Юлия Красинская – The Hodgson’s Dossier (страница 3)

Rogers ran a finger across her face, as if trying to erase the years. The inscription on the back: "Expedition, 1855. Satyāt Nāsti Paro Dharmah" reminded him that thirty years had already passed since then. Incidentally, she later made this motto the motto of the Theosophical Society she founded – "There is no religion higher than truth."

There were other expeditions after that, many. But this was the very first. The professor carefully placed the photograph on the table and turned his attention back to the contents of the box. At its very bottom lay a key – at first glance, a copy of the one Hodgson had brought. The same intricate pattern, the same notches on the bit. It seemed both keys had been cast from the same mold. But while Hodgson's key was covered in a light rust and the patina of time, this one gleamed as if time itself feared to touch it. Rogers held them up to the lamplight. The serpent on his specimen winked with tiny eyes – scarlet rubies, sparkling with a bloody sheen. There was no doubt. The keys were exact replicas of each other.

"Two keys – one fate, one door," Rogers whispered, recalling the words of an ancient legend. "Only by coming together will they open the gates of the Temple of Shambhala. A place where soul, knowledge, and life merge into a single stream, becoming the source of true understanding and enlightenment."

The clock struck midnight. The professor flinched, dropping one of the keys. It clinked on the floor, and in the silence, the sound seemed like a gunshot. Rogers knew who this key belonged to. She would never have given it up willingly. It was a part of her new life. If not life itself. Rogers picked up the key, clutched it tightly in his hand until the pain became unbearable. He remembered her face that night, when they had to decide about their future. She had screamed, waved her arms, her eyes burning with determination.

"Knowledge must be free!" echoed across the mountain peaks.

And then she disappeared. Leaving him alone at Henry's freshly dug grave.

His hand became unbearably hot. Rogers threw the key onto the table, and in the same instant, it burst into blue flame. A pungent smell and smoke filled the room. The professor rushed to open the window. The flame, as quickly as it had appeared, vanished. On the table, in place of the key, lay a pile of ashes. A small wisp of smoke still rose from it, drawing the face of Ellen in the air. Not the current one, but young, as she had been back then on their expeditions.

"Are you still searching for what you cannot hold, Edmund?" a muffled, otherworldly voice sounded. A bright flash, and everything disappeared. A faint scent lingered in the air… of jasmine.

"What kind of idiotic tricks is this?!" the professor shouted at the invisible visitor. But there was no one in the room but him. Only the wind rustled the curtain through the wide-open window.

Rogers, not believing his eyes, rubbed the spot on the table where a pile of ash had just been. Nothing. Nervously tucking the polished key into a small box, he hastily put it in his desk drawer. Looking around, he sat back in his armchair, leaning against its massive back. She was still trying to intimidate him, even across time and distance!

The servant, Simons, entered the room.

"Do you require anything else today, sir?" he asked, looking with surprise at the open window.

"No, Simons, you are dismissed."

"Your travel belongings are packed. The cab will arrive tomorrow at eleven, sir."

"Thank you, Simons. Good night."

"Shall I close the window, sir?" the old man persisted. "Drafts before a long journey can be unnecessary."

"Yes, yes, you are absolutely right, close it, of course."

Ten minutes later, the mansion on Vernon Street plunged into darkness. After extinguishing the last gas lamp, old Simons, carrying a candle before him, shuffled towards his quarters in the basement.

Somewhere in the distance, dogs barked.

London plunged into its nocturnal life, the end of which, just a few hours later, was heralded by the loud hoot of a steamship arriving from Cairo. The first rays of sunlight illuminated the roofs of the grey city. The first carts slowly began to move along the narrow streets. The smell of hot cinnamon bread wafted from the corner bakery. Boys in patched jackets, wielding brushes and tins of shoe polish, began to cheerfully call out to passersby:

"Boots cleaned, gentlemen! Six pence, and your shoes will gleam like those of noble lords!"

The walk from his rented room to the publishing house took mere minutes. Richard, looking around the familiar street and smiling at the new day, stepped onto the cobblestones, beginning to count his steps. In his hand, he held a small leather satchel with a torn buckle, stuffed to the brim with maps, documents, and newspaper clippings.

London was breathing in the morning bustle, filling with the silhouettes of clerks in bowler hats, umbrella vendors, and modistes with boxes of ribbons. Barely avoiding a collision with a milkmaid dragging full pails, Hodgson turned into a neighboring alley, where the air thickened with the smell of fish from the nearby docks. Here, under the sign "The Age," a two-story building with peeling paint on its facade greeted him. The clatter of printing presses could be heard through the open windows.

He opened the door, the bell jingling. In the hall, piled high with stacks of newspapers, a delivery boy sat on a box, chewing a raisin bun.

"Mr. Hodgson," he mumbled, swallowing another bite. "They left a letter for you. On the table. A blue one. Smells nice."

"And who delivered it?" Richard asked, surprised, as he wasn't expecting any correspondence today.

"I don't know, sir, some lady in a black veil. I've never seen her here before."

The wooden stairs to the second floor creaked loudly. Even here, an aroma not typical of the place was noticeable. Usually, it smelled of paper, ink, and the sweat of typesetters. In the tiny office, the scent of jasmine hit his nose even before Hodgson saw the envelope on the desk. That very same aroma – thick, sweetish.

He dropped his satchel on the floor. He picked up the envelope. On its reverse side was a wax seal with a lotus design and already familiar initials. Carefully tearing open the envelope, he read: "Truth sometimes needs protection. Have you chosen your side yet?" These jokes and hints were starting to irritate him! Richard crumpled the letter and carelessly tossed it into the wastebasket. Outside the window, a crow cawed hoarsely. Its cry was sharp, almost human, but he merely frowned. He glanced out the window – the bird was looking at him with yellow eyes, as if trying to say something. Sharply pulling the curtain, he said, "Not today!"

Resolutely, he picked up his satchel from the floor, threw in the file on the Blavatsky case, and the portrait of his father standing on the desk. Henry Hodgson looked from the old card with sadness, just as he had the day he left for his last expedition. Richard barely remembered his father. He had passed away when the boy was just five years old. Only the feeling of warm touches and fragments of fairy tales and legends that his father used to tell him before bed remained in his memory.

In the common room on the first floor, work was already in full swing. Typewriters clattered loudly as the compositors hammered away, shaking off the morning drowsiness and laziness.

"In a hurry, Hodgson?" Clara Oldman, one of the most experienced employees of the publishing house, asked with a displeased expression. She had worked there almost since the newspaper's inception and knew everything about everyone. When Professor Rogers brought Richard here, her authority was severely shaken, so good treatment from her was not to be expected.

"Yes, Clara, today I'm leaving you," Richard replied with feigned distress. "Could you really have forgotten about my business trip to India?"

"Oh, yes! Your business trip! That's all anyone talks about."

"Is it really everyone, dear?"

"Yes, Hodgson, everyone is wondering why it's you who's going?!"

"Maybe because I'm the best?" Richard laughed.

"Or maybe because you're Rogers' nephew?" the woman retorted, not letting up.

"You know that's not true!" Hodgson didn't react to the provocations and remained completely calm. "Stop being angry. Anger puts wrinkles on your cute little nose that you stick everywhere!"

"Go to hell, Hodgson!"

Laughing, the young man headed for the exit.

"Have a good one!"

"Get lost!"

Outside, the wind chased scraps of newspapers across the cobblestones. One of the sheets stuck to his shoe. Brushing it off like an annoying fly, Hodgson hurried towards the port. Ahead of him lay a long, almost three-week journey to Madras, India, on the modern liner "Gwalior," belonging to Peninsular & Oriental.

Chaos reigned in his mind. His thoughts drifted back to a distant childhood.

Richard remembered the first time he entered the professor's house. It was an old building in a prestigious London suburb, with high ceilings and a large library full of dusty books. Every corner here held its secrets, and the smell reminded him that the world was full of knowledge and mysteries. The professor often spent his time reading and writing articles, leaving Richard to his own devices. And then the child dreamed of boy friends with whom he could run around the street, play pirates, and get into mischief, instead of sitting in a library locked behind huge, heavy doors. Surrounded by servants and governesses, he felt lonely.