The Secret Casebook of Simon Feximal

by KJ Charles

  “Between this and the scar,” I said irritably, gazing into the mirror, “it is a damned good thing I am with you, for I feel sure no other fellow would be interested.”

  “Lucky for them.” Simon took me round the waist and pressed a kiss against my neck. “I should not permit it.”

  “I could dye it,” I mused.

  “Don’t be absurd.” He moved away to peruse the letter in his hand.

  “It is hardly absurd. I am just turned thirty-one and look like an old man already. Can you tell me you don’t mind? No, of course you don’t mind; you would not notice if I shaved my head and painted it blue. Shall I do that, Simon? Paint my head blue?”

  “Whatever you like, yes.”

  I shot him a glare, wasted because he was entirely engrossed in the paper he held, and turned back to contemplation of my features. I had yet to shave, and my beard was, regrettably, as grey as my hair. I was considering whether a moustache would make me look more authoritative or simply older when Simon handed me the letter.

  “See what you make of this.”

  I scanned the sheet. Cheap paper, and cheap ink too: the nib had spluttered at several points. An uneducated hand. And a most peculiar plea.

  “The man who runs the coconut shy on Rochester pier believes the fortune-teller is possessed by Satan. Why do you give me this spiteful nonsense? Throw it away.”

  “So I thought, but look at his accusations. When you discount the evident malice, what does he say?”

  I read over the screed again. There was a great deal of malice to discount. The fortune-teller was, we were informed, an “unnatural thing”, so sworn to the Devil’s party that he could not set foot over the threshold of a church, and far too accurate (aided by Satan, of course). This, I had to admit, was unusual.

  We had spite come to us constantly. Accusations based on race or religion (that Jews did this, Catholics that, and lascars the other) were frequent. Some letters gave the impression that their authors were unbalanced, or the worse for drink, or both; a few were pure hatred. Our morning’s post often left me feeling really quite jaundiced about my fellow man.

  Of course our profession made it a little harder to tell what was a valid complaint and what spite or fantasy. We once ignored a series of letters complaining that the neighbouring house was full of snakes, only to learn that the writer was telling the literal truth. But in general, the malicious communications were of the same repellent type.

  To accuse a fortune-teller, that most meretricious and deceptive of creatures, of excessive truth-telling…that was different enough to catch the eye.

  “Why not give it to Miss Kay?” I suggested. “She is the expert on divination.”

  Simon offered me a rueful smile. “Too late. She gave it to me.”

  That meant she had decided it was our task to assess the fortune-teller, to warn off a false claimant or bring a real one to her attention. Or, of course, to deal with whatever might arise should this be a case of demonic possession after all. I gave a resigned sigh and returned my attention to the question of a moustache.

  We arrived in Rochester on the afternoon of the thirty-first of December 1899.

  It was a strange time. The Queen who had given her name to our era was very old now, and change was in the air. Extraordinary inventions—motorcars, electrical devices, telephones—were discussed as though they might become everyday things. Women were agitating for new rights. The fin de siècle mood had been as popular as decadence always is, but a new century was dawning, with all the promise that any birth brings, and as we stood on Rochester Pier with the wind whipping cold air from the sea across our faces, it seemed to smell of the future, of life, of hope.

  Rochester was in celebratory mood. It is not a large town—though it is of course a city, for it boasts an ancient cathedral, as well as a castle. These great buildings are incongruous in what is otherwise a little enclosed place, the market area set within medieval walls, the town itself huddled behind fortifications from the Napoleonic wars. Its location at the mouth of the Thames estuary leading to the sea had made it vulnerable to invaders, from the ancient Danes to the recent French, but its docks and shipyard were thriving, and its narrow ancient streets were bright with celebration. There were coloured lanterns, and fireworks, bonfires and stalls. It was as bitterly cold as one might expect of a waterside town in the depths of winter, and the darkness was closing in, but that did not stem the holiday spirit of the revellers.

  This felt, in truth, more like an excursion than work. I bought a bag of roasted chestnuts which we cracked and ate as we walked along the pier, a working space turned to pleasure on this momentous date. We passed puppeteers and jugglers and dancing dogs, stalls selling spun sugar and a great carousel with painted horses that gleamed with red and gold.

  “There’s the coconut shy,” I said reluctantly. “I suppose we should see our informant.”

  He was one Ephraim Jenkins, an oily sort of fellow who cracked his knuckles continually and was very willing to repeat his claims.

  “Something wrong with that Seer, as he calls himself,” he told us, in conspiratorial tones. “Don’t look right, don’t sound right. Against nature, that’s what I say. One of those Oscar Wilde sorts, if you ask me.”

  “I did not,” Simon said. “And if you have brought me here for gossip and spite—”

  “No, no, no, sir, not at all,” Jenkins put in hastily. “I was just saying—”

  “Just say something to the point,” I suggested. It was tempting to let him annoy Simon to the point of retribution, but I preferred to have done with this and go home. “You claim this Seer is too accurate.”

  “That’s right. Knows stuff he shouldn’t know. Couldn’t. Says things, too, the nasty little spying, peeping—”

  “What sort of things?” Simon interrupted.

  Jenkins declined to be drawn to specifics on this, but his veiled allusions and offended mutters suggested that the Seer had made observations about his personal life which were both accurate and unwelcome.

  “Anyone can find out gossip,” I said. “What was this about the church?”

  “Ah, sir, that’s the proof, and I saw it with my own eyes. Christmas Day, service at Rochester Cathedral. All the folks going in. There he is in his heathen robes, part of the crowd….” A dramatic pause then Jenkins intoned, “He couldn’t pass the threshold.”

  “Meaning what?” Simon demanded. “Passed out, fell to the floor, burst into flames, turned and left? What?”

  “Cried out like he’d been bit by a snake, turned and ran,” Jenkins replied, somewhat sulkily.

  “For which there could be a dozen causes,” Simon said. “You are obviously malicious and of remarkably little use. I recommend you apply yourself to your own business and not your neighbours’. Good day.”

  “Have I mentioned that I am very fond of you?” I enquired, as we turned away from the coconut shy.

  “Why? Look, I think that’s it.”

  The tent Simon indicated was a small, rather shabby affair in threadbare purple velvet, with a bored barefoot urchin minding the entrance. A faded board announced its occupant to be The Seer of All Secrets, and as we watched, a lady emerged from it in a state of extreme high dudgeon.

  “Bloody cheek!” she announced, face reddened with rage, rouge and gin—“lady” was perhaps a generous description. “Not worth a farthing! The nerve of it. And I’ll tell you what’s more—”

  The urchin handed her some coins, with the weary air of one used to giving refunds. The lady inspected them, sniffed, tossed a few more imprecations into the tent-flap, and stormed off.

  It was doubtless a waste of time but we might as well be sure, having come here. We made our way to the tent flap, where the barefoot boy barred our entry, announcing, “One at a time, please, gents, and it’s thruppence,” in shrill tones.

  I glanced at Simon. “Shall I?”

  “By all means.”

  I dropped a coin into the grubby, outstretched hand. T
he guardian child leaned slightly to the side, thus indicating that the gateway was open, and I ducked through the velvet flap and into the musty tent.

  The space was small, and low, reeking of cheap incense. A table at its centre, covered with a gaudy cloth, held a crystal ball with a crack running through it, as though it had been dropped. Before it was a rickety stool, which I took. Behind the table sat a person.

  It was impossible, from the shadowed, smooth features, the robes, and the pleasant alto voice, to tell whether the Seer of Secrets was male or female, or both, or other. As we were to learn, neither “he” nor “she” is quite appropriate for that remarkable person; I prefer to do violence to grammar rather than insult to nature, and use a singular “they”.

  They looked at us, with very old eyes in a very young face, and spoke in a fluting voice that I can only describe as mystical. “I am the Seer of Secrets. What is your name?”

  “Robert.”

  “Robert. Give me your hands.” They extended their own hands over the table to me.

  If this Seer were a fraud, as the threadbare trappings and affected tones suggested, that would be made instantly clear by their reaction, or lack of it, to the cartouche. I put out my hands.

  The Seer took hold of them for a fraction of a second, snatched their own hands back as if burned, recoiled from me with a cry of fear and fell off the chair.

  “Good God,” I said, peering down at the confusion of cheap satin and thrashing legs. “Are you all right?”

  “What the bloody fucking hell was that?” demanded the Seer, in tones that held a lot more East End than previously. “I mean—” That was back to the fluting voice, then they evidently decided the situation was beyond rescue. “Bugger.”

  I reached out my right hand to help them up. They waved it away, scrambling to their feet, looking at me with wary eyes.

  “I shan’t hurt you. Sit down.” I extended my hands again. “What did you see? Don’t bother with the voice.”

  They gave my hand a prod with the tip of a finger, not touching the cartouche. “Cor blimey, mate. Who did this to you?”

  “Nobody you need worry about.”

  “Well, you say that. Lor’ love a duck, what is this? It goes…” They stopped. They looked up and out, at the tent flap. Then they said, “Whyn’t you ask him to come in?”

  “Him?”

  “Him this goes to. The connected one.”

  “Simon!” I called. He stepped through the flap a moment later. “Simon, this is the Seer of Secrets.”

  “Jo,” the Seer offered, slightly shamefaced. “Just Jo.”

  Simon held out his hand. Jo narrowed their eyes, which were of a warm golden-brown shade. They held out their own slim fingers in a decidedly cautious fashion, touched them to Simon’s and snatched them away with a wince.

  “Well, now. So you’re Robert, and you’re Simon, and there’s ghosts all round you both. I don’t need to be much of a fortune-teller for this one, do I? Hello there, Mr. Simon Feximal, what brings you here, like I don’t know.”

  “What do you think brings us here?” I asked.

  Jo put their elbows on the table with a thump. “I’ve been getting it right again,” they said, sounding very young and very hopeless. “I ought to make it up like everyone else, but I can’t help it. I mean, I try, really I do. If I look into the crystal and talk about sweethearts and riches, everyone’s happy. But…” Voice down to a whisper. “It’s not true. It’s not what I see.”

  Simon placed his hand on the table. “Show me what you see. Something that you could not know from Robert’s writing,” he added. We had had my books quoted back at me more than once.

  “One of your ghosts?”

  “If you will.”

  Jo touched Simon’s hand. Their eyelids drooped. “Plenty here, ain’t there? Eels, smells, rats…glass eyes? Dead man’s fingers. Drowned fingers. Silver. And a noise, thump thump thump, it’s a horse, a black horse—the horse!” They shrieked the last words. “Oh my God!”

  “Well, that seems conclusive,” Simon remarked.

  Jo had gone pale. “That was—did he really— Oh, God, oh God, no.”

  “Don’t waste your sympathy,” I said. “He deserved his end.”

  Jo shook their head dumbly. There was a stir behind us and the urchin crept by, to Jo’s side, eyes wide with alarmed defiance.

  “’S all right, Sam.” Jo put an arm around the child’s shoulders. “’S fine.”

  “You advertise yourself as a fortune-teller,” Simon said. “Do you see the future?”

  Jo grimaced. “People say see like you’re watching the play but that’s not how it is. I have pictures, images, feelings, you know?”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Jo frowned at me. “You do, don’t you? You see things. And you’re not…” The child Sam poked the Seer in the arm with a grubby warning finger.

  “Not what?” I asked.

  “Listen.” Simon spoke over my words. “We were called here by one of your neighbours who objects to your use of your talents, and is right to do so. You are dabbling in darkness. You are reaching out to dangerous forces without protecting yourself or considering the risk to those around you. Have you any idea what you might have summoned? What you might have let through?”

  Jo shrank back. Sam grabbed their arm, glaring at Simon.

  “No, I don’t,” Jo said, in a thread of a voice. “I got no idea. I didn’t ask to be like this, I never wanted it, I can’t help it. I touch your skin and I see. I don’t want to but I can’t stop and I don’t know why and— Am I evil?” That was blurted out in a sudden desperate rush.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Evil.” Jo hunched their shoulders. “Everyone says so. Devil’s get, devil’s work, they all think—”

  “I don’t,” Sam announced shrilly.

  “All except Sam.” Jo gave the urchin an attempt at a smile. “I don’t feel evil, and I don’t mean to be it, but, Mr. Feximal, if this ain’t the Devil’s work, what is it?”

  “Of course you’re not evil,” Simon said testily. “Or perhaps you are, I have no idea. But if you are, it’s not because you have visions.”

  Jo did not look comforted by that. I stepped in. “What Mr. Feximal means is that evil lies in actions. It is something you do, not something you are. I am certainly not an evildoer, if that was your question. Or very rarely, at least. Will you tell us about the cathedral?”

  Jo flinched. “You heard about that.”

  “Neighbours are the same everywhere. What happened?”

  “I tried to go to church,” they whispered. “Christmas Day service in the cathedral. I like carols. And…and when I passed the threshold… Oh God.” They had both hands to their mouth in remembered horror. “There was blood all over the door.”

  “You had a vision?”

  “Blood. And pain, and screaming and…and… You ever seen those old pictures, the really old ones, of devils and demons at work on sinners? All knives and tortures?” Jo swallowed convulsively. “It was like that. That’s what I saw. I tried to visit a church on Christmas Day, and I saw hell waiting for me.”

  There was silence for a moment. Sam clutched Jo’s arm in mute comfort, staring at us as though we owed them a solution. I will admit, I had no idea what to say. I had seen a great deal too much to offer blithe reassurance.

  Simon, who has never offered blithe reassurance in his life, was frowning. “Had you been to the cathedral before?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been inside other churches? Other places of worship or sanctified ground?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without such visions?”

  “Yes,” Jo repeated.

  “Well then.” Simon stood. “Let us go and see what is different about this one.”

  “Do you think it is the cathedral, rather than—?” I jerked my head back at Jo, who followed us as we strode through the dark streets. They were huddled in a thin coat, those absurd rob
es flapping around their heels. Fortunately, it was dark enough that they did not attract as much attention as they otherwise might have. Sam scurried to keep up.

  Simon shrugged. “I have met many men and women on a straight course to perdition, and none of them had the slightest difficulty walking on consecrated ground.”

  That seemed reasonable; looking back at Jo’s thin, frightened face, I could only hope it was right.

  Rochester Cathedral is a magnificent thing, a huge grey ancient Gothic edifice. It loomed against the sky in a suitably ominous fashion. Simon stalked up to the doorway and crossed the threshold without hesitation.

  “Well, come on.”

  Jo stared at the open doorway, with its faint glow from the interior. “What…what if I can’t? What if I can’t go in and I see it again and I know?”

  “What if you never find out?” I asked. “Do you prefer to live the rest of your life in fear of damnation?”

  “Better than knowing, ain’t it?”

  “I shouldn’t think so at all.”

  Jo considered that. I gave them a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You really ought to let Mr. Feximal deal with this. Don’t keep him waiting.”

  Jo nodded, took one deep breath and turned to the doorway. It was, I think, one of the more courageous acts I have seen in my life. They took four steps, crossed the threshold and stopped dead.

  “Well?” Simon asked. “Jo?”

  “Nothing.” Jo turned, an incredulous smile dawning. “Nothing.”

  Sam gave a shrill whoop and hurled himself at Jo, who caught him and swung him round. I may have been smiling myself, somewhat. “Well, that is pleasing. So what did happen, Simon?”

  Simon was standing astride the threshold, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I cannot tell. At what point did you have this vision, Jo? On the threshold itself?”

  “I’m not sure.” Jo released Sam. “It was crowded, lots of people. I was about there.” They indicated a spot a few feet from the door.

  “No you wasn’t,” Sam said. “You was right here.” He hopped over and planted his filthy bare feet squarely by the door. “Right here, ’cos some swell shoved you and you banged into the door, remember?”