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Trotter finished his sentence, put his pen in the inkwell and looked up from his report.
“I tell you, Mr Billings, I think Mr Doucet is wasting his money. There is nothing suspicious about Miss Bunton’s behaviour. I’ve been shadowing her for four days now, and the reports are practically identical.” He picked up the report and read out loud. “She leaves Mr Doucet’s house and buys ten white roses at a flower stall in the Chelsea Embankment. Then she goes to a certain Mrs Moorhouse...”
“That’s her cousin,” Billings interrupted.
“What?”
“Mrs Moorhouse. I looked her up in the Register Office. She’s Miss Bunton’s cousin. First cousin, once removed. Make sure you write that down.”
Trotter smiled. “Thank you, Mr Billings.” He continued reading. “After fifteen minutes or so, she leaves the house and continues on to Sloane Square, where she takes an omnibus to Islington. She spends the rest of the night at her family home. Last night, however, there was an exception. She visited a music hall, and she was accompanied by her father, her mother and one of her younger sisters.”
“How do you know it’s their house?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You said she stayed at her family home. How do you know her parents own the house? A lot of poor people moved to Islington when the inner-city slums were cleared for the railway. They’re more likely to be renting or living in with another family.”
Trotter looked at the report, then back at Billings, then back at the report.
“You’re quite right, Mr Billings. I should not have made that assumption.” He tore up the paper and threw it in the bin.
Billings frowned. “Oh, Trotter. I didn’t mean for you to re-write it. I was just teaching you to be more objective.”
“We have to be meticulous about these things, Mr Billings. I will write the report again.” He pulled a new paper out of his desk drawer, picked up his pen and began writing.
Billings shrugged. He leaned back in his chair and wrapped his hands behind his head. “Do you read the bible, Trotter?”
“Every night before I go to sleep.” Trotter was too busy copying the notes from his notepad to look up.
“Have you ever come across a character called Lilith in your bible?”
“Lilith? No, I can’t say that I have.”
“But you have read about Cain?”
“Cain? As in Cain and Abel? Yes, of course. He was the first murderer, wasn’t he? Killed his brother.”
“Why did he kill his brother?”
“He was jealous because God favoured Abel’s offerings over his.”
“Yes, but why did God favour Abel?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“That’s not very nice, is it? For God to favour Abel’s offerings and not say why. No wonder Cain felt frustrated.”
“Hardly an excuse to kill your own brother, though, Mr Billings.”
“Do you believe in magic, Trotter?”
Trotter finally looked up from his report. “Magic?”
“The ability to do things which appear to be superhuman.”
“Are you referring to that rabbi who claimed to have read your mind?”
“Um... yes.”
“I don’t believe in such things, Mr Billings. Some sort of trickery must’ve been at play there.”
“But don’t you believe that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy?”
“That’s a quote from Hamlet, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t believe that, Mr Billings. Science and common sense can explain everything.”
“But you believe in the bible, don’t you?”
“I recognise the bible for what it is. A collection of stories and fairy tales and myths. But they are good stories, Mr Billings. And the parables in the New Testament are inspiring and have helped me to lead a good and honest life.”
“So, you don’t believe that there is more to life than meets the eye?”
“I believe that there are people who want there to be more to life. Dreamers. Fantasists. People who are unsatisfied with the way their life has panned out and who are looking for an escape.” Trotter picked up the blotter and rolled it over his paper. “But why are you asking me all this, Mr Billings?”
Billings smiled bitterly. People who are unsatisfied with the way their life has panned out. “No reason,” he said. “Just wondering.”
***
“LILITH?” THE LIBRARIAN wrinkled his brow and scratched his head.
“I believe she may somehow be connected with Cain,” Billings explained.
“She’s definitely not in the King James Bible, sir. Let me check the card catalogue.”
The librarian went towards the card cabinet, pulled out a drawer and flipped through the index cards.
Billings looked around him. A man sitting at a table nearby was looking at him. His greasy black hair was matted onto his chubby head. The red handkerchief around his throat could not conceal the dirty marks on his collar. Billings smelled the wet rubber of the Mackintosh coat which hung over the back of his chair. A book lay open before him. Billings tried to make out what he was reading, but the man’s hairy fingers were spread all over the pages, blocking his view and leaving dirty fingerprints on the paper.
The man nodded. Billings nodded back.
“I have found something.” The librarian approached him with an index card in his hand. He read out loud. “Lilith: a figure in Jewish mythology, often envisioned as a dangerous demon of the night. She appears in the Talmud. We have a reference copy in the British Museum Library.”
“Thank you.”
The librarian headed back to the catalogue, and Billings turned towards the exit.
The man at the table suddenly spoke. “She’s not a demon.”
Billings stopped and turned. “I beg your pardon.”
“Lilith. She’s often confused with the Mesopotamian Lilit, who is a night hag with feet like an owl’s. Lilith in the Hebrew bible was Adam’s first wife. Before Eve. She was created at the same time as Adam, and from the same clay. But she refused to be subservient to him and left.”
“You seem to know a lot about her.”
“I do.”
An angry gentleman at the end of the table scowled and shushed them.
Billings approached the table and whispered, “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
The angry man at the end of the table shushed them again.
The man frowned. He slammed his book shut, stood up and put on his coat. “Come with me,” he said, picking up his book and striding towards the exit.
Billings followed him.
“You’re the third person this week to come into the library inquiring about Lilith. Are the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith recruiting new members again?”
Billings stopped. “How do you know about that?”
“I know about all such societies. The Golden Dawn, the Gnostic-Sofites, the Rosicrucians. It is my field of study. But come out with me. I need to give you a warning about them.”
Billings followed him out of the building.
“My name is Wolf Augustus. I’m a manuscript hunter.” He took a calling card out of his coat pocket and handed it to Billings. “I helped all these societies acquire the manuscripts they hold in their libraries.”
“What kind of manuscripts?”
“Old texts and grimoires. Mostly written in the Middle Ages by people who claim to have been in contact with angels and spirits and demons. I’m a scholar, you see, Mr...um...”
“Billings. John Billings.”
“A scholar of ancient languages. I’ve read many ancient manuscripts in my lifetime, and I’ve travelled extensively. I have a lot of contacts. There’s been a resurgence of interest in esoteric texts lately, which has proved to be quite profitable for me. I can vouch for the authenticity of the books. That is to say, I can confirm the dates at which they were written. I don’t, however, vouch for their content.”
“So, you don’t believe in magic?”
The man scoffed. “Magic is an awkward term. Electricity is magic to those who are not familiar with it.”
“I saw an amazing feat at the meeting last night.”
“What did they display this time? The famous Indian rope trick?”
“I saw a man levitate.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Levitate? Well, that is impressive.”
“Do you think it was a trick?”
“Did you see any strings?”
“No.”
“Well, then I guess it must’ve been genuine.”
Billings wasn’t sure whether the man was being sarcastic.
“The human body is capable of many impressive feats,” the man continued. “Have you ever been to India?”
Billings shook his head.
“Well, I have. Many times. I saw some impressive things over there. Yogis and fakirs and Sufis. People who train their minds and bodies to do all sorts of things.”
“But to defy gravity, surely...”
“There’s a lot of mystery still out in the world, Mr Billings. If there weren’t, I’d be out of a job.”
“What did you want to warn me about?”
“Well...” The man hesitated. “The Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith have a bad reputation amongst students of the occult. The very name of the society should ring alarm bells. They’ve named themselves after a murderer and a demon herder.”
“What’s a demon herder?”
“Somebody who controls demons. Both Cain and Lilith are connected to the Archangel Samael. Samael was Lilith’s lover, and some traditions believe that Samael, not Adam, was Cain’s real father. Samael means venom of God. He is the angel of destruction.”
Billings couldn’t resist a smile. “I don’t really believe in all this mythology. They’re all just fairy tales to me.”
“That is not the point, Mr Billings. The point is that they believe it. And they take it very seriously.”
“So, what precisely are you warning me against?”
“Well...” The man wavered. “All I can say, Mr Billings, is that if I were you, I’d stay well away from them.”
***
BILLINGS SAT CROSS-legged on the floor, his eyes closed, his hands resting on his knees, his palms facing upwards. A concertina was playing an Irish jig in the pub across the road, and a group of people was singing along, loudly and badly. Billings tried to block out the noise and concentrated instead on his breathing. He focused on the sensations around him: the draft from the window on his back; his shirt rubbing against his stomach; the hard, cold floorboards under his bum and ankles. Soon he’d feel an empty space down there, as his body floated upwards. At least, that was the idea.
A loud bang outside broke his concentration. He opened his eyes and looked at the clock. It was half past six. The pubs had only just opened and already the drunks were turning violent.
He shook his head. He was a fool. Levitation was impossible. The laws of physics could not be circumvented. What he had witnessed had been an illusion. There was no other explanation. And yet... he so wanted it to be true. He so wanted there to be something more to life. Something magical. Something extraordinary.
He got up, put on his dressing gown and went to the window. He opened the lower sash and looked out. The crowd from the pub had spilled out onto the street. Another fight had broken out. Two men were shouting at each other and raising their fists, while their friends held them back.
He remembered Trotter’s words. Dreamers and fantasists. People who are unsatisfied with the way their life has panned out and who are looking for an escape.
He frowned. It was true, he conceded. He was a dreamer and a fantasist. Quakers had always been that way. They shook and trembled and quivered whenever they felt the spirit of God move within them. That’s why they were called Quakers. In fact, all religious people were dreamers and fantasists. Jesus’ resurrection; healing the sick; walking on water. Was that not magic? The belief that there was more to life was something ingrained in all humans.
And yet, the desire to find hidden knowledge, whether by studying the bible, or by joining an expedition to unknown lands, or by peering through a microscope, was irrepressible. Humans were born curious and only became cynical through bitterness, and fear, and old age. There was knowledge out there waiting to be found, and humans were programmed to look for it.
Billings closed the window and went to his desk. He pulled open the drawer and took out a card. He’d received the card earlier that evening. It had been slipped under his door, just like the previous one. And just like last time, he had hurried towards the window to see a man in a black suit walk out of the building and rush down the street.
The card read:
Inauguration of new members of the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith.
We meet tonight at eight outside the gates of Lambeth Dust Yard.
Bring money.
No money, no admittance.
He’d been wondering all evening whether or not to go, but at last he had made up his mind. He put down the card and took a small key out of the desk drawer. Unlocking the desk cabinet, he took out his accounts book. Bank notes and coins fell out as he opened it. He picked up the money and counted it. A little over a hundred pounds.
He took eight shillings and put them aside. Trotter’s wages. He at least would be paid. The rest would have to wait. With a little luck, Mr Doucet would pay them for another week. He pocketed the rest of the money, took off his dressing gown, put on his hat and coat and left.
***
BILLINGS FELT A SENSE of trepidation as he wandered through Lambeth’s industrial estate. It was a dark night, made to look darker by the soot-covered walls of the gas and iron works which surrounded him. Only stray cats walked the streets at this hour.
As he approached the black wrought iron gates of the dust yard, it occurred to him that this was the perfect place to which to lure unsuspecting gentlemen with pockets full of cash.
Damn it, he thought. He should have taken his knife with him. He remembered the warning words of Wolf Augustus at the library and the look of fear on Ruth Grenfell’s face as she spoke of the men who’d followed her. He’d been too pig-headed and stubborn to take them seriously, but now, looking around him at the deserted streets, he felt very vulnerable. He shook his head. Why did he always rush headlong into dangerous situations?
He heard footsteps behind him. Clenching the bank notes in his coat pocket, he turned around. A black-suited man in an ibis mask walked towards him. The same man who had spoken to them at the meeting.
“Put this on,” the man said, holding an object out to him. It was the blue falcon mask.
Billings took the mask off him. “What’s the point of this?” he asked. “You already know who I am. You know my address.”
“I don’t know you, sir. It’s not me who sends the invitations.”
“Who does?”
“Our leader.”
“Who is your leader?”
“Only level five members and above are privy to that information.”
“Level five?”
“There are seven levels. One hundred pounds will buy you promotion to level one. Do you have the money?”
Billings nodded.
“Show me.”
Billings hesitated.
“You have to show me that you have the money before I take you to the temple.”
“The temple?”
“The Temple of Thoth. The venue changes every meeting, but the name stays the same. Have you the money or not?”
Billings reluctantly took a wad of money from his pocket and showed it to the man.
The man glanced at it and nodded. “Follow me.”
Replacing the money in his pocket, Billings put on his mask and followed the man down a narrow brick lane.
They entered an abandoned mill. Three torches on the wall were barely able to illuminate the large, cavernous space. Two other people stood waiting for them: Cat and Monkey. They were looking around them. Quietly, awkwardly. This experience was clearly as novel and scary to them as it was to Billings.
In the corner, Billings spotted a man with a jackal mask sitting at a table, a leather-bound ledger laid open before him.
Ibis put his hand on Billings’ back and led him towards the table.
“A hundred pounds,” Jackal said.
Billings took the money out of his pocket and handed it to him. Jackal counted the money, put it in a small safe and made a notation on his ledger. Falcon: £100 received.
“Your hand,” Jackal ordered.
“My hand?”
“Give me your hand.”
Billings reluctantly reached out his right hand. Jackal stamped it with a wooden stamper.
Billings looked at the insignia: a plough (the weapon supposedly used by Cain to kill his brother) and a black crescent (the astrological symbol for Lilith).
Ibis took a torch off the wall and walked with it towards the far side of the hall. “Follow me,” he said, beckoning Billings, Cat and Monkey.
At the end of the hall stood a large mirror. Ibis stopped in front of the mirror and turned to face the novices.
“Ut imago est animi voltus sic indices oculi. The face is a picture of the mind as the eyes are its interpreter. It is enough to look at somebody’s face to know everything about them. You have all had this experience recently. A complete stranger has looked into your eyes and has told you things about you that they could not possibly have known. And that’s why you are now here.”
The novices looked at each other, surprised that all three had had the same experience.
Ibis smiled. “We are here to learn how to perform such magic. But let me tell you first that there is no magic. The ability to read minds is something all humans are capable of. You, Miss Cat, and you, Mr Monkey, and you, Mr Falcon. You all have the ability to read minds. It is an innate human gift. The problem is, we have forgotten how to use it. We have been relying on our five senses for so long that we have forgotten how to use our sixth sense. Tonight, you shall re-learn this. You shall learn to see what is hidden. All you need is to lift the veil that covers your eyes. To help you do this, we shall be using this looking glass.” He pointed at the mirror. “Outside this mirror is the world the way we know it. But inside the mirror, in the reflection, exists a copy of this world. An illusion. And it is by peering at this illusion that we can find the messages hidden in it. Nearly three hundred years ago, an English sorcerer did the same thing. His name was John Dee, and he was an adviser to Queen Elizabeth. He used a glass ball which acted as an intermediary between him and the realm of angels. With his friend, Edward Kelly, Dee maintained a correspondence with the angel Enoch, and this correspondence was recorded in a series of journals. Through these journals – a copy of which we keep in our library – we have learned the language of the angels. Enochian. It is a powerful, magical language, and today you shall learn your first phrase.”
He paused, giving his audience the opportunity to let the magnitude of what he had said sink in. He strode towards the end of the hall and picked up three sheets of paper and three pencils from Jackal’s table.
“But first, a test.” He held up the utensils. “You shall see with your own eyes the power which the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith possess.” He walked back towards the three novices and handed each a paper and a pencil. “I want you to write down three things. Your place of birth, your age and the name of someone dear to you.”
The novices dispersed with their papers and carried out their assignment. Billings wrote the first two items but had to think about the third one.
“Come on,” Ibis said, clapping his hands.
Billings looked up. He realised now that the other two had already finished and they were all waiting for him. He quickly jotted something down, folded his paper and joined the others.
“All right.” Ibis smiled and rubbed his hands with delight. “Who shall we start with?” He passed his eyes over the novices. He stopped at Cat. “You,” he said, pointing at her. “Go stand in front of the looking glass.”
Cat did as she was told.
Ibis now turned towards Billings. “You, Mr Falcon, shall stand behind her and look over her shoulder at her reflection. By peering at her reflection, concentrating deeply and whispering the magical Enochian phrase which I shall teach you, you will be able to tell Miss Cat’s age, her birthplace and the name of someone she loves.”
Billings took his position behind Cat.
“Now, stare at Miss Cat’s reflection.” Ibis’ voice was lower now, and softer. “Try to block out everything you see in your periphery. Breathe deeply. Concentrate.”
Billings stared at the reflection, breathing in slowly through his nostrils and exhaling through his mouth. After a few seconds, Ibis leaned in to him and whispered in his ear.
“Now, repeat after me. Farzm A Zodimibe.”
Billings looked confused.
“Go on. Say it. It’s Enochian. It means lift the veil.”
“Farzm A Zod...um...”
“Zodimibe.”
“Zodimibe.”
“Now say the first three words that enter your mind.”
Billings thought about this.
Ibis frowned. “Quickly. Without thinking. The first three words that come into your mind.”
Billings blurted out the following: “Thirty-nine. Bath. Reginald.”
Cat gasped. She put her hands to her mouth and spun round to face him.
“Was he right?” Ibis asked.
The woman nodded, flushing with excitement. “Yes! I am thirty-nine! I was born in Bath and my husband’s name is Reginald!”
Ibis smiled. Monkey smiled too. Billings looked confused.
Your turn now, Mr Falcon,” Ibis said. “And your turn to read, Mr Monkey.”
Billings stood in front of the mirror. Monkey took his position behind him. He peered over the detective’s shoulder, whispered the magical Enochian phrase and said: “Thirty-one, Madagascar, Clarkson.”
“Are you thirty-one years old?” Ibis asked.
“Yes.”
“And were you born in Madagascar?”
“Yes.”
“And is Clarkson someone dear to you?”
Billings frowned. Why did he have to write down Clarkson? “Yes,” he mumbled.
Ibis smiled. Cat gasped again. Monkey grinned with satisfaction.
The exercise was repeated once more, with Cat guessing correctly that Monkey was twenty-one, born in Luton and fond of a certain Bessie, who turned out to be his beagle.
“Congratulations, Miss Cat, Mr Monkey and Mr Falcon,” Ibis said. “You are now level one members of the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith, and you have performed your first magic. But do not rest on your laurels. As with anything else, magic requires practice. I urge you all to practice the art of mind reading at home. Use a mirror to help you filter out the seen from the unseen, but be sure that the mirror is in pristine shape. On no account should you use a cracked mirror. Cracks in the filter will let in unpleasantness, and we don’t want that. You will soon receive another invitation. If you want to rise to become a level two magician, be sure to bring another hundred pounds.”
When Billings returned home, his mind buzzing with excitement, a thought occurred to him which instantly snuffed his good mood. Damn it! It was Trotter’s day off today. It was my turn to shadow the maid. He frowned. What to do? What to do?
He rushed to Trotter’s desk and took the reports out of his drawer. There were six of them, one for each day of shadowing. They were practically identical.
I can easily fake a report, he thought. I can copy the actions from the previous ones and alter the times by a few minutes. What are the chances that Miss Bunton deviates from her routine on the one night that she isn’t shadowed? He sat at his desk, pulled some sheets of paper out of his drawer, took the pen out of the inkwell and got to work.
***
“OH, YOU’VE GOT A MIRROR.”
Trotter stood in the doorway, looking aghast at the mirror on the wall which Billings had bought that morning from a pawn shop.
“Why did you put it right in front of my desk?” Trotter asked. “I don’t like having to look at myself all day.”
“I’ll take it down later,” Billings said. “I just want to try something out on you.” He took a pencil and notepad out of his desk drawer and handed it to him. “I want you to write down three things. Your birth date, your place of birth and the name of someone dear to you.”
“What for?”
“It’s a trick. I will look at your reflection and read your mind.”
“But you already know my birth date. It was on my resume.”
“Write down your mother’s birth date, then.”
Trotter frowned. “It’s that business with the rabbi again, isn’t it? You just can’t let that go, can you?”
“That’s right. Now go on, write them down.”
Trotter shook his head. “You’re mad, you are.” He sat down at his desk and jotted something down. Billings leaned against his desk, crossed his arms and waited. Trotter looked up at the ceiling and tapped his fingers on the tabletop.
“Have you finished?” Billings asked.
“I don’t know what to put down for the third point.”
“Put down someone who is dear to you.”
“My parents are dear to me, but that’s too easy for you to guess.”
“Well, write down the name of someone you’ve been thinking about lately.”
“I know!” He jotted something down, folded the paper and clenched it to his chest. “Now what?”
“Look into the mirror and concentrate on the words you wrote.”
Trotter smiled. “You’ll never guess my third point.”
“We’ll see.”
Trotter looked into the mirror. Billings stared at his reflection and concentrated. He whispered Farzm A Zodimibe then blurted out the following: “13th of February, 1860 – Peckham – George Armstrong.”
Trotter gasped. “How did you know that!”
Billings smiled. “Magic.”
“You cheated. You saw me write those things down.”
“I did not cheat.”
“The paper is transparent. You were able to read through it.” Trotter turned the paper over in his hands and inspected it.
“I did not cheat, Trotter. It’s magic.” He sat down at his desk, put his legs on the table and leaned back, smiling smugly.
“There’s no such thing as magic, Mr Billings. There is some sort of trickery at play here. This is a test. You’re testing my powers of perception, but I’ll get to the bottom of this.” He put down the paper. “Did you shadow Miss Bunton yesterday?”
Billings put his feet back on the floor and shifted in his seat. Damn it, he thought. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he lied. “My report is in your drawer.”
Trotter took out the report and looked through it. “It is practically identical to the other ones.”
Billings shrugged. “What can I say? Miss Bunton is a woman of routine.” His heart was pounding in his chest. He was such a terrible liar. He needed to change the topic. “Who is George Armstrong?”
“George Armstrong is a performer.” Trotter took some brown wrapping paper out of his drawer, spread it out on his desk and put the pile of reports on it. “He goes by the name of Strongman George. I watched him perform at the music hall the other day.”
“Why is he dear to you?”
“He’s not. You told me to write down the name of someone I’d been thinking about. Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about him.” He wrapped the brown paper around the reports and tied them with a string. “He has amazing strength, you know. He locks himself up in a cage and breaks out of it by pushing apart the iron bars. Have you ever seen him?”
“I’ve seen his poster. He appears in it wearing nothing but a loincloth.”
Trotter went silent. Billings detected a slight blush on his cheeks.
“He’s dressed according to his role,” Trotter said, not daring to take his eyes off the parcel. “He’s supposed to be Samson enslaved by the Philistines. Slaves wore loincloths in biblical times.”
“I hear he’s very popular with the ladies,” Billings continued, his tongue firmly lodged in his cheek. “They love to stare at his naked, muscular body.”
Trotter’s face went crimson. “Well, I’m not interested in any of that. I just enjoy watching biblical re-enactments.”
“Did you go to the music hall with your girlfriend?”
“I have no girlfriend, Mr Billings. And I have no intention of ever getting one. I am resolved to stay single and carefree for the rest of my life.” He got up, picked the parcel up and headed for the door. “I’d better hurry to the post office. If it goes out this morning, Mr Doucet will receive it tonight.” He made a quick exit.
Billings laughed to himself. He recognised Trotter’s tactic. Tell people early on that you don’t intend to marry; that way they won’t question your lack of interest in women. It was a tactic he’d employed himself once in his youth. He already knew, of course, that Trotter was a homosexual. That was partly why he’d employed him. The world of private detectives was a very manly world, and a pudgy, lily-faced young man with a penchant for bluebell posies would only be ridiculed in any other firm. Billings wanted to protect him from that. Anyway, he felt more comfortable having someone of his own sort as a colleague, even if neither man dared speak openly about it.
Trotter returned a few minutes later. He did not enter the office. He stood in the doorway, staring at Billings with a shocked expression on his pale face. He was clutching a newspaper to his chest. “Oh, Mr Billings!”
Billings sat up. “What is it?”
“You lied to me.”
“What?”
“You did not shadow Miss Bunton last night. You couldn’t have.”
“What are you talking about? Of course I shadowed her.”
“When did you stop shadowing her?”
“When she returned to work this morning. Why are you asking?”
Trotter turned the newspaper around and held it up so that Billings could see the headlines. “The police fished Miss Bunton’s dead body out of the Thames last night.”