A Banquet of Terror
THE YOUNG MAN CHUCKLED. “YOU HAVE ME AT A disadvantage,” said he in his refined Yankee accent. “You know me, yet I do not know you. How can this be?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” said Holmes, disengaging from the handshake.
“Sherlock…?” One of Nathaniel Whateley’s eyebrows rose. “Oh well. Then it makes sense. The famous detective. No one’s identity can be a secret from him. Which must make you…” He turned to me. “Dr Watson, unless I very much miss my guess.”
“Your servant, sir,” I said warily. I clasped his proffered hand for a mere half-second. I was unsure what to make of this turn of events. Moments ago I had been battling for my life against the nightgaunt; now I was engaging in polite formalities with a stranger.
“I trust Nordstrom there did not cause you undue distress,” said Whateley.
“Nordstrom?”
“That’s what I call him.” Whateley pointed at the nightgaunt. “Cyrus Nordstrom was an emeritus professor at Miskatonic University, my former school. Still is, for all I know. Terrible old tyrant. Made my life, and many others’, a misery. So it’s kind of a joke, see, naming a nightgaunt after him. Retribution, after a fashion.”
“I see.” The name Nordstrom rang a bell. It had cropped up in the clipping from the Arkham Gazette that Holmes had been sent by his brother. “Well, I cannot say we had the creature on the ropes, but a knockout blow was definitely in the offing. Was it not, Holmes?”
My companion was subjecting Whateley to close scrutiny. “Hmm? What’s that, Watson?”
“I said we nearly had the nightgaunt beaten, didn’t we?”
“Yes. I should say so.”
“With a draught of the Nangchen Lamasery Liquor of Supremacy,” said Whateley, glancing at the phial. “Potent stuff. Disgusting, but potent.”
“You are familiar with it?” I said.
“How else do you account for my dominance over Nordstrom? A devastatingly magnetic personality isn’t enough. You’ve got to have something more. The question is, would it have worked, Mr Holmes using the liquor as well? I daresay it might have. It would have been a matter of his domination of Nordstrom supplanting mine – one man’s will overriding another’s. And from what I know of you, Mr Holmes, you are not lacking in willpower. Maybe you would have won the contest.” Whateley shrugged. “We shall never know.”
So saying, he snatched up the phial and raised it aloft to dash it to the ground.
I moved to seize the little glass bottle from him, but Whateley forestalled me, holding up the index finger of his free hand and wagging it.
“Ah, ah, ah, Doctor. Remember, I am still Nordstrom’s master. I can have him on you with but a thought.”
The nightgaunt shifted position, tensing as though ready to spring.
“Your revolver,” he added, “is empty, of course. I counted six shots, and you have not had the chance to reload. Keep it out if you wish, if its visible presence reassures you, but this would be so much more civilised if you were to stow it away. What do you say?”
“Might as well do as he asks, Watson,” counselled Holmes. “After all, Mr Whateley has the upper hand. He is holding us at ‘gauntpoint’, one might say. Still, I am convinced he intends us no harm. Is that not so, Mr Whateley?”
“It all depends. I guess as long as the two of you play ball, there won’t be any unpleasantness.”
“Unpleasantness?” I said, reluctantly returning the revolver to my pocket. “Sending your pet nightgaunt to molest us does not count?”
“Are you the worse off for it? Aside from that scratch on your face, I think not. I was being prudent, is all. Two men loitering outside the house, looking suspicious, like they’re spying on the place. What’s a fellow to make of that? Of course I was going to unleash my guard dog. Nordstrom wasn’t really going to hurt you, though. Rough you up a little, maybe. Get you to scram. Above all, give you a fright.”
“That last, in my case at least, he certainly achieved.”
“Yes, and I bet he got a big old bellyful out of it, too.”
“A bellyful? What do you mean?”
“Well, it is my understanding that nightgaunts feed off fear,” said Whateley. “So the scholarly arcane literature tells us. Not having mouths or any other kind of orifice, they have to derive sustenance somehow in order to live, and the general consensus is they obtain it from the fear that people naturally exude in their presence. You, Doctor, were giving Nordstrom plenty to get his teeth into. And now he’s pretty well fed. Aren’t you, boy?”
The nightgaunt craned its neck in a manner which, in the light of Whateley’s comments, did seem to suggest repleteness.
“You cannot imagine how delighted I am to have been a source of nutrition,” I said. “That does not alter the fact that this so-called ‘Nordstrom’ of yours gave every appearance that it was trying to kill me.”
“That was just him getting excited,” said Whateley. “Nordstrom would never harm anyone, except if I wanted him to. I have him fully under my sway at all times. You were never in any real danger. He’d never have used those talons of his to rip out your heart, even though he is perfectly capable of that. I wouldn’t have let him.”
How obliging of Whateley to spell out what the nightgaunt could have done to us, while reminding us that it might still happen unless we behaved ourselves.
“Now where was I?” he continued. “Oh yes. This.”
He hurled the phial down at his feet. It did not break, but its treacly brown contents began seeping from its open neck into the soil. Whateley placed his heel upon it and bore down until it shattered. Then he ground the smashed pieces to dust underfoot, mixing them and the potion together into a gritty paste.
“There. That’s that dealt with. Don’t have to worry about someone else commandeering Nordstrom any more. Oh, but where the heck are my manners?” He punctuated the remark with a comical slap of the forehead. “You two have travelled a long way, and not had an easy time of it, by the looks of you. You must be wanting to put your feet up. I’d be a poor host if I didn’t invite you in. Gentlemen?”
He made an ushering gesture, embellishing it with a small bow.
I glanced at Holmes. I did not think we were being asked. We were being ordered. Holmes appeared to agree.
“That would be most welcome, Mr Whateley,” said he. His tone was as amiable as the American’s, but his eyes betrayed a distinct steeliness. “A brief sojourn under your roof is something from which Watson and I, footsore and bedraggled as we are, would surely benefit.”
He gathered up the Necronomicon and bundled it back into the portmanteau. Then, with Whateley leading the way, we set off up the slope of the rise towards the farmhouse. The nightgaunt accompanied us to the front door, where it settled down next to the step like a sentry at his post. It was clearly not there to keep anyone out. It was there to make sure Holmes and I did not leave.
