A Little Morbid: a John Billings Mystery, #2

By Olivier Bosman

The year is 1895.
​
An ancient manuscript claiming to hold the secrets of God's creation;

A cunning old woman trying to make sense of it;

A deluded psychopath intent on stealing it away from her.

 

​Private detective John Billings and his assistant Bartholomew Trotter have been tasked with finding a mysterious ancient manuscript known as the "Codex of Solomon" – a book of magical spells much desired by secretive esoteric societies. 

 

​They're not the only ones hunting for this artifact. A deluded young psychopath has already committed murder to find it. And a stubborn old woman thinks that this manuscript will give her the respect she so craves.

 

​This is the latest in a series of Victorian mysteries exploring the dark side of the late Victorian era. It follows on from the events described in "A Glimpse of Heaven,"  but can be enjoyed as a standalone novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivier Bosman
• Release date: Feb 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393037965

Olivier Bosman

Born to Dutch parents and raised in Colombia and England, I am a rootless wanderer with itchy feet. I've spent the last few years living and working in The Netherlands, Czech Republic, Sudan and Bulgaria, but I have every confidence that I will now finally be able to settle down among the olive groves of Andalucia.

Book preview

Prologue

Extract from Alick Lourie’s Diary, June1895

A Woman of My Ilk

She stood on the foredeck, her hands on the railings, the sea breeze blowing through her thin white hair. She looked perfectly ordinary. She wore an ill-fitting lime green skirt, frayed around the ankles, a blue-and-white blouse that didn’t quite seem to fit, and a motheaten black shawl draped around her shoulders. Just a poor, common, middle-aged woman who wouldn’t normally arouse my curiosity, were it not for her countenance. There was something about her posture. The way she stood rigidly upright against the wind, as if she were in command of the ship, guiding us all to our destination. This was a woman who knew where she was going. A woman in charge of her own fate.

It’s easy for us magicians to recognise each other. The hidden wisdom we carry inside us elevates us from the common man, and this is reflected in our posture. There is a certain aura about us, invisible to everyone else, which acts like a beacon, signalling to other magicians that we are of their ilk. It was this aura which drew my attention.

I stood on the starboard side, looking at her back, watching her shawl dance in the wind. She must have felt my stare poking her in the back (we magicians can do that), because after a minute or so she turned around and looked at me. I held my stare. I looked straight into her eyes for a couple of beats, then, unbuttoning my jacket, turned my back on her and strolled back into the cabin. Contact had been made. It wouldn’t be long before she approached and inquired about my identity.

I knew who she was, of course. There is only one magician that fits her description: Ruth Grenfell, the keeper of Solomon’s Sephardic secrets. She was fleeing to France. Just like I was. Except I was running away from the police. She was running away from people like me who are after her manuscript.

My heart pounded as I made my way to the ship’s lounge. There is no such thing as coincidence in a magician’s life. There is only fate and providence. So, Mrs Grenfell was on this steamer. That meant that her manuscript, the Codex of Solomon, the text which revealed the secrets of God’s creation, the very thing I’d been yearning to get my hands on, was somewhere onthis ship too! I was still reeling as I took my glass of port from the waiter and sat on the leather settee by the window.

It wasn’t long before I saw her stumble into the bar, scanning the customers in search of me. A waiter approached her and asked to see her ticket – the poor ragged creature was quite clearly not a first-class passenger. But having located me at my table, she elbowed him away and marched straight towards me.

Do I know you, sir?

I looked up at her, towering over me. Her tanned, leathery face was aged and wrinkled well before its time, and there was a frantic look in those brown eyes.

You were staring at me! she continued. Outside, on the deck. Why were you staring at me?

The waiter approached us. Is this woman bothering you, sir? He grabbed her arm. She quickly pulled it away.

Not at all, I said to the waiter. Please leave us alone.

The waiter nodded and walked away. I smiled at her. I’m sorry to have dismayed you. I didn’t mean to stare. I must’ve been daydreaming. I have a habit of doing that.

So we don’t know each other?

No. But I’ll happily introduce myself. I held out my hand. The name is Simeon. Faust de Simeon.

Madam de Martos, she mumbled, shaking my hand.

Aha, I thought. Travelling under a pseudonym. Just like me. Madam M. How suitably mysterious. I’m sorry to have bothered you, she said, embarrassed. I clearly made a mistake. She was about to walk away, but I detained her.

Please stay. Sit down. Let me buy you a drink.

She stopped and looked at me. I’m not supposed to be in here. I have a second-class ticket.

You can stay as my guest. I insist.

She hesitated, but she eventually sat down.

What will it be? Port?

I wouldn’t mind a glass of absinthe.

I clicked my fingers for the waiter and ordered the drink.

You’re very kind, she said. She was blushing. You must think me quite mad. But I’ve had some bad experiences in England, with men following me. I think I may have become a little paranoid.

Please don’t explain. It was rude of me to stare, even if I did so inadvertently. It is I who should apologise to you.

The waiter came back with the green beverage and placed it on the table. She picked up her glass and held it out to me.

Cheers, she said. She took a sip and replaced the glass on the table. I won’t be any bother. I’ll just sit here quietly and do some work. She took some embroidery out of an old-fashioned white linen reticule wrapped around her wrist, sat back in her chair and began to sew. This was a bit rude, I thought. I had rather been hoping for conversation. But eccentric people are seldom well-mannered, and I knew of something which might spark her interest in me. I took something out of my pocket. My little book. Barrett’s Magus, which has served wonderfully as a calling card on previous occasions. Taking great care to leave the cover visible, I stretched my arms over the table, opened the book and began to read. It wasn’t long before her eyes were drawn to the book’s title.

What are you reading? she asked, her face flushed with astonishment.

What, this? I turned the book around and looked at the cover. Oh, it’s just a book about magic.

Magic? You’re interested in magic?

I am rather, yes. It’s an odd hobby, I know, but I’ve been making it my speciality these last few years.

You’ve been studying it?

Well, I studied divinities and ancient languages at Cambridge, and I was a member of an esoteric society in London.

Which one?

The Golden Dawn, I lied.

I’m interested in magic too!

I raised my eyebrows. You don’t say! Well, what are the chances!

I’ve been studying it for many years. Well, I ain’t been to college like you, of course, but I’ve been taught by some very knowledgeable men. There was my husband, Phineas de Martos. You’ll have heard of him.

I wrinkled my brow. No, I don’t believe I have.

Then, after he died, I studied with Frater Sapienti from the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith.

Oh, I’ve heard of them.

Do you speak Hebrew?

I pretended not to know what she was leading up to, but inside me, my heart was pounding. Hebrew? Yes, I do a bit.

Because I have a book, you see.

A book? My heart almost leapt out of my chest. I had to button up my jacket lest she should see it pound beneath my shirt.

I don’t have it on me. It’s hidden somewhere safe on the mainland. It’s a very valuable book. But it’s all in Hebrew, and I don’t speak Hebrew. I don’t suppose you could...

Well, certainly, I could. Will you be staying in Paris?

I’ll be staying at Madeleine’s Hotel for Women in Montmartre. Oh, I would be so grateful if you could help me decipher the texts.

She reached her arm across the table and grabbed and squeezed my hand.

Well, my dear madam, I said, smiling at her, I’d be delighted to.

1. The Magic Detective

Spitalfields, September 21, 1895

Billings climbed the steps to his office, carefully balancing a tin cup of coffee in one hand and a key in the other, a fresh loaf of bread tucked under his arm. He stuck the key into the lock, but the door swung open before he could turn it.

Good morning, Mr Billings. Trotter beamed at him from his desk. His chubby, rosy face was freshly scrubbed, his hair immaculately combed and gelled back, a posy of daisies and dandelions on his lapel.

Billings jumped and spilled hot coffee over his hand. Bloody hell, Trotter, what are you doing here!

I let myself in with the key you gave me.

Tilly just let you walk in? Billings looked at his dog, curled up in its blanket in the corner. The dog lifted its head and yawned.

She’s used to me by now, Mr Billings.

Billings looked at the clock. You’re a bit early, aren’t you?

Not at all. It’s quarter past eight.

We don’t open till nine.

I wanted to tidy up a bit before we opened.

Billings looked at the chaise-longue and noticed that the sheets and pillow had been taken off it and put in the wardrobe. Did you tidy up my bed?

We wouldn’t want potential clients to come in and see that, would we? It doesn’t look professional.

Billings frowned. You don’t have to tidy up my bed for me, Trotter.

Well, I don’t know about you, Mr Billings, but I like things to be clean and tidy. I know this is your home, but it is also our office. I need order around me or I can’t concentrate.

Billings put the tin cup and bread on his desk and walked towards the sink to rinse his scalded hand.

Actually, I’m glad I did tidy up, Trotter continued, because we had a customer while you were away.

Billings turned off the tap and dried his hands on a tea cloth. A customer?

A certain Mr Mihal Kearney from County Cork. Trotter picked up a calling card from his desk and showed it to the detective.

Billings frowned. County Cork? What the devil is he doing all the way over here?

He said he’d come back in fifteen minutes.

You should’ve told him we’re not taking on any new clients.

That’s not for me to say, Mr Billings. I’m only your assistant.

You know we’re too busy with the Ruth Grenfell case.

"I know we’re busy with it, but it’s not for me to say that we’re too busy."

We’re making blessed little progress finding that damned woman as it is! We can’t be dealing with another case!

Trotter paused. His face tensed. Might I respectfully point out to you, Mr Billings, that you’ve been rather grumpy lately. And you’re swearing a lot too.

Swearing?

"What the devil, blessed little progress, damned woman. It’s not nice to listen to, and it creates a tense atmosphere in the workplace."

This brought a smile to Billings’ face. Alright, Trotter. I apologise. He sat down at his desk and took a sip of coffee. I’ll try to watch my language from now on.

I appreciate that. Now, with regard to the Grenfell case, I have something here which might be of interest. Trotter picked a letter up from his desk. This came for you. All the way from Germany.

Germany?

I think it might be a reply to that announcement you placed in the newspapers.

Trotter got up and handed the letter to his boss. Billings inspected the envelope. It was addressed to Mr John Billings, written in elegant black curls. A green German postage stamp depicting Mercury as a courier was stuck in the top-right corner. He opened the envelope and took out a small piece of paper. It had some lines on it, written in black ink.

What is it? Trotter asked.

Looks like a riddle.

A riddle?

Billings read out loud:

I hear you’re looking for the inimitable Madam M

and her scribblings of a magic tonic.

Let me give you a hint: search for her in the lands Teutonic.

There, among the seven steeples of the Baltic Sea,

the estimable lady will be

In the Count’s castle, wrapped up warmly, waiting for thee.

What does it mean? Trotter asked.

It means she’s in Germany.

But where in Germany?

"Seven steeples of the Baltic Sea. Must be a town in the north. Billings got up from his desk and headed for the wall, on which was stuck a map of the world. Kiel? Lubeck? Rostock? Which of those is famed for its seven steeples?"

I wouldn’t know, Mr Billings.

We must go to the library and find out. Billings rushed to the hat stand and put on his coat and derby hat. Come on, Trotter.

Trotter hesitated. What about Mr Kearney?

Who?

The Irish lawyer. He said he’d be back in fifteen minutes.

The devil with him!

Trotter frowned at the swear word.

Come on, we have work to do! Billings rushed out of the office. 

BILLINGS STRODE UP the stairs, two steps at a time, a pile of library books under his arm. From what I read, Lubeck is well worth visiting.

You seem very energetic all of a sudden, Mr Billings. Trotter tagged along behind him, struggling to keep up.

I’m glad we’ve finally got something to go on. We’ll go to a travel agent this afternoon.

Trotter stopped on a step. We’re not really going to Germany, are we?