Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  “I’m sure that wasn’t their intention, but I must admit, I’m happy Maguire was able to remind the superintendent of the importance of being cautious, considering what you’d been through.”

  Rowland looked up sharply, but said nothing.

  “You’re licensed to carry a pistol, aren’t you, Rowly?” Delaney asked.

  “Yes,” Rowland said carefully.

  “Do you have a weapon?”

  “Wil’s old service revolver is in a box somewhere.”

  “It mightn’t be a bad idea to carry it, just until this flaming race is over at least.”

  Rowland shook his head. “I think I might be safer if it stays in the box.”

  “You’re not in the least bit amusing, Rowly,” Edna said, assuming he was making some tangential reference to the fact that she’d shot him with that gun.

  He hadn’t been, but now they were all reminded. Rowland laughed.

  Delaney stood. “I’d best get on.” He glanced at Edna awkwardly. “Would you mind coming in to the station to finish your statement, Miss Higgins?”

  “Not at all, Detective Delaney,” Edna replied.

  “You might be able to help us on another matter, Colin,” Rowland began, glancing at Milton. “This chap Bocquet who claims to have had his tiepin stolen, employed a young woman called Frances as a housemaid. I don’t suppose you could find out if someone’s recorded her details?”

  “Do you have a surname?”

  “No.”

  “The case is John Hartley’s, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Edna and Rowland walked Delaney out as the others were still eating.

  As soon as the detective had left, Edna quizzed Rowland on his peculiar reaction when Delaney made reference to Maguire’s words on her behalf. “I know you, Rowly. What were you thinking?”

  “It wasn’t anything… I just realised that Bill Mackay must be a Mason.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Fredrick Maguire is a member of the Grand Lodge. He reminded Mackay of the fact that they are brothers… and that he’s the bigger brother. It’s probably why Mackay agreed to postpone the interview.”

  “I didn’t hear him say anything about—”

  “It’s a code, a particular turn of phrase.”

  “Oh,” Edna said intrigued. “What turn of phrase?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  Edna’s hands sat indignantly upon her hips. “Why not?”

  “I’m a Mason.”

  “You’re also a grown man.”

  Rowland’s face was grave though there was an unmistakable smile in his eyes. “If I tell you my throat will be cut and my name forever decried as that of a miserable cowan.”

  “What? By the Freemasons?”

  “No, just Wil—goodness knows what the brotherhood would do.”

  Edna laughed. She linked her arm with his. “So, just because he’s a higher ranking Freemason, Frederick Maguire can order Superintendent Mackay about?”

  “It doesn’t quite work that way, but his rank does carry influence.”

  “Well that’s hardly fair.”

  “Possibly not.”

  Elisabeth Sinclair returned to Woodlands House late that morning. Wilfred had thought it best she stay at Roburvale while Rowland was missing, though he kept that fact from her. Elisabeth was a little put out. “As much as I love spending time with you and the children, Wilfred, I am a busy woman. You cannot simply abduct me and refuse to allow me to come home!” she said as he walked her in the door.

  Rowland met them in the vestibule. “Hello Mother,” he said unable to keep the grin off his face as he watched Elisabeth scold her eldest son.

  She looked in consternation at Rowland’s face. “Good heavens! What on earth have you been up to, Aubrey? Did you have another accident in that automobile? You’d best learn to drive that contraption properly before the race. The Red Cross is relying on you! I did not raise you boys to be so careless about your social obligations and responsibilities!”

  Rowland glanced at his brother enquiringly. Their mother seemed unusually spirited this morning.

  “She gets like this when she feels her routine’s been disrupted,” Wilfred whispered wearily.

  “Oh dear,” Elisabeth lamented with equal measures of irritation and sadness. “Miss Higgins promised to teach me all about papiermâché yesterday, but of course Wilfred would not let me come home for some ridiculous reason!”

  “I’m afraid Ed was not very well yesterday, in any case. But I’m sure she’d be delighted to show you today, Mother,” Rowland said soothingly. “I’ll take you to her studio now if you like.”

  “No, I couldn’t. I set aside today to catch up with correspondence. I do wish you’d stop calling that poor girl, Ed. It’s very confusing. Oh, I’m all at sixes and sevens!”

  “Perhaps a nice cup of tea,” Wilfred suggested.

  Milton came in whistling Waltzing Matilda. “Oh, hello Mr. Sinclair. Welcome back, Mrs. Sinclair!”

  Elisabeth’s face lit noticeably. “Thank you, Mr. Isaacs, though I’m sure none of you even noticed I was gone.”

  “Au contraire,” Milton insisted. “I was bereft. This place is unbearably dull without you. I nearly packed my bags as well.”

  Wilfred muttered his scepticism that such an event would ever occur, but Elisabeth was mollified.

  “Perhaps you could join us for tea, Mr. Isaacs?”

  Milton bowed. “A pleasure.” He offered Elisabeth his arm and escorted her into the ladies’ drawing room while Rowland rang for tea.

  Wilfred Sinclair did not stay long, departing for some business to do with the Graziers’ Association’s displays in the main pavilion at the Royal Easter Show. Rowland and Milton took tea with Elisabeth and by the second pot she seemed to have forgotten she was cross. Rowland suspected that his mother was a little besotted with Milton Isaacs, which was probably not as outrageous as it sounded since she’d decided just that morning that she was thirty-six years old.

  In time, Elisabeth retired to her own part of the house under the supervision of Sister O’Hara to see to her correspondence, and Rowland and Milton made plans for that afternoon. They’d decided to visit Magdalene’s House of the Macabre again, with the express intent of seeing what was upstairs. Clyde would come this time to stage a diversion if necessary, or for numbers if there was trouble. The fact that the artist’s face was a rainbow of bruises would probably serve to camouflage him among the exhibits. Indeed if one eye had not been still partially closed, he would have been the ideal choice to infiltrate.

  Of course Edna was furious when she discovered they intended to go without her.

  “You’re not coming, Ed.” Rowland was adamant. “Do I need to remind you that you nearly died yesterday?”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Rowly.”

  “You’re not invited, dear girl.” Milton was equally resolute. “Just try and be gracious about it.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “You’re just not.” Clyde, too, was immovable.

  Edna put up a good fight. Rowland had nearly been worn down into relenting, when she stormed off vowing all manner of vengeance, and denouncing the condescending, patriarchal arrogance of the men with whom she lived.

  Milton winced. “We’re never going to hear the end of this,” he warned.

  Rowland was a little surprised that the sculptress had given up, but perhaps she did not yet feel as well as she purported. Anyway, it would be easier to placate Edna than to live with himself for putting her in danger again.

  Milton had made enquiries among the less respectable citizens who inhabited the streets of Kings Cross after dark, confirming that a coven did in fact meet at Magdalene’s House of the Macabre. Gossip told of figures in robes and masks seen arriving and departing the building at all hours. Most people were afraid to even approach the building after dark.

  “Perhaps Rosaleen Norton’s story was more accurate than we thought,” the poet said uneasil
y.

  “More likely she was inspired by Magdalene’s in the first place,” Rowland suggested.

  Clyde crossed himself just in case. “What exactly are we doing, Rowly?”

  “If we could find out what the coven is hiding, perhaps we’ll find a link to White. I thought if I got myself locked in there after closing, I might be able to have a look at what’s upstairs.”

  “Locked in? Like the character in Miss Norton’s story?”

  “Yes… if you like.”

  “That’s insanely risky, Rowly.”

  “Not really,” Rowland replied. “They’re not actually witches… probably just some occult club if anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re all Miss Norton’s age, gathering in secret to drink cheap sherry, smoke and recite bad poetry.”

  “Steady on!” Milton protested. “Slandering poets is uncalled for.”

  “You may want to remember that someone cut White’s throat,” Clyde pointed out.

  Rowland conceded that fact. “You chaps wait for me outside. I’ll hold up my lighter in a window facing Macleay Street every half hour. If you don’t see it,” he grinned, “or you hear screaming, fetch the police.”

  “I dunno, Rowly.” Clyde rubbed the back of his neck. “I have a bad feeling. And why does it have to be you? Milt or I could—”

  “While you look a bit like an exhibit at the moment, old mate, you still can’t see properly, and we can’t risk Milt being arrested for any reason. I came out of our encounter with the Martinellis rather better than you and I’m not currently the major suspect in a murder.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’ll be all right,” Rowland assured him. “If I get caught, I’ll just say that I was so engrossed in their wonderful displays that I failed to hear the closing bell and got locked in. Don’t worry.”

  And so they bought tickets about half an hour before closing time.

  “Oh hello, what are you chaps doing aboard?” Errol Flynn spotted them amongst the milling crowd. He had his arms around Edna. The couple made their way over, hand in hand. “Fancy running into you gentlemen. Edna said she’d heard this place was a very romantic venue,” he winked at Milton, “so we thought it would do nicely.”

  Edna looked at them all innocently, swinging Flynn’s hand in hers.

  The actor glanced around. “So, where are your young ladies?”

  “We didn’t bring any guests,” Rowland said curtly.

  “Oh I say, really?” Flynn said, apparently surprised that they would spend time at Magdalene’s for any purpose other than seduction.

  “We were having a drink nearby, and we thought we’d come in… just for a lark,” Milton said quickly. “They’ll be closing soon… perhaps I could suggest a restaurant I know in Milson’s Point? Also very romantic.”

  “Oh no, I like it here,” Edna said. “It’s quite fun to be frightened when I have Errol to protect me.”

  “This is not funny, Ed,” Rowland said quietly.

  “Of course it’s not funny, it’s a House of the Macabre.”

  It was Milton who eventually made the decision to bring them into the plan as it became clear that Edna would not leave. He checked first to see they would not be overheard before he whispered. “Right, Rowly’s going to have himself locked in here. Don’t argue or ask why—I’ll explain later. We have to locate somewhere he can hide, and then create a diversion so he can do so. You two may actually be useful.”

  “What?” Edna whispered back, appalled.

  “You insisted on joining us Ed, so don’t make a scene. We’ve thought this caper out—we won’t let anything happen to Rowly. Now are you in?”

  “Ready to heave to, mate,” Flynn said, saluting.

  Edna thought for a moment. She poked Rowland. “You be careful.”

  VETERAN JUDGE DENOUNCES “BEAST 666” Tales of Mystic Rites

  SINISTER and appalling secrets of so called magic—black and white—were revealed during the hearing of a case that has stirred the British public, the jury and even the judge himself in the King’s Bench. As the case unfolded there were told strange stories of weird ceremonies and mystic rites, of blood sacrifices and exotic ceremonies, of a mysterious ‘Beast 666’ and of a ‘poet magician’ Aleister Crowley, who ‘made a sonnet of unspeakable things.’ “I have been engaged for forty years in the administration of the law in one capacity or another,” said the veteran judge, Mr. Justice Swift, “and I thought that I knew every conceivable form of wickedness. I have learned in this case that you can always learn something more if you live long enough. Never have I heard such dreadful, horrible, blasphemous, abominable stuff as that which has been produced by this man (Crowley), who describes himself as the greatest living poet.”

  THE case was brought by Mr. Edward Alexander (Aleister) Crowley of Carlos Place, Grosvenor Square, against Miss Nina Hamnett, the writer of a book called ‘Laughing Torso,’ in which Mr. Crowley alleged he had been libelled. Miss Hamnett, a well-known artist and a popular figure in Bohemian London, put forward as her defence a denial that the words complained of were defamatory and further stated that they were true in substance and in fact. According to Mr. J. P. Eddy, who appeared for Mr. Crowley, this book, ‘Laughing Torso,’ purported to be an account of Miss Hamnett’s own life with a number of intimate sketches of friends and acquaintances introduced. It was stated in one passage that Mr. Crowley had a temple called the Temple of Thelema at Cefalu (in Sicily) where he was supposed to practice black magic.

  FRIGHTENED

  “One day a baby was said to have disappeared mysteriously. There was also a goat there. This all pointed to black magic, so people said, and the inhabitants of the village were frightened of him.”

  …He admitted that he had made a sonnet of unspeakable things, but he had not advocated unrestricted sexual freedom, though he had protested against the sexual oppression that existed in England… Then came a dramatic passage of crossexamination. “As a part of your magic you do believe in a practice of blood sacrifice?” asked counsel. “I believe in its efficacy,” was the reply. “If you believe in its efficacy, you would believe in it being practised, and you would say it could be practised without impropriety?” “I do not approve of it at all.”

  “You say in your book of magic for nearly all purposes human sacrifice is best?” “Yes, it is.”…

  Truth, 1934

  ____________________________________

  An ideal hiding spot for Rowland was found behind the guillotine display where he would be entirely hidden by a pile of decapitated waxen heads. And then Edna went to work.

  She chose the werewolf exhibit at the other end of the gallery, and pointing to the largest figure she screamed, “It moved, my God it moved. It’s real… it’s come to life!”

  Then Milton cried, “By George, I think you’re right madam. The evil fiend moved! What’s going on here?”

  Then Edna collapsed into hysteria while Flynn put up his fists to the wax werewolf.

  Clyde crossed himself and began muttering the Lord’s Prayer, though it was debatable whether that was an act.

  Not unexpectedly there was mayhem as customers surged for either the werewolf or the exit. Rowland slipped quietly into the space they’d identified, and waited.

  A staff member emerged to verify and demonstrate that the wax werewolf had not come to life and calm was duly restored, though the air was charged with the extra thrill of possibility. Many patrons left, whether it was because the waxworks was closing or because of residual concern that other exhibits would animate, was difficult to determine. Edna departed on Errol Flynn’s arm and Clyde and Milton followed soon after. The House of the Macabre was cleared, the lights switched off and the doors secured.

  When he’d heard nothing for a minute or two, Rowland used his lighter to check his watch making a vague mental note to have the cracked crystal replaced. He had half an hour from now to signal, or Clyde would summon the police, which would be embarrassing if the only felony was his. />
  He waited where he was for a further ten minutes and then stepped out, wishing he’d thought to bring a torch. Fumbling his way to a window he made the first signal, again checking the time as he did so. As his eyes adjusted, the wax figures became an ominous presence, unnerving though he knew they were lifeless. Rowland resolutely ignored the grotesques and monstrous manifestations, looking instead for the arched exit that led into the area in which he’d encountered the weeping Daisy Forster. He made his way through the arch, picking out the denser darkness of the prohibited stairwell, occasionally groping some monster or other in his stumbling progress. He thought briefly about trying to find the Greek Room but decided against it. Better to see what was upstairs.

  Rowland headed up the narrow stairwell using the feeble illumination from his cigarette lighter to gauge the steps. It was probably fortunate he didn’t smoke—at least the lighter was full. He emerged into the hallway of the second floor. Two doors. The first led to what was a small office as far as he could tell: filing cabinets, a roll-top desk, a coat rack on which were hung what appeared to be long black gowns and pointed hoods. Rowland stiffened. The Fascist Legion had worn similar costumes when they’d dealt the New Guard’s justice to Communists and other opponents of the movement. Could Milton be right, after all? Was Campbell behind all this?

  Though it had only been twenty-five minutes since he last signalled, he did so again via the office’s window, before he crossed the corridor and opened the other door. The room was pitch black. He couldn’t even make out the outline of windows. He used his lighter to find the ceiling light cord and risked pulling it on. Rowland breathed, relieved when he saw that all the windows had been blacked out. He closed the door behind him. Though smaller than he expected, considering there seemed to be only two rooms on this upper floor, the chamber was still a reasonable size. The floor and the ceiling were painted with pentagrams and other symbols, and an imposing altar occupied the centre of the space.

  Rowland knew he had roughly twenty-eight minutes before he’d have to return to the office and signal again. He examined the marble-topped altar—a curious piece of furniture indeed. Its base was carved with demonic figures which declared absolutely that this was a place where black magic was practised. Conspicuously placed atop the altar was a copy of Aleister Crowley’s Magick in Theory and Practice. Rowland didn’t know the title but had heard of the notorious occultist and recalled that Inky Stephensen had mentioned publishing his work at one time.