The Cornish Widow, page 10
I sit up, hands flying to my temples. They are wet with perspiration, and I am trembling. I settle down to sleep exhausted, with the image of the man indelibly printed on my memory. I don't know who he was or even what he was, but as time pulled us apart, I glimpsed a final gesture. He pointed to me as if in recognition, leaving me in no doubt that he knew exactly who I was.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Calicem Aureum
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1930
I make my way to the hotel lobby, gritting my teeth and pushing through the pain. I am exhausted by the time I arrive, and thoughts of last night's travel swirl through my mind. My heart still thuds when I remember how difficult it was to return to my body. It beats harder still when I think about the man I met on the astral plane. His eyes were dark, almost hypnotic, with bottomless pupils. He looked half-crazed yet wise and all-knowing, and I swear he recognised me. But I don't know this man. I have never seen him before.
I enter the reception hall, my heart fluttering with nerves. I want to see Oliver Fox, but he might not be there, and I couldn't bear it. My questions might remain unanswered, and I cannot hold on to them for much longer.
I see Roxy Templeton out of the corner of my eye as I pass by and ignore her as per our unstated arrangement, but surprisingly she calls out. "Miss Maxwell!"
"Yes."
"This is for you." She holds a brown envelope towards me. I approach her, and instead of handing it over, she places it on the desk and slides it towards me as if disgusted at the thought of getting too close. I snatch the envelope, nod an undeserved thank you and continue to the library where I hope to find Mr Fox. I open the library door to find it empty. A library without people would ordinarily please me, but under these circumstances, it's inconvenient. I don't know which room Mr Fox occupies, and Dolly's sour-faced replacement is unlikely to help me find it. I sigh, sit beside the fireplace, then notice a box of books by the far shelves. Oh, good – it looks like Peter is re-stocking the library. . He must be outside unloading the van.
Though tempted to rifle through the books, the urge to open the brown envelope is more pressing. I untuck the flap and slide out a small, lined sheet of paper before glancing at the page. It is from Dolly. I smile and read her note. She's still ill, she says, and the doctors are no further forward in diagnosing her problem. But Dolly feels up to visitors and asks if I can come and see her soon. She is in a ward at the rear of the convalescent home with no prospects of leaving within the week and is finding life very dull. I glance at the library clock, wondering if I can find Jory and arrange a lift to Newquay this afternoon, assuming Mrs Ponsonby will allow it. I am considering the best way to approach her when the door opens, and Peter arrives carrying a wooden box.
"Ah," he says. "Come over here."
I do as he asks, and he turns his back and rummages through the container. "Look," he says, thrusting a pile of books towards me.
I take them and scrutinise the top one. It is the first in a trilogy written by Mary's deceased brother, Crawford Newson.
"Can I take them all?" I ask.
"Greedy," says Peter. "I would usually say no, but we haven't had them out for a while, and nobody will want the second without having read the first. "
I grin. That suits me down to the ground and will give me something pleasant to do for the rest of the week.
Peter swaps the books over and speaks to me over his shoulder. He is waxing lyrical about his latest role in a forthcoming musical when the library door opens. Several hotel residents enter, one of whom is Oliver Fox.
"I have to go," I say to Peter, halfway through his story. He raises a curious eyebrow as I turn away.
"Can I speak to you?" I ask as I approach Mr Fox.
"Of course," he says. "How can I help?"
"Not here. Somewhere private," I mutter, trying not to draw attention to our conversation. I don't want anyone else to hear what I've got to say. It will be hard enough telling Oliver Fox.
"We can try the snug," he says and, balancing the books under one arm, I follow him through the door.
"This way," he says, relieving me of the books. "I'll take these."
I don't argue, and we cross the corridor, enter the dining room, and make for the side door. Mr Fox opens it and peers inside.
"All clear," he says. He pulls out a chair, and I sit down while he perches on the end of the sofa.
"What's troubling you?" he asks.
I swallow, not knowing how to start. But then I describe my journey along the cliffs and my sudden appearance in the farmhouse. Before long, the words come tumbling out, and I shake as I tell Fox how scared I was when I struggled so hard to return to my body.
He strokes his chin. "Where do you think you were?" he asks.
"In a farmhouse," I say. "Fields and livestock surrounded the property."
"And you were trying to get where?"
"I don't know. As I said, I hoped to find the missing woman, Annie Hearn."
"Could she be in a farmhouse?"
"I suppose so," I say doubtfully. "She's more likely dead."
He considers the matter. "No," he says, eventually. "If Annie were dead, you'd be more likely to linger on the astral plane. It sounds as if you arrived at a destination that would have been familiar to her. Did she live near a farm?"
"No," I say. "Annie lived in a cottage, but – oh! I know. She was staying with Alice Thomas before she died. Of course – I must have been at their farmhouse. It was William Thomas that I saw last night crying over his wife's death. I must have been on Annie's trail, after all."
Oliver Fox nods. "It sounds like it. Your abilities are astounding, yet you struggled to get home. How do you think you managed it, in the end?"
"Only by blocking out every trace of light," I say as I recall crouching in the dark barn with my hands over my eyes.
"Yes. That makes sense. Did you resist returning to your body at any point in your travels?"
"I did. I had to fight hard to stay where I was when I arrived at the farmhouse."
"You shouldn't have done that. Resistance is not without risk – great risk, in fact."
"But I'd only been away for five minutes," I say. "I couldn't have achieved anything in so short a time."
"You closed the pineal door," says Fox. I am surprised it wasn't painful."
"It was, a little," I admit. "But no worse than a headache."
"You are fortunate," he says. "The same thing has happened to me several times, and the pain was excruciating. It took days to recover."
"I need to ask you something else," I say.
"Go ahead."
"Do you know anyone else capable of dream walking?"
He winces. "Astral projection," he says. "Yes. I know others."
"Have you ever met anyone on your travels?"
"Frequently," he says. "I see them as I move around, but they don't see me."
"I don't mean people you pass in the street," I say. "I mean people like us who are journeying."
"Once or twice," he says. "But never anyone I recognised."
I draw a deep breath, suddenly reluctant to speak further. Then I pull myself together. "I saw a man last night as I returned to my body. It was the strangest thing. Time slowed and I unexpectedly found myself face to face with him. He seemed to recognise me."
Oliver Fox stares at me. He cocks his head to one side as if he is thinking. "What did he look like?"
"Balding, overweight, and he was wearing a silver chain with a strange symbol on it."
"Describe the symbol." The words shoot from his mouth, staccato.
"I can't remember," I say, screwing my eyes up tightly. "It was like a squashed star, I suppose.”
Fox reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a notebook and pen. "Like this?" he asks, drawing a squat hexagram with one fluid motion.
"Well, yes. Very similar. But there was something underneath."
Fox pushes the notepad away and gazes at me. His face is pale, and his eyes skitter over my face as if he doesn't know quite where to look.
"This," he says, pointing to the symbol, "is a unicursal hexagram. And I expect the other thing you saw looked something like this." He picks up the pencil and draws a rudimentary wine glass shape below.
I nod. "Yes," I whisper. Fox's face sets in grimly determined concentration as he considers his words, and I can tell from his demeanour that they won't be words of comfort.
"This symbol represents Calicem Aureum," he says, steepling his hands. "Which means you likely crossed paths with its figurehead, Felix Crossley."
"I've never heard of him!"
"I'm not surprised," says Oliver Fox. "Fortunately, he is abroad now, which is a good thing. He is a very unpleasant man."
"Tell me more," I ask.
He nods. "This may take some time."
"HAVE YOU EVER HEARD of the Hellfire Club?" asks Fox, leaning back in his chair.
"Not really," I say. The name is vaguely familiar, but I don't know why.
"It was an infamous eighteenth-century gentleman's club full of young rakes with too much time on their hands. They were utterly selfish, living their lives as they pleased with no care for the consequences, and the more offensive their actions, the better they liked it. Hellfire Club members were notorious for attacks on religion and morality. They mocked Christianity by conducting pagan rituals of a most unsavoury nature."
"Did they use black magic?" I ask.
Fox nods. "Yes. But fortunately, the organisation faded away, and I doubt any remnants of the Hellfire Club exist. But people are still interested in the occult. Magic and esoteric matters have always fascinated man, and I am a prime example of someone who spends too much time learning about it. It's why I have devoted considerable energy to the study of astral travel."
"But not black magic?" I ask, suppressing a shudder. Things are strange enough as they are, without confiding in someone actively involved with dubious cults.
"Certainly not," Fox says, looking hurt. "I deplore the very idea. But I have some experience in the matter, and given what you saw, I should warn you about Calicem Aureum. Now, as I've said, interest in occult matters has waned somewhat in recent years, but a few societies still exist, though others did not survive. One such defunct organisation is the Order of the Crescent Moon. They were not dissimilar to the Freemasons, except they admitted both men and women. Initiates learned various magical practices, rituals, and meditations aiming to progress further in the order. It was hierarchical, you see, and they increased their grades by improving their knowledge of esoteric matters."
"Did they do anything apart from learning?"
"Such as?"
"I don't know," I mutter, suddenly feeling embarrassed. I was about to ask whether there was any purpose to the rituals, something tangible, like becoming invisible or walking on water. I realise, just in time, the childishness of such questions and swallow them down. "Why did it die away?" I ask, instead.
"I was coming to that. Two men and a woman founded the Order of the Crescent Moon. One was a public figure who occupied a parliamentary position. When a colleague mislaid a membership list while travelling by train, his name came to public attention. The press published details, embarrassing the government who gave him an ultimatum – the order or the cabinet. He chose the latter, leaving Gregory Carmichael and Stella McGregor in charge."
I stifle a yawn. Oliver Fox's account sounds like a history lesson, a subject I had no love for as a child.
"For some years, they rubbed along well enough," Fox continues. "But then a young man, Felix Crossley, joined the organisation and rocketed through the ranks."
"The man you think I saw last night?" I ask, my interest renewed.
Fox nods. "Exactly. Crossley's progress within the organisation was nothing short of remarkable," he continues. "As was his fierce intellect and energy. His interest in magic and all things occult was unrivalled. He tried everything in his power to expedite his knowledge, going well beyond the order's teachings. But that included certain rituals and ceremonies frowned upon by the order."
"Such as?"
Fox's face reddens as he looks up, unwilling to meet my eyes. "Sexmagic, drugs and devilry. Much of what you refer to as black magic."
His evident embarrassment makes me feel awkward, but I want to know more. "Did he stay with the Crescent Moon?"
"He did not," says Fox. "Carmichael was in thrall to Crossley, but Stella McGregor saw danger in the man and his practices. She did everything in her power to convince Carmichael to drop him, but he remained blind to the risk. Crossley was remarkably persuasive. He was not a likeable man, but his self-confidence was powerful and charismatic. And Crossley had invested time in mastering the art of psychological manipulation, which he used in abundance. It reached the point where the lodge found themselves hopelessly divided. Some were loyal to Carmichael and Crossley, and others to Stella McGregor. And in 1920, the inevitable schism occurred. The order divided in two. McGregor's followers joined the Cult of the Shining Path. And Carmichael's formed Calicem Aureum, otherwise known as the Golden Chalice."
I stare ahead, lost in last night's memory of Crossley's malevolent eyes. But the image of people fighting like cats in a sack over leadership of this strange esoteric cult dilutes my fear. Oliver Fox watches me.
"They are more dangerous than they sound," he says. I don't know what I did to betray my inner thoughts, but Fox has detected my cynicism.
"I don't see any danger if they possess only knowledge," I reply.
"Don’t you? Both groups are adept at astral travel, and some practise spiritualism and levitation," he continues. "They may have other powers of which I am not aware."
"But it shouldn't matter," I say. "Crossley couldn't harm me even if he pulled out a gun. The bullet would travel straight through when I'm in my dream state."
"Perhaps," says Fox. "But let me tell you a little more. No sooner had Carmichael founded Calicem Aureum than Crossley betrayed him. He rallied his supporters within the organisation, hoping to remove Carmichael from office. How he achieved this is still unknown, but it involved a ceremony. When the ritual was over, they found Carmichael in a state of abject terror, and medics removed him from the cult headquarters for his safety. His hair had turned white overnight, and he was a gibbering wreck. He has not spoken from that day to this, and he currently resides in Coney Hill asylum."
My hand flies to my mouth as I gasp aloud. Fox has recounted a story of a tangible threat. I involuntarily shiver at the thought of Carmichael living the rest of his life in a mental institution.
Oliver Fox pats my hand. "I don't mean to frighten you," he says. "I wouldn't have mentioned any of this were it not for your vision of Crossley last night. And there's always the chance that it wasn't Felix Crossley who passed you, after all."
But as I return his stare, I see the fear in his eyes, and I know he believes the worst.
"What happened to the others?"
"The Cult of the Shining Path? They are still around," he says. "Stella McGregor occupies premises in London and a lodge in Bristol. Their members actively study astral travel. But they also learn about trance, automatic writing, and ceremonial magic. And there is one other practice into which they’ve put considerable effort," he says. "It is now their primary focus, and that is psychic defence."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Calicem Aureum and the Cult of the Shining Path are at war," says Fox. "They have been since 1925. But it is not a war in the physical sense of the word. Much of it is psychological, although I have heard some disturbing rumours about Calicem Aureum. There are reports of them using physical manifestations to induce terror. Psychic defence is the strategy used by the Shining Path to keep them at bay."
A shiver of fear traverses my body. I remember the bat in my bedroom before my dream walk and consider the prospect that it might have been real.
"How would I know if a manifestation was attacking me?" I ask.
"My dear girl," says Fox paternally. "There is no reason either organisation should have the smallest interest in you. Their issues are with each other."
"But the way he looked at me..." I say, my words trailing away as I try not to disclose my fears.
"If it was Crossley, he might have an idle interest in the presence of another astral traveller," says Fox. "But that is the extent of it."
He is right. It's silly, and my imagination is running riot. "Is there anything else I ought to know?" I ask, ready to bring the conversation to a close.
"I don't think so. I doubt you will ever see or hear of Crossley again. If it were not for the symbols, I wouldn't have mentioned him at all. Now, Miss Maxwell, I leave on Saturday. Please don't hesitate to contact me at any time if you need my help. I am on the telephone, and you can speak to me day or night."
"I will," I say solemnly. My feelings towards Mr Fox have transformed over the last day. Far from wanting nothing more to do with him, I now regret his imminent departure. I wonder how much I should tell Peter. Part of me wants to talk openly about my astral travel experiences. But I still can't shake off the awkward embarrassment of leaving my body. And I couldn't bear for him to humour me in sympathetic disbelief.
A man of impeccable manners, Oliver Fox holds the door open as I leave the snug. I wander slowly back to the library, deciding en route that if Peter is still there, I will tell him everything, and if he has left, I will hold my silence. When I open the library door, there is not a soul in sight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Secrets of the Shed
I SEE ELYS ON MY WAY home. She is outside the cottage, leaning into the front window of Jory's cart, and I hear peals of laughter as I pass. Elys teases him good-naturedly, and they barely notice me until I reach the door. Elys hears the door creak and spins around.
"Mrs Ponsonby's gone out again," she calls. "I'll make a pot of tea in a moment."
"No rush," I say, waving at Jory. He pays me no heed, seeing nothing beyond Elys. I wish someone would look at me that way.
