by Brian Lumley
As for “doctrinaire”: oddly, that was a word the Necroscope hadn’t come across before. He checked it out in his dictionary, which advised him…quote:
“Adj theoretical; highly preoccupied with theory, inclined to carry principles to logical but unworkable extremes; impractical; dogmatic.”
So, if Geoff Lambert’s university contact’s description of Hemmings’ teaching practices was accurate, his use of that word was right on the money. Not only did it fit the ex-Professor to a tee, it simultaneously helped in complementing Harry’s mental picture of him: his character and disposition as opposed to his purely physical appearance.
This last was bolstered by the comments of one of Lambert’s former colleagues in Mensa, in fact the society’s Recorder, who had replied to Geoff’s request with the following details:
Gordon J. Hemmings had been inducted into Mensa a few weeks before he was ten years old. After the next three or four years however, his attendance at various local meetings of the organization had become infrequent and eventually ceased altogether. When contacted after he had left home and started to teach, the “excuses” he had given for his apparent tardiness had been very disparaging of other members, and even insulting. Those several members whose chief interests lay in mathematics, for instance, were (in the young Hemmings’ opinion) “mainly innumerate beyond the most basic levels of mental arithmetic,” while the majority of Mensa’s remaining “alleged intellectuals” were “barely capable of spouting parrot-fashion the frequently erroneous mantras of their far superior forerunners, utterly failing to grasp the fact that the true secrets of the universe lie far beyond them, abiding the exploration of more adventurous and visionary intelligences!” Such as himself, doubtless.
All such comments had been—at least ostensibly—struck from the society’s records, but were nevertheless remembered. As for the Recorder’s final conclusion: “What a pompous, insolent, affected and deluded little prick was that one!”
The Necroscope had to agree with most of the latter, though he wasn’t at all sure about Hemmings’ supposed “delusions.” For the man—or monster—had very definitely gone on to explore some of “the true mysteries of the universe…”
With which, at exactly that point in his examination of the file’s contents, Harry had realized that apart from any further confirmation from Geoff Lambert and/or E-Branch, he was already some three-quarters convinced that ex-Professor Gordon J. Hemmings was indeed his great leech.
Nor was he finished, for as he moved on there were yet more details that attracted his attention. For instance:
The fact that Hemmings had been present—presumably alone—by his father’s deathbed at the house near Dalkeith, which he now owned. But…his own father? Surely not! The thought that had crossed Harry’ mind was barely tenable, and even less acceptable in light of the fact that the elder Hemmings, much like Latimer Calloway only a short while later, had apparently “died of natural causes.”
But, on the other hand, why not? Familial scruples aside—if such were valid in the case of the red-faced devil—a murderer is after all a murderer; and the younger Hemmings, as the only son and heir, had inherited everything. As for his father: his remains now resided in a Dalkeith graveyard.
All in all there were things here—which to anyone but the Necroscope would certainly be considered “dead” matters, “cold cases”—that Harry might have decided to investigate personally; but while he waited for that one final piece of conclusive evidence from E-Branch, it probably made more sense to request the assistance of his Ma and the Great Majority.
For which reason he took the Möbius route to the riverbank, there explaining his final needs to his ever forbearing Ma, and returned as soon as possible to his study.
And then it was simply a matter of patiently waiting, which was something he’d never been very good at…
It was not such a long wait, though it seemed a lot longer. But shortly after seven p.m., as Harry began to feel hungry and was gradually building up to the task of making himself a bacon and egg sandwich and a mug of coffee, at last the telephone rang.
“Yes, who is it?” he inquired.
“My name’s Geoff,” said the other. “Geoff Lambert. And I’m speaking from Darcy Clarke’s office.” Lambert’s voice was well modulated; it sounded youngish but self-assured, and perhaps a little tired. Or not so much tired as—what, jaded? Worn down by something? The work he’d taken on, probably, and on Harry’s behalf at that. “Can I take it that you’re Mr. Keogh?”
“Call me Harry,” said the Necroscope at once. “But be careful what you tell me, Geoff. No names or places, etcetera. Just a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ where applicable—if you know what I mean.”
“I completely understand,” Lambert replied, with that edge of fatigue still there in his voice. “Mr. Clarke has taken time to explain something of the, er, shrouded nature of your investigations.”
“Good!” said Harry. “But the way you sound, it seems you’ve maybe worn yourself out in helping me with those investigations…not that I’m complaining! I’m very grateful for what you’ve already done.”
“Unnecessary,” said the other. “I had some time on my hands—well, a little time—and it kept me occupied.”
“Thanks anyway,” Harry replied. “But now we should get this over and done with, and then you can sleep all you want.”
“Sleep? Oh, that’s not important to me, Harry. We spend far too much of our time asleep—perhaps as much as a third!—and our lives are often far too short anyway…don’t you think?”
Harry couldn’t help frowning as he wondered: what on earth is wrong with this fellow? While out loud he only said: “Geoff, is Darcy—er, Mr. Clarke—is he there with you?” Maybe Darcy could explain what was going on. But:
“No,” Lambert replied. “He said he had other work to attend to, but that I might care to talk to you alone. I sort of liked that idea, because I have—to tell the truth—my own agenda, sort of.”
“Your own agenda?”
“Why yes, for after all you are the Necroscope! You’re something of a legend, Harry, if only in E-Branch!”
No, Harry thought unabashed. In a whole lot of other places too, even if they are mainly underground! But now he had to get on. “Well, thanks for that,” he answered, not knowing what else to say. “But now I really need to know what you’ve got for me.”
“Simply stated,” said Lambert, “I’ve got what you wanted to know. You were right, Harry. He was there at each of those four locations, dead on time every time.”
At which Harry thought—The great leech, dead on time? No, not him, but his victims were for sure!
And then, breathing a pent-up sigh: “But that’s great work, Geoff, great work! And so quick! I mean…how in hell did you manage it?”
“Ah, but I can’t tell you, Harry, not over the ’phone: your rules, not mine. No need to feel frustrated, though, for everything has been taken care of. Before the evening is out, you’ll have a visit from—”
“The local police?” Harry guessed it. “With a sealed envelope, maybe?”
“Exactly. And the answers are all there for you, giving you plenty of time to…to do whatever you think is necessary. Oh, and Mr. Clarke has just come back in.”
“Good!” said Harry. “Will you please put him on? And thanks once again.
“My pleasure, Harry. I mean, it truly has been…”
And that world-weary, oddly jaded voice was gone as quickly as that, replaced in the next moment by Darcy Clarke’s somewhat unnecessary query: “Harry? You still there?”
“What? Well of course I am! Where else would I be?”
There followed a brief pause, before the other very quietly said, “No, it wasn’t a stupid question. I was just giving Geoff time to get out of here, making sure the door was closed behind him. I wasn’t going to talk about him while he could still hear me.”
“So what’s all the secrecy?” Harry was baffled. “And what’s wrong with h
im? He mentioned his own agenda. I mean, what’s all that about?”
“Questions, questions!” said Darcy. “Okay, now listen.” And then another pause, longer, until finally: “Geoff is dying,” he said. “Leukaemia of the blood. He found out about it just three weeks ago, and—”
“—And you let him sit up all night doing research for me? Then called him in again today to carry on?” Astonished, and in a way horrified—even the Necroscope—Harry shook his head.
“You told me that being a newcomer to E-Branch he had to start at the bottom. What, even though you knew he was dying?” Again he shook his head. “Darcy, he should be home sleeping! I mean, I just don’t understand!”
“That’s right, you don’t,” the other agreed. “But if you’ll just listen to me you will. See, this kid insisted on doing his share, more than his share. He doesn’t want to sleep—he can’t sleep! He doesn’t know how many weeks, days, hours he has left, but he does know there won’t be very many. So he’ll stay awake, work, do anything that helps to take his mind off it. And what’s more he’ll do it for as long as he can. Geoff’s a volunteer; he volunteered for everything he’s done, Harry! And so I’m letting him carry on. He has maybe ten days, two weeks left, no longer. That’s what they’ve told him, but he’s determined to stretch it out as long as possible.”
Harry was very quiet; his odd conversation with Lambert was making sense now. Torn two ways, he was finding it difficult to contain his emotions, his anger. “And you didn’t think it might be a good idea to let me in on this?”
“Because I knew how you’d react,” Darcy replied, and continued: “Geoff’s read your file, Harry!” And as if that was explanation enough, which in a way it was: “He knows who and what you are—but he also knows how busy you are, how much work you do for a great many others who rely so heavily on you…and only on you! But you’ll know what I mean. And now maybe you’ll understand.”
He was correct, for Harry was beginning to. “Yes,” he answered. “I think so: that personal agenda he mentioned…?”
“That’s it,” said Darcy. “But I’m betting he didn’t define that agenda, that he didn’t go any further and straight out ask you for a very special favour? No?…I didn’t think so. Geoff isn’t that way inclined; he’s not that kind of person. In fact, well, he’s pretty much like you: unassuming, and in a way even sort of humble despite his present situation.”
“Like me?” said Harry. “What, humble?” He shook his head in self-denial. “How I used to be, perhaps. And how I still am…with some people who I’ve come to know, if you follow me.”
“Oh, I do!” said Darcy. “So maybe I should ask for a favour on Geoff’s behalf?” But:
“No need,” said Harry. “When you get the chance, the right opportunity, maybe you’ll tell Geoff not to concern himself on that score. I’ll be in touch whenever I can. And not only that, but he need never be alone, ever, because I’ll make sure there will always be people—lots of them—he can talk to. Can you do that for me, Darcy?”
“My pleasure,” the Head-of-Branch replied. “But you’d best be careful what promises you make, Harry. For in order to keep that one you’re going to have to stay alive yourself. So…I don’t know, maybe you should accept this as some kind of small incentive, right? Another reason to take care.”
“No,” the Necroscope replied, “But if another incentive was needed, I think I’d call this a big one. A very big one…”
About nine-thirty, the sound of a motorcycle’s engine, followed by the stuttering pop! pop! bang! of a series of loud backfires as the engine fell silent, saw Harry hurrying to the back—or the front—door before the courier even had a chance to knock.
On the doorstep, it was that same young policeman he’d seen before, handing him a thin, lightweight envelope, then scratching his forehead under the brim of his motorcycle helmet before remarking: “You must be one very important person, Mr. Keogh!”
“Oh, how so?”
“Because this was choppered in from London with a note that said for your immediate attention! I mean, it came by helicopter, for goodness sake, and it’s not very often we see that sort of thing around here!”
He seemed to be looking for an answer, so Harry replied: “I specialize in researching cold cases for a government agency in London.” (Which was more or less the truth, or had used to be.) “They supply me with the bare details of the case, and I try to give them a few new leads.” Not an especially good explanation, but it would have to suffice.
“Oh! Scotland Yard maybe?” said the officer, still curious. “I hear they’re using psychics these days. You wouldn’t be some sort of—?”
“No, not Scotland Yard,” said the Necroscope, quickly cutting in. “More like MI5?” (Also quite close to the truth.) “Only don’t ask me anything else, or I’ll have to kill you!” But when he saw the officer’s jaw drop he laughed. “Hey, I’m only kidding, okay?”
“Yes sir, of course you are,” said the other, beginning to grin, if a little uncertainly. “Only kidding, sure.” And as he scratched his head again and turned away: “Well, goodnight…”
Harry watched him ride out of sight, closed and locked the door, went back to his study and sliced open the envelope. And he saw almost at once that Geoff Lambert had proved as good as his word: his request had been answered in full and the an-swer was right there in the dying man’s own somewhat shaky script—the conclusive evidence that Harry had been waiting for:
Harry—
Herewith the results of my research—but first let me take a little time to explain how I worked it:
We know how Hemmings quit his university work—following which he may have lived on his legacy for a while before, as it were, taking to the road with his lectures; it’s possible he found this an easier way to expound his dubious theories while earning a living—and while seeking victims in various scattered and far-flung places, without drawing attention to any special killing ground.
As for those lectures: he would obviously need a schedule, and he would need to advertise his appearances in advance. But where would he give notice of such and to whom? His subjects were exotic to say the least.
I gave this a little thought—very little—and the answer when it came seemed obvious. There are magazines that cater to just such, er, doctrines: rags like UFO Monthly, Man and Magic, and Modern Myths.
So I got onto a handful of publishers and editors, told them of my consuming interest in all sorts of esoteric subjects, promised to take out subscriptions and offered to purchase back issues; and having salted the ground, I finally requested a list of Hemmings’ venues from the past to the present, and especially the future. I can only assume that knowing or having surmised something of the past, you’re more interested in the future. And that being the case:
Hemmings will be putting on his show again in just three days’ time at the Drill Hall in Dunblennin, northwest of Edinburgh, from seven to eight pm. And should you care to check it out, the venue is advertised in recent issues of both UFO Monthly and Man and Magic.
And I think that’s me done. But in future—what’s left of it—if you need anything else, just ask. And if I can’t help out, well I know that Mr. Clarke will.
But please do let me know how you get on…
All the Best, Geoff Lambert.
Three days, and again Lambert had been right: Harry had plenty of time to plan how he would go about it. But meanwhile he had to take into account that all of this was still circumstantial—that there was still no absolute evidence: no fingerprints, no bloody axe, no smoking gun—and that no court in the “civilized” western world of human rights would ever convict a man because he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And because Harry himself believed (to some extent) in law and order—and justice, if only his own kind of the latter—it meant that despite the knowledge he’d accumulated, still he continued to harbour certain small niggling doubts about Hemmings’ guilt. Oh, by his own stand
ards he was satisfied that he was guilty as hell, but he didn’t know he was guilty! Not yet.
However, Harry’s Ma and the Great Majority were still working on it, and in the morning he would go to the riverbank and find out if they had come up with anything new.
And meanwhile…
Well his sleep had been disturbed enough just recently, so maybe tonight he could do some catching up. But even as he was yawning, switching off the lights, on the point of retiring—the telephone rang.
It was one of B.J.’s girls at the Wine Bar, passing on the information that Bonnie Jean would be staying: “up north, aye, for a wee while longer, for her guid friend Auld John isnae at all well.”
At which Harry sighed his relief, but not into the ’phone. And while it was hardly that he desired to bring down any harm on Auld John—whomever he might be—nevertheless: Thank God for that! thought the Necroscope…
Almost at once, the moment his head hit the pillow, Harry fell asleep. And while he slept the sleep of the just, in Gordon J. Hemmings’ house in Dalkeith—in the selfsame bed where he had murdered his father—the great leech dreamed once again that precognizant dream of less than two years previously which had delivered into his mind and hands the incomplete variant formula for a lethal portal into the Möbius Continuum.
It had been a von Stradonitz moment, the result of the ex-professor’s fascination with eccentric, esoteric equations and formulas in general; of a brilliant if twisted mind theorizing outside the box; of a brain in conflict with the accepted laws of physics. And in that seminal dream—seminal for Hemmings’, at least—a vortex of numbers, no less than Harry Keogh himself might have conjured into being, had finally coalesced and created an interface with (for want of a better description) a parallel place; a gateway into an alternative dimension; a new, higher level of mathematical consciousness…and to Gordon J. Hemmings, in a moment of revelation worthy of the fearful instinct of a ghoul, a perfect waste disposal unit for spent human refuse, or more properly for drained and wasted human beings!
