A Glimpse of Heaven

by Olivier Bosman

  “Come on,” Ibis said, clapping his hands.

  Billings looked up. He realised now that the other two had already finished and they were all waiting for him. He quickly jotted something down, folded his paper and joined the others.

  “All right.” Ibis smiled and rubbed his hands with delight. “Who shall we start with?” He passed his eyes over the novices. He stopped at Cat. “You,” he said, pointing at her. “Go stand in front of the looking glass.”

  Cat did as she was told.

  Ibis now turned towards Billings. “You, Mr Falcon, shall stand behind her and look over her shoulder at her reflection. By peering at her reflection, concentrating deeply and whispering the magical Enochian phrase which I shall teach you, you will be able to tell Miss Cat’s age, her birthplace and the name of someone she loves.”

  Billings took his position behind Cat.

  “Now, stare at Miss Cat’s reflection.” Ibis’ voice was lower now, and softer. “Try to block out everything you see in your periphery. Breathe deeply. Concentrate.”

  Billings stared at the reflection, breathing in slowly through his nostrils and exhaling through his mouth. After a few seconds, Ibis leaned in to him and whispered in his ear.

  “Now, repeat after me. Farzm A Zodimibe.”

  Billings looked confused.

  “Go on. Say it. It’s Enochian. It means lift the veil.”

  “Farzm A Zod...um...”

  “Zodimibe.”

  “Zodimibe.”

  “Now say the first three words that enter your mind.”

  Billings thought about this.

  Ibis frowned. “Quickly. Without thinking. The first three words that come into your mind.”

  Billings blurted out the following: “Thirty-nine. Bath. Reginald.”

  Cat gasped. She put her hands to her mouth and spun round to face him.

  “Was he right?” Ibis asked.

  The woman nodded, flushing with excitement. “Yes! I am thirty-nine! I was born in Bath and my husband’s name is Reginald!”

  Ibis smiled. Monkey smiled too. Billings looked confused.

  Your turn now, Mr Falcon,” Ibis said. “And your turn to read, Mr Monkey.”

  Billings stood in front of the mirror. Monkey took his position behind him. He peered over the detective’s shoulder, whispered the magical Enochian phrase and said: “Thirty-one, Madagascar, Clarkson.”

  “Are you thirty-one years old?” Ibis asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And were you born in Madagascar?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is Clarkson someone dear to you?”

  Billings frowned. Why did he have to write down Clarkson? “Yes,” he mumbled.

  Ibis smiled. Cat gasped again. Monkey grinned with satisfaction.

  The exercise was repeated once more, with Cat guessing correctly that Monkey was twenty-one, born in Luton and fond of a certain Bessie, who turned out to be his beagle.

  “Congratulations, Miss Cat, Mr Monkey and Mr Falcon,” Ibis said. “You are now level one members of the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith, and you have performed your first magic. But do not rest on your laurels. As with anything else, magic requires practice. I urge you all to practice the art of mind reading at home. Use a mirror to help you filter out the seen from the unseen, but be sure that the mirror is in pristine shape. On no account should you use a cracked mirror. Cracks in the filter will let in unpleasantness, and we don’t want that. You will soon receive another invitation. If you want to rise to become a level two magician, be sure to bring another hundred pounds.”

  When Billings returned home, his mind buzzing with excitement, a thought occurred to him which instantly snuffed his good mood. Damn it! It was Trotter’s day off today. It was my turn to shadow the maid. He frowned. What to do? What to do?

  He rushed to Trotter’s desk and took the reports out of his drawer. There were six of them, one for each day of shadowing. They were practically identical.

  I can easily fake a report, he thought. I can copy the actions from the previous ones and alter the times by a few minutes. What are the chances that Miss Bunton deviates from her routine on the one night that she isn’t shadowed? He sat at his desk, pulled some sheets of paper out of his drawer, took the pen out of the inkwell and got to work.

  “OH, YOU’VE GOT A MIRROR.”

  Trotter stood in the doorway, looking aghast at the mirror on the wall which Billings had bought that morning from a pawn shop.

  “Why did you put it right in front of my desk?” Trotter asked. “I don’t like having to look at myself all day.”

  “I’ll take it down later,” Billings said. “I just want to try something out on you.” He took a pencil and notepad out of his desk drawer and handed it to him. “I want you to write down three things. Your birth date, your place of birth and the name of someone dear to you.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s a trick. I will look at your reflection and read your mind.”

  “But you already know my birth date. It was on my resume.”

  “Write down your mother’s birth date, then.”

  Trotter frowned. “It’s that business with the rabbi again, isn’t it? You just can’t let that go, can you?”

  “That’s right. Now go on, write them down.”

  Trotter shook his head. “You’re mad, you are.” He sat down at his desk and jotted something down. Billings leaned against his desk, crossed his arms and waited. Trotter looked up at the ceiling and tapped his fingers on the tabletop.

  “Have you finished?” Billings asked.

  “I don’t know what to put down for the third point.”

  “Put down someone who is dear to you.”

  “My parents are dear to me, but that’s too easy for you to guess.”

  “Well, write down the name of someone you’ve been thinking about lately.”

  “I know!” He jotted something down, folded the paper and clenched it to his chest. “Now what?”

  “Look into the mirror and concentrate on the words you wrote.”

  Trotter smiled. “You’ll never guess my third point.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Trotter looked into the mirror. Billings stared at his reflection and concentrated. He whispered Farzm A Zodimibe then blurted out the following: “13th of February, 1860 – Peckham – George Armstrong.”

  Trotter gasped. “How did you know that!”

  Billings smiled. “Magic.”

  “You cheated. You saw me write those things down.”

  “I did not cheat.”

  “The paper is transparent. You were able to read through it.” Trotter turned the paper over in his hands and inspected it.

  “I did not cheat, Trotter. It’s magic.” He sat down at his desk, put his legs on the table and leaned back, smiling smugly.

  “There’s no such thing as magic, Mr Billings. There is some sort of trickery at play here. This is a test. You’re testing my powers of perception, but I’ll get to the bottom of this.” He put down the paper. “Did you shadow Miss Bunton yesterday?”

  Billings put his feet back on the floor and shifted in his seat. Damn it, he thought. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he lied. “My report is in your drawer.”

  Trotter took out the report and looked through it. “It is practically identical to the other ones.”

  Billings shrugged. “What can I say? Miss Bunton is a woman of routine.” His heart was pounding in his chest. He was such a terrible liar. He needed to change the topic. “Who is George Armstrong?”

  “George Armstrong is a performer.” Trotter took some brown wrapping paper out of his drawer, spread it out on his desk and put the pile of reports on it. “He goes by the name of Strongman George. I watched him perform at the music hall the other day.”

  “Why is he dear to you?”

  “He’s not. You told me to write down the name of someone I’d been thinking about. Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about him.” He wrapped
the brown paper around the reports and tied them with a string. “He has amazing strength, you know. He locks himself up in a cage and breaks out of it by pushing apart the iron bars. Have you ever seen him?”

  “I’ve seen his poster. He appears in it wearing nothing but a loincloth.”

  Trotter went silent. Billings detected a slight blush on his cheeks.

  “He’s dressed according to his role,” Trotter said, not daring to take his eyes off the parcel. “He’s supposed to be Samson enslaved by the Philistines. Slaves wore loincloths in biblical times.”

  “I hear he’s very popular with the ladies,” Billings continued, his tongue firmly lodged in his cheek. “They love to stare at his naked, muscular body.”

  Trotter’s face went crimson. “Well, I’m not interested in any of that. I just enjoy watching biblical re-enactments.”

  “Did you go to the music hall with your girlfriend?”

  “I have no girlfriend, Mr Billings. And I have no intention of ever getting one. I am resolved to stay single and carefree for the rest of my life.” He got up, picked the parcel up and headed for the door. “I’d better hurry to the post office. If it goes out this morning, Mr Doucet will receive it tonight.” He made a quick exit.

  Billings laughed to himself. He recognised Trotter’s tactic. Tell people early on that you don’t intend to marry; that way they won’t question your lack of interest in women. It was a tactic he’d employed himself once in his youth. He already knew, of course, that Trotter was a homosexual. That was partly why he’d employed him. The world of private detectives was a very manly world, and a pudgy, lily-faced young man with a penchant for bluebell posies would only be ridiculed in any other firm. Billings wanted to protect him from that. Anyway, he felt more comfortable having someone of his own sort as a colleague, even if neither man dared speak openly about it.

  Trotter returned a few minutes later. He did not enter the office. He stood in the doorway, staring at Billings with a shocked expression on his pale face. He was clutching a newspaper to his chest. “Oh, Mr Billings!”

  Billings sat up. “What is it?”

  “You lied to me.”

  “What?”

  “You did not shadow Miss Bunton last night. You couldn’t have.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course I shadowed her.”

  “When did you stop shadowing her?”

  “When she returned to work this morning. Why are you asking?”

  Trotter turned the newspaper around and held it up so that Billings could see the headlines. “The police fished Miss Bunton’s dead body out of the Thames last night.”

  7. Wrath of the Gods

  “How can that be, Mr Billings?” Trotter rushed into the office and laid the newspaper on his desk. “It says here the police fished her out of the river at one o’clock in the morning. She was strangled, and her ears had been cut off. How can you have followed Miss Bunton back to Mr Doucet’s house at nine when the police fished her out of the water at one?”

  Billings frowned. He got up and walked towards the window. He massaged his temples as he stared out onto the street.

  Trotter waited for an answer. “Perhaps you followed the wrong person. Perhaps it was dark and you couldn’t see well. Perhaps the woman you followed looked a lot like Miss Bunton.”

  “I didn’t follow her, Trotter.” His left hand began to tremble.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t follow her.” He finally turned to face his assistant. “I had something very important to do last night, and I’d completely forgotten that it was your day off. By the time I remembered, it was too late.”

  “But the report you wrote...”

  “I made it up.”

  Trotter gasped and put his hands to his mouth. “Oh, Mr Billings!”

  “I was working on Mrs Grenfell’s case.” Billings hoped that that might redeem him a little. “I had to attend an event which could lead me to her whereabouts.”

  “What was the event?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “I don’t suppose you can stop that parcel?”

  Trotter shook his head. “I handed it to the postman. It’s gone.”

  Billings sighed. “Well, then I suppose I’d better visit Mr Doucet this morning and explain things in person.”

  “But you can’t. Mr Doucet has been arrested.”

  “What?”

  Trotter read out from the newspaper. “Miss Bunton’s employer, Mr Melvin Doucet, was arrested this morning by Detective Sergeant Clarkson, who is leading the case.”

  Billings raised his eyebrows. “Clarkson?”

  “They think her murder is connected to that of the man whose body parts keep washing up on the riverbanks.”

  The doorbell rang. Billings turned towards the window. His heart leapt when he saw Clarkson standing outside.

  It had been nearly a year since he last saw Clarkson. He looked different. His auburn hair, which always used to flop over his forehead, was now waved and gelled back, and he wore a light grey overcoat which reached towards his ankles, making him look important. He seemed more mature now. He was accompanied by a uniformed constable. Clarkson had once been his faithful subordinate. Now he had a subordinate of his own.

  Clarkson looked up. A broad smile appeared on his face. And that familiar twinkle in his eyes. “Billings, me old mate!” he called.

  Billings felt that nervous, tickling sensation in his stomach again. He lifted the lower sash of the window and stuck out his head. “Hello, Clarkson,” he said awkwardly.

  “Well, blow me down! So, it really is you! I thought you’d disappeared off the face of the earth. Well, let me in.”

  Billings closed the window. He took a deep breath, clenched his trembling hand and hid it behind his back. With his heart in his mouth, he rushed down the stairs.

  He reappeared a short while later with Clarkson and the police officer.

  Clarkson looked around the room. “Well, well, well. So, this is what you’ve been up to. Your very own private detective office. ’Ere, I tried contacting you. I sent you letters, but you never replied.”

  Billings hung his head. He didn’t know what to say.

  “You just disappeared. From one day to the next. Flynt said you had problems with your back.”

  “That’s right.” Billings lifted his head and finally looked him in the eyes. “My old injury has flared up again. I couldn’t continue with police work.”

  “You never even said goodbye.”

  “I wasn’t well, Clarkson. I was stressed. I didn’t want to speak to anyone.”

  “Not even me?”

  Billings didn’t reply.

  “’ow’s your back now?”

  “Better. Thanks.”

  Clarkson looked around him again. His eyes fell on the newspaper on Trotter’s desk. “Ah, you’ve read about it. Good. It’s what I came for. Mr Doucet said you were following her last night.”

  Billings shook his head.

  “You weren’t?”

  “I was supposed to, but I forgot. Trotter’s been doing most of the shadowing.” He pointed at his colleague. “This is my assistant, Bartholomew Trotter.”

  Clarkson and Trotter nodded at each other.

  “It was Trotter’s day off yesterday, and I was supposed to take over from him, but it completely slipped my mind.”

  “That is a shame,” Clarkson said. “I was hoping you’d be able to give me some leads.”

  “Leads?” Trotter asked. “I thought you arrested Mr Doucet.”

  Clarkson shook his head. “No. The newspaper got that wrong. He was taken in for questioning, but we let him go again. He has an alibi.”

  “What is his alibi?” Billings asked.

  “I can’t tell you that, Billings. It’s confidential. But if you weren’t following her last night, then where were you?”

  “Where was I?”

  “I’ve got to ask, Billings
. Doucet thinks you were the last person to see her alive. Do you have an alibi for last night?”

  “I... um...” Sweat beads appeared on his forehead. He had four witnesses to his activities, but he didn’t know their names or what they looked like. How was he going to explain that to Clarkson? “I was here. Sleeping.”

  “Is there anyone who can confirm that?”

  Billings shook his head.

  “Well, that’s that, then. You’ve got nothing to tell us.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Clarkson looked at Billings and smiled. “We should go out for a drink sometime. Catch up.”

  Billings smiled back. “I’d like that.”

  “You know where to find me. Pop by sometime. And don’t disappear again.”

  “I won’t.”

  Clarkson nodded at Billings and Trotter then left with the police officer.

  “Why did you lie to him?” Trotter asked.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You told me you attended a mysterious event yesterday.”

  Billings looked at the clock on the wall. “You’d better go now, Trotter. I’m giving you the afternoon off.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got things to do.”

  “What things?”

  “Never you mind.” He put his hand on Trotter’s lower back and pushed him towards the door. “Off you go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “But what about my pay?”

  “I’ll pay you tomorrow. Goodbye.”

  HIS HAND WAS STILL trembling as he marched down Bishopsgate. Not with nerves or stress, but with anger. He’d been used. Why and by whom, he didn’t know, but it couldn’t have been coincidence that Rachel Bunton was murdered on the one day that she wasn’t being followed.

  Billings took the first train to Aldgate. He stood in the packed carriage, holding tightly to the hand grip. Why did he tell Clarkson that he’d stayed at home that night? He’d dug himself deeper into a confounded hole! The truth was that he was weary of talking about the society. He remembered Ibis’ words at their first meeting. “I need you to make a solemn promise not to speak about this to anyone. Beware! Break your promise and the wrath of the Gods will be unleashed upon you.”And he remembered the look of terror in Mrs Grenfell’s eyes when she spoke of the men in black suits who followed her. Was this what had happened to her? Had she broken her vow of silence?