My hat!” cried the poet. “Am I sober?”
“I’m afraid so, Algy.”
Swinburne scowled up at him, hauling a thick lock of red hair out of his face. “A dreadful sensation which you must rectify immediately by buying me a pint. Or three.”
“Very well, Algy,” said Burton, glad to have his friend back. “Do you remember anything?”
“Why, no. One minute I was taking the lash, and the next moment, I’m standing here, stone sober and wondering what the bloody hell is going on.”
“I’m afraid that will take some time to explain,” said Burton. “I have some loose ends to attend to, but there’s James Hunt. Let him examine you.”
“My hat!” Swinburne squealed at the sight of their friend, walking in with a throng of police, his medical bag in hand. “James old son! Mind telling me, over a pint, what the devil is going on?”
“There’s a good fellow,” urged Burton as he turned to examine the black stone. It was twice as tall as him, standing within a circle made of candles. Its black surface was covered in strange, often grotesque sigils partially eroded away by time. He touched it, feeling the cold, rough stone beneath his fingertips.
“Burton!”
The explorer turned to see the rotund figure of Mycroft Holmes coming toward him, a couple of stiff and trim assistants bookending him.
“I take it this affair is concluded?”
Burton nodded. “It is. The Awakened have all recovered.” He glanced at a couple of policemen helping Goforth and Whiteside to their feet. The old man looked a decade older as he wobbled in their grasp. “They seem to have no memory of what transpired and should not be found at fault for their actions.”
Mycroft gave a derisive sniff. “And what of the Wold-Newton stones? The curator would like them returned.”
“They are affixed to those ghastly crowns,” said Burton, pointing. Mycroft Holmes ordered one of his assistants to retrieve them. The man held them close, causing Burton to suspect that the elder Holmes had no intention of returning them to the museum.
“And where are you associates?” asked Mycroft Holmes.
“Right here, Mr. Holmes sir,” said Herbert as he and Challenger came striding in, their clothes grimy with grease. “Hello, Captain,” he said, waving.
“You saved us all in the nick of time,” said Burton with a grin.
“What is he talking about?” asked Mycroft Holmes.
“We constructed a device that sent that Great Race lot packing,” rumbled Challenger. “And you’re welcome.”
“It is large enough to work anywhere in the city,” said Herbert. “Though we cannot be exactly sure of its range. It’s in the clock tower, tucked up beneath Big Ben.”
“What?” said Mycroft Holmes.
“Do not worry. It will not impede the normal operation of that venerable old timepiece,” said Herbert. “And it’s there in case it is needed again.”
This seemed to placate Mycroft Holmes, and he focused his attentions on the great black stone in the center of the floor.
“The Awakened dug this up in a field in Yorkshire,” said Burton. “One of them told me he and some associates buried it there in 1684 for later use. It functions as some sort of doorway for the deity they attempted to summon, this Yog-Sothoth.”
“And were they successful?”
“Almost,” said Burton.
Mycroft Holmes nodded. “You will be at the Tower at noon tomorrow for debriefing. I will make arrangements to get this stone removed.”
Burton felt flushed with angry heat, but he said nothing. He didn’t like the idea of someone like Mycroft Holmes taking custody of something that could be put to such malignant use, but there was nothing he could do about it. He wondered what other fiendish, esoteric items might be locked away in the Tower for “safekeeping.”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Abberline, stepping into view. “You’ll be pleased to know that this entire lot can’t remember a bloody thing.”
“Wonderful,” said Holmes almost casually as he turned to leave. “I trust you and your fellows to mop this up nice and tidy.” He glared at Burton. “I’ll see you tomorrow noon.” He exited the hall with his assistants.
“My, but he’s all business, isn’t he?” Abberline remarked when Mycroft Holmes was safely out of earshot.
“In his line of work, he has to be,” said Burton. To Herbert he said, “What took you so bloody long?”
“You said midnight,” said the Time Traveler, looking hurt. “I wanted to avoid any possibility of a paradox, remember?”
Burton glanced across the room at Swinburne, who appeared his old self, if rather un-inebriated. He had been joined not only by James Hunt, but Thomas Bendyshe, Charles Bradlaugh, and Richard Monkton Milnes, almost the full complement of Cannibals.
“I need a drink,” said Burton. “Who’s with me?”
“I’m with you in spirit,” said Abberline. “But I have several more hours of work straightening things out here. Have a pint for me.”
“Sounds bloody marvelous,” said Challenger. He clapped the Time Traveler on the shoulder. “Herbert?”
“Not this time, I’m afraid. I must make arrangements for my Time Machine. And by that, I mean taking a wrench to it and dismantling the damn thing.”
“Good man!” Burton exclaimed. “All right then. I’ll leave things in your capable hands, Frederick. Do come around tomorrow and let’s have a talk about it.”
“Certainly, Captain. Good night. Er, good morning!”