Originally published 2020, in Stonecoast Review, Issue 13. Edited by Delaney S. Saul & Katrina Ray-Saulis.
It’s a crisp October afternoon in London, and a murmuring crowd is already flocking around the crime scene. There’s a familiar fat constable manning the yellow line. I fumble for his name as I approach.
"Murder on Halloween?" I say, extending a hand. “Bit cliché, innit, Constable Walsh?”
His cherubic face brightens, and he shakes my hand. "Quite right, Detective Inspector Northerby, sir. Quite right.” He nods to my partner. “Detective Inspector Harris.”
“Constable,” Harris says, nodding back. He’s terrible at remembering names.
"SOCOs here?"
"Yessir," Walsh says.
“Good.”
Harris and I swish under the yellow cordon and make our way into the shop.
Bella's Tearoom is bright and colorful. Lots of flowers, lots of fancy paintings hanging from the walls in gilded frames. Lots of pink. Looks like a little girl's idea of what a teahouse should look like. Not my little girl, mind you. Rosie likes Star Wars and Abbott & Costello Meet the Mummy. Ray guns and monsters.
The smell hits me and I'm glad I haven't had lunch. Strong, sour smell like a mix of smoke, nuked steak, and bad eggs. I hear Harris gag, and turn to see him running for the door. Ham-on-rye splatters the pavement outside.
The Scene of Crime Officers direct me to a table where the smell is strongest. Several other SOCOs are dusting for prints, taking pictures, bagging evidence.
A crumpled pile of powdered ash sits on a black and blistered wicker chair. Nothing else is burnt.
“Detective Inspector,” a SOCO says, handing me a mask and a pair of gloves. She’s young, likely fresh out of Academy. Her cool-blue eyes look at me expectantly over the mask covering her mouth and nose.
“Thanks.” I bend down, examining the chair. “Cause of death?”
“Immolation, we think. No trace of accelerants, though.”
“Strange. We ID the vic?”
“Yes, sir. Eyewitnesses say Allen Morgenstern.”
I stand and look at her. “The bloke who writes the Milton Blake books?”
She nods and holds up a clear baggy filled with several blackened teeth. “Dental will likely confirm their reports.”
“Damn. My little girl loves those books.”
“I love those books, sir. I’ve re-read them God-knows how many times. And the last one—”
“These witnesses,” I say, cutting her off. I know all about the seventh Milton Blake book: I’m in the middle of a re-read with Rosie. She’s obsessed. “They ready to talk?”
“Think so, sir.”
“Let’s get them down to HQ. Smells terrible in here.”
***
Interview Room 5A is more of a broom closet, and like everything else here at Metropolitan Police Headquarters in Bishopsgate, it’s plain and worn-down. Scuffed-up checkerboard linoleum floor, scuffed-up steel table, scuffed-up stack of black plastic chairs looming in a corner.
Harris and I grab two chairs and place ourselves across the table from the witness.
This guy looks like a werewolf from some 70’s B-movie. He’s got a dark brown shag haircut, a cocaine addict’s beard, and a lazy eye going sideways behind a pair of thick glasses.
“Shit, man,” he says in an undeniably American accent. “I can't, this is just—"
“Sorry?” Harris asks.
“It's like, I write horror stories professionally, right? This is, it's like something I'd write, but it happened in real life, right in front of me.”
I hold up a hand. “Let's start from the beginning, shall we? I’m Detective Inspector John Northerby, and this is my partner, Detective Inspector Mark Harris. State your name for the record, please.”
The American takes a deep breath. “Oh, right, sorry. Stanley Price.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Price?”
“Maine, mostly. Florida when Maine gets too cold.”
“What brings you to London?”
“Just visiting for a bit. Next book is set here, and nothing beats hands-on research. Even had a ride-along with one of you bobbies—"
“We’re Detective Inspectors,” Harris interjects. “Big difference, Stan.”
If I’m the consummate professional in this partnership, then Harris is the loose cannon. At least, he thinks so. I think he’s been watching too much television.
Price blanches. “Oh. Sorry. Detective Inspector, right. Don’t I feel like an asshole.”
“It's alright, Mr. Price,” I say. “Now, how did you know Allen Morgenstern?”
“My publisher handles the American editions of the Milton Blake books.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Buncha years now, give or take. He came across the pond for a book tour after Milton Blake and the Emerald Elemental came out in the States back in ‘05. Talk about a massive hit, man.”
“Bestsellers, sure,” Harris agrees.
“Not just bestsellers,” Price says. “Those books are magic, man. Pure magic. Everyone just devoured them. I wish I'd thought of them!”
Interesting. “Were you jealous of Mr. Morgenstern's success?”
Price stiffens, his not-lazy eye shooting nervously back and forth between me and Harris like a billiards ball hitting every edge of the table. “What? No! No way, man. I was happy for him! Look, I've got about thirty New York Times bestsellers to my name. I'm good. I've got enough money and fame. I've got houses in Maine and Florida. I’ve got enough, man! I just meant that I loved his stories. Breaks my heart, realizing there's never going to be another one. Allen had a gift. That's all. Really!”
“Just something we have to ask, Mr. Price. No need to get worked up. Now, were you sitting at the table with Mr. Morgenstern in Bella's Tearoom today, a little before noon?”
“Yeah. Our writing group meets there every Thursday. Me, Allen, Janet, and Greg.”
“Did you actually see Mr. Morgenstern catch fire?”
“He didn't just catch fire. Someone set him on fire.”
I sit up a little straighter. “You're saying another person set Mr. Morgenstern on fire?”
“Deliberately,” Harris adds.
“Yeah, deliberately set Allen on fire,” Price says. “That's what I'm saying.”
“Did you see who set Mr. Morgenstern on fire?” I ask.
“Yeah, man. And this is where shit gets strange.”
One of Harris’ fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows rises to the heavens. “How so?”
Price leans in conspiratorially, ever looking the cocaine cowboy. “I swear on the Bible, cross my mama's heart—Jesus rest her soul—this is all true. You can ask the others, too. Janet and Greg. They'll say the same thing.”
Typical writer, drawing out the suspense. “What did you see, Mr. Price?”
“This guy, he just appeared, OK? Like, right in front of our table. No fanfare, nothing. He smiled--and I mean like an evil fucking smile, man--snapped his fingers and—”
Price makes an explosive motion with his hands.
Harris snorts. “That's your official statement? A stranger appeared at your table, snapped his fingers, and set Allen on fire?”
“God, look, I know it sounds crazy, man, but you gotta—"
“Yes or no, Mr. Price,” I say. “Is that your official statement on Mr. Morgenstern's death?”
“Yes, it's my goddamn official statement, okay?”
Harris whistles.
“Mr. Price, can you remember what this man looked like?”
Price lights up like Big Ben at night. “Oh, hell yeah I remember! Average height, short blonde hair. Wore a ratty trench coat and a wrinkled, navy-colored business suit. Dark red tie, white button-up shirt. He wore glasses, had a scar running down from one of his eyes. Jagged-like, almost lightning-shaped. He was smoking a cigarette, too.”
The variation of remembered details—some specific, some vague—means certain things stuck out to him more than others. Which means he’s not lying. “Did you see this man leave after Mr. Morgenstern caught on fire?”
“Nope. He was just gone. Like, Batman-gone. Nowhere in sight.”
“Could you describe the man to a sketch artist?”
“Sure, yeah, no problem.”
***
Harris and I open the door to Room 7B to find a graying redhead crying into a handful of tissues.
“You’re sure you're ready to answer some questions now?” I ask, not yet taking my chair.
To my surprise, Harris shows some semblance of compassion. “We can come back if—"
The matronly woman shakes her head. She looks like she belongs behind the front desk of a library. “No, no, I'm fine. Really. I can do this.”
“If you’re sure,” Harris says.
The woman nods. Harris and I take our seats.
“Please state your name for the record,” I begin.
“Janet Sinclair.” The woman sniffles and dabs her nose.
“You’re an author?” Harris asks.
Sinclair nods. “Yes, I write young adult fiction. I’m the author of the Larry Claymore, Boy Witch series.”
“And you’re a natural-born British citizen?” I ask.
“Yes, born and raised here, in London.”
“I understand you’re part of a writing group that frequents Bella’s Tearoom. Did you see Mr. Morgenstern catch fire there, earlier today?”
Sinclair nods, and her eyes begin welling. She blows into her tissues.
“And do you believe Mr. Morgenstern was set on fire by another person?”
“Yes, sir, I'm sure of it. I saw the man who did it.”
Harris leans in. “Did you get a good look at him? Enough to describe him?”
“Yes, sir. I got a very good look at him. He was blonde and wearing a trench coat over a dirty suit. He had coke-bottle glasses. He was smoking. He looked like he was about thirty- or forty-years-old. And I saw the brand of his cigarettes--his pack was peeking up out of the pocket near one of his lapels. He was smoking Silk Cuts.”
She’s not lying, either. “That's very helpful, thank you. So, this man in the trench coat appears, and...what?”
“The man appeared next to the table, and then next thing I know, Allen's on fire. The screams...”
“Um, did you see the man leave?” Harris asks.
“No, sir. But I was focused on Allen at that point.”
“Had Mr. Morgenstern been acting strange recently?” I ask.
“Oh, my,” Sinclair says, smiling warmly. “Everything was strange about Allen, Detectives. He's always been eccentric.”
“How so?” Harris asks.
“Well, he claimed he was a practicing magician.”
“Like a stage magician?”
She shakes her head. “No, sir. Like, erm, an Aleister Crowley magician. Magic with a K on the end of it. He’s fascinated by the occult.”
Harris is speechless. I’m not far behind him.
“Was Mr. Morgenstern acting strange at all today?”
Sinclair is quiet, actively recalling something.
“Well,” she says. “Yes. Yes, he was. But it really began around three weeks ago, I guess. Allen had started looking, I don't know...sickly? Big bags under his eyes. He seemed more scatter-brained than usual. Frazzled would be the best way to say it. And he was never frazzled. There was always a method to his madness, you know. When we had tea three weeks ago, he started going on about running into the Magus at the record shop.”
“Magus?” Harris asks. “This...Magus have a name?”
“Allen never said. Kept saying, him, or, the Magus, like we would know who he was talking about. Allen said this Magus looked like he'd walked right off the page. Something like that. Said he came right up to Allen in the record shop and started talking.”
“Which record shop would that be?” I ask.
“Wax Room East, I think? That's closest to Allen's flat. He liked to walk everywhere, most of the time.”
“Did Mr. Morgenstern ever say what the Magus said to him?”
“I'm not sure,” Sinclair says. “Whatever it was, it really got to Allen. Scared him bad.”
***
When Harris and I walk into Room 6A, we find a squat, white-haired goblin wearing a tweed-jacket and spectacles.
The goblin’s name is Gregory Jon Joyce, author of the bestselling War of Kings fantasy series. Harris loves them. I personally think they’re pornographic drivel, clearly the work of an older man playing Dungeons & Dragons with himself. But I was raised on Tolkien and Lewis and Peake, so what do I know?
Joyce’s interview goes pretty much the same way the other interviews have gone, until he throws a spanner in the works.
“Wait,” Harris says, holding up a hand and shaking his head. “What?”
“I said,” Joyce blusters, “the stranger showed up out of nowhere, snapped his fingers and did something to upset the candle in the middle of our table. The candle ended up in Morgie's lap.”
“A candle?” I ask.
“Yes. Every table in Bella's has one.”
I make a note that we’ll need to confirm Joyce’s statement about the candles.
“Never heard of a candle burning a man up like this,” Harris says. My thoughts exactly.
Joyce gets a smug look on his face, like he’s figured something out that we haven’t. “Ah, yes, but see, Morgie practices that ridiculous shite he insists on calling magic. Always mucking about with spells and potions and strange chemicals. Perhaps he had something on his clothes or skin that caused him to combust when the candle caught him?”
“Seems you've thought quite a bit about this, Mr. Joyce,” I say.
“Well, of course! What else could it be?”
“Based on what you saw, the stranger didn't snap his fingers and set Mr. Morgenstern on fire?”
“That's preposterous! Impossible. Fantasy belongs in books—otherwise, it's not fantasy, wouldn't you agree?”
“Did Mr. Morgenstern ever mention an encounter in a record-store?”
“With someone he called the Magus?” Harris adds.
“Oh, that?” Joyce rolls his eyes. “Morgie was very obviously, ah, tripping balls, as our dear Stan would say. He's had episodes before. The man loved his psychedelics.”
“I see. Did Mr. Morgenstern mention anything weird at the tearoom today?” I ask.
Joyce thinks for a moment. “Well, Morgie claimed the Magus had been hounding him all last night and this morning. Followed him onto the train. Said the Magus wanted his life back or something like that.”
“Mr. Morgenstern specifically mentioned encountering this Magus again today? Before he died?”
“Mushroom-ravings, I'm sure of it. I think he just had an unpleasant run-in with an overzealous fan—a stalker, perhaps. Probably the same person that showed up at Bella’s and knocked the candle into Morgie’s lap.”
***
A little bell jingles as we enter Wax Room East. The place smells like cannabis. It's lit like a hospital, and musty. “London Calling” is playing over the speakers. At least they’ve got good taste in tunes.
There's a pimply-faced twenty-something behind the counter, eyeballs deep in his phone.
"Oi," Harris says, rapping his knuckles on the counter.
The clerk doesn’t look up from his phone when he speaks. "Help you, mate?"
I slide my badge across the counter while Harris yanks the clerk’s phone from his hands. "Yeah, you can help us, mate."
"S-sorry, uh, s-sirs," the clerk stammers. Harris tosses him back his phone. "W-wot's the trouble?"
I pocket my badge. "Did Allen Morgenstern come here frequently?"
“Who?”
Harris huffs loudly and reaches into his jacket, bringing out our photo of Morgenstern.
The idiot's eyes light up. "Oh, him? Yah! Comes in every week. Nice chap, inne?"
"Every week, you say?" Harris asks.
The clerk nods.
I motion to the ceiling. "You got any CC TV in here?"
"Any wot?"
"Security cameras, mate,” Harris says. “Does the store have security cameras?"
"Oh, yah, sure. There," he points to a corner behind us, where the camera faces the rows of records.
"And there," he says, turning and pointing to a wee camera in the nook of the ceiling above him, focused on the register.
"Great," I say. "How long back to you keep the data?"
"Um, probably like a month," the clerk says. "The boss, he likes having the tapes to match with the loss log."
“You been stealing merchandise, boy-o?” Harris asks, dead-eyed.
The clerk shakes like a twig in a hurricane. “W-w-wot? N-no, sir, n-n-never!”
Harris harrumphs.
"Good man," I say. "I need to see about three weeks back. Morgenstern would have been in that day."
"Sure," the clerk says. "Back here in the office."
Harris and I follow him into a raggedy old closet that desperately wishes it were an office. The clerk opens a laptop and logs in, pulling up folders with the CC TV files.
"He usually comes in on Wednesdays," the clerk says, clicking away at the computer. He opens a folder with the corresponding date.
"Alright," I say, shooing him out of the seat. "We'll take a look. You get back to work."
"Right," he says, visibly relieved he doesn’t have to stick around.
Takes me about three minutes to find what we’re looking for. I double-click the video file.
Allen Morgenstern strolls into the shop. He's browsing records, bopping his head along to whatever song's playing on the stereo. To the shock of absolutely no-one, the clerk is behind the counter focused on his phone.
I fast forward a bit. Morgenstern takes a handful of records from the racks and wanders over to a nearby stereo system. He puts on a pair of headphones. The records spin.
I fast forward a little more. A blonde man in a trench coat approaches Morgenstern, taps him nonchalantly on the shoulder. Morgenstern turns, freaks out. He stumbles back, looking this way and that, like he can't believe what he's seeing. The man in the trench coat keeps stabbing Morgenstern's chest with a finger. From the camera's angle I can see the man's mouth is moving.
Morgenstern grows a spine, pushing the man in the trench coat away, then running out of the store. The clerk never looks up from his phone, even as the man in the trench coat follows
Morgenstern out the door.
I stop the playback and take out a copy of the sketch of the man in the trench coat. I didn't get a good look of his face in the video, but what little I did see looked like it could be the guy.
“Damn, that’s him,” Harris says.
I nod, pulling out my phone and calling HQ. We’ll need SOCOs to come out and make a copy of the file.
We walk back up to the front of the store. I can't help thinking I've seen the guy in the sketch somewhere before.
The clerk's back on his phone.
"Oi," Harris says, grabbing the sketch from me and sliding it to the clerk. "Have a look here."
The clerk puts his phone down and looks at the sketch. "Looks familiar."
I nod. "Yeah. You remember seeing this guy the day Morgenstern came in couple weeks back?"
"Think so."
"Looks like he and Morgenstern got in a bit of tizzy," I say, taking the sketch back. "You remember anything they said?"
The clerk shakes his head. "Nah, not really. Was pretty busy."
Harris snorts. “Right.”
"Do you remember Morgenstern pushing the man away and running out the store?"
"I remember him running out, and that guy following, but I don't remember no pushing."
"Alright, thanks for the look-see."
"Wot's this all about?" The clerk hollers as I open the door.
“Pick up tomorrow’s paper,” Harris says as we take our leave.
“Wot?”
***
It happens a little later, after Rosie falls asleep while I’m reading to her.
It's our nightly ritual. She's eleven, but every night since she was old enough to understand, she's had me read to her before bed. It's something my own Pop did when I was her age. It's how I first discovered Tolkien. My wife, Jules, and I figured it was something worth passing on.
As fate would have it, Rosie's been having me re-read her the latest Milton Blake book: Milton Blake and the Devil's Gambit. This is my second time reading the book aloud to her, her third time reading overall. And it only came out a few months back. We're on the last chapter. It's a somewhat dark book, but like I said, my girl loves ray guns and monsters.
Rosie’s eyes are closed and she’s breathing heavily, dreaming of eldritch horrors. I'm about to set the book down and turn out the light when the cover catches my eye. Something about it...
The man on the cover looks familiar. I can’t quite place him, though.
He’s dressed in a tattered trench coat, with an old navy-colored suit beneath. Red tie. Dirty blonde hair, coke-bottle glasses. Scar down his cheek.
The scar kind of looks like a lightning—
Hell’s bells.
It's him.
It’s the man in the trench coat.
The man who killed Allen Morgenstern.
***
I phone Harris as soon as I get downstairs.
“Oi, John,” Harris says. I hear TV in the background.
“Mark. Got a moment?”
“Yeah.” The TV goes silent. “What’s going on?”
“Do Robbie or Marlene read the Milton Blake books?”
“Think so. Why?”
“Grab one. Want you to see something.”
“Okay. Hang on.”
“Make sure it’s the seventh one. Milton Blake and the Devil’s Gambit.”
“Okay,” Harris says, breathing a little heavier. “Right. The Devil’s Gambit. What, exactly, am I looking for, mate? We starting a book club or something?”
I wait a moment.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Harris says when he sees it.
“The man in the trench coat,” I say.
“The sketch.”
“The record store.”
“It’s uncanny.”
I can hear his mind blowing a gasket. We’re quiet for several moments.
"You remember what Joyce said?” I ask.
“About what?”
“About Morgenstern’s alleged stalker? He said it was probably an overzealous fan of his, something like that.”
“So a crazy fan dresses up like Milton Blake to kill the guy who created Milton Blake...”
“We need to start combing through online forums, fan websites, anything connected with Milton Blake fandom. Contact Morgenstern’s agent and get a list of book tours. Cross-reference with store CC footage. Chances are this creep’s well-known in the fan community.”
“Damn,” Harris says. “Guess this means I have to put my pants back on.”
“Please do. Meet you back at the office in thirty.”
***
Six days later, our desks are covered in old Chinese take-out boxes and our cheeks are dark with stubble. We've got our noses buried in reports we’ve read over and over and over.
And we’ve still been unable to locate this creep.
Nothing from the myriad Milton Blake fan clubs and web forums. Nothing from what little footage we could get of Morgenstern’s book tours.
We did manage to get footage from the train Morgenstern took the morning before his death: as expected, the video showed another confrontation with the Milton Blake-lookalike.
When we questioned Morgenstern’s neighbors and showed them the sketch, all they could confirm was that they had seen the man hanging about. But that was it.
It’s almost as if this stalker didn’t exist until four weeks ago.
Harris has voiced a growing, insistent fear that something otherworldly may be at play here. When he does, I find myself repeating Gregory Jon Joyce's words over and over to him like a protective mantra: "Fantasy belongs in books."
The alternative...
Well, the alternative is impossible.
Something does keep nagging at me, though. Something I learned during my first years as a detective.
"Occam's Razor," I say aloud, setting the report I’ve been reading back on the desk, careful not to knock over a box of day-old noodles.
“Huh?” Harris asks, peering over the top of his own report.
“Occam’s Razor. Or something like that. You remember that? From Academy?”
“Sounds familiar,” Harris says, shrugging. “What is it?”
“Can’t remember exactly, but I think the gist was something about the simplest answer most likely being the right answer.”
Harris puts his report on his desk, then walks over to mine.
“Okay,” he says, arms crossed over his chest. “What’s the simplest answer here, then?”
"Either a crazy fan somehow snuck into the tearoom and knocked a candle into Morgenstern's lap, which ignited whatever alchemical shite he’d got all over himself—"
“Or,” Harris butts in, “Allen was murdered by a character he’d brought to life through black magic rituals?”
I stare at Harris, not wanting to answer. Saying it out loud—
“Wait a minute,” Harris says. He rushes back over to his desk, rooting through several papers. He grabs one, reads over it, then flicks it excitedly and returns to my desk.
“No candles,” he says, handing me the paper.
“What?”
“There were no candles at Bella’s Tearoom.”
“But Joyce said—"
“He mis-remembered. Look at the report. I called the owner the day after—Bella’s doesn’t have candles on their tables. Not ever. Just electronic lanterns.”
“Bloody hell,” I say, snatching the report from him. I'm only somewhat aware that our office door closes with a quiet click.
Someone clears their throat.
Harris and I look up.
A blonde man in a tattered trench coat leans against the door. He's wearing coke-bottle glasses. A jagged, lightning-strike scar marks his cheek.
"'Strewth," I manage to say. My blood feels thick in my veins. I'm sweating. Everything's taken on a blurred, surreal haze.
Harris can’t manage a word.
The man takes out a pack of Silk Cuts and pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and puffs out a pungent cloud of smoke.
He offers us a fox's smile.
My senses seem sluggish, my brain screaming at me from miles under water.
"You're under arrest," I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth like rocks. I’m afraid if I look down, I’ll see my teeth falling to the floor.
"Best let this whole thing go, mate," the man says. "Just wanna be left alone. Live wot's left of me miserable life."
Harris startles awake. "You killed—"
"Bastard deserved it," the man says. "I warned 'im. Told 'im there'd be consequences. He kept at it, kept muckin' about with me life. And then he goes and gives me family to the Devil. My Jenny. The kids."
My hands are shaking. "What?"
The man smiles.
My mind is drowning.
"I don’t understand,” Harris says. His hands are shaking, too.
"Words, love," the magus says through a cloud of exhaled smoke. "They're magic."
The magus snaps his fingers.