He turned over in his mind all he had read of that curious expression of human credulity called magic. As it happened he had been obliged on a former case to dig up evidence of esoteric ritual and had become fascinated by its witness to man’s industry in the pursuit of a chimera. Hundreds and hundreds of otherwise intelligent men, he found, had subjected themselves throughout the centuries to the boredom of memorizing and reciting senseless formulae, to the indignity of unspeakable practices and to the threat of the most ghastly reprisals. Through age after age men and women had starved, frightened and exhausted themselves, had got themselves racked, broken and burned, had delivered themselves up to what they believed to be the threat of eternal damnation and all without any firsthand evidence of the smallest success. Age after age the Obérons and Baradis had battened on this unquenchable credulity, had traced their pentagrams, muttered their interminable spells, performed their gruelling ceremonies and taken their toll. And at the same time, he reflected, the Oberons (never the Baradis) had ended by falling into their own traps. The hysteria they induced was refracted upon themselves. Beyond the reek of ceremonial smoke they too began to look for the terrifying reward.
He wondered to what class of adept Oberon belonged. There was a definite hierarchy. There had always been practitioners who, however misguided, could not be accused of charlatanism. To this day, he believed, such beings existed, continuing their barren search for a talisman, for a philosopher’s stone, for power and for easy money.
Magical rituals from the dawn of time had taken on the imprint of their several ages. From the scope and dignity of the Atkadian Inscriptions to the magnificence of the Graeco-Egyptian Papyri, from the pious Jewish mysteries to the squalors, brutalities and sheer silliness of the German pseudo-Faustian cults. From the Necromancer of the Coliseum to the surprisingly fresh folklorishness of the English genre: each had its peculiar character and its own formula of frustration. And alongside the direct line like a bastard brother ran the cult of Satanism, the imbecile horrors of the Black Mass, the Amatory Mass and the Mortuary Mass.
If Oberon had read all the books in his own library he had a pretty sound knowledge of these rituals together with a generous helping of Hinduism, Voodoo and Polynesian mythology: a wide field from which to concoct a ceremony for the downfall of Ginny Taylor and her predecessors. Alleyn fancied that the orthodox forms would not be followed. The oath of silence he had read in Baradi’s room was certainly original. “If it’s the Amatory Mass as practised by Madame de Montespan,” he thought, “poor old Raoul’s sunk from the word go.” And he began to wonder what he should to if this particular crisis arose.
He spent the rest of his vigil eating the savouries that had no doubt been provided to satisfy the hunger of the reefer addict and smoking his own cigarettes. He checked over the possibilities of disaster and found them many and formidable. “All the same,” he thought, “it’s worth it. And if the worst comes to the worst we can always—”
Somebody was scratching at his door.
He ground out his cigarette, extinguished his candle and seated himself on the floor with his back to the door and his legs folded Oberon-wise under his gown. He was facing the dressing-table with its large tilted looking-glass. The scratching persisted and turned into a feather-light tattoo of finger-tips. He kept his gaze on that part of the darkness where he knew the looking-glass must be. He heard a fumbling and a slight rap and guessed that the notice had been moved from the door-handle. A vertical sliver of light appeared. He watched the reflection of the opening door and of the white-robed candle-bearer. He caught a glimpse, under the hood, of a long face with a beaked nose. Robed like that she seemed incredibly talclass="underline" no longer the figure of fantasy that she had presented yesterday in pedal-pushers and scarf and yet, unmistakably, the same woman. The door was shut. He bent his head and looked from under his brows at the reflexion of the woman, who advanced so close that he could hear her breathing behind him.
“I know it’s against the Rule,” she whispered, “I’ve got to speak to you.”
He made no sign.
“I don’t know what they’ll do to me if they find out but I’m actually past caring!”In the glass he saw her put the candle on the table. “Have you smoked?” she said. “If you have I suppose it’s no good. I haven’t.” He heard her sit heavily in the chair. “Well,” she whispered almost cosily, “it’s about Ginny. You’ve never seen an initiation, have you? I mean of that sort. You might at least nod or shake your head.”
Alleyn shook his head.
“I thought not. You’ve got to stop her doing it. She’s fond of you, you may depend upon it. If it was not for him she’d be in love, like any other nice girl, with you. And you’re fond of her. I know. I’ve watched. Well, you’ve got to stop it. She’s a thoroughly nice girl,” the prim whisper insisted, “and you’re still a splendid young fellow. Tell her she mustn’t.”
Alleyn’s shoulders rose in an exaggerated shrug.
“Oh, don’t!” The whisper broke into a vocal protest. “If you only knew how I’ve been watching you both. If you only knew what I’m risking. Why, if you tell on me I don’t know what they won’t do. Murder me, as likely as not. It wouldn’t be the first time unless you believe she killed herself, and I certainly don’t.”
The voice stopped. Alleyn waited.
“One way or another,” the voice said quite loudly, “you’ve got to give me a sign.”
He raised his hand and made the Italian negative sign with his finger.
“You won’t! You mean you’ll let it happen. To Ginny? In front of everybody? Oh, dear me!” The voice sighed out most lamentably. “Oh, dear, dear me, it’s enough to break one’s heart!” There was a further silence. Alleyn thought: “The time’s going by: we haven’t much longer. If she’d just say one thing!”
The voice said strongly, as if its owner had taken fresh courage: “Very well. I shall speak to her. It won’t do any good. I look at you and I ask myself what sort of creature you are. I look—”
She broke off. She had moved her candle so that its reflexion in the glass was thrown back upon Alleyn. He sat frozen.
“Who are you?” the voice demanded strongly. “You’re not Robin Herrington.”
She was behind him. She jerked the hood back from his head and they stared at each other in the looking-glass.
“And you’re not Grizel Locke,” Alleyn said. He got up, faced her and held out his hand. “Miss P.E. Garbel, I presume,” he said gently.
Chapter XII
Eclipse of the Sun
i
“Then you guessed!” said Miss Garbel, clinging to his hand and shaking it up and down as if it were a sort of talisman. “How did you guess? How did you get here? What’s happening?”
Alleyn said: “We’ve got twenty-five minutes before that damn bell goes. Don’t let’s squander them. I wasn’t sure. Yesterday morning, when you talked like one of your letters, I wondered.”
“I couldn’t let either of you know who I was. Oberon was watching. They all were. I thought the remark about the Douceville bus might catch your attention.”
“I didn’t dare ask outright, of course. Now, tell me. Grizel Locke’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes; small hours of yesterday morning. We were told an overdose of self-administered heroin. I think — murdered.”