Josh and the Magic Vial (14 page)

For a second, Puddifant thought he had missed his quarry. Scanning the departing crowd, he did not see the ferret-like features of his suspect anywhere. Just in time, he turned toward the cemetery gate, and caught a glimpse of the man moving at a surprising rate, his lanky legs carrying him at a pace between walking and jogging. Puddifant hated drawing attention but he had no choice. He trotted off in pursuit, dodging headstones and mumbling apologies to the startled mourners he bumped out of his way.

The man had turned left out of the gate, taking a furtive glance over his shoulder as he strode into the street. If he'd seen Puddifant, he didn't show it. Clear of the cemetery, he hustled along past factories and tenements, and up to The Highway where he turned left again. Amid the clatter and bustle of motorcars and wagons Puddifant felt more at ease. He closed the gap between himself and his suspect. A man could disappear in an instant down any of the obscure streets that turned off The Highway. Or he could jump onto an omnibus and be gone, just like that — along with any hope of solving the mystery of Charlie Underwood's strange death.

They were almost at Smithfield, when suddenly the man darted into the traffic, crossing the street in a series of nimble zigs and zags. Puddifant checked the urge to follow immediately, knowing that a guilty man would be on the lookout. Sure enough, the suspect glanced back to see if anyone had followed his sudden change in direction. Satisfied he was alone, he cut into a lane and was gone.

“Hurry!” Puddifant urged his stocky legs. A motorcar honked, the driver cursing and shaking his fist. Avoiding this hazard, Puddifant swerved around the back of a plodding wagon, and then hustled down the opposite sidewalk, plunging into the lane in hot pursuit. Too late! The man had vanished. Not stopping to think, Puddifant pattered along the broken cobbles, until he found himself in a deserted square. The place was sequestered from the commerce of The Highway. Tenements surrounded him, their crumbling, sooty bricks forming a bleak canyon, pocked with windows, which appeared to him like so many caves, harbouring dreary secrets. His only hope was if the suspect had entered one of the shops or offices that occupied the ground floors: an insurance agency, a baker's, a bookstore and, at the very end, a place called Blackstone's Magical and Occult Emporium. Puddifant studied the ornate sign hung outside this strange enterprise, its gold letters scribed onto a black background. If the creature he had been following were to go in anywhere, it would have been at this door, he decided.

He approached the shop casually, as if he had blundered into the square quite by accident. He peered through the window. There was no sign of the suspect or the shopkeeper. He could make out a shelf of books, some cases that looked as if they might have belonged in a museum, another shelf crowded with jars, and — at the very back of the shop — a long, polished counter.

“He's in here,” Puddifant thought.

Nudging open the door, he stepped inside. The aroma of incense mingled with exotic spices greeted him. Alone in the untended shop, Puddifant looked over the selection of books, intrigued by the esoteric titles:
The Complete Book ofWitchcraft,
Magick After Dark, A Witch's Guide to Casting and Conjuring,
The Black Shadows
. He snorted, shaking his head.

“Some of the titles
are
rather fanciful.”

Puddifant blushed, turning to face the tall, dark-eyed proprietor, who had somehow entered from the stockroom without the inspector hearing him.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” the man asked.

Puddifant disliked him instinctively. There was a suggestion of arrogance in his posture and tone. He was the type of person who could make you feel like a bug, a specimen that might be captured any second and added to his collection.

“I do hope you can help me,” Puddifant said cheerfully, stepping up to the counter and offering his card. “Are you Mr. Blackstone?”

“Sirus Blackstone, yes,” the man said smoothly.

“I'm investigating a case that seems to have some occult connections. I'm not well versed in the black arts myself, and I thought someone like you might be of assistance.”

Blackstone grinned. “Why, I consider it my public duty to help the police when I can.”

“Thank you,” Puddifant tipped his bowler. “I am trying to get any information I can about a character named Vortigen, who apparently resides in a place called Syde.”

Sirus Blackstone started, but recovered almost before Puddifant had caught the surprised expression.

“Does this inquiry surprise you?”

“The Lord of Syde is not widely known,” Blackstone answered, “and those who do know his name are reluctant to utter it out loud. It is not a name to be bandied about in casual conversation.”

“My purpose is anything but casual, sir!”

“No. I should think not.”

“Can you tell me anything about this Vortigen?”

“Not much. He has a lot in common with the mythical being known as Hades, the Greek god of the underworld. In fact, there is much speculation that he is the original of that ancient character of myth, but I don't know anything more about it.”

“Does he have anything to do with children?”

“Children?” Blackstone raised his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Puddifant continued. “Is there any reason a dying child, for instance, might repeat this infernal creature's name?”

“None I can think of!”

“Well, if you do come up with anything, could you give me a ring?” Puddifant said. “Lives may depend upon it. Children's lives.”

“Most certainly!” Blackstone exclaimed.

But for some reason, Blackstone's assurance raised the hair on Puddifant's neck.

23

E
nver Skogs slouched into the armchair, concealing himself in its sagging cushions as best he could.

“Fool!” Sirus Blackstone shouted for the umpteenth time.

“But you told me to come straight back, sir.”

“I didn't tell you to bring the whole London constabulary to my doorstep!” the magician shrieked, working himself into a rage. “Do you know what you've done? Have you any idea?”

“I checked,” Skogs put in feebly. “I still can't see how he could have been following without my knowing.”

“What are you saying, Skogs?” Blackstone sneered. “Are you suggesting he just
happened
to show up here with his idiotic questions?”

“Well,” Skogs rasped his dirty fingernails through the stubble on his chin. “It is possible, isn't it? He might have seen your advert in the Mirror and said,‘There's a bloke who'll have some answers for me. I'll go talk to Sirus Blackstone, the Wizard ofWellclose Square.'”

“For God's sake, man, do shut up!”

“But you
do
have a reputation, sir. I mean, if the coppers were looking about for someone who could answer a few questions concerning the occult and such, I'm sure they'd be directed to Blackstone's Magical and Occult Emporium.”

Exasperated, Blackstone threw himself into a chair opposite, draping one leg over the arm and leaning his head against the upholstered wing. “One of these days I shall have to put you out of your misery, Skogs,” he groaned.

“I'm not miserable, sir,” Skogs answered glumly. “Life may be hard: the missus may be as much adder as human being, you may be a very exacting employer; but I'm still of good cheer because I know all's for the best.”

“You're just too stupid to know you
are
miserable,” Blackstone insisted, with a sigh. “You're like an ox that has no idea it's harnessed to a plow, and that there might be a life without the constant sting of the lash.”

Skogs hung his head, defeated at last. Sirus Blackstone was cruel, and no doubt about it. As mean as they came.

“Now, tell me what happened at the funeral.” Blackstone said suddenly, shaking back his wild mane of black hair and shifting forward to the edge of his seat.

“Well, sir, an uncle said what a wonderful child young Charlie had been, which got Mrs. Underwood crying all over again; and a little school chum said as how he'd miss his young mate, and how the street seems empty now, even when it's full of squealing urchins — that got Mr. Underwood going too.”

“Yes, yes. Then what?”

“Then we made our way out of church and began our slow procession to the graveyard, sir.”

“And?”

“And that was it. We said ‘Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust', then threw a few clots of dirt down onto the coffin and went our ways.”

“Nothing else at all?” Blackstone almost pleaded.

“No sir.”

If he'd only known what his employer wanted, Skogs might have made something up. But he hadn't a clue. It was the same thing every time: the spells, the funerals, the unseemly questions and the disappointment. What did he expect, this evil, pathetic man, who exerted so much influence over the lives or Enver and Elvira Skogs? What did he want?

24

“E
xtraordinary!” Professor Cornelius Wizer exclaimed, pacing nervously before the window of his study.

Puddifant had told him everything. About the children dying, Vortigen, the strange encounter at Charlie Underwood's funeral, the interview with Blackstone.

“He's a dangerous man, Inspector,” the professor cautioned. “I have visited Mr. Blackstone myself on several occasions, and I do believe he is the genuine article.”

“What do you mean by that?” Puddifant raised his eyebrows.

“He's a warlock.”

Puddifant smirked. “I'm sorry,” he said. “But . . . ” His attempt at an apology petered out, leaving the two men staring at each other across the professor's desk.

“That's quite all right,” Professor Wizer chortled. “I realize that witchcraft won't stand up in a modern court as a legitimate charge, and I wouldn't expect a London copper to appreciate what has taken me a lifetime of rigorous research to understand. The mysterious forces of magic are beyond most people's comprehension. But in your case . . . ”

“What about
my case
?” Puddifant prompted.

“I am concerned for your safety,” the learned man warned. “But let's put that aside for the moment. I should like to know your theory concerning these deaths, and the strange behaviour of Enver Skogs.”

Puddifant hesitated.

“In strictest confidence, of course,” Professor Wizer promised.

“Poison,” Puddifant said. “I believe Sirus Blackstone has discovered some kind of poison that can be administered secretly and which we cannot discover after the fact. I've done a little checking. He has travelled extensively. It's my belief that during those travels, he discovered a very useful contagion.”

“But why?” the professor frowned. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Power,” Puddifant replied smugly.

“How would murdering children give him power?”

“In two ways, Professor. First, he is a serial killer, and like his tormented brethren, derives a sense of exultation in the act of murder — and the more innocent the victim, the better, as far as that goes.

“But our suspect has another, larger motive. Did you know he runs a sort of occult college out of his shop?”

“College?” Professor Wizer frowned. “I should hardly call it a college.”

“What
do
you call it then?”

“It's a coven, Inspector. The East London Coven to be precise, and its members are among the most influential and powerful people of London — names you would recognize, if you were a reader of the Times. Vortigen is the deity they bow to, and Blackstone is more a high priest than a teacher.”

“That's even better,” Puddifant rubbed his hands together.

“What you've just said strengthens my theory.”

“Explain.”

“Tell me professor, what holds a group like the East London Coven together?”

“Belief,” Cornelius Wizer mused. “A shared belief in something bigger then themselves.”

“And what sustains belief, sir?”

“Carry on. I know what you are going to say.”

Puddifant sighed, piqued at the professor's jumping ahead and taking the fun out of things. After all, it was the unusual cases that kept him in police work. If it had all been the drudgery of armed robberies or domestic violence, he would have quit long ago. But a case like this exercised the mind.

“What sustains belief is miracles,” he explained, after a pause. “If the leader of one of these cults can show he really does possess magical powers, then his followers will be bound to him even more strongly. What better way to demonstrate your power then by play acting some occult mumbo-jumbo when you know the victim you are hexing is certain to die from the poison you've administered in advance.”

“Very good, Inspector!” Professor Wizer clapped. “There's just one problem with your theory.”

“What's that?” Puddifant demanded.

“It's bunk, sir. Complete and utter bunk.”

Again, they stared at one another across the cluttered expanse of Professor Wizer's desk.

“Tell me how you've come to that conclusion,” Puddifant said at last.

“Gladly,” the professor nodded. “But it won't be something you will be able to present to a magistrate. You'd be laughed out of court, just as I am laughed at in academic circles.” He gestured to a chair and as Puddifant sat down, pulled a book from its shelf and dropped it with a thud onto the desk.

“My life's work,” he said grimly.

Tilting his head, Puddifant read the title.
Occult, an
Investigation Into Magic
.

“Not a wildly successful effort, I'm afraid.” the academic said ruefully. “As you may have gathered from the title, the book did nothing to stir the popular imagination. A few academics like myself bought copies, only to denounce it as lunatic ravings.