‘Now, the second act, as it were. As I was about to say, the Reserved Manuscript Depository at King James University is little known outside academic circles. Access is strictly by written appointment, and one must sign a waiver absolving them of liability. Only then will Solomon Drake ask you to sign the visitors’ book. It is an old book, dating to the eighteen-eighties and it would be enlightening to discover the names of the good, the bad, and the mad who have signed it, but Mr Drake would never permit it. Well, almost never: he did once make an exception for me. The legalities dealt with, Mr Drake takes a large iron key and escorts you through a small iron door into a windowless chamber. Once it was lit solely by candlelight, but early last century gas was installed, and this still serves today. No mains or battery-powered equipment is allowed inside. On entering, your attention is drawn to the iron cage in the centre of the room and the reading desk and chair within. A man may stand in that cage and touch any two of its five sides at once. The bars are about a hand’s width apart and the base is cast iron. I advise thermal socks.’
Tried to lighten the moment there but not even a flicker of a smile from O. Assume I don’t need to tell him magick cannot abide iron and its alloys. Editors lead frightfully dull lives, and as the depository is the nearest I get to anything perilous I like to play it up a bit.
‘All said,’ I continue, ‘it is an appalling room, and many give up at this point. Assuming your nerve holds, you sit at the reading desk within the cage and wait while Mr Drake retrieves the requested texts from the strongroom. These he brings in copper-lined boxes and puts on the reading desk. Do not attempt to touch them.
‘Then comes a little speech. The reader must not open the boxes until Mr Drake has exited and locked the door of the cage. Cotton gloves must be worn at all times when handling the books. When your hour is finished you must return the manuscripts to the boxes exactly as you found them—this will be checked—and dispose of the gloves in the waste bin. Believing you are overawed by this litany, Mr Drake attempts to reassure you by smiling. You are not reassured. Lastly, Mr Drake tugs at a rope suspended from the ceiling and you hear a bell ring in the distance. This, he assures you, will bring someone to release you from the cage.
‘Now, I dare say you think this is to prevent theft, yes?’
O shrugs. I have no idea if this is in reply to my question or mere indifference. There’s something odd on the ceiling above his head. Wonder if it’s a spider’s web catching in the light. Damned if I can see it properly and I can hardly stare at it. Desperate for a glass of water. Pork scratching’s stuck in a tooth.
‘Well, you are partly correct,’ I tell him. ‘I have been in that ghastly room three times and each I think more unpleasant than the last.
‘But, back to Van Zelden. Several months after the encounter in New Amsterdam, I was reading a monograph by Organ Morgan in the King James University reading room when I noticed Van Zelden at the enquiry desk. Of course, I knew immediately what he was doing, so I hid my head behind Organ Morgan. When Mr Drake told Van Zelden he needed an appointment for the depository I thought there would be a scene; but no, he was all smiles at the desk and only the slight twitch of his head as he walked away betrayed his impatience. He has a nervous tic, have you noticed? It’s only apparent when he thinks no one is looking.
‘Excuse me one moment. Feeling a bit warm.’
If I don’t loosen my tie, I’ll gasp. Sip of whisky to ease the pipes.
‘When I returned Organ Morgan to the desk I asked after Van Zelden and said I knew of his interest in MacGregor.
‘Ah, indeed? Drake replied. That would explain why the gentleman asked if we held anything on magick, theosophy, and hermeneutics from MacGregor’s library. I thought it unusual he should know exactly where we might keep such works.
‘Of course, most embarrassing. Drake knew I’d spilled the beans, as it were. For obvious reasons the library doesn’t advertise the works it holds in the Reserved Manuscript Depository. I enquired if Van Zelden had mentioned me at all. Drake raised an eyebrow in reply and asked if I wanted him to mention my name when Van Zelden returned.
‘That was the very last thing I wanted. Instead, I asked Drake if he thought Van Zelden would return.
‘Oh yes, he said. He’ll be back. They always do.’
Really, I have to get a drink. I’m gasping. Pork scratchings have done for me.
‘Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me a moment. Glass of water.’
Jonathan is round at the other bar. Bunch of lads in the back room. All leathers and beards. No doubt the owners of the motorbikes outside. Red Lion draws a rough crowd at times. I try to catch Jonathan’s eye.
‘One moment, Nevil. Serving these gentlemen.’
I glance back at O and catch him staring at the fire. He’s dressed entirely in black. Hadn’t noticed that before.
‘Right, Nevil, what can I get you?’
‘Just a glass of tonic water. Bit dry from all this talking.’
‘Quiet sort, your friend?’
‘Oh, you noticed that as well. Hardly heard a blasted word he said, frankly. Still, keep our voices down. Don’t want him overhearing.’
‘No. We wouldn’t want that.’
He gives me a wink and I give him a coin for the tonic water. I take a sip and it instantly hits the spot and I rejoin O.
‘Where were we?’ I ask.
O turns to face me. He has the most extraordinarily long face and frightfully dark eyes. Reminds me of an African mask I once saw. Still, mustn’t let it bother me. H&D surely know what they’re doing.
‘Van Zelden, that’s where,’ found my place again. ‘I can only give you my version of events, but I think you’ll find I’m perfectly reliable. I seldom pay attention to show business, but, knowing Van Zelden’s interest in MacGregor I caught one of his television shows. Most disturbing. I have no sympathy for the dark arts, but, if one’s expertise is Scottish literature one cannot help learning something about magick. Van Zelden’s talent for psychic manipulation and divination was beyond rational explanation. He had acquired, as he put it to me in New Amsterdam, the real thing. It brought applause from his audience and, as I later discovered, condemnation from the Roman Catholic and Lutheran Churches. Quite right too. Whatever Van Zelden had sought in MacGregor’s books, it was obvious he had found something. I wrote to him immediately, warning of the danger he was in, but he never replied. Then, last year, Van Zelden announced in The Times that he was the first practising seer in public view in over a century and the heir to Sir Tamburlaine Bryce MacGregor!’
I sit back expecting some sort of reaction from O, but it’s the same enigmatic stare.
‘Anyway, you can imagine what I thought of that. I had given Van Zelden what he wanted, and now he accused MacGregor, to whom I had given half a lifetime of study, of witchcraft.’
I’m getting quite cross recalling all this. Slow down and take a sip of tonic water. Don’t get flustered.
‘Frankly, I was furious. I learned of Van Zelden’s claim a few days earlier when The Times contacted me in my capacity as secretary of the Sir Tamburlaine Bryce MacGregor Society. I refuted everything and cited the evidence of MacGregor’s journals and twenty years of research. The reporter seemed sympathetic to my argument, but it was a charade. The published article ignored everything I said. No offence,’ I leant forward. ‘But in my experience journalists prefer a good story to good facts. One or two scholars dismissed Van Zelden’s claims, but the majority had no opinion and a few even agreed with him.
‘Obviously, I had to do something. So, I proposed a new edition of This Iron Race to counter Van Zelden’s lies, and Hare and Drum agreed. Which brings us here.’
Not that he’s taken a blind bit of notice of where we are, and he’s still not touched his pint. Still, not my coin so why let it bother me. On with the story.