City of Brass (13 page)

“That we have, sir—or at least them’s the stories what goes with the old place. Come on back this way and I’ll show you.”

We followed him down a musty corridor which led into the rear of the pub. Here, in a house that was obviously much older than the front, he paused to unlock a door and throw it open before us. “Haven’t been in here myself in a good many months,” he told us. “Wait a minute while I get some candles.”

“No electricity?” Rain asked, somewhat startled.

“Not in this room, miss; we never use it, so we never bothered to wire it.”

He returned in a moment with a multi-branched candlestick held high, and led us into the room. It was no more, really, than an enclosed space some twenty feet square, without windows, and with only the one door through which we’d entered. An ancient, musty smell hung over the place, suggesting that even the air we were now breathing might have been several hundred years old. The walls were covered with a fantastic blaze of colored wallpaper, which even now was just beginning to fade. The only bit of furniture in the room was a huge old carved table, some ten feet long, which stood against the opposite wall. Its top had been covered with newspapers, apparently to preserve the finish.

Kerrigan was busy telling us the history of the room, from its priest hole days through the reigns of various kings and queens, but I noticed that Simon Ark was far more concerned with the ancient table. He brushed aside the dusty newspapers, which I noticed were some four weeks old, and smiled slightly when he came upon a shallow drawer in the table’s side. But the smile faded when he found the drawer empty.

I, meanwhile, had strolled over to one of the walls and was trying to decipher some patterns from the faded rainbows of color. But the paper seemed to be designed without any purpose, a weird reminder of 17th century England.

Simon Ark was on his knees, examining the bottom of the long table now; but if Kerrigan thought this odd, he made no comment. He had trapped Rain in a corner and was continuing his brief history of England. “You know, miss, George III himself once visited this very pub, near the end of his reign. Of course there are those who say he was crazy at the time, but he was certainly a friendly one. My great-grandfather used to tell me about those days when I was very small …”

“Pardon me,” Simon Ark interrupted, resuming an upright position. “But if this room was once a hiding place for priests, I’m sure it has more than one exit. Suppose you show us the secret way out.”

Kerrigan never blinked an eye, but simply led us to one of the room’s corners as if he’d intended to show it to us all along. “Here it is,” he said, and gave a yank to an almost invisible metal ring set flush with the floor. A well-oiled trap door rose out of the floor and we peered down into the darkness below.

“It simply leads to the cellar,” Kerrigan explained. “I don’t even store anything down there any more. Too many rats.” He lowered the candles a bit so we could see that the cellar was truly empty.

“Well, thank you very much for the tour,” Simon told him. “I think that’s about all we wanted to see.”

He relocked the room behind us and led the way back to the pub’s main room. “Have a beer on me before you go,” he told us. “And stop by again sometime.”

“Thanks,” Rain replied. “We will.”

Soon afterwards, we departed and headed back through the gathering fog to Rain’s house. When we were a safe distance away from the
Blue Pig
I asked Simon, “What do you think about it? Any idea where the book might be hidden?”

“I have ideas about many things,” he told us; “I even have ideas about the odd-looking stains on that tabletop.”

“Stains?” I wondered. “I didn’t notice any.”

Simon Ark grunted. “In any event, we have much more here than simply the mystery of the Vicar of Hell. Although certainly the death of Carrier suggests that the missing book is involved.”

By the time we reached Rain’s place, the fog had closed in completely, and visibility was down to some fifty yards. We followed her in, on her invitation to make some coffee, and settled down around the fireplace.

I tossed a couple of logs on, and before long the room was alive with the glow of leaping flames. Simon Ark settled back in his chair, closed his eyes, and began to talk.

“Although most history books merely imply that the one-eyed Sir Francis Bryan earned the title of ‘Vicar of Hell’ by deserting his cousin, Anne Boleyn, when she needed him most, it seems probably there were further reasons. And in a period when witch cults and black magic were running wild throughout England, perhaps it is not too fantastic to suspect that Bryan himself was involved in one of these cults. Certainly that, more than anything else, would have earned him the odd title.”

Rain arrived with the steaming coffee and passed it to us. “But what about the murder of James Butler in 1548? And Bryan’s own mysterious death two years later?”

“There are two possible solutions which immediately present themselves. Bryan himself could have poisoned James Butler in order to marry his wife, Joan. Then, when Joan discovered this, she herself killed her husband’s murderer.”

Rain sipped her coffee and lit a cigarette. “And I suppose you’ll say the other possibility is that Joan killed both of her husbands.”

Simon Ark smiled and nodded. “I admit that was my thought.” And then, half to himself, he added, “I only regret that I never had the honor of meeting the Vicar of Hell …”

Rain shot me a glance at that, but I was used to such remarks from Simon’s lips. I ignored it and asked instead, “Do you really think this book, ‘The Worship Of Satan,’ has something in it about Bryan?”

“Very possible, or else there would have been no reason for the government to ban it at the time; books on devil worship and the like were quite common. From the size of it, I would say it must also have included several large illustrations.”

We talked further on the subject, but presently, as midnight drew near, Simon Ark departed, promising to call us in the morning. “It might be a good idea to get some sleep,” he cautioned me. “Tomorrow might be a long day.”

“Why?”

“Because there will be a full moon tomorrow night,” he said, and then he was gone, into the fog.

I came back into Rain’s living room, puzzling over these words. I looked at a calendar and saw that there would indeed be a full moon on the following night. “What do you suppose he meant by that?” Rain asked me.

“I don’t know. But let’s forget about all that for now.” I walked over and sat next to her on the couch.

“Should we forget about your wife back in New York, too?”

I didn’t answer her.

Instead, my hand went out and found hers, and I drew her close to me in the flickering light from the fireplace …

Simon Ark was at my hotel room before noon on the following morning, and I was surprised to see that Inspector Ashly was with him. “Good morning,” I greeted them. “What’s up?”

“Everything, from what Simon’s been telling me,” Ashly said. “You fellows must have had a pretty busy night, shooting up would-be killers and such.”

“We’re lucky we’re even alive,” I said; “Simon arrived just in time last night.”

“He told me. He also had me check on the two dead men, and I find they both frequented the
Blue Pig
pub.”

“That figures,” I said, lighting a before-breakfast cigarette. “There’s something funny about that place.”

Simon Ark chuckled. “The understatement of the year, certainly. If you had been a little more observant, I’m sure you would have come to the same conclusions that I did about the
Blue Pig,
and its mysterious back room.”

“And just what are your conclusions?” I asked, aware that he’d already outlined his ideas to Inspector Ashly.

“I’m convinced that a Black Mass, and various other ceremonies of Satanism, are being carried on at the
Blue Pig,
in that very room. And I’m further convinced that there’s another meeting of the group being held this evening.”

“I’ll admit that I suspected something funny, but I think now you’re going a little overboard, aren’t you, Simon?”

“He’s got me convinced,” Ashly boomed out in that deep voice which still amazed me. “Wait until you’ve heard the whole thing.”

I settled back and sighed. “OK, Simon. Go ahead and convince me.”

“Well,” he began, “the arrow murder of Hugo Carrier hinted at some sort of ritual crime; and, as I already told you, this type of slaying has been used before by devil worshippers. The attack on you and Rain proved that Carrier’s murder was caused by his knowledge of the book, ‘The Worship Of Satan.’ The people who killed him did so because they feared he would reveal the location of the book. Therefore the book itself, or its location, or both, are dangerous to them.”

“All right so far,” I admitted. “But why does that make it the
Blue Pig?
”

“First, the men who attacked you were from the
Blue Pig.
Second, Carrier gave that as the location of the book. Third, George Kerrigan lied to us when we visited him last night.”

“Lied? About what?”

“He said he never stored things in the cellar, yet the secret trap-door was well-oiled. And he said he hadn’t been in the room in months, yet the newspapers covering the table were four weeks old.”

“So I’ll agree he lied. But why does it have to be devil worship? Maybe he just runs a card game in that room.”

Simon Ark closed his eyes once more. “Those were bloodstains on the table top,” he said very quietly. “It was used as an altar, for animal—or perhaps human—sacrifices …”

The three of us were silent for a moment. It was hard for me to believe that such a thing could happen in twentieth century London. And yet I knew, from past experiences with Simon Ark, that there were things happening every day beyond human knowledge. It was sometimes as if a vast alternate world of evil were operating all the time, giving us an occasional glimpse into its horrible scenes.

“But why?” I asked. “Why, of all places, should they choose an ancient pub like the
Blue Pig
?”

“Because it was once a hiding place for priests, a place where actual Mass was celebrated, the next best thing to a church. And because it later became the resting place of the only existing copy of The Worship Of Satan’.”

“Horrible …” Inspector Ashly muttered. “Now tell us how you’re so certain they’ll meet again tonight.”

“Many strange things happen when the moon is full. Cults of devil worshippers do not necessarily, or always, meet at the time of the full moon; but when I noticed that the newspapers covering the table were just four weeks old—dated on the first day of last month’s full moon—I guessed this was the time of their previous meeting. Thus, since there is another full moon beginning tonight, I believe well find them there again.”

Ashly rose to his feet. “My men will be ready to close in whenever you give the word, Simon. I know from the last time we met that your theories are usually correct.”

I lit another cigarette and began to think about the breakfast I was missing. “Since when is it against the law to carry on religious rites in a private dwelling?” I asked.

Ashly bristled slightly at my question. “This isn’t a religion; and you seem to have forgotten the poor devil they left pinned to the wall with three arrows in him.”

“I guess I did for a moment,” I admitted, feeling slightly subdued. “So—what’s our plan of action?”

“The Inspector and his men will surround the place, early in the evening, and await my signal to move in,” Simon Ark explained. “I will be in the basement, under that trap door, and you can join me if you wish.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I told him. “If you’re going to find Satan himself in that room, I want to be along, too.”

Ashly sighed. “I believe you two are crazy to risk discovery like that, but I know better than to try arguing with Simon here.”

“It might be best,” Simon said, “if you could get a gun from somewhere, though. Could you borrow one from Rain?”

“Sure could.”

“Don’t let me hear anything about this,” Ashly muttered. “In London, even the police have a difficult time getting permission to carry guns.”

“Well, you’d better have them tonight,” Simon Ark told him. “These people are very close to insanity, all of them; when cornered, they might do anything.”

After that, they left me, and then I was alone with my thoughts of the night to come. And my thoughts of Rain and of my own house in Westchester, and of Shelly who waited there for me. For the first time I wondered if I would ever go back to her …

The cab carried me through Piccadilly Circus, past the neon signs now darkened in the light of day where Gordon’s Gin and Wrigley’s Gum fought each other for the customer’s attention. And presently I was back at Rain’s place in the suburbs. “Hello, again,” she greeted me at the door. “Have a good night’s sleep?”

“Fine.” I quickly outlined the details of Simon Ark’s revelations. “How’s chances of borrowing a gun till tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she said, leading me to a cabinet. “Which one do you want?”

“I used a .45 in the Military Police. That’s the only one I’m sure of, so I’d better take one of those.”

She handed me the heavy automatic, together with an empty clip and a box of bullets. I shoved seven of them into the clip and then rammed it into the butt. “Thanks a lot, Rain. I’ll have it back in the morning.”

“Let me come with you,” she said then. “I’ll go crazy sitting home here, thinking about it.”

“Sorry; that’s out of the question. Ashly’s even worried with Simon and I on the scene. But I’ll call you as soon as it’s over.”

“Is that a promise?”

“That’s a promise.” I kissed her lightly on the lips and then went out into the street, the automatic hanging heavy in my topcoat pocket.

I took time out to cable the New York office that I expected to obtain the missing book that evening, and close the deal. Then I went to a middle-class bar in downtown London and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to think about nothing at all.

When I got back to the hotel I found an air mail letter from Shelly awaiting me. I tossed it on the bed without opening it.