A Murder Mystery with Magickal undertones

'I wrote The Compact intending to depict a sort of autumnal romance between two older women of the 1890s, whose early love had been cut off by marriage. Of course, the process of writing a story throws up all sorts of characters, and I soon found that my ladies were dealing with a bit of an uncontrollable psycho in the form of Minerva Atwell - who turned up out of the blue. Then a very young Aleister Crowley came along; and my background research uncovered his intense affaire de coeur with Jerome Pollitt, a splendidly eccentric amateur female impersonator, who was also a patron of Aubrey Beardsley. The next thing I knew was that Dr Watson (temporarily separated from Sherlock Holmes) involved himself in the plot -  and the whole thing became a murder mystery with Magickal undertones. It was a lot of fun to write, so I do hope you enjoy this short extract. The story opens as Alexandra Roberts, an artist with a somewhat bohemian household, has fallen under the influence of the powerful, charming Minerva Atwell. Harriet Day, her friend, a quiet piano teacher, has meanwhile become fond of Alex’s newest lodger, the forgetful, mediumistic young actor George, protégé of Valentine Cabot, a theatrical manager. Valentine’s search for financial backers brings him into contact with the young Aleister Crowley, his lover the Aesthete Jerome Pollitt – and a lonely Dr Watson, taking on a little investigation of his own in the absence of Sherlock Holmes. Things quickly take a grim turn as an unexpected death, a rabidly homophobic enemy and the unhealthy influence of Minerva Atwell whirl all the characters into a darkening spiral.'

Charlie Raven

 

A few days later, George Arden had a free morning and decided to call on his friend Harriet Day. He found her sorting out letters and photographs. A drawer from her desk had been removed and the contents had been divided up and piled on the floor. She seemed pleased to see him and stopped her work immediately.  

“You see, Mr Arden, I am taking your advice a step further. Not just the spare bedroom but all the nooks and crannies of the house. I’m going to go through each one and discard any old sad unnecessary remnants. It’s all going. I’ve sent Peter’s old clothes to the poor and his toys to the hospital. I have to confess I rid myself of my husband’s clothes long ago. And I shall have more plants and flowers growing absolutely everywhere, as long as I can remember to water them. A jungle of them!” 

“How interesting,” said George. “I would never have thought of doing that.” 

“But this is a direct result of your intervention,” said Harriet with a quizzical look at him. 

“Ah, good,” George nodded. “This is so nice, though isn’t it? Sitting here like this. I like your house now. It’s a lot more peaceful.” He looked round the room as they talked. The pale-blue papered walls were hung with a variety of pictures, large and small. In quite a few he thought he recognised the fluid, confident brushwork of Harriet’s friend. “Surely some of these are by Mrs Roberts?” he asked, peering intently at a little picture not far from where he sat. 

It was of a young lady in a bonnet and white dress, looking back over her shoulder. She was standing at the end of a jetty; and there was an opal sea-light behind her. Wind was tugging at a deep-blue ribbon and the painter had made the shine on the silk the same  colour as the young lady’s eyes. 

“And this is you yourself, isn’t it?” he said, glancing across at Harriet to check her eyes. 

“Yes, it is,” said Harriet shortly. “By the sea at Ramsgate. Mrs Roberts was a keen artist, then as now. Not Roberts then, of course. She was a Silver.” 

George stood up to look more closely at the picture. Then he reached out a finger and, touching the silver of the frame, said, “Your life is full of secret signs. Clever of you,” 

Harriet made no comment and turned the conversation to how his work was going. 

“It’s going well, thank you,” he answered slowly, pushing the dark hair back from his forehead. “Quite hard, currently. I am helping almost every day from twelve o’clock at the Parnassus, moving things and running to and fro; and then performing, afternoon and evening and getting home at one or two in the morning. Valentine says this is a good thing for us. The moving things behind the scenes is dusty and cobwebby.” He sighed. “But today I’m free, no work at all. Valentine has something planned. He keeps saying there is a great opportunity coming for us, a play which will be famous in the West End. We’re having a meeting tonight at Dame Fortune’s with some rich gentlemen.” 

“That is simply wonderful!” exclaimed Harriet with enthusiasm. “What is the play?” 

“He’s very secretive about it,” said George. “Between you and me, Mrs Day, I think he hasn’t really written it yet. He’s got his shoebox of scripts out and he’s shuffling the papers to and fro and combining them in different sequences, but mostly he just goes out lunching and dining. He says this is because there is a particular set of people who will pay good money to help us put on a play and he has to make them interested. It costs a lot of money to make them invest, so that’s what has to happen.” 

“Oh, I see. So, the idea is still only an idea? Well, mighty oaks, you know, Mr Arden!” 

“Oaks?” 

“From little acorns grow. Big things come from small beginnings.” 

“Yes, yes, I see.” George nodded seriously again. “And you are well, and Mrs Skipton?” 

“Mrs Skipton is very well indeed. She speaks of you often, as a matter of fact. You must have been especially kind to her because she seems to think you are rather a paragon of Christian virtue. As for myself, well, as you see, keeping busy. I have my students.” 

“I rather hoped I would see you at Mrs Roberts’s one day,” said George. 

“Oh, yes, I’ll be coming over soon, you’ll see. Mrs Roberts is a busy person, a busy woman of business.” 

“I’m sorry,” said George. 

“Why sorry, Mr Arden?All is well, all is as it should be. Rather like your Valentine Cabot, she too has to pursue her patrons. Commissions don’t fall from trees.” 

“Not even oak trees,” added George. There was along silence and he continued to regard her sympathetically. 

“Well, there’s no point preetending to you, I can see that,” said Harriet. “I think you and I are friends, aren’t we? Even though you’re so young and I’m so old, and you’re male and I’m female, you’re a foreigner and I’m an Englishwoman. And I don’t know, there are so many other reasons why we should not be allowed to be friends, in the normal course of events.” 

“I can’t think of any reasons,” said George. “And you’re not old and I’m not young.” 

“Very well,” went on Harriet, “I’m going to tell you something which I hope you will keep to yourself. Can you do that?” 

“Like the Sphinx,” said George. 

Harriet, looking at his face with its pale olive skin and luminous dark eyes, said, “The Sphinx, yes, perfect. As silent as the Sphinx then. Well, then, Mrs Roberts seems to be very much taken up with a certain patroness of hers, a certain very rich, very beautiful, but rather young woman. And it is making me feel – not happy. I’m worried about her, truth be told. I can’t say a word about it, of course, any more than you can object to your Valentine’s pursuing all his rich patrons.” 

“He’s not my Valentine,” put in George very calmly. “He’s tiring. It’s tiring being with him. But point taken.” 

Harriet paused at these words, but being in full flow on the subject of Alexandra, she continued, “And she has changed remarkably over these past two weeks. I think she gets anxious about what this woman will think of her, or say to her, or suggest next. The first warning sign was a sudden illness which made her cancel an engagement between us – not Mrs Roberts being ill, you understand, Mr Arden, but a fake illness the woman had concocted to steal Alexandra’s day from her. Alex told me of it when we met afterwards and the thing which struck me as odd, and very unlike herself, was that she thought it was funny. An endearing, funny little trick like a kitten tangling one’s wool. And then she seems to have engrossed her attention every day, day after day. 

“Then there was an afternoon last week when she, Mrs Roberts, turned up here out of the blue and was in distress because the woman had taken something she said amiss. It turned into a most terrible argument, apparently, and the woman had stormed off and threatened to – well, this really has to be a secret, Mr Arden – she threatened to harm herself in some unspecified way. Of course, she did no such thing. But the upshot was that Alexandra Roberts, an independent, dignified and experienced woman, was hammering at this other woman’s door in a panic. 

“Well, that is such girlish nonsense for one thing, and for another, it is most upsetting. And then there was some kind of exchange of expensive gifts to make up for all the boiling panic. I don’t know! How can she have the money to spend on expensive gifts? I know she has not! And I’m sure I don’t know the half of it because when I made some slight disapproving noises – really the very slightest and most discreet – Alex flew into a rage with me. We haven’t spoken since. And I do know this: some people are accustomed to causing chaos and drama wherever they go and it’s a way of controlling everybody around them. Best avoided, best avoided if possible!” 

George listened silently to this uncharacteristically vehement speech, nodding from time to time. “And what will you do?” he asked when she had fallen silent. 

“What can I do? If I say something to criticise this woman, it will simply harden Alexandra’s resolve to stick with her. She has got it into her head that she has a tragic history and this is why she is so lonely and desperate, and she needs a mentor. But I think this is how Alex makes herself feel equal to her, because the lady is wealthy and so on and so forth, as I have said. It’s a tiresome muddle. And they’ll travel together and see mountains and deserts and treasures and I don’t know what else. And it will look as if I’m jealous and unkind if I say a word of criticism. Do you see?” 

“It’s very painful,” said George. 

“Yes, it is. That is exactly the word. And I told you before all about our long, long friendship. I would have thought that counted for something, but it seems not.”

They both sat staring into the fire. Finally George said questioningly, “I think it might be the lady with knife?” 

“Lady with the knife? No, no. It’s a lady with face cream and powder puffs, that’s all. It’s very good, the powder puff. I know because Mrs Roberts was so very kind as to bestow a Beauty Balm Compact upon me, gratis. Very thoughtful of her. Wasn’t it.” 

George regarded her with his head tilted very slightly to one side and she immediately added, “Yes, I know. Bitter. I won’t be bitter, not for long. I’ll throw it all out. That’s what I was doing. All her letters. I’m putting them in the kitchen fire.” Harriet felt her eyes prickle with tears. She stood up hastily. “And so I must get on, dear Mr Arden. I have a student coming in – oh – twenty minutes, it seems. Come and see me again soon, won’t you? And good luck with your meeting tonight. I hope your rich gentlemen help you and Valentine.” 

George looked thoughtfully at her for a moment and said, “I think the next time I see you – it will be very dark.” 

“How very mysterious,” Harriet said with a smile. Silly thing, she thought fondly as she watched him through the window, wallking away down the street.