Kate gave a slight gasp. “The founder of the Order of the Oak?”
“One of the founders, yes, of that ancient guild of magicians. He was the greatest scribe in history, and my father’s mentor. He’s been dead nearly forty years now, but he clearly inscribed this church with a spell of some sort.”
“Any idea what it could be?”
“No.” Simon raised a nervous eyebrow at her and gently lowered the woman’s body to the floor. He strode back to the center of the church where he scuffed his chalk runes with his boot, and then returned to the sexton. “Sir, I thank you for your generosity toward us, and your kindness to her.” He handed the man a gold sovereign.
“Thank you, sir. I’ve got a terrible feeling this killing has some horrible devilish purpose, sir. It must be black magic, sir.”
Simon nodded thoughtfully.
The sexton looked frightened. “Don’t you wish to contradict me, sir?”
“By no means. Good morning to you.” He led Kate and Malcolm out into the cold night where the carriage waited. Simon slid into the seat. “Horrifying ritual. Can’t fathom a meaning though.”
Malcolm stared at the pensive Simon. “Maybe there is none. It could be the work of a lunatic. Maybe you see magic where others don’t.”
“That murder was certainly the work of a disturbed mind. I don’t want to trouble the police in their mission, but we will offer consultation. I’ll make contact with my friend Sir Henry Clatterburgh at the Home Office.”
The driver snapped the reins on the backs of the mounts and they were away as Kate said, “There were no ligature marks on the body, nor signs of a struggle. From the amount of blood, the killing obviously took place there.”
“Drugged perhaps?” offered Simon.
Kate held up a small vial filled with blood. “I’ll find out.”
“I’m not as much concerned with the how as I am the why.” Simon stirred from his contemplative pose and looked at Kate. “Didn’t Hawksmoor design several churches around London?”
“Yes. Five or six. I’m not sure.” Kate then posed the question, “If the killing is ritualistic, why not use the altar?”
“Who can say with occultists?” was Malcolm’s response. “They’re all a bit insane, aren’t they?”
Simon offered the Scotsman a withering glance.
Kate took Simon’s pad and pencil and wrote a few lines. “The names on the floor are peculiar. I’m shocked I don’t recognize them at all.”
“Let’s have a look.” Malcolm took the pad and regarded it curiously. Then he laughed and tossed the pad back. “Sorry, lass, you’re on a wild-goose chase with those.”
“What do you mean?” Kate exclaimed. “You recognize them?”
“I do.”
“Well, who are they?” Simon urged.
“Don’t get your cravat all bunched. They’re the mad ravings of a lunatic poet.”
“A poet?” Simon said.
“William Blake, ecstatic and rambler. Those names are from his works.”
“How uncommonly fascinating”—Simon reclined and tapped his lips thoughtfully—“that you know something of poetry.”
“Do you care to know what I know? Or would you rather be smug?”
“A difficult choice, but go ahead.”
“These names are Blake’s four zoas. That’s some sort of bloody spirit. In his unintelligible mythology, the great giant Albion, a first man of sorts, was rendered into these four elements in the ancient past.”
“I see.” Simon regarded the Scotsman with interest. “And then what?”
“And then nothing. Then the world happened as it did.”
Kate asked, “Is this part of the legend that has the giants ruling Britain before Brutus and the Trojans arrived?”
Malcolm answered, “It’s hard to say. Sometimes Albion seems more like Adam, sometimes like Jesus. Blake was prone to visions and he conjured an entire foundation myth for Britain that lacked the one thing a good mythology needs—coherence.”
Simon said, “I’ve never heard these names before, so if he took them from some existing mythos or occult tradition, then it must be a very obscure one.”
“They are from no existing tradition,” the Scotsman scoffed. “He probably saw the names on the floor of that church, promptly forgot about it, then had some fit where he thought angels spoke the names to him.”
“We need to know which poem in particular contains those—”
“Jerusalem,” Malcolm stated. “The Four Zoas. And perhaps Milton.”
Simon’s lips twitched at the corners. “You seem very well versed on this matter.”
“Why does it surprise you that I can read?”
“It doesn’t. I just never took you for a poetry lover. Do you prefer the romances, or are the darker epics your cup of tea?”
Malcolm stifled a growl.
“I think it’s splendid,” Kate told the Scotsman with a warm smile. “The warrior poet.”
Simon tried not to notice her enthusiasm and instead focused on Malcolm. “I had no idea, my good man. Do you write a bit of verse too?”