by Brian Lumley
Following close behind, the Necroscope answered the curator’s question with two of his own. “But you do have a reference library of sorts? Even if it’s mainly regional and dedicated to these northeastern parts? I seem to remember doing research on Hadrian’s Wall here; a homework project from my history teacher when I was maybe eleven or twelve years old. Actually . . . well, it wasn’t so much homework as a punishment—and I hated it!”
Half-way through the doorway into his office, the old man paused and turned to face Harry. “Your memory serves you well,” he said. “Indeed we do have a small reference library dedicated to County Durham and Northumberland; it’s located on the second floor. That, too, is under lock and key, however, because of some of the rarer manuscripts. We’ve had more than our fair share of thieves, you see. So I’m sorry, but I shall have to lock you in while you do your research . . . er, though not on Hadrian’s Wall again, surely?” Here he actually offered the ghost of a smile—but in the next moment was sober again—and almost apologetically continued, “Just give me a second or two to find the keys, and I’ll be pleased to accompany you upstairs. . . .”
The old building lacked an elevator; as the pair climbed a wide mahogany staircase, then walked down an echoing parquet-floored corridor that ran the length of the building, they conversed. “Well then,” said the curator, “may I ask what you’re researching? Perhaps I’ll be able to offer some assistance. The section you’ll be entering isn’t the tidiest in the museum, I’m afraid. I never seem to have enough time to put things straight—and I dare not trust my cleaner to go in there without damaging something. A manuscript is just a bundle of old papers to him—and given a chance I know he would smoke in there. Oh yes, I’m sure he would! And why not, since he smokes everywhere else? Even in the toilets, where the atmosphere is sufficiently, er, fragrant without that we need to introduce burning tobacco into it!”
“Well, you needn’t worry about me,” said Harry. “I’ve been known to smoke on occasion but haven’t any with me. As for what I’m researching: there’s a densely forested place some miles to the south. It’s called Hazeldene. Some years ago a girl disappeared there, presumably murdered. I want to know if that was an isolated incident, or if—”
“—Or if, historically,” the curator interrupted, “there have been similar, er, ‘incidents’?” And unlocking the door of a room towards the end of the corridor, he glanced back over his shoulder at the Necroscope. “Well now! What an odd coincidence! And what’s more, it appears I really can help you!”
“A coincidence?” Harry followed him inside the room, where he saw what the old man had meant when he said that this wasn’t the tidiest place in the museum. In fact it seemed to be one of the most cluttered, with open books scattered across the top of a leather-topped table, numerous scrapbooks and albums of newsprint clippings lying four volumes deep on the seat of a chair, magazines and pamphlets of bygone times piled up totteringly on the floor, and shelves and pigeonholes where yellowing scrolls and other seemingly fragile documents looked in imminent danger of falling into dusty ruin.
Seeing Harry’s look of dismay, the curator offered a sigh, shrugged, and said, “You see what I mean? Where would I find the time? It would take days—maybe a whole week—to put all of this back in order and get everything correctly located. Oh, the shelves are labelled clearly enough, but everything else is completely confused, a literary jigsaw puzzle where I might search for hours for just one piece! But as for your search . . . yes, I really do think I can help.”
“A coincidence,” the Necroscope said again. “You mentioned a coincidence? Can I take it that in fact someone else has been researching murders in Hazeldene? Was that your meaning? And if so, when? Years ago or more recently?” He already suspected the latter.
The curator dusted off a chair by the table and sat down, indicating that Harry should do the same. Harry removed a pile of books from another chair, positioned it facing the old man, seated himself, and said, “Well, then? Are you going to tell me about it?”
Tapping a long finger on the cover of a visitor’s book or register lying on the table directly in front of him, the other nodded and said, “Yes, of course.” And indicating the book: “At least I located this easily enough, eh?” And he opened the register to a leather bookmark.
“A visitor’s book?” Leaning forward, the Necroscope tried to read and decipher the entries: signatures and dates, presumably a record of past visitors. But the curator was once again tap-tapping with a fingernail, partly obscuring the entries or perhaps indicating one in particular—the last one—a mere squiggle of ink at the bottom of the scrawled column. And:
“Ah yes! Here he is!” he said.
“And that’s him?” said Harry, staring harder. “This other person, the one who was here before me? He signed himself in?”
“Indeed,” the curator answered. “Oh, yes! Just as you must sign. But alas I was careless and never inquired as to his full name, and he only signed his initials: ‘G.M.’ ”
Harry at once thought:Greg Miller! And wondered,So then, if it really is my G.M. what did he discover here, if anything? While out loud he asked: “What’s the date? And do you think you could describe him?”
The date was some fifteen months ago—shortly after Greg Miller had been released from nearby Sedgefield Hospital’s secure mental facility—and yes, the curator was able to describe the researcher, a description which fitted Miller to a tee. . . .
“The first time he was here,” the old man said, “he spent two, perhaps three hours, then left in a hurry seeming very excited. The next week he was locked in up here all day on two consecutive days. I haven’t seen him since then, but he left the place as you see it now. He kept a purple manuscript folder or portfolio containing some loose leaves, and a notebook with scribbled details of anything interesting that he came across during his research. I know this for a fact, because I looked in occasionally and saw him at work. When he’d finished here, I found that he’d taken his notebook with him but abandoned the folder. It’s still here; I found it just a few weeks ago and I believe I put it somewhere safe in case he should come looking for it. If memory serves it still contains some of the material he was researching: mainly some old pamphlets by regional authors, a few loose leaves of scribbled notes, and some Second World War newspaper cuttings. But damn the man, why couldn’t he just put everything back where he’d found it? For the Good Lord knows I haven’t had the time!”
“You say this documents folder is still here?” The Necroscope glanced this way and that all about the cluttered archive, trying to spot something coloured purple. “But can’t you remember where you put it? It could be very important—and not just to me. I think it likely that a great injustice has been worked upon someone, and I’ll do what I can to put things right.”
The curator stared at him for long moments, then said, “In which case I can only try to do my best, too. So then . . . where did I put the thing?” He got stiffly to his feet, joining Harry in gazing all about the room. But a moment later: “Ah!” he said, snapping his fingers, “But of course! Where else would I put it in order to separate it from the clutter?” And reaching beneath the table he opened a drawer. Sure enough, a heavy purple cardboard folder—more properly a reinforced documents case—was in the drawer, and the old man lifted it out into view.
The Necroscope could scarcely contain himself; he reached across the table . . . but the curator held up a hand. “First you have to sign my register,” he said, “and then I’ll leave you to it. And if what you’re looking for is here, perhaps you’ll take time later to explain all of this to me?”
“Well yes,” Harry answered. “Perhaps I will.” But when the old man passed the book across the table to him, the name Harry added to the list before dating the entry was “John Smith.” It was a small but probably prudent deception.
“Good!” said the curator, without checking the entry. “Now I’ll lock you in. The button under the light switch will sum
mon me. When you’re done, or before I lock up for the night, whichever is first, I shall let you out. So then . . . good luck!”
With which he left, closing the door behind him, and Harry heard a key turning in the lock. . . .
First the Necroscope examined a half-dozen sheets of notepaper bearing Greg Miller’s untidy but mainly legible scrawl, and it was at once apparent that the man hadn’t confined his research to just one library. Indeed, only half-way down the first page of spidery script, the note that first attracted Harry’s attention referred to a visit Miller had paid to the British Museum’s rare books department to seek out a translation of Lollius Urbicus’ Frontier Garrison, an obscure manuscript circa A.D. 138.
This was not the first time Harry had come across Urbicus’ name; he recognized it from that time when his disgruntled history teacher had punished some minor misdemeanour by requiring him to write an essay on Hadrian’s Wall. On that occasion Harry had borrowed certain of his essay’s contents from an Historical Society pamphlet published in 1911, entitled North-East England Under the Romans: A.D. 100–A.D. 300, by Alan Henbury. And Henbury had written of Urbicus as being an educated Roman nobleman who, having fallen foul of Rome’s civilian government, had in effect been banished west where he became a governor in what was then the farthest of Rome’s many far-flung provinces: in fact in the north-east of England. His Frontier Garrison was looked upon as being the fictional and indeed highly fanciful story of a roughneck centurion’s adventures in and around one of the many forts strung out along the length of Hadrian’s Wall.
And as Harry cleared off an area of the table in order to spread the remaining contents of the documents case more evenly across its surface, so he once again came across Henbury’s very pamphlet. Brittle and yellow, still its thin pages seemed in no worse condition than when he’d last pored over them as a schoolboy; which, it suddenly struck him, must have been at about the same time as Janet Symonds’ disappearance! And while the Necroscope was sure that this was nothing more than a classic example of synchronicity, he nevertheless found it oddly disturbing. . . .
Referring to Miller’s notes again, Harry quickly saw how, until now, he had been following the man’s trail in the reverse order. For it now appeared that Miller, too, had read Henbury’s pamphlet here in the museum before journeying to London; indeed it must have been the pamphlet which inspired him to search out the Urbicus translation. And Harry now believed he knew why.
The answer, despite that Henbury had mentioned it briefly, and then only in passing, lay right here in his treatise.
Henbury, not unlike several turn-of-the-century contemporaries whose works had been known to him, had considered Lollius Urbicus little more than a fabulist; but it now seemed possible the Roman governor had been nothing of the sort! And the Necroscope was suddenly certain in his own mind why he—why Harry Keogh himself—had returned today to this drab old museum.
Not simply or merely to research occurrences in or around Hazeldene Forest, as Greg Miller had done—no, though that was certainly a large part of it—but also because lodged deep in his subconscious mind, having lain dormant there from that time in his pre-teen years, a vague memory had finally resurfaced in respect of something very important that he had stumbled across in Henbury’s pamphlet . . . only to disregard it! But no longer.
For while those paragraphs that Harry had skipped over so blithely all those years ago had nothing to do with what he had been researching at that time, he now felt a genuine thrill of excitement in turning the fragile pages once again.
And there they were: Henbury’s brief references to certain inexplicable, weird or occult occurrences—called “witcheries” by Lollius Urbicus in his novel—which the Roman governor and fantasist had used as plot elements with which to send his fictitious centurion hero, the “narrator” of various chapters, off on his adventures:
Of these fantastic “witcheries” in Urbicus, there were several; most notably when: “A coven of Pictish sorcerers summoned from Avernus Yegg-ha, their gigantic familiar creature, who breached Hadrian’s Wall and despatched with his bare hands, horns and fangs a half-centuria of Rome’s finest, before the last handful of legionnaires were able to cast him down, put him to the sword, and separate and bury his gross, gory remains!”
But witches and wizards, or sorcerers, in Roman times? Of course, for the Romans were notoriously superstitious, as were most of the peoples of those ages. And an unfounded, unnecessary dread of these early metaphysicians had persisted not only down the decades but for at least a millennium and a half, and not least in Scotland.
Living quite close to Edinburgh, Harry had often visited the famous Castle on the Rock, where an iron drinking fountain and basin against the esplanade wall featured two heads—one ugly and the other beatific—and carried the inscription:
. . . Near the site on which many witches were burned at the stake. The wicked head and the serene head signify that some used exceptional knowledge for evil purposes, while others were misunderstood and wished their kind nothing but good . . .
About this alleged battle, however—the “fabulous” Yegg-ha versus fifty trained Roman soldiers—Henbury believed that Urbicus had learned of the disappearance, and the presumed destruction, of a half-centuria of men who had been sent to defend an area of the Wall under attack by the Picts. Thereafter, Urbicus’ fictionalised version of this ignominious event had been posited as an excuse for an unusual defeat, most probably the result of a Pictish ambush and slaughter carried out one misty night.
But this episode was not Lollius Urbicus’ only “witchery,” and among several others was the one which had remained as the vaguest of vague memories in the deeps of the Necroscope’s unique mind. Little wonder it had taken so long to resurface; for as with Yegg-ha and others of Urbicus’ “fictions,” Henbury had mentioned it only in passing and it had had nothing to do with Harry’s research:
When Urbicus ran out of ideas for bloody battles around Hadrian’s Wall, and other skirmishes beyond the Wall, on Pictish soil, he sent his “magnificent centurion, one Quintus Britannicus”—obviously a Briton, a hireling of Rome who, in Urbicus’ fantasy, had risen through the ranks from legionnaire to centurion—on various quests and escapades in northern and middle England.
As he developed the Britannicus character, that of a man torn between loyalty to Rome and the natural love of his own kind, Urbicus provided many opportunities for his hero to assist his often down-trodden fellow countrymen: such as the chapter where evil “forest devils” were regularly stealing away and eating the maidens of a hamlet some two dozen miles or more south of the Wall.
Having devised this typical heroic quest scenario, Urbicus then sent his somewhat heavy-handed protagonist to avenge these supernatural atrocities by burning down a huge swath of the forest in question!
We can be fairly certain that Urbicus’ inspiration for this chapter of Frontier Garrison was inspired by an actual conflagration, details of which the diligent researcher may discover in contemporary records. According to such accounts as are available, this real forest fire occurred during a very hot summer and consumed many thousand acres of what was then a far greater, denser expanse than many forests which exist today . . .
And there Harry had it.
But man- (or girl- eating) “forest devils,” stealing away and eating the young maidens of a hamlet two dozen miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, which would place its location in very close proximity with modern-day Harden and Hazeldene? Surely it could only be a myth or a local legend that Urbicus had exploited. It must certainly seem so to anyone other than Greg Miller . . . and now the Necroscope.
For if Miller had served his sentence, been declared sane and released, and yet continued to pursue some monstrous, murderous Thing in Hazeldene’s forest, then surely he was as crazy as ever, self-deluded and totally obsessed! Either that or . . . or he had spent all those years in prison for a crime he never committed, whose author had dwelled—and might even now dwell—in the g
loomy heart of Hazeldene.
And if ever there existed a man who knew beyond any shadow of doubt that indeed there were ancient, nightmarish beings on and under this earth, then surely that man was Harry Keogh, Necroscope. . . .
Next Harry looked at a thin sheaf of newspaper cuttings, mainly from 1939–45 (instantly recognisable as the period of World War II), and found his conviction substantiated in that all of them treated of the disappearances of girls in and around Harden and the surrounding countryside; no less than three of them, who had vanished without trace, stolen from the arms of their lovers in the Stygian blackouts of German air-raids on the region’s coal mines and coastal railway. But . . . his conviction? Yes, because what Miller had been doing now seemed obvious to him: trying to find a way to prove—if only to himself, since no one else was ever likely to give credence to his fantastic story—his innocence; trying to show that Janet Symonds wasn’t the only victim of whatever it was that lurked in Hazeldene, but one of several or even many who had suffered the same fate before her.
And in that respect, at least as far as the Necroscope was concerned, Miller had already succeeded. Moreover, Harry suspected that both Miller’s forest monster and the something that he himself had sensed in the woods were somehow connected, different facets, perhaps, of one and the same . . . but the samewhat? The same anomaly? For without a better understanding of it, how else might Harry describe it? Thus he had arrived at a juncture where he completely—or almost completely—believed in Miller. Except . . .
