Sir John clenched the old man’s humped shoulder. “Courage,” he said gently.
“I rushed to the kitchen,” Verey went on, his voice again toneless and detached, in traumatic shock. “She had thrown it into the wood stove, but I could see that it was a book. I even read the syllables THER GO on the burning cover. Oh, God—THER GO, THER GO: What can that mean? But Annie was screaming in agony by then and in one horrible instant I could see why. She had swallowed the whole contents of the iodine bottle in our medicine cabinet. The empty bottle was at her feet. I held her for a moment, as she died, and she tried to speak. I think she was attempting to say that she didn’t know suicide by iodine would be that painful….”
The old Scotsman stared into space, reliving the scene. Finally, he spoke again. “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?”
“Eggs and bacon, sir,” said Wildeblood, reappearing.
“THER GO! THER GO!” screamed a mynah bird.
After breakfast, Sir John and the Rev. Verey brought an extra pot of coffee into the library and discussed the entire series of terrors that had brought them together.
Babcock told what he knew about Lola Levine, Aleister Crowley, the M.M.M. and Machen’s Great God Pan. Verey listened with an abstracted air, as if he had supped so full on horrors that nothing further could stun him.
“The book,” Babcock said finally, “the terrible book that led to both suicides—that may be the key to the whole mystery. Those damnable syllables that you recall—THER GO—are so tantalizingly inconclusive. Can you remember no more?”
“Nothing,” Verey said woodenly, hollowly. “You must remember that I had only an instant to look into the flames, and my mind was in a state of shock at the time.”
Sir John poured more coffee, thinking of phrases like “There you go,” “There they go,” “There we go.” He suddenly had a new thought.
“At least we can avoid two obvious false leads,” he said. “The book wasn’t either Clouds Without Water or The Great God Pan itself. Neither of those has a ther go in the title. Besides, you and I and others have read those books without going mad….”
Verey leaped up and began pacing, a tragic figure with his hunched back and white, ashy face. “The book we are speaking of is not made up of hints or codes, like The Great God Pan or Clouds Without Water,” he said. “The horror of it must be visible on every page, wherever one opens it. Both Bertrán and poor Annie reacted within two or three minutes of opening the volume. They must have been driven mad by only a few sentences … a paragraph at most….”
Babcock himself had grown pale. “I suddenly realize, Reverend, that there is one obvious remaining target for this monstrosity,” he said awkwardly. “Yourself. You must remain here, as my guest, until this whole terrible business is settled. And any packages to you, from M.M.M., must remain unopened, or at the most should be opened only by a man I know who is so advanced in occult knowledge that he might be able to deal with whatever is in this book.”
Verey stared into the fireplace. “I know you are right,” he said wearily, “although, at this point, I would hate to see anyone, however advanced in occult knowledge you may consider him, open a package from that damnable M.M.M.”
“Perhaps,” Sir John replied. “That is for Jones himself—the man of whom I spoke—to decide. But certainly neither you nor I must open such a package. If you are the obvious next target, I may well be the target after you. God,” he cried, “how can such things be, and the world go on in its smug materialistic blindness?”
Verey sighed. “It’s those atheists at Oxford and Cambridge,” he said. “It’s the heritage of Voltaire and Darwin and Nietzsche…. The whole intellectual climate of Eurone rope for one hundred fifty years now has been guided by the Anti-Christ, to blind us …”
“Well, history can’t be changed,” Sir John said, “but our future is always in our own hands. I have had a telephone installed recently, and I am going to put a call through to London, to get Jones out here as soon as possible. Believe me, he is better equipped to deal with this horror than you or I.”
He rose, but stopped at the sudden look of anguish on Verey’s face.
“My God,” Verey said. “McPherson.”
Sir John whirled to confront him. “McPherson?” he exclaimed. “Who’s McPherson?”
“Reverend Duncan McPherson,” Verey said. “My partner and associate in the Society for the Propagation of Religious Truth. He received one of the postcards, too.”
Sir John felt as if the solid earth were collapsing into random atoms beneath him. “What postcards?” he cried. “You never mentioned any postcards.”
Verey was virtually jumping up and down with anguish and impatience. “I must warn him,” he said. “You have a telephone, you say. But whom do I know in all of Inverness with a telephone?”
“The police!” Sir John exclaimed. “We must call the police there and have them get in touch with McPherson! But what postcards?”
“Later, man!” Verey cried. “Where’s the telephone?”
“In the downstairs hall,” Babcock said. “But how in the world can we explain all this to a policeman?”
They were hurrying to the stairs as they exchanged these incoherent remarks. “The police know all about the suicides,” Verey explained excitedly, “and they have heard my testimony about the packages that came in the post just before the suicides—although I think they only half-believed me….”
But by the time both men were in the telephone alcove in the front hall they were speaking fairly calmly and rationally again. Verey asked the operator to put him through to Inverness-418, and, after the usual annoying delay, he was connected.
“This is Reverend Verey,” he said when the phone was answered at the other end. “I must speak to Inspector McIntosh, in the matter of the suicides.”
Babcock found himself admiring the old man’s sense of diplomacy in the next few minutes. Verey explained only as much as a police officer might be able to understand, even improvising off the top of his head a theory that the mysterious packages from London might unleash a chemical poison that would unhinge the reason. “Under no circumstances,” the hunchbacked clergyman said sharply, “should McPherson open any package from London—or any unusual package, to be on the safe side. These villains may change their return address to catch us off guard.”
When Verey finally hung up the phone, he looked somewhat relieved. “They’re sending a constable around to McPherson’s at once,” he said. “That inspiration of mine about the delirium-producing chemical seems to have impressed him.”
Sir John nodded somberly. “It impressed me, for a moment,” he said. “But it isn’t true, of course. There is no drug with a reaction so specific as in these cases. Even belladonna, the most delirium-producing chemical known, has a wide variety of effects. Some weep hysterically; some laugh insanely; some hallucinate; others die of toxic reaction. Hasheesh is equally variable in its effects. There is nothing in that line of speculation to help us here, although it is at least enough to persuade the police to put McPherson on guard against mysterious packages….”
They returned quietly to the library, where Sir John finally remembered Verey’s incoherent excitement about “the postcards” before their mad rush to the telephone. When they were seated again, he raised that question.
“What were those postcards you were talking about?”
Verey shook his head with humility. “It was totally silly and absurd,” he said. “I attached no meaning at all to it until the moment you saw the thought strike me. Of course, now I’m not sure—it may just be coincidence….”
Just coincidence, Sir John thought bitterly. Those words will always sound idiotic or sinister to me.
“And the postcards weren’t even postmarked London,” Verey said. “They were actually postmarked Inverness: that’s why I didn’t make the connection. But, of course, we know They have agents there, also, like that mysterious vanishing Oriental….”
�
�Tell me about the cards,” Sir John suggested gently.
“The first one came for Bertrán,” Verey said, “exactly two days before the package that provoked his suicide. It was utter nonsense—just a staff with a Hebrew letter on it.”
“Do you know which Hebrew letter?” Sir John asked intensely.
Verey thought a minute. “Bring me a pad,” he said. “I, of course, had Hebrew in seminary—but that was nigh forty long years ago now. Nonetheless, Scots education is strict, and thorough…. I think I have it.”
Sir John handed him a pad and Verey sketched rapidly. “This is what the card looked like,” he said. “Just this and Bertrán’s name.”
Sir John looked at the design:
“Yod, is it not?” asked Verey.
Sir John blushed. “Yes,” he said, “Yod. It means hand or fist.” But he was recalling the opinion of certain scholars who claimed that hand and fist were late euphemisms and that yod originally meant spermatozoa. The whole design was disturbingly phallic. “And the next card?” he asked, suspecting it would contain nun, the fish, again. Another I.N.R.I.
“This came for Annie,” Verey said, “again postmarked Inverness. And, again, I didn’t see the connection—whatever connection there may be—with the tragedy that followed two days later.” He drew rapidly:
“I’m not certain I remember that one,” Verey admitted.
“Hé,” Sir John said. “A window. And the first postcard design was not a staff but a wand, since this is a cup. We are getting the implements of magick, in order. Was the postcard to McPherson not a sword?”
“That is most marvelous,” Verey said. “You are absolutely right. It looked like this.” He sketched again:
“Vau,” said Sir John. “The nail.”
Both men were pale again. “Some things one doesn’t forget, even in four decades,” Verey said with awe. “Seeing all three together, I discern what the fourth must be.”
“Yes,” Sir John said. “What we have thus far is Yod Hé Vau, the first three letters of the Holy Unspeakable Name of God. The fourth can only be a second Hé, making Yod Hé Vau Hé—YHVH, usually transliterated as ‘Jehovah’ in English. These monsters are using the most sacred name in Holy Cabala as the leitmotif of their chain of murders. This is blasphemy and sacrilege of the most extreme sort, the blackest of black magick. But when did McPherson receive the sword with Vau on it?”
“Two days ago!” Verey gasped.
Sir John gasped. “Then the package with the book of horror should be in today’s post!”
“Blessed Saviour,” Verey whispered, eyes closed. “May the police be there before the postman….”
They both heard the phone ringing at the same moment. Afterward, Sir John could never remember if they ran or merely stumbled to the hall.
“Sir John Babcock,” he said into the speaker.
“This is Inspector McIntosh,” said the electronic voice in his ear. “Is the Reverend Charles Verey there?”
Sir John turned the telephone over to Verey and stood like a zombie as he listened to Verey’s side of the conversation: “Yes … Oh, God, no … Yes … What …? Most certainly … God pity us all, Inspector … I certainly shall.”
The hunchbacked clergyman looked dwarfish and shrunken as he hung up. “It happened again,” he said.
“My God! Tell me.”
“The constable who was sent round to McPherson’s found him dead already. He had cut his throat violently from ear to ear with a razor. They looked in the fireplace for the remains of a package, as in the two other cases. The constable says there was part of a book still burning, but all he could see were the letters MO.”
“THER GO MO,” Sir John repeated. “Lunacy on top of blasphemy. God held us all, indeed.”
THE RADIO ANNOUNCER: And now, folks, it’s time for our Mystery Call. Who will get the chance to win the one hundred dollars? The engineer is dialing right now … the phone is ringing … ah, I have somebody on the line. Hello, hello?
MALE VOICE: Hello, hello? [Put down that fire engine, Brigit]
ANNOUNCER: Hello, who is this?
MALE VOICE: Hello, is this the Mystery Hour? [Brigit, don’t hit your brother with the fire engine!]
ANNOUNCER: Yes, this is the Mystery Hour … and this is your chance to win one hundred dollars!! But, first, what’s your name, sir?
MALE VOICE: James Patrick Hennesy.
ANNOUNCER: James Patrick Hennesy!!! What a fine Eskimo name! But, seriously, I bet your folks came over from the Old Sod.
HENNESY: No, they were born in Brooklyn. Like me.
ANNOUNCER: Oh. Well, I suppose your grandparents came over from the Old Sod!!!!
HENNESY: Well, one of them did. We’re Italian on the other side, though.
ANNOUNCER: A real American family!!!! Well, Mr. Hennesy, you sent in your postcard, and now you’re on the line, and this is your chance to win the hundred dollars. So, now! For one hundred dollars!! This week’s Mystery Question is!!! Are you ready, Mr. Hennesy …? The question is: Are the suicides caused by magick, or is there some rational explanation? What do you think, Mr. Hennesy?
HENNESY: [Stop hitting Brigit with the birdcage, Tommy. You’re frightening the bird.] Oh, ah, uh, I think it’s magick.
ANNOUNCER: You! think!! it’s!!! Magick!!!! Would you tell us why you think that, Mr. Hennesy?
HENNESY: Am I right?
ANNOUNCER: That would be telling, Mr. Hennesy. You’ll find out, with the rest of our audience. But tell us why you think it’s magick.
HENNESY: Stands to reason.
ANNOUNCER: Stands to reason, Mr. Hennesy?
HENNESY: Well, nobody can walk through walls, right?
ANNOUNCER: Not unless they’re very clever.
HENNESY: Is that a hint?
ANNOUNCER: We don’t give hints, Mr. Hennesy. You have thirty seconds more. Why is it magick?
HENNESY: Well, it stands to reason; that’s all. Nobody can walk through walls, or, uh, drive people to suicide with a book. It must be magick, right?
ANNOUNCER: Well, we’ll see, Mr. Hennesy. And even if you didn’t win the one hundred dollars, you’ll still receive a consolation prize of one year’s supply of Preparation H and complete instructions on how to use it! And now! Back to our show!!
The Fräumünster chimes were striking six, and cinnamon streaks of twilight cast shadows of dying color weirdly into the room, a russet-gold witch’s glamour, Gothic as the tale Sir John told. Einstein, Babcock and Joyce had agreed with Mileva Einstein’s suggestion that they take a break for dinner. The dining room by now reeked with dead heavy smoke from Einstein’s pipe. Mileva had opened a window to freshen the air, with the uninspiring result that the clammy Föhn could be felt in the room now.
Einstein rose to stretch a bit and walk around thoughtfully. Joyce sat immobile in his red plush chair, his face expressionless, introspective.
“Well, Jeem,” Einstein said finally. “It seems as if all the paraphernalia of the Celtic Twilight poets you despise has landed in our laps. Even the faeries …”
Joyce nodded, smiling whimsically. “Even an appropriately eerie sunset,” he said. “It is much like the Tar Baby story of the American Negroes. You become attached to what you attack….”
Einstein stopped pacing and his playful spaniel eyes went entirely out of focus, obviously looking inward, not outward; Joyce wondered if he had stopped thinking in words and was thinking in pictures, as he said he did when he was working on a problem in physics. Babcock and Joyce exchanged the vacant glances of the Apostles at the end of one of the darker parables, both of them thinking of the Tar Baby story and how it could possibly have triggered Einstein’s Fakir-like trance. The more you hit a Tar Baby, the more you are stuck to it: that was the moral of the Negro legend. But what did that have to do with a book that actually drove people into suicidal mania? Did destroying the book destroy the receivers, as an allegory for censors?
“Action and reaction,” Einstein whispered, talking mostly
to himself. “Good old Newton still has wisdom for us after three centuries….”
“Professor,” Babcock exclaimed, “is it possible? Are you actually beginning to see a scientific explanation of these incredible events?”
Einstein blinked and sat down again, wearily. “Well, not exactly,” he said. “But I am starting to find some scientific light in this medieval darkness … a hypothesis is beginning to dawn … but I don’t know yet….”
“At this point,” Joyce said, “any hypothesis would be welcome, however, tentative or incomplete. By God, Einstein, I spent several months, last year, writing the most gruesome and fetid sermon on Hell ever composed. I took bits from every theology class and religious retreat of my youth, and from Jesuit textbooks, and organized it into what I hope is a truly blood-freezing, stomach-turning, hair-raising harangue which will give the non-Catholic reader some sense of the cheerful hours which my hero had to endure in the course of a pious Irish Catholic education. But, to be honest, I was having a wonderful and glorious time all the while I was writing this bloody horror, because such things no longer have the power to frighten me and I could write it all down with cold clinical documentary detachment. Listening to Babcock’s tale, on the other hand, almost puts me back into the real rancid terrors of my adolescence.”
“Of course,” Einstein said, ruddy-faced in the dying sunlight. “That is the whole point.”
Masks of the Illuminati Page 20