The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(148)
‘I know; I’m thinking of ordering a box of silver bullets.’
‘My word, Mortdecai,’ he cried, clapping his hands merrily, ‘you always were a resourceful fellow, even the Dean said as much when you almost won the Newdigate with a thousand lines lifted from Shelley’s Cenci. Did you get rusticated that time?’
‘No, I played the “youthful prank” gambit. The Proctors hit me for fifty pounds. My father paid. I threatened to marry a barmaid if he didn’t.’
‘There you are again, you see. Resourceful. But no, try to avoid killing him. As to capturing him, I really cannot offer any suggestions. He will be endued with Fiendish cunning, you understand, and will have all sorts of other resources which we cannot gauge, it really depends on whether he’s been to Chorazin or not.’ He seemed to be addressing himself.
‘Chorazin?’
‘Ah, yes, well, just a scholarly aside, not to the point really. It’s a place mentioned in the Bible, just a few mounds today – or so they tell me – and one goes there, or rather chaps like your witchmaster go there, to complete their education, so to speak.’
‘A sort of Sabbatical?’ I prompted.
‘Just so, ha ha. Very good. Yes, they went there to, as it were, pay their respects to Someone; it was called the Peregrinatio Nigra, the Black Pilgrimage, you know.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry, dear boy, I had forgotten that undergraduates used once to have a little Latin. Now; catching this chap; I honestly cannot think of a method which would have much hope of success. I suppose one could leave an attractive young woman unguarded in a spinney or copse – but who would volunteer to be the bait? One could hardly tether her, could one, it would look suspicious. No, I think your best plan is to fight him on his own terms and bar him from your neighbourhood for good – make him cry vicisti, which – ’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. Yes; you must give him a whiff of grape-shot and let him know that he’s outgunned; he will give you best, I’m sure, and turn his talents elsewhere. In short; you must have a Mass said.’
‘A Mass?’
‘A Satanic Mass, naturally. One of the real, juicy ones. You will then be, as it were, under the protection of his, ah, Supervisor, and he’ll have no choice but to leave you and yours alone. You might say it will put the fear of the Devil into him, heh heh.’
I found myself in a quandary. How real was the witchcraft element in our rapist? Dryden, the top scholar in the field, clearly was satisfied that the man was a dangerous adept – but then, how potty was Dryden? Could I go back to Jersey and tell George and Sam that what we needed was a Black Mass? On the other hand, what was on the other hand? Lying out night after night in damp potato fields, hoping that the chap would blunder into one’s arms? And what would that prove? Or lie in wait in the wardrobes of likely victims’ bedrooms? Quite absurd; moreover, if the Beast of Jersey was any guide, our man would have been watching the chosen house for hours, perhaps days, and rapable women abound in Jersey – if you don’t object to legs like bedroom jugs.
‘Very well,’ I said at length. ‘We’ll give the Satanic Mass a crack of the whip; I’m sure you know best.’
‘Capital, capital; I always said that you were a capable man. I remember saying so to the Dean when –’
‘Yes, John. Now, how does one go about arranging that sort of beano?’
‘Of course, let us be practical. First, we must select a suitable Mass. What? Oh, goodness, yes, there are many. Many. By far the best is the Medici Mass, it never fails, it is positively and finally lethal, but there are no reliable texts of its Graduale to be had – all corrupt, every one of them, such a shame. In any case, the Missa Mediciensis involves the dismemberment of a beautiful young boy, which I fancy you might think a horrid waste – or am I thinking of a chap with a name like yours who came up in the same year as you?’
‘Bonfiglioli?’ I asked.
‘Yes, that was he. Sorry, Mortdecai. And in any case, unless your Jersey witchmaster is uncommonly learned he may not have heard of that particular ritual and it is of the greatest importance that he should know what forces you are throwing against him. You see that, don’t you?’
‘It makes sense, certainly.’
‘Ah. Yes. Now I have it: the very one, the Messe de Saint Sécaire.’
‘And who, pray, was Saint Sécaire?’
‘Well, he probably wasn’t a saint; in fact he may never have been what you or I would call a person even, but his name is known everywhere from the Basque country to the Lowlands-Low amongst the sort of people who know about that sort of thing.’
‘You speak in riddles, John.’
‘Naturally. Now, you will need only three things: first, an unfrocked priest, for the ritual demands it. I know the very chap: he teaches in a prep-school in Eastbourne and is both reliable and cheap. It will only cost you his steamer-fare – chaps like that never travel by air for obvious reasons – and a few bottles of Pastis; some clean straw to sleep-it-off on and perhaps a couple of fivers as a going-away present.’
‘I have a servant called Jock who will anticipate his every need.’
‘Splendid. Then, you will need a text of the Ritual. There is only one sound copy in existence: it is in the incomparable library of a ridiculous old lecher called Lord Dunromin. I shall give you a letter to him: if you grovel a bit and pretend to believe that he is – as he loves to think – the wickedest man in England, he may be persuaded to let you have a sight of the manuscript and copy out such parts as differ most grossly from the Ordinale. Pay particular attention to the peculiarities of the Introit, the Kyrie and the, well, the equivalent of the Agnus Dei.’