‘He was a collector of books on the occult. I wondered if he’d bought any from you.’
‘I don’t recall the name,’ she said, stirring her tea. ‘And, really, I don’t carry a huge selection of books. I deal mainly in spells and talismans.’
‘And you make a living from that?’
Mrs Steadman chuckled. ‘Young man, I don’t do this to make money. This is my life. This is who I am.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but are you a witch?’
Mrs Steadman’s eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Just show me what you have in the bag, young man,’ she said.
Nightingale took the five books from the bag and put them on the table in front of her. She took a pair of reading glasses from the top pocket of her shirt and put them on. She picked up the first book, opened it carefully and studied the first page, which listed the date of publication and the publisher. ‘My goodness,’ she said.
‘It’s about witchcraft in the eighteen hundreds,’ said Nightingale.
‘I can see that,’ she said. ‘This book I’ve seen before, but only reproductions. This is a first edition with the original illustrations. They were changed in later editions because some people found them… offensive.’
‘Is it valuable?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Would you buy it from me?’
She looked at him over the top of her glasses. ‘Young man, if I wanted to buy this I’d have to remortgage my house. A second edition sold for fifteen thousand pounds last year. This is a first edition and it’s in perfect condition.’
‘But you can’t buy it?’
Mrs Steadman sat back in her chair. ‘It’s out of my league, young man,’ she said. ‘If you like, you could leave it with me and I’ll see if I can sell it for you. For a commission, of course. Say, ten per cent.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Nightingale. He took out his cigarettes. ‘Do you mind if I…?’
The woman patted her chest. ‘I’m afraid so,’ she said. ‘Asthma. And you know those things will give you cancer.’
‘Please don’t tell me I’m going to hell,’ he said. ‘That’s the last thing I need to hear right now.’
‘There’s a big difference between dying of lung cancer and going to hell.’
‘Do you believe in hell?’ asked Nightingale.
The woman fixed him with her eyes. They were so dark brown that they were almost black, glistening like pools of oil. ‘No, young man, I do not.’
‘There’s no such place?’ The tea was very strong, the way his mother used to make it. ‘Strong enough that the spoon stands up in it,’ was what she’d always said.
‘How could there be? Fire and brimstone and suchlike.’
‘But I thought…’ He was going to say ‘witches’ but caught himself just in time. ‘… people in your line were big believers in heaven and hell and devils.’
‘Young man, you have a very strange idea of what my “line” entails,’ she said. ‘I channel energy, I use the power of the natural world to make changes for good. It has nothing to do with God or the devil, with heaven or hell, and everything to do with the natural order of things.’
‘Love potions?’ said Nightingale.
‘Trinkets,’ said the woman. ‘We use the real power to help people, to cure sickness or at least to ease pain and suffering. It has nothing to do with condemning people to eternal damnation.’ She picked up the second book. It was leather-bound, a history of the Salem witch trials of 1692. ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘Not my sort of thing but you’d get a thousand pounds or so if you can find the right collector. It would probably fetch a higher price in America.’
‘Can you sell it for me, Mrs Steadman?’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I know a lady in Boston who would probably be interested,’ she said. She put it aside and picked up the third. It was a Victorian book on natural healing that Nightingale had found open on a display cabinet. It was filled with watercolour paintings of plants and flowers and appeared to offer cures for everything from earache to bunions. ‘Now this I can definitely sell,’ she said. ‘I sold a copy over the Internet last month and I had several people chasing it. How does five hundred pounds sound?’
‘Like music to my ears,’ said Nightingale. ‘Could you pay me now?’
‘If you’re happy with a cheque.’
‘Delirious,’ said Nightingale.
She picked up the next book and smiled. ‘This one too. It’s one of the best books on pagan rituals there is and I think…’ She opened it and nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, it’s a second edition. There’s a market for it here in Camden – we’ve got quite an active pagan community. Would you take three hundred for it?’
‘Excellent,’ said Nightingale.
‘Tell me, is there a reason you’re selling them?’
Nightingale smiled. ‘I have a cash-flow problem,’ he said, ‘and they’re not really of any interest to me.’
‘Your father’s books, you said. Was he a big collector?’
‘I’d say so,’ said Nightingale.
‘And, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you come to my little shop rather than trying an auction house?’
‘I want to keep a low profile,’ said Nightingale. ‘I figured if they were in an auction there’d be publicity. My father died a short time ago and I don’t want newspapers trying to drum up a story.’
‘Why would that be a story?’
Mrs Steadman was as sharp as a knife and a better inquisitor than the detectives who had quizzed him after Simon Underwood had fallen to his death. ‘He killed himself, Mrs Steadman.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘It’s okay. We weren’t exactly close. Now I just want to sell a few of his books to raise some money.’
‘I quite understand,’ she said. She picked up the last book. ‘Now this one I’ll definitely buy, but I’m afraid it’s not in the same league as the others,’ she said. ‘I sold a copy just last week, here in the shop.’ It was a collection of spells and seemed more like coffee-table book than one that a witch would use, full of glossy photographs and recipes – it reminded Nightingale of a Jamie Oliver cookbook. ‘It’s only worth about twenty pounds, I’m afraid. Several thousand copies were published in the seventies.’
‘Twenty pounds is fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘I really wanted to know what you thought about it. It says anyone can work a spell, that you don’t have to be in a coven or be a real witch. Is that right?’
‘That’s a difficult question, young man.’
Nightingale pointed at the book she was holding. ‘But you believe in it, don’t you? That if you light a candle of a particular colour, use a particular incense and the right herb, and say the right words, something magical will happen?’
‘Would you like a biscuit?’ asked Mrs Steadman. ‘I get the feeling that you’re going to be here for a while so I think I should give you something to nibble.’
Nightingale laughed. ‘A biscuit would be wonderful, thank you.’
Mrs Steadman went over to a shelf and returned with a packet of chocolate Hobnobs. ‘My weakness,’ she said.
Nightingale took one, wondering if it had been an attempt to distract him, or if she was simply being hospitable. ‘I guess my question is, does magic work?’ he said.
‘Well, of course it does, young man,’ she said, taking a biscuit for herself and placing it on her saucer. ‘If it didn’t, people would soon lose interest, wouldn’t they? If those girls out there buy that potion and use it and it doesn’t work, well, I’ll have lost two customers and they’ll tell all their friends and before long the shop will be out of business.’
‘But I thought you had to believe for magic to work.’
‘Well, you could say that about medicine,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘With most illnesses, placebos work almost as well as the genuine article. Not for antibiotics, of course, but for the drugs that treat depression or high blood pressure or relieve
pain it’s more a question of belief than of a true chemical effect. People believe that paracetamol will take away their headache so it does, when in fact a sugar pill would do the job just as well.’
‘You see, now you’re confusing me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Is it the spells that do the business, or is it believing in them that makes them work?’
‘Belief helps,’ said Mrs Steadman, patiently. ‘It probably makes the spells more efficient, but even someone who didn’t believe would get results. It’s like cooking. You don’t necessarily understand why yeast makes bread rise, but follow a recipe for bread and you’ll get a loaf.’
‘And what about black magic?’
‘The chocolates?
Nightingale chuckled. He was starting to like Mrs Steadman – she had a sense of humour not dissimilar to his own. ‘I mean spells that perhaps aren’t as well meant as the ones you sell in your shop.’
‘There’s no such thing as black magic,’ she said earnestly. ‘There’s no black magic and no white magic. There’s just magic.’
‘But I thought-’
Mrs Steadman silenced him with a wagging finger. ‘It’s like electricity, young man,’ she said sternly. ‘You can use it to power a life-support machine, or an electric chair. One saves lives and the other takes them, but the electricity itself isn’t good or bad. It’s just a power to be used.’
‘But stuff like selling your soul to the devil. Is that possible?’
Mrs Steadman looked concerned. She reached forward and put her hand on his. ‘Is that what this is about? You want to sell your soul?’
Nightingale shook his head emphatically. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said.
‘You swear, on all you believe in?’ She stared deep into his eyes.
Nightingale met her gaze levelly. ‘I swear,’ he said quietly. ‘I just need to know, that’s all. Is it possible?’
She pulled her hand back and sipped her tea, still watching him with those intense black eyes. ‘There are spells that supposedly enable you to give your soul to the devil,’ she said eventually. ‘One I know is actually quite simple. You go to a churchyard at night – any churchyard will do, but the older the better – you draw a magic circle on the ground, and within it you draw two crosses. You take some wormwood in each hand and hold a Bible in the left. Toss the wormwood in your right hand up and the wormwood in your left hand down taking care not to drop the Bible. Then you say the Lord’s Prayer backwards.’ She sipped her tea.
‘And that’s it?’
‘That’s it. Bob’s your uncle. On your way home, you leave the Bible on the steps of a church.’
It sounded too easy. ‘So there’s no contract? You don’t do a deal?’
‘It’s a spell,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Quite a simple one.’
‘And what if you change your mind? What if you want to take it back?’
‘That’s just as easy,’ she said. ‘You renounce Satan. Three times.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Did you expect something more dramatic?’
Nightingale reached for his cigarettes again, but remembered her no-smoking policy. ‘I thought there were contracts, I don’t know, signed in blood or something.’
‘Ah…’ She winced as if she’d bitten down on a bad tooth.
‘So there is more?’ said Nightingale.
‘You asked about making a pact with the devil – with Lucifer or Satan or whatever you want to call him. That’s simple. But contracts with minor devils are a much more complicated matter. There are sixty-six princes under the devil, each with 6,666 legions.’
‘And each legion is made up of 6,666 devils,’ said Nightingale.
‘You’ve been doing your homework,’ she said.
‘I’m been doing a bit of research,’ admitted Nightingale. ‘So, to do a deal, you approach one of the devils?’
‘Or one of the princes. But the devil himself can’t be summoned by mere mortals.’
‘I know, I tried.’
Mrs Steadman’s eyebrow shot skywards. ‘I do hope you’re being flippant, young man,’ she said.
‘I found a book with a spell or something. You recite the words and the devil appears.’
‘I think not,’ she said.
‘Well, it didn’t work,’ said Nightingale. ‘But it’s possible to summon a particular devil? One of the princes?’
‘I wouldn’t know, young man,’ she said. ‘Now you’re talking about Satanism and devil-worship and that’s as far removed from what I do as you can get. Wicca has nothing to do with the devil or devil-worship.’
‘Do you believe in it, Mrs Steadman?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t believe in hell and I don’t believe that there is an entity called Satan. But I believe in good and evil. And I believe that there is a power in the earth that can be harnessed and used.’
‘But there are ways of selling a soul, aren’t there? As opposed to giving yourself over to the devil.’
‘Mr Nightingale, I’m not even sure I believe in souls, not in the sense you mean. My beliefs are more that everything is connected, everything flows, that we are one with the earth.’
‘But for someone who did believe, there are things they could do to sell their soul? Or a soul?’
‘In theory, yes.’ She was clearly uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going.
‘Please tell me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to know.’
‘You’re talking to the wrong person,’ she said. ‘It’s like asking a doctor how to commit murder.’
‘In my experience, doctors make the best murderers,’ he said.
‘In your experience?’
‘I was a policeman in another life.’
‘So you believe in reincarnation? At least that’s something.’
Nightingale laughed. ‘I didn’t mean that literally,’ he said. ‘Mrs Steadman, please, how does one go about selling a soul?’
‘Oh, Mr Nightingale…’
‘Just hypothetically. What would one do?’
Mrs Steadman put her mug down. ‘Hypothetically, then,’ she said. ‘You have to renounce God and the Church. You pay homage to the devil, drink the blood of sacrificed children, and strike your deal with whichever devil you summon. A contract is drawn up and signed with blood drawn from the left arm. Then your name is inscribed in the Red Book of Death.’
‘And if you wanted to sell the soul of a child, could you do that?’
Mrs Steadman spread her hands, palms down, on the table. ‘Why are you asking these questions? You seem like a nice man, a good man. What you’re asking, it’s not…’ She shivered. ‘It’s not right.’
‘Have you ever heard of a man called Sebastian Mitchell?’ asked Nightingale, quietly.
Mrs Steadman stiffened. ‘You know him?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I have a book he wrote. A diary.’
‘Burn it.’ Her tiny hands clenched into fists.
‘It’s handwritten. In Latin.’
‘Burn it,’ she repeated. ‘Go home now and burn it.’
‘You couldn’t sell it for me?’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘The sort of people who’d want to buy a book like that, I wouldn’t want to do business with,’ she said.
39
Nightingale was humming as he walked into the office. Jenny looked up from her computer. ‘You sound happy,’ she said.
‘I’ve come into some money.’ He dropped a cheque on her desk. ‘Eight hundred and twenty quid,’ he said.
‘Who did you kill, Jack?’
‘O ye of little faith,’ said Nightingale, heading over to the coffee-maker. ‘I sold some of the books in the basement at the manor to a lovely little witch in Camden.’
‘You did not,’ said Jenny, picking up the cheque and holding it up to the light as if she suspected it was a forgery.
‘I did, and she promised to buy more. She has a shop and she sells on the Internet, too.’
‘Eight hundred and twenty quid! T
hat’s brilliant,’ said Jenny.
‘Should keep the wolf from the door. And there’s more to come,’ said Nightingale, pouring himself a coffee. ‘She’ll sell a couple of the rarer books and thinks she’ll get top dollar. I said I’d go back with a list of other books and she’ll let me know what they’re worth.’ He sat on the edge of her desk. ‘She wanted to have a look herself but I don’t think I should be showing visitors around Gosling Manor.’
‘You’ll take me, though, right?’ said Jenny.
Nightingale raised his mug to her. ‘You’re different,’ he said. ‘You’re family.’
‘You’re so sweet.’
‘I know, I know.’
He took a package out of his pocket and unwrapped it. It was a magnifying glass he’d bought at Wicca Woman. ‘Looking for clues?’ she said. ‘It’s very Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Yeah, and I bought the deerstalker and the pipe on eBay.’ He took the coffee and the magnifying glass into his office and sat down at his desk. He pulled open the top drawer and took out his photograph album.
‘What have you got there?’ asked Jenny.
‘Pictures of me as a baby,’ said Nightingale.
‘No way,’ said Jenny. ‘Why’ve I not seen them before?’
‘Because I never wanted you to see me naked,’ said Nightingale.
‘Show me!’
‘You’re shameless,’ said Nightingale. He pushed the album towards her. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Jenny squealed. ‘Oh, my God, you were adorable,’ she said, looking at the first picture. She turned the page. ‘Oh – so cute! Look at your smile, those chubby little cheeks.’ She turned to the next page and smiled when she saw the photographs of his parents. ‘They were so proud of you,’ she said. ‘You can see it in their eyes.’
‘Yeah, they were good people,’ said Nightingale.
Jenny nodded at the magnifying glass. ‘Seriously, what’s that for?’ she asked.
‘You’ll think I’m stupid.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ she said.
Nightingale pulled the album back across the desk and turned to the first photograph, the one taken when he was just a day old. ‘I’m pretty damn sure I don’t have a pentagram tattoo,’ he said. ‘I would have seen it at the gym or someone would have mentioned it over the years. I mean, I had four full medicals while I was with the Met and the Met’s doctors are bloody thorough. Not much gets past them.’
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