Josh and the Magic Vial (15 page)

You're welcome to borrow it if you want. There's a section on Vortigen and the
Book of Syde
.”

“
The Book of Syde
?”

“Yes. That's Blackstone's equivalent to the family Bible.”

“And what conclusions have you made about this particular cult, Professor?”

“There's no conclusive evidence, if that's what you're looking for. As I've said, nothing that would stand up in a court of law. But I'm as convinced of the powers of magic as I am of the fact that you are sitting in that chair, and I have no doubt Blackstone has tapped into that power. He is a dangerous man.”

“What's he after?”

“Power. You've hit the nail there, Inspector. Blackstone craves power . . . not the illusion that a charlatan can garner through tricks, but power from the very source of evil. I can only refer you to what is written in
The Book of Syde
. I have no detailed knowledge of what goes on inside the East London Coven — Blackstone would kill me before he'd let me get that close — but I can point out what's written in their sacred text.”

“Go on.”

“It is written that Vortigen craves an heir, a human connection with this world.”

“Yes.”

“The way he expects to get that heir will be of interest to you.”

“I thought it might be,” Puddifant said.

“Powerful as he is, Vortigen can only enter our world through the medium of a witch or sorcerer. You must understand this to understand what follows.”

Puddifant inclined his head gravely.

“Disciples of the Lord of Syde select what are called ‘candidates' for Vortigen,” Professor Wizer continued. “These are children who are offered to the demon in what is known as the Rite of Transmigration. The spell is cast on the night of the full moon, it takes hold between the waning of the full moon and the waxing of the new, and is irrevocable once the new moon appears. This clandestine rite has been practiced for thousands of years, Inspector. Blackstone is merely a present-day manifestation of evil.”

“Tell me more about this rite.”

A look of fear passed fleetingly over Professor Wizer's features. “Sorcerers like Blackstone, if indeed he is steeped in evil . . . ”

“Oh, I think we can come to some conclusions on that point,” Puddifant put in dryly.

“Yes. Ahem! As I was saying, sorcerers must follow a very specific set of rules when they are offering a candidate. First, they must somehow acquire some biological material from the victim . . . ”

“Biological material?” Puddifant queried.

“Yes — blood, hair, and nail clipping to be exact. Blood and hair alone might do in a pinch, but to make Vortigen well disposed toward the candidate, it is necessary to offer all three.”

“And how does the sorcerer acquire these ingredients without the victim knowing?” Puddifant wondered.

“The most common technique is to hire some thugs to beat up the candidate, pretending it's a robbery or mugging. The samples are taken during the assault.”

“My God! This is shocking, Professor!”

Professor Wizer's eyes swam behind his spectacles. He patted his book defiantly. “I have tried to warn people,” he said quietly. “I have risked my life gathering evidence and presenting it, only to be mocked mercilessly by my colleagues and the public. You will be tormented too if you dare to tell the truth about what Blackstone is up to. Just wait and see.”

Puddifant saw a lonely, courageous man sitting opposite him. But still, he could not believe what the professor was saying. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

Cornelius Wizer waived the apology cheerfully. “You know,” he said, “when you believe in what you are doing, Inspector, criticism loses its sting. I have never stopped telling the truth because I know what I am saying
is
the truth.”

“I still don't think your explanation is the only plausible theory, Professor,” Puddifant said gently.

“Of course, Inspector. If you choose to believe Sirus Blackstone is perpetrating a murderous hoax, that's fine. It certainly brings you closer to a charge the courts will prosecute. I base my theory upon years of research, however, and the evidence I have gathered has beaten down a skepticism that was as strong as yours when I first began — every bit as strong.”

Looking infinitely weary, the professor removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “On one thing I hope we may agree, Inspector Puddifant,” he said earnestly. “I hope you will not underestimate this man, and that you will take every precaution for your own safety. I must warn you, he is more dangerous than any criminal you have ever encountered.”

“Are you suggesting he would threaten an officer of the law, sir?” the astounded Puddifant sputtered.

Professor Wizer stared without blinking. “Sirus Blackstone will stop at nothing, sir,” he answered gravely. “At nothing you can imagine.”

25

P
uddifant turned up the collar of his greatcoat and pushed on through the fog that spilled over Millbank from the Thames. The cold, grey pall enveloped the buildings crouched on the far side of the street. It misted the blaze of streetlights, transforming brightness into a lurid haze that dissipated before it ever reached the pavement.

He'd stayed at Professor Wizer's longer than he'd intended. Puddifant smiled. “Witchcraft!” he scoffed, more certain than ever that Blackstone resorted to something stronger than spells and incantations to murder his victims. “By Jove, I'll prove it!” he vowed, stumping along at a furious pace.

The din of London had stilled. The straggling sounds of a city tending toward slumber were swallowed in the muffled dark: the clip-clop of a horse, the sputter of an automobile, the shouts of revellers. He'd thought of taking a cab, but decided the walk would do him good. Professor Wizer disagreed. “You don't understand the nature of the thing you are up against,” he'd warned. “Blackstone is not a man, he's a demon. Watch your back, sir. That's my advice.”

Inspector Horace Puddifant chuckled nervously. Only a fool would dare attack an investigating officer from New Scotland Yard, he calculated, and Blackstone was no fool.

Why, then, did Puddifant feel as if he were being watched? Why did he sense shadows moving within the shifting shrouds of fog, and hear footsteps that seemed to echo his own? Why did he shiver at the notion of someone out there, just beyond the veil of vapours?

“Nonsense!” he huffed.

Professor Wizer had spooked him, but as an experienced investigator, Puddifant had to discard what could not be proved and stick to the relevant facts. He intended to prove that Blackstone headed a bizarre sect, which paid homage to an ancient devil named Vortigen; that he staged child sacrifices to this demon, even going so far as to assault his “candidates” to collect blood, hair and nails; that the villain inoculated his victims with an as yet unidentified contagion during these assaults; that the poison was timed to take hold on or about the night of the full moon, when Blackstone performed his strange Rite of Transmigration; that the disease progressed in such a way that the children died on or about the waning of the old moon and the waxing of the new; and finally that all this was done in accordance with the rituals set down in
The
Book of Syde
.

Some elements of his case were already in place. Professor Wizer would make an excellent expert witness. He'd informed Puddifant that there was possibly only one copy of
The Book
in existence. “I believe Sirus Blackstone has laid his hands on it and mastered the sacred lore. If this is true, he is a formidable opponent indeed!” he'd warned.

Cornelius had made inquiries. He'd tacked together an outline of Blackstone's life, beginning with a sojourn in India as a young man. The last references to
The Book of Syde
placed it in the vicinity of Calcutta, and that is where Blackstone resided while he was in India. Blackstone came from a well-to-do family, and inherited a substantial fortune when his parents passed away unexpectedly while he was abroad. “Nothing's ever been proved,” Professor Wizer had said signif- icantly, “but Blackstone senior and his wife suddenly took ill, and died. The progression of their illness coincided perfectly with the waning of the old moon and the waxing of the new. The Blackstone Foundry and Machine Works were sold off almost immediately and the substantial fortune that resulted from that sale must have been depleted, judging by Sirus Blackstone's present state of affairs.
The Book of Syde
is a volume of immense value, Inspector,” Professor Wizer had said. “It would have cost a fortune to acquire. I believe Blackstone returned to London with
The Book
, and just enough of his inheritance to buy his premises in Wellclose Square . . . ”

“And with a poison unheard of in Europe well suited to his evil plans,” Puddifant surmised, turning off Millbank into the narrower street that led to his flat.

Nothing Professor Wizer had said ruled out Puddifant's own theory. Even if Blackstone
believed
in the power of occult, he might still resort to trickery. “He would have to,” Puddifant concluded, “because the mummery in the vaunted
Book of Syde
would never work.” He imagined the villain having spent his fortune on
The Book
, only to discover that none of its spells had any effect. “What would a fellow like Blackstone do?” Puddifant wondered. “Why, he'd find a way to
make
the spells work, wouldn't he? He'd find some practical poison that would serve his purpose and bring that home with all his sacred paraphernalia.” As far as Puddifant was concerned, that's what had happened, and that's what he was going to prove.

Away from the lights ofMillbank the city became even more ghostly. Puddifant quickened his pace — not out of superstition, he told himself, but because the very real possibility of muggers lurked on nights such as this. Besides, he was damp and cold, and wanted to get out of the oppressive gloom. He imagined himself sitting by a glowing fire, the lights of his flat blazing brightly, a good book in his hands.

These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by a sound only a trained ear would have heard. On this deserted street, away from the masking sounds of Millbank Road, Puddifant was sure he heard footsteps other than his own. They were carefully timed to his pace, but not perfectly so, and now that he'd identified them, there was no mistaking the echoing pattern. A shadow trailed him by perhaps a hundred feet.

“Steady, old man!” he muttered, ducking into the courtyard of an apartment block. Scanning the brick canyon, he scuttled into a pool of darkness, his back flat against the wall.

A few seconds later his pursuer hurried into the square. Puddifant recognized the tall, skeletal creature he had followed from Charlie Underwood's funeral. The cadaverous fellow gawked about the empty square desperately. “He'll do me!” he stuttered. “Do me like a roast pig!”

“Come, come,” Puddifant challenged from the shadows.

“Yaaa!” the stalker shrieked.

“Stand!” the inspector shouted, his voice echoing from every direction in the brick canyon, so that it seemed as if all London were accusing the quaking fellow. “In the name of the law, stand right where you are, or I shall run you down like a hare.”

Enver Skogs froze.

“So we meet again,” Puddifant mused, circling the shivering statue of rags, flesh and bone. “I don't believe I've had the . . . uhm . . . pleasure of an introduction, sir. Your name?”

“S-skogs, sir. Enver Skogs.”

“Well, Mr. Skogs, I must inquire about your hobbies.”

“Hobbies, sir?”

“Yes, your inordinate interest in funerals and the movements of police officers.”

“Funerals? Police officers?”

“Come, Mr. Skogs. You know I saw you at Charlie Underwood's funeral. And tonight
you've
been following
me
. . . ”

“Following you?” Skogs yelped.

“Yes,” Puddifant threatened. “By Jove, I know who's put you up to it and we shall go see him this instant.”

“I don't know what you mean!” Skogs quavered.

“Well, then, perhaps Mr. Blackstone will be better able to explain your actions than you can yourself. Come along.”

Skogs trembled, and held out his hand imploringly. “I beg of you sir, do not report this to Mr. Blackstone. You don't know his temper, sir, or the danger you'd be putting me in. Please.”

“Then come with me, man, and be prepared to answer my questions,” Puddifant ordered the miserable servant. “I'm running out of patience with you and your employer.”

26

T
hey took a booth at the back of the Marble Arches. The only recommendation for the place was it happened to be nearby. Puddifant found the establishment noisy, smoky and dirty. Skogs skulked in the opposite bench, looking very much like a prisoner in the dock.

“Now, sir, let's begin at the beginning. What is your relationship to Mr. Sirus Blackstone?”

Skogs squirmed.

“If it is of any comfort to you, Mr. Skogs, I shall try to protect you from him. I shall also let the court know of your cooperation, if it comes to that. I cannot promise anything more and I won't lie to you on either count. I believe you are in great danger and that you are getting in deeper every day. Am I right?”

Skogs fidgeted. Puddifant had come to several conclusions about the man during their walk to the public house. First, Skogs feared for his very life; second, he worked for Blackstone under duress; third, he was a gentle creature really, perverted by circumstance, not nature.

“I do odd jobs for Mr. Blackstone,” Skogs said at last.

“Do you enjoy the work?”

“No, sir, I do not,” he answered vehemently.

“How did you come to be in Mr. Blackstone's employ, then?”

“Through my wife, sir. Elvira has known this Blackstone for many a year, and since I was unemployed, and he was looking for a helper . . . well, the missus brought me and Blackstone together.”