Chapter 15
Chamber of Horrors
Like the good raconteur that he was, C.B. paused to knock out his pipe. Copely-Syle jerked his head forward and exclaimed in a breathless whisper, ‘Go on, man! Go on! What did you find?’
C.B. looked him straight in the eyes, and, certain of his facts on this final point, said quietly, ‘McAleister was dead. He was stretched out on his back with his arms flung wide, absolutely rigid, just as though he had been electrocuted, and with an appalling look of stark horror on his face such as I never wish to see again. Crowley’s pontifical robes were scattered in ribbons about the floor. It looked as if they had been ripped from his body by some ferocious animal. He was crouching in a corner naked. He didn’t know any of us. He had become a gibbering idiot.’
The Canon took a quick gulp at his drink and muttered, ‘Horrible, horrible! Have you any idea what went wrong?’
‘No; none of us had. We could only suppose that McAleister had been unable to take it, and cracked at the critical moment. Crowley was in a private asylum outside Paris for six months. He was very lucky to recover his sanity, and afterwards he would never speak of the affair. In fact, I doubt very much if he had any definite memory of what had happened. But you’ll understand now why from that time on he seemed like a washed-out rag, and why when you met him he entirely failed to impress you.’
‘Yes,’ the Canon nodded. ‘I was not introduced to him until the early ‘thirties, and what you have told me explains the disappointment I felt at the time. But we have not yet recalled where it was that I met you.’
Again C.B. was on dangerous ground, but he knew that Crowley had spent much of the ’thirties in London, and that the better-off mystics preferred the privacy of houses to living in flats; so he punted for that area of the capital which then had a greater number of moderate-sized private houses than any other, and said, ‘For the life of me I can’t recall the occasion definitely, but I have the impression that it was at a party held out Regent’s Park way, or in St John’s Wood.’
‘Ah!’ said the Canon. ‘Then it must have been at Mocata’s house: at least at a house just behind Lord’s that he made his headquarters for a while; although I believe it was actually owned by a wealthy young Jew who had become a disciple of his.’
This was the acid test. C.B. was acutely aware that, if Copely-Syle entertained any suspicions of his bona fides, in the question of where they might have met before lay the perfect opportunity to set a trap. He had only to suggest a place in which he had never been and, if his visitor accepted it, unmask him as a fraud. But C.B. felt it reasonable to hope that their talk of Aleister Crowley had gone a long way to still any early doubts about himself that the Canon might have held, and that his suggestion was free from guile. Gambling boldly on that, and using his excellent knowledge of London even to gild the lily a little, he replied: ‘Of course that must have been it. And unless my memory’s failing me again the house was in Medina Place.’
‘That is so,’ the Canon nodded. ‘I went there on a number of occasions and on none of them were there less than twenty people present. That is why I failed to recall you at first sight. There was an observatory at the top of the house, and it proved most useful for the performance of certain rituals.’
‘It was Crowley who took me there, but only once.’ C.B. hedged cautiously to avoid being questioned on how well he knew this Mr Mocata; but his host went on reminiscently: ‘Poor Mocata; he too fell by the wayside through attempting too much. That must have been shortly after we met, as the house at St John’s Wood was his last address. He was engaged in a search for the Talisman of Set, but he came into conflict with a White Magician of greater power than himself, and was found dead one morning outside a house called Cardinal’s Folly, in Worcestershire. The coroner’s jury brought it in as heart, of course; but I’ve no doubt at all that it was the rebound of an unsuccessful curse sent out by himself that killed him.’
‘I trust,’ said C.B., ‘that the work you are engaged upon is not of such a dangerous nature.’
Copely-Syle’s light hazel eyes lit up again, and now held a fanatical gleam. ‘There is always danger in great magical operations; but I should have no fear whatever of the outcome if only this accursed girl had not eluded me. Whatever it costs, whatever risks are run, she must be in my hands by the evening of the 6th.’
‘You have less than forty-eight hours left to work in; and as long as the French authorities keep her in prison I don’t see how de Grasse can get hold of her for you.’
Standing up, the Canon began to walk agitatedly up and down. ‘You are right. De Grasse can do nothing now except under my direction. I must handle this myself.’
‘How do you propose to set about it?’
‘I shall fly out to France tomorrow. Some of de Grasse’s thugs will at least be able to help from their knowledge of the prisons and the warders.’
‘In so short a time it is not going to be easy to plan an escape—or rather, the even more difficult job of an abduction—as it is unlikely now that she would be willing to leave prison with any of de Grasse’s people. It may take days of cautious enquiry before one or more jailers who are susceptible to bribery can be seduced, and then one would have to wait until it was their turn to go on night duty.’
‘No, no!’ The Canon’s voice was sharp with impatience. ‘This is a case for the use of occult weapons; only so can the time factor be overcome. I shall telephone de Grasse to find out the names of the jailers who will be on duty tomorrow night. Then he must get me some things belonging to them. Nail clippings or hair are too much to hope for at such short notice, but it should not be difficult to steal some of their soiled linen; unwashed pants or pyjamas would serve quite well. With those to work on I could easily bemuse their minds and make them temporarily my servants. As for the girl, after sunset she is ruled by Asmodeus, so will do as she is directed.’
Having let the Canon know that Christina was in prison, a few hours before he would otherwise have learned it, had enabled C.B. to fish very skilfully for the steps her pursuer would take in consequence. Now that he knew them he was able to make a bid to counter them in advance; and, being no mean psychologist, he put a price on the bait in the trap he was laying so that the Canon would be less likely to suspect it to be one. With a thoughtful air, he remarked: ‘I came back from the South this morning only on account of some urgent personal business I had to attend to in London. I tackled that before coming down here, and I am flying out again tomorrow. I have quite enough experience to perform the minor magics you have in mind, so could save you the trip—if you cared to make it worth my while.’
The fat little Canon halted in front of him. ‘That certainly is an idea, as de Grasse would give you the same cooperation as he would me. But are you absolutely certain you could do that which is necessary? Remember, should you fail there will be no second chance; for if we do not get her out of prison by tomorrow night there will be no time left to transport her to England before her birthday is over. No! I dare not risk it. Much as I dislike air travel, I must fly down tomorrow and cast these spells myself.’
‘Just as you like.’ C.B. shrugged with apparent indifference. ‘But I performed just the type of operation you have in mind successfully several times during the war. During the latter part of it I was working in France for the Gestapo, and I managed to get several of their agents out of the clutches of the de Gaullists by such means.’
‘What grade do you hold?’ asked the Canon uncertainly.
‘I have eight circles and three squares.’
‘Really! Then you are past the Abyss.’
‘Yes. I passed it on Walpurgis Night, 1946.’
‘As a Magister Templi you could hardly fail. But what did you mean by “making it worth your while” to act for me? With such powers you surely cannot be short of money?’
C.B. shook his head. ‘It is not that, and it will cost you nothing. What I had in mind was this: Virgins of three times seven years ar
e never particularly easy to come by, and to procure one for use on the night of her twenty-first birthday, when nearly every girl is given a party of some sort, makes the success of such a quest a matter of extreme difficulty. That such a combination is essential to the completion of your work tells me that you must be engaged on a magical operation of quite exceptional importance. As an initiate of twenty-five years’ standing I am naturally interested now only in the most advanced types of conjuration; but in those I am very interested indeed. Would it be too much to ask you to tell me the end towards which you are working and, perhaps, when we have got the girl, allow me to act as your assistant in the final transubstantiation?’
Copely-Syle thought for a moment, then he replied, ‘Were you still below the Abyss I would not consider it fitting to disclose to you such formula as I must use; neither would I risk allowing you to make one in a coven for such a ceremony were I not an Ipsissimus, and free to choose my associates within certain limits. But since you are an Adept of the S.S. with only two circles to gain and two squares to lose before reaching the highest plane of the Order, I see nothing against acceding to your request. I should warn you, though, that this is a matter which it would be sheer madness for anyone of a lesser degree than Ipsissimus to attempt, for it is the greatest of all the Great Works.’
‘You must refer to the achieving of Oneness with God,’ said C.B., stroking back his grey hair.
‘Yes. No one would deny that the transmutation of base metals into gold, or the distillation of the Elixir that will renew youth and prolong life indefinitely, are Great Works; but for many years I have devoted myself to a greater. I have now reached a point where only one thing is necessary for me to become the equal of God. On the 6th of March I, Augustus Copely-Syle, will also create Life.’
‘Homunculi?’ murmured C.B., suppressing a start.
The Canon bared his ugly, blackened teeth in a smile. ‘Yes, homunculi; and one of them at least shall be a creature capable of thought and speech.’
C.B. was swiftly recalling all he could remember about this strange and awe-inspiring subject. There were many legends of minor deities having transformed inanimate objects into human beings, and the experts on folklore now recognised that such legends were usually race memories of priest-kings and witch-doctors who had actually lived in pre-historic times. No doubt during many generations of repetition the storyteller’s art had embellished these legends to such a degree that in their final form they bore little resemblance to the original happenings; but the possibility remained that some of them at least had been based on more than entirely factless imagination.
From the earliest historical times, the practice of magic had been not merely widespread, but accepted as the proper occupation for every priesthood, and a natural subject for study by everyone with any pretence to education. In consequence, among the clay tablets of Babylonia, the papyrus of Egypt and the esoteric writings of the great nations of the Mediterranean, ample evidence could be found of attempts to create spontaneous generation, often with claims to varying degrees of success.
Among those who had trafficked in these forbidden mysteries was a Count von Küffstein, and C.B. remembered reading in an old book of the experiments he had carried out in the year 1775 at his castle in the Tyrol. With the aid of an Italian Abbé named Geloni, the Count had succeeded in producing ten living creatures who resembled small men and women. They had, however, been more in the nature offish than mammals, as they were incapable of living for long in anything so rarefied as air, and had to be kept in large strong glass jars that were filled with liquid. Once a week the jars were emptied and refilled with pure rain water, to which certain chemicals were added, and human blood on which the homunculi fed. That they had been capable of thought and emotion was instanced by perhaps the strangest of all love stories, for one of the males was said to have escaped from his jar and died from exhaustion while attempting to get into the jar that imprisoned the prettiest of the females.
All these thoughts raced through C.B.’s mind in a few seconds as he sat with his long legs stretched out in front of him, staring at the round, excited face of the Canon. His reading told him that this fantastic thing was just remotely possible, as there was too much evidence for it to be shrugged aside as utter nonsense; yet he considered it much more likely that this evil little man was mad.
‘You don’t believe me, eh?’ Copely-Syle’s thick underlip was thrust forth in an aggressive grin. ‘Well, come with me and you shall see.’
Turning abruptly, he led the way out of the room and down a corridor connecting the new with an old part of the house, till they reached a heavy iron door built into a low stone archway that must have been many centuries old. Taking a small key attached to a long gold snake-chain from his pocket, he inserted it in a modern Chubb lock, gave a quick turn, pressed, and the weighty door swung silently open.
They were standing at the top of a flight of stone steps, and C.B. found himself looking down into as strange and eerie an apartment as it was possible to imagine. At first sight it appeared to be a chapel, but as its floor was a good six feet below ground-level it could, perhaps, be more accurately described as a crypt. A double row of slender pillars supported its roof. At its far end, fifty feet away, three broad shallow steps led up to an altar, now partially hidden by flanking curtains. On it a candle burned before a shadowy something that C.B. could not make out. This solitary candle apart, the place was lit only by the reddish glow coming from a large furnace to the right of the flight of steps, at the top of which they stood.
As the vaguely-seen furnishings of the chamber became clearer, C.B. felt as though he had been transported back to the Middle Ages, for before him were spread out all the paraphernalia of an alchemist’s laboratory. To his right stood the open furnace with its scalloped canopy, funnel-shaped chimney, and iron pull-handle for working its bellows: to his left was a great astrolabe and a human skeleton with wired joints. In the centre of the chamber were four stout oak refectory tables. On them stood many strange-shaped bottles, balances and retorts, and beneath the nearest showed the outline of a mummy-case. Behind the pillars, in one side aisle, stood a line of what looked like huge round tea-cosies, and in the other, only dimly seen, what appeared to be a number of large hen-coops. The only items lacking to complete the traditional picture were a stuffed alligator and other fearsome reptiles hanging from the roof; yet even this type of adjunct to the wizard’s art was not entirely lacking, as the scampering of little feet and a faint whimpering, coming from the coops and a row of cages beyond them, told of living things imprisoned there for the magician’s use.
C.B. had hardly gathered a general impression of the place, and taken one step down, before the Canon first closed and locked the door behind them, then switched on a row of electric lights.
Now every detail of the interior could be seen, and it instantly became obvious that in addition to being a ‘puffer’s workshop’ this ancient half-crypt was used as a Satanic Temple. On one of the curtains which partially shut off the semi-circular bay containing the altar there was embroidered in rich colours the figure of a rearing goat, on the other the figure of a woman who had seven breasts and a serpent’s tail. Between them the altar could now be clearly seen. Against a beautiful backcloth showing Adam and Eve in relation to the Macrocosm, a black and broken crucifix stood out. Nailed to it, head uppermost, which in this instance was the equivalent of upside down, hung a large bat. Upon the altar lay a jewelled sword, a vellum-bound book and a gold, gem-encrusted chalice. The front of the altar was covered with cloth of gold, into which were woven semi-precious stones forming the ten signs of the Cabala; but in places the fabric showed brownish stains, suggestive of dried blood. The solitary candle that burned in front of the desecrated crucifix was black.
Feeling that some remark was called for, and knowing that in no circumstances must he show surprise or disgust, C.B. said, ‘You have splendid quarters here. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen better.’
‘I was lucky to find them,’ replied the Canon. ‘It is extremely difficult to acquire a comfortable house which has adjacent to it an altar that was consecrated for many centuries; and, of course, the use of it enormously increases the potency of my operations. I chanced to hear of it shortly after the first world war. For many years it had been lived in only by a succession of caretakers. As it was the abode of quite a number of elementals, I got it for a song.’
While he was speaking he turned to the furnace and began to make it up. It was similar to those used by old-fashioned blacksmiths—a great open bed of coke in an iron trough nearly five feet square. By a few puffs from the bellows the lower layers of fuel could soon be made white-hot, but now they gave out only a reddish glow that shone here and there through cracks in the layers of still-black fuel above them. The Canon spread a new layer of coke on top, blotting out the glow entirely, then damped it down for the night by spraying cold water on it.
As soon as he had finished, he led the way over to one of the big tables. Pinned out upon it were what amounted to a number of blueprints, each showing in the greatest detail the structure of various portions of the human body. Beyond them were rows of glass-stoppered jars containing pieces of skins, muscles, ligaments, arteries, kidneys, livers and other viscera pickled in spirit. The sight of them told C.B. that whatever element of magic there might be in this horrible process it must be basically, at least, scientific; and a moment later Copely-Syle confirmed his thoughts by saying: ‘To you, as a Magister Templi, I need hardly refer to the fact that magic is no more than the application of natural laws as yet unrecognised by all but a very limited number of people, such as ourselves. In the initial stages of my work I do nothing of which a moderately intelligent biologist is not capable, given the necessary materials and a considerable degree of patience. Even in the more advanced stages there is little that a fully trained scientist would find difficult to follow and imitate. In fact, were I prepared to give my secrets to the world and the masses could be prevented from sabotaging such work on account of their childish prejudices, there is no reason whatever why an unlimited number of homunculi should not be manufactured.’
To the Devil, a Daughter Page 23
