*
CATHERINE BAYER
Mark was seized by panic. Only three descendents were left alive. He tried to follow the chain of events that took place after the discovery of his uncle’s illness, convinced that something had happened to ignite this contagion of damnation, but found nothing. At his father’s service, he talked to his brother.
“Ben, you must promise me something,” he said as they left the crematorium, a pleasant London park filled with clipped English trees and a great many bare rose beds neatly arranged like ledgers. “You mustn’t spend any of the money Uncle Andrew left you.”
“Don’t start getting weird on me,” said Ben impatiently. “It’s not cursed, okay? Our parents died because they were messed up and distracted. I’m sure if either of them had been thinking clearly, they’d have survived. Shit like this happens to families all the time.”
“Yeah, right. Our mother was killed by her necklace. Dad’s hands were severed. Christ, even you should be able to see that these weren’t accidents!”
“I agree, it’s kind of creepy, but any explanation you try to come up with would have to be a whole lot creepier.”
“How do you explain what happened to the rest of the family? You think they were all distracted? What if there really was an explanation for everything that has happened?”
“Like what? The old man secretly hated them all and cursed his belongings? If you believe that, you’re as nuts as the rest of them.” Ben tried to pull away but Mark held him back.
“Think what you like. I’m just asking you not to spend the money for now. Not until I’ve figured this out.”
Mark walked away from his brother. He had always been close with Ben, but even they were being forced apart.
Catherine, Uncle Andrew’s second wife, had chosen to stay away from this latest funeral. She was having problems of her own; she was becoming increasingly angry with her Russian builders. They worked hard, but they had a habit of leaving every door and window open. She had hired them to renovate the great neo-Georgian Buckinghamshire house Andrew had left her, and spent her days trying to keep out the wind and rain as the workmen walked mud through the hall. Now she could hear something slamming around upstairs, and knew they had left one of the windows wide again.
There was an icy draft coming from the main bedroom. She threw back the door and saw the problem; they had exited onto the scaffolding and left the place open to the elements. She went to the window and looked out, trying to see if she could see them. It was almost dark, and the scaffolds stretched off into tarpaulin-draped shadows.
The wind had risen. The tarpaulins banged and rattled like the billowing sails of a ship. The weather forecast had warned of gales. Her workmen had clearly finished for the night. How could they be so thoughtless? She reached up to close the window and saw the figure standing outside on the planked terrace, peering in at her. Its fierce eyes glowed in the dark. He was shouting something, but the noise of the wind was snatching his words away.
Catherine was too startled to move.
She was still staring at the shadow-form of her dead husband when the gale lifted the tarps and rolled the scaffolding pole from where it had been carelessly left on the walkway. The steel tube swung down, flipped over and shot through the window, punching a hole through Catherine’s chest, hurling her to the far side of the room in a spray of glass, wood and blood. She remained there, skewered through the heart, as the figure broke up and dissipated into the turbulent night air.
*
LYCUS GEROLSTEIN
“Something has been bothering me for days,” said Mark as they sat at their usual places in the little coffee shop. “You were supposed to have lunch with my uncle on the day he died. What were you meeting about?”
“I told you,” said Lycus patiently, “Andrew wasn’t happy with his current investment portfolio and was thinking of changing his accountant. He wanted my advice.”
“You could have done that in London. Bit of an odd coincidence, wasn’t it, you both being in Monaco?”
“Not really. I have a number of clients based there, and your uncle enjoyed driving along the Savaric cliffs. It crossed my mind that he might be keeping a mistress there.”
Mark thought for a minute. Something was scratching away at the back of his brain. “Could I see the original will?” he asked.
“I don’t see why not,” said Lycus. “It’s at my house. I thought I should keep it there, away from the rest of your family.”
“There’s only two of us left alive now,” Mark reminded him. His heart was beating hard in his chest. He did not want the lawyer to see how anxious he was.
“Tell you what, why don’t you come down tomorrow evening?” Lycus suggested. “I can show it to you then.”
The following afternoon, Mark made his way to London Bridge and caught a train to Sevenoaks. He found Lycus Gerolstein’s house set back on a densely wooded hill near the station. The lawyer had never married and lived alone.
“Come in, it’s a frightful night,” said Lycus, holding the door wide. “It feels like these storms will never end. I thought you might cancel. Actually I’m very glad you could make it, because there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”
Mark settled himself in a deep sofa in the firelit lounge while Lycus poured some wine. “You know, you’re going to be a very rich young man soon,” said the lawyer.
“How would that be possible?” Mark suspected that his parents had left him money, but since his uncle’s death the subject of inheritance had become objectionable to him.
“Catherine Bayer died intestate. Without a will, the house she had inherited from your uncle passes to you.”
“Surely it would go to the children from her previous marriage?”
“No. Andrew specified that in the event of his wife’s death you should inherit their house.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he do that? He deliberately kept me out of his original will.”
“Perhaps he had a change of heart.”
Mark sensed that the lawyer was lying. He felt sure that Lycus would have discussed the possibility with him earlier. “Why are you only telling me this now?”
“I already explained that I’m not allowed to take sides. I’m afraid that meant restricting information to interested parties. Don’t you see, if your family had known exactly what was in the codicils, they might have acted against each other?”
“You’re talking about premeditated murder, Lycus. No, I can’t allow myself to believe that. I want to see the original will.”
Lycus sighed and rose to his feet. “Very well. Follow me.” He led the way upstairs, into a narrow extension that seemed older than the rest of the house. “This is all that’s left of an earlier building—1720. Mind your head on the beams.”
Lycus led the way to a large room with a vaulted wooden ceiling. At one end a wood fire crackled in a large stone grate. “This single room constitutes the whole of the original house,” he explained. “This is where your uncle and I kept our collection. I’ve never shown this to anyone else.”
The lawyer’s study was lined with beech wood museum cases. Mark approached one and peered inside. African, English, and Spanish masks stared sightlessly back at him.
“They belonged to devil-worshippers,” Lycus explained. “No matter what each race believes in, one thing is constant to every creed. There’s always a devil.”
“I suppose that’s because we’re all afraid of dying,” said Mark. “We need to believe in someone who will allow us to strike a bargain.”
Lycus looked pleased. “You’re exactly right,” he said. “It’s human nature to seek an escape clause. The structure of every religion requires a mirror image. Every deity needs its opposite.”
Mark studied the carved fetish idols, their screaming faces and twisted wooden limbs. “Quite a hobby.”
“Your uncle and I shared the same interests. We wondered if it was possible that the objects men made—the
items they worshipped with, the things they owned—could become imbued with their spirits. Ever since priests first sold nails from Christ’s cross, such items have had totemic value. They’ve always been in demand. Here we are.”
Lycus opened a glass-topped case and withdrew an envelope. “Your uncle’s will, and its codicils.”
He slid out the vellum within and spread the pages across the glass. Mark stared at his uncle’s signature, as delicate as a spiderweb. Beneath it was a line that read: Signature of Beneficiary.
Above the signature of Andrew Bayer it said: Signature of Notary Official. In the space beside it, Lycus Gerolstein had written his name.
He checked all the documents, the first will and the three codicils. In each case, Lycus Gerolstein had signed his name.
“You were there,” said Mark, looking up. “You were the officiating witness for all of these.”
“Well, I had to be, otherwise the document would not have held any legal power.”
“So you always knew who had tried to coerce my uncle into changing his will.”
“I told you before, Mark, it is a requirement of my profession to remain nonpartisan. I knew that almost every member of your family had tried to persuade Andrew to change his mind. Each of them had patiently waited for him to become enfeebled before persuading him to sign. When your uncle recovered, he remembered little of what he had done. I had to tell him. By the time he was healing from his third attack, the bequests were in a hopeless mess once more. I wanted to spare you that knowledge.”
Lycus moved to a cabinet and withdrew a shallow walnut box, carrying it as if he was transporting an item of immense worth and fragility. Lifting the lid, he took out an ornately carved fountain pen and handed it to Mark. It was surprisingly heavy.
“What is this made of?” Mark asked, studying the chased silver overlaid on the cream casing. “Is it ivory?”
“Something far more precious. “
“What did you do once you realized the original will had been messed up with codicils?”
“I drew up one final version that would sort everything out. It was this version Andrew signed in Monaco the day before he died. In order to receive your rightful inheritance, you need to countersign it. Just a formality.”
Lycus slipped out a thick grey sheet filled with tiny print and laid it down on his desk with great care. This page looked completely different to the others. He indicated the space at the bottom. “Just on the line, if you will.” He casually waved a hand over the page.
Mark hesitated, looking at the pen again. “First tell me,” he persisted, “what is this?”
“It’s a writing implement that was long thought lost. Your uncle used it for all his important documents. A superstition of his.”
Mark weighed the fountain pen in his hand once more. “It’s made of bone. I went to art college, Lycus, I studied anatomy. It looks like it’s carved from one of the metacarpals. The bones in the wrist that connect to the fingers.”
Lycus stepped closer. “You’re quite right, a rare antique, designed for necromantic purposes. Just a folk superstition,” he said impatiently. “Sign.”
Mark laid the fountain pen down. “No, I can’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bequests brought death to my family. If I inherit, the same thing will happen to me.” He recapped the pen and toyed with it, balancing it between his fingers.
“You have to sign, Mark,” Lycus warned, “or you won’t get a thing.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This will change your life. It will give you everything you ever wanted. You haven’t got a penny to your name. You’ll never have to worry about money again.”
“I don’t want to receive an unearned gift. I’d rather give it away.”
“But that’s absurd.”
“Is it? You remember when we met after my uncle died? I kept thinking—why would a lawyer seek me out in a coffee shop, just to tell me that he thought the will had been compromised? Men like you don’t do such things without a reason, Lycus. You wanted me to become suspicious. Dissatisfied. You know what I think?”
A faint smile traced itself on Lycus’s face. “No, what?”
“I think everything you told me in those meetings was designed to get me here tonight.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“You need me to accept my inheritance.”
Lycus shook his head in pity. “How would that benefit me?”
Mark snatched up the pen. “What’s the secret?” he asked. “Who did this belong to?”
“Give me that.” Lycus made a lunge for it, but Mark stepped back beyond his reach.
“It’s not about who it belonged to, is it? It’s who it was made from.” Mark turned the pen’s barrel to the light and noted the inscription carved into the polished bone. Gemacht von der hand unseres herrlichen Leiters.
“I think I finally understand the nature of my uncle’s will. I was his favorite nephew. He told me he was going to leave me the most precious gift of all. And he has.”
“What do you mean?” Lycus moved closer, playing for time.
“He gave me independence. By making sure that I was the only one who was excluded from the bequests, he protected me.”
“Interesting,” said Lycus carefully. “I think perhaps it’s time you knew the truth about your uncle Andrew. His cancer treatments were becoming progressively less successful. Each stay in hospital weakened him, although he hid it well. He didn’t want to cause you any pain. When he discovered he was dying, Andrew feared that in his frail state the family would try to coerce him over the will—which of course they did—so he met with me and asked me if there was a way that I could help him.”
“And you had the answer. You were both collectors.”
“Andrew had long ago realized what his family was really like. He wanted to see them revealed in their true colors, but he didn’t have long to live. I told him that by signing his will in the manner I proscribed, with the instrument we could purchase, his spirit could remain on earth long enough to confirm his suspicions. He would be able to see that justice was done. I told him that each family member who acted uncharitably would be destroyed by the item they were bequeathed.”
“Why would he have believed you?”
“I told you, he was a collector of the arcane. A will is the one document everyone needs to sign. What happens if such a document could truly decide your afterlife ? Wouldn’t you want to know? Especially if you had no other choice? Andrew believed me because it was I who found the pen.”
“That was why he went to France. The two of you bought it in Monte Carlo. The one thing I know about Monaco is that it’s a tax haven, a place where private items are secretly traded.”
“Your uncle and I purchased the pen, and he used it to sign a final version of the will—a version only he and I ever witnessed. This one.” He tapped the grey page on the desk. “Feel it. It’s extraordinarily delicate to the touch. We rewrote the will on the flayed skin of a concentration camp victim, and signed it with the führer’s own hand—or at least, a part of it. Imagine the power we created! The very next day your uncle died, and became a creature of the shadow-world.”
“My uncle wasn’t a vindictive man. He would never have wanted his entire family to suffer.”
“Perhaps not, but he was embittered by the thought of his impending death. He could watch what happened after, but couldn’t intervene.”
Mark thought for a moment. “My uncle Gabriel phoned to tell me he’d seen Andrew, and then he died. What if Andrew was trying to warn him?”
“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the real tragedy of Andrew’s deal was that his bitterness left him as he expired, and he no longer wanted revenge. Instead he was forced to watch, powerless to intervene, while his relatives gave in to their base instincts, cruelly dying one after the other. He saw how all men can be brought down to animal behavior.” “It’s y
ou, isn’t it? You want what everyone who collects this kind of stuff wants. Proof of the soul.”
“I merely carried out your uncle’s wishes. Of course, I wanted proof of the soul’s immortality. The führer was an occultist, but that isn’t what gives the pen its power. It holds his life essence. Just as all of the other items hold the souls of their owners.”
“You mean the jewelry.”
“I mean everything!” Lycus shouted. “Everything your uncle left behind came from our collection. The steering wheel of Gabriel’s car once belonged to Joseph Goebbels. Cheryl Bayer’s flat had been the home of Alistair Crowley. The emerald necklace was made for Ilse Koch, the so-called Butcher of Buchenwald. The cuff links had belonged to the serial killer Peter Kurten. The money, too, laundered from generations of Nazi looters through Swiss banks. Everything I persuaded your uncle to leave in his will had been purchased from collectors, often at a terrible cost. Even the rope on Olivia Bayer’s boat had once been part of a hangman’s noose.”
“What about Catherine Bayer’s house?”
“That hadn’t belonged to anyone notorious. But she had. Before she met your uncle, she had been the mistress of a notorious Washington warmonger. Your family was right about her. She had an evil heart. I introduced them.” He sounded rather proud of the fact. “You see, getting the pen and the parchment wasn’t enough. The inheritances had to be filled with the same kind of dark energy. It was a brave experiment, to be sure, but one that paid off. A curious mind is a wonderful thing, Mark. Your uncle shared my fascination with the idea.”
Mark pretended to continue studying the will. His hands were trembling. “Tell me something, Lycus. Did my uncle know he was going to die that morning on the cliffs?”
“Oh, he knew the cancer would catch up with him soon enough. But you know as well as I do, every gain must be met with a certain amount of sacrifice. Using the pen shaved a few weeks off his life, that’s all. I think I really underestimated its power. It wasn’t the only relic removed from the führer’s bunker, but it’s the only one that was used in necromantic ceremonies after the war. Now, I think it’s time for you to countersign the will, if you would.”
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