Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 18

18. Silver Light Under the Tomb

In the dim light preceding the full bloom of dawn, I found my way back to the confines of my dwelling. It was a recent addition to the grand, orient-inspired architectural tapestry of the city, my residence for the past month or so. Despite my brief absence, the familiarity of the streets sung to me a song of nostalgia, of homecoming. Yet, before I could bask in the warm glow of home, a sight most disconcerting assailed my senses.

“What in the world of God is this mayhem?” I bellowed, rushing towards the men at work. Taken aback, they ceased their actions, fixing their gaze upon me.

“Who commanded you to undertake this venture?” I demanded.

“The proprietor of this establishment,” they responded.

Amongst the inventory they were shifting lay articles familiar to my eye, indeed, belongings of my own abode! I confronted these brash intruders.

“I am the proprietor! Who dares misrepresent me?”

“The owner of this structure,” they countered.

The entirety of the situation dawned upon me. In the wake of my temporary confinement, the building’s master, bereft of contact from my side, had decided to purge my living quarters, disposing of my furniture. An act of theft, by any other name!

I was at the edge of sanity, appalled at this display of crass ignorance, a spectacle I would have ascribed only to French decadence, brazenly unfolding in the heart of London. Beside myself, I roared once more.

“I assume responsibility! Desist and revert the situation!”

Initially skeptical, the workers relented when the landlord made his domineering presence felt. With much grumbling, they started replacing the furniture.

“Hold! Who dared move the secretaire in its entirety? Are scratches on the floor a matter of such triviality? That armchair isn’t even hefty!”

The lackluster workmanship of the crew was irksome. They were handling the cargo carelessly and I was frantically overseeing their progress. My terror of the overnight events seemed to have been washed away in the flurry.

Observing a worker moving a piece of Chinese porcelain, I halted him.

“Has this been so from the beginning?”

“Pardon?”

He seemed wary, treating me as a person prone to nitpicking. Considering my hospitable demeanor so far, this reaction seemed egregiously unfair.

With a critical eye, I studied the flower adorning the porcelain.

My understanding of orchids might not be extensive, but I was aware of the challenges in their blossoming and upkeep. Could an orchid bloom such vibrant flowers after a month of neglect? And in the absence of winter at that?

Suspecting it to be an artificial adornment, I decided to inspect it further later.

After an exhaustive ordeal, I ensured all the items were duly restored and bid farewell to the workers. Upon entering my home, I found the entrance littered with mail, some visibly trampled upon. Had the workers lingered, they would have borne the brunt of my outrage.

I gathered the correspondence carefully and retreated to my quarters.

Dust blanketed the room, and muddy footprints painted a picture of neglect, hardened since the day of my unfortunate arrest. In simpler words, my room had remained untouched for a month.

Exhausted, I sunk into the familiar comfort of my chair, reflecting on the events of the night – from a vigil near the graveyard post my release to the chaotic homecoming. I allowed myself a brief respite before intending to attend to the pile of unread mail.

Five letters in total awaited my attention.

Among these, only two bore identifiable origins – a public document from the city hall and another from the esteemed Oldcourt University. The origins of the remaining three were a mystery, although the distinct shapes of their envelopes suggested disparate senders.

In search of a paper knife, I embarked on a hunt through the contents of my drawers. A blessing indeed, that the constabulary had not taken upon themselves to conduct a thorough investigation within these confines, and thus, the configuration within the drawers was precisely as I recollected. I deemed it best to commence with the less complicated matters.

The dispatch from the City Hall of London was the first to be tended to. As I had anticipated, it concerned the mundane matter of taxation. I cast it aside on the desk, resolving to address it at a later convenience.

I then turned my attention to the trio of letters, bearing no indication of their respective senders. I carefully dissected each envelope and promptly decided to set them aside for future perusal. Curiously, the contents of the letters, though penned by separate hands, shared a striking resemblance in their composition – all were outpourings of public discontent, rebuking me for an alleged heinous act. They offered no valuable insights, thus earning my dismissal.

The last letter to command my attention was perhaps the most unsettling to me. Dispatched from the prestigious Oldcourt University, it bore ill tidings, or so I feared. To my surprise, however, the content contradicted my speculation.

Rather than a dismissal, it was an administrative document concerning my lecture scheduled for the winter semester. The concluding note simply mentioned that, should I fail to submit a lecture plan within the given timeline, regardless of my circumstances, our agreement would be dissolved.

I chose to accept this piece of information with a measure of gratitude. My apprehension of losing my means of livelihood was thus alleviated, at least for the time being.

Having dealt with the correspondence, I collapsed onto my bed, fatigue gaining the upper hand.

Clutched in my grasp was a newspaper, procured en route to my residence. The previous night had been devoid of seismic activity. But what could account for the tremors I had perceived? The mysterious alchemist, the gravekeepers, the unidentified silver, the unburning incinerator – all presented riddles too enigmatic to decipher.

Plagued by a splitting headache, I succumbed to slumber.

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───Thump, thump, thump, thump!

I was roused from my sleep by the rhythmic insistence of a knock at my door. By now, the sun had relinquished its hold over the sky. Fatigue continued to claw at my senses as I propped myself up, casting a vacant gaze upon the wall.

───Thump, thump, thump, thump!

The urgency of the knocking was undiminished, bordering on frantic. It was as if decorum had been forsaken in favor of urgency. Roused to action by the insistence, I moved swiftly to the door.

The visitor displayed an impatient demeanor, choosing to knock relentlessly, even in the presence of a perfectly functional doorbell. With the safety chain still engaged, I creaked open the door.

“Who might you be?”

A conspicuously lean foreigner greeted my gaze. He seemed vaguely familiar, yet I held no personal association with one so youthful. His youthful visage made even Arthur seem advanced in age.

“Pray, grant me entry.”

His continuous display of nervousness seemed uncalled for, his agitation disproportionate to any apparent urgency. Nonetheless, I released the chain and allowed him access.

“Sigh… Thank you. It is paramount that my presence here remain undisclosed.”

Once within my quarters, he heaved a sigh of relief. His pale countenance elicited a chuckle within me. His English was commendably fluent, albeit tinted with a French accent, suggesting a possible second-generation immigrant.

His lineage could possibly be traced back to the regions of Lyon or Dijon. His split chin and light red hair bore a striking resemblance to the inhabitants of Central France.

“Are you by any chance, Dr. Philemon Herbert?”

“That I am.”

His joy was evident at my affirmation. The mere act of finding the correct address without losing his way seemed a cause for celebration.

“Oh, firstly, my hearty congratulations on your release.”

He stammered, seemingly flustered, before extending a handshake with an unexpected degree of formality.

The abrupt transition was disconcerting, even comical. His attempt at mimicking the Yorkshire accent, initially amusing, now seemed endearing. Yet, I could not dismiss him as a naive youth affecting the mannerisms of nobility. His appearance and demeanor suggested otherwise.

I don’t merely refer to the quality of his attire. His suit, tailored to his slender frame, was indicative of an affluent upbringing, a feature associated with the upper class. Perhaps he was a nouveau riche or the offspring of one.

However, this youth appeared excessively ingenuous to helm any business concern, and considering his tender age, I surmised his father to be a bourgeois of foreign origin.

“Gratitude. Word does indeed spread like wildfire. As far as my awareness goes, the press has not caught wind of it yet.”

“Oh, that may not entirely be accurate. I stumbled upon the news in the course of seeking you.”

For the moment, I decided to accept his extended hand. His gaze held a pathetic appeal that I found myself unable to resist. The hand I clasped was devoid of any calluses, smooth and pristine.

“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Noel Augustine, progeny of the Director of the South London Mining Office.”

His introduction did not stray from my speculations.

An English first name paired with a French surname, he was indeed a French bourgeois of the second generation. I found myself intrigued by the curiosity of what could drive a young man of privilege, leading a life as reckless as his, to go out of his way to seek me out, whilst steering clear of public attention.

“Pray, let us retire to the parlor. I beg your pardon for the state of my humble abode.”

“No, it is quite alright.”

Augustine’s response was nothing short of courteous. However, upon entering the parlor, he was unable to mask his astonishment. My own surprise mirrored his as a pair of rodents made a hasty dash across our path.

A residence left unattended for a month had predictably descended into chaos.

“Do you not employ the services of a maid?”

“That is indeed the case. Presently, no.”

If he was privy to my recent imprisonment, it stands to reason that he would also be aware of the circumstances leading up to it. I refrained from highlighting Augustine’s unfortunate faux pas. It would be unbecoming of a gentleman to shame him by pointing out each minute blunder.

We each took our seats. Augustine seemed unable to find comfort, his restlessness betrayed by his constant fidgeting. Observing him, I felt an overwhelming sense of frustration. Unable to endure this spectacle any longer, I decided to initiate a conversation.

“Augustine, may I inquire the purpose of your nocturnal visit, undertaken with such discretion?”

To be candid, my expectations from this dialogue were modest. A young man, lacking in experience as he seemed, would scarcely be entangled in affairs of grave significance. Despite his visible discomfort, his demeanor lacked the desperation typically associated with pressing matters.

Augustine replied with due solemnity,

“I implore you to dissuade my father from a course leading to a transgression.”

This was a request quite unlike what I had anticipated. I had envisioned a personal counseling session or, in the worst-case scenario, a rather absurd inquiry regarding my alleged crime. However, this seemed like a matter beyond my expertise.

I slowly shook my head.

“I regret to inform you, but it would be more judicious to consult the law enforcement authorities in this regard.”

“No! In that case, my father would… be apprehended, wouldn’t he?”

Augustine’s voice trailed off. He seemed to realize the ludicrousness of his assertion.

“Indeed, transgressions lead to arrest. A lesson I learned rather harshly a month prior.”

“No, my father hasn’t committed any crime yet! He is merely on the brink of it!”

“I’ll state this assuming you have a firm grasp of the English language, but the two are quite synonymous.”

He struggled to find the appropriate phrasing, stuttering as he deliberated.

“No, what I intend to convey is that this is a rather unusual situation. I was informed that you specialize in such cases.”

“Who might have shared that piece of information?”

“My acquaintances… the consensus seems to be the same.”

I found myself frowning. While it was preferable to be known as an expert in unusual situations rather than an incarcerated felon, it was disheartening to hear of the spread of my false indictment.

“Do tell, what is the nature of this situation?”

“Thank you! Are you perchance familiar with the rumors surrounding the West Norwood Cemetery?”

I found myself taken aback.

“Indeed, I am acquainted with them. You refer to the tales of an alchemist who transmutes corpses into silver.”

“Precisely so. However, my father held no credence in such a rumor.”

“Unless he harbored the whims of a fool, he would not.”

“Beyond that, my father postulated that the gravediggers were the propagators of such tales, a deliberate stratagem to shroud some consequential truths.”

Augustine’s voice quivered as he raised his volume. His demeanor suggested an imitation of someone else’s habitual patterns, as though that were his only means of summoning courage.

“The catacombs harbor a vein of silver! They seek to veil this truth and make illicit gains!”

“Illicit gains?”

Augustine stumbled over his words once again.

“As for that, I lack comprehensive knowledge, but we possess mining rights in the region around West Norwood. They, therefore, unjustly exploit the territory belonging to our South London Mining Office.”

“London houses no mines, how does one possess mining rights in the city?”

“That… I truly lack an in-depth understanding….”

I was inclined to believe him. He was indeed devoid of knowledge. And this fact induced an agonizing headache. He appeared to be merely parroting the words of those around him, perhaps his father or a similar figure.

“For reasons known only to the City of London, they denied any investigation into the catacombs. Thus, under my father’s direction, I have sought opportunities to infiltrate the catacombs under the cloak of night. A pursuit that has occupied an entire month.”

“And then?”

“However… Doctor, you must have witnessed it yourself. The heavy guard it retains. After a month of unsuccessful attempts to breach the catacombs, my father has resolved to employ the last resort.”

He whispered, his voice trembling with fear.

“My father has summoned the strongest miners from our office. His plan… God help us… is to force an entry.”

It was at this juncture that his intentions became clear to me.

“You’ve sought me out as you find yourself unable to restrain your father. The mystery was merely a pretense.”

“Yes… That is indeed accurate… However, isn’t the tale peculiar? The closure of the cemetery cannot be justified solely on the discovery of a silver vein.”

He presented a valid point. If silver had indeed been discovered and mined, the problem of gas in the mine would exacerbate. Particularly in a confined space such as a catacomb, where even the decomposing bodies emit methane gas, any form of work would be rendered unfeasible.

Although Augustine had not extrapolated to such extents, the case continued to intrigue me with its mysterious undertones.

“Moreover….”

“Moreover?”

“The tales of a foreign alchemist of strange ways, wandering about, send shivers down my spine….”

Augustine murmured, casting his gaze downwards with an expression of fear. His words left me so astounded that I inadvertently raised my voice.

“The alchemist in these tales is you, my friend!”

“Uh… I had not considered that perspective.”

I found myself pinching the bridge of my nose. The protagonist of innumerable rumors was this hapless young man, who remained oblivious to the fact that he was the very subject of these tales.