Grossmann's Numerology,
Vienna, 1776.
I
The war was well over, Christmas 1945 had gone by and the New Year festivities were still simmering, and Titus Crow was out of a job. A young man whose bent for the dark and mysterious side of life had early steeped him in obscure occult and esoteric matters, his work for the War Department had- moved in two seemingly unconnected, highly secretive directions. On the one hand he had advised the Ministry in respect of certain of Der Fuhrer's supernatural interests, and on the other he had used the skills of the numerologist and cryptographer to crack the codes of his goose-stepping war machine. In both endeavours there had been a deal of success, but now the thing was finished and Titus Crow's talents were superfluous.
Now he was at a loss how best to employ himself. Not yet known as one of the world's foremost occultists, nor even suspecting the brilliance he was yet to achieve in many diverse fields of study and learning — and yet fully conscious of the fact that there was much to be done and a course to be run — for the moment he felt without a purpose, a feeling not much to his liking. And this after living and working in bomb-ravaged London through the war years, with the fever and stress of that conflict still bottled inside him.
For these reasons he was delighted when Julian Carstairs — the so-called 'Modern Magus, or 'Lord of the Worms, an eccentric cult- or coven-leader — accepted his agreeable response to an advertisement for a young man to undertake a course of secretarial duties at Carstairs' country home, the tenure of the position not to exceed three months. The money seemed good (though that was not of prime importance), and part of the work would consist of cataloguing Carstairs' enviable occult library. Other than this the advertisement had not been very specific; but Titus Crow had little doubt but that he would find much of interest in the work and eagerly awaited the day of his first meeting with Carstairs, a man he assumed to be more eccentric than necromantic.
Wednesday 9th January 1946, was that day, and Crow found the address, 'The Barrows,' — a name which immediately conjured mental pictures of tumuli and cromlechs — at the end of a wooded, winding private road not far from the quaint and picturesque town of Haslemere in Surrey. A large, two-storey house surrounded by a high stone wall and expansive gardens of dark shrubbery, overgrown paths and gaunt-limbed oaks weighed down with festoons of unchecked ivy, the place stood quite apart from any comparable habitation.
That the house had at one time been a residence of great beauty seemed indisputable; but equally obvious was the fact that recently, possibly due to the hostilities, it had been greatly neglected. And quite apart from this air of neglect and the generally drear appearance of any country property in England during the first few weeks of the year, there was also a gloominess about The Barrows. Something inherent in its grimy upper windows, in the oak-shaded brickwork and shrouding shrubbery; so that Crow's pace grew measured and just a trifle hesitant as he entered the grounds through a creaking iron gate and followed first the drive, then a briar-tangled path to the front door.
And then, seeming to come too close on the heels of Crow's ringing of the bell, there was the sudden opening of the great door and the almost spectral face and figure of Julian Carstairs himself, whose appearance the young applicant saw from the start was not in accordance with his preconceptions. Indeed, such were Carstairs' looks that what little remained of Crow's restrained but ever-present exuberance was immediately extinguished. The man's aspect was positively dismal.
Without introduction, without even offering his hand, Carstairs led him through the gloomy interior to the living-room — a room sombre with shadows which seemed almost painted into the dark oak panelling. There, switching on lighting so subdued that it did absolutely nothing to dispel the drabness of the place or its fungus taint of dryrot, finally Carstairs introduced himself and bade his visitor be seated. But still he did not offer his hand.
Now, despite the poor light, Crow was able to take in something of the aspect of this man who was to be, however temporarily, his employer; and what he saw was not especially reassuring. Extremely tall and thin almost to the point of emaciation, with a broad forehead, thick dark hair and bushy eyebrows, Carstairs' pallor was one with the house. With sunken cheeks and slightly stooped shoulders, he could have been any age between seventy and eighty-five, perhaps even older. Indeed there was that aura about him, hinting of a delayed or altered process of aging, which one usually associates with mummies in their museum alcoves.
Looking yet more closely at his face (but guardedly and as unobtrusively as possible), Crow discovered the pocks, cracks and wrinkles of years without number; as if Carstairs had either lived well beyond his time, or had packed far too much into a single lifespan. And again the younger man found himself comparing his host to a sere and dusty mummy.
And yet there was also a wisdom in those dark eyes, which at least redeemed for the moment an otherwise chill and almost alien visage. While Crow could in no wise appreciate the outer shell of the man, he believed that he might yet find virtue in his knowledge, the occult erudition with which it was alleged Carstairs had become endowed through a life of remote travels and obscure delvings. And certainly there was that of the scholar about him, or at least of the passionate devotee.
There was a hidden strength there, too, which seemed to belie the supposed age-lines graven in his face and bony hands and as soon as he commenced to speak, in a voice at once liquid and sonorous, Crow was aware that
He was up against a man of great power. At length, after a brief period of apparently haphazard questioning and trivial discourse, Carstairs abruptly asked him the date of his birth. Having spoken he grew silent, his eyes sharp as he watched Crow's reaction and waited for his answer.
Caught off guard for a moment, Crow felt a chill strike him from nowhere, as if a door had suddenly opened on a cold and hostile place; and some sixth sense warned him against all logic that Carstairs' question was fraught with danger, like the muzzle of a loaded pistol placed to his temple. And again illogically, almost without thinking, he supplied a fictitious answer which added four whole years to his actual age:
'Why, 2nd December, 1912,' he answered with a half-nervous smile. 'Why do you ask?'
For a moment Carstairs eyes were hooded, but then they opened in a beaming if cadaverous smile. He issued a sigh, almost of relief, saying: 'I was merely confirming my suspicion, astrologically speaking, that perhaps you were a Saggitarian — which of course you are. You see, the sidereal science is a consuming hobby of mine, as are a great many of the so-called "abstruse arts". I take it you are aware of my reputation? That my name is linked with all manner of unspeakable rites and dark practices? That according to at least one daily newspaper I am, or believe myself to be, the very antichrist?' And he nodded and mockingly smiled. 'Of course you are. Well, the truth is far less damning, I assure you. I dabble a little, certainly — mainly to entertain my friends with certain trivial talents, one of which happens to be astrology — but as for necromancy and the like .. I ask you, Mr Crow — in this day and age?' And again he offered his skull-like smile.
Before the younger man could make any sort of comment to fill the silence fallen over the room, his host spoke again, asking, 'And what are your interests, Mr Crow?'