Professor Challenger: The Kew Growths and Other Stories

  Professor Challenger:

  THE KEW GROWTHS

  AND OTHER STORIES

  by Edward Malone

  William Meikle

  DARK RENAISSANCE BOOKS

  2016

  FIRST EBOOK EDITION

  TEXT © 2014 BY WILLIAM MEIKLE

  COVER ART AND INTERIOR ILLUSTRATIONS© 2014 BY M. WAYNE MILLER

  EDITOR & PUBLISHER, JOE MOREY

  COPY EDITOR, F.J. BERGMANN

  ISBN: 978-1-62641-199-9

  DARK REGIONS PRESS, LLC

  P.O. BOX 31022

  PORTLAND, OR 97203

  WWW.DARKREGIONS.COM

  Grateful acknowledgement to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for permission to use the Professor Challenger characters created by the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  Publication Credits

  All fiction is original to this collection except for the following stories:

  RIPPLES IN THE ETHER previously appeared in The Alchemy Press Book of Pulp Heroes (Alchemy Press [UK], 2012)

  THE PENGE TERROR previously appeared in The Alchemy Press Book of Pulp Heroes 2 (Alchemy Press [UK], 2013)

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  The Kew Growths

  The Petrified Forest

  The Monster of the Ness

  The Auld Grey Man

  The Ape-Man

  The Penge Terror

  Drums in the Deep

  The Cornish Owlman

  Ripples in the Ether

  The Valley of the Lost

  Parting the Veil

  A Rock and a Hard Place

  Ice

  About the Author

  About the Artist

  List of Illustrations

  We walked in shadow under singing gills.

  “This thing is still alive. And it’s certainly no plant.”

  … by the time I turned, all I saw was another spreading circle of ripples.

  A darker patch of grayness began to take shape in the fog …

  … a low growl echoed around us.

  When the thing moved it flowed almost as much as it ran.

  We stood on the shore of a vast underground lake …

  I saw not a dark man but a white owl, impossibly huge.

  The mist itself seemed almost solid, yet continuously shifting and swirling …

  The largest male raised his trunk and trumpeted a warning …

  … a mass grave for victims of the Great Plague. And now they were rising …

  The tentacles retracted, and a dozen boulders … moved closer to the pipe …

  A deep puddle formed below us, and the ice above us retreated away.

  Dedication

  To Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  Introduction

  PROFESSOR CHALLENGER has mostly played second fiddle to Holmes in the Conan Doyle canon, but the character has always interested me. Challenger is a flawed scientist with a big heart and a bigger ego, much like Quatermass, another early influence. Considering that Challenger appeared in so few tales from the Doyle pen, it is a testament to the depth of the character that he has survived at all.

  From the Lost World to the poison in the mist and the day the Earth screamed, he captured my imagination when I was twelve, and I’ve loved him ever since. That, plus the fact that Doyle reports that Challenger was born in Largs, making him a Scotsman from a town just 6 miles from where I was brought up, means that when I was offered the chance to play in his world, I jumped at it.

  Big beasties fascinate me.

  Some of that fascination stems from early film viewing. I remember being taken to the cinema to see The Blob. I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. The original incarnation of Kong has been with me since around the same time.

  Similarly, I remember the BBC showing re-runs of classic creature features late on Friday nights, and THEM! in particular left a mark on my psyche.

  I’ve also got a Biological Sciences degree, and even while watching said movies, I’m usually trying to figure out how the creature would actually work in nature—what would it eat? How would it procreate? What effect would it have on the environment around it?

  On top of that, I have an interest in cryptozoology, of creatures that live just out of sight of humankind, and of the myriad possibilities that nature, and man’s dabbling with it, can throw up.

  Challenger shares some of my enthusiasms, and in these stories you’ll find him and Malone investigating lost worlds, big beasties, small beasties, some human monsters and many inhuman ones.

  I had a great time writing these, and I hope you have just as much fun reading them.

  —William Meikle

  The Kew Growths

  Things weren’t going well.

  My rehabilitation after our ill-fated second trip to the Amazon took much longer than I would have wished, and the muggy summer in London left me feeling tired and listless. My nights were spent tossing and turning in fevered dreams of too-green jungle and strength-sapping heat, and what little rest I got did little to ease a constant feeling of being on the edge of collapse. Booze helped, a little, but I was only too aware of the dangers that lay in too close an association with the bottle, and I limited myself to a night a week in the George, where I drank ale until I had no choice but to sleep it off.

  At work, McArdle had made way in the top seat for McGuire, but that didn’t make my life any easier. Although my body was severely weakened, I had been given a taste for adventure, and life as a junior reporter for The Express was sorely lacking in that department. I was still on suspension, relegated to obituaries, flower shows, and weddings. Roxton had given me an open invitation to join him in the casinos of the French Riviera, and I was seriously considering taking him up on the offer. So you can imagine I was not best pleased when McGuire gave me my assignment that Thursday morning in August.

  “Pop down to Kew Gardens, Malone,” he said. “They’re opening a new greenhouse at noon.”

  “And what’s the story?” I asked.

  McGuire smiled. “It’s Kew. They’re opening a new greenhouse,” he said, slowly, as if addressing a child.

  I took the hint, bit my tongue, and headed across the river.

  The heat was oppressive. I felt damp under the arms and my hair stuck to my forehead as I walked into the new greenhouse. Then it got hotter. I was of a good mind to leave immediately and turn in a -fluff piece based on the great and good that were already here mingling. But despite McGuire’s obvious low opinion of me, I still had some self-respect left—enough to keep me there for a short time at least.

  I will admit the new edifice was spectacular; a marvel of glass, ironwork and light filled to the brim with exotic plants in a bewildering array of colors, textures and scents. But all it did for me was to remind me how tame and regimented it all seemed when compared to the true sights and smells of the Amazon. So when an elderly lady asked me what I thought of the exhibition, I rather let my feelings run away with me. I told her precisely what I thought of people playing at being in wild places, and my disdain for the cozy depiction of nature on offer in this exhibit.

  To her great credit, she took it in good grace. “I shall try harder next time,” she said with a smile. It was only then that I realized I had been talking to the architect of all I saw around me. I blustered out an apology that she waved away with another smile.

  “Let us see if I have anything here to thrill your jaded palate,” she said and, taking me by the arm led me away from the main crowd to a much more shaded area beneath the tallest trees. “I found these in Mongolia on my last expedition,” she said, and pointed into
the shadows. At first I did not understand what she meant; then I saw them.

  It was a patch of huge parasol mushrooms, some three feet tall, with caps spreading in a canopy that mimicked that of the trees above. They were milk white on top, but jet-black below, their stems a glistening silver-gray. They moved gently, as if swaying in the wind, and they seemed to give out an audible hum.

  “It’s the wind in the gills,” my companion said, whispering conspiratorially, as if we were speaking in church. “They sing, there in the dark.”

  And as I listened closer I heard it; an almost melodious chorus, like a choir of monks heard in the wind. My expression must have showed her that I was enchanted.

  She clapped her hands and laughed. “I knew my boys would touch your soul. They charm all those who hear them,” she said, and led me away, back to the gathered throng.

  It seemed that, as the mushrooms had charmed me, I had in turn charmed her, and she held tight to my arm as she introduced me to the sponsors of the exhibit, some lords and ladies of the realm, and more than a few politicians. I even started to enjoy myself, before realizing that time was short. I reluctantly took my leave and hurried back to the newsroom. I wrote up my story, of an explorer filling a new greenhouse with the fruits of her travels and of magical singing mushrooms. McGuire seemed happy enough with it and agreed to run it in the morning edition. But when I went to bed that night it was the fungi I heard, a lullaby rocking me down into darkness.

  I was woken early by a most unwelcome knock on the door. Then again, Scotland Yard is unwelcome most of the time in my profession. There were three officers on my doorstep when I answered, and I found myself mentally reviewing my workload of the past few days, wondering whose toes I might have stepped on this time. Between me trying to avoid looking guilty, and the officers trying not to give me any details as to why they were on my doorstep, it took a few minutes to get to the heart of the matter. It was then that I discovered the reason for my rude awakening.

  Ten of the people who had been present in the greenhouse the day before were lying comatose in the hospital, suffering from an infection as yet unidentified. The Yard was trying to find everyone who had been present. Luckily I had been introduced to most of the attendees during my time there, and I was able to provide the detectives with several names they had not yet processed, the mention of one of whom, a Cabinet member of some note, had them in a dashed hurry to leave.

  I was given orders to report to a doctor if I showed any signs of sickness, told to take care, and I was left alone on the doorstep. I had barely woken from my dreams; I could still hear singing in my ears.

  I dragged myself into the office, part of me wondering whether I had a valid enough excuse for some sick leave, another, larger, part feeling the first signs of excitement that there might be a real scoop to be had. But my hopes were dashed almost immediately. McGuire didn’t think there was a story in it, despite all my protestations.

  “It’ll be some kind of food poisoning, you mark my words,” he said. “Besides, our readers don’t like to hear about sickness. It puts them off their breakfasts.”

  I muttered some choice words about both breakfasts and Express readers, but McGuire either didn’t care or didn’t choose to hear. Instead of excitement, I spent the day on an obituary of a minor member of the Lords who had never done anything more daring than fall asleep during a debate on Farming Subsidies. All the time, my thoughts were back in the dark corner of the greenhouse with the singing fungi. My nose was telling me there was more to this than met the eye.

  I might not have been much of a journalist, but my instincts usually proved true. When it came time to clock off, I passed on the chance of a few quick pints in the Cheese with the lads downstairs and headed south of the river again, arriving at Kew just as dusk was falling. The heat was just as oppressive as it had been on the previous day, and I was starting to regret my impetuosity as I walked through the quiet grounds toward the main greenhouses.

  I was disappointed to find that the new greenhouse was securely locked up. I tried to peer inside, but there was no interior lighting, at least none that was switched on, and inside the glass everything lay in dark, shifting shadow. By this time, I had definitely come to regret my decision to forego some ale, and was just about to retire to the nearest bar when a movement in the shrubbery caught my eye. I hunkered down, hiding myself from view, and watched as a man came out of the darkness, heading toward the greenhouse. He moved furtively, trying to avoid being seen. I recognized that immediately; I had employed the same ducking, shuffling gait in my own approach.

  The newcomer’s movement was further impaired by the fact that he carried what appeared to be a rather heavy suitcase. He passed within ten yards of my position, but was intent on his own purposes and did not notice me. I got a good look at him for the first time, and was surprised to see that he was a well-dressed, well-groomed gentleman; his suit was expensive, his shoes were shined, and his mustache had been trimmed within an inch of its life. He certainly did not look like the kind of character I’d have expected to be involved in nefarious activities.

  He seemed to know what he was about, though. He moved quickly to the greenhouse door, took a key from his pocket, and let himself in. I followed at a discreet distance and, saying a prayer of thanks that he had not seen fit to lock the door behind him, slipped inside. I stayed in the shadows, resolving to keep quiet until I knew the lay of the land.

  The newcomer moved purposefully. He went to the large open area in the center of the greenhouse and lit several candles. Using their light, he began a series of drawings on the floor. I was too far away to make out the particulars, but I started to get a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. This smacked of mumbo-jumbo, and I’d had more than enough of that in the Amazon, thank you very much. I smelled garlic among the floral scents as he traced around the already-drawn lines. He took something mechanical from the suitcase and put what looked like glass valves at points on the floor. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a dynamo being cranked. The valves blazed with a rainbow profusion of lights, so bright that I pushed myself far into the foliage for fear of being seen.

  The newcomer stepped inside the circle. Then he started to chant. I cannot reproduce the words here; they were completely foreign to me, somewhere far outside my everyday experience.

  But the fungi responded. I recognized their singing immediately and once more was filled with a sense of awe and wonderment. The greenhouse filled with a swelling chorus of song. The valves pulsed in time and the whole structure rang and echoed.

  Just as I thought the whole structure might come crashing down around us the man shouted one short, final, phrase.

  “Dhumna Ort!”

  Everything fell silent.

  The man started packing up. It seemed that whatever had just happened was now over. After putting everything back in the suitcase, he carefully wiped away the markings on the floor and made his way back toward me in the darkness. All I saw of him was a darker shadow against the foliage. I debated introducing myself, but he beat me to it. He stopped several yards from me.

  “I hope you enjoyed the show?” he said, as casually as if we were friends meeting on a busy day in Oxford Street. I stepped out of the shrubbery. He put out a hand for me to shake.

  “Thomas Carnacki,” he said.

  “Edward Malone,” I replied instinctively, at the same time wondering where I had heard his name before. He knew me better than I knew him.

  “Ah yes, the Express chap. I might have known there would be some of you reporter types chasing around for a story. I suppose you’ll want to know what just happened? Let me buy you a drink and I’ll fill you in.”

  So it was that twenty minutes later we sat in a rather well-appointed ale-house on the riverside, sipping some of Fuller’s finest ale, while I listened to an increasingly ever more outlandish story. Indeed, had my new companion not been so obviously a gentleman of some wealth, and a clear-eyed one at that, I might have taken hi
s tale as the ramblings of someone addled by an opium habit.

  “I should start by telling you something you don’t want to hear,” Carnacki said, lighting a pipe. “Your bosses will never print what I’m about to tell you. Indeed, you may never even write it up, for I am pretty dashed sure that you will not believe me. Nevertheless, it is all true, if a tad strange to unenlightened ears.

  “I am a student of the arcane,” he began. “A searcher after secrets in ancient books and scrolls lost over time. My studies have, over the years, brought me into direct contact with what I believe the layman would call ghosts and ghoulies, denizens of the Outer Darkness that surrounds us.”

  I put up a hand to stop him. “You’ve lost me already,” I said. “And I should tell you that I don’t believe in any of that hocus-pocus.”

  He smiled at me. “I am long used to that response,” he said. “But hear me out. In the end, it may or may not make sense to you, but at least you will understand why I was in the greenhouse tonight, and what I was doing there.

  “The story begins this morning. I was in my library, testing out a new dynamo and ensuring that the valves on the Electric Pentacle were still functional, when I became aware of a fluctuation in the field. I immediately set up a circle on the floor and sat inside. I called up a spell I have memorized from the Sigsand manuscripts, and the fluctuation resolved itself into a high mesmeric singing that was most pleasant but at the same time rather disconcerting, for there was no apparent source of the sound.

  “You may also be pleased to know that I had but ten minutes previously read your article on the opening of the greenhouse. I put two and two together, and immediately set on a course of research into these singing Mongolian mushrooms of which you seemed so enamored.