I had passed the site several times since its closure as it lies off a busy thoroughfare near the river, but I had never paid it any mind. Previously it had looked exactly like what it was, another empty building going slowly to seed and dereliction. But today there were two more burly lads cut from the same cloth as my driver, both standing at the entrance doors of the old inn, guarding the doorway.
By the way they held themselves, and the air of quiet menace they exuded, I took them for military chaps, Churchill's men. When I descended from the carriage and walked towards them, they stiffened and grew wary. One wrong word or action from me right then and I might never have returned from my trip to Vauxhall. The men only stood aside and allowed me entry when I showed them the signed note from their superior that I carried with me.
I was not surprised on entering to find that Churchill was waiting inside, in what was left of the old public bar area.
Although the establishment hadn't sold liquor for many years, Churchill was not a man to let a small matter like that stop him in his indulgences. He stood at the bar with a bottle of good single malt scotch on the counter before him and two glasses, both already containing a stiff three-finger measure. He smiled as he saw me.
"Good man, Carnacki. I knew you'd come."
"It is not as if you ever leave me much choice in the matter," I replied as he handed me one of the glasses. He also offered me a thick Cuban cigar, but I declined, and lit up one of my cheroots.
"You can always say no," Churchill said between breaths as he puffed hard on his cigar to get it lit. "I am not an ogre, man."
I have often thought of him more as a shark, striking hard and fast at the first hint of blood in the water, but I decided that wasn't anything I should be saying while he had two bruisers at hand in the doorway. Instead I settled for sipping at the scotch. It was a fine, Speyside malt from one of the smaller distilleries and went down jolly well, but I was paying attention as Churchill finally gave me a reason for requesting my presence.
*
"I am sorry for the cloak and dagger nonsense," Churchill began. "But this is another of those rather sensitive issues that have to be kept jolly quiet. If the general public knew half of what goes on in their name, and right under their bally noses at that, we'd have riots on our hands and bloody anarchy. And then where would we be? No, a certain degree of official secrecy is required for the well being of a nation. And I'm afraid you're going to have to trust me on that score, Carnacki. Take it from one who knows."
He waved a hand around the bar. It had been furnished in the traditional style, with oak seating, long ornate mirrors that were surprisingly still in one piece, sturdy wooden tables, and a long sweeping bar that ran the full length of the long room. It stretched away from us, narrowing as it came to a dark and gloomy rear end wall where the inn backed on to the river.
Everything around us was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. I saw that Churchill had made the only clean spot visible in the foot wide circle he'd cleared in the dust to make a place to put down the scotch and glasses. I doubted if anyone but Churchill and myself had taken a drink inside the place since the day it was shut down.
"It doesn't look like much now, does it," Churchill said. "But back in the day it was one of the busiest bars on the whole south side of the river. The great and the good used to raise hell here, and I mean that both literally and figuratively. All that changed when the scandal that got it closed down happened. But I fear there might have been something left behind, something that was neglected, and that has since festered.
"There is a thing that I need you to take a look at for me. I hope it is in your line of business, for if it is not, I don't know who I can bally well trust with it otherwise."
Of course, I could not turn him down at that stage, and besides, his last statement had me intrigued. We finished our scotch and he led me to the back end near the rear wall, where I now saw there was an open hatchway that led, via a set of worn stone steps, down into what appeared to be a beer cellar below.
"After you, old chap," Churchill said, and smiled. "And be careful. It's bally filthy down there."
As I descended the steps I got a clue as to what he had meant. There had been a fire in the area under the bar at some point in the past, not recently, but one that had been bad enough to leave a thick layer of ash and soot covering everything. Light came in through a small window high up that was itself smeared with a greasy film of thin soot. The window overlooked the river, and despite the soot was letting in enough light for me to see that I wasn't in a beer cellar after all.
The fire that had left the soot and ash behind had also left remnants of furniture: three long sofas, all halfway burned through, and a squat square table that had been overturned and leaned against the wall.
A roughly circular piece of the floorboards, a yard or so at the widest point had been cleared of ash, and I got my first inkling of why Churchill had asked for my help. I could not see all of it, but there was definitely a magic circle and an interior pentagram drawn there.
But this wasn't one of my protections, far from it. I had seen the like of this before, in books in my library, old books, that dealt with calling up all manner of things to do your bidding. This was a summoning circle, and from the quick look I'd had at it, I had a sinking feeling it wasn't mere necromancy that had been attempted in this room.
Whoever had been at work here was after something rather more sensational. It was clear to me now that they had been involved in a medieval ritual of some infamy; this room had seen an attempt at summoning, and controlling, a demon.
*
Of course, I know there are no such things as demons, there are merely mischief making manifestations from the Outer Darkness. But people who dabble in the esoteric disciplines without any training are wont to see what they expect, and especially those of a religious bent to start with. I had no doubt that this small room here under the bar had seen some excitable people get excited, perhaps even over excited while under the influence of drugs and liquor and the promise of power from the great beyond.
While I'd been examining the circle and arriving at some conclusions as to its nature, Churchill had been watching me.
"First impressions, old boy?" he asked.
"Stuff and nonsense," I replied. "People with more money and liquor than sense looking for an easy thrill, and receiving precisely what they were looking for. It's all parlor games and cheap tricks to rook the gullible. You're a man of the world, Churchill; you know that for yourself."
Churchill nodded.
"I have usually been of the same mind," he replied, "despite having come across several things on my travels over the years that have as yet defied explanation. And, like you, I would put this down to too much liquor, money and high spirits. But there is more to it than that, otherwise I would not have bothered you with it in the first place."
"More?" I said, looking round at the burned remains of the room and the marks on the floor. "What more could there possibly be?"
"Just wait," Churchill replied. He hadn't put out his cigar, and he chewed on it as he spoke. I sensed tension in him, a rare thing to see in a man who was normally so self-assured, and I wondered what might be the cause. Then a cloud went over the sun outside the only window, and I saw exactly what had brought on his uncharacteristic nervousness.
A dark, shadowy figure stood inside the circle on the floor, insubstantial, like something produced by smoke and mirrors. It wasn't quite as tall as a man, more child-like in stature and stance, and one that appeared to be bent and twisted, as if all the bones in its body had been broken, then imperfectly set.
It took several seconds before my eyes adjusted to the growing gloom, and it was only then that I got my first clear look, and saw that it was not human, not even remotely. It was reddish in color, appearing almost as burned as the room in which we stood, and it maintained its balance in the circle with the aid of a pair of large, leathery, wings
that stretched out from its shoulders and fanned the stale air around. It stared at me from dark, almost black, eyes and I felt an involuntary shiver run through me.
For all intents and purposes, I was looking into the eyes of a demon.
It did not speak, for which I was grateful, but it stared at me most balefully. It opened and closed small fists, gripping with long, slender fingers, as if it wished it had them affixed around my neck. A tongue flicked from the thin black lips; I did not have time to check if it was forked at the end, for at that moment the cloud moved on outside, the sun reappeared, and the figure in the circle became thin and unsubstantial once again, before fading away completely.
"I do not believe in demons," I said, mostly to reassure myself that I had not, in fact, witnessed what I had seen.
Churchill laughed.
"I don't think he cares, old man."
*
Two minutes later we were back up in the bar, with Churchill pouring me another glass of his excellent scotch, and believe me when I tell you, I bally well needed it, for I had taken quite a fright.
"I didn't believe it myself," Churchill said, still chewing on his cigar as I lit up a fresh cheroot, "but one must trust one's eyes, don't you think? They are about all we bally have at our disposal to try to make sense of what has happened here. Would it help if I told you that I think our friend downstairs has been hanging around down there since the turn of the century?"
I realized he was about to embark on what might pass for an explanation, so I bit my tongue on any questions I might have, and let him continue while I sipped at the scotch.
"As you've probably already surmised, the great and the good used to gather in that room downstairs for their 'special' parties; you know the kind of thing, opiates, women, and general debauchery. The powers that be knew of it of course, but as long as it was kept quiet and nobody was hurt, it was allowed to continue.
"That all changed back in ninety-nine. You remember what it was like back then, Carnacki; the preachers of doom, the end of the world cults, signs in the skies, and more religious claptrap and poppycock than one could shake a stick at. A certain lord of the realm, whose name I should not have to mention, could not get enough of that nonsense, and the parties in the room below took on a darker tone under his guidance.
"He had magicians, spiritualists, kooks, openers of the way, mystics, shaman, druids and even some of the Golden Dawn crowd down there at one time or another. He tried everything he could to get some indication that there was more to life than drink, the poppy and his vices." He paused and chewed on his cigar before continuing. "Well, it looks like he eventually succeeded, don't you think, old boy?"
I wasn't quite ready to answer yet, for I still had too many questions of my own filling my mind.
"Certainly, something has happened down there, and it does appear to have stuck around since the circle was drawn on the floor," I replied cautiously. "And the fire? What happened there?"
Churchill laughed bitterly.
"It seems his lordship was not quite ready to face the result of his little experiment. The story goes that he tried to burn it out and made a right bloody horse's arse of the job. That was in the December of the year. You might remember he was taken ill and removed from society? The blighter is still alive, although his son holds the title now, and his former Lordship is in a sanitarium in Yorkshire. He was burned to red meat over most of his body, and now lives in constant pain, and no little terror. I visited him, last week when this affair came to my notice, but there was not a lick of sense to be had out of him."
If Churchill had any sympathy for the man, there was little showing as he continued.
"Four other poor souls were down in that room when the fire tore through it, and they weren't so lucky. A prominent surgeon, whose name you would know if I mentioned it, and three ladies of the night, all died in the same conflagration, and of course, given his Lordship's involvement, it was all hushed up and kept quiet at the time. The thinking was that the fire had ended the matter once and for all.
"But the old place never recovered its former glories. Nobody would work in the bally inn after the fire. A bad reputation was a permanent stain in this particular case, and the building has been lying empty, as you see here, ever since. It has been allowed to sit here, unnoted and unnoticed for more than ten years. Empty, or so everyone thought."
"Obviously something has changed?"
He laughed again at my question.
"I would say so, old boy, wouldn't you too, now that you've seen it for yourself?"
He went on before I could answer, and in truth, I still didn't know what to make of the whole situation, so I was happy to let him rattle on for a bit longer yet.
"I became aware that the site wasn't as derelict, or empty as had been thought when I started hearing reports of strange happenings in the area a couple of weeks back. As First Lord of the Admiralty, I also oversee the river here and I make sure to keep an eye on all the comings and goings on the water. You would be surprised how a seemingly small matter can end up growing into something that might affect the wellbeing of the nation as a whole. So when I heard of milk going sour along the riverbank in this area, and several cases of young ladies, not all of them fallen, enduring painful miscarriages and stillbirths, I started to investigate. All the stories have led me only to one place, right here, in the burned room below the bar. I came, I saw, and I will bally well conquer, with your help."
He fell quiet at that, and I knew that I now had almost as much information as he had, or at least, as much as he was prepared to tell me.
"I still don't see what you expect of me," I said, although, in truth, I was starting to form a dashed good idea.
"Get rid of it for me, Carnacki," Churchill said. "That's what you do, isn't it? Banish the damnable thing back to where it came from and we can all go for a spot of lunch and a few glasses of wine."
"It may not be quite as simple as that," I replied, to which he laughed again.
"No, it never is with you chaps, is it? But I’m asking anyway, old man. Can you help? For King and Country again?"
I thought of the impossible thing down there in the cellar. I did not for the life of me wish to set eyes on it again. But then I remembered Churchill had spoken of miscarriages, and stillbirths. I would never have peace of mind if I walked away and an unborn child subsequently perished through my indecision or inactivity.
Finally I nodded, and Churchill shook my hand.
"Splendid. I knew I could count on you."
I noticed that Churchill's palm was black with soot, but it was ingrained, and none of it had transferred to my own hand. He wiped his hand idly on his coat, finished his drink, and immediately was on to the next thing that concerned him.
"Right. I have to get back to the House. Matters of state, you know, old boy. There's no rest from them. Keep me informed."
And with that he left me, with half a bottle of scotch on the bar, and a demon waiting for me down in the cellar.
*
I knew that, if I wished to proceed, I would have to go back down into the burned darkness below and investigate further. But the sight of the red, winged thing inside the magic circle had given me quite a turn, and I found it damn near impossible to get my legs to bear me toward the cellar hatch.
In the end, it was the thought of dead children that finally got me moving again, although I did wait until I was sure there was bright sunlight coming in the back window before I walked over and went down the steps.
My first task was to have a better look at the design and layout of the magic circle, or at least as much of it as I could see given that a great deal of it was obscured in soot and ash.
On close examination, I saw that it was exactly the kind of thing I'd expect an enthusiastic amateur to deploy, having been copied line for line from one of the more dubious versions that circulate of The Clavicle of Solomon.
Given that dodgy provenance, I was
now more than a tad surprised that it had actually succeeded in the task set for it. But there was no denying that a presence had indeed been summoned. I saw it, or insubstantial parts of it at least, every time the sun was dimmed, even slightly, and I was ready for a dash upstairs should it cloud over, for I had no wish to see the full thing again, not until I had proper defenses at my disposal.
As soon as gloom threatened to descend again, I decided I had already seen more than enough, and went quickly back up to the bar, where I polished off another glass of Churchill's scotch, although I limited myself to a short measure.
I had work ahead of me, and I had no idea how long it might take to get the job done to Mr. Churchill's satisfaction.
*
Churchill hadn't quite abandoned me completely to my own devices; he had left his man and carriage at the roadside at my disposal, so I was able to make quick time back to Cheyne Walk. While Churchill's man stayed up at the reins of the carriage at my doorstep, I gathered up what I thought I might require, and fortified myself with a quick late lunch of cold meat, bread and cheese.
The man finally deigned to move from his perch when I got outside and he saw me struggling with my box of defenses. He helped me get it into the carriage, then, a mere thirty minutes after arriving in Chelsea, we were on our way back to Vauxhall.
I used the short journey to quickly peruse my own copy of The Clavicle of Solomon that I had brought down off the shelf in the library, but I had remembered correctly, the circles drawn on the floor of the cellar were indeed crude and rudimentary in nature. I believed that any success there had been in the conjuring had come from the force of will of the person who'd made them and used them, rather than from any innate power in the lines themselves.
I put the book away in with my defenses. Alongside the chalk, holy water, garlic and salt and some other provisions, I had brought along my most powerful battery, my newest set of valves, and the little box of tricks for modulating the color washes that I have been experimenting all this past year. I had no idea if they were going to suffice, but they were all that I had at my disposal. I could only hope they were going to be enough for me to fulfil Churchill's faith in my expertise.
Carnacki: The Edinburgh Townhouse and Other Stories Page 19
