by KJ Charles
I was a writer once more, and a ghost-hunter’s companion, and very soon a part of London’s occult hinterland.
Those who knew London of the 1890s will recall the importance of the clubs. There were clubs for braying young oafs of good family, and for upper servants on a spree, for Navy or Army, for the universities and the professions, for political beliefs and sporting habits, artistic inclinations and personal tastes, too. If one wished to describe a good, likeable, pleasant fellow, one would simply call him clubbable.
Simon, needless to say, was not clubbable. He was a member of the Diogenes Club, to which he had been nominated by one of his more peculiar acquaintances, a Government man whose intellectual capacity was matched only by his physical corpulence. This establishment gathered the least sociable men in London under one roof where conversation was strictly forbidden, and was thus Simon’s place of first resort. I did not consider application (I suspect Simon would have blackballed me himself), preferring the undistinguished Stratton Club, where the penny-a-line crowd gathered to talk shop, and the atmosphere was as raucous as the Diogenes was monastic. But we both belonged to the Remnant.
Its exterior was not welcoming—an undistinguished red-brick house on the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields—but then, it did not wish to attract passers-by. The Remnant was the occultists’ club. Here was the biggest library of arcane texts in the British Isles, including some volumes that were locked in cages, and not for fear of thieves. Here gathered the students of shadows, the men and women (for the Remnant admitted both) who had plunged deep into the world beneath the world, and been irrevocably stained. Here one might find Dr. Silence, with his faithful hound by his side; Thomas Carnacki, always ready to tell a story (at length); the formidable Beatrice Phan, with her ever-friendly face, forgiving little and forgetting nothing; and on one memorable occasion Dr. Nikola himself, who held the room spellbound with his stories, fascinated even Miss Kay with his dark mesmeric gaze, and left with a rare compendium of Tibetan magic concealed under his coat.
One did not find Dr. Berry there. His skills as an occultist were unquestioned, but the club committee had indicated that his room was preferred to his company.
“Considering the personalities that are welcome here,” I remarked to Mrs. Phan, “it is a testament to Dr. Berry that he has made himself intolerable.”
“It isn’t his manner that we object to,” she assured me. “It is his methods.”
We were in the Remnant one misty day in late autumn 1895. I had been Simon’s partner, acknowledged in work and secretly in his bed, for some ten months, and it had been a busy time, as readers of my first published Casebook will recall. We had recently concluded the loathsome business of the black swine of Hampstead and had treated ourselves to an excellent dinner as reward, and we were comfortably seated with a glass of port when the Fat Man came in.
(You may ask why I do not name the Fat Man even in an account written after his death. The answer is simple: he had my word that I would never name him in my stories, published or unpublished, and I cannot persuade myself he would not wreak vengeance on faithlessness from beyond the grave.)
The Fat Man was not a habitué of the Remnant. He was not a habitué of anywhere but the Diogenes, since he was too corpulent to move easily: one felt he should have some sort of small wheelbarrow to support his belly. His ponderous entrance attracted several casual glances and a few sharp ones from those who recognised him: Carnacki, Simon, myself.
“Mr. Feximal,” he wheezed. “A moment, please. And a chair.”
We took him to one of the many little studies with which the Remnant was well supplied. Never was there such a club for secret meetings: most of the rooms seated no more than six, and all the walls were thick and doors soundproofed. This occasionally meant that screams went unheard until too late, but that was seen as a tolerable disadvantage.
The Fat Man seated himself in a large armchair that creaked under his bulk, accepted a glass of sherry, folded his hands on his belly and peered at us. He had the shrewdest, most intelligent eyes I have ever seen.
“Tell me,” he began without preamble. “Are you familiar with the story of the dandy-dogs?”
“A Wild Hunt legend, from the south part of the country. One of many.”
“In the mists of time, those unspecified bad old days of yore, a parson named Dando kept the parish of St Germans in Cornwall,” the Fat Man began, in the tone of one determined to tell a story. “Dando was known for his indulgences in the sins of the flesh: eating, drinking, and the darker vices. He was popular with his parishioners, for he saw no need to condemn them for their sins when he was so busily committing his own, but he had one vice that was hard for his neighbours to forgive, and that was hunting. He led the chase across cornfields and cottage gardens without regard for the labour and profit he destroyed, and he went so far as to call out horse and hound on the Sabbath, without regard for the holiness of the day.”
Simon exhaled hard and leaned back with his arms crossed, eyelids drooping. (This should be taken as an indication of his respect for the Fat Man’s authority; I have seen him simply get up and leave the room when he felt a story’s length exceeded its interest.)
The Fat Man ignored him. “Dando, then, rode with his riotous companions, drinking strong wines and taking the Lord’s name in vain in his excitement, until at last the Devil claimed his own.” He waved a hand. “The usual thing. A well-dressed stranger, an intemperate exchange. The stranger seized Dando’s spoils of the chase; the enraged parson proclaimed that he would get his property back if he had to follow the stranger into Hell. ‘So thou shalt,’ the stranger said, and lifted Dando bodily onto his own steed. Horse, riders and hounds galloped headlong into the Lynher, disappearing beneath the waters in a blaze of fire which caused the river to boil for a moment. The wicked priest was never seen again, although he is said to ride the skies of Cornwall on stormy nights, accompanied by his pack of spectral hounds.”
“I trust he has been seen again,” Simon said. “Else I cannot imagine why you have subjected us to this rigmarole.”
“Indeed. Yes, Dando rides out once more. Or something like him.”
“Reports of the Wild Hunt generally prove to be wild geese,” I offered. “I take it something more tangible has happened.”
“There have been sightings. An elderly parson, dressed in antique clothes and of full habit”—the Fat Man made an expressive gesture at his own bulk—“was seen riding a great black horse, a spectral pack of hounds in full cry at his heels.”
“Seen where?” Simon asked.
“First, through the skies over the local hostelry, past midnight. Then, past an isolated cottage inhabited by a nervous widow.” The Fat Man gave a mirthless smile. “Then right down the market street of St Germans at twilight.”
I whistled. “Witnesses?”
“At least fifty, neither drunken nor nervous. Or, at least, not nervous before the manifestation of a ghostly hunt through the marketplace. And then…” He grimaced. “Matters became more serious. The local parson, by all accounts a decent man, if excessively stern with his parishioners, went for a ride on the moors. His horse, a sluggish and elderly beast, returned alone, sweating and terrified, as though it had galloped itself to exhaustion. The parson’s body was found in the river some miles away.”
“Which river?” I asked, at once with Simon’s “How did he die?”
“The Lynher, where Dando met his fate. He drowned—no evidence of hellfire—but his visage was transfigured with terror, it is said. Of course, this might be mere chance. But there is no question of the next. One Mathew Tregow was outside a public house with five friends. They all attest that the Hunt came upon them—‘swooped down out of nowhere’—that the horseman, laughing wildly, pointed his whip at Tregow, that the dogs set after him. The man ran. The huntsman, on his black steed, caught up. The horse rose into the air, with the struggling man clutched in the rider’s grip, and disappeared from view. His body was found in the mid
dle of a plain, shattered and broken, as though it had fallen from a great height.”
Simon scowled. “Serious indeed. But what is it to you?”
The Fat Man exhaled. “One of St Germans’ most notable residents is Lord Westerbury.”
Simon glanced to me. He had abandoned any effort to pay attention to politics, now that I could supply him with information on demand.
“He fought in Afghanistan as General Winton, who ordered the Kabul massacre,” I said. “On his return to England he was given a title but no office. His past was a little too controversial, and his political ambitions a little too, uh, ambitious. He retired to the country a few years ago where he has become a political host.”
“Indeed,” said the Fat Man. “Lord Westerbury was given no place in the halls of power so he has built his own. He invites various men of high standing to Penmadown House, his Cornish property, for…conversation.”
Simon looked blank. “Conversation?”
“Plotting,” I supplied. “If there is a party leader to be dislodged, or a MP to be lured across the floor, or a vote in the House to be swayed, Penmadown House offers a comfortable setting for conspiracy.”
“Stratton Club scribblers’ gossip,” the Fat Man said. “I could not confirm any such thing. However, when the pheasant shooting begins in just two days, Penmadown House will accommodate, among others, the Chief Secretary to the Treasury and four Members of Parliament, each of whom can deliver a number of votes in the House. And a murderous ghost rides the moors.”
“Perhaps the party should be rearranged, then.”
“It will not be.” The Fat Man sounded grim. “Lord Salisbury’s premiership is at stake; so is Lord Westerbury’s reputation as a broker of power. There is a rebellion growing against Salisbury’s conduct of the wars, but it is very early days. The malcontents cannot afford to give any ground. And if Westerbury calls the party off against their will, he will not be trusted again.”
“So you require the Hunt stopped before any of the assembled worthies become its prey,” Simon said. “Very well. Is anyone else on this?”
“Dr. Berry has left for Cornwall already.”
Simon’s jaw set. “Then we shall not. I do not work with Berry, as well you know.”
“I fear I must request it.”
“No.”
The Fat Man’s grey eyes were steely. “Mr. Feximal, this is a matter of national importance. The lives of notable men may depend on your assistance.”
“They risk their lives by choice,” Simon snapped. “Is this anything more than a struggle for power? Can you tell me there is principle at stake?” The Fat Man raised a scornful brow, but he did not disagree; Simon went on. “The lives of many people depend on my work, sir, and all of them are important, if only to themselves. Your men may take their chances.”
“They are important to the nation,” the Fat Man said. There was a note in his voice I did not like.
“I am not the nation,” Simon retorted, heedless. “And Berry is a competent occultist. Trust him to do the task, or if you do not, call him off.”
“Unfortunately, Dr. Berry was engaged by Mr. Parker—”
“Then Mr. Parker can call him off,” Simon interrupted impatiently. “Must I repeat myself?”
The Fat Man’s nostrils flared a little. “Mr. Feximal. You will go to St Germans and put an end to whatever is happening there, alongside Dr. Berry. That is an order.”
The Fat Man held a government position which I will not specify. He was the spider at the centre of a very great web, operating not quite within the bounds of Whitehall, making use of individuals with unusual talents. He had made use of us before, but always as a matter of request, never as of right. He had no right.
Simon’s fist was clenched on the arm of his chair. “You do not give me orders. Remove Berry from the scene, or send Carnacki, or tell Lord Westerbury to cancel his party, I don’t give a curse which. All are within your powers.”
“Yes.” The Fat Man leaned forward. “Everything is within my powers.”
Simon’s face set. “Your meaning?”
“I wish this party to proceed. I wish to know what Dr. Berry does. You will tell me.”
“Absolutely not.” Simon stood. “I do not involve myself in political manoeuvring, and I shall not play your games. Come, Robert.”
I stood. Simon took a stride towards the door. The Fat Man leaned back in his chair and said, “Any male person who, in public or private, commits, or is a party to the commission of—”
“What?”
“—or procures, or attempts to procure the commission by any male person of any act of gross indecency with another male person—”
Simon swung back round to him, face darkening. I grabbed his arm.
“—shall be guilty of a misdemeanour, and being convicted thereof, shall be liable at the discretion of the Court to be imprisoned for any term not exceeding two years, with or without hard labour.”
“That is indeed the law,” I said, as calmly as I could. “What is its application here?”
“Very few men are above the law,” the Fat Man said. “Not even Mr. Parker, and certainly not you, Mr. Feximal, with your friend here.” I felt the swell of Simon’s bicep, dug in my fingers more urgently. “Your domestic arrangements do not interest me. What concerns me is to know Mr. Parker’s orders, as expressed in Dr. Berry’s actions. I wish you to go, and go you shall.”
Simon was rigid in my grip. I told the Fat Man, “We shall discuss it,” and dragged him out. It took an effort.
St Germans is a small village not far from the Tamar estuary. It sits atop a height, a gathering of picturesque white-painted houses clinging to steep grey lanes, doubtless very pretty in summer, but this was an autumn evening. The sea winds whipped at our coattails and howled round our ears. The people looked afraid.
The village offered just one hostelry, the George and Dragon. I procured us a large shared room, pleasingly enough. I do dislike the creeping along corridors necessitated by separate bedrooms. Not that Simon was in a mood for bedroom activities. He had been in a spitting rage since we had spoken to the Fat Man, and I could hardly blame him.
It was my fault. Simon had lived a mostly celibate life before he met me, his few encounters hurried and nameless. I, on the other hand, while discreet, had happily taken part in the entertainments London offered to men of our persuasion. I attended the Gilded Lily, had been often found on Cleveland Street and in the Alhambra, and had—I blush to confess it—enhanced my income in the early days by supplying erotic writings to some of Holywell Street’s more specialist pornographers. (I was considered to have quite the knack for it.) If the Fat Man had been looking for Simon’s weak spot, I was it, and it would probably have been a matter of hours rather than days for him to find that out.
Simon’s ill humour did not derive from that. He never spoke a word of blame or accusation to me on that subject nor, I truly believe, thought one. But he was furious at the Fat Man’s blackmail, furious to be made a puppet in a game he did not wish to play, and enraged beyond measure that I should encounter the loathsome Dr. Berry once more. He had not wanted me to come with him at all, but I had insisted, with all the force at my disposal.
“You must not go out alone,” he said now, sitting heavily on one of the beds to test it. It had a solid wooden frame and barely protested. “Berry is a malicious creature and not to be trusted.”
“I don’t intend to.” I slung my Gladstone bag on the other bed, stripped off my coat, relishing the warmth of a fire that had clearly been blazing all day, and came to sit by him. “And the Fat Man does not trust him either. What purpose do you think he has here, if not to put an end to this haunting?”
“I don’t know or care,” Simon snapped. “My intention is to end this as quickly as possible and return home. I shall not report back on Dr. Berry; I am not a Government spy.”
No, of course he was not, which meant that I would have to take that role or risk the Fat Man’s d
ispleasure. I suppressed a sigh. “It is too late to visit Lord Westerbury tonight. Shall we dine here and see what we can glean from the locals?”
Simon nodded then, as I made to rise, grasped my arm. “A moment. Will you promise me caution?”
“I am always cautious,” I pointed out. “I am far too cowardly not to be.”
“Don’t jest. I am concerned, Robert. I don’t like this business. I suspect we are pawns in a game played by two masters.”
“Well, that is obvious. The Fat Man could have sent any ghost-hunter in the country, and chose the one who most dislikes Dr. Berry. Therefore our role is to provoke him, or to mistrust him, or both. Neither should be hard to do.”
“As long as you mistrust him above all else,” Simon said firmly.
Simon had been very careful to keep me apart from the repulsive doctor, refusing any cases that might bring us into contact. I knew very well that this was his mistrust of Dr. Berry rather than me, and felt no resentment. Simon might fear that I would be the victim of Berry’s powers; I was absolutely terrified by the prospect.
“If I should see Berry without you present, all he will see of me is a clean pair of heels,” I assured him. “I have to ask, though, Simon. If we are fighting this proxy war, however reluctantly… Do you think Berry might know of our connexion?”
Simon shrugged. “What the Fat Man can find out, so can Mr. Parker.”
“Curse them all. Should I go back down and demand separate rooms?”
“No. I don’t want you on your own.”
I raised a brow. “You think I’m in danger of attack?”
Simon gave my arm a forceful tug which, given that he is as strong as an ox, left me sprawling face-down over his lap. “Not from Berry.”
