The Winged Bull

by Dion Fortune

  An hour later Brangwyn said to Murchison, ‘I don’t think it is any use waiting for Ursula, so we will start our breakfast.’

  But Murchison was not disposed to start his breakfast. He pecked at his food in a discontented fashion, fidgeted, and stared at the door.

  ‘I suppose she’s all right?’ he said at length.

  ‘Why shouldn’t she be?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just wondered if she was.’

  Brangwyn went on with his breakfast, but Murchison continued to drink tea and fidget, and would not eat anything.

  After breakfast Brangwyn moved over to the fire with The Times, and Murchison went up to his flat. As he passed the door of Ursula’s apartments he saw that it was slightly ajar. Obeying a sudden impulse he pushed it wider and looked in, and saw that both sitting-room and bathroom were empty, and the door into the bedroom stood ajar. He looked down over the rail of the gallery and saw that Brangwyn was intent on his paper, so he tiptoed silently over the thick carpet and peered into the bedroom, taking a chance that he might come upon Miss Brangwyn with nothing on.

  The bedroom was empty, her nightgown lying across the tumbled bed. She had obviously got up and dressed. But where was she? Hoping against hope he raced up the stairs to the roof-garden, but it stood empty in the spring sunshine. He leapt down the stairs three steps at a time, and Brangwyn looked up from his paper to find his secretary standing over him, his usually ruddy face as white as a sheet.

  ‘She’s gone out,’ he said.

  ‘Has she?’ said Brangwyn. ‘Well, there’s no need to be unduly alarmed about that. Why shouldn’t she go out if she wanted to?’

  ‘My God, I am alarmed, though!’ said Murchison. ‘I think she’s gone to Fouldes.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I bet she’s done it out of sheer pique. I told her I’d marry her if you made it worth my while, but I wouldn’t live with her longer than a year.’

  ‘What on earth possessed you to tell her that?’

  ‘God knows. I think I was mad. I suppose what she said about having to put up with me upset me.’

  ‘Well, my dear boy, don’t let that affect your judgement. There is no need to jump to the conclusion that because she isn’t in the flat something has happened to her. Wait and see whether she comes back for lunch or not, if she doesn’t come back for lunch, and doesn’t phone, then we’ll start getting worried, not before.’

  ‘I know something has happened to her.’

  Brangwyn looked at him, and his own uneasiness increased. The magical bond he had wrought between Murchison and Ursula was such that he thought the man’s feelings were a pretty good indication of what was happening to the girl. He had never seen the stolid and controlled Murchison like this before.

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘I suggest that I visit Astley,’ said Murchison. ‘He will know where she is, even if she isn’t actually there.’

  ‘An excellent idea. Tell him you haven’t got much to do for me and have plenty of time on your hands, and you’ve dropped in to see him. I’ll give you a few papers you can take him to act as a ground-bait.’

  Murchison made his way cross-country on foot to the down-at-heel district in North London, at no great distance from Brangwyn’s flat, where Astley’s superlative visiting card said he lived.

  The house itself was a large corner house painted a symbolic black, relieved only by leprous white patches where the neglected paint had scaled off.

  Murchison rang the bell, and waited some time for an answer; and then the door was opened to him by an enormous grinning negro, a great deal blacker than the dusty butler’s blacks that he wore. Murchison was shown into an inner hall even dustier than the butler.

  Almost before he had sat down, Astley appeared and greeted him as if he were a long-lost brother.

  ‘Hully, my dear chap? What brings you round to see me?’

  ‘I managed to lay by hands on a few papers that looked to me like what you wanted,’ he said. ‘At any rate, they came out of the safe. I hope they’re the right ones. I took a long chance to get them.’

  ‘Splendid! Let’s have a look at them. Oh, damn it all, these aren’t the ones. I’ve got these already, through Fouldes. Sorry, Murchison, these are no use to me,’ and he handed them back.

  Murchison declined to take them, and looked sulky. ‘Well, what about a bit on account?’

  ‘My dear chap, these are no use to me. These are not the ones I asked you for. You deliver the goods, and you’ll have no cause to complain of your treatment. Come and have a drink.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind if I do. Brangwyn keeps the decanter locked up.’

  They went down a long passage to what had evidently been the billiard-room, and which was now Astley’s study. It was a chaotic apartment, strewn with papers and books, and surrounded by dusty, book-lined walls. In one corner was an antique statue of the kind that the British Museum keeps locked up. Over the littered mantelpiece was a study of Pan and the nymphs which left nothing to the imagination. It was the room of a scholar, a sloven and a sensualist.

  Like the rest of the house, it bore the mark of lavish expenditure and negligent upkeep.

  Murchison lowered himself into a massive leather-covered armchair, such as must once have graced a West-end club, and felt the broken springs digging into him. Beside it was a spittoon so full of cigar-ends that there was hardly room for the ash of his cigarette. There were several bottles and glasses standing on a side table, but none of the bottles were full, and none of the glasses were clean.

  Astley rang the bell, and a girl appeared. Murchison stared hard at that girl and wondered whether Ursula Brangwyn would ever come to look as she did. The girl was thin to emaciation; her eyes sunken in her head and surrounded by black circles. Her clothing consisted of an exceedingly figure-revealing djibbah of dingy green. She looked like a sickly and unclean nymph who had had altogether too much attention from Pan.

  Astley demanded whisky. The girl disappeared, to return in a few minutes with a bottle.

  ‘Steady on for me,’ said Murchison. ‘I don’t generally take spirits at this hour of the day.’

  ‘Lucky feller,’ said Astley. ‘They’re the only things I can take. Everything else plays up my digestion.’

  While Astley was busy with the syphon, Murchison slipped half his drink into an aspidistra which stood conveniently to hand. He wanted all his wits about him for the forthcoming interview.

  ‘Well?’ said Astley, when they were comfortably settled with their drinks and cigarettes. ‘How are you getting on with old Brangwyn?’

  ‘So-so. I’ve had the hell of a row with the girl, though. She’ll get me chucked out if she can. By the way, I suppose you heard there was a fine old shindy with Fouldes up at Brangwyn’s place in the mountains? We’ve been watching her like a cat at a mousehole ever since. Brangwyn thinks she means to go off with him.’

  Astley smiled. ‘Oh, he thinks, does he? And where does he think she is at the present moment?’

  ‘Tucked up in her little bed, I suppose. At any rate, she wasn’t down when I came out.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to learn that she is in this house at the present moment?’

  ‘Really? But I suppose that means my job’s at an end. He won’t watch a watchdog any longer if she’s definitely bolted. What’s his chance of getting her back, do you think?’

  ‘None. I’ll see to that.’

  Astley’s certainty, and the curious sense of power behind the man struck cold at Murchison’s heart.

  Abruptly Astley changed subject. ‘Are you a handy man with tools?’

  ‘Pretty fair. The saw is mightier than the pen in my case.’

  ‘Care to lend me a hand downstairs? I’ll show you something interesting.’

  This was a chance beyond all expectation.

  Astley rose laboriously from his chair, and Murchison realized what a wreck the man was. He could only just get up without assistance. Accor
ding to the Sunday papers, Astley dealt in the elixir of life that bestowed immortal youth. Murchison thought that he was no testimonial to his own preparations.

  They returned down the passage to the hall, and descended a staircase to murky kitchen quarters, where Murchison caught a glimpse of the dingy nymph engaged in washing up what looked like a belated breakfast. Astley inserted a key in a cupboard door, swung it open, and revealed another stairway apparently descending into the bowels of the earth. An extraordinary aroma arose to meet them, compounded of stale incense and something else, which was vaguely familiar, but Murchison could not identify at first. Then the bleat of a billy-goat greeted them, and he guessed who the second thurifer was.

  They entered a large room which seemed to extend under the whole house, with the superstructure supported on pillars which had obviously not been put up by a professional. Murchison eyed those pillars, and thought that one fine night the house would probably sit down on top of Astley and his crew when they were at their rites.

  The room reminded him of the room in Brangwyn’s basement devoted to the same purpose, save that it was much larger and decorated in Egyptian red and black. The effect of those two colours in juxtaposition was peculiarly sinister. In the centre of the room was what looked like an old-fashioned table-tomb such as crusaders repose on in country churches. It was covered with a black velvet pall, and a cushion at the head showed that it was intended for someone to lie on. Murchison remembered what Brangwyn had told him about the Black Mass, and wondered what scenes had been enacted with that tomb for a centre-piece.

  At the far end of the room was a low platform reached by three shallow steps. Astley led the way on to this, put aside the heavy black draperies that formed its background, and revealed a door, which, on being opened, gave access to a lumber-room, half carpenter’s shop and half general storage. There was a bench strewn with tools, and a quantity of timber pushed under it.

  ‘Can’t very well send out for a firm to do jobs like ours,’ said Astley, ‘so we have to get busy and do ‘em ourselves. I’d be glad if you’d lend me a hand. I’m no use with tools nowadays. What I want you to make is a cross.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Murchison. ‘What sort of a cross?’

  ‘One big enough to crucify a six-foot man on.’

  ‘My God!’ said Murchison. ‘Who’s going to be the corpse?’

  ‘No one’s going to be the corpse. It’s only symbolic. Your arms rest in webbing slings. It’s perfectly comfortable.’

  They got to work. Astley measuring and marking competently enough, and Murchison in his shirt-sleeves doing the sawing, till they were interrupted by the dingy nymph, who came to tell Astley that he was wanted on the telephone.

  ‘Damn!’ said Astley. ‘Carry on, will you, Murchison, I won’t be longer than I can help.’

  Murchison downed tools the moment the door closed behind Astley. He had observed another door at the opposite end of the room, and he wanted to see where it led to. He shifted aside the lumber till it could be got open wide enough for him to slide through edgewaYs, disposing the lumber so as to look as if it bad not been disturbed, drew the enormous bolts that it secured it top and bottom, coaxed it open on its rusted hinges, and slipped hastily through.

  He found himself in what was evidently a sub-basement to judge by the gullies of the drain pipes. He struck a match and discerned a mouldering flight of steps in one corner. He groped his way up these till his head met an obstruction, struck another match, and saw what looked like a trap-door above him; pushed it, found to his joy that it yielded, put his head and shoulders cautiously through, and found himself in the coal-cellar, empty save for a heap of swept-up coal-dust in a corner. The coal-cellar would certainly have access to the present area, and it ought to be a comparatively simple matter to use this route as an emergency exit from Astley’s temple of the black arts. It would also be an equally simple matter to get in the same way should need arise.

  Well pleased with his discoveries, Murchison slipped quickly back to the lumber-room, dusted the coal-dust off his hands, gave the hinges of the door a drop of oil, rearranged the lumber so that it did not appear to have been disturbed, and yet allowed of the door being opened, and got to work on the cross again, and was so engaged when Astley returned from his telephoning.

  The massive cross, made of old floorboards, was soon knocked together, and with the help of the butler Murchison got it through into the temple and up-ended it on the platform and jammed its foot in a slot, securing it in position with struts from behind. It was a pretty stout piece of work by the time it was finished, and Murchison reckoned that anyone who was fastened to that cross would have to stay there.

  ‘There; we’ll leave the girls to paint that black,’ said Astley, viewing the job with satisfaction. ‘Come on upstairs and have a drink.’

  Murchison wondered whether he were going to be offered lunch in return for his exertions, which had not been inconsiderable, the cross being a heavy piece of work, but there were no signs of it in that hugger-mugger household. He was particularly anxious to avoid any quantity of Astley’s whisky on a stomach that was pretty empty by now, having had practically no breakfast, so the aspidistra again received a libation.

  ‘Did Brangwyn ever do any rituals with you?’ inquired Astley when they had settled down to their drinks.

  Murchison thought frankness best, as he did not know how well-informed Monks might be concerning the events in Brangwyn’s basement, and any attempt at dissimulation would have put Astley on his guard; indeed, this might be a test.

  ‘We did one,’ he said. ‘Pretty mild, but quite interesting.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Old Brangwyn recited poetry, and the girl and I pranced about. Nothing happened.’

  ‘Nothing could happen under those circumstances. Would you like to see a ritual where something really happens?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Let me see, to-night’s the eighteenth, and it’s full moon on the twenty-first, that’s Thursday. The paint on that cross ought to be dry by then if the girls get the first coat on today. We’ll have the show on Friday night; you come round then, about eight, no, make it nine, in case Fouldes’ train is late. And, look here, how’d you like to go on the cross? You’d have nothing to say, just stand there and look pleasant.’

  ‘Arm-aching job, isn’t it, spread-eagled like that?’

  ‘Not at all, your arms are suspended by webbing slings; it’s perfectly comfortable. I’ve been on crosses for hours at a time, meditating.’

  Murchison stared at him, thinking what a diabolical crucifix it must have been that was thus contrived, and amazed that any human imagination could have conceived such a bizarre blasphemy as the pot-bellied, bulldog-jowled, bottle-nosed mulatto on a cross.

  ‘I don’t mind as long as it’s not too much like hard work. What am I supposed to be, stuck up there like a stoat on a barn-door?’

  ‘You are supposed to be the Saviour of the World.’

  ‘God help the world!’

  Astley chuckled. ‘You’ll have a lovely time. We have the dance of the virgins round you.’

  Murchison had no idea what kind of blasphemy was intended by the dance of the virgins, but he could guess.

  ‘Does the Brangwyn girl take part in this show?’ he inquired.

  ‘You bet she does. That’s why we have to wait for Fouldes.’

  ‘Is she willing?’

  Astley’s face suddenly changed from its leering good humour: ‘She will be by then!’

  As no food appeared to be forthcoming, Astley, like many heavy drinkers, being a very scanty feeder, Murchison, who was feeling pretty hungry by now, took his leave. Astley was too busy with the decanter to even escort him from the house.

  No one was about in the dusty hall, and he marvelled at the thoughtlessness of Astley, who could give a perfect stranger the run of the house in this casual fashion.

  He opened the hall door and stepped outside, nea
rly kicking over a bucket of dirty water as he did so, and there, at his feet, was Ursula Brangwyn on her knees, cleaning the steps.

  ‘My God!’ he said, incapable of any other form of greeting. If he had found her lying dead he could hardly have been more taken aback. The fastidious Miss Brangwyn cleaning Astley’s filthy steps!

  She scrambled to her feet when she saw him, and they stood facing each other.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in level tones, looking him straight in the face with angry eyes.

  Murchison was nonplussed. He did not know what to say. If he confessed he were spying on Astley she might betray him and so put a stop to his activities. But if he did not, what conclusion would she draw, and what would be her attitude towards him?

  She settled the matter for him. ‘I have seen your letter to Astley,’ she said.

  ‘Have you?’ said Murchison, whose wits worked slowly when it came to words.

  ‘And I think you are disgusting to treat my brother like that when he trusts you.’

  Murchison flushed scarlet at her accusation, but did not know what to reply. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here yourself?’

  ‘I will tell you what I am doing here, and then you can tell my brother. I have made up my mind. If you had been different it might have been different, but as it is, I am better off with Frank, and anyway,’ she said with a bitter laugh, ‘I do not think there is very much to choose between you.’

  ‘I would do anything in the world to get you out of here, Miss Brangwyn. Won’t you come back to your brother with me? Come just as you are, and we’ll get a taxi.’

  Ursula laughed again. ‘Are you going to fling me into a taxi as you did into the car at Llandudno?’

  ‘No,’ said Murchison quietly, ‘I shall never make that mistake again. It would be no use. You would only run back. If you will take one step, I will take you the rest of the but you have got to take that one step yourself.’

  ‘Do you imagine I would take one single step towards you after the way you have behaved towards me?’

  ‘God knows. Is it any use saying how sorry I am?’