A Glimpse of Heaven

by Olivier Bosman

  Doucet turned towards Clarkson. “Detective Sergeant, please. Why am I being subjected to this man’s impertinence? I told you already, I do not know Mrs Grenfell.”

  “May we take a look at your account book?” Billings asked.

  “No, you may not!”

  “Is this it over here?”

  Billings reached out for a ledger on the desk, but Doucet was quick to snatch it away.

  “You keep your hands off that!” He clutched the ledger to his chest, but in so doing he knocked a wooden stamper off its ink tray.

  Billings picked up the stamper and examined it. He stamped the back of his hand.

  “What are you doing?” Doucet asked.

  Billings laid his hand on the table. His hand was stamped with the image of a plough and a crescent. “Why do you have the insignia of the Sons of Cain on your desk?”

  Doucet stared back. Defiantly. A long pause followed.

  “Very well. I admit it. I keep the books for the Sons of Cain. My father is terrible with money. He’s a fantasist and a dreamer, and he would’ve gone broke again if I hadn’t helped him. But I have nothing else to do with them. I do not attend their meetings, I do not know what goes on in them, and I don’t know any of the members.”

  Billings couldn’t prevent a smug smile from escaping his lips.

  “You told me you had no contact with your father,” Clarkson said.

  “I don’t. I only keep the books for him.”

  Clarkson frowned and leaned forward. “I’ll ask you again, Mr Doucet. Do you know a woman called Ruth Grenfell?”

  “No! I told you. I don’t know any of my father’s disciples.”

  “You’ve told Detective Sergeant Clarkson a lot of things, Mr Doucet,” Billings interjected. “But most of it turned out not to be true. You have been lying throughout the investigation, and that’s cause enough for a magistrate to issue an arrest warrant. If you really aren’t connected to your maid’s murder, you will tell us everything now. Otherwise the police will have no choice but to drag you into the station, cuffs and all, and interrogate you there.”

  Doucet let out a long sigh. “Very well. I’ll confess. So long as you promise not to make anything I say public. I have done nothing illegal; I can assure you of that. But I have a reputation to uphold, and it won’t do for my customers to know what kind of society I’ve been involved in. Do I have your assurance that what I say will remain confidential?”

  Clarkson nodded.

  “Thank you. Well, you’re right. I do know Ruth Grenfell. She has something which belongs to us, and she won’t give it back.”

  “The manuscript.”

  “That’s right. The manuscript. She promised my father to give it to us if he accepted her into the society, but she has broken her promise. We just want what is owed.”

  “She says you sent some men around to beat her up.”

  “Well, she’s lying. We tried to scare her a little, but no violence was used. Or at least, none was authorised. We are not violent people.”

  “And what about the cracked mirror?”

  “We sent her a mirror to scare her into surrendering the manuscript, but it didn’t work. That woman is tougher than we thought.”

  “So, you had her followed by two men dressed in black.”

  “Yes.”

  Billings took over. “And that’s how you found me.”

  “I knew that Mrs Grenfell had gone into hiding and that somebody was helping her. Rachel was a friend of hers. They knew each other through her cousin. I thought that by having you shadow Rachel, we might locate Mrs Grenfell. But then my father met you and invited you to join the society. He didn’t know who you were, of course. My father has no idea of what’s happening in the real world. He just saw something in you, some magical quality, and he sent you the invitation.”

  “How did he know my address?”

  Doucet shrugged. “My father knows things about complete strangers; I don’t know how he does it. Perhaps there is some magic after all. Anyway, we couldn’t have you in the society, so we tried to scare you off. My associate, Mr Augustus, had words with you at first, but when that didn’t work, we sent you a mirror.”

  “And when that didn’t work either, you sent your associates round to chop off my finger.”

  Doucet looked confused. “Your finger?”

  Billings placed his bandaged hand on the desk.

  Doucet shook his head. “That has nothing to do with us. The mirrors are just gimmicks. Meant to inspire fear and awe and create a sense of mystery about the society. But nothing ever comes of it. I’ve told you before. We’re not violent people.”

  “Then who cut off my finger?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you have a list of society members?”

  “Only my father has that list. He records the names and addresses in a small book, which he keeps in the inside pocket of his jacket. He takes that book with him everywhere. Nobody is allowed to see it. The anonymity of its members is paramount to the success of the Sons of Cain.”

  “Where is your father now?” Clarkson asked.

  “He’s gone on a retreat. He does that from time to time.”

  “Where did he go?”

  Doucet frowned. “What has any of this to do with Rachel’s death? Surely you don’t believe my father was responsible? It’s him you should be investigating.” He pointed at Billings. “Mr Billings was supposed to be following her. He was the last known person to see her alive.”

  “Your father’s address, Mr Doucet.” Clarkson grabbed a sheet of paper from Doucet’s desk and slid it towards him. “Write it down for us, please.”

  Doucet frowned and wavered, but eventually he pulled a pen out of the inkwell and jotted down the address.

  13. A Touch of Divinity

  Extract from Alick Lourie’s diary, May 21st, 1895

  The old man frowned and shook his head. “No, no, no,” he said, his beard swinging to and fro. “This is preposterous.”

  I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists beneath the table. “Why is it preposterous?” The old man was always rejecting my proposals. What is the point of spending all that money on becoming a VII° member if your input is always ignored?

  “This is a line which we must not cross. God is God, and we are his subordinates. We must never try and surpass him.”

  “I’m not trying to surpass him. I just want to put to the test the magic which He himself has put at our disposal.”

  He shook his head again and frowned. “People have tried creating golems before, and it was a disaster. The golem became a menace. It’s a dangerous experiment, Mr Lourie. I will not allow it.”

  “People have NOT created golems in the past. What they created were clay aberrations. Monstrosities made out of mud. These creatures lacked the touch of divinity which Adam had. Adam is the only real golem. What I want is to create a new Adam.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?”

  “Well...” I frowned. “I’ve tried reading up on it, but I couldn’t find anything useful in your library.”

  The old man replied to my comment by reiterating his usual boast, which made me lose my temper even more.“The Sons of Cain have more esoteric texts in their library than any other society in London.”

  “That may well be the case, but you have nothing on creation magic.”

  “Creation magic is goetia, Mr Lourie. We do not practice black magic.”

  “Pardon me, Frater, but creation magic is not goetia! It is the epitome of all we are trying to achieve. And if I sound a little irate, it’s because I am frustrated that after spending all this time and money achieving top rank in this order, I am still left wanting.”

  There was a short pause before the old man spoke. “As a matter of fact, Mr Lourie, we’re expecting a new book soon. The Codex of Solomon. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I have heard of it. It lists the spells God used when he created the world.”
r />   “That’s right. Are you impressed now?”

  “I am. When will you have it?”

  “Soon, I hope. We’re having some problems getting the current owner to hand it over to us, but we’re working on it.”

  “Oh, I hope you get it soon. It’s the very book I’ve been searching for.”

  “It’ll be made available to top-ranking members only, and purely for academic purposes, of course. There’s no point trying to replicate God’s magic. We do not have that kind of power. Nothing good will come of it if you try.”

  “You’re referring to the Prague and the Chelm golems, I suppose. Well, don’t worry, Frater. My golems will be nothing like those. I’ll be adding to my clay sculpture the very thing that the other golems lacked.”

  “And what is that?”

  “A touch of divinity.”

  The old man frowned at my blasphemous assertion, but I didn’t care. “God created Adam out of clay,” I explained, “then breathed life into his nostrils. This is the touch of divinity I’m talking of. It flowed through Adam and gave him life. We, his descendants, have inherited it from him. It flows through us; it is intertwined in every fibre of our bodies. My plan is to add to the clay sculpture some living human tissue.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Living human tissue?”

  “Any body part will do, as long as the flesh is still alive when we add it to the sculpture.”

  “Where will you get these body parts from?”

  “I can cut them off somebody.”

  He looked horrified. “Cut them off whom?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Anyone. There are plenty of people out there who deserve to have body parts cut off them.”

  He stared at me, his eyebrows still raised. “Mr Lourie, I hope you’re not being serious.”

  I sighed. It was pointless. The Sons of Cain was a pointless organisation. Nothing more than a bunch of cowards and amateurs.

  “Of course I’m not being serious,” I mumbled. “But it might work in theory, don’t you think?”

  The door to the study opened. The maid appeared in the doorway holding a tea tray. “Beg your pardon, sir. Mr Doucet thought you might want some tea.”

  “Thank you, Rachel,” the old man said. “Put it on the table.”

  I watched the maid as she laid down the tray and poured the tea. She was a comely girl. Her face had retained that juvenile plumpness, and her thick auburn hair was tucked neatly behind her delicate little ears.

  I stared at her fixedly, obviously, intrusively, the way I do with all pretty young girls. But not once did she look back. Not even a sideways glance. It seemed that she was deliberately trying not to look back. Her hand shook as she lifted the cup and saucer and placed it in front of me. It was almost as if she was scared of me. But why would she be scared?

  “How long have you been standing out in the corridor?” I asked her.

  “I beg your pardon?” Finally, she looked at me.

  “Before you came in with the tea tray. Have you been standing outside long?”

  “Not at all, sir. I just placed the tray on the side table and opened the door.”

  “Without knocking?”

  She cast her eyes down and began to blush. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr Doucet said you were expecting me. I didn’t think to knock.”

  “What did you hear when you were standing out in the corridor.”

  “Hear? Nothing, sir.”

  “You weren’t listening in?”

  “No, sir!” She became flustered.

  “Not eavesdropping with those pretty little ears stuck to the door?”

  The old man frowned. “Leave her alone, Lourie. My son’s servants are very discreet. I can vouch for them.” He turned towards the maid. “Thank you, Rachel. You can go now.”

  She nodded, then scurried off.

  I smiled. “I was only teasing her.”

  “You’re a rascal, Mr Lourie.”

  “I can’t help it. Pretty girls always bring out the devil in me.”

  “She’s a smart girl. I’ve been having long chats with her in the kitchen. She seems very interested in magic. I’m thinking of inviting her into the society.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Surely she can’t have the money to join?”

  “She doesn’t need to pay. I can invite her as a guest. It’s my prerogative.”

  His prerogative. So that’s how the society was run. One rule for the rich and another for the poor.

  “How did the last inauguration go?” I asked. “Any new members?”

  He took his little book of names out of the inside pocket of his jacket and consulted it.

  “Five attended the introduction meeting. Three progressed to the inauguration.”

  “That’s not a lot.”

  He shook his head. “My son says we have to send out more invitations. Apparently we need the money.”

  “Was my protégé amongst the inaugurated?”

  He checked his little book again.

  “Theodore Goodfellow,” I prompted.

  He frowned. “No names, please, Mr Lourie. All members, including the new ones, must remain anonymous.”

  “But how will you know who I mean if I don’t say his name?”

  “You just need to think the name. I’ll be able to read it. Your protégé was inaugurated successfully.”

  I smiled. My dear Theo. I hadn’t seen him since that day, but I was glad he’d continued with magic.

  The old man looked at the clock on the wall. “I have to go now, Mr Lourie. I don’t suppose you could do me the favour of accompanying me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The Isle of Dogs.”

  I frowned. “What the devil is in the Isle of Dogs?”

  “I have an apartment there, by the East India Docks. My son arranged it for me. I think he wants me as far away from him as possible. I’ve been feeling a little tired lately. I need a rest. I know it’s out of your way, but I daren’t go alone. I’m feeling a little weak.”

  Well, I did accompany old Frater Sapienti. Helped him down the steps of Mr Doucet’s house and went with him in the cab, all the way to the docks. I felt I had to be kind to the old man, even if he had ceased to be of use to me. There was nothing more he could teach me. I’ve equalled him in magic, and if I succeed in bringing to life my new Adam, I’ll have surpassed him.

  As I headed back home after dropping him off, I had a stroke of luck. I was walking along the riverbank, thinking about how to procure the body parts needed for my new experiment. I thought about paying for them at first. The slums of the East End were rife with people desperate and lowly enough to mutilate themselves in exchange for a few sovereigns. The problem with that, however, was finding someone special enough for my purposes. I didn’t want just any old wretch’s body parts. My new Adam was going to be perfection. I needed somebody worthy of him.

  But then, guess who I suddenly saw walking ahead of me? It was Rachel Bunton, Mr Doucet’s comely young maid, with her delicate little eavesdropping ears.

  Well, I thought. What glorious providence!

  I SAT ON THE SAME CHAIR as last time, watching the decor as I waited for him to enter. The Bohemian Club really was a very common and ordinary place. Dark red wallpaper to conceal the tobacco stains on the wall; statues of Buddha and Shiva meant to give the room a sense of the exotic. To me it was just sacrilege. These deities deserved better than to be mere decorations to a bunch of pretentious, artsy-fartsy bohemians.

  The members were so vulgar, with their long hair and monocles; their pointed beards and curled moustaches; littering their speech with badly pronounced French as they discussed the latest literary work or gloated over a bad review of some inane theatrical production.

  I sat there for nearly ten minutes, almost more than I could bear, before Theo finally walked in. He saw me as soon as he entered the room. He froze and stared at me for a while, but then, slowly, a wide grin formed on his face. “What are you doing here?” he asked
.

  I smiled back. “I have something to show you. Come sit beside me.” I patted the seat next to me.

  As he sat down, I picked the canvas bag up off the floor and put it on my lap. He watched with awe as I slowly opened the bag and pulled out the sculpture. When my artwork was fully revealed, he gasped.

  It was eighteen inches tall and made of clay and wire. My Adam was a young Adam, before Eve, when paradise was his, and his only. He stood upright, staring with wide-eyed wonder at God’s beautiful creation.

  “It’s wonderful!” Theo said, taking the sculpture from me and lifting it in the air so he could see it from all sides. “You’re a true artist.”

  The other members started to look at us. Befouling my creation with their bourgeois eyes.

  “But it’s not complete yet,” I said. I quickly took the sculpture back from him and replaced it in the bag. “There’s something missing.”

  “What’s missing?”

  “A touch of divinity.”

  He laughed. “A touch of what?”

  “Come back home with me and I’ll explain it to you.”

  He went quiet. I saw him doubt. Some of the awkwardness was clearly still there. “What about your housemate?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about Angel. Angel Puck is gone.”

  He came back with me to my apartment (as I knew he would), and I was well prepared for him. I’d left a button of peyote on the incense burner before I went to the club. By the time we walked through the door, the apartment was filled with its bittersweet fragrance.

  “What’s that smell?” Theo asked, screwing up his face.

  “Just breathe in deeply. It’ll make you feel good.”

  We went to the living room.

  “Sit down,” I said. “Let me make you a drink. What will it be? Gin sling?”

  He nodded. He looked at his surroundings as he sat down. “You really have a very nice apartment. The furniture looks very expensive.”

  “It was.”

  I poured the gin and water into a glass and stirred in some sugar. Before adding a pinch of nutmeg, I took my bottle of cocaine and added a teaspoon to the mixture. Theo was too busy looking at my furniture to notice.