by Morgana Best
Douglas’s statement didn’t make sense. “Which Sir Francis did you know? How many were there?” I asked.
The tense expression was back on Douglas’s face. “What? Oh sorry, I was distracted. Let’s go to the lake.”
Douglas hurried me around the lake. We walked so fast, that I felt like I’d been to the gym. I decided to come back by myself in a week or two to have a good look around. We were already back at the car when the other tourists were still about a quarter of their way around the lake.
Douglas unlocked the car and opened the door for me. “I suggest we see the Hellfire Caves tomorrow. That’ll give you an insight into Sir Francis Dashwood. If you like, I can detour to my home on the way back; I have a portrait of Sir Francis which shows much of his character.”
“Is that like asking me up to see your etchings?” I wished I hadn’t said it. I was sure my face was turning beet red.
Douglas laughed. “You never know your luck.”
As we sped out in the direction of Oxford—judging by the roadside signs that is—I wondered what sort of house Douglas lived in. I had guessed it would be expensive; I just hadn’t realized quite how grand. I had my first idea when the Bentley stopped outside huge, solid, metal security gates. At Douglas’s touch of a control in the car, the gates opened to a curved gravel driveway winding its way between lime trees through manicured lawns and immaculate gardens. There in front of me was what an Aussie could only describe as a mansion.
“Welcome to Rosebery Abbey,” Douglas said as he escorted me to the front door. “It’s a Georgian country house. It was built out of stone from the ruins of the original abbey. It’s Grade 2 listed.”
To say I was impressed would be an understatement.
I followed Douglas past the entrance, up the stone steps and across the large, south-facing terrace. The French doors were shut but not locked, so I wondered if other occupants were in the house. The doors opened onto a large room, still illuminated by the fading afternoon sun. The beautiful marble fireplace didn’t look as if it had been alight for years, so my concerns about a gorgeous woman keeping the home fires burning for Douglas were slightly appeased.
I love timber, so I was admiring the oak floors and the wall paneling when Douglas took me by the arm again and swung me around to face an imposing painting in a dark wooden frame with a single gold edge.
“Here you are,” he said dramatically. “Sir Francis Dashwood by William Hogarth. This one is called Sir Francis Dashwood at his Devotions.”
I jumped, and my jaw dropped open. Could this be an original? It looked like an original. I recognized the typical Hogarth frame. I didn’t know too much about art, but judging by Rosebery Abbey, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were an original. I wanted to ask, but thought it rude, so kept silent.
“This was painted in the late 1750s and was considered scandalous at the time,” Douglas continued. “Later, Hogarth did go on to paint satire. He was deeply concerned by the political corruption of the times, but his painting of Sir Francis was considered unconventional, to say the least.”
At first glance, the painting appeared to show the original Sir Francis Dashwood dressed as a monk and doing religious devotions in a secluded setting. There was even a cross at the bottom of the painting. However, Dashwood was staring at a nude female figure in front of him.
I was so lost in the painting that I didn’t hear Douglas come up behind me. He stood oh so close and whispered in my ear, so close I could feel his warm breath on my neck.
“See that halo above Dashwood’s head with the image of a satyr in it? That in fact is Lord Sandwich, and the suggestion is that he is whispering into Dashwood’s ear. Lord Sandwich staring at the nude, too.”
I tried to recall my schoolgirl Art History classes. “It looks like one of the Renaissance paintings.”
“Yes, it’s a parody of Renaissance paintings of Saint Francis of Assisi. And see the book?”
“I take it it’s not a Bible?”
Douglas laughed. “You got that right. No, it’s the erotic novel Elegantiae Latini Sermonis. This painting was of course considered outrageous in its day.”
Chapter 9
When we pulled up at Aunt Beth’s, Douglas turned off the engine. This was a first. He usually left it running. He followed me to the front door. I unlocked the door and hesitated. “Would you like to come in?”
“Just for a moment.” He hesitated, and then continued. “West Wycombe Park made me think of your aunt. She was so fond of the Dashwood history.”
I wondered if I should tell Douglas that I thought Aunt Beth had been murdered, but made a snap judgment call not to. Still, I needed to get as much information out of him as I could.
“Misty?” Douglas gently shook me by the shoulders. “Are you okay?”
“Oh yes. I’m still upset about Aunt Beth. Why was she interested in the Dashwoods?”
“She was interested in Sir Francis Dashwood and the Hellfire Club. Did you know that Beth worked as a code breaker at Bletchley Park in World War Two?”
I was dumbfounded. “No. I don’t think anyone in the family knew. At least, no one ever told me. That’s the place they made the film about—oh, I can’t think of its name—with Kate Winslet, wasn’t it?”
Douglas was looking out the window again, but at my question walked over to me. “Yes, the film was Enigma. Actually Bletchley Park’s not far from here. Beth was pretty much obsessed with symbols and signs. Have you found that missing page yet?”
That made me suspicious. Why was Douglas so keen to find the page? I now suspected, no, believed, that Aunt Beth had been murdered for the page, and Douglas was quite clearly keen to find it. I would have to tread carefully. I thought before I answered. “No. I’ve started tidying up that messy room, but I haven’t found any loose pages.”
“That’s a shame. Would you like me to help you look?” Without waiting for my reply, he turned to look on Aunt Beth’s bookshelves. “Have you looked through any of these?”
His actions made me uneasy, as he was heading up my short list of murder suspects. Well, so far he was the only one on the list. “Aunt Beth’s books? No.”
He handed me a dusty looking, leather-encased book. I read the title page aloud. “De Natura Rerum, by Paracelsus. Wow, it says the First Edition was 1572, and this book is 1872.”
Douglas took the book back and sat down in a chair. I followed his cue and sat down in the one opposite. It made a horrible squeaky sound and I hoped Douglas didn’t think it was me.
However, he seemed distracted and asked me a question. “What do you know about Ceremonial Magick? Have you ever heard of the Homunculus? Did Beth ever mention the subject?”
“No, what does it mean? Oh hang on, do you mean like in Full Metal Alchemist?”
It was Douglas’s turn to look confused. “Full Metal Alchemist?”
“Yes, it’s anime. If someone tries to revive a dead person with alchemy and fails, the dead person becomes a homunculus. It’s forbidden to revive a dead person.” I stopped, fearing I was being boring due to my tendency to recite facts, but Douglas appeared interested.
“So in Full Metal Alchemist, a homunculus is a dead person who was revived, but not revived fully?”
I shook my head. “I’m not really sure. I don’t know a lot about it.”
Douglas nodded as if he understood what I was saying. I wasn’t even sure that I did. He opened the old book. “Have you heard of Paracelsus, the author of this book?”
I shrugged. “I only know he was some ancient dude.”
Douglas nodded again. “A Swiss chemist, to be exact. In this book Paracelsus said alchemists could make an artificial person. To make one, you need to use alchemy, then you seal the stuff in a glass bottle, and then place it in horse manure for forty days.”
I thought that was funny, and burst into a fit of laughter. I tried to stop, but that just made my semi-hysterical laughter worse. The fact that Douglas seemed deadly serious didn’t help. I managed to
get out the words jet lag followed by stress and Douglas merely nodded. When I got myself under control, he continued.
“After forty days, it will begin to live and move. Then you have to feed it for forty weeks with the elixir, a potion, of human blood. Paracelsus says that will produce a living child who looks just like any normal human child.”
I had taken few deep breaths, so was now able to speak. “Well that’s all very interesting, but what does this have to do with Aunt Beth’s missing page?”
“Rest assured, I’m getting to that! Have you ever heard of Aleister Crowley?”
I gathered my thoughts. “Yes, I did an article for the magazine on him about a year ago. Fascinating man. Early twentieth century English occultist and famous for Ceremonial Magick and all that.”
“Quite so. Have you heard of his novel, Moonchild?”
I shook my head. “A novel? No, not that I remember.”
Douglas crossed his arms. “Crowley gave instructions for the creation of the homunculus in the book. He wrote a lengthy ritual for making one.”
At this point, Douglas stood up and walked to the window. I wondered whether I should also look out the window to see what he was looking at, but just when I decided I should, he returned to his chair and sat down. I was beginning to zone out and I was having a bit of trouble staying awake.
“What’s interesting, in the 1940s, Jack Parsons, the head of Crowley’s temple in California, actually carried out this ritual. Crowley found out and was furious.”
That got my interest. “What happened?”
“Well, no child was born, but he believed that a spiritual force was unleashed.”
“You’d be good on trivia nights.”
Douglas chuckled. “I would be. Parsons was also a rocket-fuel scientist, and his main partner in trying to make an artificial person was L. Ron Hubbard, later the founder of Scientology. How’s that?”
“I’m impressed!” I actually was.
“Yes, but do you want to know what the homunculus has to do with the missing page?”
I sure did. I hoped he wasn’t going to say that Aunt Beth had anything to do with all this. I tried to keep my tone even and not sound too eager. “Yes, what does it have to do with it?”
“How about I bore you with just one more story?”
I nodded. I could have said, Bore away. I’ll just sit here, but of course that would not have been the thing to do, so I kept quiet.
“Do you know what a golem is?”
“What is with you, Douglas? I feel like I’m on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire! Yes, I’ve heard of golems, but don’t know much about them.”
“Golems were believed to be something that was made into a living creature, out of say, a lump of clay.” Douglas paused. “Misty, you’ll have trouble believing what I’m about to tell you now, and I have to ask you to keep this in strict secrecy and don’t even think of writing about it.”
I nodded again, wondering what was coming next.
“Your Aunt Beth was in, well, I suppose you could say, a secret society.”
I was taken aback and hastily shut my jaw, which was fallen open. “Are you serious? Like, what, the Skull and Bones? Or the Illuminati?”
Douglas did not look amused. “Exactly. She was in a society of alchemists.”
I was shocked right down to my cotton socks.
“You’re kidding! Aunt Beth wanted to turn metal into gold, and make people out of clay?”
Douglas shot me look of disapproval. “No, of course not. Think of the Rosicrucians, or the Order of the Golden Dawn. Beth was in a similar organization, but one which knew the secret of long life. Well, not to be coy, Beth was one of a group which studied the ways to prolong human life, to rejuvenate.”
“Like vampires?” I felt another fit of laughter coming on again.
“Misty, I’m perfectly serious! I know it’s a lot to take in,” he said.
“But I saw Aunt Beth! She was, well, old.”
Douglas frowned at me. “Misty, not everyone in the group used the procedure on themselves. Are you sure Beth didn’t say anything to you, anything at all?”
I thought hard, but this was all too much to take in. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s unusual. Membership is hereditary. If your great-grandmother hadn’t taken your grandmother to Australia, she might well have been involved too. I know she was considerably younger than Beth.”
I thought about it. “Yes, Beth wanted to stay behind and as she was twenty two, my great-grandparents didn’t pressure her to emigrate.”
“There would have been more to it, Misty. By then Beth would already have been an active member of the society.”
“Aunt Beth certainly looked her age. How old are some members of the, err, society? You can’t seriously mean that they live longer than normal? Do they turn non-human or anything?” I remembered all those old Frankenstein movies I’d seen as a child, and then I thought of Buffy and Twilight. “You don’t really mean vampires, do you?” I jumped up and walked over to the other side of the room. I was getting scared, despite the fact that I didn’t believe any of it.
Diva suddenly ran in, startling me. She ran over to Douglas, hissed, and then circled him. He bent down to stroke her, but she scratched his hand hard and ran out the room. “Ouch!” Douglas said loudly, and then that word was followed by a string of muttered words that I couldn’t quite hear, which was probably just as well.
I jumped to my feet. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Douglas. I’ll get a Band-Aid.”
“That won’t be necessary.” His tone was clipped. Douglas took a handkerchief out of his pocket and folded it around his hand. “As I said, Beth did not want to take the procedure. Some members don’t.”
“Okay, okay, but what about the ones that do? How old are they?”
“A few hundred years old.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! Seriously! Do you expect me to believe that?” I walked back and sat down on another floral monstrosity.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but you write about the paranormal for a living. There must be some things you’ve come across that can’t be explained away.”
I looked hard at him. “You are serious, aren’t you! Do they look old? How old would someone who was really three hundred years old look? Like an eighty year old or a thirty year old? You haven’t answered my question. Are they vampires? Do they look like Edward, all sparkly? Can they go out in the sun? They are golems, aren’t they, or those homunculus things? Are they still human? Or like a Time Lord? Do they regenerate and then look like someone else?” My words tumbled out one after the other. I caught my breath. I felt I was about to cry. This was all too much.
Douglas crossed over to my chair and patted my shoulder. “Misty, I’ll answer all your questions. I do understand this is a shock.”
“Hmmpfff,” was my reply, and I sniffled into a tissue.
“Yes, they are most certainly still human. No, they don’t look like elderly people, and as for how old they look, it depends on the age they started the procedure. They generally won’t look much younger than when they started. If someone who’s been having the procedure stops for any reason, the aging will restart, but they won’t suddenly get very old and turn to dust like you see in Hollywood movies. No, they are not vampires, but at one point in history they might’ve been confused with vampires, because the procedure does require human blood.”
I gasped, and started shaking. Douglas took off his coat and put it over my shoulders, but I thrust it back at him. Douglas ignored my anxiety and kept on with his explanation.
“The procedure doesn’t require human sacrifice, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s only a few drops of blood, after all. After the first two days, the person’s overcome with bloodlust and has to be contained in a circular room covered with alchemical symbols. After the procedure’s over and the person can go back into public, they still need to keep away from any sight of human blood for a while, as the bloodlust can still be
present to a lesser degree. That’s where I think the legend of the vampire arose.”
I heard myself laughing hoarsely, as if from a distance. “You don’t believe in vampires, but you believe in this?”
Douglas spoke slowly. “Misty, that’s why we need to find that page. For centuries the procedure has been carried out near West Wycombe, in an underground vault in Buckinghamshire. Earlier this year, the vault collapsed. Chalk is unstable and even though the unsafe areas in the area were supported, they were obviously not supported well enough. The carvings of the alchemical symbols are now lost. The only known copy is Beth’s missing page. The ritual now can’t be carried out until that page is found.”
I made a strange sound in my throat. “Well, that’s nonsense! Someone could’ve just taken photos of the carvings in the cave!”
“Not that simple, Misty. Not all of them were visible. We believe some were written with some sort of vanishing or invisible substance, and it was believed unsafe to use black light or chemicals to see them, in case the symbols were destroyed. If the people in the society do not get the page, within the next few months they’ll start to age.”
I stared at him with my mouth open.
“Misty, until that page is found,” he continued, “you’re in danger. There are people from a rival group who want to shut down the society. They’ll stop at nothing to destroy that page.”
I was dumbfounded and hugely creeped out. At least I now knew why Aunt Beth had been murdered—she must have been protecting the page from the rival group. At that point a thought occurred to me. “And how do you know all this?”
Douglas crossed his arms. “I’m a member of the society too.”
Chapter 10
Douglas and I had driven back the other way to High Wycombe town itself and now we were driving up a straight road to West Wycombe.
There are straight roads everywhere in Australia, some many miles long, so I was surprised when Douglas told me that long, straight roads are unusual in England. I was also surprised that Douglas had spoken. There had been a lengthy and uncomfortable silence after his disclosure of yesterday.