The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  "I call upon St. Michael, the Archangel, the noble and magnificent lieutenant of the heavenly army, to protect us in the battle against the powers of evil, of darkness and against those who would rule a world of sins. Come to the rescue, St. Michael!" Andrew struck the sticks together; they seemed almost to emit sparks. "I cast you out, you obscene and impure spirit, cast out your satanic powers, every hellish demon that may have befriended you! In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I make the sign of the cross and command and order you to depart in the name of the Father, of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. . . ."

  There was silence for a moment as if a deadly battle for possession were taking place. Possession of place or possession of body? Timothy wondered. Or was Andrew fighting for his life? If so, he was certainly unafraid and deadly self-confident. A few more steps, and again he raised the sticks high in the sign of a cross and shouted, "I pray to our Sovereign in heaven, creator and defender of all humanity, Who made man in His own image, to look down and take pity on you— you, Hurst—caught now in the labyrinth of the obscene spirit who dulls and terrorizes the human mind and spirit, overwhelms it with fear and alarm and slays without shame!

  I command, you ancient unclean spirit, in the name of God, by the Judge of the Living and the Dead, by your God, by Him who hath the power to send you to Hades, to depart forthwith in fear. It is the power of Christ that compels you, Who brought you low by His cross. Tremble before Him—and go, depart, leave then! Depart and give way—I insist you submit—to Christ in Whom you found none of your wicked works! For He has already stripped you, Hurst, of your powers and bound you prisoner and taken away your weapons. . . . You have nothing!"

  As Andrew shouted into the empty, dead air, Timothy felt a tingling excitement along his spine. Something was taking place-something he could feel but could not see. His own mind felt blank, and he was drained of emotions. It was almost as if his own spiritual and emotional power were there, helping Andrew, helping him —do what?

  ". . . and the longer you take, the greater the punishment will be meted out to you. You have stayed too long, Hurst! It is not mortals you are treating with such contempt, but rather your Sovereign Lord in heaven, the very Creator of your soul. Begone! Go, leave, depart, sinful, murderous one! Take your sins with you, for God has ordained that man as He created him should be His temple, the dwelling place of the immortal soul. Why do you still linger, Hurst? Give honor to God, the Father of us all, before Whom all must bend. Give place to the Holy Spirit! Begone now, begone to wherever the Holy Father will receive you—or go to everlasting hellfire— the choice is yours. But. . . go!"

  Andrew sank to the ground. He laid the sticks to one side and, hands pressed together, bent his head, his lips murmuring silently. Timothy felt a strange compunction to do the same. His mind, so empty a moment before, surged now with the implications of what he'd just witnessed. Though his insides were churning with excitement, he felt completely himself again, as though his own spiritual forces had returned to his body. But it was obvious his companion was not yet himself. He was still— who?— praying for what Timothy was beginning to realize had been an exorcism of what they had— and how truly!—called the Nonsuch "demon." The air, so lifeless just a short time before, was now fresh and brisk, and traffic outside the park sounded normal. It was, however, getting darker every moment, and soon they'd be unable to see anything in the wine cellar. On an impulse, Timothy went to the still-kneeling Andrew.

  He laid a hand on one shoulder. "Well, that's that," Andrew said. Taking Timothy's hand, he pulled himself to his feet. His face looked ravaged, his mouth was working, and he said, "I feel sick, Tim, just sick. . . . Let's get out of here."

  Timothy took Andrew's arm. He appeared unsteady and, as they walked toward the gate, grateful for support. Timothy sensed his friend did not wish to talk of what had taken place. He didn't know yet what to make of the incident. To his untutored mind, it had very much resembled a religious rite. But how could a layman like Andrew Moffatt perform a ritual known only to a man of God and his church?

  As they turned in at Sparrow Field's gate—the place where Andrew had described his vision of Domino and the birds—the answer hit Timothy with the force of the rhetorical thunderbolts Andrew had unloosed against the unseen demon. Andrew had performed that ritual because he'd once been trained to do so—and he'd remembered. Across hundreds of years, faced with the necessity-death if he failed—he'd used the faith and power inherent in a Catholic priest to exorcise a murderous earthbound force and had sent it into some limbo of heaven or hell.

  Clearly, Timothy decided, there was more than one personality other than Julian Cushing, alive and with memories intact, in the person of Andrew Moffatt. And if the Lure was to be found and the mystery of why Andrew had been brought across the sea understood, then that person had to be set free.

  Qhapter ^Jhirteen

  At Sparrow Field they found a note from Mrs. Williams. She and her husband had gone to the cinema at Ewell. There was a cold supper on the kitchen table, she wrote. But neither Timothy nor Andrew was hungry, and they decided to return to London. Within an hour they were at Cuddington House. Andrew was thankful Rosa Caudle wasn't at the desk, for he'd have felt obliged to explain his early return. Timothy would see him safely to his room, could pack the tapes and recorder, and he, Andrew, would then sink gratefully into bed. He wanted to be alone, to lie in the darkness and mull over that incredible experience. He'd been shaken to the depths of his soul, and at the moment his emotions, intellect, and spirit could not accept or rationally explain what had happened. He needed peace, quiet and time for reflection.

  He switched on the light. "Ahhh-hh-h . . ." Timothy walked to the wall where Chloe Cuddington's portrait hung. He looked closely, returning to the doorway to see it in perspective. The soft yellow light lent a pinkish luster to the peach velvet of the gown—a luster repeated in the bare arms, neck and breast. Chloe's face was more shadowed than in the daylight, but the luminosity of her gaze was still piercing. She seemed about to rise and greet them. Andrew wondered—for the hundredth time—at the extraordinary talent of the man who'd captured not only that superb loveliness, but her heart as well.

  "I—I—hadn't seen the lady . . . before." Timothy appeared almost dumbstruck. "Well, no wonder you and Julian. . . ." He was

  silent for a moment. "She's quite the most exquisite creature I've ever seen."

  "And one of the most mystifying." Andrew stuffed the tape recorder into its case. "I still think the solution of our mystery—of the Lure—rests with her. We cleared up one part tonight, out there, though God knows what it was. Hello, what have we here?"

  Andrew had picked up the little velvet-bound book with a clasp which he remembered seeing the day he'd explored the Cudding-ton House attic. It had been wedged in between gardening and art books and children's histories. He'd thought it merely a child's diary and passed it by in his eagerness to get to the trunks and boxes. A note slipped from the inside cover. "It's from Rosa Caudle," he explained. "'Mr. Moffatt—you remember the girl Jennifer at the desk. She helps us out here on the weekend. She's a history major at London University and asked if she might look in the attic for any souvenirs, books or papers for a paper she's writing on Napoleon. Harry gave her permission. Before she left, she dropped this off at the desk. I told her—I didn't think you'd care, sir—of your interest in Cuddington House, it being so old and all. I told her how you'd found Julian Cushing's Journal in Williamsburg and the portrait of Chloe Cuddington. She says you must have missed this and you'd certainly want to read it. We are going to visit Harry's cousin in Brighton for a few days. Jennifer will be on duty on the weekend if you want to talk to her about it. I'll be glad to know what you find and I hope everything worked out well at Sparrow Field.'"

  "The good Rosa will never believe how well things worked out at Sparrow Field!" Timothy laughed and lit a cigarette, wishing he had a drink. "Listen, old man, I'll take the machine and tapes and run back home. I think you
need a good night's sleep."

  But Andrew was lost in the book. He motioned to Timothy to sit down. "This is her diary—Chloe Cuddington's diary, Julian's Chloe —the diary he told us she wrote in. Do you suppose?" He ruffled through the pages quickly. "It's here, Tim. My God, sit down and listen."

  "May g, 1700. The past two days have been the saddest and most horrible of my Life. I do not know if I can put down the tragic and melancholy Accident which has befallen my dear Julian. And I know that I am to Blame! I should never have

  left him at the Dreadful spot. I should never have thought so much of the Lure and so Little of my Darling.

  When I awoke that morning, I almost had a Premonition that something was Wrong and even Aunt commented on my Depression. I kept waiting for Julian to arise, and when a servant was bidden to go to his room and returned to say his bed had not been Slept in, I knew he was gone. I did not know whether he had left Sparwefeld, but I knew he was gone. All during the Day I avoided Aunt's company, for she was Concerned and Mystified.

  In the afternoon, finally, Sheriff Hinton came and, with many Apologies and with due kindness for our Feelings, said Julian's body had been found on the Inner Court. This so confirmed my own dreary Thoughts I was immediately faint, and when they brought his poor limp dear Body in, the face contorted and blue, I swooned. Even now I cannot bear to think of it.

  When I awoke, Aunt was bathing my forehead and wrists, and we Wept together for a long time. How I wish I had not left him at Nonsuch! How I wish I had never returned from whatever vale of Soft comfort one's spirit goes to when one swoons. Life will be too Terrible to contemplate now without my darling Julian.

  Aunt said the servants will prepare his body for Burial and the Vicar would have the service in Ewell Church. We know not yet where to bury him or who to inform, he having no fam-fly.

  She has refused to have me look upon him Again; she says he would not wish to Distress me and it will do no good."

  Andrew's voice was trembling as he finished, and Timothy, stricken, gazed at the wall, attempting to visualize the radiant young woman so similar to the one in the portrait broken and despairing. Andrew resumed reading.

  "May 11, ijoo. It is all Over. We laid my poor Darling Julian to rest here today. Of course, many Curious came, for Barrons has put the Accident on the front page. Accident—it was no Accident! It was murder—outright murder for whatever devil it is that is there almost killed Julian once before. And it is still

  there. I think it to be the Lure—cursed Lure and at times I want to run there and Scream and send the devil that Lives there to the fiery Hell that awaits him.

  Aunt and I wept again this afternoon when the post brought a letter to Julian—in answer to one of his—from James Cud-dington. We thought it proper to open it. In it, Mr. Cudding-ton informed Julian he was leaving him the little house in Williamsburg in his Will. He said he had made his daughters and sons very comfortable with money and given them many of his belongings and they had great Opportunity in the colony. They did not need the little House too and Mr. Cuddington said he would have great Joy in giving it to Julian if he would bring his bride back with him to live in the little House. It would really be Julian's Home, and Mr. Cuddington said he would only desire a room, until he died—which he does not think will be very long now.

  I weep as I write this. How Lovely and Sweet it would have been. To have been with Julian Always. Now all is Lost. Aunt says she will write to Mr. Cuddington immediately and will Remind me to do so when I am again Myself. I did not say to her that I will never again be Myself. I do not wish to remain in any World in which my Darling is not with me. I shall eagerly await the day when I Join him."

  Andrew laid the book aside. "God, the poor girl. She blamed herself, of course. And it could all have been so different! For them, as well as old Cuddington. They would have been so happy. Such a waste, such a waste." He looked at her last words. "I shall eagerly await the day when I Join him."

  "Does one die of a broken heart, Tim? Does the medical profession have a name for it? She lasted only six more years, you know; she died at twenty-six. I wonder what of?" Then, placing the book on the bedside table, he said, "I can't read any more tonight, Tim. I've had it for the day. I can't say you didn't warn me! But whatever it was out there, it's knocked the wind out of me, and I can't wait to hit the sack. What in hell do you think happened out there, Tim?"

  "You really don't know, Andrew? You have no idea?"

  "None whatsoever! One moment I was speculating on the rocks and describing the roundel to you. The next, I felt an inner cer-

  tainty that something was approaching. It wasn't hot and didn't make me sick. But there was an aura— something in the atmosphere —I guess you didn't feel it?" Not waiting for an answer, he went on. "I never saw anything, Tim, not a thing. But I felt this presence. I could even tell when it was very near me, and yet it had no shape; it was like a replay of an old event like the ones I told you about under hypnosis. Only this time I wasn't hypnotized—I knew what I was doing and saying all the time. Something said to me, 'Don't let it get you, get it first!' The next thing I realized—absolutely knew for certain—was that I needed a cross and didn't have one. But the sticks were okay. It was the power I put into the sticks that counted, not the fact that they weren't a real cross. That's what's so mystifying. That power! Where did it come from? Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt flooded, almost overcome, by an inrush of power that would have made several demons insignificant. I knew— I had complete assurance—that I wasn't going to be hurt. But that's all. I didn't know what was going to happen to that thing. All I know is that as I got stronger and more powerful, it got weaker. Whatever it was that was threatening me got smaller and smaller, and finally, it just disappeared! Then I felt drained, exhausted, weak, sick to my stomach. But it . . . was gone."

  "Andrew, I think I have the answer. Not in its entirety, but some kind of answer. You must know that what you performed out there tonight was some sort of exorcism?"

  "Exorcism? Well, I hadn't thought. ... I suppose it was. If that's what it was, however, God spare me another experience. Do you suppose whatever I. . . exorcised. . . was the Lure?"

  "I don't know—all I know is that walking around the wine cellar as you did acted as a sort of magnet. And whatever was near the fountain site was able to move away from it. With the pony Merry-legs and later as Andrew, you had to be on the site. Here you were sixty to seventy-five feet away. Didn't we read somewhere that old Dr. Dee was interested in magnets? Yes, I imagine the Lure is some kind of magnet. But I don't think what you did away with tonight was the Lure. I think it was a force, an entity. Something evil. But it's gone—for the moment at least." Timothy packed the last of the tapes. "Get a good night's sleep, Andrew. Try not to think of what happened. Read through the rest of the diary for any information that might be helpful if you feel like it. And then relax. Come to my

  office tomorrow. I'll have my girl phone you the hour. I've an idea I know what we need to do. And how we need to do it."

  The following afternoon Andrew left Cuddington House for Timothy Hodge's office. At the desk he returned Chloe's diary to Jennifer.

  "I thought it most interesting, sir," she said. "Especially seeing as how you'd found the young man's Journal." Clearly, Jennifer would have liked to discuss it further, but Andrew excused himself. Chloe Cuddington's impassioned words, the agonizingly sad years of her life, combined with his experience at Nonsuch, had left him drained. He seemed to have difficulty in "getting back to himself." As he stepped through the revolving door, automatically raising his hand for a cab, even the noise and jumble of the Strand traffic came as a shock.

  He waited only a few moments before Timothy's last patient left, and after the nurse had wished them both a pleasant good afternoon, they had the office to themselves. Andrew admired the handsome reception room with its paintings and the dying fire in the grate. The office itself was furnished as a comfortable living room with other paintings, bowls
of flowers and books. Only the couch with its well-worn easy chair beside it, the table and note pads looked clinical.

  "The girl left us some tea on the hot plate over there, Andrew." Timothy was clearing his desk as he spoke. "Did you have a good rest?"

  "Yes and no. I read through to the diary's end. It stayed with me for a bit of tossing and turning, and then I guess I slept. No dreams —none that I remember anyway. I feel okay. Not a hell of a lot of energy, though."

  "I'm not surprised after what you went through yesterday afternoon." Timothy accepted a teacup and sat down. "What did you find in the diary?"

  "The story of a broken young lady who, to the end of her days, which were only six years away, blamed herself incessantly for Julian's death. She had suggested going to Nonsuch by moonlight; she had left him there alone. It gnawed at her constantly. That and the vision of what might have been' at the little house in Williamsburg. But she felt that somehow—sometime—she and Julian would

  be together again. As for James Cuddington—he died about a year later; he was distraught at Julian's end and said he was sure the Lure was responsible. Blamed himself also that he'd sent young Cushing to England. Seems everyone blamed themselves for something which, of course, they hadn't one iota of power to stop. Not if it was a Karmic working out, that is."

  "What did she die of?"

  "I think a form of tuberculosis." Andrew sipped his tea. "A wasting disease the local doctor called consumption. That term has covered a multitude of medical sins for centuries, you know. I would imagine TB, however—there was coughing, losing weight, spitting blood and melancholy. Every day she hoped she'd get worse. She'd completely lost the will to live. Rosa Cuddington buried her next to Julian in the Ewell churchyard." Andrew shaded his forehead with his hand and was silent a moment. Clearly, the diary had touched him deeply.