The Compleat Crow (4 page)

Crow glanced around the room, at its high shelves and dusty, book-littered tables. Books seemed to be piled everywhere. There must be close on seven or eight thousand volumes here! Three months no longer seemed such a great length of time. On the other hand, from what little he had seen of the titles of some of these tomes…

“I am sure,” he finally answered, “that my work will be to your complete satisfaction.”

“Good!” Carstairs nodded. “Then today being three-quarters done, I suggest we now retire to the dining-room for our evening meal, following which you may return here if you so desire and begin to acquaint yourself with my books. Tomorrow, Thursday, you begin your work proper, and I shall only disturb you on those rare occasions when I myself visit the library, or perhaps periodically to see how well or ill you are progressing. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” answered Crow, and he once more followed his host and employer out into the house’s airless passages. On their way Carstairs handed him the key to the library door, saying:

“You shall need this, I think.” And seeing Crow’s frown he explained, “The house has attracted several burglars in recent years, hence the bars at most of the windows. If such a thief did get in, you would be perfectly safe locked in the library.”

“I can well look after myself, Mr. Carstairs,” said Crow.

“I do not doubt it,” answered the other, “but my concern is not entirely altruistic. If you remain safe, Mr. Crow, then so do my books.” And once again his face cracked open in that hideous smile…

They ate at opposite ends of a long table in a dimly lighted dining-room whose gloom was one with the rest of the house. Titus Crow’s meal consisted of cold cuts of meat and red wine, and it was very much to his liking; but he did note that Carstairs’ plate held different fare, reddish and of a less solid consistency, though the distance between forbade any closer inspection. They ate in silence and when finished Carstairs led the way to the kitchen, a well-equipped if dingy room with a large, well-stocked larder.

“From now on,” Carstairs explained in his sepulchral voice, “you are to prepare your own meals. Eat what you will, everything here is for you. My own needs are slight and I usually eat alone; and of course there are no servants here. I did note, however, that you enjoy wine. Good, so do I. Drink what you will, for there is more than sufficient and my cellar is amply stocked.”

“Thank you,” Crow answered. “And now, if I may, there are one or two points…”

“By all means.”

“I came by car, and—”

“Ah! Your motor-car, yes. Turn left on the drive as you enter through the gate. There you will find a small garage. Its door is open. Better that you leave your car there during the week, or else as winter lengthens the battery is sure to suffer. Now then, is there anything else?”

“Will I need a key?” Crow asked after a moment’s thought. “A key to the house, I mean, for use when I go away at weekends?”

“No requirement,” Carstairs shook his head. “I shall be here to see you off on Fridays, and to welcome you when you return on Monday mornings.”

“Then all would appear to be very satisfactory. I do like fresh air, however, and would appreciate the occasional opportunity to walk in your gardens.”

“In my wilderness, do you mean?” and Carstairs gave a throaty chuckle. “The place is so overgrown I should fear to lose you. But have no fear—the door of the house will not be locked during the day. All I would ask is that when I am not here you are careful not to lock yourself out.”

“Then that appears to be that,” said Crow. “It only remains for me to thank you for the meal—and of course to offer to wash the dishes.”

“Not necessary.” Again Carstairs shook his head. “On this occasion I shall do it; in future we shall do our own. Now I suggest you garage your car.”

He led Crow from the kitchen, through gloomy passages to the outer door, and as they went the younger man remembered a sign he had seen affixed to the ivy-grown garden wall. When he mentioned it, Carstairs once more gave his throaty chuckle. “Ah, yes—‘Beware of the Dog!’ There is no dog, Mr. Crow. The sign is merely to ensure that my privacy is not disturbed. In fact I hate dogs, and dogs hate me!”

On that note Crow left the house, parked his car in the garage provided, and finally returned to Carstairs’ library. By this time his host had gone back to the study or elsewhere and Crow was left quite alone. Entering the library he could not help but lick his lips in anticipation. If only one or two of the titles he had seen were the actual books they purported to be…then Carstairs’ library was a veritable goldmine of occult lore! He went directly to the nearest bookshelves and almost immediately spotted half-a-dozen titles so rare as to make them half-fabulous. Here was an amazingly pristine copy of du Nord’s
Liber Ivonie
, and another of Prinn’s
De Vermis Mysteriis
. And these marvellous finds were simply inserted willy-nilly in the shelves, between such mundane or common treatises as Miss Margaret Murray’s
Witch-Cult
and the much more doubtful works of such as Mme. Blavatsky and Scott-Elliot.

A second shelf supported d’Erlette’s
Cultes des Goules
, Gauthier de Metz’
Image du Mond
, and Artephous’
The Key of Wisdom
. A third was filled with an incredible set of volumes concerning the theme of oceanic mysteries and horrors, with such sinister-sounding titles as Gantley’s
Hydrophinnae
, the
Cthaat Aquadingen
, the German
Unter Zee Kulten
, le Fe’s
Dwellers in the Depths
, and Konrad von Gerner’s
Fischbuch
, circa 1598.

Moving along the shelved wall, Crow felt his body break out in a sort of cold sweat at the mere thought of the
value
of these books, let alone their contents, and such was the list of recognisably “priceless” volumes that he soon began to lose all track of the titles. Here were the
Pnakotic Manuscripts
, and here
The Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan
; until finally, on coming across the
R’lyeh Text
and, at the very last, an ancient, ebony-bound, gold-and-silver arabesqued tome which purported to be none other than the
Al Azif
itself!…he was obliged to sit down at one of the dusty tables and take stock of his senses.

It was only then, as he unsteadily seated himself and put a hand up to his fevered brow, that he realised all was not well with him. He felt clammy from the sweat which had broken out on him while looking at the titles of the books, and his mouth and throat had been strangely dry ever since he sampled (too liberally, perhaps?) Carstairs’ wine. But this dizziness clinched it. He did not think that he had taken overmuch wine, but then again he had not recognized the stuff and so had not realised its potency. Very well, in future he would take only a single glass. He did not give thought, not at this point, to the possibility that the wine might have been drugged.

Without more ado, still very unsteady on his feet, he got up, put on the light in the alcove where his bed lay freshly made, turned off the library lights proper, and stumblingly retired. Almost before his head hit the pillow he was fast asleep.

He dreamed.

The alcove was in darkness but dim moonlight entered the library through the barred windows in beams which moved with the stirring of trees in the garden. The curtains were open and four dark-robed, hooded strangers stood about his bed, their half-luminous eyes fixed upon him. Then one of them bent forward and Crow sensed that it was Carstairs.

“Is he sleeping, Master?” an unknown voice asked in a reedy whisper.

“Yes, like a baby,” Carstairs answered. “The open, staring eyes are a sure sign of the drug’s efficacy. What do you think of him?”

A third voice, deep and gruff, chuckled obscenely. “Oh, he’ll do well enough, Master. Another forty or fifty years for you here.”

“Be quiet!” Carstairs immediately hissed, his dark eyes bulging in anger. “You are never to mention that again, neither here nor anywhere else!”

“Master,” the man’s voice was now a gasp. “I’m sorry! I didn’t realise—”

Carstairs snorted his contempt. “None of you ever realise,” he said.

“What of his sign, Master?” asked the fourth and final figure, in a voice as thickly glutinous as mud. “Is it auspicious?”

“Indeed it is. He is a Saggitarian, as am I. And his numbers are…most propitious.” Carstairs’ voice was now a purr. “Not only does his name have nine letters, but in the orthodox system his birth-number is twenty-seven—a triple nine. Totalled individually, however, his date gives an even better result, for the sum is eighteen!”

“The triple six!” the other’s gasp was involuntary.

“Indeed,” said Carstairs.

“Well, he seems tall and strong enough, Master,” said the voice of the one already chastised. “A fitting receptacle, it would seem.”

“Damn you!” Carstairs rounded on him at once. “Fool! How many times must I repeat—” and for a moment, consumed with rage, his hissing voice broke. Then, “Out! Out! There’s work for you fools, and for the others. But hear me now: he is The One, I assure you—and he came of his own free will, which is as it must always be.”

Three of the figures melted away into darkness but Carstairs stayed. He looked down at Crow one last time, and in a low, even whisper said, “It was a dream. Anything you may remember of this was only a dream. It is not worth remembering, Mr. Crow. Not worth it at all. Only a dream…a dream…a dream…” Then he stepped back and closed the curtains, shutting out the moonbeams and leaving the alcove in darkness. But for a long time it seemed to the sleeping man in the bed that Carstairs’ eyes hung over him in the night like the smile of the Cheshire cat in Alice.

Except that they were malign beyond mortal measure…

III

In the morning, with weak, grime-filtered January sunlight giving the library a dull, time-worn appearance more in keeping with late afternoon than morning, Crow awakened, stretched and yawned. He had not slept well and had a splitting headache; which itself caused him to remember his vow of the previous night, to treat his employer’s wine with more respect in future. He remembered, too, something of his dream—something vaguely frightening—but it had been only a dream and not worth remembering. Not worth it at all…

Nevertheless, still lying abed, he struggled for a little while to force memories to the surface of his mind. They were there, he was sure, deep down in his subconscious. But they would not come. That the dream had concerned Carstairs and a number of other, unknown men, he was sure, but its details…(he shrugged the thing from his mind) were not worth remembering.

Yet still he could not rid himself of the feeling that he
should
remember, if only for his own peace of mind. There was that frustrating feeling of having a word on the tip of one’s tongue, only to find it slipping away before it can be voiced. After the dream there had been something else—a continuation, perhaps—but this was far less vague and shadowy. It had seemed to Crow that he had heard droning chants or liturgies of some sort or other echoing up from the very bowels of the house. From the cellars? Well, possibly that had been a mental hangover from Carstairs’ statement that the cellars were out of bounds. Perhaps, subconsciously, he had read something overly sinister into the man’s warning in that respect.

But talking—or rather thinking—of hangovers, the one he had was developing into something of a beauty! Carstairs’ wine? Potent?…Indeed!

He got up, put on his dressing-gown, went in search of the bathroom and from there, ten minutes later and greatly refreshed, to the dining-room. There he found a brief note, signed by Carstairs, telling him that his employer would be away all day and urging an early start on his work. Crow shrugged, breakfasted, cleared up after himself and prepared to return to the library. But as he was putting away his dishes he came upon a packet of Aspros, placed conspicuously to hand. And now he had to smile at Carstairs’ perception. Why, the man had known he would suffer from last night’s over-indulgence, and these pills were to ensure Crow’s clear-headedness as he commenced his work!