The Triforium Read online

  However, it would have been far worse for Emma to have heard about the chanting of the ladies in the silver chairs. They rarely went to the absinthe fountains. They preferred maintaining a close relationship with their ghosts. The silver-chair women and their ghosts sought answers, not through the convulsive fits of Vincent Van Gogh, but through the aberrant lifestyle of another absinthe drinker, Aleister Crowley.

  Crowley was a nineteenth-century mystic. He was the wealthy son of a brewer from Plymouth. He was also a hedonistic magician who was said to have killed his pet cat as a boy. Crowley had many labels that could be affixed to his name. He was a poet, a libertine, an occult philosopher, an Egyptologist, a publisher, a chess player, and devotee of the notion that light is found in the depths of darkness. He invented the word “abracadabra,” a word Crowley may have used often while engaged in rumored acts of cannibalism, infanticide, and human sacrifice.

  However, it was the belief of the silver-chaired women that Aleister Crowley’s brilliance and understanding of the occult only came about when he spent time with his dark angel — his ghost. They were sure that this could only come about when he had abandoned any attempt to control or subdue his ghost with heavy dosages of absinthe.

  When a witch refused to take her absinthe, she would seat herself in a silver chair. There she would let her ghost, her dark angel, take charge. Before the Wedjat eye, the left eye of Ra, she would then worship.

  The silver-chair women believed the Wedjat had the power of the lunar force, that it governed menstruation and had certain healing qualities. They were sure that it was the embodiment of the power of women. That it held dominion over intuition, magic, and things non-linear, knowledge that is felt but not reasoned. But all too often when ladies of the club seated themselves in these chairs things got out of control. All too often the result was an attempt at some kind of sorcery.

  Artemisia now came down the steps from the second story of Tipsy Dolls. At the landing, she turned to Maeva and gave a wink as she made an okay sign with the fingers of her right hand. Maeva breathed a sigh of relief.

  It was now time that she turned and addressed all of her sisters, those seated in the green chairs as well as those seated in the silver chairs.

  “Ladies. Ladies, please. We have to commence now. Could I have a bit of quiet? We have the minutes of last Friday’s meeting to be approved and a report from the Advisory Committee, then there’s the budget to go over. Ladies, please!”

  The incessant chanting of the silver-chaired women wouldn’t stop. Maeva was patient by nature but knew her people all too well.

  She shouted to Artemisia, “I think we should start the meeting with refreshments first. Don’t you?”

  “It would seem best,” she yelled.

  Artemisia then shuffled off to the bar a little unsteady in her clogs. As she did so, she motioned to a few of the other women in the green chairs to assist her. They had all been drinking for a while and becoming a bit unsteady on their feet.

  At the bar, they began to quickly fill some green cut crystal goblets with three or four ounces of the strongest absinthe, the 175 proof. After this the glasses were placed under the fountains that had been filled earlier with water and shaved ice. Slotted spoons with sugar cubes on them were then placed on top of each goblet. The faucets to the fountain were opened to allow for a steady drip of cold water onto the sugar cubes. The sugary slurry dripped down into the green liquor in the goblets, changing its color to a milky opalescence. The crystal goblets were then placed on silver trays and carried to the women in the silver chairs by the women who had been reclining in the green chairs. The process took a long time. There had to be several trips to the bar and then back to the silver chairs. There was at least one mishap where a tray fell to the floor. But the mess was cleaned up and the goblets kept coming.

  Initially, many of the women in the silver chairs were reluctant to take their absinthe. They had to be restrained by a couple of the green chair women, who were then forced to pour the elixir down their throats.

  Maeva watched approvingly as she sipped a cocktail of absinthe and champagne, called “Death in the Afternoon.”

  Eventually all the women who had been seated in the silver chairs had got up and re-seated themselves in the green chairs.

  Maeva then announced, “I call this meeting of WITCH to order.”

  “Thank you, sisters. I really need all of you in the green chairs today. We have some very interesting news to discuss. Normally, I don’t like to forgo the appropriate sequences in our agenda, but we have something so exciting to discuss that I feel we should get right to it. Do I have a motion to table today’s agenda and take up this new matter?”

  “I motion that we … we take up this new issue and worry about today’s agenda next Friday.”

  “Anyone to second Artemisia’s motion?”

  “I’ll second Artemisia’s motion,” said a woman who had just recently been cashiered from the Royal Navy, and who now went by the Wiccan name of Hecuba.

  Maeva took another sip from her cocktail and asked, “All in favor?”

  Those who voted all said, “Aye.”

  “Good, we have a report to discuss. Hecuba, will you please tell our sisters what you saw on Wednesday?”

  The athletic-looking middle-aged woman stood up. “As you all know, I prefer the silver chair. Absinthe keeps you pretty focused, but I don’t like exercising with a drunk on. I was visiting a friend a few days ago, in Croydon, and took a little time to jog down Walpole Road. As I was jogging behind the Holiday Inn, I saw this man walking toward me down the sidewalk. The sight of him stopped me full in my tracks. Again, I’m telling you that I hadn’t been drinking, but this guy was the most unusual person I’d ever seen. A lanky guy in his late twenties who looked more like a kid than a man. But there it was. I was dumb struck … his ghost.”

  Murmuring went about. “What do you mean you saw his ghost?” someone said.

  “I’m not delusional. I saw it … all blue and luminescent. It was sticking out of the top of this guy’s head. What’s more, it wasn’t anything like Crowley’s ghost. It was a really ugly looking thing…”

  Maeva interrupted her, “Perhaps that’s because it’s a larva. I don’t think any of us have seen a larval ghost. Larva is pretty ugly.”

  “Well?” Hecuba said snidely. It was apparent by the sarcasm in the tone of her voice that she didn’t appreciate having her report interrupted.

  Hecuba took no joy in Maeva. She frequently told the women of the silver chairs that she thought Maeva was a stuck-up rich bitch. And Maeva didn’t care much for Hecuba as well, despising the way she had just become a member of WITCH and within a short time bulldozed her way into being the spokesperson of the silver chairs. By being pushy, she’d made inroads among the green chairs as well. Especially after she had concocted a ceremony that actually managed to summon up the ghost of Aleister Crowley.

  Maeva gave an exaggerated nod to Hecuba, who smirked and continued on with her account.

  “So, I turned myself around and followed him. A few minutes later I saw him enter a small office located on Bedford Park. I stood outside for a few minutes. I could see in. This man seated himself at a desk and didn’t come back out. I didn’t see anybody else in there with him. The office window said Butterfield and Son Architects.”

  The women seated in the chairs now turned to one another, looking for some kind explanation. As they turned their attention back to Hecuba, none of them noticed that the shaved ice in the two absinthe fountains was slowly drifting and rearranging itself into patterns. Perhaps it was because translucent shapes of ice in water are hard to pick out, or because everyone had had far too much to drink, or maybe it was the excitement of Hecuba’s news that was keeping them focused on her. In one of the fountains a high forehead formed and then a pair of mutton chop sideburns. In the other, the i
ce transformed into a pointed chin and a long sharp nose. Eyes followed and peered out at Hecuba as intently as the eyes of everyone else assembled there.

  Maeva took the floor again. “I’ve consulted all of our literature, including the old tracts. I went to several psychiatric hospitals and nursing homes and talked about this with several of our senior sisters. Nobody has a clue as to what this means.”

  “Well, I think I do.” Now it was Hecuba’s turn to interrupt. “I’ve backed way off the booze and have been spending a lot of time talking with myself — my spirit and I — and we agree that this guy — I’m guessing his name is Butterfield. This Butterfield guy has managed to get his spirit pushed partly out of him. Don’t know if it was intentional, but we sure do need to find out how it happened.”

  “Do you think it will leave him on its own?” asked Maeva.

  “The best I can glean from my ghost is that there has been some kind of break with the soul. I think we should consider kidnapping him to learn from him how to unscramble our own souls. Kick his ghost all the way out of him. Hey, if we fail we’re only messing with the mind of a man.”

  Other people were agreeing with Hecuba, but not Maeva.

  “That would be premature, I think. Let me have a little more time to look into this. We’ve been living with this mishmash in our heads all of our lives; we can give it a bit longer I believe.”

  “This Butterfield,” said Hecuba, “if that’s his real name, is still young. We have time. But he might be hit by a lorry or fall off Millennium Bridge or something. So what do you have in mind?”

  “Let me research the subject a little longer, and if he still remains a mystery, we’ll bring him in. Then Hecuba, you might wish to talk to him in your very special way. As you said, he’s just a man.”

  Normally, it would be unkind to describe the laughter of a group of women as cackling, but not in this case. When the last shriek subsided, Maeva put the issue to a vote. Everyone endorsed the proposition at hand. This time there was a vigorous “Aye!” from all of the women seated in the silver chairs.

  Chapter Six

  The Dean of Westminster

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi had been seated at his desk in the Triforium when the ringer box of his 1915 office telephone rang. Grabbing the upright candlestick phone by the Bakelite shaft, he raised it up while removing an Ignatsio Gaudelupe maduro torpedo No. 2 cigar from his mouth. Leisurely exhaling smoke, he placed his cigar in a vivid green malachite ashtray on his desk. Uncradling the earpiece from the hook, he placed the receiver up against his ear, while bringing the mouthpiece up to his lips.

  “Hello, Reverend Poda-Pirudi speaking. Ah, Newton it’s you. I was hoping to hear from you. And how are you and Chuck getting along?”

  The diaphragm in the Reverend’s receiver vibrated frantically with Sir Isaac’s words.

  The Reverend spoke tersely. “I see. Well, the two of you have been only a few feet apart for the past 130 years; it’s quite understandable that you might be feeling a bit of a strain. But Sir Frederick Herschel is buried right next to him and I’ve never heard a bad word about Darwin from him.”

  He backed the earpiece away from his ear to distance himself from Newton’s shouting. “Sir Isaac… Sir Isaac…”

  The Reverend attempted to interrupt, but decided to let Newton vent.

  As the irritability in Newton’s harangue softened, Reverend Poda-Pirudi decided to again hazard a conversation. “Well perhaps I should have considered sending him and Herschel out on this but I have the highest confidence in you.”

  This opened the door for another long-winded tirade, which like its predecessor ran its course in a minute or two.

  “Yes I know that he has a few issues, but, to be frank with you, I’d forgotten all about his agoraphobia. I guess London isn’t really the place to be out and about in that sort of condition. He’s doing what? Well is it working? So then what’s the problem? It’s embarrassing? No one can see the two of you unless you want them to. How can you feel embarrassed? Look, just get used to it, and please get along with your assignment.”

  Sir Isaac’s ghost didn’t want to get along with his assignment. He gave even freer rein to his feelings. The Reverend reached down for his cigar. Taking it to his lips he took in a long luxuriant drag of Dominican tobacco before replacing it on the ashtray. He was now prepared to speak.

  “Sir Isaac I’m getting cross with you. Please let us focus on the little task I’ve asked the two of you to do for me. I promise in the future I will have Sir John Herschel accompany you and not Charles … no, not Herschel too? Honestly you’re just upset with him because he named seven of Saturn’s moons and four of Uranus’s. I’m sure that you could have seen them in your Newtonian telescope. He just named them, that’s all. Come on, you did very nice work with your prism and the visible spectrum. That’s right, everybody appreciated it. Yes, yes, they still appreciate it. And the Laws of Motion, too. Please Ike, let’s get on with this! What do you have to report?”

  The Reverend could now bring the receiver closer to his ear. He listened intently as Sir Isaac related the day’s events. Not until he had finished his story and was taking an extra jab at Darwin, did the Reverend interrupt.

  “So it’s some kind of secret society? A cult based on absinthe and the Egyptian goddess Sekhmet? You say some of them are followers of Aleister Crowley’s ghost? Reverend Poda-Pirudi laughed. “You know Isaac that absinthe is made from the herb wormwood don’t you? And the ancient Egyptians used wormwood to drive out their intestinal parasites. These witches have latched on to a dewormer and coupled the teachings of that nut Crowley with it and made a cult. Ha! That’s a good one! What? What was that? Oh that’s too funny. I’ll have to use that one. What is life but carbon acting strangely? Very good. Very good. Did Darwin think of that? No, no, no, just kidding, just kidding.”

  The commotion that was taking place outside the office of Reverend Poda-Pirudi was not normal. Over the centuries he had made every effort to teach people to keep clear of the triforium. He couldn’t imagine what was going on now.

  “Sorry Ike, something has come up and I’ve got to get off of the phone now. Do give me a buzz when you’ve got more to report and do keep an eye on Chuck. Yes, yes, I know I know. Bye.”

  A bespectacled, goateed man wearing a single-breasted black cassock strode through the Reverend’s mahogany bookcase. He was followed by a group of ladies in their Sunday best.

  “This is the window I’ve told you about. Come over here and take a look.” The Dean of Westminster gestured with a welcoming flourish of his hand.

  The ladies gathered around the Dean as he triumphantly pointed down.

  “There, didn’t I tell you that this was an exceptional view? There’s the high altar and below us, the Cosmati Pavement. Of course, on the other side of the altar is Edward the Confessor’s Chapel, which contains the tomb of the Abbey’s sainted founder, King Edward the Confessor. Whom, I’m sure you all know, founded the Abbey, which was consecrated on the 28 th of December in the year 1065. That was just a week before King Edward died. And exactly nine months to the day from this official consecration, William the Conqueror invaded England.”

  There was a polite murmuring among the ladies in response to these facts.

  The Dean knew his audience well, and he reckoned that now was the moment for his final sales pitch.

  “So you see how important it is to open this entire area up to the general public? It is vital that the West London Women’s Civic Association support our plans to turn this attic into our new museum.”

  That remark brought Reverend Poda-Pirudi to his feet as his desk chair tumbled backwards onto the highly polished ebony and white oak parquet floor.

  “What was that?” blurted out a woman in a teal satin suit jacket.

  The Dean looked a bit puzzled, but he quickly volunteered, “Well,
I suspect that something in storage has just fallen over. But a building this old makes all sorts of noises.” He laughed and added, “Of course there are all those old legends about the triforium being haunted.”

  “Haunted?” asked the woman in teal. “Do you believe in ghosts Dean?”

  He chuckled, “Oh no. Though I’m sure some of our employees do. As for me, as it should be for us all, it’s Hebrew 9 verse 27, “And just as it is appointed for men to die once, and after that comes judgment.” Ladies, there is no in between death and resurrection … no ghosts. But I assure you, what the staff thinks it sees is no doubt due to the gullibility of some and their over-active imaginations. I’ve been about this place for several years now and I swear that the only thing scary about it is the electricity bill.”

  The Dean did not get the laugh with that joke that he had hoped for. The women of the West London Women’s Civic Association were apparently a serious group.

  “Oh, even though there are no ghosts, do tell us about them. I mean … the stories,” insisted the woman in the teal jacket. “No harm in telling a story. Even though the Abbey isn’t haunted, it still must have lots of good ghost stories.”

  “I love ghost stories,” added a woman in a white silk pantsuit.

  “Oh, well, in that case I’d be glad to,” the Dean said, clasping his hands together, hoping that a good tale might produce good donations.

  “Well, as you may know, back in the day of Oliver Cromwell, King Charles I was put on trial by the Rump Parliament. This was during our Civil War in 1649. Well, the old tale for this part of the Abbey involves a judge, a regicide judge. His name was Jonathan Bradshaw. He was the First President of the Council of State and presided over the high court of justice that tried the king and then sentenced him to death by having his head chopped off.”