The Twelve Strange Days of Christmas Read online

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Syd Moore was a lecturer and a presenter on Pulp, the Channel 4 books programme, before becoming a writer. She is the author of the mystery novels The Drowning Pool and Witch Hunt. The Twelve Strange Days of Christmas is part of the Essex Witch Museum series, which includes Strange Magic, Strange Sight, Strange Fascination and Strange Tombs. She lives in Essex, where her novels are set.

  CONTENTS

  Septimus and the Shaman

  Snowy

  The House on Savage Lane

  Easily Made

  In the Bag

  Jocelyn’s Story

  Death Becomes Her

  She Saw Three Ships

  Madness in A Coruña

  Christmas Eve at the Witch Museum

  Barefoot through the Snow

  A Christmas Carole

  Acknowledgements

  [definition] Strange /streɪn(d)ʒ/

  Adjective: strange

  1. Unusual or surprising; difficult to understand or explain.

  Comparative adjective: stranger; superlative adjective: strangest

  Synonyms: Odd, curious, peculiar, funny, bizarre, weird, uncanny, queer, unexpected, unfamiliar, abnormal, atypical, anomalous, different, out of the ordinary, out of the way, extraordinary, remarkable, puzzling, mystifying, mysterious, perplexing, baffling, unaccountable, inexplicable, incongruous, uncommon, irregular, singular, deviant, aberrant, freak, freakish, surreal, alien.

  SEPTIMUS AND THE SHAMAN

  ‘Thank you, dear Samuel,’ said the old man as he took the glass of brandy. With customary reverence, he held it up to examine against the light of the fire roaring in the fireplace and smiled as something within it kindled a memory.

  The young man, Sam, took his own liberal serving to the armchair opposite and peered over the top of the tumbler. His respect and affection for Septimus Strange was great. Often he found himself surprised by the old curator’s generosity of spirit. Many times he was impressed by his esoteric knowledge that was both extraordinarily expansive, some might even say supernaturally so, and also ever-expanding. Even in his ninth decade Septimus Strange displayed an intense curiosity about the world that had never been sated, nor gave any signs of becoming less urgent. His mind was energetic and appreciative and in conversation displayed a sprightly energy that bubbled and sparked away inside.

  Perhaps that was why Sam had been rather taken aback when the old man’s mood had appeared to dampen and fall as they had left the conference they had been attending and made the long journey back to the Witch Museum. He had grown thoughtful and reflective rather than chirpy and excited as was his usual manner after engaging in lively discussion with like-minded professionals.

  ‘I thought you might have enjoyed this afternoon’s session rather more than you did, Septimus,’ Sam ventured after the pair of them had consumed a good centimetre of the brandy liqueur.

  The old man lifted his head. His lips had thinned over the years and, this evening, his shoulders were definitely too narrow for the suit he was wearing. He looked to Sam with distracted amusement and a smile that became full. ‘Enjoy it? Oh I did, dear boy, I did.’

  ‘What was it then?’ asked Sam. ‘I felt that you lost some of your customary effervescence, for which you are so renowned. It was when they produced that Icelandic headdress, wasn’t it? I saw a shadow pass over you.’ He paused and, to be clear, added, ‘Metaphorically speaking.’

  ‘Oh yes. Then? Did you? The artefact, I suppose, took me back a bit. Reminded me of something I was once told. A prediction of sorts.’

  ‘Did that upset you?’

  Septimus frowned. ‘It made me think a little too long.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sam as he swirled his glass and smelled the thick, sweet fumes of the spirit, ‘I couldn’t have concentrated on anything else. I was completely blown away by the stitching of the leather, those runic symbols. Wonderful to touch something like that.’

  Septimus did not react for a moment, so Sam continued. He had been enthralled with the artefact and wanted to voice the feeling and learn what his mentor thought. ‘Those teeth strung round the feathers. The crafting of the mask itself . . . Personally, I thought it was,’ he took a breath, ‘magnificent.’

  Septimus turned in his chair to face Sam more directly. ‘Oh no. I agree with you, Sam, indeed I do. I would say it was an excellent piece, in fact. Did you see the looks and expressions of reverence on the faces of the other curators? They were rapt, so attentive and careful as they held the headdress like so.’ He rested his glass on the arm of his chair and held up the imaginary artefact. ‘“Ohhhhhhhh, how different it is”, “aaaahh – the majesty”, and so on.’ He put down the invisible headdress on his lap and fetched back the brandy. ‘And yet. I wonder if such a thing had been found on British soil – would it have been treated with such awe and respect? Such veneration by academics? I think it would more likely be relegated to “folk history” and not worthy of much regard.’

  Sam had heard sentiment like this before. ‘But we recognise that familiarity breeds contempt,’ he said at last. ‘And you know as well as I do, Sept, that our moon talismans, hag stones, and athames have generated as much admiration in Scandinavia as their headdresses and artefacts do here.’

  The old man brought his head down to his chest as if chastised, then looked up suddenly. ‘Quite right, Sam. This is why I need you. Why your appearance in my life has been so thoroughly,’ he paused and sniffed the air, ‘symbiotic,’ he said, pleased his brain had supplied the correct adjective. ‘You keep me on the right path. That is, not the left. Nor the right.’ Then he winked. ‘Sometimes when one reaches my age, it is all too easy for one’s gaze, one’s thoughts, to fall on what is not well with the world, rather than appreciate in it all that is true and fair.’

  Sam laughed and nodded, feeling rather pleased. ‘Surely not,’ he said. ‘Though I understand what you mean.’

  ‘I know you do, dear Sam,’ the old man agreed.

  The silence that unfurled between them was not awkward or discomforting, but quite the opposite. The pair enjoyed it and refilled their glasses.

  After a while Septimus looked into the fire and said, ‘Did I ever tell you about my encounter with an Icelandic shaman?’

  The young man’s attention was brought swiftly to brook. ‘No, you did not! And now you cannot keep it to yourself.’

  It was Septimus’s turn to rattle out a laugh. ‘Oh, it was many, many years ago,’ he said, and started, as the fire in the hearth spluttered and gave out a spark, which thankfully landed on the tiles and not the carpet. ‘I haven’t said your name yet,’ Septimus whispered to it.

  Sam frowned: that was odd. He wasn’t sure whether to challenge the old man on it or to let it go. Was it a sign, he wondered? Septimus was getting on a bit after all. But before he could act on any impulse the owner of the Witch Museum withdrew his gaze and said, ‘I had received an assignment in Reykjavik. It was during the war. We had invaded Iceland then, you know.’

  Sam met his friend’s gaze with brows hoisted high.

  ‘Oh yes, that was a thing,’ Septimus said, misjudging Sam’s countenance.

  ‘I have a vague notion that that happened,’ said Sam, deciding the aside to the fire was an uncharacteristic expression of whimsy, most likely brought about by the warmth and the brandy. He dismissed his initial misgivings and took up the conversation again. ‘We invaded Iceland?’

  Septimus nodded. ‘It was a strategic island. Important for the North Atlantic sea lanes. And very well laid out for naval bases and air bases and so on. Not many people seem to be aware of what the Brits did back then, but anyhow, I digress. As I said, I was instructed by Commande
r Fleet back at the bureau, to investigate a manifesting medium on tour in Reykjavik. The authorities at the time were alarmed by the man’s accuracy, although this particular fellow was rather a harbinger of doom, predicting, amongst other things, sea strikes and sinkings, great losses of life. Fleet himself was wondering where the precision came from, if we might be able to use it somehow. Certainly, he was of the idea that the chap’s latest warnings necessitated some tight investigation. So I was despatched by plane.

  ‘Reykjavik is a small city. When I arrived, I located my lodgings with ease. I was to board with a pleasant landlady and another British captain. Once oriented and settled, I learned that the celebrated clairvoyant was performing that very night. So I started work straight away.

  ‘I must tell you that I arrived at the theatre with an open mind. The medium seemed neat and well presented, though he had a stuttering delivery, which did not impress me. He also appeared to have some irritating manners, often putting his hand to his mouth and coughing. Yet every human being has their own manner of dealing with stage nerves. Or perhaps, I thought, he was suffering with a cold. I took notes as he went through the usual manifestation techniques.’ Septimus looked at Sam and winced. ‘Cheesecloth was produced, I’m pretty sure. Regurgitated from here.’ He tapped his tummy. ‘I could smell stomach acids. The lights in the auditorium had been subdued and there was some kind of fluorescence in the cloth that gave off a ghastly glow. Of course, the manifestation was supposed to be the spirit of one ancient guildsman of Reykjavik who had returned to warn the population of fresh impending disaster, which again I recorded. The prediction was vague, involving water and lead. Nothing that could be pinned down, but I’m sure the theatrics helped convince a proportion of those in attendance that they were in the presence of a skilled necromancer. After the “channelling” of his phantom guide, the medium addressed several members of the audience, attesting that he was receiving messages from various departed friends and family who had passed over to the spirit world. He did appear to score high, with some accuracy on at least sixty per cent of his attempts, which was rather more than I was used to seeing. The audience lapped this up with cries of astonishment and sometimes tears. I found that the clairvoyant was sympathetic and kind to those with whom he spoke and I did, at one point, wonder if there was really any harm in any of it. But then remembered my mission and, as the evening panned out, it became clear to me that the man had a relationship with the venue holders. Reykjavik was not as densely populated as many of our British cities. The organisers were local people who appeared to be acquainted with many of their audience members. I have no doubt that, because there was a ticket price and a profit to be made, both parties – owners and performer – were to benefit from an exchange of information. Towards the end, as some kind of finale, the medium was able to elicit very positive responses from one of the members who broke down and wept at the message from his late brother. Uncanny accuracy was contained in the messages addressed to him. I later discovered from the woman sitting next to me that he lived next door to the venue’s owners.’

  ‘Usually the way,’ said Sam.

  Septimus nodded. ‘But that is not the matter. The matter comes later. When the performance ended, I took my hat and coat and made to get out before the rush of the audience. As I left the theatre I found a woman waiting for me in the shadows. She did not speak but handed me a card.’

  Sam shifted himself up in his seat. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘On that card was written – “Not all in Iceland is false. If you wish to see truth meet me at eight o’clock tomorrow night. Come alone.”’

  ‘Intriguing,’ said Sam and looked at the old man closely. His vigour was returning – the fire in the hearth jumped about his eyes as he returned to his memory.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Of course you went?’

  ‘I did. But it was not an immediate resolution. One must be careful how one treads in an occupied territory.’

  Septimus noted the rise of his younger friend’s eye and explained. ‘It could have been a trap.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course.’

  ‘And I had leads to follow up with regard to the neighbour.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘But at eight o’clock the following night I was to be found outside the theatre in the darkened streets of Reykjavik.’

  Sam looked on, committing the details to memory. He had a feeling things were about to get even more interesting.

  ‘It’s funny,’ said Septimus to his brandy glass. ‘My memory of the consequent incident is as clear as a bell, but for the life of me I can barely recall what the woman who met me looked like. It’s almost as if her face was slippery. I can only see a blur and have a sense that, although she was certainly far from good-looking, she was not exactly ugly.’

  Sam supressed a smile at the loose frankness of his older friend. Despite Septimus’s elastic soul, his tolerance and empathy for the human species, at times the years between them betrayed contrasting attitudes shaded by different upbringings.

  ‘It may have had something to do with the contents of the peace pipe I smoked,’ Septimus speculated.

  Again, Sam started. The old man was always surprising him.

  Septimus continued. ‘There was most certainly an amount of hallucinogen, a mind-altering compound, in there. Fly agaric most likely. Sami shamans often used them as a trigger in their cross-dimensional journeys.’ He saw Sam frown and added a pacifier. ‘Rituals.’ Then in an undertone he cast his eyes to the walls of the museum and, as if he were speaking to some invisible presence within them, muttered, ‘The boy has a keen mind, but there are some ideas he’s not yet prepped for. The time will come of course. Never fear.’

  Sam could not conceal fresh concern at the deviant tangent that their conversation had just sprung. Depression ballooned in his stomach. He hoped to God that the old boy’s asides to the walls and hearth were no indication of brain decay.

  ‘But I get ahead of myself,’ said Septimus. Almost as if he had heard Sam’s thoughts, his words became sharper, well-enunciated, focused. ‘The woman – I have in my mind that her name was Hekla, though I am not entirely sure. But let us call her Hekla, to ease the telling of the tale. Her real name is not important. Hekla was of average beauty though heavy-browed. She spoke little as we drove out of Reykjavik into the flat rocky scrubs of the island. As we approached our destination, she turned off the headlights and slowed the car to a crawl.

  ‘Out the windows I could see a mountain rising on the horizon. I expected us to take one of the forks in the roads that veered round to circle the base. And yet, that is not the path we followed. We took the road that led towards the coast, but soon turned off onto a mud track. I could feel from the bumps and lurches that there was no smoothness underneath the wheels. This was a track little travelled. And, I must confide, Sam my boy, I did wonder if I had been unwise to keep this excursion to myself. I had left no word with my landlady, nor the captain, of where I might be found, so should I come to grief, no one would know. See, I had not yet met my wife at this point, and, as a bachelor with no dependants, I was accustomed to taking care of no one but myself. And, although I was no youth, my heart was packed tight with ideas of valour, noble discovery, and the certain integrity of intuition.’

  In his chair Sam nodded. He knew what Septimus meant, though trust in his own intuition was not something he had yet mastered.

  ‘So,’ Septimus continued. ‘Second thoughts. Presently Hekla stopped the car. I could not see why we might have come here to the base of the little mountain. We got out. Hekla pointed upwards to the summit and made off. Again, I wondered if this was the right course of action, but with little else to do and no access to Hekla’s car keys, I was faced with no other choice. I followed her and we began our ascent.

  ‘As we scaled the dusty boulders that lined the sides, I humorously voiced the opinion that if I had known we were to be rock climbing I would not have worn my best brogues. Hekla apologised but reass
ured me that my sartorial sacrifice would be worth what I was to find when we reached our final destination.

  ‘It was an exerting climb. About halfway up, Hekla began to move sideways, her hands gripping onto the rocks that protruded from the cliff. As I scrambled after her, I saw that the rear side of the mountain, hidden from the road, had fallen away, leaving something of a hollow there.

  ‘The rocks, at this point, became smaller and less fixed and we had to slow down to ensure we didn’t lose our footing. Gradually I realised this was not a mountain we were making our way across, but a volcano. Extinct, I hoped, or certainly dormant. Though the air was cold, crisping our breath, the rocks underneath our hands were not.

  ‘Hekla pointed down to the crater. I could see pricks of light flickering there. We descended, stumbling over black rocks and boulders, and as we grew closer, I saw that they were little bonfires. It did not become clear until we had reached the bottom of the crater, a kind of plateau, that they were arranged to form a circle. A circle that was pierced by a dark, murky crack. As soon as I saw it, I had the impulse to run to its dark yawn, to crouch down and reassure myself there was no dancing red larva beneath it, but Hekla steered me away to a shelter fashioned from canvas and draped with moss and furs. The trappings must have had the effect of camouflaging it for I had not seen it on our descent.

  ‘She rustled the flap and told me to wait, then disappeared inside.

  ‘I was happy to study my surroundings. There was much to take in about this place Hekla had brought me to: the craggy lip of the crater in silhouette against the luminous galactic dust of the Milky Way. The primal hardness of the black rocks – larva spat once from the earth’s core and then hardened into solidity by Old Man Time – these black rocks, under the moonshine, took on a lunar cast. I had never been anywhere like it before. It was,’ he paused and let his smile float skywards, ‘. . . it was marvellous.’

  Sam discerned that his friend was moved and tried hard to peer into his world and imagine what he was describing.