A Verse to Murder

by Peter Tonkin

  This time there was no reply.

  Tom turned slowly, looking around, alert for trickery and danger. The landing they were standing on led back into a small chamber at the rear of the house and then turned, leading on to two larger rooms and turning yet again to climb to the next level. This upper staircase was a much narrower, apparently flimsier affair, giving access to the loft at the very top of the house; but not for the heavily built or the faint of heart. It was topped not by a landing but by yet another closed door designed to open immediately from the topmost step.

  A glance into the small room at the back revealed nothing more than a basin and cloths for washing and drying; but the room was above the kitchen and would likely be warm when there was work being done downstairs. There was also a wide fireplace full of ashes and a wooden hip bath. A large laver vessel hung in the fireplace, waiting to be filled with water which the flames would eventually heat before it filled the bath for use. Baths were by no means usual in ordinary houses such as this and its presence here was almost sinister. But then, thought Tom, so was everything else about the place. They gave it a cursory inspection, however. The fire was out, the laver was dry and the bath was wet. A reddish scum line marked the upper limit that the water had reached last time the bath was used.

  The next large room was a kind of library and study. Daylight coming through a wide south-facing window illuminated a large but littered desk so tall it could only be used by someone standing up, a fact emphasized by the absence of any chairs. Tom crossed to it and glanced at the papers. There were calculations of some sort - apparently to do with the orbits and conjunctions of celestial bodies. There were lists of strange half-familiar names. There was a slightly larger piece of paper which showed signs of having been folded in half and in half again. One corner of it was marked with deep red.

  ‘John,’ he called. ‘Is any of this familiar to you?’

  John came over and glanced at the arcane calculations. ‘I believe it is a birth chart,’ he said. ‘Such as astrologers make in order to reflect a person’s character, catalogue their strengths and weaknesses, advise as to their lucky and unlucky actions and relationships - ultimately to predict their future. This one seems to be for someone born under Virgo - between late August and late September, like my Elizabeth. Here is the sign, you see, like a letter M? It has been prepared for a young woman too, by the look of things, though there is no name. It seems to describe someone who is modest, hardworking and kind, yet desirous of making a match above her station in life - no doubt why she has come to Forman for advice. There’s a deal more in it I daresay but it would take some time for me to interpret and I could by no means promise insight or accuracy.’ He turned away but Tom lingered looking down, frowning. Date of birth September 4th - by the old calendar planned by Julius Caesar and Cleopatra’s Greek mathematician Sosigenes of Alexandria rather than Pope Gregory’s more recent revision. The date as it had been in the dark ages when such magics were being codified. The place of birth, London, and the time of birth…

  ‘Well,’ said Ugo. ‘If Elizabeth’s come to Forman for guidance, let us hope that she is still a Virgo, eh?’

  The three of them moved away from the chart to look at other things. There was what appeared to be some sort of diary. Idly leafing through it, Tom found he was thoughtlessly looking for the names of young women, especially that of Elizabeth Gerard. But in any case, all the names and many personal details seemed to be in code. When he realized this, Tom closed the volume, put it aside and looked up, realizing that the sunlight also illuminated shelves full of other, older volumes. He could just make out the titles of some - which he had heard of but never seen before, let alone read. They exercised sufficient fascination to stop the search for a moment or two, even though there might be someone needing help in the next room or further upstairs.

  *

  ‘John, are any of these books familiar to you?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I know their titles but not their contents in any detail.’ John sounded shocked; shaken. ‘I practice botany not astrology, and certainly not the sort of magic contained in some these grammaries.’

  ‘But they are familiar?’ persisted Tom. ‘In name at least?’

  ‘I know John Dee had several of them in his library at Mortlake before it was vandalized. Such as The Aldataia here and The Book of Soyga which I understand particularly fascinated Dee and which he spent years studying. Apart from that and what remains of his library - which as far as I know is with him in Manchester now that he is Warden of Christ’s College there - this is one of the most extensive occult libraries I have come across.’

  ‘Some of these books may have come from John Dee’s Mortlake house in any case,’ mused Tom. ‘Forman could have bought them from the thieves who wrecked his library.’

  ‘Or indeed bought them from Dee himself,’ said John ‘I believe he sold some books off so he could afford to keep the rest.’

  ‘The Mithras Liturgy,’ Tom read. ‘What is that?’

  ‘A volume of papers in Greek and Latin originating in the worship of Mithra, a powerful Eastern god who the Romans assumed was derived from Persian Zoroastrian religions. It is by its very nature dangerously heretical. The teachings are similar to those followed by the Albigensians or Cathars in the South of France more than three centuries ago. They postulate that God as the embodiment of light and Satan as the embodiment of darkness are equal in power and locked in an eternal battle for control of the world and mankind.’

  ‘I imagine that sort of thinking would get you into trouble with the Church pretty quickly. What happened to them?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Pope Innocent III called a crusade and wiped them out.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tom. ‘What else is there?’

  ‘A great deal,’ answered John nervously, ‘and most of it much, much more dangerous.’

  Chapter 3: The Occult Chamber

  i

  ‘The Corpus Hermeticum, for instance,’ supplied John. ‘From the ancient Greek of Hermes Trismegistus. Again, utterly heretical - a catalogue of methods to gain power by moving beyond what is revealed in the Bible or allowed in the Commandments.’

  ‘The Arbatel de Magica Verum, the arbatel of true magic - no more explanation needed,’ continued Tom. ‘The Pseudomonarchia Daemonum the royal rule of demons - I hardly dare touch it! The Book of Aramelin the Mage, The Book of Secrets, The Key of Solomon, The Lesser Key or Lemegeton - which lists the seventy-two most puissant devils and their powers - Three Books of Occult Philosophy by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, The Picatrix or The Aim of the Wise...’

  ‘That is enough,’ said John, his voice even more nervous than before. ‘They are all dangerously heretical volumes detailing how to access ungodly power, many of them revealing how to summon and control Satan and his legions out of Hell, either individually or in any numbers. That last one, The Picatrix is one of the most powerful books ever written if it lives up to its reputation. Have you not seen Marlowe’s play of Faustus? It would have been a book such as that which gave Faustus the knowledge how to raise the devil Mephistopheles; how to control such an awesome power and yet to stay safe from him. Some say the play is a guide as to how to do such things. There have actually been demons and devils seen at various performances, so the gossip goes.’ He looked around the room which seemed icy in spite of the bright sunshine. ‘Who knows what hell-born creatures may be close at hand simply because these volumes are collected all together here?’ He shuddered.

  ‘The beast that watches?’ suggested Tom breezily, earning an icy glare from his superstitious friend. Though, to be fair, his tone belied the nervousness he felt being in the presence of so much demonic wickedness.

  ‘And yet look here,’ said Ugo seemingly unaware of the atmosphere brewing between the others. ‘Here are books about fighting and defeating witchcraft: The Maellus Maleficarum - The Hammer of Witches, and Daemonologie by King James VI of Scotland...’

  ‘Soon to be King James the First of England if some
of the dark powers at Queen Elizabeth’s court get their way,’ added Tom.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ shrugged Ugo, ‘but look here. There are books by modern writers. Here is George Chapman’s Shadow of Night and Mathew Roydon’s A Friend’s Passion. Work by Thomas Lodge, Thomas Hariot, Sir Walter Raleigh; Sir Philip Sidney’s Astrophil and Stella. And by Christopher Marlowe as we have already discussed - both parts of his Tamburlaine, The Jew of Malta, Edward the Second, The Massacre at Paris, and, as you already mentioned, The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus...’

  *

  ‘All these men, living or dead, were, with Ferdinando Stanley Lord Strange and, some say, Edmund Spenser, not to mention John Dee and Simon Forman themselves, members of Raleigh’s circle though many have moved to Essex’ circle in the meantime,’ mused Tom. ‘At one time or another they were with Raleigh, though. Men who met at Raleigh’s London home Durham House and dabbled in occult matters and atheism, questioning the truth of the Bible, the group that Will Shakespeare christened The School of Night.’

  ‘Standing in opposition - intellectual opposition at the very least - to the more stoutly Protestant faction gathered at Essex House,’ added John, regaining control of himself. ‘With Essex, Southampton and - although a youngster in those days - William Shakespeare. However, as you observe, many of them have changed their allegiances since.’

  ‘And Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus,’ concluded Ugo grimly having apparently paid no attention to the other two once more. ‘Is right here beside the German Faustbuch which, as I remember it, gives even more details of the spells Faustus used to raise and control the demon Mephistopheles.’

  ‘These metaphysics of magicians/And necromantic books are heavenly,’ quoted Tom. ‘As Marlowe’s Faustus observed, A sound magician is a mighty god...’

  ‘See, see where Christ’s blood/Streams in the firmament,’ countered Ugo. ‘One drop would save my soul/But half a drop. Oh spare me Lucifer; I’ll burn my books!’

  ‘And so, like Faustus, everyone who tries to use these grimoires will be damned,’ said John, the certainty of unshakeable faith ringing in his voice as powerfully as Spencer’s funeral bells. Tom nodded his agreement then led them out of the sinister chamber.

  ii

  The next room, the front one above the shop, was the largest so far and, in keeping with the magician’s lewd reputation, it was the bedroom. There was no adjoining door leading through from the library, so they approached it from the corridor. As soon as he opened the door, Tom discovered broad windows that looked out westward across Billingsgate towards the westering sun on his right; windows which filled the entire chamber with light. And, straight ahead, narrower casements facing southwards towards the River added a breath-taking view over the Billingsgate pier and London Bridge. On the wall behind the door hung a full-length mirror in a gilded frame whose clarity and quality exceeded even the mirror Tom had on the wall beside his piste so his students could observe and perfect their duelling style. However, this mirror was clearly designed to reflect love rather than war.

  The walls were further hung with carpets and tapestries from the furthest corners of the world - some, thought Tom, almost certainly brought back by Raleigh or Gilbert from their explorations in Guiana together with the creatures, plants, beliefs and ideas that made them question the veracity of the Bible as well as the teachings of both Catholic and Protestant elders. Amongst these, and more discretely displayed in the shadier corners, hung paintings and stood statues from less far afield. The Trojan prince Paris, painted by an unfamiliar probably Flemish hand, lingered over his Judgement of the three graphically naked goddesses Hera, Athena and Aphrodite. In another, rather more risky picture given the situation, a couple of demons guided a line of sinners - all as naked as Paris’ goddesses and mostly women - towards the gates of Hell. In a third, Zeus, disguised as a swan, ravished an all-too willing Leda whose every feature was rendered in life-like detail; and again, in the last, Zeus again, this time disguised as a buxom Aphrodite, frolicked with an equally nude Callisto. In every corner stood Greek or Roman statues of the naked Venus, some modestly if ineffectively trying to shield their virtue, some stepping rather less self-consciously into or out of their baths.

  At the centre of this disturbingly sexual chamber stood a great four-poster with richly tapestried hangings on which rampant fauns and satyrs pursued voluptuous nymphs. Tom crossed to it, his mind fastening once more on that faint, possibly feminine, call for help. He lifted the heavy cloth to reveal a tumble of sheets, pillows and blankets unsettlingly reminiscent of Spenser’s death-bed.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Except that Simon the satyr seems to have caught a nymph here relatively recently - which explains I suppose why he needs a convenient bath.’ Then, looking up at John’s expression, ‘What?’

  ‘If Hal has seen this room...’ said the apothecary, at his most outraged, paternal and protective.

  ‘It would certainly explain why he fiddles with his codpiece,’ nodded Ugo.

  Goaded into a flash of rage, John turned and bellowed ‘HAL! Are you here boy?’

  And whatever came by way of reply, if indeed it came from the earthly plane rather than the demonic, seemed to emanate from whatever lay above that last, rickety staircase.

  *

  The corridor and the last staircase seemed to catch and concentrate the atmosphere from the library like an apothecary distilling poison. Or perhaps it was just their imaginary forces, thought Tom. Imagination abetted by every creak and groan the flimsy staircase gave beneath three sets of footwear. The stair-foot was stained, a darkness reaching across the floorboards that reminded Tom of the wet patch on the floor beside Spenser’s head. The lower treads were unstable, one or two dented; the banister bent and broken in a couple of places. Tom would have lingered over these but Ugo and John pushed impatiently upward. Imagination or not, by the time he reached the door at the top of the staircase he found that his rapier was in his hand and he had no memory of having drawn it. He hesitated, mind racing. Ugo and John crowded behind and below him. He paused a moment longer, studying the portal as though it was an enemy. The panels heavy and black, the jamb and lintel slightly lighter, the sill on the threshold paler, slightly splintered. Then he took a deep breath to steady himself, reached up and turned the handle - itself something of a rarity on internal doors in private houses. His own doors latched and bolted - or were replaced with hangings. Only the main door and the door to his school room with its mirror and fencing piste were as solid as this one. The fact that this was so heavy simply added to the atmosphere of danger. What was in this room that required such a solid barrier to contain it?

  Tom pushed it inwards an inch and waited. Silence; stillness - underpinned, perhaps emphasised, by the whisper of distant conversation from the street and by the breathing of his companions close behind. By the faintest stirring as though there was something alive in here. Something alive but not, he was sure, human. Certainly not the apprentice apothecary Hal no matter how well bound and gagged. And yet there had been that strange call for help. That weird noise as they exited the library.

  Tom pushed the door a little wider. The garret windows he had seen from the street faced west and south. They were curtained, but sufficient light from the cloudless afternoon came round their edges to illuminate the place.

  What first struck Tom was the size of the room. Then he began to make out some of its contents. He lingered in the doorway with Ugo and John pressing forward as they strained to see in. But he refused to move as he took stock of the disturbingly bizarre contents of the place. There was a stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling. It was massive, the better part of fifteen feet from nose to tail-tip as near as he could judge. It seemed scarcely better preserved than the cat crucified on the back door. Yet it glared balefully out of the shadows, its empty eye-sockets seemingly brimming with malignity, its mouth partly agape, teeth the length of fingers gleaming. And wrapped around it, scarcely in better conditi
on, was the longest snake that Tom had ever seen. Something of that size and power, he thought, must have come from Eden fresh from seducing Eve. Even part rotten as they were, the monsters were enough to hold him still as he continued to look around the strange room while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. And his nostrils adjusted to the strange, musty smell.

  The next thing to strike him was a looming presence in the corner nearest the west-facing windows. At first he thought it might be a cloaked and hooded figure nearly seven feet high standing there and the impact of the thought shortened his breath, speeded his heartbeat and caused his rapier to thrust towards it almost of its own accord. But no. A moment’s reflection made him realise that it was some tall piece of furniture draped in black cloth. He lowered his blade and stepped up into the room, his body nevertheless falling into Capo Ferro’s terza guard as though a master swordsman was just about to attack him out of the shadows. Eyes as busy as they would have been on a duelling piste or, indeed, a battlefield, he moved further into the room.

  Along the back wall there stood a waist high shelf that doubled as a table. In the middle of it there was a human skull. It was fleshless, scraped or scrubbed white - except that on the top of it stood a black candle whose meltings spread over the ball of the cranium. Beside it, a severed hand stood apparently balanced on its square-cut wrist, fingers spread and reaching upward, pale as white wax. Beyond that there were three wooden stands. On the first lay the mummified remains of some kind of dog, on the second, those of a monkey looking disturbingly like the remains of a child. Only the fact that they were labelled ANUBIS the JACKAL and BABI the MONKEY proved what they were. The third was empty but it was just possible to read BAST the CAT.