Reincarnated Cthulhu

Chapter 27

27. Philemon Herbert is dead

"Marie, are you present?"

Upon Frankenstein's departure, I found myself uttering her name, soaked with apprehension.

Fortunately, my fear proved to be unfounded as Marie soon emerged from behind the door. She stood in silence, a patient specter awaiting my command. I, however, had no pressing demand to impose, leaving me reluctant to disrupt the stillness.

"Might you fetch some tea? My throat is parched."

A feeble pretext, indeed. Marie assented and retreated.

In her departure, a gesture that might otherwise have struck me as ordinary, I discerned a glimmer of hope. She clung to the prospect of mending the fractures in our association.

The realization sent a profound shudder through my being.

Rising from my seat, I found my gaze anchored to the door through which she'd disappeared. I moved to shut it. The envelope that Arthur had dispatched lay at my feet. I'd received three of his correspondences already, but this one carried a weight I felt sure would bear the critical message.

Though he often indulged in trivial pursuits, he was never devoid of sincerity. His insistence on supplying Frankenstein with details of the standard postal service was a clear signal that he desired me to treat this missive with utmost gravity.

I resolved to concentrate on the letter, relegating thoughts of Marie's predicament to the back of my mind for the moment.

The envelope showed no sign of tampering on either side. With caution, I broke its seal, observing whether it had been reattached. Enclosed was a piece of paper roughly torn, calling it a letter felt somewhat inappropriate.

The paper struck me as entirely odd. Were it indicative of an individual's censorship, it demonstrated a woefully inept spy. I thus chose to consider it a jest on Arthur's part.

The content of the letter was as follows:

Philemon Herbert is no more.

A brave naval officer, a Cambridge graduate, a distinguished member of the respected Society of Sand Martin Endgame Studies, and yet, an outcast of high society, a university professor, a virgin unfamiliar with the affections of women, a merciless killer. He was an amputee, having lost a leg, an orphan bereft of a father, a man shrouded in disreputable gossip, a vile exhibitionist with a disdain for trousers.

His absence is a tragedy, yet the Royal Navy stands undeterred in his absence. I kindly request that you maintain politeness at his final farewell.

PS. Do not believe the last three letters; they were not sent by me. Burn them in the furnace.

The letter was littered with malevolent expressions.

It was not a missive one could, in good conscience, send, not even in jest. Arthur, perhaps the most seasoned jester in existence, would never resort to such juvenile mockery. He was a man who devoted his life to the art of insult, each executed with finesse and civility.

This was a jest, a play on words, and consequently, a cipher.

This game of words was not unfamiliar. He had either invented it two decades prior, when we were club members, or he had acquired it elsewhere, but he had vexed those around him with this game for a good two months.

Naturally, I was included in that circle, having spent over two months decoding his cryptic riddles. Thanks to that, I could discern the intention behind this jumbled sentence, even after a span of twenty years.

I read the sentence at a leisurely pace. It was vital not to rush.

Ding dong.

As my eyes lingered on the letter, the intrusion of the doorbell echoed through the entrance.

Marie, engaged in the quiet pursuit of boiling water in the kitchen, did not appear to notice the ringing. However, even if she had, I would not desire her to receive our visitor. Laying down the letter, I rose from my seat and moved towards the front door.

Unlocking it and swinging it open, the figure of a soldier took form at the threshold.

"Herbert, what state do I find you in?"

The man stood adorned in a navy admiral's uniform, greeting me as though we were companions of old. A Royal Victorian Order embellished his chest, and his identity was clear to me, not simply because he was among the most recognized soldiers in all of London.

We had enlisted together, fought side by side in numerous battles. He was a decorated hero of Sardinia and the second historical figure to grace my life.

"Robert! What wind blows you to my door?"

The man was none other than Robert Falcon Scott, a naval commander renowned for his bitter rivalry with Amundsen over the South Pole.

"Word has reached me of your promotion to lieutenant. Can this be true?"

"Fortune favored me."

Despite his modest words, every minute gesture of Scott seemed poised to accept the praise of others. A product of a distinguished naval lineage, he exuded an unshakeable confidence, an attribute that won him as many foes as allies due to its perceived arrogance.

I ushered him into the reception room.

Every level of this new apartment boasted a reception room, a concept haphazardly conceived by the architect and relegated to a corner. It appeared to have been added with begrudging necessity.

However, when compared to mere days ago, the reception room now boasted immaculate cleanliness. Though the holes bore evidence of rat occupation, the creatures no longer had the audacity to interfere with the master's daily affairs.

No sooner had Scott taken his seat than he spoke.

"I extend my felicitations upon your release."

"It's not a matter for public celebration but I thank you."

His words, however well-intended, stirred unease in me. It was a hard truth to digest that barely a month had passed since my release from prison.

"You appear to be courting more aggressive mishaps after your military discharge. Ever considered rejoining the Navy?"

"A distasteful jest."

"Far from it, I am earnest. I've yet to encounter a man more befitting of the soldier's life."This chapter is updat𝓮d by nov(e)(l)biin.com

Scott regarded me with seriousness. I brushed aside his comment.

"When did you acquire such eloquence? Your flattery leaves my ears tingling."

"Do you recall the summer 15 years past?"

"Sardinia."

The word slipped quietly from my lips.

"A burial ground for young men, brimming with dreams. How could I forget?"

"I thought you were possessed by madness."

Scott remarked, laughter softening his words.

"You were invariably in the most perilous heart of the battlefield on the island. You seemed to leap headfirst into danger, as if death was a prize to be sought. That summer, we owed you our lives. Isn't that the very essence of a soldier?"

A memory of a similar exchange floated back to me. Yes, it was indeed Arthur. A year ago, at the Frank estate, after a gap of two decades, Arthur had voiced a parallel sentiment.

"I had not fathomed you would become such a fervent recruitment officer. Nonetheless, I have heard the tales of that brave young man you reference. So, what words do you bring to this worn and lame man?"

My conversation with Scott transported me back two decades. Unintentionally, a coarse oath from my military past escaped my lips. Instead of reprimanding my error, Scott responded with a chuckle and navigated to his main point.

"I am in need of your assistance. Not as a retired officer, but for the wealth of your experience as an adventurer. Would that be agreeable?"

"My help? Indeed, we are as close as brothers, are we not? We entrusted each other with our lives, what resistance could there be now?"

By this point, I had begun to fathom the purpose of his visit. As he stated, Scott was presently the most famed soldier in London. His ambitious undertakings continued to be the focus of the public's attention.

"Are you familiar with the Discovery Expedition?"

"Unless one lives in deaf solitude, every inhabitant of London would be."

The Discovery Expedition.

In this modern era, on the verge of the 20th century, the world has drastically shrunk due to leaps in technology. Journeys that once spanned months can now be traversed by train within a day. And yet, numerous uncharted territories remained scattered across the world map.

The enigmatic Southern Dark Continent, the extreme ends of the world at the North and South poles, the Pacific's small islands housing ancient remnants, and the mystic and enchanting lands of Western America.

Humanity rose to challenge these untamed regions. The thirst for exploration reached fever pitch, and the masses yearned for fresh knowledge.

Western nations poured considerable resources into this international contest, and countless explorers embarked on journeys to unknown shores, seeking fortune and renown. The traditional maritime powerhouse, the British Empire, could not afford to lag in this race.

The Royal Society, the Royal Geographical Society, and the Royal Navy collaborated.

The idle British fleet docked at the harbor, along with skilled naval officers, were dispatched to various corners of the world through the expedition plan. The world watched with interest as it marked the commencement of the era of international competition. All of London eagerly anticipated news of Britain's triumphs, overshadowing my release from prison.

"At this moment, I am no greater an explorer than you."

The man seated before me was Robert Falcon Scott, one of history's most recognized explorers, who famously vied with Amundsen.

Selected as the leader of the Antarctic expedition, he was already a hero in the public eye, carrying the weight of national expectations. Indeed, he was a protagonist of this era, not I, who boasts but an unremarkable career.

"What nonsense you speak. Within England, none hold a candle to your fame regarding the Dark Continent."

"What of Dr. Livingstone?"

Caught off guard by my perfectly reasonable retort, Scott was left momentarily speechless. His response came awkwardly, as he attempted to defend his earlier statement.

"It is unfair to compare oneself to figures from a bygone era. Nevertheless, in contemporary London, you undoubtedly enjoy considerable renown."

"Let us cease discussion of my fame and return to the matter at hand."

"You are likely aware, but I have been appointed leader of this Antarctic expedition."

I nodded in response.

"My congratulations to you."

"And I find myself in desperate need of your assistance."

Staring into his grave eyes, I merely scowled in response.

"Do you recall the circumstances of my military departure?"

"Indeed, and how soon you used your lame leg as a pretext to retire, only to emerge as an explorer but a year later. You could not fathom the extent of our curses when the news reached us."

I was rendered speechless.

"In those days, I was youthful, and it was the Dark Continent that allowed such exploits. The majority of my time was spent aboard the ship. My sole duty was to ascend the continent by river, a task shrouded in no mystery. The Antarctic is a beast of a wholly different nature."

"You speak as though you've trodden on Antarctic ground."

Scott fixed me with a piercing gaze. While he was no master of deceit, age had bestowed upon him a crafty edge. I hastily offered a distraction.

"The savants of the Royal Society would not welcome my company."

"Concern yourself not with that. The Society has granted me the authority to select the members. As long as I escort their assigned scholars and deliver some survey data, I am free to proceed as I wish."

His stubbornness was unparalleled.

Indeed, his proposal was an honor of great magnitude. Every ambitious youth in Britain aspired to join the Antarctic expedition. And yet, out of an enduring camaraderie, he extended the invitation to me first.

"The Antarctic, you say."

I was stirred. Though the prospect of my professorship at Oldcourt University loomed large, his proposal tugged at my heart. An urge to escape the confines of London, to wander for a time in the untamed world, presented itself as an ideal cure for my weary spirit, worn thin by the events of the past year.

Suddenly, the doorknob began to turn.

I only just remembered the task I had left to Marie. As I had retreated from the room to the reception area without a word, she would surely be seeking me out with the prepared tea.

"Hold! Do not enter!"

But my response came too late, my attention too consumed by the Antarctic tale. The door opened, and Marie, bearing a tray adorned with a teapot and a basket of scones, made her entrance. Upon seeing her, Scott paled, his eyes filled with horror.

A vicious cycle of life and death. A soldier, a man who had ended countless lives, was stricken with a fear of the dead.

"What is that creature?"

"Robert, regain your composure. She is my housekeeper."

He sprang from his seat. His abrupt movement caused Marie to recoil.

"Have you lost your senses! Or perhaps it is I who have descended into madness? How can you regard that as a housekeeper? I cannot fathom it! That you would harbour such a monster in your home!"

"Robert!"

He was rooted in dumbfounded terror. His soul gripped by a sudden and all-consuming fear. I endeavoured to halt his tantrum before it escalated further, but I, with my impaired legs, was no match for the nimbleness of an active military man.

"We shall resume this discussion at a later time! But certainly not within these walls!"

Scott, shoving past Marie who remained in the doorway, made his swift exit. The slamming of the front door echoed behind him. Marie, who had been left swaying, collapsed. The tea and bread from the tray scattered across the floor. I hastened to her side, tossing aside my cane, and lifted her up.

"Marie, are you unharmed?"

A foolish inquiry. The term "injury" applies only to the living.

"Master."

Marie spoke in a vacant tone.

"Am I truly monstrous?"

"Do you harbour resentment towards me?"

She gave no response. Yes, perhaps she did.

"I find myself truly without refuge."

"I deeply regret."

Frankenstein's words rang true. Punishment had already descended upon me. In that moment, I yearned for the fires of hell, to be consumed by the maw of Satan himself. Yet even so, Marie expressed no resentment.

"Master, do not leave me."

It dawned on me. The true monster was none other than myself. I could not compare to the purity of this innocent maiden's form, especially when considering my own vile and petty existence.

Helping Marie to her feet, gazing into her eyes, I realized it was time to end this flight, for which guilt had long served as a pretense.

"Tonight, grace me with your presence in my quarters. I will unveil the veiled truths that bind me, you, and the whole of London in this moment. It is a tale that may rend your heart, and upon its conclusion, you might yearn for my demise."

Marie's eyes fluttered, lacking natural rhythm.

"If you choose not to attend, on the morrow, I will seek a secluded dwelling in the tranquil countryside for you. Should you claim sensitivity to the sun's rays and cloak your form, you will avoid suspicion. Should doubts still arise, I shall facilitate your migration to an alternative locale. You will be provided a generous monthly sum, to commence a new existence there Though I admit it is a paltry offering compared to the life I have obliterated."

Marie's thoughts remained a mystery to me. She was devoid of voice, her eyes and face betrayed no emotions. The age-old belief that one could read another's heart through their gaze proved more elusive with her than the dawn fog shrouding London.

Yet, I held onto the notion that she had found some tranquility. Marie rose, a slight nod marking her departure, and retreated to her quarters. It was the modest room, still bearing the dust of hasty preparation, that I had assigned upon her arrival.

Soon after, I retreated to my own solitude. The scones, strewn across the floor, were left to the mercy of the mice.

Arthur's untouched missive lay upon my desk.

Sinking into the chair, I revisited his coded letter. Its basis was a simple principle, one that even a child could decipher with ease. It was nothing more than a game of words. One simply had to discard the plethora of meaningless sentences, and align the affirmations and denials.

One needed only to interpret the letter in reverse.

[His absence is a tragedy, yet the Royal Navy stands undeterred in his absence. I kindly request that you maintain politeness at his final farewell.]

The Royal Navy doesn't need me. And I am the brave Navy. So, what's left is Royal. What is sought is (Polite)ness, and since I have been ousted from polite society, Society is what remains.

Combined, it signifies the Royal Society, indicative of the esteemed Royal Society of Sciences.

In the postscript, Arthur penned thus,

[P.S. Do not believe the last three letters; they were not sent by me. Burn them in the furnace.]

He had exerted considerable effort to communicate this singular notion.

Discarding the letter, I drew a deep breath. Arthur had already ascertained the identity of the adversary.

"Do not believe the Royal Society!"

(TO BE CONTINUED On Jun 23{Fri})