Call Me Ismay (2 page)

Meanwhile, during the four years in which Langston had chronicled the MP from East Surrey (Kingston-Upon-Thames, to be exact), there was an especially dark shadow laying over the name of Lyons that remained unpublished. The whispers first came to Langston from somewhere in the political realm, elusive... the sort of rumor that lingers and persists but somehow is never written down nor properly accounted for. It was said, with dogged insistence, that Edward Lyons had dabbled in necromancy- and not just on a shallow, casual level. Although seances were not uncommon amongst the privileged and influential upper echelons of London society, this was said to run deeper...
far
deeper.

As Langston continued walking at a steady pace down Church Lane, the list of alleged transgressions on the part of Edward Lyons began to scroll through his head as it had so many times before, sending a nervous energy through him, causing alternate feelings of heat and cold all over his body. The sounds of small wet stones grinding under his shoes as he hurried along, occasionally resulting in a loud cracking noise, were an unwelcome reminder of the sound of gunfire... a noise that was sure to engulf the streets of London if he didn't proceed on this story with the greatest caution.

Lyons, it was supposed, alleged, and hinted at- no mere apprentice necromancer. Langston had been told and strongly suspected that Lyons's frequent use of biblical parables within the context of his political speeches was intended to cast a spell upon his constituents, not to invoke the power of prayer. Langston had furtively mentioned his suspicions to a few colleagues, and they had brushed him off, insisting that Lyons was only striking political poses, and nothing more. What disturbed Langston the most was the multitude of anonymous letters, insisting that Lyons had engaged in rituals involving the blood of sacrificial animals- and alarmingly, perhaps even blood procured from humans. (It was claimed the blood had been collected voluntarily from a few willing participants, but in some cases it might even have been taken from subjects that had not given their full consent.)

These letters had been arriving at the
London Daily Chronicle
for quite some time addressed directly to Langston. A young staffer at the
Chronicle
, Stanley Johns, had a quiet agreement with him- that he would intercept any letters in the mailroom  appearing to come from this particular source, and make certain they were delivered to Langston personally. Langston would then review the contents in private. Whomever the author was, they had always used precisely the same yellow parchment paper, writing their details in an oddly elongated hand, and had placed a seal on the envelope using dark red beeswax. The seal itself had remained a mystery to Langston, who believed that it resembled a bastardized version of a Masonic symbol. However, as a recent Entered Apprentice, Langston was extremely reluctant to consider any possible link between the letters and a non-political organization.

It was always at this moment of reflection that Langston caught himself sighing out loud in frustration at the preposterous details in some of the letters. Weird passages included descriptions of a hotly contested and argued upon Prophecy, supposedly foretelling of the ascension of a vampiric leader, when it was generally accepted within that dark world there were no true leaders, just blackhearted lieutenants who meted out destruction and punishment as they saw fit. Yet the sheer volume and depth of those handwritten letters, evidently coming from one unknown source, was so painstakingly precise in detail. (Langston never told Stanley Johns the contents of the special letters, but the young man was sensitive to the probability they contained important material, due to the fact that Langston frowned deeply whenever they were presented to him.) Since time immemorial, some political enemies have never restrained themselves from engaging in underhanded, even diabolical, attempts to subterfuge their rival. Of course, there was also the likelihood of Lyons as a public figure getting unwanted and unwarranted negative attention from someone quite possibly unstable, therefore rendering them an unreliable source. However, Langston found himself unable to ignore the fact that some of these letters and their details had passed through the first few steps of an investigation as though they could be true; on page after page, specific dates, times, and locations had been mentioned. Langston painstakingly reconstructed Lyons's schedule, determining that in all reported instances, the MP from Kingston could very well have been at some of the unholy events  these letters had described. Even more disquieting, Langston was able to track down witnesses who had at least seen Lyons near the locations in question.

As Langston made final his approach to the church, he shot a quick glance behind to ensure that no one had seem him approach the building- and also to confirm he hadn't been followed. The morning rain had begun to intensify and he could begin to feel the moisture seeping in through the cloth of his cap. Langston took a brief moment to steel his nerves as he prepared to enter the church's arched granite doorway- but momentarily, he found himself distracted by the sight of a sundial in the apex of the gable.
Bloody lot of good a sundial will be on this rainy day
, he thought humorously to himself. He allowed himself a soft chuckle- but then he couldn't help but notice the inscription just above the sundial, its eccentric Middle English letters etched in stone and darkly enhanced by the rainwater:

Life's but a shadow

Man's but dust

This Dyall Says

Dy we all must.

Langston stood blinking at the lettering far longer than he had anticipated. Rain continued to fall, splashing into his face, and yet his gaze was unbroken even as small rivulets of rain momentarily blurred the lettering.
Is this a warning?
The thoughts raced through his head.
Is it too late for me to leave Devon? For God's sake, is someone following me?
He allowed himself another furtive glance over his shoulder, confirming that the trail behind him was empty.
This is insane, that is just doggerel from centuries ago,
he assured himself. However, his brief respite was snatched from him as he took one more look at the sundial- specifically, what was resting above it; gazing down upon him was what appeared to be a crudely shaped skull. Langston removed his water-fogged glasses and shuffled his feet for a moment as he contemplated its grim, eternally grinning countenance.

“Enough nonsense,” he finally muttered to himself impatiently. “Let's get on with it.” He reminded himself that gargoyles often were used by churches to convey messages to common, illiterate people, and the skull was meant most likely as a grim reminder of mortality and death. He gently pushed the church door open, letting himself in. He allowed his eyes to readjust as he removed his cap. Indeed, it would take several moments for his vision to accommodate the empty church's early morning gloom, and to properly clean his glasses on the corners of his jacket. He found himself once again taken aback by the sheer size of the church. Nothing in his research up until this point had indicated that the Church of All Saints in Winkleigh was more than a modestly sized place of worship. As Langston fumbled in his pockets for his diary and his pencils, once more the nagging concerns surged forward in his mind- the worries that he may have been misled, or perhaps he had misunderstood Lyons from the beginning. His stomach lurched a bit, and he wished for a moment that he had availed himself of a continental breakfast back at the George Hotel. However, as he brought the diary into his grasp, he reminded himself that this latest lead, if correct, would finally determine whether or not his suspicions were justified.

Langston tried to quietly clear his throat, but his attempt still resulted in what sounded like a large frog, his utterance echoing with a deep resonance on the ancient walls. The dark, wet smell of old stones filled his nostrils- cathedral air, he called it- as he opened his diary, searching for the information he needed.
It's not as if I have to check it again
, he thought to himself.
That is- I mean to say- I know that HE is here.
As he thumbed through the pages that he'd visited so many times before, he at last came to the section in his handwritten notes he had been looking for. 'Bartholomew Gidley. 1728-1762. Subtitle: The Situation.' So many nights he'd spent contemplating those dates, waiting and wondering, wanting so badly to see those numbers actually etched in stone.

Langston took a fearful step, then another, followed by another, worried over how much noise he was making, fretting about just what exactly he would do when he found what he was looking for. He narrowed his eyes as he continued to move forward on the Bittbear Aisle of the Gidley Chapel, unsure of the precise location of what he was seeking. He allowed himself one quick glance upward- taking in the view of the church's exquisite ceiling, which consisted of timber rafters and arch braces. At last, he could make out the form of the crypt he was seeking. Yes, there it was on the wall, its enigmatic epitaph bringing him sorrow- while the information he'd brought along in his diary evoked simultaneous anger and confusion.

Here underneath lyeth

Immaturely enterr'd

and

Generally lamented

BARTHOLOMEW GIDLEY EsqUIRE

Nephew and heir to ye deceased

And Father

To ye surviving

Who left this Transitory World

And his affectionate and Disconsolate Wife

Who erected Him this Monument

With Four Sons and as many daughters

2nd of Aug: in 34th year of his age

And of our Lord 1762.

Langston allowed himself one last moment of sadness and reflection as he finished reading the inscription:

All you deare pious relicts hither Come,

Bedeck with flowers, Bedew with Teares his Tomb.

His Love, his Kindness, still retain in mind,

No Parent was more fond, or husband kind.

Indeed, it could not be said that those who had left this memorial so many years ago felt anything but the utmost respect and deep abiding love for Mr. Gidley. Langston closed his eyes and allowed himself one quick recitation of the Lord's Prayer- then drew a sigh, looked around the sanctuary once more, and assured himself that no one was nearby. It was time to resume the role of journalist, not pilgrim.

However, he would only manage to take one step when the sensation hit him- warmth, sweat, and the almost certain arrival of another bout of diarrhea. He froze, groaning in despair. This was a problem that had been plaguing him for nearly a year now- ever since the anonymous letters had increased in frequency and taken on an even more urgent tone than before. Langston knew that his condition had to be the result of bottling in the information and compartmentalizing his life for so long- his worries literally were eating at him. As he glanced around in the dim gloom of the chapel, he was thankful to be alone in the event of soiling himself- a dreadful thing which he'd endured many times before. He reminded himself that the feeling might pass in a few moments- a false alarm, perhaps- and he'd be able to continue his work. Gingerly, he took a step or two backwards and then eased himself into the foremost pew of the chapel. He caught his breath and reflected on the cruel irony of being so close to the subject of his quest, only to be crippled by a digestive system that had been strained and tested to its limits by enduring stress. He closed his eyes in an attempt to concentrate- to focus on Bartholomew Gidley- yes, Bartholomew Gidley, dead for 149 years and yet as much as a daily presence in Langston's life as any living soul had been. Gidley, with his estate in Moretonhampstead, son of the town clerk, a solicitor and--

Langston sighed heavily as the absurdity of it all washed over him, then allowed himself to think the controversial thoughts once more: Bartholomew Gidley, solicitor and current Parliamentary Private Secretary for Edward Lyons.

Current.
Current
. Langston's stomach roiled in hot anger as the insanity of the statement rolled over him once more.
Poppycock!
Gidley, the portly little monitor of the backbenchers, did cut an enigmatic figure with his peculiar reticence and short, dark curly hair that never seemed to move, but come now - was this little PPS a veritable Lazarus? And yet, the detailed insistence of Langston's source seemed to be pointing in that direction. Whomever the mole was, they'd done an astoundingly good job of detailing Lyon's daily habits and routines, placing him accurately at certain locations at specific times. It had occurred to Langston that perhaps it may have been Lyons himself who'd been winding him up for his own amusement, so intimate the details were; however, he'd been able to conclusively determine the notes were not written in the MP's hand. Keeping a charade so tightly choreographed for so long would have been an impossibility, especially in an environment where loyalties can turn on a sixpence. Langston did remind himself that the directions he'd been given in looking up Bartholomew Gidley's resting place did not directly make weird immortal claims, and in fact may have instead been referring to a concealed cipher in the memorial's epitaph. But although the directive was frustratingly vague, he'd been able to memorize it and come to his own conclusions with ease:
Bartholomew Gidley has risen from deep sleep in Winkleigh and sits at the right hand of Lyons. Seek his monument in the chapel if you believe me not, and bare (sic) your tools for the fight that comes after.