Юлия Красинская – The Hodgson’s Dossier (страница 1)

Юлия Красинская

The Hodgson’s Dossier

Novella

"The Hodgson’s Dossier, or Shadows over Adyar"

Part 1.

Chapter 1. "The Chase"

London, October 1884.

The narrow grey street was dimly lit by flickering gas lamps and shrouded in fog and foreign mysteries.

A young man with a tense face and burning eyes, raced along the city's tangled artery, trying to catch someone. Tucking up his coat collar and pulling his hat tighter on his head, he plunged into a narrow East End alley, nearly tripping over crates of rotting vegetable scraps. His breath burst out in white clouds, mingling with either the fog or the now-familiar coal smog.

Somewhere nearby, a door slammed. The air hung heavy with the smell of cheap gin and fried fish. The drunken patrons spilling out of the tavern paid no attention to the runner, preferring not to interfere in other people's affairs. From the other side of the street, a child's cry could be heard, and from a basement room, the shouts of an argument drifted. For a moment, Hodgson was distracted. A figure flashing ahead brought him back to the present. The pursued darted around a corner like a ghost. His shadow, sliding along the wall of an old building, disappeared.

The tall brick houses looming over the alley would soon end. Beyond the corner lay the road to the docks. Stumbling over crates and refuse, Hodgson quickened his pace. The smell of fuel oil and rusty iron was already drifting from the river, overpowering the earlier city scents. Somewhere in the darkness, cart wheels creaked, and a coal cart rolled into the road, blocking the path and nearly knocking the young man off his feet. Pressing himself against the wall, he continued to follow the fleeing figure with his gaze. The pursued, crossing a rickety bridge over a canal, moved further away from the docks. "Just don't let him reach the Underground!" Richard thought, using the pause to catch his breath. When the cart moved on, he resumed the chase with renewed vigor. Each step echoed dully in his ears, and his heart pounded in his chest, not so much from the run as from rage.

The steps of the narrow staircase, eaten away by time and thousands of boots, led down to the Underground tunnel, drawing him into a realm of coal dust and smog. Nearly knocking over an old woman with a basket of flowers emerging from the station, Hodgson burst into the spacious lobby, barely illuminated by gaslights.

"Stop!" he shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of a departing train.

On the platform lay a glove – black, leather, with the initials "HPB" embroidered in silver thread. The young man picked it up, examining it in the dim light. It was an elegant ladies' glove, smelling of jasmine and Indian tobacco.

"Looking for the lady in black?" a hoarse, smoke-roughened voice came from behind. The owner turned out to be a burly redhead with an anchor tattoo on his neck. "She just left in a freight car."

"In a freight car?" Hodgson asked in astonishment.

"Yeah, the one where they haul the stiffs!" the redhead guffawed.

At night, freight cars on the underground were often used to transport coffins of the deceased after the authorities banned new burials in central London. The increasing epidemics were leaving their mark on all spheres of life. And death. Why the lady had chosen such strange company for herself was unclear. Her identity, in general, still remained a mystery to Richard. A few days ago, he had anonymously purchased from her, for a considerable sum, a copy of a letter bearing the seal of the Theosophical Society, in which Blavatsky called the miracles of Adyar "a game for simpletons" and effectively admitted to being a fraud. But when Richard arrived at the tavern that evening for proof, the mysterious informant, leaving an empty envelope and a taunt on the table: "Seek the proof yourselves, if you dare," had hurried away.

Somewhere behind him, footsteps and a policeman's whistle could be heard. Richard slipped his find into his pocket, trying to blend in with the crowd of workers trudging to their night shift. A passing train, blowing hot air and a cloud of coal ash, screeched to a halt. Hodgson hurried to board a carriage. Workers in greasy clothes and worn-out shoes were crammed onto the wooden benches.

"This is third class, gentleman! Your carriage is at the head of the train," one of them remarked, eyeing the young man in the coat and hat.

"Yes, you're probably more accustomed to velvet seats, sir!" chimed in a nearby laborer with a black eye.

"Thanks for the advice, mate," Hodgson gritted out, heading towards a newly vacated spot. "I think I'll be comfortable here."

Just in case, he felt for the folding knife in his coat pocket, a gift from his father long ago. It had saved his life several times already. Well, it wouldn't hurt to have it now. Although the agitated workers, not having received the desired reaction from the young man, had calmed down and returned to their conversations, interrupted by his appearance.

The train slowly picked up speed, leaving behind the dark metro lobby, adorned with advertising boards. On one of them, in large black letters, it read: "London Underground: Faster than m-me Blavatsky's teleportation." Right next to it hung an advertisement for some men's product with an actor's smiling face. Apparently, the pill had already taken effect on the young man, and its action wasn't as fast as the London Underground. After passing through a short tunnel, the subway emerged into the open air. Seizing the moment, the stokers threw coal into the furnace, and the train was enveloped in a decent portion of black smoke.

Settling more comfortably on the hard bench, Hodgson felt for his recent find in his left pocket. He took out a glove, trying to discern something in it that he hadn't noticed at first. The silver threads of the initials shimmered under the gas lamp, winking slyly. Suddenly, he noticed that the inner lining of the glove's thumb was slightly bulging.

"Hey, gentleman," the neighboring worker chuckled, finishing his egg and onion pie, "decided to take up needlework?"

Hodgson ignored the barbed joke, and with his fingernail, he picked at the seam. The fabric gave way, and a small key with a head shaped like a snake devouring its own tail fell into his palm.

"Wow!" exclaimed the same neighbor. "The key to a lady's heart? Or to a wine cellar?"

Hodgson's stern gaze subdued the joker, and he, after a little more stifled giggling into his fist, fell silent.

The key was cold, as if forged from ice. Hodgson gripped it tightly in his hand.

Suddenly, the train braked sharply, with a wild screech of wheels. The glove slipped from Roger's hands and stuck to the window. Only now, on the glass, did he make out the inscription: "Search!"

"Damn it!" he cursed, grabbing the glove and trying to wipe away the inscription. But the letters wouldn't disappear – they were on the reverse side of the glass, smudged with coal smoke.

"Hey," hissed the neighbor, poking a finger at the glass, "do you see that too?"

Outside the window, in clouds of steam and smoke, stood a lady in a black veil. She waved to Richard with the hand that wasn't gloved.

"Stop!" shouted Hodgson, lunging forward. But the train was already picking up speed again, leaving the mysterious lady behind.

"Relax, mate," chuckled the worker when Richard returned to his seat. "We're in the London Underground! There are more ghosts here than rats!"

Hodgson got off at the next station. Only now did he realize he was still clenching the key in his fist. He unclenched his hand and transferred it to the breast pocket of his jacket. An imprint of a coiled snake remained on his palm.

Hodgson knew it was an ouroboros. A symbol of life's cyclical nature – the endless cycle of death and rebirth. A symbol of ultimate spiritual wisdom. It can be found in almost all religions of the world. Of course, it's also on the emblem of Madame Blavatsky's Theosophical Society. But what is this key for? What secret locks and doors does it open?

Richard approached the gloomy, unremarkable three-story building of the SPR headquarters on the corner of Vernon Street and Vernon Mews, where, despite the late hour, he was expected. Lights were on in the windows of the upper floor. A plain sign hung on the door: "Society for Psychical Research. Est. 1882."

The door was opened by a stooped old man in thick-lensed glasses. His ink-stained fingers trembled. Shuffling his feet, he led Hodgson down a narrow corridor to an elevator, which, with a quiet, hollow hiss, carried the passengers to the third floor. This was where Edmund Rogers' office was located.

"I'll take it from here, old Simon!" Hodgson said, patting the old man on the shoulder and stepping out of the elevator cabin, which was paneled with expensive wood.

Rogers' office resembled a labyrinth of books, maps, and strange artifacts. The air here was heavy, filled with the smells of old paper, incense, and metal.

Tall oak shelves, crammed to the brim with antique books in expensive leather and worn parchment bindings, ended in a glass-doored cabinet. Through it, one could discern an Egyptian scarab with a cracked emerald shell, a skull inscribed with Chinese hieroglyphs, and many other interesting and mysterious trinkets that an ordinary person would dismiss as nonsense and clutter.