Josh and the Magic Vial

by Craig Spence

  “Some of the titles are rather fanciful.”

  Puddifant blushed, turning to face the tall, dark-eyed proprietor, who had somehow entered from the stockroom without the inspector hearing him.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular?” the man asked.

  Puddifant disliked him instinctively. There was a suggestion of arrogance in his posture and tone. He was the type of person who could make you feel like a bug, a specimen that might be captured any second and added to his collection.

  “I do hope you can help me,” Puddifant said cheerfully, stepping up to the counter and offering his card. “Are you Mr. Blackstone?”

  “Sirus Blackstone, yes,” the man said smoothly.

  “I’m investigating a case that seems to have some occult connections. I’m not well versed in the black arts myself, and I thought someone like you might be of assistance.”

  Blackstone grinned. “Why, I consider it my public duty to help the police when I can.”

  “Thank you,” Puddifant tipped his bowler. “I am trying to get any information I can about a character named Vortigen, who apparently resides in a place called Syde.”

  Sirus Blackstone started, but recovered almost before Puddifant had caught the surprised expression.

  “Does this inquiry surprise you?”

  “The Lord of Syde is not widely known,” Blackstone answered, “and those who do know his name are reluctant to utter it out loud. It is not a name to be bandied about in casual conversation.”

  “My purpose is anything but casual, sir!”

  “No. I should think not.”

  “Can you tell me anything about this Vortigen?”

  “Not much. He has a lot in common with the mythical being known as Hades, the Greek god of the underworld. In fact, there is much speculation that he is the original of that ancient character of myth, but I don’t know anything more about it.”

  “Does he have anything to do with children?”

  “Children?” Blackstone raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Puddifant continued. “Is there any reason a dying child, for instance, might repeat this infernal creature’s name?”

  “None I can think of!”

  “Well, if you do come up with anything, could you give me a ring?” Puddifant said. “Lives may depend upon it. Children’s lives.”

  “Most certainly!” Blackstone exclaimed.

  But for some reason, Blackstone’s assurance raised the hair on Puddifant’s neck.

  23

  Enver Skogs slouched into the armchair, concealing himself in its sagging cushions as best he could.

  “Fool!” Sirus Blackstone shouted for the umpteenth time.

  “But you told me to come straight back, sir.”

  “I didn’t tell you to bring the whole London constabulary to my doorstep!” the magician shrieked, working himself into a rage. “Do you know what you’ve done? Have you any idea?”

  “I checked,” Skogs put in feebly. “I still can’t see how he could have been following without my knowing.”

  “What are you saying, Skogs?” Blackstone sneered. “Are you suggesting he just happened to show up here with his idiotic questions?”

  “Well,” Skogs rasped his dirty fingernails through the stubble on his chin. “It is possible, isn’t it? He might have seen your advert in the Mirror and said,‘There’s a bloke who’ll have some answers for me. I’ll go talk to Sirus Blackstone, the Wizard ofWellclose Square.’”

  “For God’s sake, man, do shut up!”

  “But you do have a reputation, sir. I mean, if the coppers were looking about for someone who could answer a few questions concerning the occult and such, I’m sure they’d be directed to Blackstone’s Magical and Occult Emporium.”

  Exasperated, Blackstone threw himself into a chair opposite, draping one leg over the arm and leaning his head against the upholstered wing. “One of these days I shall have to put you out of your misery, Skogs,” he groaned.

  “I’m not miserable, sir,” Skogs answered glumly. “Life may be hard: the missus may be as much adder as human being, you may be a very exacting employer; but I’m still of good cheer because I know all’s for the best.”

  “You’re just too stupid to know you are miserable,” Blackstone insisted, with a sigh. “You’re like an ox that has no idea it’s harnessed to a plow, and that there might be a life without the constant sting of the lash.”

  Skogs hung his head, defeated at last. Sirus Blackstone was cruel, and no doubt about it. As mean as they came.

  “Now, tell me what happened at the funeral.” Blackstone said suddenly, shaking back his wild mane of black hair and shifting forward to the edge of his seat.

  “Well, sir, an uncle said what a wonderful child young Charlie had been, which got Mrs. Underwood crying all over again; and a little school chum said as how he’d miss his young mate, and how the street seems empty now, even when it’s full of squealing urchins — that got Mr. Underwood going too.”

  “Yes, yes. Then what?”

  “Then we made our way out of church and began our slow procession to the graveyard, sir.”

  “And?”

  “And that was it. We said ‘Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust’, then threw a few clots of dirt down onto the coffin and went our ways.”

  “Nothing else at all?” Blackstone almost pleaded.

  “No sir.”

  If he’d only known what his employer wanted, Skogs might have made something up. But he hadn’t a clue. It was the same thing every time: the spells, the funerals, the unseemly questions and the disappointment. What did he expect, this evil, pathetic man, who exerted so much influence over the lives or Enver and Elvira Skogs? What did he want?

  24

  “Extraordinary!” Professor Cornelius Wizer exclaimed, pacing nervously before the window of his study.

  Puddifant had told him everything. About the children dying, Vortigen, the strange encounter at Charlie Underwood’s funeral, the interview with Blackstone.

  “He’s a dangerous man, Inspector,” the professor cautioned. “I have visited Mr. Blackstone myself on several occasions, and I do believe he is the genuine article.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Puddifant raised his eyebrows.

  “He’s a warlock.”

  Puddifant smirked. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But . . . ” His attempt at an apology petered out, leaving the two men staring at each other across the professor’s desk.

  “That’s quite all right,” Professor Wizer chortled. “I realize that witchcraft won’t stand up in a modern court as a legitimate charge, and I wouldn’t expect a London copper to appreciate what has taken me a lifetime of rigorous research to understand. The mysterious forces of magic are beyond most people’s comprehension. But in your case . . . ”

  “What about my case?” Puddifant prompted.

  “I am concerned for your safety,” the learned man warned. “But let’s put that aside for the moment. I should like to know your theory concerning these deaths, and the strange behaviour of Enver Skogs.”

  Puddifant hesitated.

  “In strictest confidence, of course,” Professor Wizer promised.

  “Poison,” Puddifant said. “I believe Sirus Blackstone has discovered some kind of poison that can be administered secretly and which we cannot discover after the fact. I’ve done a little checking. He has travelled extensively. It’s my belief that during those travels, he discovered a very useful contagion.”

  “But why?” the professor frowned. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Power,” Puddifant replied smugly.

  “How would murdering children give him power?”

  “In two ways, Professor. First, he is a serial killer, and like his tormented brethren, derives a sense of exultation in the act of murder — and the more innocent the victim, the better, as far as that goes.

  “But our suspect has another, larger motive. Did you know he runs a sort of occult college out o
f his shop?”

  “College?” Professor Wizer frowned. “I should hardly call it a college.”

  “What do you call it then?”

  “It’s a coven, Inspector. The East London Coven to be precise, and its members are among the most influential and powerful people of London — names you would recognize, if you were a reader of the Times. Vortigen is the deity they bow to, and Blackstone is more a high priest than a teacher.”

  “That’s even better,” Puddifant rubbed his hands together.

  “What you’ve just said strengthens my theory.”

  “Explain.”

  “Tell me professor, what holds a group like the East London Coven together?”

  “Belief,” Cornelius Wizer mused. “A shared belief in something bigger then themselves.”

  “And what sustains belief, sir?”

  “Carry on. I know what you are going to say.”

  Puddifant sighed, piqued at the professor’s jumping ahead and taking the fun out of things. After all, it was the unusual cases that kept him in police work. If it had all been the drudgery of armed robberies or domestic violence, he would have quit long ago. But a case like this exercised the mind.

  “What sustains belief is miracles,” he explained, after a pause. “If the leader of one of these cults can show he really does possess magical powers, then his followers will be bound to him even more strongly. What better way to demonstrate your power then by play acting some occult mumbo-jumbo when you know the victim you are hexing is certain to die from the poison you’ve administered in advance.”

  “Very good, Inspector!” Professor Wizer clapped. “There’s just one problem with your theory.”

  “What’s that?” Puddifant demanded.

  “It’s bunk, sir. Complete and utter bunk.”

  Again, they stared at one another across the cluttered expanse of Professor Wizer’s desk.

  “Tell me how you’ve come to that conclusion,” Puddifant said at last.

  “Gladly,” the professor nodded. “But it won’t be something you will be able to present to a magistrate. You’d be laughed out of court, just as I am laughed at in academic circles.” He gestured to a chair and as Puddifant sat down, pulled a book from its shelf and dropped it with a thud onto the desk.

  “My life’s work,” he said grimly.

  Tilting his head, Puddifant read the title. Occult, an Investigation Into Magic.

  “Not a wildly successful effort, I’m afraid.” the academic said ruefully. “As you may have gathered from the title, the book did nothing to stir the popular imagination. A few academics like myself bought copies, only to denounce it as lunatic ravings.

  You’re welcome to borrow it if you want. There’s a section on Vortigen and the Book of Syde.”

  “The Book of Syde?”

  “Yes. That’s Blackstone’s equivalent to the family Bible.”

  “And what conclusions have you made about this particular cult, Professor?”

  “There’s no conclusive evidence, if that’s what you’re looking for. As I’ve said, nothing that would stand up in a court of law. But I’m as convinced of the powers of magic as I am of the fact that you are sitting in that chair, and I have no doubt Blackstone has tapped into that power. He is a dangerous man.”

  “What’s he after?”

  “Power. You’ve hit the nail there, Inspector. Blackstone craves power . . . not the illusion that a charlatan can garner through tricks, but power from the very source of evil. I can only refer you to what is written in The Book of Syde. I have no detailed knowledge of what goes on inside the East London Coven — Blackstone would kill me before he’d let me get that close — but I can point out what’s written in their sacred text.”

  “Go on.”

  “It is written that Vortigen craves an heir, a human connection with this world.”

  “Yes.”

  “The way he expects to get that heir will be of interest to you.”

  “I thought it might be,” Puddifant said.

  “Powerful as he is, Vortigen can only enter our world through the medium of a witch or sorcerer. You must understand this to understand what follows.”

  Puddifant inclined his head gravely.

  “Disciples of the Lord of Syde select what are called ‘candidates’ for Vortigen,” Professor Wizer continued. “These are children who are offered to the demon in what is known as the Rite of Transmigration. The spell is cast on the night of the full moon, it takes hold between the waning of the full moon and the waxing of the new, and is irrevocable once the new moon appears. This clandestine rite has been practiced for thousands of years, Inspector. Blackstone is merely a present-day manifestation of evil.”

  “Tell me more about this rite.”

  A look of fear passed fleetingly over Professor Wizer’s features. “Sorcerers like Blackstone, if indeed he is steeped in evil . . . ”

  “Oh, I think we can come to some conclusions on that point,” Puddifant put in dryly.

  “Yes. Ahem! As I was saying, sorcerers must follow a very specific set of rules when they are offering a candidate. First, they must somehow acquire some biological material from the victim . . . ”

  “Biological material?” Puddifant queried.

  “Yes — blood, hair, and nail clipping to be exact. Blood and hair alone might do in a pinch, but to make Vortigen well disposed toward the candidate, it is necessary to offer all three.”

  “And how does the sorcerer acquire these ingredients without the victim knowing?” Puddifant wondered.

  “The most common technique is to hire some thugs to beat up the candidate, pretending it’s a robbery or mugging. The samples are taken during the assault.”

  “My God! This is shocking, Professor!”

  Professor Wizer’s eyes swam behind his spectacles. He patted his book defiantly. “I have tried to warn people,” he said quietly. “I have risked my life gathering evidence and presenting it, only to be mocked mercilessly by my colleagues and the public. You will be tormented too if you dare to tell the truth about what Blackstone is up to. Just wait and see.”

  Puddifant saw a lonely, courageous man sitting opposite him. But still, he could not believe what the professor was saying. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  Cornelius Wizer waived the apology cheerfully. “You know,” he said, “when you believe in what you are doing, Inspector, criticism loses its sting. I have never stopped telling the truth because I know what I am saying is the truth.”

  “I still don’t think your explanation is the only plausible theory, Professor,” Puddifant said gently.

  “Of course, Inspector. If you choose to believe Sirus Blackstone is perpetrating a murderous hoax, that’s fine. It certainly brings you closer to a charge the courts will prosecute. I base my theory upon years of research, however, and the evidence I have gathered has beaten down a skepticism that was as strong as yours when I first began — every bit as strong.”

  Looking infinitely weary, the professor removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “On one thing I hope we may agree, Inspector Puddifant,” he said earnestly. “I hope you will not underestimate this man, and that you will take every precaution for your own safety. I must warn you, he is more dangerous than any criminal you have ever encountered.”

  “Are you suggesting he would threaten an officer of the law, sir?” the astounded Puddifant sputtered.

  Professor Wizer stared without blinking. “Sirus Blackstone will stop at nothing, sir,” he answered gravely. “At nothing you can imagine.”

  25

  Puddifant turned up the collar of his greatcoat and pushed on through the fog that spilled over Millbank from the Thames. The cold, grey pall enveloped the buildings crouched on the far side of the street. It misted the blaze of streetlights, transforming brightness into a lurid haze that dissipated before it ever reached the pavement.

  He’d stayed at Professor Wizer’s longer than he’d intended. Puddifant smiled. “Witchcraft!” he sco
ffed, more certain than ever that Blackstone resorted to something stronger than spells and incantations to murder his victims. “By Jove, I’ll prove it!” he vowed, stumping along at a furious pace.

  The din of London had stilled. The straggling sounds of a city tending toward slumber were swallowed in the muffled dark: the clip-clop of a horse, the sputter of an automobile, the shouts of revellers. He’d thought of taking a cab, but decided the walk would do him good. Professor Wizer disagreed. “You don’t understand the nature of the thing you are up against,” he’d warned. “Blackstone is not a man, he’s a demon. Watch your back, sir. That’s my advice.”

  Inspector Horace Puddifant chuckled nervously. Only a fool would dare attack an investigating officer from New Scotland Yard, he calculated, and Blackstone was no fool.

  Why, then, did Puddifant feel as if he were being watched? Why did he sense shadows moving within the shifting shrouds of fog, and hear footsteps that seemed to echo his own? Why did he shiver at the notion of someone out there, just beyond the veil of vapours?

  “Nonsense!” he huffed.

  Professor Wizer had spooked him, but as an experienced investigator, Puddifant had to discard what could not be proved and stick to the relevant facts. He intended to prove that Blackstone headed a bizarre sect, which paid homage to an ancient devil named Vortigen; that he staged child sacrifices to this demon, even going so far as to assault his “candidates” to collect blood, hair and nails; that the villain inoculated his victims with an as yet unidentified contagion during these assaults; that the poison was timed to take hold on or about the night of the full moon, when Blackstone performed his strange Rite of Transmigration; that the disease progressed in such a way that the children died on or about the waning of the old moon and the waxing of the new; and finally that all this was done in accordance with the rituals set down in The Book of Syde.