The Geomancer II: Mortificatio

By Lewis L Mason

'Without warning, she just appears. Sometimes as a shadow. Sometimes like a... thing made of flesh. Staring. Waiting. My mother. Lain cold in the ground these twenty years...'

Michael Evans began a personal crusade against religion and superstition, using his radio show Finding Faith as a tool to attack and bring down his latest target - the post-modern super-guru Krishnaraj. But in doing so, Michael has fallen down a very deep rabbit hole... one leading him into the foul underbelly of organised crime, political subterfuge, and the evils of malefic occultism. And the deeper he falls, the more people around him seem to die... The Black Lodge of the Faceless are at work - a vipers' den of concealed wickedness, led by the ruthless Pater Nija. And they have been given unspeakable power over the Elements – through the bestowal of the Black Dispensation. Howling Empusae hunt in the streets. The spectral Watchers stalk the shadows. The distorted corpse Pales rise to set upon the living. The waters stir with the unholy presence of Those Whose Hair Gathers Filth. And while the people of South London see their world going to hell, Michael cowers in his cupboard, hiding from his mother... his long-dead mother...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lewis L Mason
• Release date: Sep 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995582811

Lewis L Mason

Lewis L Mason writes Occult Noir, a term he coined to more accurately reflect the dark menacing quality of his stories. He also writes Cambrian Noir, supernatural horror and weird thrillers. His life-long fascination with the occult began when as a child he got lost in a Romany funfair, and ever since that night his path has led him into dark and unseen worlds. Mason's solitary footprints can be found in the dust of Masonic halls, the damp turf of ancient graveyards and the shrouded peaks of Cambrian hills. Occasional socialite, scholar and mystical consultant Mason is known by many names to many people. He has broken his long silence to present these tales of mystery and terror to entertain and enthral the discerning reader. But Mason's stories are more than fiction - subtle and secret truths are purposefully concealed therein. "Was helfen Fackeln, Licht oder Briln so die leut nicht sehen woellen?" - Heinrich Khunrath Lewis L Mason has occassionally been seen by night in west-central Paris, the Palatine Hill in Rome, beside the Roman Wall of London, and by the sea in Sussex.

Book preview

THE GEOMANCER

Book II

MORTIFICATIO

* * *

An Occult Noir Novel

By Lewis L Mason

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE, or Tristitia in the Ninth House

MICHAEL AND ERIC III, or Our Trespasses

SEPTEMBER 10TH – SEPTEMBER 19TH

SATURDAY 10TH SEPTEMBER

MONDAY 12TH SEPTEMBER, the First Quarter of the Moon

WEDNESDAY 14TH SEPTEMBER

THURSDAY 15TH SEPTEMBER

FRIDAY 16TH SEPTEMBER

SATURDAY 17TH SEPTEMBER

SUNDAY 18TH SEPTEMBER

MONDAY 19TH SEPTEMBER, a Full Moon, an Autumnal Equinox

MICHAEL AND ERIC IV, or In The Valley of The Shadow

SEPTEMBER 23RD – OCTOBER 10TH

FRIDAY 23RD SEPTEMBER

SATURDAY 24TH SEPTEMBER

SUNDAY 25TH SEPTEMBER

MONDAY 26TH SEPTEMBER, Last Quarter of the Moon

TUESDAY 27TH SEPTEMBER

WEDNESDAY 28TH SEPTEMBER

THURSDAY 29TH SEPTEMBER

FRIDAY 30TH SEPTEMBER

SATURDAY 1ST OCTOBER

SUNDAY 2ND OCTOBER

MONDAY 3RD OCTOBER, a New Moon

SATURDAY 8TH OCTOBER

SUNDAY 9TH OCTOBER

MONDAY 10TH OCTOBER

THE STORY CONTINUES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ABOUT OCCULT NOIR

© Lewis L Mason 2017

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication, whole or in part, maybe made without written permission of the author. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews) in accordance with the provision of the Copyright Act 1988 (as amended). Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The Moral Rights of the Author have been asserted.

Cover design by Darren L Rose.

www.lewislmason.co.uk

Website design by Garry Jenner.

A copy of this text has been deposited at the British Library.

ISBN 978–0–9955828–1–1

Made in Great Britain.

Published by Lewis L Mason Publishing.

An Occult Noir Novel.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Author would like to thank Mr. Garry Jenner for his continued assistance and unshakeable moral support. Thanks are also due to a certain Mr. Darren L Rose without whose inspiring presence this series would be impossible to create. Thanks again to the faithful readers, and all those willing to continue this journey deeper into the shadows…

…a negotio perambulante in tenebris… suus est…

PROLOGUE

Or

Tristitia in the Ninth House

"Sheweth that he that is absent shall perish in his journey; or signifies that some evil mischance shall happen unto him; causeth journeys to be very unfortunate, but declareth men to be of good Religion, devout, and profound Scholars ..."

– Tristitia, the Ninth House

Eric Laurent sank deeper and deeper into meditation, his chest rising and falling in a slow, regular rhythm. His torso, arms and legs all felt like leaden weights under his black silk robe. In his darkened temple room, nothing stirred beyond the gentle snapping of the candlewicks.

Seven secret Geomantic Invocations were given to him by his private tutor in the occult, Professor Reynard Gottschalk – he chose the first Invocation in the sequence, called ‘The Earthly Invocation of the Intelligence of Intelligences of Luna, of The Crowd and the Way’ – a complex rite full of new physical movements, and the drawing of unusual sigils in the air and on the body. Now he waited to see what would occur.

Eric felt himself vibrating. At first it was gentle, all over the edges of his body. Then it focussed around his throat and the back of his neck, becoming stronger. Deep inside, Eric felt expectant. It’s happening, he thought, trying to keep himself as calm and indifferent as possible; it’s happening just as Gottschalk promised.

I’m leaving my physical body.

Eric felt himself dissolving, like sodium in water, his bodily awareness becoming numb and shapeless until he couldn’t tell where his thoughts ended and his sensations began. There was the feeling of a sudden shift. He opened his eyes.

He was staring at himself from across the room. There was his own body, sitting on the chair in absolute stillness. He looked down at himself from his new perspective – he was nothing but a vagueness – an amorphous smoke that could see, hear and feel.

And he was being drawn upwards, leaving the confines of his temple and his body far below, up and up into a cloudy space of shifting planes and subdued light.

All around him were fluidic shapes, passing in choirs and clusters through an expanse of silver light. The light shone above, within and through everything – it was a part of him, and yet he knew it to be only one small part of his entire existence.

What would you see?

A great Voice spoke through the silvery radiance, a Voice that was a union of many, many voices. It was the collective sound of a great mass, a heaving crowd of planetary size, every individual speaking in perfect sync.

Suddenly Eric saw image after image of beauty and splendour ... great geometric palaces of golden light ... clusters of undulating beauties in flowing drapery ... caverns full of sumptuous treasures ... rolling oceans of gemstones ... glass mountains of impossible height ... flaming chariots with their wheels made of galaxies ... thrones of stars ...

Eric was overwhelmed, until gradually he realised that all of this was fantasy; a beautiful illusion, a fever dream, worth nothing if unrepresentative of something absolute, self-existent and true.

I, Frater Caelus, seek the Truth! Eric cried, his voice echoing flatly against the banks of Aether, Intelligence of Intelligences, thou great power of the Moon – show me the Truth.

The splendid visions faded, and the Voice made of many voices laughed gently.

Very well, Caelus. In Truth, I will show you a Wonder and a Blessing. Return.

And then Eric was falling from the silvery plane, falling through clouds and mist, condensing and becoming confined.

With a start, Eric woke from his meditation. His body was slick with a fine cold sweat. He raised his face, and gasped in wonder.

The atmosphere of his temple room was illuminated by a fine silvery mist, gathered in a swirling bank across the ceiling. Laughing cherubic faces formed and faded within it, hazy mirages, as the mist reflected a familiar blue-white light around the sealed, curtained and windowless room. It was moonlight; an impossible moonlight.

Fine glittering dew fell gently upon the floor, and upon Eric’s upturned face, filling the air with the scent of lilies.

*

Michael Evans poked his head cautiously around the edge of his front door, and turned on the hall lights with a flinch. This was the worst thing about going to visit someone, he thought irritably, even my best friend Joy Hope; I have to come back home again.

His mother’s grey apparition had made no appearance for the past few days. And this made Michael more anxious as he turned on every downstairs light. He knew she would be back – but where and when? How? Each time he saw her now, she appeared to be ageing. Would she continue to age? What fresh horror then?

Michael locked up the front and back doors and went straight to the kitchen drawer. He pulled out a black resin crucifix on a beaded chain and looked at it for a moment. Then he gave a great sigh.

"Michael Evans, the super-sceptic, wearing a crucifix for protection, He muttered to himself bitterly, Well. No-one needs to know my dirty little secret."

He grabbed a two-pint plastic cup with a secure lid from the cupboard, and then went to pull a bottle of wine out of the tall wrough-iron wine rack standing on the marble kitchen surface. It was at least three foot high and stacked in rows of four. It looked rather Gothic in his utilitarian kitchen, but that made him love it all the more. For several months after he bought it, he kept humming Love Will Tear Us Apart every time he used it.

As he pulled out the bottle of vintage Malbec, the rack began to slide smoothly towards the edge of the surface. He pushed it back with a sigh. Penny Ross was always warning him that the rack would fall on the tiles unless he secured it somehow. He agreed to use blue tack, but he kept forgetting to do it. He emptied the entire bottle into the cup, threw the bottle in the recycling bin and turned out the kitchen light.

Michael climbed into the linen cupboard that he had turned into a makeshift bedroom and sanctuary, and locked the square door from the inside. He lay on his stomach and read some of the Bell Jar on his mobile, giggling to himself at Plath’s irony and bitter humour, and taking warming draughts of the Malbec against the cold feelings inside him. He looked up at the white square of the locked door and nodded to himself.

His mother could never get to him in there, although sometimes he could feel her standing just outside. Being inside the cupboard was a great temporary solution; it gave him some feeling of safety. Michael sighed, tapping his heels against the ceiling of the cupboard, and drained the last of the wine; he pulled a small cord to turn off the interior light and laid back to check his mobile for calls.

He had heard nothing from his workmates for some time. He had spoken to Penny Ross, his boss at Brevis Media; but neither of his two colleagues Mick Leighton and Dudley ‘Dudders’ Corbey was answering his calls. Perhaps they were both angry that Michael had nearly lost them both their jobs by breaking into the home of Krishnaraj, the super-guru-cum-Satanist, even though they’d managed to break up a satanic ritual and rescue a young teenage boy from harm.

Michael sighed again, and turned off the interior light, leaving his mobile light on.

Oh, well. Sorry guys. Goodnight anyway.

He turned off the mobile light, wrapped himself in the duvet and fell quickly to sleep.

And Michael dreamed.

...he mustn’t let her catch him ... he ran and ran and ran ... across abandoned wastelands of burnt grass ... through broken skeletal warehouses, and fields of abandoned cars ... under a blackened sky of thundering clouds, he ran away ... away from her ... the impossibly tall woman with the ebony mask, whose hair was a nest of serpents ... he could see her behind him on the horizon, driving on her hordes of howling and faceless things that ran on two legs ... he found an abandoned cottage in a dell of stunted trees ... he must hide, hide away from the advance of the woman ... as he passed into the cottage he saw Mick Leighton laying on the floorboards, covered in lipstick marks from a thousand kisses ... he called, but Mick couldn’t hear ... he was asleep ... he turned into a damp passage, and passed Dudders Corbey standing in a corner, facing the wall ... he pulled him away and saw his staring eyes, his mouth masked behind a bloody pelt ... he called, Dudders couldn’t hear ... he was asleep ... then he found a cupboard at the back of the cottage, a perfect hiding place ... he opened the panelled door, and saw the interior walls were crawling with so many black centipedes ... and deep inside, waiting for him, was his mother ... how black her eyes, he thought ... how black her eyes ... as she stroked his hair so tenderly ... as she lunged forward to embrace him ... to kiss him with her wet, wet mouth ...

Michael woke with a start in the darkness of his linen cupboard, sweat crawling down his forehead. He grasped his mouth in disgust. All around him was the pungent, oily stench of rotten meat. Cold, rotten meat.

"Ugh. What the fuck ...?"

Then he could feel something stroke against the side of his head. He brushed himself.

Then he felt it again. And again. And again.

Something, stroking his hair.

Something dry.

Michael hurriedly grasped at the small dangling cord switch, and turned on the light in the cupboard.

The face stared down from above, not five inches from his own, screaming silently as its blackened eyes rolled up into dry worm-eaten sockets, shrivelled fingers catching in the hair of his temples. The grey parchment skin clung to the skull, mottled with white mould, peeling in rotten strips along the jaw-line. Foetor poured forth in an ice-cold stream from the gaping cadaver mouth. Withered vocal cords clicked in a parched gullet, working beneath a puckered molasses tongue.

‘Michael ...’ It whispered.

Even before he began to scream, Michael recognised his mother’s decaying smile.

He tore out of the cupboard backwards, jumped up from a backwards roll, grabbed his coat from the back of the sofa and ran to the front door, screaming continuously.

As Michael burst out of his front door, he fell into an awaiting murder of crows. The black birds exploded into his face, taking off violently with deafening caws, and as Michael began to beat them off, they pecked spitefully at his head and arms. He ran across the front garden and fell into his small Ford, flailing his arms. The air was full of them.

Michael slammed the car door against the birds as they plunged towards the windscreen, and the last view of his house as he drove off was like a scene from Hitchcock. Every windowsill and every inch of his roof was swarming with the black bodies of crows and rooks.

He drove shakily, all the way into central London, to the Charing Cross office of Brevis Media. He parked his car in the underground car park, ran up to his office, crawled shivering under his desk and fell into a fitful sleep.

*

The man sat in the full lotus position, his feet folded under his dark thighs, and swayed on his hips before the partially charred statue of the goddess Kali, his naked body streaming with rivulets of stinking sweat. He muttered chant after chant in Hindi, his brow creased in concentration.

Ruddy coals lit up his brown skin, and the small damp cellar was all copper and shadows. In one hand he held a glossy promotional photograph of Michael Evans. In the other he held an old black-and-white police photograph. It was the defiled and blood-spattered body of a young dark-haired woman, her dress pulled up over her chest, lying in a grassy ditch beside a dirt road.

At the bottom of the image was written ‘00201: Maria Evans, rape–homicide, vic seven’ in black permanent marker. As he held the images in his mind, his enormous phallus began to rear into an erection, throbbing in time to his swirling motion.

As the man rocked, he began to giggle to himself. Then he began to laugh.

And as his laughter became uncontrolled and hysterical, he opened his glassy black eyes and cried tears of blood.

MORTIFICATIO, or Dissolution

"Therefore Hermes sayeth, what is born of the Crow is the commencement of this Art. Consider that it is by separation of the black, foul and malodorous fume of the Blackest Black that our astral, white, and resplendent Stone is formed ..."

The Six Keys of Eudoxus (date unknown)

"Chapter XX. Then double thy care, and thou shalt, at the end of another fortnight, find that the earth hath become quite dry and of the deepest black. This is the Mortification of the compounded thing; the wind hath ceased to blow, and there is great calmness."

An Open Entrance to the Closed Palace of the King – Anonymous, 1645

"The pale things wax black ..."

– Masculinus in Rosarium Philosophorum – Anonymous, 1550

MICHAEL AND ERIC III

Or

Our Trespasses

SEPTEMBER 10TH – SEPTEMBER 19TH

SATURDAY 10TH SEPTEMBER

Eric Laurent fell into the most pleasant sleep he had experienced for some time. It was like sinking into a warm, swirling bath of chocolate. His whole body relaxed, and a delicious slumber passed through him in gentle and constant waves. It was heavenly.

...Eric walked through a wide field of misty grasses ... he felt his hand being held in that of another ... he looked up and saw a beautiful figure, taller and broader even than Eric, emitting radiance as brilliant as the sun ... Eric could see muscular armour and flowing cloaks of scarlet and white ... he could see wings on wings of purest white, flecked with scarlet ... Who are you? Eric asked with a calm interest ... ‘I am the Warrior Angel’ the shining figure responded from the Light that was its face ... ‘I walk with you, because you too are a warrior’ ...

Eric could see himself across the field and years ago, practicing roundhouse kicks with Joe Chiang, his first martial arts teacher ... he could see his first regiment taking on an assault course in the cold Welsh rain ... he could see himself scouting in the heat and dust of Quli Khish, the small bullet–scarred village twenty miles outside of Kabul ... the shining companion brought Eric into a fiery light like a great sphere of radiating flames ... it surrounded him, filling his heart with courage ... ‘To be a true warrior means to fight to protect the wellbeing of others, to defend peace in the land’…

...Eric floated in the flaming light, feeling justified, whole, nourished… it was then that he noticed a small door below him… and through the door was the city of London… ‘Beware,’ the companion cried, ‘Beware of that foul dwelling place…’

But why? Eric asked dreamily, drawing closer to the door, which grew larger and larger… the companion fell back and cried ‘It falls, under the influence of the Evil Ones, to the Wanderers in the Outer Darkness…stay! Stay!’

…but it was too late, and as Eric was drawn down towards the yawning portal, he could hear the howling… the howling, monstrous darkness that lay beyond…

Save me, Angel! Eric cried in terror… but he could only see his own image, weeping pitiful tears, looking down sorrowfully upon him… and as Eric looked down upon himself, he could see he was covered in blood… draped in the desecrated bodies of young Ali and Fatima, the two young children he had failed to protect… their dead eyes stared pleading into his own… accusing him… ‘Why?’ mouthed Fatima… ‘Why, Uncle Eric…?’

Eric woke up with a cry of pain, and immediately threw his head into his hands, and wept.

*

Janet Sergeant batted the blankets behind her as she woke up blearily, her unnaturally blonde hair matted on one side. The other side of the king-size bed was empty and cold to her touch. She heaved herself up on to her elbows, squinting against the morning light.

"Tom? Tom? Where is ‘e?"

Slipping awkwardly into an undersized navy blue satin kimono, she glanced at the other side of the bed with a disapproving frown. The pillow was smooth. That side of the bed had not been slept in. Janet crammed her swollen feet into fluffy pink heelless slippers and marched into the bathroom. Under the stark light she tidied her hair with rough mottled hands, running her thick fingers through it, teasing the ends through fuchsia pink nails.

"Sonic the bloody Hedgehog, She muttered to herself, Why can’t I wake up like Marilyn bloody Monroe for a change?"

Janet stomped downstairs, transmitting her disapproval ahead of time. That Tom better have a bloody good excuse for staying up all night, she thought huffily. I didn’t get my Friday night nuptials.

Tom? She called, "Tom? Where are you, you daft lump?"

The kitchen was quiet. The living room and dining room were empty. The hall was silent, and Tom Sergeant’s coat and walking boots were still in their usual place. The front door was still locked up.

A vague uneasiness crossed Janet’s heart, which made her even angrier. She gave an exasperated sigh, and spun on her heel.

"That bloody workshop! She said snippily, He’s fallen asleep in there again – with his bloody boys’ toys! Isn’t it just bloody real?"

Janet found the back door unbolted and unlocked. She tutted as she reached for the brass bar handle; then she paused. All of a sudden, she didn’t want to open the door.

A terrible chill ran over her body, and her face dropped. Anger turned so rapidly into fear that she couldn’t dismiss it. Tom never, ever left the back door unlocked, even when he was in the workshop. He was more paranoid about theft than she was. It was his past, she thought warily, when he was a naughty boy. A wide boy; when he used to break into houses himself for a few bob. He knew all the tricks – and he always secured their house against every single one of them. Always.

Something was wrong.

Janet swallowed down the lump in her throat and opened the back door. She looked out into the garden, down at the workshop. In the morning light, she could see that it was all in darkness. She blanched.

If Tom had fallen asleep in there as he usually did, the lights would still be on in the morning – if he had woken up to turn them off, he would have come back to bed.

"If he’s gone and had a heart attack, I’ll bloody kill him!"

Janet walked down the garden path, passing the nodding heads of purple Hebe and Agapanthus. She passed the lush rose blooms that Tom had so lovingly cultivated, their lemon-rosy scent teasing her in the chill morning breeze. The petals were glazed with icy dew.

It was still bitterly cold, the lawn white with hoarfrost.

Janet paused at the end of the path, staring wide-eyed at the silent workshop. No snoring. No sounds at all, save muted birdsong in the trees above. Goosebumps ran along her arms and legs. She shivered.

She took a deep breath and walked boldly into the workshop.

Tom Sergeant was turning slowly, anti-clockwise, from a thick noose of twine around his throat. The twine noose was secured on the metal rafter in the roof. His body weight had caused his neck to snap and distend, the head lolling at an unnatural angle and distance above the shoulders, on a purple and elongated neck. Tom’s eyes bulged out pale from his vein-congested face, his blackened tongue hanging down the side of his double chin like a large slug crawling half out of his limp mouth. He had voided his bowels at the moment of death, and faecal matter had dried along the inside of his charcoal grey tracksuit trousers. His hands were frozen into claws.

Every single one of his model vehicles – airplanes, boats, ships, trucks – had been meticulously deconstructed. Each individual piece had been stuck either to the flat plane of the pitched ceiling, or glued neatly on to each of the walls. All the surfaces were covered in model parts, except one.

On the only bare grey wall, a jagged writing had been scrawled in a black substance. It read:

To geve no light to them that fitten in derkneffis, and in fchadowe of deeth.

When Janet Sergeant woke up on the path ten minutes later from a dead faint, she crawled back through the open door and looked again at the sight of her Tom swinging on the twine. Her eyes flooded with burning tears, she beat the ground, and she wailed and wailed from the pit of her stomach.

*

Inspector Terrence O’ Loney lifted the red and white police cordon and passed beneath it. He hated graveyards. He stepped tentatively, trying to walk between the plots. The morning light was dull, with heavy clouds passing slowly across the sky. As O’ Loney approached the small team of forensic experts in their white overalls, he looked down at the two corpses on the ground, glinting all over in the dew of last night’s frost. One of the forensic team, a woman with fine ginger hair crammed under a white plastic cap, rose when she saw him.

Alright Maureen, O’ Loney said gruffly, his voice still croaky from rising early, What’s the story here?

It’s a bad one, sir, Maureen responded gravely, bagging a sample. As O’ Loney looked down, his stomach clenched and he fought back a retch.

The body of the bearded man was lying on its back, the torso torn and mangled beyond recognition, the ribs shattered, the internal organs ruptured, and the muscles of the groin and upper thighs exposed and glistening red, the skin and flesh flayed off cleanly. The man’s face was chalk white, his sightless fish-grey eyes looking upwards, the partially open mouth giving a mournful expression. His broad arms were spread wide, as if in the process of defending himself. The dewy sod around him was clean and bloodless.

A metre away, looking as if it had just rolled off of the prone male, was another massive corpse. O’ Loney frowned in disbelief and leaned in closer, and as he did his eyes widened in horror.

Dear God in Heaven and all the blessed Saints.

The second corpse in tattered clothing was something that looked as if it once belonged to a very large black woman. The body was at an advanced stage of decay, at least a month or two judging by the discoloration of the flesh, and the pungent odour. But it had bloated beyond recognition, like a piping bag, and was strangely ruptured. Row after row of orifices, like toothed mouths with ruddy lips, had torn themselves along the arms and the legs, black tongues lolling out of them like so many lumps of chewed liquorice. The mouths slowly dripped bright red blood.

O’ Loney stepped back with a stagger and turned away to compose himself, making the sign of the cross over his heart. Maureen looked at the corpse and shook her head in disgust.

"Like I said. Bad." O’ Loney ran his hand over his face and nodded.

"We’ll have to keep the press well out of this one. Jee–sus. Who’s the man?"

A Mr. Mick Leighton, sir. Forty-seven years of age, single, recently divorced. Apparently he’s a cameraman and sound engineer working for –

For the BBC, I know, Interrupted O’ Loney, turning with a frown to look at the male corpse, "I’ve only recently heard about him. He’s a colleague of Michael Evans, the radio sceptic. We interviewed them over a possible charge of b-and-e… shit. Shit."

Your lot are checking his last movements now. Our preliminary assessment of the scene suggests that he was crushed where he lay, the front of his body torn open, and somehow the body was exsanguinated.

"Exsanguinated? O’ Loney cried in disbelief. How? By what?"

Maureen sighed hesitantly, and then nodded towards the other corpse. O’ Loney looked blankly.

"We’re taking the samples off for confirmation, sir, but the body of Mr. Leighton is completely drained of blood, whilst the second corpse – a Mrs. Emma Simpkins, deceased from a heart attack and interred six weeks ago – shows signs not only of extreme deformity, but the body, already in an advanced state of mortification, somehow contains an excess of fresh blood which clearly doesn’t belong to it. It seems that, somehow, Mr. Leighton’s blood is now in Mrs. Simpkins’ body. It is murder, obviously, but it’s a murder designed to look like an elaborate hoax – a very gruesome and convincing one, sir."

Is there anything else? O’ Loney asked grimly.

"Yes sir. We found mixed traces of semen and black powder on Mrs. Simpkins’ grave, and there is evidence of the footprints of at least two other people besides Mr. Leighton – a large flat-footed man and a young woman or girl, made last night. Mrs. Simpkins appears – sorry, has been made to appear – to have sprung from her grave, walked on her heels, which broke under the weight, and fallen on the victim, sir. I know it sounds, well, mad frankly, but we’re having trouble interpreting the evidence any other way."

O’ Loney nodded at Maureen with a conciliatory wave.

"Don’t worry, Maureen, it’s our job to analyse the motive for hoaxing ... if there’s been any."

"There must have been, though, surely?" Maureen asked uncertainly, a strained grin on her face. O’ Loney ignored the question.

What can you tell me about the black powder?

It’s a compound – of ashes, herbs and resin, as far as we can tell before sending it to the lab. Aromatic scent, some kind of storax or benzoin resin, we think.

"Aromatic, did you say?" O’ Loney echoed thoughtfully.

Yes, sir. Why?

O’ Loney looked at Maureen sideways and took a sharp intake of breath, flipping open his overcoat and pulling up his slacks sharply with both hands.

Witchcraft, Maureen. He said simply. Then he walked away to his car, avoiding a second glance at the two corpses. Maureen watched him leave, suppressing a shiver as she turned back to her work.

Back in his car, O’ Loney paused, shook his head and shuddered with disgust. He took out a small silver flask of scotch from his glove compartment, opened it swiftly and took a swig. Then he put it back, and crossed himself again.

May the Blessed Virgin watch over us all.

He took out his mobile and called the office at Scotland Yard. A nervous young man answered the call.

Officer Jones? It’s Inspector O’ Loney here.

Yes, sir. How can I help?

Any news on the Michael Evans case – about Evans himself, or any of his companions or work colleagues?

"H–how did you know? Yes, sir. We’ve only just heard." O’ Loney sighed impatiently.

"Only heard what, Jones?"

"Oh, sorry sir. Two people connected to the case have just turned up dead. The first is Tom Sergeant, the suspect who was held overnight on suspicion of actual bodily harm. Well, he’s been found dead in his garden shed, sir. His wife – Janet Sergeant – she found the body. Suicide apparently. The deceased took apart all his own models, then hanged himself from the rafters with twine, but left a really odd message on the wall, in Middle English of all things. Oh, and the other deceased is a Mr. Dudley Corbey, sir. His body was found on the moors just outside Tavistock in Devon. Died of an extreme form of exposure, the Devon forensics said."

"Christ. It’s like Ten Little Indians. O’ Loney paused. Okay, Jones. Thanks for the update. Has the chief been informed?"

Yes, sir, Officer Jones said with a wary tone, "But he seems ... unhappy ... about the Krishnaraj situation, by all accounts."

"Of course he is. Okay, thank you Jones. I’m coming in now."

Okay sir.

O’ Loney sat in his car for ten minutes in silence, eyes shut and frowning. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his palms sweating. Michael Evans, he thought darkly, what the hell have you gotten yourself into, man?

*

"I agree that the deaths seem mysterious because of the deceased persons’ connection with Mr. Evans’ unfortunate incident of prying ... yes, O’ Loney. The death of Mick Leighton is certainly unnatural, the work of some twisted psychopath most likely. But that does not mean they are all connected, or perpetrated in some way by the same person. There is nothing here to suggest anything other than an unfortunate and bizarre coincidence. I mean, one man committed suicide in his shed, and the other died of exposure over a hundred miles away, for goodness sake. I certainly do not want these deaths presented to the press as being connected in any way."

Chief Superintendant Paul Maune stood up and walked over to his office window in squeaking black patent leather shoes; his immaculate black uniform was as spotless as ever, and the shining epaulettes and cufflinks caught the weak morning sun. He was tall and broad, with a wide forehead under short-cropped black hair, and an imperious Roman face. He pulled his shoulders back in a militaristic posture and turned back to Inspector O’ Loney, who stood at the other side of his desk and looked at him with a sceptical gaze. The perfectly turned-out career officer, thought O’ Loney, Hendon’s finest; as stiff and intractably sensible as his shoes.

The press might make the connection themselves anyway, sir, considering the fame of Michael Evans, O’ Loney said, "The public face of the sceptical secularist know-alls. The BBC’s post-millennial Roger Cook. It would be difficult not to." Chief Maune made a stern moue and shrugged.

Unconfirmed supposition is just that. He intoned strongly. Unconfirmed.

"I’m not sure that Tom Sergeant’s death was suicide, sir, Said O’ Loney mildly, It seems a little far-fetched that a man like him – an ex-wrestler and bouncer brave enough to face off serious charges from the Met whilst laughing at us – would suddenly crumble into jelly within the next few days, deconstruct all of his – I presume precious – collection of models in one night before hanging himself."

"Nonsense, Chief Maune snapped, Men weaken and succumb to suicide for lots of reasons, as well you know. Have you checked for a history of drug abuse? For a history of depression or bipolar disorder? A terminal illness? A failing marriage? A dirty secret? No, Inspector. Seeing foul play in such a tragedy is simply clutching at straws."

"I suppose the time of death will show whether Tom Sergeant had time to do all that deconstruction. And Mick Leighton, sir? That was a murder, made to look like a Gothic horror. It took ... imagination. And it was clearly intended to scare more than just the poor vic. I know you don’t like it, sir, but that guru Krishnaraj did threaten them all, and was witnessed doing so. We’d be crazy not to bring him in again, at least for further questioning."

Chief Maune gave an exasperated sigh and leaned over his desk on his knuckles, holding O’ Loney with an intense stare from his sloe-black eyes.

"Listen very carefully, O’ Loney, for the sake of your bloody job. I will not have Mr. Krishnaraj approached in any way – and I mean in any way – unless and until you have solid evidence connecting him to this. Rock solid. Not fantasy tales and Gothic nonsense, not even the circumstantial evidence of a verbal threat. Until you do, Mr. Krishnaraj is officially off limits, so are the members of his entourage, and that comes straight from the top. Not even I have that man’s level of access to friends in such lofty places. Go out and find Mr. Leighton’s killers instead ... a man and a girl you say? Focus on finding them, Inspector, preferably without dragging any more wealthy and litigious suspects in for questioning whilst having insufficient evidence to hold them. Understood?"

O’ Loney held Maune’s stare impassively. Then he shrugged and sighed.

"Okay, Chief, understood. I’ll widen the net; we’ll check the CCTV cameras and all the rest. But Michael Evans is currently in the centre of this series of events, a connecting piece, so I still feel that we cannot rule out the possibility that Krishnaraj may be involved in all of this – somehow."

"Inspector, at the risk of reminding you of basic investigative procedure, if Mr. Evans is in the centre, and you find that this is a multiple murder enquiry, then he becomes the prime suspect. Act accordingly. But Krishnaraj is off limits. Maune said blandly, sitting down again and picking up some paperwork. I don’t care if he’s the Devil himself. Thank you, Inspector. You may go."

"Thank you, sir."

Ten minutes later, O’Loney walked down the corridor and entered a small quiet room, carrying a small clear plastic dongle and a large blue file. He closed the door behind him and sat at a small desk. He looked at the laptop and small computer speakers before him, switched them on, and sighed in frustration.

Krishnaraj being untouchable was less than surprising; he was the head of an international spiritual movement – a Hollywood cult in O’ Loney’s opinion – called the Church of the New Vision, which had a lot of very