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Please heal my poor daughter – Acting up – Inside and out – Whatever happened to the airship Boreas? – Smile while you are winning
LOOK INSIDE YOUR HEAD
Linda Davenport reporting
The Human soul is vast and complex beyond imagination, impossible to know, impossible to chart. Or is it? There are those who say no. Who can ask you questions about your mother and know exactly what you had for lunch this Wednesday… and why. Prof. Dr. Lutitia McGee is one of those people. Her lectures are only for fourth-years and up due to certain mature subjects. Can’t have us immature sixteen year olds sitting there giggling. Mental Studies are a strange discipline. There are no instruments, no measurements to take, nothing hard and fast. All that remains is talking to those with troubled minds. And failing that, Laudanum.
Miskatonic University’s Lower Campus is in the middle of Arkham, on the busy Church Street in the trade district. The architecture, like many things in Arkham, has been described as ‘grotesque.’ Tall stone buildings with barred windows on all floors and doors that would not be out of place on a medieval castle. Not, one cannot help thinking, a welcoming place for those with a troubled mind. Luckily, my pretend daughter Jocelyn Vale was completely sound of mind and body, except for her wish to become a spy, which alone should be reason enough to have one’s head examined.
Jocelyn’s mental well-being was not our main objective. In a small section of the Armitage Library was the University’s expedition office, where Miskatonic University kept the records of their many expeditions. Since that same Library also contained tomes of Ancient and Forbidden Knowledge, knowledge which might drive one insane, it was heavily fortified. Our mission was to gain entry, find all information we could on Miskatonic’s airship Boreas, and find out what might have driven them to attack our friends on board Lady I. I would do most of the talking, Jocelyn would be our excuse to enter the University, and Agent Wainwright of the Secret Service would do the actual breaking and entering.
We stepped down from our cab, leaving Agent Wainwright inside to find a room in a nearby inn. It should have been raining, with occasional thunder and lightning, but the afternoon weather was bright and sunny and did not provide a suitably ominous atmosphere. Still, the Secret Service teaches one to adapt to any situation, and Jocelyn fell into her role as a young woman beset by Influences Not Of This World. Her long dark hair fell over one eye. Her face was turned away. One of her hands was by her side, occasionally twitching. I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Let’s go, my dear.”
Jocelyn said nothing. I gently pushed her towards the Dread Portal. I raised the knocker, let it fall. A few moments passed, then the door opened. An older woman in a dark dress looked at us, nay regarded us. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she let us in, and showed us into a waiting room. There were two sofas. On a side table were two illustrated magazines and an ancient copy of the Arkham Advertiser. Jocelyn stood in the middle of the room, staring at a nondescript point on the wall. Occasionally, she would turn her face in one direction or another, as if trying to catch things moving in the corner of her eye. The effect was disturbing. I sat down on the edge of the sofa, upright, hands on my knees.
The door opened, and a man walked in wearing a white coat. I got to my feet, stepped to Jocelyn’s side. I put my arm protectively round her shoulders. The Doctor looked at the papers in his hand.
“Mr… Pike?”
“Yes Sir.”
“And this charming young lady is…?”
He tried to look into Jocelyn’s eyes, but she brusquely turned her head away, angry with the Doctor for even trying.
“My daughter Jocelyn,” I said. We were using our real names, which is always better if you are not actually doing anything illegal.
“Jocelyn. Excellent. My name is Dr. Peaslee.”
“No.” Jocelyn shook her head.
“No? Please explain.”
“You are not real.” Her voice was rasping, hoarse, her words interrupted by seemingly involuntary pauses. “You re-flect light only in this re-ali-ty, but not in oth-ers. Con-nected to oth-er. Sound of voice ar-rives one demi-semi-quaver ear-ly. Self-aware-ness shrouded. Con-struct.”
“Jocelyn! Stop this nonsense at once.” I gave Doctor Peaslee a pleading look. “I am dreadfully sorry, Doctor. Please excuse her. She has been saying things like that ever since…” I shivered. “The Event.”
Doctor Peaslee looked at her through widening eyes. “I assure you Sir. This is not the random gibbering of a madwoman, what she says is entirely in accordance with the theories of our Professor Ferdinand Ashley’s work on Precambrian multi-physiologies! He will be most interested in what she has to say!” He bowed down to Jocelyn. “My child. You spoke of a… a construct?”
Jocelyn’s head snapped round, looking away from the Doctor. “Must. Not. Speak the trigger. Angles of re-ality too close to a-lign-ment. Must not speak!”
“Then don’t, my child.” Doctor Peaslee put his hand reassuringly on Jocelyn’s shoulder. She scowled, shrugged it away. “We will speak of these things later, when it is safe to do so. I will call in our Head Nurse, and she will arrange a room for her.”
“Doctor. I must insist that this room be on the ground floor. My poor daughter gets terribly upset when she is too far away from the Earth. She has been sleeping in a bed in our living room ever since what happened to Mildred.”
“Of course, of course. We must make her as comfortable as we possibly can. Restore tranquillity to her psyche.” Doctor Peaslee took my hand. “I assure you, Mr. Pike, your daughter is in the right hands with us. The collected knowledge of our University is at her disposal.”
I gave a relieved sigh. “Thank you, Doctor. You cannot imagine how much weight that takes off my shoulders. I’m sorry to impose on you, but I must insist I stay in her room with her.”
“Of course, Mr. Pike. Whatever makes our poor patient more comfortable.”
Doctor Peaslee called in the Head Nurse, and together we brought poor Jocelyn to her room in the Richard Upton Pickman Dormitory. It was as bleak as the rest of the University, except for a few vivid paintings of pastoral scenes hanging on the wall. We were given a light dinner of indistinct vegetables and potatoes with a tiny sliver of mutton, and then Jocelyn was put to bed. The head nurse came back, bearing a tray with a glass of water and a small saucer with two white pills. She gave the pills to Jocelyn. I jumped to Jocelyn’s side.
“Pardon me?” I said. “What is that medicine?”
“Only a mild sedative, Mr. Pike. To help her sleep. We often find it necessary to calm our patients somewhat on their first night.”
Jocelyn’s eyes turned to me. I gave her a tiny nod. She swallowed the pills, drank some water from the glass. The nurse smiled at her, patted down her blanket, left the room. I stepped to the door, listened, walked back to the sick bed of Jocelyn Vale.
“Well,” I said, “We’re in.”
Jocelyn laughed quietly. “Suckers!”
“So far, so good. Are you comfortable dear?”
She ran her fingers over a steel ring attached to the side of the bed. “That’s for attaching straps. So I don’t fall out of bed. They’re so… nice here. I feel all warm and cared for.”
“Only the best for my daughter.”
Jocelyn smiled. “Do you have any children?”
“No. I never married. In this world, that would be a cruel thing to do to a spouse.”
“How do you know for sure? Have you never ravished one of those femmes fatales?”
“Not in this century. The Service frowns upon the practice. Also, these seductresses are smart enough not to fall pregnant.”
I stepped over to the window. It was locked, but I had come prepared. I pulled out my lock picks and set about poking at the lock. It took me a while, not because it was a particularly difficult lock, but because it hadn’t been opened in years. I dripped a little oil in the mechanism.
“I have a hairpin if you want one.”
“No thank you.”
I put a little more force on the lock, and it opened with a tiny grinding noise. With some effort, I slid open the window. I pulled my cigar case out of my pocket and clicked it open to reveal a pair of binoculars. It had been a parting gift from Quentin, and was inscribed ‘To a future of watching birds.’ You can get rubbish toy versions of this instrument, but the optics on this model were top notch. I scanned the facade of the Armitage Library. It had been modelled on an ancient Greek temple, with its tapered columns making it seem taller to the eye. All the windows had heavy bars. It looked impenetrable, but in my experience, most impenetrable fortresses end up being penetrated regardless.
“Ah.” I said.
“Mmh?” said Jocelyn.
“There is an unbarred window underneath the eaves on the South side. I think young Agent Wainwright will have no problem reaching it.”
“That’s very clever of him. Are they going to teach me how to do that?”
“I would imagine so.” I closed the window and walked back to Jocelyn. “Breaking and entering are key skills for any operative.”
She didn’t say anything for a while, stared at the crucifix above the door. Her eyes turned to me.
“With skills like that, how will they keep me from using them for things that aren’t… good?”
I pulled up a comfortable chair to her bed, sat down. She looked at me, sleepy from the sedative. What exactly was she asking?
“What do you mean?”
“When I’m done training, I’ll know how to break into houses, without leaving a trace. I’ll know how to walk into a place, steal their secrets, and walk out again, and nobody can stop me. I could steal anything, I could rob a bank!”
I had to smile. “Banks are only for the advanced classes. Believe it or not, it’s not easy even for us to liberate banks of their bars of gold. We tend to leave that to the politicians.”
Jocelyn took a deep breath, slowly let it out. “Today, I convinced someone that unthinkable, unspeakable things exist in my head. Because they took pity on me, I’m now in a warm bed, and we can go and explore the place and find out their secrets.” She looked at me with dark brown eyes. “We are doing this for the right reasons. We need to know what happened to Boreas, and what happened to Miss Tennant. These people won’t tell us if we ask, and here we are. We’re doing good.”
“We are.” We weren’t here to deprive Miskatonic of anything valuable. We weren’t here to destroy anything they held dear. We only needed to know certain things that they would want to keep secret if it turned out they were working against us. We were not here to harm them.
“But we could,” said Jocelyn. “We could steal one of those weird books of theirs. This isn’t a bank. We could get rich selling their things to… whoever. How will they stop us from doing that?”
“They being the Service, you mean?”
“Yes.” She frowned. “I should have said we, shouldn’t I?”
Not yet. There was still time for Jocelyn to look at the world as we old spies know it, and retreat, missing a lifetime of adventure, but keeping her conscience and innocence intact. Showing her that was the real reason why she was here. We are not always the heroes of our story. The end may justify the means, but some of those means are dire indeed. I pulled the blanket over her, stroked her hair.
“They won’t,” I said.
At around midnight, as I sat dozing, there came a slight tapping at the window. I opened it and let Wainwright in. He was dressed in night camouflage, looking like some kind of raven.
“Good evening Professor. How’s things?”
“All quiet and still. I may have found you a way into the library.”
I showed him the window, and he gave a short nod.
“I’ll climb up the tower here and shoot a line across.” He looked at Jocelyn, fast asleep. “How’s our daughter doing?”
“Admirably. She convinced one of the scientists here that she is beset by eldritch influences.”
“Isn’t that rather like convincing a duck that it can float on water?”
“True. But I dare you to look at her in full flow and not think there is something badly wrong with her.”
Wainwright quietly stepped to the door, listening.
“Did she not need it in writing at some point that she’s not crazy?”
“I think that was only to reassure people. Good luck.”
Wainwright returned maybe two hours later. I looked up from the Arkham Advertiser. He pointed.
“What’s the weather like tomorrow?”
“Sunny, dry, mild breeze, with possible showers of frogs in the afternoon. The usual. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I did. I only got a quick look at the papers, but I have photographs of every page.”
“Good. Take nothing but photographs, leave not even footprints, kill nothing but your designated targets. Not too much trouble I hope?”
“I’m afraid I broke a window. I expect they will put up a ‘No Ball Games’ sign soon.” Wainwright shook his head. “This place is insane! They have a whole section of books on the sexual rituals in doomsday cults. Another section on Unpronounceable Cults, and there’s a warning that reading these texts may induce nausea, vomiting, vertigo, death, insanity, and the destruction of not only your own soul, but those of the people around you. Bestiaries of prehistoric creatures, of this and… other realities.”
“In other words, made up.”
Wainwright waved a finger. “These people do not ‘make up’ things. They are granted visions from Beyond the Veil, through a variety of interesting chemicals. They are made up with sodding bells on.”
“As a precaution.” I raised my hand. “How many tentacles am I holding up?”
“Hah! A trick question. Your species have writhing prehensile digits with opposable thumbs. I had them grafted onto my arms specially to blend in.”
“Good. You pass the test. Did you find the expedition office?”
“I did.” Wainwright chuckled. “There is a sign saying ‘No library books beyond this door.’ They must be pleased that they have office space in such a prestigious building. It’s astoundingly neat, tidy, and well organised. Took me all of two minutes to find what I was looking for. Someone in there wanted to make it absolutely clear where the madness ends.”
“Good. Anything interesting?”
“I got the mission briefs. They specifically designate Lady I as ‘Friendly, assist when needed.’ So why Captain Gaskin started shooting at them, I don’t understand.”
“Maybe they shot first. I don’t know. Maybe there was a third airship. Stranger things have happened. Anything else?”
“I have their ship’s log up until Caracas, where they took on fuel and lifting gas, then proceeded south further into Brazil. If Lady I was travelling with them, it doesn’t say. I also took a look at the muster roll. There’s something strange there. One of the names was crossed out. O’Rourke.”
“He is the one who fell overboard. Accidental, I believe.”
“Yes, I remember. But the name above that wasn’t just crossed out, it was blacked out with ink. They didn’t want anyone to know that name.”
“Interesting. The list was alphabetised, I assume?”
“Captain Gaskin first, then officers, then the rest.”
“So we can discount any non-officer with a name starting with O-R and further. That eliminates roughly half the world.”
“Not a bad result for a night’s work, don’t you think?” Wainwright made for the window and opened it. “Now I will return to my lair and develop the pictures. I’ll let you know what comes out.”
“Good night, Wainwright.”
I sat down again, pulled a blanket over my knees. The chair was nice and comfortable, and in a few minutes, I was asleep.
When I woke up, Jocelyn was sitting up in her bed. I felt like my joints had been screwed on too tightly. Creaking and groaning, I set the machinery in motion.
“Good morning Jocelyn.”
“They are watching us,” said Jocelyn, in character, either to avoid being surprised or because she had noticed something.
“Who are they?”
“Their thoughts are hungry.”
“Beware, Jocelyn.”
I got up, walked to the door, listened. Almost as if someone had seen or heard me, there was a knock on the door. I waited a few seconds, then opened it. Outside were Doctor Peaslee, and another man who I didn’t know.
“Good morning Mr. Pike.”
I stepped back, and the men came in. Dr. Peaslee pointed at his colleague and introduced him as Dr. Ferdinand Ashley, the expert on Other Worlds and their connection to ours. One of those connections was sitting up straight in bed, staunchly looking away from us.
“Mr. Pike? May I?” Dr. Ashley pointed his hand at Jocelyn, who shook her head in short jerks, looked away.
“Jocelyn?” I said. “There is someone here to speak with you.”
“Not. Safe. He is pres-ent in too many re-ali-ties. Must not open.”
Dr Ashley sat down on Jocelyn’s bed and reached out to turn her face towards him. Jocelyn gave an ear-splitting shriek and slapped away his arm.
“No! Cracks in the wall-pa-per between re-ali-ty. Must not pry. Must not invite!”
“Doctor,” I said, hesitant yet firmly. “You are upsetting her. Please be careful. She is not herself. There have been… accidents.”
“I understand,” said Ashley. “My hypothesis is that this poor girl has unwittingly become a connection between this and God knows how many alternate realities. Given the circumstances, she is holding up very well, very well indeed.” He turned to me. “Using our experimental apparatus and certain mind-broadening substances, I myself have once dared to look into a dimension beyond our own, co-existing in the same four-dimensional space, but removed by only a hair’s breadth in the fifth. The experience is profoundly disturbing, and the reek of wrongness is enough to unsettle an experienced man of science, let alone a young impressionable girl like her.”
“I will re-ject your words and the mean-ing be-hind them.” Jocelyn rocked back and forth in her bed. “Must nev-er meet a-gain! Go away! Go away now! Filth and rotten!”
Ashley sighed. “She is too agitated now to take accurate readings. We will have to wait until she calms down.” He put a hand on my shoulder, a gesture I welcomed no more than Jocelyn did. “It is plain that this young woman was touched by the influence of beings that I will not name. We will help her, Mr. Pike. You were well advised to put her into our care. We will bring this unholy connection to the surface, and close it. You have my word!”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said. “You are my last hope of restoring my dear daughter Jocelyn to her former self. It is a great comfort to me that the matter is now in your hands.”
Jocelyn covered her eyes with her hands. “Can. Still. See! Take it away! Away!“
Doctor Ashley nodded. “Alas, there is nothing I can do this moment. I will prepare my measuring apparatus… and myself. I will return when I am ready.”
And with that, he took his leave and walked out of the door, taking Doctor Peaslee with him. Jocelyn fell back into the pillows. I poured her a glass of water and she drank it in one long draught.
“Thank you.” She gave me the glass back. I refilled it. She raised it half way to her lips, lowered it again. “What a git!”
“It would seem that the Good Doctor himself is in need of a qualified psychologist.”
Jocelyn emptied her glass. “And a good kick up the arse from a couple of girls I know. Poor feek and weeble girly minds can’t possibly deal with these Influences, but I can, because I’m a big strong Man.“
“Forgive him. He has seen things beyond… Sight itself.”
“Well, I can name some things he hasn’t seen.” Jocelyn looked at her glass. It was still empty. She put it on the side table. “Nor will he if he doesn’t wise up.”
I stepped over to the window and looked outside. “I wonder about this ‘apparatus’ he is talking about. I don’t like the idea of you being measured up by it.”
“We’re going to be out of here before that happens, aren’t we?”
“Wainwright is reading through the Boreas files as we speak. Maybe he’ll find something to make him return to the files. But we should be out of here no later than tomorrow morning.” I turned round, sat on the windowsill. “You are about to make a miraculous recovery, I think. Mustn’t make too much of a spectacle. We don’t want them to start wondering why we are really here.”
“Surely, the Nameless Horrors will flee my poor addled girly mind in terror when they see the likes of Doctor Ashley turn up?” Jocelyn looked at me with big brown eyes. “Father? Where am I? Why am I here? Who are these people?”
“Something like that. At some time, they will notice the broken window in the Library, and I don’t want there to be anything unusual to give away the game.”
“Unusual?” Jocelyn raised an eyebrow.
“To local standards, which, I admit, are somewhat… eccentric.”
Jocelyn looked at her feet, moving them under the blanket with an amused gleam in her eyes. She turned to me.
“It must be nine o’clock, and I’m still in bed. I’m pulling the noses of all these Men of Science. I get to do and say things that’d get me locked up in a padded room back in Ipswich. Is it always this much fun?”
I sat back down in my comfortable chair. I took her hand, partly because that’s what worried fathers do, partly to reassure myself that Jocelyn was here, now, real.
“No it’s not,” I said.
The Algernon Expeditions 