The short drive to the Wadsworth residence was accompanied by heavy rain that obscured the windshield and did little to erase the sense of doom surrounding the case. Darkus turned the facts over in his mind, but saw no clear solution. Was the book somehow to blame? Or was it merely an innocent bystander, a talisman for the likes of Lee Wadsworth to use for his own misguided entertainment and financial gain? The first rule of detective work was never to succumb to the luxury of coincidence. There had to be a connection. And Darkus hoped that he could work out what it was.
Bill took the opportunity to give Darkus a short history of the Department of the Unexplained and how its oddball ideas had fallen victim to far-reaching budget cuts. As a result, the department was now little more than a loose-knit collection of bureaucrats, conspiracy theorists, and those that the rest of Scotland Yard (the few who even remembered the department’s existence) simply regarded as quacks. It was in this climate of pen-pushing and penny-pinching that Bill had approached his Oxford pal Alan Knightley, someone he could rely on to carry out an investigation by any means necessary, even if Bill didn’t always approve of—or sometimes even believe—the results.
Now that Knightley Senior was once again out of action, Bill seemed more than happy to rely on Darkus instead.
The driver turned into an estate of neatly arranged newly built houses, all with identical lawns, dotted with paved walkways. They pulled up and parked outside the Wadsworth residence. Uncle Bill led the way, removing his hat and ringing the doorbell.
An exhausted, slightly overweight woman in jogging pants answered the door.
“Yes?”
“We’re with Scotland Yard, ma’am,” said Bill, displaying his ID. She looked him over, then spotted Darkus.
“Both of you?”
“Intern,” explained Bill, patting Darkus heavily on the shoulder.
Darkus removed his hat courteously.
The woman looked doubtful, but opened the door wider. “I suppose this is about Lee,” she sighed. “Well, I’m afraid I won’t be any help. He’s clearly lost his marbles, hasn’t he?”
They entered the house to find it in disarray. Clothes hung discarded on chairs and lampshades, papers littered every available surface, teacups sat forgotten on ledges. But most noticeably, dozens of cardboard boxes blocked the hallway, the stairs, and much of the living room. Bill gracefully maneuvered his girth around the obstacles and followed Mrs. Wadsworth into the kitchen.
The kitchen table was also covered in and surrounded by boxes.
“May I?” asked Bill.
Mrs. Wadsworth nodded, and Bill lifted one of the lids to find the box filled to the brim with hardcover copies of The Code.
“There are more in the garage,” she explained. “Ordered them all on my credit card.”
“When did this behavior begin?” inquired Darkus.
Mrs. Wadsworth looked at Bill, uncertain whether to respond. “Do you want me to answer him? He’s only a boy.”
“Certainly ye should answer him,” said Bill.
“Well, it began after he started reading that infernal book.”
“Something in the book clearly appealed to him,” Darkus speculated.
“Do ye believe he may have resorted to robbery to fund his habit?” asked Bill.
“I hope that’s what he was doing!” Mrs. Wadsworth erupted. “It’s cost a fortune.”
Darkus examined a box of identical books, then looked up. “Have you read the book yourself, madam?”
“Yes, I have. I had to, didn’t I?” she continued. “To see what all the fuss was about.”
“And what did you think of it?”
“I thought it was terrible,” she replied. “New Age twaddle.”
“And it didn’t have any ill effect on you?” Darkus went on. “No feelings of discomfort, nausea, dizziness? Anything at all?”
“Nope. Just boredom,” she said, looking to Bill again, as if to ask whether it was really necessary for her to explain herself to a child.
“Intriguing,” said Darkus, nodding.
“What is this?” asked Mrs. Wadsworth, losing patience. “What’s going on? Why’s my Lee gone bonkers? And why am I being questioned by a twelve-year-old?”
“Thirteen, actually,” Darkus corrected her.
Bill turned to her reassuringly. “Did yer son say anything else about his experience with the book?”
“He said it changed his life. He said it made him feel like he was on television. Watching himself on TV—that’s what he said.”
Darkus nodded. “A common symptom of paranoid schizophrenia. The old Lee seemed to be watching the new Lee as he carried out his criminal act. Similar to the Affair of the Missing Accomplice,” Darkus reminded himself.
“Aye,” said Bill. “One of yer father’s benchmark cases.”
“Meaning?” asked Mrs. Wadsworth impatiently.
“I’m afraid I don’t yet have an answer for you,” admitted Darkus. “But I do have one more question, if I may?”
Mrs. Wadsworth shrugged her consent.
“From the well-dusted condition of your ceilings,” said Darkus, “in contrast with the otherwise unkempt nature of the living space beneath them, and judging from the effort required to carry out such high dusting and your apparent aversion to housework, I propose that your son, Lee, has an unusually powerful fear of insects. Particularly crawling ones. Am I right?”
Mrs. Wadsworth’s jaw dropped in a combination of awe and deep, personal affront.
“I thought so,” concluded Darkus, then turned to Bill. “That might explain the description of insects coming out of the book.”
“Aye.”
Their conference was rudely interrupted by Mrs. Wadsworth physically pushing Uncle Bill toward the front door. “I’ve told you everything I know. Now get out!”
Bill artfully negotiated the hallway, apologizing as he went. “Thank ye for yer time, Mrs. Wadsworth.”
Darkus gave Bill a wide berth, and swiftly exited the front door before it could be closed on him. Bill, however, turned to face Mrs. Wadsworth’s wrath one last time.
“A suggestion, Mrs. Wadsworth. I advise ye to get these books out of yer house immediately. Return them to the shop or hand them over to the local police.” Bill thought about it further, then added, “If necessary, burn them.”
Mrs. Wadsworth looked them both over once more. Before another word could be said, she slammed the door.
“Well, we can assume two things,” said Darkus, replacing his hat on his head. “First, the book does not affect every reader the same way,” he observed. “Second, if it does affect the reader, it draws on their innermost fears.”
“Aye,” concurred Bill.
Darkus turned the matter over in his mind. “While the idea of a grimoire is certainly appealing, it’s too easy to simply blame this on the supernatural.”
Bill shrugged. “Aye.”
“Dad once wrote,” began Darkus, “that reasoning is merely guesswork until one of the guesses leads to a universal rule that applies to the entire problem. And so far, we don’t have enough evidence to find that universal rule. We still don’t know what the affected readers have in common, or how to explain their extraordinary reaction to the book.” Darkus pondered a moment. “But we do know there must be a rule,” he declared. “Because, as Dad said, there always is.”
“Aye.” Bill nodded, having no idea what this rule might be.
“So far, all we know for certain is that the book is the common thread. Ergo, the next logical port of call is the author himself,” said Darkus.
Bill took out a fresh cigar and ambled back to the car. “Unfortunately, Ambrose Chambers is a very private man, and we don’t have reasonable cause to force his cooperation. But fortunately I’ve already made arrangements to speak with his literary agent at Beecham Associates in South Kensington this afternoon.” He got in and instructed the driver: “To the train station.”