Юлия Красинская – The Hodgson’s Dossier, or Shadows over Adyar (страница 2)

On the massive oak table, cluttered with blueprints and diagrams, stood a bronze telescope. And on the only free wall hung old photographs. Almost all of them showed a group of young people – a few young men and a couple of girls, in hiking attire and pith helmets. Some had rifles slung over their shoulders, others held sabers. The photographs had evidently been taken on treks and expeditions many years ago. And they were dear to the owner of the study, who sat importantly at the table, illuminated by a green lamp. His fingers flipped through the pages of a report, and his gaze was concentrated and thoughtful.

The door creaked. Hodgson entered without knocking.

"I failed!" he began excitedly, pulling off his hat and coat. "That girl managed to escape!"

The professor looked up at him. Calmly and slowly, he removed his spectacles and laid them on the papers. Without them, it became noticeable that Rogers was over sixty. His high forehead, crisscrossed with wrinkles, resembled a map of the expeditions he had undertaken. Greased, gray sideburns framed his lean face like a frame for a Victorian gentleman's portrait. His eyes, gray and cold as steel, burned with the fire of sacred knowledge, known only to him.

"Richard, my boy," he said calmly, "shall we ask Simons to bring some tea? You're too agitated!"

He rose from the table. Despite his age, the professor had a fit, well-built physique. His gray tweed suit, which fit him perfectly, emphasized his broad shoulders. A starched handkerchief peeked from the breast pocket of his jacket. And from his trouser pocket, a watch chain emerged.

"To hell with tea, Professor! She's gone! Vanished! Disappeared! It's some kind of witchcraft, I swear!"

Rogers walked over to one of the tall bookshelves and pressed a carved rosette on the side. With a slight creak, the bookshelves slid apart, revealing a passage into a small secret room. A fireplace crackled in its corner, and next to it stood two plush armchairs with high backs.

The professor walked into the room, inviting his guest to follow him.

On a small table between the armchairs, a decanter of amber-colored liquid gleamed. Rogers poured a little of the fragrant whiskey into two glasses, sat down in an armchair, and crossed his legs.

"You know, Richard, tea is really not necessary. Help yourself to this excellent Glenfarclas," the professor raised his glass, enjoying the firelight glinting on its crystal facets. "John Grant himself sent it to me last week."

Hodgson took a sip and, his excitement somewhat subdued, began his report. A little later, flushed either from the whiskey or from vivid memories, he was almost shouting across the entire study:

"I was ready to chase her even into that tunnel! Do they really think they can scare me with their tricks?"

"Yes, Richard, you, like your father, are impossible to scare or stop!" A faint smile appeared on Rogers' face. "But I implore you, my boy, be a little more careful. Don't forget, our goal is merely to expose Madame Blavatsky's tricks. She has turned ancient wisdom into a sideshow for snobs and hysterics, and shamelessly sells hope to people. Our task is to show this to the world. Science and reason are stronger than superstitions and various mystifications! And we will prove it."

"I promise, I'll get to her! No matter what it takes!" Hodgson downed his whiskey in one gulp and decisively placed the glass on the table.

"Just be careful, Richard! A long time ago, I promised your father I would look after you and your future. If anything goes wrong…"

"Yes, yes, I remember. No unnecessary risks."

Richard Hodgson was raised by his father. His mother died in childbirth, leaving a despairing husband with a newborn son. Hodgson Sr. was a renowned researcher in psychology and philosophy. He was fascinated by physics and archaeology. His passion for knowledge was as extensive as it was infectious. He often gathered scientists and thinkers at their home, discussing the boldest ideas about the nature of human consciousness. Professor Rogers was one of his closest friends – they spent long hours together in conversations about life and death, about paranormal phenomena, and about the importance of separating truth from lies.

Richard knew that his father had repeatedly participated in expeditions to Egypt, India, and Nepal. On one of these expeditions, his father did not return. Some swift infection. He "burned out" overnight. Professor Rogers, who was with him until his last breath, promised to look after his only heir. He vowed to do everything possible to ensure the boy received an education and became a worthy successor to his father's work. Rogers became a second father to Richard – wise and caring.

Many years have passed since then. The professor took the young man under his wing and recently brought him into the Society for Psychical Research, which he had organized with his comrades. Hodgson Jr. took on the position of staff journalist at "The Age" publishing house, whose tasks included enlightening the London public. Weekly, the newspaper published scientific research, articles, and monographs by young and experienced scientists. There were also plenty of exposé articles. Full of determination and a desire for justice, Hodgson set himself the difficult task of exposing unscientific theories and pseudoscientific practices. It was clear that both the newspaper and the Society had a mass of admirers. But there were also plenty of dissatisfied individuals who fell under the wave of revelations.

Richard took a key from his breast pocket. Now it didn't burn with heat or sting with cold, as it used to. It was an ordinary metal key. Completely uninteresting and unremarkable. Until fire illuminated it. The round head of the key suddenly came alive. The snake moved. Or did he imagine it? He was tired. The day had been too long. Of course, he imagined it.

"What is this key for?" the young man mused, turning it over in his hands.

If he had looked at the professor at that moment, he would have noticed how the latter's face changed at the sight of the find. His eyes sparkled, and he unconsciously leaned forward.

"Is that the key from the glove?" he asked, almost in a whisper.

"Yes, some trifle, probably."

Richard handed the key to the professor. The professor, putting on his glasses, began to examine it, turning it from one side to another.

"You know, my boy," he said calmly after a short pause, "some locks and doors are better left unopened. Do as I ask you, Richard. Investigate the Blavatsky case. She is not a seer or an oracle; she is a swindler who sells miracles to fools. Her theosophy is a mixture of plagiarism and theatrical tricks. Your task is to find evidence," he finished his whiskey and put the key in his pocket, "not to chase shadows."

"But what about this key and this glove…"

"It's just theatrical props, Richard!" Rogers replied, irritated by the boy's dullness, as he rose from his armchair. "Congratulations, you almost became a participant in her performance."

"Does it really mean nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing, my boy," the professor said, placing a hand on Hodgson's shoulder. "There's no need to get distracted by theatrical props that vaguely resemble ancient artifacts."

"But maybe it's still worth checking?" Hodgson persisted, his stubbornness and insistence increasingly irritating the professor.

"And succumb to this mystical nonsense? Richard, that's enough conjectures and assumptions for today! Isn't it time for you to pack? As far as I know, your steamer departs tomorrow morning?" He headed for the exit, making it clear the conversation was over.

Hodgson slowly followed him. "Tomorrow at noon, Professor."

Old servant Symons was waiting in the study, holding the guest's coat and hat. Dressed, the young man bowed to his patron, wished him good night, and left the headquarters of the Society for Psychical Research.

Rogers, left alone, walked to the window. Somewhere in the distance, a train approaching the station rumbled, and below, the lights of the City flickered in the fog. With a sharp movement, he drew the heavy curtain. The rumble of the train outside the window faded, replaced by the rhythmic ticking of the pendulum clock. The professor listened for footsteps in the corridor – silence.

Returning to his desk, he opened the top drawer with a key hanging around his neck. Inside, beneath a stack of documents, lay a small box of black sandalwood. Its lid was adorned with an intricately carved white lotus flower. Rogers took out the box with trembling hands, as if afraid his touch might harm the object. Holding his breath, he opened it.

Inside, on a velvet lining, lay a photograph. A snapshot, yellowed with time. Its edges were creased and torn. Three figures stood against the backdrop of the snow-capped Himalayas. A young, smiling Edmund Rogers in a pith helmet, with a revolver peeking from his holster. His face, not yet touched by age, glowed with excitement and enthusiasm. His hand rested confidently on the shoulder of his friend standing beside him. This was Henry Hodgson, Richard's father. Tall, with a beard and perceptive eyes. In his hands, he held a notepad and pencil. And beside him was she – Ellen Blackwood. Tall, stately, in a dress made of coarse fabric. Her unruly curly hair barely reached her shoulders and resembled a golden fleece. Her enormous eyes laughed, and on her still very young face, confidence and a challenge to the whole world could be read."