Josh and the Magic Vial

by Craig Spence

  He felt his wallet being tugged from his inside jacket pocket.

  “Got it! Let’s go!” a second voice confirmed.

  Footsteps fled along the embankment, retreating into the night.

  The assault had lasted perhaps thirty seconds. Groaning, Puddifant righted himself and tried to focus in the direction the men had run. They were gone.

  His head throbbed and his cheek stung. With consciousness came an awful certainty. “Nooo!” Puddifant wailed realizing how careless he had been isolating himself in the gloomy corner of the park. No one had witnessed the attack. No one had yet come to his aid. Blackstone’s mob had stalked him and he’d offered himself up as a victim. Just like Charles Underwood and the others, he’d been bludgeoned and pricked with a knife; just like the others, he’d been poisoned. Puddifant knew it.

  “Idiot!” he spat. “Fool.”

  Hadn’t Professor Wizer warned him?

  No amount of cursing could change the sickening truth. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in Puddifant’s mind that he’d been infected with deadly venom, even though no one would ever be able to prove Sirus Blackstone had committed yet another murder. “Doomed,” he mumbled hanging his head in disgrace.

  33

  Well done fellows! Well done!” Blackstone beamed.

  “We aim to please,” Jack Gowler chortled.

  “Now there’s the little matter of compensation.”

  “Yes. Of Course.” Blackstone opened his wallet and thumbed through a wad of notes. He handed Jack the money. “There. I think you’ll find the reward satisfactory. It’s more than we agreed to.”

  “Very generous, sir,” the criminal winked, eyeing the wallet hungrily. “If you ever need our services again, you know where to find us, eh?”

  “Indeed I do. Thank you gentlemen.”

  “But now that we’ve disposed of the bean pole, you’ll have to get someone else to let us in, ha-ha.”

  Blackstone joined in their laughter, even though he didn’t appreciate the jest. For a fee, they had disposed of Skogs.

  Blackstone was satisfied the remains would never be discovered, but he found the brothers’ crude butchery repugnant, and didn’t like to be reminded of it.

  He showed the brothers out, then locked the stockroom door behind them. “Elvira!” he called up the stairs. “Come down, my dear. Hurry.”

  There was no time to lose. The police might arrive any minute. No evidence linked him to the assault on Inspector Puddifant, or to the disappearance of Skogs, but he didn’t doubt they would come up with some pretext to search the premises. He had to cast his spell before they burst in.

  “Hurry!” he urged Elvira. “We have to perform the rite this instant. The police could be on their way, even as we speak.”

  “My goodness, you are flustered,” she mocked coming down the stairs. “It’s not like you Sirus.”

  He shot her an angry glance. “Puddifant has picked up the scent,” he reminded her. “We have to get rid of him before he leads the whole pack to us.”

  “Killing a police officer is not going to throw them off, my dear. If anything, it will make them keener for our blood, don’t you think?”

  Blackstone sighed impatiently. “Puddifant will take ill. He will die suddenly, of natural causes. They will be suspicious, of course, but they won’t have anything that would stand up in a court of law. After a few months, I think we shall be able to start up again.”

  Elvira cursed. She was furious that they had been forced to destroy all the offerings she had gathered, and suspend meetings of the East London Coven. Amanda Clark had been saved — or, as Elvira reluctantly put it “kept from her fate” — all because of the “wretched little snoop” Horace Puddifant. Still, she questioned Blackstone’s decision to do away with the inspector. “It will only make things worse,” she predicted.

  But her consort would not be swayed. Puddifant had to go. It was a matter of honour as much as anything. He wanted revenge on the man who dared interfere with the proceedings of the East London Coven. He wanted to show his members how he treated meddlers, even meddlers who carried a police inspector’s badge. True, Puddifant had disturbed their plans, but in the end Blackstone intended to make good use of the situation. It was an opportunity to demonstrate the reach of occult power. Not even the law was above sorcery. That’s what Blackstone intended to prove.

  For this he had the perfect spell. He would perform the Rite of Imprisonment. Rather than send Puddifant to Syde, he would have the intrepid inspector bunged up in a Spirit Bottle.

  “The beauty of it is, I can cast the spell tonight,” he’d explained to Elvira earlier. “It’s intended for urgent situations, just like this. There’s no need to wait on the full moon, and the illness takes hold immediately.”

  “You sound positively thrilled,” she goaded.

  “Well, it is a rare opportunity. The conditions do not often crop up where the Spell of Imprisonment can be applied.”

  They hurried down to the cellar, where Blackstone unlocked a heavy door that opened from the laboratory into a pitch black room. “Hail Vortigen, Lord of Syde,” he murmured as they stepped over the threshold. “This room and all who enter are consecrated to Your Highness.”

  Having uttered his prayer, he struck a match and lit a candle, which sat ready in its holder by the door. The room was sealed off from any natural light. A window that had once peeped up into Wellclose Square had been blacked over with paint and, although he had installed the best electric lighting in his laboratory, not a single bulb had been run into the temple. The Book of Syde lay open at the passage Blackstone needed. He knew the words by heart, but having The Book opened was crucial to the ceremony. He wasted no time laying the bloodstained handkerchief and snippets of hair in a brass bowl, then sprinkling them over with magnesium powder. Setting the bowl back on its stand, he bowed over The Book and began.

  “Your enemies are my enemies, Lord of Syde, and mine yours. There is no place over or under the earth where our wills are not in harmony: if I hate, it is because you hate; if I would destroy a man and his works, I do so in your name. I have marked your enemy, my Lord, and here is his blood; I have shorn him, and here is his hair. I send this smoke to you according to the ancient law, as a warning Lord Vortigen, for the man Horace Puddifant is my enemy. He would destroy your servant and cut my praises and offerings short. Deliver him to me, Lord Vortigen. Imprison him.”

  Lifting the bowl, Blackstone lit a taper in the flame of one of the candles then touched it to the offering. It went up in a flash, filling the room with acrid smoke. “Deliver him to me Lord Vortigen,” Blackstone continued, talking in a trance. He pulled a tiny, crystal vial out of his pocket and held it up. “Give me power over your enemy, Lord. Imprison him. Let him be an example to all who would hinder the servants of Syde in your sacred quest. Let me close my hand around him, Lord of Syde. For your sake and mine.”

  Eyes closed, palms spread in supplication, Blackstone stood before The Book, waiting. For a long time nothing happened. Then, slowly at first, almost imperceptibly, the candles began to waver and the room reverberated, as if they were in the bowels of a gigantic engine. “Yes,” the air thrummed. “You shall have him.” Then the voice collapsed, folding in on itself, leaving a terrible vacuum in its wake. The room was silent, except for the breathing of Blackstone and his disciple.

  “Puddifant is doomed,” the sorcerer said. “I’ve won.”

  34

  Sam Jenkins sensed something big — very big. He’d never been contacted by an investigator from New Scotland Yard before. They didn’t pander to the press, those chaps. So why was this Puddifant so eager to talk?

  “You must come now, and you must bring your editor with you,” the man had wheezed into the phone. He’d sounded poorly — more like an old geezer than a cop.

  As soon as Sam hung up he phoned his editor, Alfred Rawling, and told him what had happened. “He says he’s got some information to pass on that will cause a stir in London.
Very sensational stuff.”

  “Can’t it wait till morning, Jenkins?” the editor grumped. “It’s past midnight, and I’ve got to be up at five.”

  “Well, that’s the funny thing. This Puddifant says he might not be able to pass on the information after tonight.”

  “He’s having you on!” Rawling griped. “It’s a prank.”

  “No, Alfred, he’s not. I believe the man is ill.”

  “Damn it, this had better be good!” the exasperated editor growled. “If it’s one of your friends playing a joke, I’ll run you through the press Jenkins. That’ll be the news. I’ll be round in half-an-hour to pick you up.”

  True to his word, Rawling arrived by cab in precisely half an hour, and together the two men made the trip to Puddifant’s block of flats, not far from Vauxhall Road. The night was bitter cold, and they stamped their feet and rubbed their hands, waiting on the landing for Puddifant to open his door. “Knock again,” Rawling snapped.

  Sam banged hard. Again, they listened, the reporter’s stomach in a knot. Rawling was chuffing like a steam engine warming up for some serious pulling. Annoying Alfred Rawling was not a good way to brighten your career prospects, and Sam had a sinking feeling that his future had already dimmed in the editor’s eyes. He was about to thump at the door once more, when a thin voice issuing from inside the flat stayed his hand.

  “Come in,” it gasped.

  “It’s Sam Jenkins, sir, with Alfred Rawling, Editor of the Herald,” Sam called down the gloomy corridor. They groped along the hallway toward a faint incandescence that spilled out of a room at the far end — the sitting room it turned out. There, they found Puddifant huddled under a pile of blankets in an overstuffed armchair. He shivered violently, his teeth chattering.

  “Good God man!” Rawling cried, advancing quickly and feeling the detective’s forehead. “You’re burning up. We need to get you to a hospital immediately.”

  “Too late,” Puddifant croaked. “Do not call for help until our business is concluded.”

  “You’re on the brink of death, man. Story be damned.”

  “Lives depend on this!” Puddifant growled, summoning all his strength, then coughing with the effort. “Nothing you can do will save me. But if you listen to what I have to say, and report it, you may save others. I am convinced many others shall die unless you hear me out.”

  “I can’t be party to this!”

  “Alfred,” Sam intervened. “Hear him out. What difference will a couple of minutes make? Especially if lives weigh in the balance.”

  “Listen,” Puddifant urged. “For the moment I am of sound mind. The information I am about to convey can all be verified through the leads I will provide. Once you have heard my story, you will want to verify everything, I’m sure. It’s a strange tale, gentlemen, hard to believe, even coming from the lips of a sane man. By tomorrow I’m certain to be delirious and my story will be worthless.”

  Rawling stared at Puddifant, then at his reporter. “Bah!” he spat. “I don’t like this one bit. Not one bit. But go ahead.”

  As Puddifant prepared to speak, Rawling paced nervously.

  “First, a warning gentlemen,” the inspector began.

  “A warning?”

  “Yes,” Puddifant insisted. “You must understand that Sam here will be risking the same fate I am suffering if he agrees to research and write this story. The man who poisoned me . . . ”

  “Poisoned?” Jenkins cried.

  “Yes, I have been poisoned. And the man who did it will go to any lengths to prevent this information getting out. He’s a cold-blooded killer. For your own safety you must do your utmost to get this story into print quickly, by tomorrow if you can.”

  “Tomorrow!” Rawling exploded.

  “Second,” Puddifant ignored the editor’s objection, “you must put Sam under protection. Do not let him out of your sight for an instant.”

  Again Rawling hesitated.

  “Alfred.” Sam put in. “From what I’ve heard so far, my guess is every soul in London will be clamouring for a copy of the Herald once we get this story — whatever it is — into print. Isn’t that our job? To bring people the news?”

  Rawling gave in. “All right,” he sighed. “But remember Jenkins, both our careers can be ruined by a single story. That’s all it takes.”

  “Or made by one,” Sam Jenkins reminded his editor.

  “You understand the risks, then?” Puddifant asked.

  The two men nodded.

  “Good. Then sit down and start taking notes Mr. Jenkins. I have a lot to tell and I’m not sure how much time I have left to tell it. I want to start with a child named Charlie Underwood. A fine young man, who died just over a week ago in the Great Ormond Street Hospital . . .

  As Puddifant reeled off names, addresses, and phone numbers, Sam Jenkins scribbled page after page in his notebook. He learned about Charlie and the other victims; about Enver and Elvira Skogs; the East London Coven and its influential members; Vortigen and the cult of Syde. Through the long interview he heard over and over again the name Sirus Blackstone, owner of Blackstone’s Magic and Occult Emporium in Wellclose Square. “Be wary of him,” Puddifant warned. “He is extremely dangerous. Under no circumstances should you approach him alone, for you would be putting yourself in grave danger if you did.”

  Exhausted, Puddifant sagged into his chair. “I have finished, gentlemen,” he said at last. “It is time for you to leave.”

  “But what about getting you some medical attention, Puddifant,” Rawling objected.

  “Ah yes.” Puddifant agreed. “I should greatly appreciate it if you would call for an ambulance.”

  Chief Inspector Wexly paced nervously. If Puddifant survived, which seemed doubtful, he would certainly face a disciplinary hearing. As an officer of the law, Robert Wexly could in no way condone what his subordinate had done — it was almost criminal in the Chief Inspector’s eyes to go to the press with details of an investigation. To do so without authorization was criminal! Yet he had never been prouder of a fellow officer.

  All that would have to be sorted out if Puddifant lived. If! Chief Wexly was not a religious man, nevertheless he prayed. This case defied his policeman’s logic “Black magic, or poison, take your pick,” he muttered. Either scenario seemed absurd.

  “Can you forgive me, sir?” Puddifant croaked.

  “Forgive you? Why, if it were up to me, I’d give you a medal as big as a cartwheel! There’s nothing to forgive.”

  Puddifant chuckled. “But it won’t be up to you Chief, will it?”

  “No, Puddifant. It won’t.”

  “As long as you understand I did not betray you, I think everything will be all right with me.”

  “Then rest easy, man,” Chief Wexly counselled, patting Puddifant’s hand. “I know what you are trying to do Inspector, and I also know you wouldn’t hesitate an instant if you thought any action of yours might save a life. Career be damned, I understand completely what you are about my good man, and there have been times when I could have done with some of your courage.”

  Puddifant, who had been watching the Chief’s every move, suddenly gripped Wexly’s hand and held tight like a man clinging to a branch. “Not yet!” he shouted, in a direction somewhere beyond his companion. “Get away, carrion bird!”

  “Horace?”

  “Can’t you see them?” Puddifant cried.

  The Chief Inspector shook his head. “See who?”

  “Vortigen’s crew. Can’t you see them?”

  “No Horace, I cannot. They aren’t real, man. You mustn’t give in to them. Hold fast to what is real and you will stand a better chance . . . ” Robert Wexly let his thoughts trail off into silence.

  “A better chance of surviving?” Puddifant concluded the sentence for him.

  “Of recovering quickly,” the Chief corrected.

  Puddifant rasped out a feeble laugh. “Remember the boy, Underwood?”

  “Yes,” Wexly sighed. “Of course.
”

  “Before he died, I offered the same advice, Chief. I could not see the horror; I thought it was all a lurid dream. But it wasn’t.” Puddifant shuddered, suddenly cringing.

  “Horace!” ChiefWexly pleaded.

  “Vortigen exists. He’s coming. Now. And he won’t leave until he’s got what he’s come for, he and his minions.”

  “They’re not real,” Wexly growled. “Drive them off, Horace. Cling to the truth.”

  “I was a fool, Chief— a fool who could not see through his own logic. The truth defies logic Chief. It mocks our pathetic reasoning . . . The boy needed a seer, not a policeman; a mystic, not a doctor. My God! How miserably we failed that youth.”

  “Puddifant!” the Chief cried. “You did everything you could for that boy. You have risked your career, your very life, for him. No one can fault you on that count, and you will get a commendation, damn it.”

  “He comes!” Puddifant whispered.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Vortigen. He’s at the window. Do you see him?”

  “No,” Wexly answered. “I don’t.”

  The Chief lunged across the room. “Be gone!” he bellowed.

  “Get away from here, you glorified bat. Get Away!”

  Then something quite remarkable happened, something that would collapse the very logic of Robert Wexly’s world like tent poles in a hurricane, and transform him into a man who would ever afterward be considered “strange” by friends and colleagues. In that instant the Chief did see shadows moving — dimly at first — as disturbances in the patterns of light. He would later talk about a “profound alteration in the energy of nature,” a phrase no one would understand. At the time, they were simply mirages becoming real.

  “Wha . . . ?” he gasped, confounded.

  The more he looked at these disturbances, the more palpable they became, until he had to accept them as somehow real. A vicious spiral of terror and rage took hold of him. A huge spirit hovered inside the window having passed through the glass is if it were air. This was Vortigen! The birdman! It was a creature huge not so much in physical stature as in the energy of its presence.