by Morgana Best
I tried one more thing. I googled the words garlic poison death. The third entry was Death by Selenium. This was enlightening. It said that selenium is odorless and colorless and looks and tastes like water. It said that even a low dose can be lethal, and that it also causes a very strong garlic odor.
Then I came across mention of a CSI episode in which someone killed her husband with a selenium overdose. I finally figured I was onto something.
"Most cats, when they are out, want to be in, and vice versa, and often simultaneously."
(Louis J. Camuti)
Chapter 11.
I had just finished my second requisite morning cup of coffee and gritty bits when the doorbell rang. It was unlike Douglas to be an hour early; he was usually right on time. I was relieved that I was already showered, dressed, and had put on my make up while drinking the second cup of coffee.
The person standing on the front door was a shock to me.
Jamie Smith. I was embarrassed after throwing my arms around his neck the day before. Should I invite him in? I wondered. What does he want?
"What do you want?" It came out more harshly than it did in my head.
"Misty, please hear me out. You're in danger."
I grimaced. "So everyone keeps telling me."
"Who's 'everyone'?"
I thought of Skinny again. Misty, stop exaggerating. "Well, you and Douglas."
I ignored Jamie's immediate frown and showed him into the kitchen. It was brighter in there, and so less intimate, and I suppose, a kitchen is not a terribly intimate place anyway.
I put the jug on to boil, filling it with minimal water so it wouldn't take as long, and picked up a blue and white pottery jar which was labeled tea. Without thinking, I turned it upside down to look at the maker's mark. This was reflex; my mother had been an antique dealer for years before turning to jewelry. She always turned things upside down to look at the maker's mark, although did so less often after the time she turned a vase upside down at a client's house, not realizing the vase was full of water.
The jar was empty so I looked for teabags. I saw a packet marked Twinings Lapsang Souchong, and reached in for two tea bags.
"How do you have it?"
"Black, with one."
"Okay." I poured the boiling water in, added one spoon of sugar to his and one to mine. Then I thought about it and added another spoon to mine. I thought about it some more, and added yet another spoonful to mine.
I put Jamie's tea in front of him so forcefully that some of the tea splashed out, and then sat down opposite him.
"Okay, tell me what you wanted to say."
"Have you ever heard of Paul Whitehead?"
I groaned, partly as I had just tasted the tea which tasted like liquid beef jerky, and partly because he sounded just like Douglas.
"Are you a clone?"
Jamie looked startled. It may have been the tea as he had just taken a mouthful. "Sorry?"
"You and Douglas. You both sort of look the same; you both keep asking me if I've heard of someone."
"That was the first time I asked you if you had heard of someone."
I hate it when men are logical. I couldn't think of a lucid reply, so just waved my hand at him in an attempt to make him continue.
"Paul Whitehead...."
I cut him off. "Oh yes, I know about him. The cave at the Hellfire Caves - one was called Paul Whitehead's cave - it had a figure of him and an urn." I at once blushed right down to my toes, wishing I hadn't mentioned the caves at all.
Jamie ignored my obvious embarrassment and pressed on. "Yes, Paul Whitehead was a satirist and poet. He was a close friend of Sir Francis Dashwood and a member of the Order of the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe. Horace Walpole spoke highly of him. He was friends with the great painters William Hogarth and Francis Hayman, and the actor and dramatist William Havard. Whitehead swapped insults with Alexander Pope. He was despised by the satirist Charles Churchill who wrote, 'May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall) be born a Whitehead and baptized a Paul!' Whitehead's wrongful reputation as simply a minor poet probably comes from Churchill's slander of his character. At any rate, Churchill himself was despised by such men as Hogarth and Dr. Johnson."
I laughed in spite of myself. "Really, you are a clone. You and Douglas are both walking Googles; I've never heard so many catalogues of facts!" I hoped I wasn't going to get a fit of the giggles so forced down another mouthful of Lapsang Souchong.
Jamie didn't appear to see the funny side at all. "Whitehead was a very important man; probably not a soul knew more secrets than he did about political figures of the time. He knew secrets about future American, English, and European leaders. He was the only one to keep records of Dashwood's and the Order's activities, and he kept them in a single book."
I nodded and Jamie continued. "The reason I'm telling you about him is his urn. He died in 1774. Seven days before his death, a messenger arrived at his house with a letter. Four days later, he ordered his servants to build a huge bonfire in the grounds. He piled all his books and papers onto it for the next seventy six hours. After the final paper burned, he went to his bed and was dead six hours later."
I wondered if there had been a strong smell of garlic in his bedroom. "Was he murdered or did he kill himself?"
Jamie shrugged. "History tells us that his Will instructed that his heart was to be given to Sir Francis Dashwood and put in an urn. He left fifty pounds in his Will for the urn's purchase. Sir Francis Dashwood carried out his wishes and put Whitehead's heart in the urn in the Mausoleum. What history doesn't tell us is that the fifty pounds was a cover story. The urn was already in the possession of Sir Francis Dashwood and was inscribed with a particular set of arcane symbols."
"But Jamie, I saw the urn today. The sign said it was the original urn."
"No, it's not. It's said that an Australian soldier stole the heart, but what was actually stolen was the urn. After the theft, the Order put a similar looking urn in its place. There is a painting - you can find it on the net - which clearly shows the original urn and the inscription on it. That is, in the painting you can see the inscription but not make out what it says. Despite rumors that the original urn is now at West Wycombe Park, in fact it's never come to light. Misty, I don't want to frighten you, but there are people who will kill to get those symbols, and the only other place they appear is in the missing page of your aunt's book."
I stood up. "I don't know where it is!" My voice rose almost to shouting point.
"Misty, that could be irrelevant. The people who are after it may try to hurt you to get you to hand it over; they may not believe you don't know where it is."
"Who are these people?"
Jamie just looked at me.
"Come on, you can't just tell me this then not tell me any more! Aunt Beth was murdered for that page! You really need to tell me; I insist." I used my most stern voice.
"It's not that I don't want to tell you. You're in danger as it is; the more you know the worse position you are in. Have you considered going back to Australia?"
He was so frustrating. "No, I have not! Look, stop trying to deflect attention from my question - you need to tell me; who are these people?"
Jamie stood up and paced up and down the kitchen for a couple of laps, then sat down again. "Misty, I'd rather not, it's awkward."
"What do you mean? Really, if I'm in danger as you say, then surely I'd be better off with all the facts."
Jamie looked hugely embarrassed. "You won't like it."
"Try me." I fixed him with my best glare, but Diva soon ruined that. She shot out from behind the door and made a beeline for Jamie. To my surprise, she hopped up on him and kneaded his knee, pushing her paws up and down while purring loudly. Jamie stroked her and she only swiped at him once or twice in a half hearted manner.
I frowned. Was Diva a good judge of character? She liked Jamie, and disliked Douglass and Cassandra, although her dislike of Cassandra may be simply because Cassandra detested
cats. I was so lost in thought that I jumped when Jamie started talking again.
"Okay, you asked for it," he said, while stroking the purring Diva. "They're the Black Lodge, a secret society of Ceremonial Magicians who want to use the symbols on the page for what they believe is a ritual to prolong their lives. The reason you won't like it is that Douglas is one of their leading members."
I was shocked, but I'd had so many surprises lately and this one was no more shocking than the others. I couldn't believe a word Jamie said. Or was it Douglas whom I shouldn't believe?
I was considering this when the doorbell rang. I excused myself, and found Cassandra on the doorstep, a cake in her hands.
"Come in Cassandra; the cake looks good. I have a visitor," I warned her in low tones.
At the sight of Cassandra, Diva hissed, leaped from Jamie's knees and bolted up the stairs, swiping at Cassandra on her way. Fur flew into the air, and Cassandra sneezed.
I did the introductions, then made Cassandra a cup of tea while a little annoyed that I didn't have time to process the bombshell that Jamie had just dropped on me. I did doubt it was true, but I wanted to figure out why Jamie would say such a thing. Perhaps he was the one who was in the Black Lodge and trying to throw blame onto Douglas.
Cassandra wasn't showing any animosity to Jamie this time, no doubt as he was eating her cake with such relish.
"That's a wonderful cake, Cassandra."
"Thank you. I used to bring chocolate cream cake over for Beth once a week."
I dissected the cake, and ate the frosting off the top and the sides. That's the only part of cake I like, and luckily for me the frosting was thick. I avoided the cream. It looked real, and I only like fake whipped cream. As much as I liked the frosting, I again lamented the fact that Cassandra had shown up just as I was about to find out more from Jamie.
The doorbell rang again. Cassandra and Jamie both looked startled. I checked the time on my iPhone. This would have to be Douglas, and right on time as usual.
I hurried to the door, and sure enough, Douglas was standing there. "I have visitors," I whispered. This was getting to be a habit.
I led Douglas down to the hallway to the kitchen. Cassandra looked shocked. I figured it would have been a long time since she had seen two gorgeous guys in the one room. I turned to Douglas to introduce everyone, but was struck speechless by the look on his face.
I had never seen Douglas's countenance change too much throughout the time I had known him. He had always been Mr. Cool-As-A-Cucumber. Right now, he was looking like someone from an acting class practicing a different range of emotions - shock, horror, rage, surprise. Cassandra and Jamie noticed it too, for they hastily muttered their goodbyes and took off like bats out of hell. No one had even shaken hands with Douglass, let alone said, "Hello."
"You are the Great Cat, the avenger of the Gods, and the judge of Words, and the president of the sovereign chiefs and the governor of the sacred Circle. You are indeed... the Great Cat."
(Inscription on the Royal Tombs at Thebes)
Chapter 12.
I shut the front door and then went back to the kitchen. Douglas was sitting on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs. He looked more or less back to his usual self, but something was seething under the surface. Jealousy? Or was that just wishful thinking on my part?
"Who were they?" His tone was not exactly rude or abrupt, but he was quite edgy.
"Cassandra is the next door neighbor, and Jamie, um."
"Go on." Douglas looked very tense.
I didn't know how much I should tell Douglas. "Well, I don't know really. I met him at Aunt Beth's funeral."
"So, are you dating him?"
Could he be jealous? I simply said, "No."
"Well, what was he doing here? Has he asked you out? Is that woman his mother?"
I bristled at his demanding tone. "No, they don't know each other, and he isn't interested in me, not like that." I wondered if Jamie was a rake, the old English word used to describe immoral men such as members of the Order of the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe. After all, it was the right setting.
Douglas grew impatient. "Misty, what was he doing here?"
"He said I'm in danger," I blurted unwisely.
Douglas sat forward on the edge of his chair. "From whom? Misty, please tell me everything."
I figured I might as well. I still hadn't had time to process Jamie's disclosure about Douglas. I figured it was best to put everything out on the table and see where the cards would fall. When I get stressed, I fall into clichés.
I drew a deep breath. "Okay, his name is Jamie Smith and he says that people would kill to get the missing page. He says that those arcane symbols you told me about were on Paul Whitehead's urn but the urn was stolen hundreds of years ago, and that you are in the Black Lodge. He said you're one of those people who want the page." I stopped to study Douglas's reaction.
Douglas had lost his composure again and he looked furious. "I know the name Jamie Smith, and it's just one of the names he uses, by the way. Jamie Smith is one of the leaders of the Black Lodge. He also goes by the name of Jacob Westcott."
I didn't know whether to be concerned for my safety or disappointed that Douglas hadn't been jealous after all. However, I hadn't lost my common sense.
"Look, Douglas, I'm a journalist, a researcher. I know how to sift through evidence. You say Jamie is in the Black Lodge and out to harm me; Jamie says you are in the Black Lodge and out to harm me. I don't have any evidence either way about which one of you is telling the truth."
To my surprise, Douglas simply laughed. For some reason he was back to his usual self. "Fair enough. Note that I didn't say you were in danger from him. I doubt he's dangerous." Douglas chuckled. "The Black Lodge likes to play at being a Secret Society but I doubt they have ever harmed anyone. They would love to get the page but they've always been all talk. But, Misty, please don't let him into the house again, and keep away from him. He does have a reputation as a womanizer."
I nodded. My stomach twisted into a little knot as it looked like Douglas was jealous after all.
We drove to Marlow in bliss. Well, I for one was in bliss. Douglas had finally shown some emotion, and what's more had been jealous at the sight of Jamie Smith.
I loved Marlow at first sight. Picturesque, chocolate box, and charming, it was everything I had imagined an English town would be.
Douglas pulled into the large car parking area behind a beautiful, large park adjoining the Thames. There was a huge statue of a rower. Clearly the English take their rowing seriously. The Thames was filled with colorful wooden saloon launches and rowing boats.
We sat in a "Tea Room" which I figured was the equivalent of a coffee shop. It was extremely cute and very English. Douglas had suggested we stop for tea and cake before proceeding the three miles up the road to Medmenham, so he could fill me on the details.
As soon as our order was taken, Douglas handed me yet another leather bound book. "This one is in poor condition, I'm afraid; be careful. The head and tail of the spine are softened and frayed, and the hinge is cracked. That's a shame considering it's only 1885."
He searched for a section then handed it over. The tile was Dickens's Dictionary of the Thames. I looked at the top of the page and saw that it started in mid sentence. I didn't want to read what was on the previous page considering the delicate state of the book.
It said that the Monks of Medmenham, who were sometimes referred to as the Hell Fire Club, lived at a time when drunkenness was considered to be a gentlemanly virtue. It also said that their motto was Fay ce que voudras.
I looked up from the page. "Fay ce que voudras - I did French as a schoolgirl, but can't remember any now."
"It's the older English spelling, but it sounds the same," Douglas said. "You would recognize it as Fais ce que tu voudras."
No, I wouldn't, but I didn't want to admit it.
Douglas continued. "Yes, the motto means, Do what thou wilt. It was the club
motto of the Order of the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe otherwise known as the Hellfire Club."
I was surprised by this. "I thought that expression was invented by the Ceremonial Magician Aleister Crowley?"
Douglass shook his head vehemently. "No, no, no. Crowley came much later. The saying first appeared in the writing of François Rabelais who lived two hundred years before Sir Francis Dashwood and four hundred years before Crowley. Rabelais was a French satirist known for the four novels known as Gargantua and Pantagruel. In the first book, Rabelais writes about the Abbey of Theleme. He's making fun of monasteries here; the Abbey of Theleme has maid service and a swimming pool."
Our tea and cakes arrived. I had chosen Yorkshire tea and it was delicious, in fact, the nicest tea I have ever tasted. I'm not into tea, but this was absolutely excellent, tasty tea.
Douglas pulled out another book and I hastily moved my tea aside. Douglas laughed. "This is just a modern copy of the first book of Gargantua and Pantagruel, worthless. Here's a description of how the monks at the Abbey lived. Tell me if it sounds familiar." Again, Douglas thumbed through and selected the page for me.
I read that they had no rules and basically did whatever they liked. Their one rule was: Do What Thou Wilt.
I was fascinated. "It reminds me of Sir Francis. It seems to me then that Sir Francis based the Monks of Medmenham Abbey on Rabelais' monks of the Abbey of Theleme."
Douglas nodded. "Exactly. Thelema is an ancient Greek word meaning purpose. It's often been translated in Bible versions as will or wish which I suppose is strictly correct, but it loses some of the force and focus of the word purpose. Thelema was the school of thought put forward by the occultist Aleister Crowley around a hundred years ago. Crowley said that a being named Aiwass contacted him and dictated a text known as The Book of the Law or Liber AL vel Legis. This book outlined the principles of Thelema."
I was intrigued. "So Crowley got it from Sir Francis Dashwood? Or Rabelais?"
Douglass shrugged. "Either or both. Even earlier, you will find several references in the Bible."