Occult Death Investigation: The Gregory Meru Mysteries of 1889

By Patrick Galloway

Set in Paris during the 1889 World Exposition, man-about-town Gregory "Monty" Meru and his capable cohort Tebley "Tim" Fatago investigate five mysterious deaths that confound the mundane methods of the Paris Sûreté. Schooled from a young age in the ways of the occult, Monty sets out to use his unique expertise to solve the unsolvable. He's even had cards made up! They read: Occult Death Investigation.

   The intrepid duo's adventures lead them to encounter psychics, shape-shifters, sorcerers, ghosts, sinister secret societies, human sacrifice, cannibalism, bizarre suicide and something far worse … all set against the backdrop of fin de siècle Paris. As a result, Monty is transformed from charming dilettante to scarred, seasoned professional. 

  But what Monty doesn't realize is that a very real evil is stalking him from the start. A darkness is gathering, one into which our hero is inexorably drawn. He learns that even in the world of spirits, there are rules... and limits. His odyssey culminates in a test of will and destiny as he wrestles with an evil that his own grandfather helped unleash.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Galloway
• Release date: Apr 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224482115

Patrick Galloway

Patrick Galloway began his writing career in 2005 with the publication of STRAY DOGS & LONE WOLVES: THE SAMURAI FILM HANDBOOK, a critically-acclamed exploration of over 50 top Japanese samurai films and one of the first such guides available in English. He followed this popular fan-favorite with a survey of extreme cinema in ASIA SHOCK: HORROR AND DARK CINEMA FROM JAPAN, KOREA, HONG KONG, AND THAILAND, and returned to the Japanese sword-film genre with WARRING CLANS, FLASHING BLADES: A SAMURAI FILM HANDBOOK.  A lifetime student of philosophy, spirituality and the occult, Galloway has most recently turned his creative inspiration to mystery and crime fiction. Fascinated by detectives made famous by such authors as Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur Conan Doyle and Seabury Quinn, Galloway set out to unite his accrued occult knowledge with the creation of a unique type of crime detection in OCCULT DEATH INVESTIGATION: THE GREGORY MERU MYSTERIES OF 1889. 

Book preview

CODEX

1.

Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tebley Fatago. Please call me Tim (Tebley is difficult for Westerners, apparently). My mother was born in Nigeria (as was I); my father was a British infantryman of unknown ancestry. A red nose and a soiled uniform make up my only image of him, as I never met the man. He must have been quite a specimen, however, as I stand some six feet three inches and a bit. My features are mostly Caucasian with a dusting of brown that have, on occasion, allowed me to pass for an Indian (both North American and that of the Subcontinent), an Arab, a Turk and, on one occasion, an Eskimo. I am also well-made, endowed with a measure of physical strength which I’ve worked hard to tone over the years, resulting in a somewhat imposing physique. I try to conceal this beneath the placid tweed of a cultured gentleman that, after an Oxford education (I read history), I like to think I am.

You may wonder how one such as myself has made his way in the world. It’s quite simple really. Through connections I made at Oxford, I found that even the most powerful and fortunate individuals occasionally have a need for someone with my unique looks and talents. At the time of the events I am about to describe, I was making my living as a contract agent for certain well-to-do private collectors; objets d’art, rare books, jewelry and the like. I would normally be advanced a line of credit for these purchases, as well as an expense account and per diem. I seemed to possess a genuine talent for the work, so that I was able to develop a reputation and secure more and more lucrative contracts. As a result, I had seen quite a lot of the world already, financed by employers who valued my expertise and discretion.

The way I first met Gregory Paracelsus Meru, (or Monty, as he is more generally known), makes up a fairly interesting story in itself, so I suppose it might as well serve as the first in a series of recollections it would please me to share with you.

It was in the spring of 1889 that I had a bit of business to do in Paris. Unfortunately, this was during the opening of the Exhibition Universelle, and travel and accommodation were made difficult by an influx of tourists. Nevertheless, I was able to secure both and was on my way.

I found myself in the dining car of the Moenkemeier Express going from Hamburg to Paris, and it was here that I first encountered Monty Meru. He was of average height and build, well dressed and appointed, a shock of thick, reddish-brown hair falling over the right side of his head. What did set him apart, however, was what I can only describe as a strange kind of aura which set him apart from the others seated around us; this and a peculiar glimmer in his eyes. One could tell that his mind was alight with a fiery energy, his imagination spinning, his thoughts dancing in ever-widening circles of invention. The man made an impression.

We were seated at a table with a somewhat tedious couple from Dusseldorf. After some feeble attempts at conversation, Herr Becker and his wife quickly swallowed their food and departed, leaving Monty and I to finish our meal in relative peace and quiet.

It was over coffee and liqueurs that Monty leaned forward and said, Has it ever struck you how profoundly strange it is to dream?

Hmm, I replied noncommittally, wondering if I should indulge such eccentric discussion. Perhaps.

This was all the encouragement Monty required as he proceeded, ever more animatedly, to pursue his line of thought. We go about our lives day after day, attending to the mundane routines of our existence, darning every sock, washing every dish, yet every night our bodies fall into a comatose state, and we are set free to experience bizarre and outrageous occurrences wholly beyond the scope and regularity of our so-called real lives. Then, upon waking, we shrug it off and go on about our business as if something extraordinary had not just occurred.

He took a sip of cognac and lit a cigarette. "Did you know the Buddhist monks of Tibet have developed certain mental techniques in which they can achieve a full, waking state within the dream world? They do this in order to continue the meditation practices that are of utmost importance to their aim of achieving what their religious taxonomy translates as ‘total consciousness’ or, more commonly, enlightenment. In fact, one might say that they’re well on their way, having already achieved it in the dream world!" He was becoming more excited now, and although I’d counted four cognacs, I sensed his heightened state had more to do with the subject matter of his conversation than the drink.

M. Meru continued: "It was my good fortune some years ago to join a trek to the holy city of Lhasa, high in the Himalayas, where I had the opportunity to study with a remarkable fellow by the name of Shardza Rinpoche, who instructed me in the singular practice of dream yoga. In the intervening years, I’ve come to regard the dream world as my own personal frontier of endless discovery. As encouraged by Shardza, once I’d gotten my sea legs as it were, I began to test my will in this malleable dimension by actually manifesting objects. I looked up at the moon and envisioned the head of a moose — after a moment, there it was, luminous antlers and all. As time went on, I became more ambitious. I conjured ancient cities, legendary beauties — Helen of Troy for one, of course — and now every night is an adventure of one sort or another. So you see, I regard dreaming as a very special thing indeed."

I was not as taken aback by this little speech as you might think, fascinating as it was. For as I was unfamiliar with the Tibetan practice of which Monty spoke, I was not wholly unacquainted with the world of, shall we say, extraordinary things. During my days at Oxford I’d spent many an afternoon exploring the various libraries at my disposal, poking around in dusty old stacks for some arcane treasure trove of ancient philosophy. It was precisely this commonality of interest that led to my becoming friends with M. Gregory Meru.

Before departing for our respective sleeper compartments, Monty gave me his card and invited me to come visit him once I was settled in Paris. His card read:

Gregory Meru

Occult Death Investigation

3, Rue Garancière

Faubourg-Saint-Germain, PARIS

I was, of course, struck by the occupational appellative beneath his name and decided then and there that I would most definitely meet up with this intriguing man before leaving Paris.

2.

As it happens, I needn’t have made the mental note to visit Gregory Meru at his apartments, as by now the hand of fate had things firmly in its grip. Presently I was seeking out certain first editions of Thomas De Quincey for a client in Hamburg, from where I had just made the trip to the City of Light.

I was inquiring after M. De Quincey in the antiquarian bookstore of a M. Zelator, a serene, slightly dotty fellow, himself of some hoary antiquity. Just as the proprietor went doddering off in search of the volumes I had requested, in walked M. Meru, accompanied by a rather down-at-heel young man of some eighteen years. Monty was holding forth with some abstruse discourse at which his young friend was all attention and full of questions. As they entered the bookstore I caught,  ... and so it was that the Pharaoh came under the sway of the Scarlet Council, leading to the spiritual degradation of Egypt — Monsieur Fatago! I knew we would meet again. He took my hand and shook it warmly.

I was just telling young Milo here of the secret history of ancient Egypt, a subject of particular interest to me, he said, gesturing towards the bedraggled young man. But what brings you to Zelator’s? Looking to conjure something ... or someone?

I came to realize soon afterwards that Zelator’s bookshop was the premier source for all things arcane and occult in Paris, so of course it would be a favorite haunt of my new friend. No, I replied to his flippant inquiry, just some De Quincey.

De Quincey, eh? he said in a conspiratorial tone. Well, if you happen to conjure him, put me down for a parcel! He nodded and winked, but then a moment later shook his head and assumed a sober expression. No, he said then, mustn’t joke like that ... and then, looking toward Milo, mustn’t corrupt the youth. He laughed, but I noted some conflict in his tone. I came to find this a typical trait of Monty’s: he would start off on a tangent, then make an abrupt turn in a different direction, sometimes several at a moment, his furtive mind flitting like a fly from one object to the next.

But where are my manners? said M. Meru. "Milo, allow me to introduce Monsieur Tebley Fatago, whom I met yesterday on the Moenkemeier Express. Monsieur Fatago, this is Milo Motet, an aspiring hierophant. The scruffy young man flushed crimson, and I shook his dirty hand. Old Zelator has been kind enough to allow Milo to live in a corner of the basement here, a damn sight better than the alley in Pigalle where ill fortune had formerly placed him."

Please, call me Tim, I said to both men, bowing my acknowledgement.

And you must call me Monty, rejoined Meru, an absurd sobriquet, I grant you, but one that was assigned me at university, and from which I find it impossible to escape.

Just then, old Zelator returned from a fusty far corner of his shop with two of the three titles I had requested. Upon inspection, I had him wrap up the books in paper, and was making my purchase when Monty said, "Care for a spot of dejeuner? My man Joseph should be laying it out just now." I accepted his invitation and soon enough we were in a cab en route to Monty’s apartments in Saint-Germain.

Upon entering Monty’s residence, I was struck at once with the dichotomy of an unusually spacious accommodation choked and overburdened by a ridiculous preponderance of books. Barely an inch of actual wall space could be spied around or between all the bookshelves and book stands, while piles of books lay strewn across tables, chairs and desks. The feeling of the place was one of a library merged with an opium den; a place for obsessive souls besotted with text. If not for the light from a wall of windows, one might well think we’d entered some kind of catacombs, or perhaps a cavernous yet murky mud hut.

This is not to say that the place was without its fine appointments. I noted an elaborate crystal chandelier of Dresden manufacture in the dining room where Royal Crown Derby china lined the sideboards. A Lalique glassware set adorned the drinks table in the parlor where a Louis XV sitting room set was tastefully arranged atop sumptuous Persian rugs. Amid the clutter of the adjoining rooms, the odd small statue, curious artifact or mysterious bundle attested to Meru’s eccentric tastes and extensive travels.

Lunch was, as predicted, served and, if I may say, rather overabundant. Far be it for me to complain, however, as it was most delicious and included onion soup; mussels veloute; roasted baby artichokes; camembert, goat and gruyere with toasted brioche; meuniere-style sea turbot with turnips and peas; medallions of beef au jus; and orange savarin in Armagnac with berries and cream, followed by coffee and the usual assortment of liqueurs.

After some minutes of silence, Monty said, I sense you want to inquire about my calling card.

Well, yes, it had been on my mind, I replied somewhat sheepishly. It isn’t every day that one reads ‘Occult Death Investigation’ on a gentleman’s card. Are you in earnest? Is this indeed your occupation?

I am in earnest, although I would not characterize it as an occupation, not just yet. More of an aspiration really, for you see I have never actually conducted an occult death investigation. Well, not to fruition. He smiled and paused for a considered puff on his cigarette.

Then he went on: The fact of the matter is that, as I’m sure you know, there occurred a series of gruesome murders during the autumn of last year in London that captured the popular imagination, as well as my own. Fortunately for me, I have at my disposal certain resources that allowed me to pursue the case more closely than my fellow newspaper readers. As it happens I am, frankly, possessed of a small fortune that allows me latitude in my travels; I am also fortunate to boast a rather wide acquaintance, extending as it does into the upper echelons of government and law enforcement. So you see it was no great difficulty for me to gain access to the more confidential investigatory materials of the case and try my hand.

I could see Monty becoming excited in his narrative, his tendency toward exuberant self-excitation a particular characteristic of his personality. His enthusiasm was contagious, and I found myself becoming, if not excited (for I tend to be of a more phlegmatic temperament), certainly engrossed. Do go on, I said after a sip of coffee, most interesting.

"Before I continue, you should know one or two things about me; since it is obvious to me that we are to become friends, you will learn of such things in due course, and it will help my story if you understand particular facts antecedent to my resuming my anecdote.

"My childhood was unusual. At the age of ten both my parents perished in an Alpine mountaineering accident. I was left in the care of my paternal grandfather, an extraordinary and, some would say enigmatic gentleman of vast learning and peculiar habits. He taught me a great number of things, chief amongst which was the importance of Truth. ’This is a world of lies, my boy,’ he’d often say, ‘only the Truth will set you free. You can look to philosophy and religion, but know you: There is no philosophy or religion higher than Truth!’ It was in the service of this Truth that my grandfather took it upon himself to school me in the various secret teachings of antiquity.

And so it was that parallel to my official school studies, there were nightly lectures on Rosicrucian symbolism, Masonic ritual, astrology, esoteric Buddhism, tarot, the Qabbala, the alchemy of Paracelsus (from whom I got my middle name), the esoteric geometry of Pythagoras, the wisdom of Thoth Hermes Trismegistus! And on and on, for years I was steeped in such pursuits. ‘Behind every exoteric teaching stands his esoteric twin’ my grandfather would say. ‘While the former vary wildly, the twins are always the same!’

Here, Monty paused, puffed, and sank into a reverie, staring off into space for the better part of a minute. Then, just as suddenly, he resumed his discourse.

Therefore, while conducting my personal investigation of the so-called Ripper Murders, I was immediately struck by the fact that some of the mutilations had been configured in gruesome yet specific imitation of ancient Masonic initiation rituals with which I had become familiar years before via my grandfather’s instruction. It was then it struck me that perhaps my unique background might provide some utility in the solving of a particular type of murder, one done under suspiciously occult circumstances.

But were you able to solve the mystery of the murderer’s identity? I inquired, obviously.

Well let us just say that I was able to reach a measure of certainty in this regard, but was unable to pursue the case to its ultimate conclusion — that of achieving the capture and ultimate prosecution of the culprit — due to a particular political reality that I do not consider worthy of discussion at this juncture.

Oh come now, Monty! I said in a challenging tone. Surely you can share some of your findings with me. What about Truth?

As it happens, he replied calmly, ignoring my taunt, "the situation is delicate and, to my mind, still somewhat dangerous. All I can aver is that in the course of my investigation it became apparent that a member of the Royal Family had been ... shall we say engaged with at least one of the ladies in question? And it would seem that a message was being sent by a sinister individual quite familiar, not only with this royal personage’s dalliances, but with the upper ranks of Freemasonry as well. I’ll leave the rest to you and will say no more on the matter."

I pondered what Meru had just related. I see what you mean. Better to live on in blissful ignorance in this case ...

"In this case," he said pointedly, as if to his grandfather. A sudden knock at the door startled us both.

M. Meru’s man, Joseph, answered it and we turned to spy two gendarmes, one with a mustache, one without, standing in the doorway. Not seeing us still seated at luncheon, the one with the mustache said to Joseph, Monsieur Meru? Shaking his head, Joseph pointed to Monty who had risen and now came to stand beside him.

"Monsieur Meru, pardon our interruption but M. Goron of the Paris Sûreté requests your attendance at a crime scene."

Good lord, really? Monty was overjoyed. I gave M. Goron my card a fortnight ago at a champagne reception, he explained, seeing my puzzled expression. But judging by the look he gave the card, and then me, I had assumed him to have torn it neatly in half and thrown it into the fireplace the moment I turned away. Meru lapsed into one of his long pauses. No matter! he exclaimed at last. Let us go. And with that, we were off.

3.

Our escorts brought us to a squalid little flat in an unimpressive street behind the Gare du Nord. As we entered the residence, I was quite taken aback; this being my first crime scene, and a fairly gruesome one at that, I fairly swooned. Monty sensed my distress, and led me by the arm to a nearby chair. Steady, man, he whispered, I’m ready to be sick myself. Let’s both be strong. He gripped my arm in solidarity.

The room looked like an abattoir — everywhere one looked, there was not a single surface untouched by some measure of crimson gore. In the middle of the room lay the body of a thin man in a large puddle of his own bleeding. He lay on his left side and the wall he faced was especially bathed in blood. There was a wound on his neck at which his dead hands still seemed to grasp, and it seemed at first glance that there must have been a geyser-like gush that had shot forth from the man’s throat onto the wall. His ashen face was frozen in a grimace of uncomprehending horror.

Doctor Cabeiri, the coroner, was a rotund man with a sweaty, bald pate and a scrofulous countenance. Frankly, I don’t know what to make of this, he said, shrugging dismissively as Monty lit his cigarette for him. Monsieur Jean Manus here clearly died from a fatal hemorrhage of the carotid artery, but the wound is beyond my understanding.

Dr. Cabeiri led us to the corpse for closer examination. In doing so, it was inevitable that we all got blood on our shoes; I was a little distracted by this fact as the corpulent doctor went on to say, "See this? The edge of the opening? It’s not a laceration, as the hole is almost completely circular and smooth all the way ‘round. However, it can’t be an incision because there is no exposed tissue like you’d get with a cut. The wound is more indicative of some kind of ... well, ... of an orifice. I can only assume some penetrative burst from within, but again, the smooth, almost symmetrical quality of the wound is inconsistent with any open sore I’ver ever seen."

Monty and I exchanged a look. The doctor shook his head, took a puff, and said, Perhaps there was some kind of abnormal pressure that built up in the man’s carotid to cause a rupture, but in that case the blood would most likely have come pouring out of his mouth instead of such a pristine opening in the side of his neck. He shook his head again. I must admit, gentlemen, I am at a loss as to the cause of death. However, in a neighborhood such as this, the death of a destitute man goes largely unnoticed. As long as there is no agitation from family or the community at large, I can record whatever I like. I think, in this case, ‘exsanguination resulting from disease.’ No one will question it, I’d wager.

The doctor’s sudden shift from medical examiner to callous bureaucrat was as puzzling as it was chilling, and needless to say neither Monty nor I were anywhere close to such casual dismissal.

We learned from our gendarmes that M. Jean Manus was a former schoolteacher at the Lycee Condorcet and had left his job some two years prior and taken to drink. From the look of his tiny apartment, as well as his own physical appearance, it was clear that all his worldly resources had been devoted to this lone pastime. He was a thin man and, while unkempt and possessing an unmistakably rosy nose, not terribly unhealthy-looking (under the circumstances). What I mean to say is he did not show any obvious signs of disease, or other condition that might lead to such a bizarre end.

But that wound: There is no other way to describe it: It looked, frankly, like a small mouth, say that of a baby; a baby mouth that had, for some reason, chosen to open and regurgitate a goodly portion of the unfortunate M. Manus’ life blood. There is just no other way to describe it. My first exposure to such a hideous scene was made doubly disturbing by the nature of that bizarre hole. I could tell Monty was shaken as well, but as my own condition took hours and days to return to normal, it was clear to me that his characteristic mental excitement was rapidly overcoming his natural revulsion.

The gendarmes informed us that we were to contact M. Marie-François Goron, chief of La Sûreté Nationale, the following morning at 10:00 am at the Palais de Justice with our findings (whatever in the world they might be). Monty was cordial and assured them that we would faithfully meet our appointment. All at once we were strolling down the Rue la Fayette in search of a well-deserved and much-needed drink.

4.

We were sat at an outdoor table of a nondescript cafe, sipping our Kronenbourgs, when Monty said, Of course you know this was no case of disease.

I agreed; the look on Manus’ face spoke of the bewildered terror of the victim. Therefore, if illness did not take his life, he went on, and it would appear that suicide is out of the question, there must be another player in our little scenario. However, there were no footmarks leading into or out of the rather sizable expanse of blood on the floor surrounding him and, according to the officers first on the scene, no other evidence of a second individual having been in the room at the time of death. We sipped.

There is only one way to achieve a man’s death in such a manner at distance, Monty concluded, "and that is via some preternatural facility." Monty made this final declaration with a triumphal air of absolute certainty.

But why was the medical examiner so quick to dismiss such a strange death? I ventured.

"I’d speculate it’s because of the Exposition Universelle — I happen to know that everyone in or related to La Sûreté Nationale has been instructed to keep public morals and criminal activities as buttoned down as possible. After all, the eyes of the world are on Paris just now. Unfortunately, the efforts of the Sûreté are being met with a myriad of difficulties. Pickpockets plague the fairgrounds, and there has recently appeared on the scene a particularly unpleasant strain of youth gang: feral hordes of teenagers not averse to robbing, raping, even slitting a throat or two on the streets of our fair city. And then, of course, there is the Gouffé murder, that most sensational of crimes that’s currently burning up the pages of every newspaper in town ..."

Oh yes, I was reading about that, I said with a snap of my finger. Nasty business. Petit young lady lures a gentleman back to her apartment, slips a noose ‘round his neck, and her accomplice hoists him up like a dock worker, am I right?

Yes, Monty said excitedly, and then they packed him in a case and dumped it in the river. Amazing chance they found the pieces of the so-called ‘bloody trunk,’ and then the body itself. No mean feat identifying that corpse, black and decomposed as it was ...

I read it was a miracle of medical investigation ... some professor from the south ...

Dr. Lacassagne of l’Université de Lyon — a genius. Monty downed the contents of his glass.

The papers have dubbed the young lady, Mlle. Bompard, ‘Little Demon’, I rejoined, feeling quite in-the-know. I understand she’s claiming she was hypnotized by her lover, that she acted against her will.

God help us if that defense wins the day — dangerous precedent. We’ll be up to our ears in hypnotized murderers this time next year. But as to our own case, what would be our next move, I wonder?

"The gendarmes inquired after any friends or relatives of the deceased, and came up empty-handed, said I. But seeing as the unfortunate Monsieur Manus was a schoolteacher, perhaps we might inquire at his former place of employment to learn more about him? It’s grasping at straws, I know ..."

No, no, that’s good, that’s good Tim, and I happen to have made the acquaintance of the dean of the Lycee Condorcet some months ago, so perhaps he will remember me and we can secure an interview. But first: another round?

5.

That afternoon, Monty and I found ourselves waiting in a fuliginous little antechamber somewhere deep within the Lycee Condorcet listening to the agonized screams of a young man in the next room. A moment later, a door opened and a whimpering, red-faced boy of some 13 years filed past us with alacrity. The man at the door held a rattan cane, and appeared to be somewhat out of breath.

"Gentlemen, thank you