The Secret Casebook of Simon Feximal

by KJ Charles

  My room stank of the smoke he had left behind. That smell was enough to make me think of the doctor with revulsion, but my uneasiness persisted. Simon was not my master. But Dr. Berry had said so. Did Simon think so?

  My distress was overwhelming me, and I did not want Simon rooting through my possessions. I had little enough left to myself, and he had not the right. A sudden wave of resentment came over me and I turned to voice my objection, with an uncoordinated gesture. My hand hit the little porcelain pot that I used to store pencils, and sent it flying off my desk. It hit the floor and smashed.

  The pot had been a relic of my mother, one of the very few precious things she had owned. The loss was one blow too much. I stared at the shards in disbelief, unable to find words, and saw something glint. “What the—”

  “Don’t touch it.”

  Simon was over by me. On the floor lay broken china, spilled pencils and a gleaming silver coin. The taste of metal was rank in my mouth once more.

  “What is it?” I asked, although I think I already knew.

  “Berry has not given up. Never take anything from him, or you will find yourself bought without knowing you were for sale. Even when foisted upon a victim, his relics have power.” Simon took the coin up between finger and thumb, opened the window and hurled it out. “There will be more.”

  I sat on the bed and put my head in my hands as Simon went through my possessions with the impersonal efficiency of a Metropolitan Police detective, searching everything I owned. He found two more pieces of silver, which he treated in the same unceremonious manner, packed my meagre belongings up in the trunk as I stared at the wreckage of my life, and took the lion’s share of the weight as we heaved it in silence down the stairs.

  Back in Fetter Lane, the scarred servant brought us coffee. Simon sat opposite me in that dark, lifeless drawing-room, watching me as he sipped his drink, cup vanishing in those large, strong hands.

  “Have you any plans for the future, Robert?”

  “Bankruptcy,” I said, with a tight smile. “The mortgages on Caldwell Place, if you recall? I will need to visit the bank, to make some arrangement…” As if I could bargain, with no income, not even my own address. I should have to throw myself on their mercy. The future yawned in front of me, an abyss rather than a path.

  Simon wore his formidable scowl. “Rather than talking to the bank, I think you should speak to Mr. Parker.”

  “I have burned my boats there, I believe.”

  “You will not win his regard,” Simon agreed. “However, he may agree to withdraw his persecution in return for your assurance of silence, and until he does I fear you will not meet with success with the bank, or anywhere else. God knows I respect your principles.” I blinked, startled by the sudden feeling in his voice. “You were right to cry out against what was done there. It was shameful.”

  “But the powerful cannot be shamed, can they?” I said bitterly. “They see no wrong in their acts, or if they do, their answer is to silence their critics. They cannot be made to confront their actions.”

  Simon paused a moment. “May I come with you? To Mr. Parker?”

  “This is my trouble.”

  “I know.” Simon sounded weary. “Your troubles, your responsibilities, you do not want my aid. I understand that, but for God’s sake, Robert, it is the privilege of a friend to extend a helping hand without it being struck away. And,” he added, “I know where to find him, and you do not.”

  That was inarguable, if irritating, and within a short time we stood together in the front room of a discreet, well-appointed office outside Whitehall. The young man at the desk regarded me with a mildly contemptuous blankness that told me I would not have got far alone; he rose to his feet with alacrity for Simon’s low growl. We were escorted to Mr. Parker’s inner sanctum within a quarter of an hour.

  He was seated behind a desk that was piled with dossiers and papers. Red sealing wax, thick vellum and engraved crests abounded.

  “What do you want, Mr. Feximal?” he asked, without looking up.

  “It is I who have the request,” I said. “You have made your point, sir. You have exerted your power and destroyed my livelihood.”

  “I?” Mr. Parker spoke coldly, as if my accusation were arrant nonsense. He reached for another paper.

  “You,” Simon said. “Let us not play games. Go on, Mr. Caldwell.”

  I did not want to go on. This was appalling, and humiliating, and I saw no prospect of success. But what choice had I?

  “You demanded my silence.” I hated the weakness of my voice. “Well, you have it. I shall not speak of the…the allegations I made again. And therefore, I have come to ask you to call off your persecution.”

  “Really,” said Mr. Parker.

  “The bank. They have called in my mortgage—”

  “Then you must pay it.”

  “I cannot,” I said desperately. “I have no work, I have no means to survive. For God’s sake, have you not done enough?”

  “No.” He looked up then. “No, I think not. Occasionally an example must be made, Mr. Caldwell. An example to those who interfere in matters that do not concern them, or who presume to dictate to their betters.” His gaze swung from me to Simon. “Consider this a reminder, or a warning, and be grateful for my clemency. It could be worse. It could be made worse.”

  I could feel the blood draining from my head. “But—”

  “No buts. Leave.”

  “Mr. Parker.” Simon stepped forward, to the very edge of the desk. “I suggest you reconsider. Mr. Caldwell has conceded defeat. Your continued persecution is not duty, but malice.”

  “It is a lesson, Mr. Feximal. I suggest you heed it.”

  Simon’s breath hissed. “You exceed your authority.”

  “On the contrary.” Mr. Parker smiled without humour. “That is limitless.”

  Simon moved, lunging with one powerful arm. His big hand slammed down on Mr. Parker’s wrist, clamping it to the desk.

  “What the devil—!” Mr. Parker wrenched uselessly at the grip.

  Simon ignored his protest. He was undoing his cuff with his free hand, and as I watched in astonishment, he pushed coat and shirt sleeves up, exposing his arm almost to the elbow.

  My mouth dried. Mr. Parker swallowed convulsively.

  The runes were moving down Simon’s arm.

  They curled and twisted. I could not read them, had no desire to. The writing was frantic, black and red scrawling over one another, jagged and skittering along his skin. Simon’s face was tense and remote, his lips moving very slightly as if he recited something to himself.

  “Let me go,” Mr. Parker demanded, tugging at the hand that trapped his own, but Simon was leaning forward, and I knew from experience that his considerable weight was not easily shifted. “Let me go now, Feximal, or you will regret this!”

  Simon reached with his free hand into the pocket of his coat and brought something out. Mr. Parker made a noise in his throat as he saw what it was. A small hand mirror.

  The runes were past Simon’s wrist now, crawling over and around the back of his hand, probing like the tendrils of some terrible weed. Mr. Parker pulled back hard, uselessly. I should not have wanted Simon holding my hand then either.

  “Mr. Caldwell made a remark today,” Simon said calmly. “He observed that the powerful cannot be made to confront their actions. He was incorrect.” He put the mirror onto his wrist, so that its reflective surface faced Mr. Parker. “Read it.”

  Mr. Parker turned his face away, eyes clamped shut. Simon leaned forward. “Read it,” he repeated in a low growl. “Or I shall read it to you.”

  Mr. Parker’s eyes opened. They flickered as he scanned the text in the mirror, his pupils widening. God alone knows what he saw in there, what histories, what accusations silently screamed on Simon’s skin, but he read for perhaps two minutes, until at last something dreadful came across his face and he turned away once more.

  “You will regret this,” he managed, voi
ce thick.

  “I regret working under your authority,” Simon said. “You will not request my services again. And you will call off Mr. Caldwell’s bank.”

  “He may bid his journalistic career farewell,” gritted out Mr. Parker. “That is done with.” His skin was grey and sweaty, and his eyes strained, but his voice retained at least an approximation of authority. I had to admire his nerve.

  Simon glanced at me, then nodded. He pocketed the mirror and released Mr. Parker’s hand. The runes went crawling back up Simon’s arms as soon as he let go.

  “Good,” Simon said. “If we have this conversation again, it will be in public and it will not be resolved so easily. Come, Mr. Caldwell.”

  I followed him out. Mr. Parker did not move or speak, but as we closed the office door I heard a noise that might have been a gasp, or something else.

  We set off back to Fetter Lane on foot, in silence. At last I asked, “Was that wise?”

  “Necessary.” Simon sounded very tired. “Theodosia would say it was overdue. It will be interesting to see how he responds. I trust he will take the warning, but…” He scowled. “It would put my mind at rest if you would stay with us for a while. It would be safer.”

  “I have nowhere else to go.” Hardly an enthusiastic acceptance, but it had hardly been an enthusiastic invitation. Simon nodded without looking at me, and we walked on through the chilly air, neither speaking, back to Fetter Lane.

  Cakes and Ale

  I had nothing to do.

  I could scarcely remember having nothing to do. I had been earning my own living since the age of sixteen, had only been in receipt of a salary rather than irregular payments in the last couple of years. I had worked every hour of the day, and taken my pleasures where I could in between. I had been busy. Now I was not.

  We had no repercussions from the visit to Mr. Parker. Evidently he had decided to take his lesson, or possibly to have his revenge cold. The bank wrote to me a few days after our visit with an apology for their error and an assurance that the mortgages need not be paid back at once, which merely left me with no occupation, no salary and a ruined eyesore of a house to sell before it fell down around my ears.

  There was no sign of Dr. Berry either. “Biding his time, I expect,” said Miss Kay, unreassuringly. “He doesn’t like to be found out.” She and Simon agreed that I should stay in the house, and not roam London on my own. I knew them to be right, I had no desire to meet Dr. Berry or Mr. Parker’s vengeance, but I was trapped, and resentful, and unhappy.

  I wandered aimlessly around such of 166 Fetter Lane as I was permitted to enter. Most of it was closed off, and every room on the second floor locked tight, so the house resembled the lair of some excessively industrious Blackbeard. The crowded bookshelves contained, not novels or poetry, but tomes that I could not hope to understand and had no wish to read if I could. Leather-bound things with disturbing illustrations, bound holograph manuscripts whose cramped writing made my eyes water and my skin itch, any amount of Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and what I guessed to be Arabic. I had my own books, including a copy of the latest sensation novel, an adventure story entitled The Prisoner of Zenda, that I had bought before my life had fallen to pieces, and its wild whirl of action occupied my imagination for some little time. Not enough. I found a History of English Folklore written in a manner that a layman might understand, and read it from cover to cover. It had pencil remarks scrawled in the margin at points, childish comments in childish hands which gave it the air of a most peculiar schoolbook, but it was all I could find.

  Simon made no approach to me. Of course he did not, in his own home, with Miss Kay ever there poring over some ancient text, and the servant Cornelia moving silently around. He was busy. He was occupied. He was of some use to the world, and I was not.

  But it was worse than that. He barely met my eye, could not speak to me as he had before. He had seemed to respect me; now he grunted reasons to leave the room, or conducted stilted conversations that avoided the subject of his work, which, as that has always been his main topic of discourse, left us with nothing to say. He certainly did not come to my bedroom, and I did not dare visit his for fear of whom I might find there.

  Miss Kay did not sleep in his bedroom, or use his name, but what was I to conclude? For a man and woman to live together in such proximity meant only one thing, impossible though that seemed. Of course I knew that many married men, or men who owed women marriage, might also sport with men; I had had a few married lovers myself. But I did not think Simon was a man who would ignore or betray his responsibilities, and Miss Kay was not a woman that any sane man would betray. The thought of wooing her in the first place was terrifying, but I was hardly an expert.

  In any case, whatever Simon was to her, he did not come to me, or look at me, or want me, and I had no idea what I was to think.

  I wanted to say something. To meet his eye, or touch his hand, or ask him outright if I had lost his favour and what I might do to regain it. But I could not let go of the last shreds of my pride, or perhaps I could not bring myself to risk another humiliation.

  I told myself in the early days that I must just bear it. I had nowhere else to go. But after three endless weeks, in which I had secured no work, earned no money, been uselessly dependent on the charity of a man who appeared to have not the slightest wish to have me in his grim and silent house, the discomfort of my situation had me casting around for almost any alternative.

  My instinct was always to chase the story, to make people talk. Miss Kay was unforthcoming to a remarkable degree; Simon barely spoke; I decided the servant Cornelia might be of more use, and went to seek her in the kitchen. Perhaps, I thought, she was silent out of shame at her unsightly disfigurement, and might open up to a kindly word.

  I attempted to speak to her. She ignored me, then she gestured irritably, and finally she made a cawing sound and opened her mouth to reveal the blackened, truncated root of what used to be a tongue.

  At this point, I decided to leave Fetter Lane.

  “I am going to Caldwell Place,” I told Simon. “I must find a way to sell it, and if I cannot then I will…live in it, I suppose.” Burn it bit by bit for firewood, perhaps. “I will surely be able to sell the contents. Some of the furniture isn’t rotten yet, and the paintings—”

  Something changed in his face at the reminder of the paintings, or rather of one particular one, that of the lustful ancestor whose restless spirit had brought us so briefly together. I felt myself flush. I had not meant to raise the spectre of our illicit lusts in this house—or anywhere else, come to that—but since our entire first acquaintance had consisted of fucking, it was difficult not to.

  “I wonder if,” I went on, not quite able to meet his eye, “I wonder if you might consider loaning me the railway fare. You know I am not in funds but I shall be able to repay—”

  He was waving a hand at me, almost angrily. “Of course. You need not ask, but, Robert, must you…that is, you are welcome to stay.”

  “No. I cannot.”

  He stared down at me. “Then— Would you do me a service?”

  “Yes,” I said at once. God knew I owed him more than one.

  “I have a summons to a house, Elphill Abbey. A troublesome haunting. It is up north, on the way to Caldwell Place. Would you accompany me?”

  “To your destination?”

  “On my task. It seems a complex little problem. It occurred to me that you might be of help.”

  I doubted that. Yes, I had connected certain facts when they were put under my nose, but that was scarcely qualification to assist a ghost-hunter. If I had learned anything at Fetter Lane, it was the extraordinary wealth of arcane knowledge wielded by both Simon and Miss Kay. This was not a matter of instinct and guesswork for them: it was a life’s work of study. My nose for a story scarcely weighed in the balance.

  But perhaps that was not what he wanted. Perhaps this was merely an excuse to resume our previous relations one more time, or one last time, awa
y from this house and his home and Miss Kay.

  I could not tell if the thought appealed or appalled.

  “I shall certainly come if you want me.” I cursed myself immediately, but Simon seemed not to notice my (for once) unintentional double meaning, or not to care. “If you think I can help, I mean. You know the limitations of my experience in these matters.”

  “All the same, I should appreciate your time, if you will give it.”

  “Then I shall,” I said, because I had to, and went to pack.

  I cannot say that the journey was comfortable. We travelled first class—despite his wretchedly uncomfortable home, Simon seemed not to struggle with funds—but found nothing to say to one another. There was much I wanted to say, much I wanted to ask, or to simply spill out and hear his deep voice in thoughtful response, but I could not.

  I did not want his kindness, or his friendship. What I wanted was to be his lover, as I so briefly had been, but not if it meant betraying Miss Kay. She was nothing to me, but I did not want Simon to be that flawed, treacherous man. God knows I did not think him perfect, but I had thought him true. If he wanted me, if we might find a corner of secrecy at Elphill Abbey, I should let him have his desire, but I should think the less of him for it.

  Unless he and Miss Kay were not together, but then in God’s name why had he left me untouched, unglanced at, for weeks?

  Impossible to ask, the more so because I wanted the answer painfully. I had learned to expect nothing from lovers beyond mutual pleasure, caution and a bare minimum of decency. That was safe, that was reliable. Excessive emotion brought danger in its wake, the risk of exposure, shame, gaol. Safer by far to shrug and move on. Not to ask, not to pursue, not to hope. Perhaps, not to trust.

  So I did not speak of that, instead breaking a very long silence to ask, “What is the matter in this abbey?”