“Dear me,” said Holmes. “You paint him in a bad light. And you have done magical experiments here, you say?’
“Yes,” said Bennett. “This place has become the focus of rather strange forces. Once, a few weeks ago, when Crowley returned from dinner with our friend the occultist George Cecil Jones, he found an enormous black cat on the stairs. The door to the White Temple was unlocked and all the furniture and magical symbols had been scattered about. Crowley observed semi-materialistic beings marching around the room in an almost unending procession. 316 of them were counted, described, named and put down in a book. It was an awesome and ghastly experience, Mr. Holmes.”
“Doubtless,” said Holmes, steepling his fingers. “By the bye, do you experiment with drugs, Mr. Bennett?” asked Holmes.
“Indeed, Mr. Holmes. The ones we use are all perfectly legal, naturally. I have to use opium, morphine and cocaine for my asthma. And they are essential to experiments with altered states of consciousness.”
Holmes shook his head. “Crowley sounds a bad lot,” he murmured. I kept silent, for I knew Holmes himself indulged in cocaine when his spirits were at low ebb.
Bennett disagreed. “He has immense talent. Crowley left Cambridge without bothering to sit the final examination. He has embarked on a life dedicated to his three passions: climbing, poetry and magic. I believe he will go far in all three. I have high hopes of our magic, Mr. Holmes. One magical working recently conjured the spirit Buer; Crowley believes he can compel the spirit to supply a fare for me to Ceylon, where my asthma might be cured.”
Just then, the sound of someone entering the building carried up the stairs.
“You’ll soon have a chance to judge for yourself, Mr. Holmes.”
We descended. The servant was hanging up the cloak of an impressive man. “Thank you Perkins,” said the man to the servant, who next took his walking stick and gloves. The young man was attired most fashionably and was darkly handsome, with long flowing locks.
Allan Bennett brought us within range of his flatmate. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, meet the Count Vladimir Svareff.”
The large man bowed, his piercing, deep-set eyes glinting mischievously. “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said.
“Svareff?” I asked. “But I thought this was Crowley?”
The young man laughed with gusto. “I am far from being a Russian nobleman. But it amuses me to rent this place as Svareff and go about with people believing me a count. I am, indeed, Aleister Crowley.”
“They’ve come about the murders, Crowley,” said Bennett.
“You’d better come inside, gentlemen,” said Crowley. And he proceeded through to the sitting room. Crowley struck up a Vesuvius, igniting his Bird’s Eye mixture after tamping it down in his fresh clay pipe. “Damned fine matches, these,” he said, beginning to smoke. Bennett, Holmes and I followed, taking up seats around the room.
“You recognise my name, Mr. Crowley?” queried Holmes.
“Of course, I have heard of you,” said the magician. “How could one remain unaware of one of the most profound intelligences in London?” said Crowley. “I have read, of course, Dr. Watson’s account A Study in Scarlet, The Sign of Four, and other adventures chronicled in The Strand.”
“You play chess, I believe — a king’s game, a Royal Art, would you not agree?” posited Holmes. “I don’t play myself, but I can see the game’s intellectual attractions.”
“It is one of the Royal Arts, Mr. Holmes. There are others.” Crowley smiled secretively.
“It is imperative we come to the point now, Mr. Crowley,” said Holmes, with sudden determination. “Two horrible murders have been committed.”
“I have already placed my information at the police’s disposal,” said Crowley.
“But the police have not questioned you as to your magical activities, have they?” asserted Holmes. “Your good friend Bennett here has shown us the temples upstairs. Your activities here might very well be taken to be dangerous to the general populace. Blood sacrifice is no small matter!”
Crowley snorted. “A few birds! If you are implying, Mr. Holmes that I have in any way been involved in murder you misconstrue my aims entirely. I am making it my mission to dispel society’s hypocrisy by any means.”
“Let me suggest, Mr. Crowley, that one of your magical experiments has gone wrong. I do not believe in supernatural forces, but I cannot ignore the fact that some apparently superhuman strength was used in the killings of Miss Lillian Adams and Daniel Todhunter. What can you tell us?”
Crowley sat back in his armchair. “All right, Mr. Holmes. Two weeks ago Bennett and I invoked a demon, a particularly nasty one. Despite extensive experience, and our best preparations, something went awry. By invoking this demon, we have brought onto the material plane a force which has now escaped our direct influence.
“We are dealing, I believe, with the spirit of Asmoday, the demon of impurity. In olden times it was said he would dethrone King Solomon. He is supposed to have been chased into Egypt, and there bound in a grotto. Some say he was the serpent who seduced Eve.” He handed Holmes an illustration in pen and ink. “Here is my drawing of the demon,” he said. “I have done many such illustrations for my own edition of the Goetia.”
“But this is mere superstition, surely, “ I expostulated.
“Superstition is in the beholder’s eye, Dr. Watson. The Goetic demons take many forms. Asmoday is their Prince. The grimoires describe him as having three heads, that of a bull, a man, and a ram; also a serpent’s tail, and flaming breath. He can instruct men on invisibility, knows of treasures, and can teach men geometry, arithmetic and astronomy. He commands 72 demonic legions of the infernal hierarchy.”
I was relieved when Crowley’s gaze returned to Holmes. “There are other classes of demons, Mr. Holmes. The Qlipothic forces — terrible, I can assure you. Cruelty, destruction, forces of dispersion and madness, corruption — forces best left alone by the inexperienced magician. To master them is a lifetime’s work. But the Goetic demons are more terrible still. Extremely powerful, often rebellious, and known to be traitorous. To trifle with them is extremely dangerous. Naturally, the perceived rewards are worth it, which is why I conjured up Asmoday in the first place”.
Crowley went on to explain how he and Bennett had invoked Asmoday to visible appearance in the Black Temple. They believed they had seen its hideous form moving through the incense-smoke and shadows.
According to Crowley, the demon began to disobey the magician’s commands. The protective triangle was breached, the magicians were bowled over by an irresistible force, and what appeared to be the tremendous shape they had evoked smashed through the glass window of the upper storey and escaped into the dark London night near Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Holmes considered carefully Crowley’s account of the evening in question.
“So, it all went horribly wrong,” said Holmes. “It is telling that your flat is located so near the crime scenes. I place no credence in the objective existence of ‘demons’. But when you toy with forces beyond your control, such things can backfire. A human agency must be involved; and you, Mr. Crowley, are no better than many of the worst men in London.”
“Mr. Holmes, you may disapprove of my morals,” said Crowley. “Nevertheless, I may be able to assist you. I feel I should, even though I am not directly responsible for these killings. Indeed, I suspect someone with a magical knowledge as great as mine and Bennett’s may be behind these murders — may be controlling the demonic force I first unleashed, and using it to do his bidding.”
It was Holmes who snorted now. “I simply cannot countenance the idea of non-human agencies.” While he spoke, Holmes stood up and began moving quietly towards the closed sitting-room door. “But your suspicion of another party interests me.” He held up a finger for silence. Suddenly, he threw open the door.
In the passage outside, the servant, Perkins, hastened away, as though he had been listening at the keyhole.
; “Bring some more drinks in, will you Perkins, there’s a good fellow,” said Holmes, imperiously.
The liveried servant stopped short but collected himself. “Certainly, sir. Right away, sir.”
Holmes secured the door, turning back to Crowley. “This servant, Perkins, how did he come into your service?”
“Well, strangely enough, he was formerly employed by the Marquis and Marchioness Adams. His references were passed on via our mutual Golden Dawn connections and after the Adams’s died, he started work for me.”
Holmes eyes widened. “And now we find him spying outside the door! Suspicious behaviour for a servant, is it not? Has this man has gained any knowledge of your movements, and of your magical doings?”
Crowley nodded. “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Like most servants, he knows almost everything that goes on in the house. And he attends upon Allan and me in all our magical ceremonies.”
Holmes’ expression became fixed. “So! Has he been content in your service?” he asked.
Crowley pondered briefly. “Well, of course, he came to me at much reduced wages. I don’t believe in overpaying the help. But he has shown no disloyalty to me.”
Holmes said nothing more, but I sensed he had private thoughts about Crowley’s reply.
Crowley motioned at his bookshelves, which were filled to overflowing with rare texts on occultism. “There’s something I should tell you, Mr. Holmes. The only known way to defeat the demon Asmoday once it has escaped the magician’s circle, is to use a banishing spell based on a text called the Black Sutra.”
“And you have a copy of that text?” enquired Holmes.
“I do, Mr. Holmes. I will come armed with it. Should it prove necessary to confront the force I conjured up, it will help us.”
Holmes raised his eyebrow. “Had I not spent two years in Tibet and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, passing some days with the head Llama, I would be more sceptical. But I am well aware that science has inadequately explained some areas of human experience. I believe it shall do so eventually, but meanwhile, those unexplained areas can undoubtedly be called ‘magic’.”
Crowley inclined his head. “I myself believe in the scientific method, Mr. Holmes. ‘We place no reliance on virgin or pigeon; our method is science, our aim is religion.’ I’ll keep the Black Sutra on my person in case of need”
Back at Baker Street, Holmes extracted a cigar from the coal scuttle. “This case is extraordinarily vicious, Watson,” he exclaimed. “We must set a trap to flush the monster out. What do you make of it?”
“Well,” I said, collecting my thoughts, “we know Crowley believes he conjured up a demon. But since we don’t lend credence to such things, there must be a human agency behind these tragic events.”
“Excellent, Watson!” He puffed on his cigar. “You have understood my methods well. What else?”
“I confess, Holmes, I cannot see the wood for the trees. Do you think Crowley is the culprit, or another?”
“We must discover whether Crowley has any enemies to whose advantage it would be to portray him as the perpetrator. His reputation is beginning to tarnish, but a person of more evil intent may be deliberately blackening it further by implicating Crowley.”
Holmes held up a finger. “I believe we already have every link in the chain, Watson. And now, just hand me that sealing wax, would you?”
And with that, he fell to preparing some things at his desk. I could not conceive what he was doing, though undoubtedly it had some bearing on the case, so I occupied myself otherwise.
After an hour or so, Holmes placed something he had been working on inside his Gladstone bag, stood up and stretched. “And now, Watson, I must leave you. Have Mrs. Hudson bring you supper, and take any messages that may come in from Gregson.” He took his Gladstone and went out.
I stayed at Baker Street that night, but I did not see Holmes until the following morning.
Holmes was up bright and early. I still wore my dressing-gown when he bounded up the stairs and sat down with me to breakfast.
“Where have you been, Holmes? Your absence was most mysterious.” I rustled the newspaper with displeasure.
“I have been setting a trap, Watson,” he laughed. “I have just come from placing an advertisement in The Standard. It announces a meeting to take place this afternoon at Richard Felkin’s home, at which a reading of the will of the Marquis and Lady Adams will take place. It will find Lillian Adams ineligible to inherit due to her death, and throw open the inheritance to he who possesses all five portions of the will.”
“Felkin? The Golden Dawn fellow?”
“Yes, one of Lillian Adams’ five guardians. I have warned Felkin to alert the others to attend, and Inspector Gregson and some of his men will also join us there.”
“But Holmes, who is the culprit?”
“First let me relate last night’s adventure, Watson. I had already decided who might have killed Todhunter and stolen his portion of the will. I took my tools, and returned to Crowley’s place. There, under cover of dark, I crept to the back, where I knew the servant’s quarters to be, and carefully located a particular window.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! Then you suspect Crowley. Perhaps he got wind that his flatmate Bennett had part of the will, and concocted a scheme to get the money for himself? Bennett told us Crowley is set on fame at any price.”
“Steady on, old fellow. Let me finish. I went around to the front door, rang the bell, and quickly returned to the back. I knew Perkins would need to get up to answer his master’s doorbell. That gave me the few minutes necessary to creep into his room and perform my investigation.
“At first I observed nothing unusual, but on fishing around under the bed, I soon pulled out a small locked chest. With my jemmy, I prised open the lock and extracted a document. I could just make it out. It was the missing portion of the will — the piece that had been stolen from Daniel Todhunter! It was damning evidence, Watson.
“I am now convinced that Perkins is our man. It is he who is responsible for cold-blooded murder,” asserted Holmes.
“My dear Holmes!” I exclaimed.
“Watson. How else could he have gotten Todhunter’s portion of the will save by killing him? And if Perkins was prepared to kill Todhunter, I’d wager he killed Miss Adams, and would probably murder any of the others who try to stop him assembling the whole will for himself.”
“Then, Watson, I effected the next step of my plan. Removing the original document — I have it here with me — I placed in the chest a fair copy, a forgery I had produced before leaving here last night. Should Perkins open his chest, he will find nothing amiss, for the forgery resembles the original in almost every respect. I left all as I had found it, and then returned here. Let’s hope Perkins suspects street urchins of ringing the bell. Today’s paper shall carry the advertisement that should lead Perkins straight into our waiting arms.”
At nearly five that afternoon, a small company assembled at Richard Felkin’s Tottenham Court Road home. My heart was beating like a triphammer, for we planned to confront a particularly vile killer. Already present were the four remaining guardians — Allan Bennett, his luminous eyes flashing; Felkin himself, a short man with a goatee; Fiona Sharp, a bespectacled middle-aged woman who resembled a medium; and Mr. and Mrs. Victor Underhill, a nondescript elderly couple. All had been told of the plan.
In a back room Gregson, and two stalwart constables, lay in wait. Five o’clock was fast approaching. Upon the table lay four pieces of the will. Only the fifth was apparently missing, for Perkins thought he had it. Upon a mahogany settee, Holmes sat patiently awaiting his quarry. Both of us had pistols upon our persons and were well prepared to use them. On another settee, Aleister Crowley sat in composed silence.
At five minutes to five, a knock was heard upon the front door. Felkin’s man admitted — none other than Perkins, Crowley’s servant. He strode into the room with an arrogant swagger.
“Ah — you’re all here!” he exclaimed. �
�I recognise you, Felkin, and you Bennett. Many’s the time I saw you gathering at Trowbridge mansion for your occult games. You too, Mr. and Mrs. Underhill — and Mrs. Sharp.
Crowley stood up. “Then do you recognise me, you scoundrel? I am your current employer.”
Perkins turned towards Crowley. “I’m not afraid of you. I’ve come to claim what’s mine. Living on pennies, that’s what I’ve been doing. But not anymore!” From his coat he produced a revolver, which he levelled at Crowley. “Get back in your chair,” he cried, “or I’ll blow your head off!”
Crowley saw fit to obey him, and sat down again.
“Now,” cried Perkins, sneering devilishly. “Where are the documents? Ah!” He glanced down at the table, where four of the five pieces lay face up. “And now I have something to say. Lillian Adams unfortunately can’t be here today. What a shame: such a sweet young thing she was, too. But she’s dead. And so her fortune passes to whoever possesses all five pieces of the will.” He swept up the documents that lay on the table. “Here are four. And here is the fifth!” With another sneer, this time triumphant, he produced from his coat another document. He clearly believed it the missing fifth piece, the one he had pried from Daniel Todhunter’s dead hands.
During all this, the assembled men and women had been kept at bay by Perkins’ revolver. Holmes made as if to stand. “Don’t you dare!” cried Perkins. “Who in the blazes are you, anyhow?”
“My name” said my friend, “is Sherlock Holmes.”
At that, the colour drained from Perkins’ face. “Sherlock Holmes! All right, I know you for the devil you are. But you can’t touch me. I’m legally entitled to the fortune. I have all of the will, and by its own terms, he who possesses all five pieces becomes the rightful heir.”
Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 21