For certainly decay was beginning to show; there were signs of it all about, some of them of the worst sort. Even as midday arrived and he put aside his first rough notes and left the library for the kitchen, just such a sign made itself apparent. It was a worm—a bookworm, Crow supposed, though he had no previous experience of them—which he spotted crawling on the carpeted floor just within the library door. Picking the thing up, he discovered it to be fat, pinkish, vaguely morbid in its smell and cold to the touch. He would have expected a bookworm to be smaller, drier, more insectlike. This thing was more like a maggot! Quickly he turned back into the room, crossed the floor, opened a small window through the vertical bars and dropped the offensive creature into the dark shrubbery. And before making himself a light lunch he very scrupulously washed and dried his hands.
• • •
The rest of the day passed quickly and without incident, and Crow forswore dinner until around 9:00 P.M. when he began to feel hungry and not a little weary. In the interim he had made his preliminary notes, decided upon categories, and toward the last he had begun to move books around and clear a shelf upon which to commence the massive job of work before him.
For a meal this time he heated the contents of a small flat tin of excellent sliced beef, boiled a few potatoes and brewed up a jug of coffee; and last but not least, he placed upon the great and otherwise empty table a single glass and one of Carstairs’ obscure but potent bottles. On this occasion, however, he drank only one glass, and then not filled to the brim. And later, retiring to his alcove with a book—E.L. de Marigny’s entertaining The Tarot: A Treatise—he congratulated himself upon his restraint. He felt warm and pleasantly drowsy, but in no way as intoxicated as he had felt on the previous night. About 10:30, when he caught himself nodding, he went to bed and slept soundly and dreamlessly all through the night.
• • •
Friday went by very quietly, without Crow once meeting, seeing or hearing Carstairs, so that he could not even be sure that the man was at home. This suited him perfectly well, for he still entertained certain misgivings with regard to the occultist’s motives. As Carstairs had promised, however, he was there to see Crow off that evening, standing thin and gaunt on the drive, with a wraith of ground mist about his ankles as the younger man drove away.
• • •
At his flat in London Crow quickly became bored. He did not sleep well that Friday night, nor on Saturday night, and Sunday was one long misery of boredom and depression, sensations he was seldom if ever given to experience. On two occasions he found himself feeling unaccountably dry and licking his lips, and more than once he wished he had brought a bottle of Carstairs’ wine home with him. Almost without conscious volition, about 7:30 on Sunday evening, he began to pack a few things ready for the return journey. It had completely escaped his usually pinpoint but now strangely confused memory that he was not supposed to return until Monday morning.
About 10:00 P.M. he parked his car in the small garage in the grounds of The Barrows, and walked with his suitcase past three other cars parked on the drive. Now, approaching the house, he began to feel a little foolish; for Carstairs was obviously entertaining friends, and of course he would not be expecting him. If the door should prove to be unlocked, however, he might just be able to enter without being heard and without disturbing his employer.
The door was unlocked; Crow entered and went quietly to the library, and there, on a table beside his open notebook, he discovered a bottle of wine and this note:
Dear Mr. Crow,
I have perused your notes and they seem very thorough. I am well pleased with your work so far. I shall be away most of Monday, but expect to see you before I depart. In the event that you should return early, I leave you a small welcome.
Sleep well.
J. C.
All of which was very curious. The note almost made it seem that Carstairs had known he would return early! But at any rate, the man seemed in a good humor; and it would be boorish of Crow not to thank him for the gift of the bottle. He could at least try, and then perhaps he would not feel so bad about sneaking into the house like a common criminal. The hour was not, after all, unreasonable.
So thinking, Crow took a small glass of wine to fortify himself, then went quietly into the gloomy passages and corridors and made his unlighted way to Carstairs’ study. Seeing a crack of feeble electric light from beneath the occultist’s door and hearing voices, he paused, reconsidered his action and was on the point of retracing his steps when he heard his name mentioned. Now he froze and all his attention concentrated itself upon the conversation being carried on in Carstairs’ study. He could not catch every word, but—
“The date ordained…Candlemas Eve,” Carstairs was saying. “Meanwhile, I…my will on him. He works for me—do you understand?—and so was partly…power from the start. My will, aided…wine, will do the rest. Now, I…decided upon it, and will…no argument. I have said it before and now…again: he is the one. Garbett, what has he in the way of vices?”
A thick, guttural voice answered—a voice which Crow was almost certain he knew from somewhere—saying: “None at all, that I…discover. Neither women—not as a vice—nor drugs, though…very occasionally likes a cigarette. He…not gamble…no spendthrift, he—”
“Is pure!” Carstairs’ voice again. “But you…worked for the War Department? In…capacity?”
“That is a stone wall, Master…as well try…into…Bank of England! And it…dangerous to press too far.”
“Agreed,” answered Carstairs. “I want as little as possible to link him with us and this place. Afterward, he will seem to return…old haunts, friends, interests. Then the gradual breaking away—and nothing…connect him and me. Except…shall be one!”
“And yet, Master,” said another voice, which again Crow thought he knew, a voice like a windblown reed, “you seem less…completely satisfied…”
After a pause Carstairs’ voice came yet again. “He is not, as yet, a subject…hypnotism. On our first…resisted strongly. But that is not necessarily a bad sign. There is one…need to check. I shall attend to that tomorrow, by letter. It is possible, just possible…lied…birthdate. In which case…time to find another.”
“But…little time!” a fourth voice said. “They mass within you, Master, ravenous and eager to migrate—and Candlemas…so close.” This voice was thickly glutinous, as Crow had somehow suspected it would be; but Carstairs’ voice when it came again had risen a note or two. While it still had that sonorous quality, it also seemed to ring—as in a sort of triumph?
“Aye, they mass, the Charnel Horde—for they know it nears their time! Then—that which remains shall be theirs, and they shall have a new host!” His voice came down a fraction, but still rang clear. “If Crow has lied, I shall deal with him. Then—” and his tone took on a sudden, demonic bite, a sort of crazed amusement, “perhaps you would volunteer, Durrell, for the feasting of the worm? Here, see how taken they are with you!”
At that there came a scuffle of feet and the scraping sound of table and chairs sharply moved. A gurgling, glutinous cry rang out, and Crow had barely sufficient time to draw back into a shallow, arched alcove