A Glimpse of Heaven

by Olivier Bosman

  There was a pause. Billings waited for a reaction. There wasn’t one.

  “So, what precisely is it you want from me?” Augustus asked.

  “Well, I... I just wanted to know why they did that.”

  Augustus shrugged. “I have no idea, Mr Billings. I have nothing to do with that society.”

  “I thought perhaps it might have something to do with a magic ritual.”

  “Possibly.”

  There was another pause.

  Augustus began picking at the calluses on his feet.

  Why was Augustus being so obtuse, Billings wondered. He’d been far more forthcoming the last time they spoke.

  The awkward silence was broken by the butler entering the room with the tea tray. He placed the round brass tray on the ground and squatted to pour tea from an Arabic teapot into small gold and green coloured glasses.

  “Help yourselves,” Augustus said, picking up a glass.

  Clarkson grabbed his glass and took a sip. He pulled a face. “Oh dear. I thought it was tea.”

  “It is tea,” Augustus said. “Mint tea.”

  “Mint tea?”

  “From Arabia.”

  Clarkson looked around him. “You like Arabian things, don’t you?”

  “There are many places that I like, Detective Sergeant. Now, you said you wanted to talk to me about an ongoing investigation. Am I to take it that Mr Billings’ injured finger is the cause of said investigation?”

  Billings frowned. Injured finger?

  Clarkson shook his head. “I am investigating two other cases which I believe are linked. The man whose body parts keep washing up on the riverbank. Perhaps you’ve read about it?”

  “I have.”

  “And another dead woman who was fished out of the river a couple of days ago. We have reason to believe the three incidents are connected.”

  “So, what is it you want from me?”

  “Mr Billings tells me you know about magic.”

  “I know nothing about magic. I am a manuscript hunter. I travel the world looking for ancient manuscripts and sell them.”

  Tired of the man’s evasiveness, Billings leaned forward and took over. “Have you sold any manuscripts to the Sons of Cain?”

  “I have.”

  “What kind of manuscripts?”

  “What do you mean what kind of manuscripts?”

  “When I met you at the library, you mentioned something about grimoires?”

  Clarkson leaned into his companion and whispered, “What are grimoires?”

  Billings whispered back, “Books of spells.”

  “I came across some ancient Greek papyri during my last trip to Egypt,” Augustus explained. “I sold these to the Sons of Cain.”

  “And do those papyri contain spells?”

  “Some.”

  “And do the spells involve body parts?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You haven’t read them?”

  “Of course I’ve read them.”

  “Then why don’t you know?”

  Augustus frowned. “If you know anything about esoteric texts, Mr Billings, then you’ll know that they are written in a cryptic manner. Yes, the extracts do mention parts of the body, but in what way, if any, they are connected to magic spells is open to interpretation. I am not the man to interpret this.”

  “Who is?”

  “Well, presumably the person who bought the texts from me.”

  “And who was that?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  Billings raised his eyebrows. “You don’t know his name?”

  “I know him by his assumed name.”

  “And what is his assumed name?”

  Augustus hesitated. “He called himself Frater Sapienti.”

  Billings and Clarkson exchanged glances.

  “Where and when did this transaction take place?” Billings asked.

  “Seven years ago, in a hotel room in Paris.”

  “Do you know where Frater Sapienti is now?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know why the Sons of Cain cut off my finger?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “You claim to know nothing about the Sons of Cain, but clearly you know more than you’re letting on. So, I’ll ask you again. Why do you think the Sons of Cain cut off my finger?”

  Augustus paused before replying. “Perhaps you fell foul of them.”

  “Fell foul? How?”

  “Well, you’re not supposed to talk about them when you are a member, and clearly you have.”

  “But how did they know?”

  “They have ears everywhere.”

  BILLINGS MARCHED DOWN the street, fury welling inside him.

  “He was being evasive.”

  He didn’t notice that Clarkson was tagging along behind him, struggling to keep up.

  “He wasn’t like this when I met him in the library. He’s changed. Something has changed. They got to him.”

  Clarkson stopped to catch his breath. “Will you slow down, Billings. You’re running around like a maniac.”

  Billings stopped and turned to face him. “I’m angry, Clarkson. They cut off my finger.” He raised his bandaged hand. “My damned finger!”

  “Yes, all right, Billings. I know you’re upset.”

  “We need to find this Frater Sapienti. He’s behind all this. You must show me the case files.”

  “I can’t do that, Billings.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a civilian now, Billings. The case files are confidential.”

  “But surely...” He looked wounded.

  Clarkson put his hand on Billings’ shoulder. “This is what we’ll do. You’re coming ’ome with me.”

  “What for?”

  “You can’t stay in that room. What if they come back and kill you?”

  “They’re not going to come back.”

  “How do you know?”

  “What about my dog?”

  “Take ’er with you.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “She’ll love to ’ave you.”

  “No, she wouldn’t.”

  “You’re coming back with me, Billings. I’m not taking no for an answer. Let’s go to your room and fetch your stuff.”

  SUSAN CLARKSON WAS coming down the stairs with the laundry basket just as Clarkson opened the door. She stopped on a step and frowned. “What’re you doin’ home so early?”

  “’Ello, luv, look who I bumped into.”

  He grabbed Billings’ arm and pulled him closer.

  Susan Clarkson froze. Billings nodded at her, but she didn’t reciprocate.

  “You remember John Billings, don’t you?” Clarkson asked.

  “What’s he doin’ here?”

  “His home’s been broken into. He was attacked.” He grabbed Billings’ bandaged hand and lifted it up for his wife to see. “I told him he could spend a few nights on the couch.”

  “Oh, you did, did you?”

  Billings frowned. “Maybe I should just...” He picked his bag off the pavement and turned away, but Clarkson grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  “No, don’t go. Susan don’t mind. Do you, Suse?” Without waiting for a reply, he took the bag off Billings and carried it towards the back room.

  Billings followed reluctantly. “Come on, Tilly,” he said.

  Susan Clarkson looked horrified as Billings walked past her with his dog on the lead. “Samuel, I need to talk to you!”

  “In a moment, Suse. Just let me get Billings settled in first.”

  Entering the back room, Clarkson took some sheets and a towel from the dresser and threw them on the couch. “You know how to make a bed, don’t you?”

  Billings nodded.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then. I just need a word with the rib.”

  Clarkson retreated back into the hallway while Billings spread the bed sheets over the sofa. Clarkson and his wife spoke in whispers, but Bil
lings heard every word.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  “What?”

  “Bringing a man like that into our house?”

  “A man like what?”

  “I don’t want him here, Samuel. You get rid of him before the lil’uns come back.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. I don’t want them to see him.”

  “You’re being ridiculous, Suse. Billings is harmless.”

  “If he’s so harmless, then why did he get sacked?”

  “He weren’t sacked. He left of his own accord because of his back.”

  “That’s rubbish and you know it! He got sacked because he was found fucking another man!”

  “Susan, don’t be coarse.”

  “How did you meet up with him anyway?”

  “He came to visit me at the Yard.”

  “Oh, he came to visit you?”

  “He had some information on a case I’m working on.”

  “He’s after you.”

  “What do you mean he’s after me?”

  “You better watch your back, Samuel Clarkson, coz that man is after you. He’s been after you for years.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Suse. Billings ain’t no homosexual. That’s just a malicious rumour spread by the old maids at the Yard.”

  “Well, I’m not spending a night under this roof with that man. Either you get rid of him or the lil’uns and I will go to my mother’s.”

  “Come on, Suse. I can’t ask Billings to go back home. They broke into his room. Sliced off his finger.”

  “His finger?”

  “Cut it right off. Two men in masks.”

  “And you bring him ’ere?”

  “He’s safe ’ere.”

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Sam. That promotion’s gone to your head! You’ve gone off your rocker! Well, I’m telling you this: I ain’t staying in this house with that man!”

  “Oh, Suse!”

  “I’m going to my mother’s! Come and fetch me and the children when he’s gone!”

  Billings heard the front door slam. He sighed. This was a mistake.

  Clarkson approached.

  Billings quickly grabbed a pillow and began plumping it.

  “Everything all right?” Clarkson asked. He was smiling, but Billings could see by the tense expression on his face that he was shaken.

  Billings smiled back. “Yes. The couch looks very comfortable.”

  “Good.” Clarkson shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. “Um... The rib’s gone off to her mother’s for a few days.”

  “Has she?”

  “Yes. Her mother’s not well. She’s gone to take care of her.” Another smile. “So, you came just at the right time. You can keep me company.”

  “We can work on that case together.”

  Clarkson frowned. “Billings, I told you already. You’re a civilian now.”

  “Stop being so stubborn, Clarkson. You can use my help and you know it. Bring those case files back home tonight and we can have a look at them together.”

  10. The Case Files

  CORONER’S REPORT - MAY 22, 1895

  The body of a young woman – identified by victim’s father as being Rachel Bunton, aged twenty-two – was fished out of the River Thames at Limehouse Pier by a group of river scavengers who promptly alerted the police.

  The autopsy report reveals the following:

  - Bruises on neck and throat suggest cause of death: strangulation.

  -Ears on both sides crudely cut off using a sharp instrument. Lack of bleeding indicates mutilation happened after death.

  - Degree of rigor mortis suggests body died 6 to 12 hours before being found.

  STATEMENT TAKEN FROM Mr Melvin Doucet, May 22, 1895

  My father was raised in a very religious household. His parents were members of the Plymouth Brethren and the bible ruled their lives. They were a wealthy family. My grandfather was a banker, but they led a sober lifestyle. Earthly riches meant nothing to them. The afterlife was at the heart of everything my grandfather did, and he’d spent all of his free time travelling up and down the country, reminding people that there was a life after this one, one in which the consequences of their earthly actions would be meted out.

  During his evangelizing tours, in which he was usually accompanied by my father, my grandfather would use a technique in which he would approach a random person engaged in some task and ask them what they were doing. After every answer, my father would reply with “And then?”

  For example, the victim would say something like, “I’m walking into town to sell my turnips in the market.”

  And my grandfather would ask: “And then?”

  “And then? Well, then I’ll have some money.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, then I can buy myself a new horse.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I can plough that new field and sell twice as many turnips.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’ll be rich. I’ll buy myself a large town house and have servants and butlers.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’ll be mayor.”

  “And then?”

  “And then? Well, by that time, I suppose, I shall be ready to die.”

  And that’s when my grandfather would move in closer, and in a low, solemn voice, ask once more: “And then?”

  ‘And then?’ became his motto. Nothing mattered in life but what would happen after it. This is what my father grew up with. This unhealthy preoccupation with a mystical, magical world, which was out of reach to the mortal man.

  My father went on to study divinities in Cambridge and there, through a fellow student who was Jewish, he learned about Kabbalah. He became obsessed with the idea that there was a shortcut to the afterlife. That by deciphering clues which lay hidden in the sacred texts, he could have a direct link to God and catch a glimpse of heaven. This obsession never left him. In fact, it grew.

  After university, he went to work at our family bank. Shortly after marrying – and before I was born – he was shipped off to India to open a branch there, while my mother remained in London. And that’s where he went off the rails. He got in with a crowd of spiritualists. He gave up his job at the bank and disappeared. My mother never heard from him again, although she did receive reports of sightings of him in Kashmir and Burma and even in Tibet. He’d become some kind of guru, ingratiating himself with bored and lonely expatriate wives, teaching them spiritual nonsense and receiving money in return.

  My father became a figure of ridicule amongst the British community. The mad Englishman who’d gone native. My mother denied that the white man seen roaming the Indian subcontinent wearing a dhoti and turban was her husband. In fact, she had him declared dead and reverted to using her maiden name. Doucet is her name. My grandfather supported her in this. He cut my father out of his will and made me the sole heir.

  My grandfather died in 1883 and my mother died in 1888. Two years later, my father suddenly re-appeared. I knew it was my father. His resemblance to me was too great for me to have any doubts. The eyes, the eyebrows, the long slim nose. And I recognised him from the old photograph I have of him. He’d come back from India destitute and had nowhere else to go. I don’t know exactly why he came back, but I suspect that he was forced to flee. I can only assume that the English gentlemen in India got tired of him meddling with their wives, manipulating them with his hocus-pocus and milking them for money.

  My father was bad news. I knew that when he appeared on my doorstep. But he was still my father. You must understand, I grew up without him. I never got to know him, and I couldn’t bring myself to turn him away. So, I took him in.

  My father claimed to have done a lot of studying in India. He’d apprenticed with sadhus and Buddhist monks and Muslim Sufis, and combining what he had learned with what he already knew about Jewish Kabbalah and Christian mysticism, he had come
up with his own philosophy. He tried explaining it to me, but I didn’t want to know. I’m not a particularly religious man, but I have a lot of respect for my grandfather, who believed devoutly in sola scriptura – that the bible is the sole infallible source of faith and practice. It would’ve been blasphemous to him to practice aspects of another religion. But I felt pity for my father, and I wanted to help him get back on his own two feet. I also thought that he had a right to part of my grandfather’s inheritance. So, I helped him fund a new society, one in which he could spread his wisdom.

  I should’ve known that he was up to no good when he told me that he named his society the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith. Cain –history’s first murderer, and Lilith – the mother of all demons. But my father convinced me that Cain and Lilith had been misunderstood in the scriptures. My father can be very persuasive. He is a very charismatic man; it is no wonder he was able to manipulate so many women in India. He showed me a poem he wrote about Cain. About Cain’s devotion to God and how he had sacrificed his own brother for him. My father had a way of making you see things in a different light. So, I continued to fund his project.

  It wasn’t until word started trickling down to me of exactly what he was up to at that society that I changed my mind. You see, I learned, through the rumour mill, that he was practicing magic. Dark magic.

  I am a respectable man. I run a bank. I hold a position of trust and decency in society. I could not be associated with a man like that. So, I asked him to stop. He said he wouldn’t. I told him that in that case, I would stop giving him money. But then I learned that he had by now amassed his own fortune from donations given to him by the gullible fools he’d managed to manipulate. So, I kicked him out.

  I don’t know where he went to. Last I heard, he’d gone to France. But a few months ago, I learned that he’d come back, and what’s more, he was meddling with members of my own staff.

  My housekeeper confessed to me that my father had been visiting the house while I was at work. She knew that I did not want him in my house, but she felt sorry for him. As I told you, my father is a great manipulator, and he put on a great act for her. He told her he was hungry and cold. He has this great ability to look wretched and pathetic. So, she allowed him to come in through the back entrance and have lunch in the kitchen with her and the rest of the staff. During lunch, he would chat to the servants. Tell them fanciful stories about his travels through India and perform magic tricks for them. Naturally, they were impressed. One maid in particular.