The House of Lost Souls - F. G. Cottam [113]
‘Klaus Fischer died in Buenos Aires in the spring of 1983,’ Lascalles said. ‘He had reached the age of eighty-eight. It was a long life. Such a man would have compelling reasons for going to his death reluctantly. But die he eventually did, twelve years ago, peacefully it was reported, in his sleep. Five months after his death, you were visited in hospital by a man who seems to have shared many of Fischer’s characteristics.’
Seaton nodded.
‘Not in his dotage, of course. But in his formidable prime. Think of the girth, of the flamboyant attire and the cigars. Think of that teasing expertise on the subject of the occult. Did he enjoy music?’
Seaton thought about this. ‘I only went once to his home. I was renting a bedsit in Dalston, scraping together the fare to get me away to the States. I was obliged to list my address with the hospital and he must have got it from them because one morning the postman delivered a note from him inviting me round for tea. As I say, I went only the once. He owned a large flat in a mansion block in Victoria. He showed me his listening room. He possessed a stereo system that must have cost him several thousand pounds.’
‘It’s impossible,’ Mason said.
‘Jesus,’ Seaton said, ‘the hypnotism.’ He had remembered the words of Pandora’s journal, the hypnotic power she had witnessed in Fischer, confined to the boat cabin with him on their wretched crossing. He put his head in his hands. And the priest crossed the distance to him and put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
‘Courage, my son,’ he said. It is not your fault. Nothing prepares us for such encounters.’
Mason said, ‘You really think it’s him, Father?’
Lascalles shrugged. ‘I can tell you only this for certain. Before 1983, there is no record of the existence of a Doctor Malcolm Covey.’
‘They’re so clever,’ Seaton said.
And Lascalles frowned. ‘There is no “they”, Paul. We face only one adversary.’
‘I’ve seen them, Father. They have tried to do me harm.’
‘Manifestations.’
‘Is Covey a manifestation?’
‘Paul,’ the priest said. ‘I would say you are named in honour of the appropriate saint.’ Steel had replaced the avuncularity in his voice. Both of the men in the room with him tensed. It was very late by now, approaching two in the morning. But Father Lascalles seemed to be strengthening with the hours rather than having his age betray him with fatigue. ‘Fischer burns in hell,’ he said. His voice was like a file reducing iron. ‘They burn in hell, all of those who served him at the time and in the place we are discussing. Covey may or may not be a man. But he is a mere servant, a puppet. We face the foe we have faced since the Fall. Him only. To forget this fact would be fatal for both of you.’
He turned and walked over to one of the bookcases and put a hand into a pocket-slit sewn into the side of his soutane. The hand emerged with a pair of spectacles. He unfolded their wire arms and put them on, and fingered spines along a bookcase shelf. It was obvious to Mason that, even with the spectacles, he was searching blind, waiting for his index finger to recognise the texture and breadth of the spine he was seeking. It only took a moment, really. His hand stopped and he pulled out a small volume with marbling on its cover. The sight of it made Seaton gasp audibly. Mason felt a stab of sympathy for the Irishman. For him, this was turning into a night of revelation.
‘Yes,’ Lascalles said to Seaton. ‘As you have observed already with your sharp eyes, she was in some ways a creature of habit. She always bought the same notebooks in which to inscribe her thoughts. You need to read this, Paul.’ The priest’s voice was gentle again, compassionate. ‘Reading this will answer questions I have not.’
Twenty-Five
6 October, 1937
I do not accord that date any particular significance.