by Brian Lumley
And so, in his way, he declared war. But what were the enemy’s weapons, and what was his objective? For the rest of the afternoon Crow did very little of work but sat in thoughtful silence and made his plans …
V
At 4.45 p.m. he went and knocked on Carstairs’ door. Carstairs answered but did not invite him in. Instead he came out into the corridor. There, towering cadaverously over Crow and blocking out even more of the gloomy light of the place, he said, “Yes, Mr Crow? What can I do for you?”
“Sir,” Crow answered, “I’m well up to schedule on my work and see little problem finishing it in the time allowed. Which prompts me to ask a favour of you. Certain friends of mine are in London tonight, and so—”
“You would like a long weekend, is that it? Well, I see no real problem, Mr. Crow …” But while Carstairs’ attitude seemed genuine enough, Crow suspected that he had in fact presented the man with a problem. His request had caught the occultist off guard—surprised and puzzled him—as if Carstairs had never for a moment considered the possibility of Crow’s wishing to take extra time off. He tried his best not to show it, however, as he said: “By all means, yes, do go off and see your friends. And perhaps you would do me the honour of accepting a little gift to take with you? A bottle of my wine, perhaps? Good! When will you be going?”
“As soon as possible,” Crow answered at once. “If I leave now I’ll have all of tomorrow and Saturday to spend with my friends. I may even be able to return early on Sunday, and so make up for lost time.”
“No, I wouldn’t hear of it,” Carstairs held up long, tapering hands. “Besides, I have friends of my own coming to stay this weekend—and this time I really do not wish to be disturbed.” And he looked at Crow pointedly. “Very well, I shall expect to see you Monday morning. Do enjoy your weekend—and I do urge you to take a bottle of my wine with you.” He smiled his ghastly smile.
Crow said, “Thank you,” and automatically stuck out his hand—which Carstairs ignored or pretended not to see as he turned and passed back into his study …
At 5.20 Crow pulled up at a large hotel on the approaches to Guildford and found a telephone booth. On his first day at The Barrows, Carstairs had given him his ex-directory number, in case he should ever need to contact him at short notice. Now he took out the letter from Somerset House, draped his handkerchief over the mouthpiece of the telephone and called Carstairs’ number.
The unmistakable voice of his employer answered almost at once. “Carstairs here. Who is speaking?”
“Ah, Mr. Castaigne,” Crow intoned. “Er, you did say Castaigne, didn’t you?”
There was a moment’s silence, then: “Yes, Mr. Castaigne, that’s correct. Is that Somerset House?”
“Indeed, sir, I am calling in respect of your enquiry about a Mr. Crow?”
“Of course, yes. Titus Crow,” Carstairs answered. “I was expecting a communication of one sort or another.”
“Quite,” said Crow. “Well, the name Titus Crow is in fact quite rare, and so was not difficult to trace. We do indeed have one such birth on record, dated 2 December 1912.”
“Excellent!” said Carstairs, his delight clearly in evidence.
“However,” Crow hastened on, “I must point out that we do not normally react to unsolicited enquiries of this nature and advise you that in future—”
“I quite understand,” Carstairs cut him off. “Do not concern yourself, sir, for I doubt that I shall ever trouble you again.” And he replaced his telephone, breaking the connection.
And that, thought Crow as he breathed a sigh of relief and put down his own handset, is that. His credentials were now authenticated, his first line of defence properly deployed.
Now there were other things to do …
Back in London, Crow’s first thought was to visit a chemist friend he had known and studied with in Edinburgh. Taylor-Ainsworth was the man, whose interests in the more obscure aspects of chemistry had alienated him from both tutors and students alike. Even now, famous and a power in his field, still there were those who considered him more alchemist than chemist proper. Recently returned to London, Ainsworth was delighted to renew an old acquaintance and accepted Crow’s invitation to drinks at his flat that night, with one reservation: he must be away early on a matter of business.
Next Crow telephoned Harry Townley, his family doctor. Townley was older than Crow by at least twenty years and was on the point of giving up his practice to take the cloth, but he had always been a friend and confidant; and he, too, in his way was considered unorthodox in his chosen field. Often referred to as a charlatan, Townley held steadfastly to his belief in hypnotism, homeopathy, acupuncture and such as tremendous aids to more orthodox treatments. Later it would be seen that there was merit in much of this, but for now he was considered a crank.
The talents of these two men, as opposed to those of more mundane practitioners, were precisely what Crow needed. They arrived at his flat within minutes of each other, were introduced and then invited to sample—in very small doses—Carstairs’ wine. Crow, too, partook, but only the same minute amount as his friends, sufficient to wet the palate but no more. Oh, he felt the need to fill his glass, certainly, but he now had more than enough of incentives to make him refrain.
“Excellent!” was Harry Townley’s view.
“Fine stuff,” commented Taylor Ainsworth. “Where on earth did you find it, Titus?” He picked up the bottle and peered closely at the label. “Arabic, isn’t it?”
“The label is, yes,” Crow answered. “It says simply, ‘table wine’, that much at least I know. So you both believe it to be of good quality, eh?”
They nodded in unison and Townley admitted, “I wouldn’t mind a bottle or two in my cellar, young Crow. Can you get any more?”
Crow shook his head. “I really don’t think I want to,” he said. “It seems I’m already partly addicted to the stuff—and it leaves me with a filthy headache! Oh, and you certainly shouldn’t take it if you’re driving. No, Harry, I’ve other stuff here you can drink while we talk. Less potent by far. This bottle is for Taylor.”
“For me?” Ainsworth seemed pleasantly surprised. “A gift, do you mean? That’s very decent of you …” Then he saw Crow’s cocked eyebrow. “Or is there a catch in it?”
Crow grinned. “There’s a catch in it, yes. I want an analysis. I want to know if there’s anything in it. Any drugs or such like.”
“I should be able to arrange that OK,” said the other. “But I’ll need a sample.”
“Take the bottle,” said Crow at once, “and do what you like with it afterwards—only get me that analysis. I’ll be in touch next weekend, if that’s all right with you?”
Now Crow pulled the cork from a commoner brand and topped up their glasses. To Townley he said, “Harry, I think I’m in need of a check-up. That’s why I asked you to bring your tools.”
“What, you?” The doctor looked surprised. “Why, you’re fit as a fiddle—you always have been.”
“Yes,” said Crow. “Well, to my knowledge the best fiddles are two hundred years old and stringy! And that’s just how I feel,” and he went on to describe in full his symptoms of sudden nausea, headaches, bouts of dizziness and apparent loss of memory. “Oh, yes,” he finished, “and it might just have been something to do with that wine which both of you find so excellent!”
While Townley prepared to examine him, Ainsworth excused himself and went off to keep his business appointment. Crow let him go but made him promise not to breathe a word of the wine or his request for an analysis to another soul. When he left, Carstairs’ bottle was safely hidden from view in a large inside pocket of his overcoat.
Townley now sounded Crow’s chest and checked his heart, then examined his eyes—the latter at some length—following which he frowned and put down his instruments. Then he seated himself facing Crow and tapped with his fingers on the arms of his chair. The frown stayed on his face as he sipped his wine.
“Well?”
Crow finally asked.
“You may well say ’well’, young Crow,” Townley answered. “Come on now, what have you been up to?”
Crow arched his eyebrows. “Up to? Is something wrong with me, then?”
Townley sighed and looked a little annoyed. “Have it your own way, then,” he said. “Yes, there is something wrong with you. Not a great deal, but enough to cause me some concern. One: there is some sort of drug in your system. Your pulse is far too slow, your blood pressure too high—oh, and there are other symptoms I recognize, including those you told me about. Two: your eyes. Now eyes are rather a specialty of mine, and yours tell me a great deal. At a guess—I would say you’ve been playing around with hypnosis.”
“I most certainly have not!” Crow denied, but his voice faltered on the last word. Suddenly he remembered thinking that Carstairs had a hypnotic personality.
“Then perhaps you’ve been hypnotized,” Townley suggested, “without your knowing it?”
“Is that possible?”
“Certainly.” Again the doctor frowned. “What sort of company have you been keeping just lately, Titus?”
“Fishy company indeed, Harry,” the other answered. “But you’ve interested me. Hypnosis and loss of memory, eh? Well, now,” and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Listen, could you possibly de-hypnotize me? Trace the trouble back to its source, as it were?”
“I can try. If you’ve been under once—well, it’s usually far easier the second time. Are you game?”
“Just try me,” Crow grimly answered. “There’s something I have to get to the bottom of, and if hypnosis is the way why, I’ll try anything once!”
An hour later, having had Crow in and out of trance half a dozen times, the good doctor finally shook his head and admitted defeat. “You have been hypnotized, I’m sure of it,” he said, “but by someone who knows his business far better than I. Do you remember any of the questions I asked you when you were under?”
Crow shook his head.
“That’s normal enough,” the other told him. “What’s extraordinary is the fact that I can get nothing out of you concerning the events of the last couple of weeks!”
“Oh?” Crow was surprised. “But I’ll gladly tell you all about the last few weeks if you like—without hypnosis.”
“All about them?”
“Of course.”
“I doubt it,” Townley smiled, “for that’s the seat of the trouble. You don’t know all about them. What you remember isn’t the whole story.”
“I see,” Crow slowly answered, and his thoughts went back again to those dim, shadowy dreams of his and to his strange pseudo-memories of vague snatches of echoing conversation. “Well, thank you, Harry,” he finally said. “You’re a good friend and I appreciate your help greatly.”
“Now listen, Titus.” The other’s concern was unfeigned. “If there’s anything else I can do—anything at all—just let me know, and—”
“No, no, there’s nothing.” Crow forced himself to smile into the doctor’s anxious face. “It’s just that I’m into something beyond the normal scope of things, something I have to see through to the end.”
“Oh? Well, it must be a damned funny business that you can't tell me about. Anyway, I’m not the prying type but I do urge you to be careful.”
“It is a funny business, Harry,” Crow nodded, “and I'm only just beginning to see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. As for my being careful—you may rely upon that!”
Seeing Townley to the door, he had second thoughts. “Harry, do I remember your having a gun, a six-shooter?”
“A .45 revolver, yes. It was my father’s. I have ammunition, too.”
“Would you mind if I borrowed it for a few weeks?”
Townley looked at him very hard, but finally gave a broad grin. “Of course you can,” he said. “I’ll drop it round tomorrow. But there is such a thing as being too careful, you know!”
VI
Following a very poor night’s sleep, the morning of Friday 18 January found Titus Crow coming awake with a start, his throat dry and rough and his eyes gritty and bloodshot. His first thought as he got out of bed was of Carstairs’ wine—and his second was to remember that he had given it to Taylor Ainsworth for analysis. Stumbling into his bathroom and taking a shower, he cursed himself roundly. He should have let the man take only a sample. But then, as sleep receded and reason took over, he finished showering in a more thoughtful if still sullen mood.
No amount of coffee seemed able to improve the inflamed condition of Crow’s throat, and though it was ridiculously early he got out the remainder of last night’s bottle of his own wine. A glass or two eased the problem a little, but within the hour it was back, raw and painful as ever. That was when Harry Townley turned up with his revolver, and seeing Crow’s distress he examined him and immediately declared the trouble to be psychosomatic.
“What?” said Crow hoarsely, “you mean I’m imagining it? Well, that would take a pretty vivid imagination!”
“No,” said Townley, “I didn’t say you were imagining it. I said it isn’t a physical thing. And therefore there’s no physical cure.”
“Oh, I think there is,” Crow answered. “But last night I gave the bottle away!”
“Indeed?” And Townley’s eyebrows went up. “Withdrawal symptoms, eh?”
“Not of the usual sort, no,” answered Crow. “Harry, have you the time to put me into trance just once more? There’s a certain precaution I’d like to take before I resume the funny business we were talking about last night.”
“Not a bad idea,” said the doctor, “at least where this supposed sore throat of yours is concerned. If it is psychosomatic, I might be able to do something about it. I’ve had a measure of success with cigarette smokers.”
“Fine,” said Crow, “but I want you to do more than just that. If I give you a man's name, can you order me never to allow myself to fall under his influence—never to be hypnotized by him—again?”
“Well, it’s a tall order,” the good doctor admitted, “but I can try.”
Half an hour later when Townley snapped his fingers and Crow came out of trance, his throat was already feeling much better, and by the time he and Townley left his flat the trouble had disappeared altogether. Nor was he ever bothered with it again. He dined with the doctor in the city, then caught a taxi and went on alone to the British Museum.
Through his many previous visits to that august building and establishment he was well acquainted with the Curator of the Rare Books Department, a lean, learned gentleman thirty-five years his senior, sharp-eyed and with a dry and wicked wit. Sedgewick was the man’s name, but Crow invariably called him ‘sir’.
“What, you again?” Sedgewick greeted him when Crow sought him out. “Did no one tell you the war was over? And what code-cracking business are you on this time, eh?”
Crow was surprised. “I hadn't suspected you knew about that,” he said.
“Ah, but I did! Your superiors saw to it that I received orders to assist you in every possible way. You didn’t suppose I just went running all over the place for any old body, did you?”
“This time,” Crow admitted, “I’m here on my own behalf. Does that change things, sir?”
The other smiled. “Not a bit, old chap. Just tell me what you’re after and I’ll see what I can do for you. Are we back to cyphers, codes, and cryptograms again?”
“Nothing so common, I’m afraid,” Crow answered. “Look, this might seem a bit queer, but I’m looking for something on worm worship.”
The other frowned. “Worm worship? Man or beast?”
“I’m sorry?” Crow looked puzzled.
“Worship of the annelid—family, Lumbriciclac—or of the man, Worm?”
“The man-worm?”
“Worm with a capital ‘W’,” Sedgewick grinned. “He was a Danish physician, an anatomist. Olaus Worm. Around the turn of the 16th Century, I believe. Had a number of followers. Hence the word “Worm
ian”, relating to his discoveries.”
“You get more like a dictionary every day!” Crow jokingly complained. But his smile quickly turned to a frown. “Olaus Worm, eh? Could a Latinized version of that be Olaus Wormius, I wonder?”
“What, old Wormius who translated the Greek Necronomicon? No, not possible, for he was 13th Century.”
Crow sighed and rubbed his brow. “Sir,” he said, “you’ve thrown me right off the rails. No, I meant worship of the beast—the annelid, if you like—worship of the maggot.”
Now it was Sedgewick’s turn to frown. “The maggot!” he repeated. “Ah, but now you’re talking about a different kettle of worms entirely. A maggot is a grave-worm. Now if that’s the sort of worm you mean … have you tried The Mysteries of the Worm?”
Crow gasped. The Mysteries of the Worm! He had seen a copy in Carstairs’ library, had even handled it. Old Ludwig Prinn’s De Vermis Mysteriis!
Seeing his look, Sedgewick said: “Oh? Have I said something right?”
“Prinn,” Crow’s agitation was obvious. “He was Flemish, wasn’t he?”
“Correct! A sorcerer, alchemist, and necromancer. He was burned in Brussels. He wrote his book in prison shortly before his execution, and the manuscript found its way to Cologne where it was posthumously published.”
“Do you have a copy in English?”
Sedgewick smiled and shook his head. “I believe there is such a copy—circa 1820, the work of one Charles Leggett, who translated it from the German black-letter—but we don’t have it. I can let you see a black-letter, if you like?”
Crow shook his head. “No, it gives me a headache just thinking of it. My knowledge of antique German simply wouldn’t run to it. What about the Latin?”
“We have half of it. Very fragile. You can see but you can’t touch.”