CHAPTER TWO
Staring at the curved arch of the brickwork above him Druitt thought about what was happening to him and tried not to breathe to deeply. It was of course only a very few hours since he had left Mr. Valentine's school in the scenic and (he thought now) sweet-smelling environs of Blackheath, left what had, up till then, passed for normality and now here he was with a group of persons who he had never met in his life and yet - somehow they all seemed familiar. Even the faintly feminine Mme. Blavatsky, currently in the boat ahead of them with the Lama: he knew her, had been with her, had even (he shuddered) been intimate with her. In the other boat, the Lama turned round and looked at him.
"Yes, Mr. Druitt" he said, raising his voice to be heard over the whimperings and assorted moans coming from the Marjorie/Tumblety conglomerate, "You are starting to realize the truth. This is not a nightmare or a chalk-induced delirium. We are familiar with each other and we have reunited for a Purpose. When we reach a place of safety I will try to explain but until then, compose yourself."
The man who had been introduced to him as James Maybrick sat up in the boat.
"Listen," he said, "do you hear something?" Druitt listened.
"No, just the splash of water and other things against the hull."
"Listen harder." And there, just at the limit of audibility, Druitt heard -music? Yes, definitely music of some sort.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I've heard something like it before when I was in Austria organizing the Salzburg-Liverpool Cotton Trade Fair. It's zither music."

Out of the darkness before them they could see a strange eldritch light flickering about the figure of a man. He was playing a musical instrument. As they passed they could hear him scream something to them.
“What was that?” asked Druitt?
“I don’t know. It sounded like: “Don’t forget the hairy lime!”
They both listened as the eerie plinky-plonk died away into the distance. Druitt looked at his companion: a tall, somewhat morose individual with a sandy moustache and a thin line of blood dripping from his nose. "You have been injured?" he enquired.
"No," the other replied. "It just seems to happen from time to time. It goes with these voices that whisper in my head. Everything started when I visited America last year. Went down to New Mexico to inspect my wife's farms, saw this light in the sky and ever since then I've had this problem. It must have..."
He was interrupted by a cry from Mme. Blavatsky. The boats slowed and the strange being who seemed to be steering pushed a button. In front of them, appearing out of the gloom, they saw a landing stage. Waiting for them was a tall, fit-looking man with a military moustache and closely-trimmed beard. He appeared to be wearing the costume of a Prince of Japan and was accompanied by a figure rather like their steersman but clothed in what appeard to be a military greatcoat several sizes too large for him.
"Greetings, gentlemen and colleagues" he said. "I am the man who wrote to you all. I am Walter Weedon Grossmith."
“But didn’t I see you back at Bishopsgate before we left?” cried Marjorie Eddy.
“No, no” said Grossmith in a somewhat petulant tone. “That must have been my brother.”

Grossmith surveyed the upturned and astonished faces 'You have endured much', he said. 'Before we proceed further, you must rest and refresh yourselves. We have food waiting.'
'Eughrr', said Marjorie. 'I'm not eating anything that's been in a sewer.'
'Don't disturb yourself Mr. Eddy', said Grossmith, stroking his unevenly drooping moustache. 'We will adjourn above. Please come this way'. The group, led by their strange steersman climbed with relief from the boats onto the jetty. Grossmith lead the way to a primitive wooden lift
. The small figure in the large clothes cranked a handle and the ill-assorted party slowly and jerkily
ascended. They were at length disgorged into a dimly lit and cavernous room. Above could be heard faintly the sounds of laughter, even music. The two small figures scuttled about lighting candles and as they did so, a table was revealed, on which exquisite delicacies were laid. Eggs, ham, mustard and
cress, strawberry jam a gleaming plate of golden buns, muffins dripping butter, and a beautiful fruit cake covered with pink icing and with a legend written on the top in white: “Heaven Protect Your Endeavors.” Maybrick sighed. It was just the sort of cake that his mother had made for him when he came back from school for the holidays. His mother had always loved him more than his brother Michael who had to be content with a baked potato and a penny bun..

Tumblety, who had at least partially recovered his sense, hurled himself at the table with a greed that awoke unpleasant associations in the wan and drooping Marjory. But Grossmith stopped him with a gesture 'Not there Mr. Tumblety please', he said. 'That is needed above. Our repast is located elsewhere'.
In an antechamber four portions of fish and chips wrapped in copies of the “Daily Telegraph” and accompanied by pickled onions and other savouries lay steaming on an otherwise bare kitchen table. Maybrick, Marjory and Druitt surveyed them with some interest. 'I hope you all like vinegar', said Grossmith, gesturing his guests to be seated.
'Just a moment. Mr. Grossmith', said Maybrick. The sight of the food had awakened his dormant nausea, and his irritation and fear found voice for the first time.
'I don't know you, or these other people. You might be some deranged madman planning to murder us all. I won't sit at your table until you give me a complete explanation of why you have brought me to this place'
'If you will all do me the honor of sitting down, I will try to explain. The Hammonds Chop Sauce is in the jar on the shelf over there.”
Marjory, Tumblety and Druitt obeyed silently, doing their best to appear at ease. 'Pickled egg anyone?' Tumblety unscrewed the jar with a practised hand, and offered them around, playing host with what was almost savoir-faire. Only Maybrick did not yield to the mood.
'I prefer to stand' he said.
With a wave of his hand Grossmith let it pass. 'My colleagues and I dined earlier' he said, 'but we will join you in liquid refreshment, and a toast.' The small beings filled seven cups with a rich dark fluid that seemed to bubble mysteriously. The scent alone was strangely reviving to them all.
'To the Cabal!', said Grossmith
Obediently, though with no understanding of what they did, Tumblety, Druitt and Marjory raised their cups.
'The Cabal', they repeated. But this was too much for Maybrick. 'Cabal?' he cried, a rising edge in his voice, 'what cabal? I see no cabal!'
'Then you are not looking', said the Lama softly into his tea cup.
'”At what?” said the cotton-broker, proudly twirling his Fazakerly Cricket-Club tie.
Marjory brushed the hair out of his eyes and sighed. 'See here, I don't know any more than you what's going on, but maybe we should hear these good people out', he said.
'I think he may be right', said Druitt, though his voice trembled. Tumblety said something through a mouthful of batter that might have been agreement. But Maybrick slowly shook his head.
'I don't think so' he said slowly.
'Please be calm, Mr. Maybrick', came Grossmith's unctuous tones.
'I am calm', he responded.feeling the iced water in his veins. He was calm and ready for it. This time, he would handle a crisis in his life properly. No more dithering or fretting over whether he had made the right choice. His beloved Florrie would be proud of him. He tightened his fists in silent preparation. Grossmith, the Lama and the woman in the jodhpurs looked like formidable opponents. he would have to lay the ground carefully, trap them into betraying themselves. He smiled a small smile, his eyes darting here and there, missing nothing. 'I think' he said slowly, 'it's time for you to answer some questions'.
'By all means, said Mme Blavatsky, 'but one thing first please, would you mind removing your hat."
Maybrick laughed a little, he was hitting his stride. 'I am always ready to please a lady', he observed, 'but would you mind telling me why after being enticed to a mysterious rendevous, assaulted, attacked by midgets and taken on a cruise through the sewers of London I should remove my hat?'
'There's a spider on it' said Mme Blavatsky.
Maybrick screamed, shouted, lost his balance, fell over one of the small creatures, clawed the hat from his head and threw it across the room. There were spiders in that place. He had always been terrified of spiders even before brother Michael had told him how a giant spider had broken into the organ loft at St Peters and eaten the sub-organist. He seized the first thing that came to hand, something bulky and solid, and using it as a defense against anything else he might meet, he ran from the room, throwing off the restraining hands that reached for him. In the semi-dark he blundered against the table containing the wonderfull cake, seized it to steady himself. Gouts of blood were pumping from his disordered sinuses. 'Get him! He must be stopped!' He heard the cry from behind. He must get out, but where could he go? As if in divine answer, at that moment, and just as small long-fingered hands were reaching for him, Maybrick and the table began, as if by magic, to ascend. He had time for one wild cry of triumph.

Seven and a half seconds later, the audience for Act I of an unexpected revival of “The Sorcerer” watched as the electric lights came up to illuminate, in addition to the usual scene, a bemused and hatless man with blood all over his face and a jar of pickled eggs in one hand. He half fell into the orchestra pit. 'Spiders!' he shrieked in piercing falsetto, then he punched the conductor and collapsed into unconsciousness.

Slowly the red mist cleared from his eyes and Maybrick saw that he was, again, in the small basement room where they had been taken. A face loomed up before his eyes. "Doing all right, sport?" said the curiously masculine Mme. He focused on the small hairs curling out of her nose. "Yes," he said, "Yes, I think so. It's just that I've always been afraid of spiders. They horrify me: I can't control myself."
"Ah, " said the voice of the Dalai Lama behind him. "He is starting to remember. Come gentlemen, return to your places. It is time to tell you why you are here - again!"
"Again?" thought Maybrick. He stood up and saw that more dishes had been added to the repast. Sandwiches of all sorts, pots of mustard, a side of beef and a replacement giant economy sized jar of pickled eggs which Tumblety was already engaged in decimating. And, did his eyes deceive him? a plate of Scouse. Whilst the four men ate, the Lama started his tale.

"Reincarnation" he said "is not a universal truth. We ARE reborn - some of us - but it is with a purpose; a purpose we must fulfill before we are finally admitted to Paradise. All of us in this room are Old Souls: we have been reborn many times. The difference, my friends is that whereas Mme Blavatsky, Mr. Grossmith, his brother and myself remember our past lives, you have forgotten them. You have forgotten that we have met many times in places like this and always with the same purpose: to save Mankind!"
"To save Mankind?" Tumblety mumbled, his mouth distended by pickled egg. "From what? Surely you jest!"
"No, Frank. For all the millennia that man has stood on this frail planet there have been forces trying to wrest it from him. We, the Cabal, were formed originally so long ago that even I can hardly remember it. At that time it was to defeat the dread Older Gods and it was at that time that Mr. Maybrick received his fear of spiders for he fell in single combat with Great Cthulhu Himself, a being, as you surely will come to remember, of many appendages and composed in equal parts of deranged viciousness, a hatred of all lesser breeds and a shockingly bad memory. Fortunately the rest of us were able to pinion the evil Being in his House at Ryleh where to this day he is endeavoring to remember whether the door leading to his freedom opens inwards or outwards, and the danger was averted. You may be glad to know, Mr. Maybrick that to memorialize your epic struggle there is a monument to you (under the name of Ugh) just off the shore of Ponape in the Pacific. But I digress. Over the millennia we have fought many strange beings, some from the far stars, some from other dimensions and some from here in the lower depths of the Earth itself. In fact some of those adversaries are now our allies and you see them here with us today: the Deros from the vasty caverns under London itself.

“Today however, we face a foe that is material and which uses science so far ahead of ours that it is almost like magic. You saw them briefly before: trying to attack us at the top of the stairs and on the train from Liverpool. Our enemies are the Gray Aliens from the Pleiades and even now they are trying to find us in order to slay us."

Druitt, who had till then been nibbling ruminatively on a saveloy started to his feet: "But why!" he screamed. "Why do these creatures pursue us? Why do they wish to conquer the Earth?"

Grossmith shrugged. "It's very depressing, back in the Pleiades, " he said.

The Dalai Lama continued: “A few weeks ago I felt that something strange was about to happen. One of my friends would have said that there was a disturbance in the Force. I investigated. I sent messengers to the great Occult Masters all over the world; The Pope, Koot Hoomi, the Compte de Sainte Germaine, Mr. Cheems of 27 the Broadway, Wimbledon and they helped to confirm what I had dreaded - there was to be another assault on our fair Earth and on the Human Race. We pinpointed the source: a small star in an otherwise undistinguished constellation.

“They are a strange people, the Pleidians. Unable to harness any of the more mundane forces like steam, electricity or strilth they were forced to develop their minds and they have through their insane malignity managed to ruin planet after planet so that their race can develop. They have never been beaten and now it is our turn.”

“How do they attack?” Said Tumblety, “What are our chances?” The tips of his moustache drooped with fear and depression.

“They project their personalities to the target where they use psychic power to force their dupes to perform actions that will enable a conduit; a tunnel of mental energy to form between their planet and the target one. They will then be able to send their entire bodies through and once there will be able to force creature to kill creature until the whole planet is bare and ready for their occupation. They will then move in their breeding colonies and another planet will have fallen to them. Our chances? Slim! But we must try gentlemen, we must try!”

In the meantime, James Maybrick, slowly recovering from his terror found himself next to the exotic Blavatsky. Something was worrying him. "Excuse me," he whispered to her. " I know of your work but I had always considered you to be a Russian of noble birth, yet when you speak I seem to hear the tones of my Australian friend "Yowzah" Gillespie. How is this possible?"

The intrepid female smiled."Thats all publicity, sport. I'm really Sheila Phillips from Woonagoona sheep farm down in the Northern Territories. Before I went off to Tibet, found the Lama and got enlightened my old man used to run 2.5 million sheep and one day he got a new herder who said he was Tsar Alexander and he'd retired from the throne to get a bit of piece and quiet. He taught me all this Russian stuff that I use on the shills." She sighed. "It's only when I'm helping out these chunders, saving the world like, that I remember my past and how I started. Otherwise it's all Isis unbound, Secret Masters and keep your hands off the men, Mabel." She looked away from Maybrick. "I got a real feeling that this is the big one. There are hiccups in the psychic continuum and you can't get a straight answer out of the Secret Masters anymore. I said to Koot Hoomi the other day: "Koot, kidder, what's happening, how come these Pleidians are wondering around London like a Pom at the Melbourne Cup?" and all he said was: "Daughter, these are exciting times," which frankly isn't much use to me." They heard a sound. Maybrick looked to where it was coming from and saw the cellar wall start to flow towards him as though it were melting butter. The Lama sighed.
“Interruptions all the time. It’s as bad as the time the Pope came over and we couldn’t get a decent days golf in at Alt-Khazam because of those damn Yeti’s mating in the snowfields over by the long fifth.”


The great composer Signor Puccini left La Scala in Milan in a foul and ugly mood. It had been one of those evenings. The man in the front row rustling his bag of Maltesers, and using a straw to feed them to his girlfriend; the brand-new electric light system exploding just at the climax of the second act, and the damned leading man who never could remember all the words to the recitatives, insisting on filling in with 'tum-te-tum-te-tum'.

He avoided the crowds at the stage door (Peasants! They probably didn’t know who he was anyway), and, hunched against the tepid Milanese rain, turned down a side street. He wanted food. he wanted company. He wanted something to make him forget what a miserable job the theatre was. He thought about seeking the brief friendship of a certain class of lady. but decided against it. His last experience had been embarrassing in the extreme (he still blushed to think of it). A strange dwarfish figure had beckoned to him. He'd followed it into the shadows, expecting the usual brief encounter (he wasn't choosy when drunk). But when he'd put an exploratory hand beneath the voluminous clothing, the thing had squeaked in extraordinary fashion and poked an incredibly long bony finger into his eye. He'd passed out on the spot, and come to many hours later, with a dim image of traveling at great speed through dark tunnels. A policeman had been standing over him, asking the kind of questions that great composers would rather not have to answer.

No - no ladies of the night for him. Just home and bed, and a large helping of filling pasta to obliterate bad memories. Just (it seemed almost the very moment), he thought these words, a bright light burst into the street. Puccini looked up, blinking in the unaccustomed brilliance. What was this thing he was looking at, with its twinkling array of many coloured lights, its open windows issuing forth a strange steamy radiance? He moved towards it, knowing only that such a thing had no business in the age that he inhabited; that it was a thing of the time to come, and that if he allowed it to envelop his frail soul, he might never withdraw again but attracted by the conviction that there was food to be had there..A transparent door slid open without his having to even touch it. Before him strange beings, oddly dressed, a confusion of sensations.’ Yes?' said a twanging voice speaking what appeared to be English, 'are you the large ham and mushroom with extra garlic bread?'
He tried to speak, but a buzzing filled his ears, a whirring was in the air. When he opened his eyes again he was in what appeared to be a perfectly round and featureless cellar. A voice cae to him, out of the air.
“Or was it the Quattro Stagione with pepperoni?!

Druitt, who had begun to think that by now nothing further could surprise him ever again, chomped down on his saveloy biting the delicious savory in half. There had been a sudden explosion of light in their basement retreat. Somehow the room had expanded and now held a large flower-pot-shaped vehicle the open door of which shed a harsh white light on two unexpected figures. One of them was a thin gentlemen with a wispy beard, tangled gray hair and golden pince-nez who appeared to be wearing good but threadbare clothing. The words "shabby-gentile" came to Druitt's mind. Behind this new arrival was a strange being, in shape human but clad in tight blue trousers with what appeared to be small rivets adorning them, a multi-hued shirt and a small cap with a wide peak. On the brim of the cap were the words: "Domino's Inter-Time Pizza Express."

"You have mistaken the time," said Grossmith. "This is 1888 and we haven't ordered yet."
The being took a notepad out of its pocket. "You're not the Revived Temple of the Demon God Yog-Sothoth Summer Picnic?" "No," said the Lama. "We are the Cabal and we have more important work to do than sacrificing a few virgins. Please leave us."
"Sorry squire” said the strange being. It proffered a card. “Call in when you're ready and quote this number for free antipasto and a jumbo bottle of gin."
The door clanged shut and, in a way that hurt Druitt's eyes, reduced itself to a faint spot, went "ping" and vanished completely. The basement snapped back to how it had been leaving just one extra visitor who Grossmith introduced as: "Signor Puccinni, musician, composer and official historian of our struggles."
Puccinni smiled nervously. "Gentlemen," he said in a faint Italian accent, (Mme. Blavatsky gave a sneer) "I have no idea why I am here I know of course the famous Mr. Weedon Grossmith and others of you look familiar as though I must have seen you before but I would be very obliged if someone would tell me what is going on and where there is some Spaghetti con Vongole."
The Dalai Lama took him away to one of the corners of the room and the others tried to quiet their nerves by finishing their meal. Maybrick looked at Tumblety. Where had he seen him before? It was recently, he was sure. Could it have been on one of his American trips? And when he thought of Frank, for some reason the face of his beloved Florrie came also into his mind. Of course they were both American although Florrie was very civilised and even came to the cricket matches with him. He thought hard.

Meanwhile Frank Tumblety, who had greeted the apparition by jumping onto the table and flexing his arms in the noted "Baritsu" technique settled back onto his chair. He looked at his neighbour, Marjorie Eddy. "We have met, haven't we?" he said in what was for him a quiet, self-controlled voice.
"I thought that we had not," said Marjorie, "but over the past few minutes I have been having the most amazing visions; visions which are almost like memories. I see a country, hot, humid with strange megalithic monuments, curious pyramidic structures and all around, brown-skinned people watching as though they were at a theatre, a platform where there are many men dressed in armour and carrying swords and just one brown, unarmed but richly-dressed man sitting on a throne listening to them. And then time passes and I am myself on that platform and everyone is watching me and I am -different. Naked and dancing, but I am not as I am today. And the last thing I remember is a figure in armour coming towards me who takes off his helmet and there, there Mr. Tumblety I see you!" He lowered his head into his hands and Frank heard a muffled sobbing. He put his hand on Marjorie’s shoulder in a companionable gesture.
"I know," he said "exactly what had happened. I remember too the time when I was a Spanish soldier in Mexico wading through blood for the glory of God, my King and incredible quantities of Gold. Then I saw her before me on the stage and I have never forgotten her: Brenda Quetzalcoatl the Temple Dancer. Mistress of the High Priest Ixaquahotl who I killed two thousand men to possess!” He sighed. “Ah, there was real passion in those days! It was you and it shows me that all of us here are bound by some great fate to find each other no matter how e have changed throughout our many lives."
"Yes!" said Grossmith, who unbeknown to them both had been listening. "We are all connected, one with the other. Our bodies may change but our souls meet and re-meet down through the generations. We are The Cabal and we are meant to battle eternally against those many instruments of evil that threaten our fellows. GENTLEMEN!" he roared. "Now is the time for us to recognise that we are a band of brothers united by a force that we cannot begin to understand but with a purpose. Charge your glasses comrades and let us drink to THE CABAL!"

IN the moment of peace that followed the collective drinking of the toast and smashing of glasses on the floor, they heard a voice from near the door."Cobbers," said Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, "It's real bonza for all this macho bonding and I'm not complaining that at least temporarily I'm part of the sheilas but there seems to be something coming down the stairs that doesn't sound too friendly and in case you wospas hadn't noticed, there aint any