by Kat Ross
“Whatever you’re having will be fine, thank you.”
The butler poured them both sherries. Alec took an obligatory sip and set the glass aside. He’d never understood the appeal of spirits. They dulled all the things he found beautiful in the world.
“What brings you to Hauxwell Castle, Mr. Lawrence?” she boomed.
“Other than the pleasure of your ladyship’s company?”
Hake-Dibbler laughed. “Yes, other than that.”
“I understand you’re an avid collector of rare volumes on the occult. So is Mr. Ashdown, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Do you represent him?”
“Informally. He hasn’t been well. He was unable to attend the recent auction at Sotheby’s.”
She shuddered. “We all heard what happened afterwards. How ghastly. You must have seen the policemen outside. I hear it was an attempted robbery and the murderer might be on some sort of rampage.” She took a nip of sherry. “Kind of them to stand guard, but no one gets past Braithewaite. I’d like to see him try!”
Alec wondered if she meant the skeletal butler, who had to be at least seventy. “Indeed. I suppose you were already interviewed by the police?”
“They came yesterday. An Inspector Blackwood, he said his name was. I’m afraid I wasn’t much use. I left as soon as the bidding concluded and returned to Kent.” Her sharp hazel eyes appraised him. “What is it you’re after, Mr. Lawrence?”
Alec smiled disarmingly. “You own a copy of the Alphabetum Diaboli. Mr. Ashdown was hoping you might entertain an offer for it.”
She seemed to relax. “I’m afraid it’s not for sale. But I’ll show it to you, if you like.”
Lady Hake-Dibbler gestured to the butler, who returned with a large, well-worn book bound in vellum. Alec opened it. The title page was a woodcut of capering demons stabbing sinners with long knives. Some of them held up wine cups, so drunk they were spewing on the ground. Beneath their feet, more unfortunate souls roasted in eternal hellfire, mouths yawning open in silent screams.
“Johannes Niess was a Bavarian Jesuit,” she said. “He actually wrote this book for children, if you can imagine.”
Alec could. “It was a dark time.”
Lady Hake-Dibbler studied him. “The Garden of Earthly Delights. Are you familiar with it?”
“By the Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch?”
“Very good, Mr. Lawrence. The original triptych is in El Escorial, but there are many copies. It’s quite extraordinary. The left panel imagines the innocent paradise of Eden, whilst the center shows the Fall. Naked men and women frolicking in moral abandon. But it is the right panel that is arguably the most studied.”
“Why is that?” Alec asked, although it wasn’t hard to guess.
“It graphically depicts the medieval concept of Hell. Cities burn in the background, as demonic hordes inflict nightmarish tortures upon those who’ve sinned and fantastic beasts feed on human flesh. It made Bosch famous, or perhaps infamous. Most people find it disturbing, but to the scholar, it simply represents the Church’s shift from a focus on eschatology—the doctrine of last things, such as the Second Coming of the messiah, his resurrection, and final judgment of humanity as a whole—to judgment of individual souls when they pass to the afterlife, as described in the Book of Revelation.”
Alec nodded, thinking to himself that Cyrus had underestimated this woman. Her interests clearly ran deeper than the shock value of conducting a few séances at parties.
“There were many first-hand accounts of Hell at that time as well, purportedly written by those near death who had narrowly escaped its clutches,” she explained. “Dante’s Inferno is of course the best known of these. They describe snakes and wheels and seas of burning embers, fields of ice and moving bridges that throw the unfortunate into rivers of sulfur.”
She smiled. “In fact, the very same Florentine church in which Dante Alighieri was baptized contains Coppo di Marcovaldo’s famous mosaic Hell, depicting a horned Satan devouring the damned on a flaming throne. Thomas Aquinas believed that the angels and saints should be made to observe this divine retribution in order to better appreciate their own position in Heaven.”
“A veiled threat?”
“Oh, absolutely. The Islamic concept of Hell is similar. They call it Jahannam, and it has seven levels and seven gates, including Jaheem, or blazing fire, Hatamah, that which breaks to pieces, and Haawiyah, the abyss.” She took a demure sip of sherry. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Lawrence?”
“I don’t know.”
“An honest answer. And the Devil?”
“Almost certainly.”
She seemed amused by this response, as he wanted her to be. “Some thought Hell was an entity rather than a place, a great beast with seventy thousand reins, each held by seventy thousand angels, that would come on Judgment Day. Still others, like the medieval Cathars, believed in Hell on earth. Considering how they were relentlessly persecuted by the Catholic Church, it’s understandable.”
Lady Hake-Dibbler laid a hand on his arm. “But I must be boring you to tears. Would you care for a cucumber sandwich?”
Braithewaite brought sandwiches and more sherry. By the third glass, Alec managed to steer the conversation back to the auction. Cyrus was correct on one thing. Lady Frances Hake-Dibbler was a font of gossip about her fellow collectors.
“The auction was rather dull until Mr. Summersbee and Mr. Crawford started bidding on the Ptolemy pages,” she confided, reaching for a triangle of bread in such a way that one be-ringed hand brushed Alec’s thigh. “There’s a long history of bad blood between them.”
“Bad blood?” he repeated, crossing his legs.
“Oh, Summersbee snatched a 1616 edition of Le Fléau des Démons et Sorciers out from under his nose at the last auction. Crawford had some sort of sneezing fit and had to retire from the room for a minute. Of course, he didn’t wish to, but it was so disruptive, Mr. Hodge—he always conducts the bidding—was forced to insist. By the time Mr. Crawford returned, they’d moved on to the next lot.” She laughed. “He privately claimed that Summersbee had put something in his snuff. Perfect nonsense, I’m sure, although I wouldn’t put it past the man. The 1616 edition is the most sought-after. Summersbee would have sold his own mother for it.”
“And the Ptolemy pages?” Alec prompted.
“Oh, Summersbee got those too. At an exorbitant price. Too rich for Mr. Crawford’s blood, I imagine.”
“What makes them so special? Mr. Ashdown said he’d never even heard of a 1480 edition.”
“I didn’t pay much attention to the Geographia,” Lady Hake-Dibbler said apologetically. “I’m more interested in grimoires.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But from what I understand, those particular pages have unique features that are different from other editions.”
Alec raised an eyebrow. “Something related to the occult?”
“You’ll have to ask them. They own rival bookshops in Oxford, just a few streets apart. It’s like the Wars of the Roses.” She placed her glass on the end table. Alec could see traces of lip rouge on the rim. “Does Cyrus have a secret interest in the Ptolemy pages, Mr. Lawrence? You can confide in me.”
“Purely academic.”
Lady Hake-Dibbler gave a small, forgiving smile as if to say he was a terrible liar, but aren’t we all. “Well, if you do make further enquiries, I suggest you start with Dorian Crawford. He’s a bit pompous, but he won’t turn you away.”
“And Mr. Summersbee would?”
“Mr. Summersbee is a paranoiac. He takes all this…this”—she swept her hand to indicate the Alphabetum Diaboli and books like it—“claptrap literally. I think he’s come to believe the demons of Hell are after him personally.” Her laughter had a brittle edge. “Though who’s to say they aren’t?”
“Thank you for your time, Lady Hake-Dibbler.” Alec gripped his cane and stood. “You have my card if you ever reconsider Mr. Ashdown’s offer.”
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She gave him a long, frankly appraising look. “I may indeed, if it brings me the pleasure of such charming company.” She walked him to the sitting room door. “I hope you don’t find the question rude, Mr. Lawrence, but are you a veteran?” She glanced at his cane. “I thought you might have been injured overseas. Afghanistan perhaps?”
“A childhood illness.”
“Oh. Well, you’ve overcome it admirably, Mr. Lawrence.” Lady Hake-Dibbler gave him a bright smile. “Do visit again!”
Chapter 7
While Alec was sipping sherry with Lady Hake-Dibbler at Hauxwell Castle, Vivienne curled up in the library with Cyrus. He’d caved in and given her a proper ashtray, a bronze turtle with a hinged shell that opened and shut. It was already overflowing.
“You shouldn’t live in a house you’re too cheap to heat,” she said, tucking a second afghan around her shoulders. “This place is a bloody tomb. Get a nice flat in Pimlico, magus. Put your knick-knacks in storage.”
Cyrus refused to take the bait. “You look fit, Vivienne. Is it all the parties, or the head-chopping?”
“I thought you were supposed to be a shut-in,” she grumbled. “Far from the madding crowd and all that.”
“I have my informants.” He laughed. “By God, Vivienne, you get more English every day. I think you were born for London. Or maybe the other way around.”
“So you know about Dods.” She scowled. “I suppose Sidgwick told you. What of it? He’s not the first man I’ve killed and I doubt he’ll be the last.”
“I don’t care about Dods.” Cyrus pointed to a stack of metal boxes. “Drag that over here, would you?”
“Which one?”
“All of them.”
Vivienne jammed the Oxford Oval between her lips and hauled the first box over. “What’s in here?”
“Reports on the Duzakh. Accounts I’ve gathered on the necromancers. Other light reading.”
“You think there’s something useful?”
“They know the Dominion better than anyone. Better than we do, as much as I hate to admit it.”
Vivienne opened the box. She surveyed the pile of yellowing parchment inside, a jumble of documents dating back hundreds of years, none of it in any discernible order.
“I need some pálinka,” she said.
“No, you don’t. Bring the lamp closer. I’ll take this one. You take the next.”
Vivienne chose another box at random and sat down on the floor. She took a sheaf of papers from the top and began reading. All of it appeared to be personal letters Cyrus had stolen or intercepted. Despite the fact that the men who had written them were near-immortal sorcerers who’d devoted themselves to the service of evil, most of it was incredibly boring. Vivienne glanced longingly at the bottle of pálinka as she slogged through the petty rivalries and jockeying for power within the Duzakh, the loose alliance of necromancers that had self-destructed in the late 1700s.
When the dust settled, those still alive had scattered to their secret strongholds. Rooting them out had proven nearly impossible. Now one could only infer the presence of a necromancer by the unusual number of ghouls in a given area. The irony was that the necromancers didn’t even summon the undead on purpose. Ghouls came through when one of their human slaves died, five for every fresh corpse. It was a backwash of the binding spell.
“This is pointless,” Vivienne complained when she reached the bottom of the box.
Cyrus peered at her over his half-moon spectacles. He said nothing, merely pointing to the stack. Vivienne sighed and hauled over another box.
Two hours and three boxes later, she snapped out of her stupor.
“Magus?”
A weary sigh. “Yes, Vivienne?”
“I may have found something.”
Cyrus arched an eyebrow.
“It’s a travelogue of sorts from some prat of a necromancer styling himself the Vicomte de Lusignan. Dated…1542? He had awful handwriting. Anyway, it’s titled Voyages Behind the Veil. He says he used a talisman and a pool of absinthe to open a lesser gate to the Dominion. He was looking for doors to other worlds.”
“I wonder how much of it he drank first?”
“Hush. Listen to this.”
And on the shores of that Cold Sea, I did meet a thing of Shadow and Flame. It spake in voiceless tongues, and did promise untold power in exchange for Passage. The beast named itself Daemon.
“Oh, yes,” Cyrus said thoughtfully. “I remember that one. De Lusignan is dead now. Murdered in the purge of 1680, I believe.”
“There’s more.”
“Go on.”
Vivienne squinted at the spidery hand.
It shewed me its layr amidst the desolation of a Great Keepe. A hoole, deep and black. Jörgen did claime the Shadowlands hath many planes, many Doors, and I think it truth. A bargayn was Made, and Passage agreed, but both the Greater and Lesser Gates did reject it. Nether blood nor talisman sufficed. From that place I did flee fore the Daemon did take my Eyes.
“A daemon, you say?”
“And the bit about the eyes. Suggestive, don’t you think?”
They combed through the rest of the archives. There was one other reference to a daemon, in a history compiled by a necromancer named Gressius. He claimed one had come through in Rome and started the Great Fire of 64 A.D. that burned half the city. His account had been written hundreds of years later, though, so its credibility was hardly iron-clad.
Alec came in at lunchtime, his cheeks flushed and windblown.
“I hope you had a pleasant afternoon,” he said. “I got to look at pictures of Hell while being discreetly felt up.”
“At least it was discreet.” Vivienne thrust the de Lusignan papers at him. “Think I found something. We may have a name for our Dr. Clarence.”
Alec read the paper and let out a slow breath.
“Shadow and flame. But the wards turned it back.”
“Sounds like he also tried to open a temporary lesser gate with the talisman and that didn’t work either.”
“So if it is the same creature, or a similar one, how did it get through?”
“That’s the question we’re stuck on. Now tell me about your Lady Frances. Did she know anything?”
Alec related his visit to the others.
“The Ptolemy pages could be a wild goose chase,” Vivienne said. “I still don’t see how they fit.”
“They could,” Alec agreed. “But they’re the only item in the catalogue Cyrus isn’t familiar with. And Hake-Dibbler said they were unique, although she didn’t know exactly how.”
Vivienne scanned the catalogue again. The written description was brief.
Cosmographia Geographia. Seven pages, 1480 edition. Printed in Rome. Original volume lost. Engraved color illustrations. Additional annotations based on original treatise by Marinus of Tyre.
“Lady Hake-Dibbler said the bidding got quite hot,” Alec said. “I think it’s worth a trip to Oxford. Cyrus can continue to look into the other books in case there’s something we missed.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Vivienne conceded.
“I’d try Mr. Crawford first,” Cyrus suggested. “He’s friendly enough. He’ll likely tell you what they were after. Summersbee guards his secrets. No one even knows who his buyers are.”
“That’s what Lady Frances said.” Alec looked at the heaps of yellowing parchment piled all over the carpet and sighed. “We’re running out of time. Whatever Clarence is looking for, there’s a good chance he’s already found it.”
“Then we should leave right away,” Vivienne said, rising. “I’ll get Cass and tell her not to bother unharnessing the horses.”
“I’m sorry your visit was so brief, my dear.” Cyrus gave her a peck on the cheek. “Send a cable if you learn anything. I’ll keep digging through the archives.” He blinked owlishly. “I believe there are a few other references to daemons. Even the Duzakh feared them, though I was never certain they actually existed until now.”
Outside, the rain had turned to snow—small, dry flakes that made Alec think of ashes. Perhaps it was spending the morning with the Lady Frances Hake-Dibbler and her fascination with Hell, but it struck him as an ill omen. As though the very world had caught fire.
Chapter 8
Alec and Vivienne caught the next train back to London and changed at Paddington for the Great Western line to Oxford. They hailed a hansom cab outside the station. Alec gave the driver the address of Crawford’s on Queen Street. It had snowed here too, and the cobbled lanes and patchwork of ancient honey-toned colleges lay under a blanket of white.
Queen Street was a bustling area of quaint, gabled buildings with businesses occupying the bottom floors. The book shop was tucked between a cobbler and the Empress Tea Emporium. A sign above the plate glass window announced Crawford’s Book & Print Shop, and beneath that, Libraries Purchased.
Two of Blackwood’s men watched the entrance from across the street. Alec tipped his hat to them, getting a nod in return, and opened the door. A bell tinkled somewhere in the maze of shelving. Volumes crowded every inch of space, arranged according to some inscrutable system known only to the owner. Thick tomes on the sciences sat cheek by jowl with cheap yellowbacks by popular writers like Wilkie Collins, whose eye-catching covers favored swooning women and devilish men. The air smelled of wood polish and old paper, which Alec found quite pleasant.
They started for the rear of the shop just as a door opened behind the counter and Mr. Dorian Crawford emerged. He was round and dark-haired and sleek as an otter, with clever little hands that seemed made to curl against his belly as he floated merrily down a river.
“How may I assist you?” he asked, his expression polite but wary. He glanced involuntarily at the front windows, where the constables could be seen.
He’s frightened of something, Alec thought. Though I suppose they all are.
Vivienne led the introductions, explaining that they were friends of Cyrus Ashdown. Crawford’s tense posture relaxed.
