The "Heretic's Library", Crypt of Little St. Hugh (Day 2)

[WinstonP]

Just off Charterhouse Street in Smithfield is a vacant lot adjacent to the newly built power station. There are the charred remains of a slate floor, a few cracked sandstone blocks, and a wrought iron plaque stating "Here stood the Church of Little St. Hugh, destroyed by German aerial bombardment 8 September, 1915." A little bit behind is a locked metal grate enclosing a narrow flight of stairs. Behind this locked grate is the Crypt...

The only surviving portion of the ruined Church of Little St. Hugh, the vaults beneath the old church were excavated during the time of Richard de Hastyngs (c. 1165) and used as a burial site for Templars in London until the construction of the new Temple, about 1185, and from time to time thereafter, though why burials continued is unclear. Originally it lay beneath a Templar chapel dedicated to St Bartholemew attendant upon their tourney ground and stables. Following the dissolution of the Templars it was turned over to the Knights Hospitallier, who rededicated it to Little St Hugh, and then passed to the Church of England during the English reformation. The church was burned down during the Great Fire of London and was rebuilt as part of the Wren/Hawksmoor/James building effort, this being the edifice obliterated by the Germans.

Within the vault, the air is cool and stale, a result of poor circulation. The low arched ceilings suggest most of the work dates from the 12th century with a few high Gothic touches added later. Walking is possible in the center of most aisles, but one should watch their heads to avoid injury.

To the north are the remaining crypts of the Templars, including several carved sarcophagi depicting the knights themselves. To the west have been jumbled a mound of 'important' stones rescued from the ruins above, including several elaborate keystones, fragments of statuary, the hastily framed remains of several stained-glass windows, and, a worn Sheela-na-gig sits on one side. Some wag has placed a packet of Pall Mall within her stoney cleft.

Occupying most of the east and south ends of the vault are stacked boxes containing the old library of the Chruch of Little Saint Hugh. As the closest church to the executions grounds at Smithfield, St. Hugh's priests often administered Last Rites and, by doing, often became the receiver of the deceased's items (as means to pay for their services). Generations of criminals and heretics books were disposed of in this manner; for some reason, these books were kept rather than be destroyed, possibly over a centuries old dispute over the division of moneys gained between the priest of Little St Hugh and the Archbishop of London. The books, which were being surreptitiously being cataloged when the church was destroyed, are in no particular order, beyond a rough one of size, with books of like size being kept together in one box for ease of storage. An index for the books does exist, kept by Rev. Poole in a vest pocket at all times.

A few modern niceties break the gloom; there are an assortment of small oil lamps for which to provide light to readers who can make use of a small table and a mismatched set of wooden chairs. Atop the table are a variety of writing supplies, several half-empty biscuit tins, and a small camp stove topped by a tea kettle.

It is a shadowed, unwelcoming place, yet one that feels very much as a second home to Rev. Poole...

[Taavi]

As Reverend Poole picks his way down the slippery stone staircase, followed gingerly by Harwood, he notices a few things are slightly different - some chairs and boxes are not quite where he left them. Furthermore, there is a dirty-looking envelope on the little card table. The Reverend is quite sure that the vault was locked and the lock showed no signs of tampering.

[WinstonP]

The Reverend, looking nervously side to side, sets down his satchel and picks up the envelope.

I say Harwood, one of your chaps did not pocket my key to have a little fun with me?


He holds the envelope out for Harwood to see; after a moment he pulls a pocket knife from the recesses of his jacket, and gingerly opens the mysterious missive...

[Taavi]

The paper inside the envelope is less grubby than the envelope (which bears the marks of what look like abnormally long fingernails), but it's cheap waste-book paper, and smells of mildew.

On it, in a sprawling, ill-disciplined hand, is written:
"Vicar, assuming you have survived your church, I require you to unearth what you may have on the Cult of Chorazos. Leave it on the table. Stoames."

[Bookman]

Harwood pauses in the process of taking of his coat and shakes himself out of the reverie the sight of the archive brought upon him.

Err, no, I don't think any of ours would have done something like that. What's up?

He gestures to the letter.

And what's that?

[WinstonP]

He reads the note silently, his face whitening slightly. After a moment Reverend Poole sighs, sets the note down on the table, and reaches for a handkerchief to clean the grime from his fingers.


Soames... Jesus in heaven, just what I need today.


Poole walks about the crypt while Harwood reads the note, lighting a few lamps to break the gloom. He then consults a small notebook kept in a vest pocket, and turns towards one of the smaller boxes


Soames is some Scottish baron or chieftain or what-have-you; the family has an ancestral right to the church and the library here, or so I was warned by the previous vicar. Odd business... I suppose someone at Westminster must have given him a copy of the key. Damned thing, I'll have to keep my sherry elsewhere... Ah, here we are... He pulls a slim volume from the box. I knew that name sounded familiar! This is translation of a German monograph done up before the war into English. I can't speak to the German title, but in English it is "An Account of the Ottoman Kingdom, and select locations in the Holy Land". I purchased a copy a few years back at a bazaar sale since I recognized the translator as a school chum... The author was a Burgundian mercenary who was hired by some vizier or other to train Janissaries to use heavy guns or whatnot. Of course, what I did not realize at the time was that this fellow... de Chaut, yes that was his name, was also a student of religion. He spent his time investigating little known sects and denominations in the Ottoman Empire - Dervishes, Zorastrians, Miaphysitians, Rodnovers... those sorts. One of the sects he mentions were followers of a rogue Greek monk... here we are:
"The brothers said they were disciples of the Chora Azos, or the realm of Azos, whatever that is, a name unknown to me. The said they followed the pure upstanding Leader, who knew the secrets of the heavens, the Key to the Sky." Seems to me I've heard that name more recently... help me look old chum?

[Taavi]

An Account of the Ottoman Kingdom also mentions rumours that the "Leader" was a student or even teacher of the Scholomance, and that he had fled to "the west" to escape persecution. de Chaut speculates that the "Leader" was a disguised Giorgio Biandrata, Transylvanian court physician to the Bathory family, who was (in)famous for his promotion of anti-trinitarian heterodoxies.

[WinstonP]

Harwood, what say you to divvying up our tasks? You have a look round for more information on your queer doctor and his clerical ancestor, and I'll try to square away the Scotsman's inquiry on Roumanian heretics. Agreed?


If we can, I'll spend a point of Library use about the Chorazos Cult and Bookman can do the same for Friar Coe.

[Taavi]

After an hour's searching (and a Library Use spend) the Reverend hits paydirt in some of the Church's surviving earliest, pre-Fire records. Members of a "Cultus Chorazos" who "practised necromancie yn a vyle den in Finchlee" and were apparently "Romany" were executed for heresy and witchcraft in 1595, apparently on the order of no less a person than John Dee in his capacity as advisor to Elizabeth I on matters astrological. Examining the records, two things become clear - one is that "Chorazos" or "The Leader" escaped, fleeing first to Cambridgeshire and then to Scotland (an odd choice, given James VI's horror of anything devilish) - the other, that the questioner in the interrogations clearly believed that the Cult had come to London, and then fled northward, because they were actively looking for something, perhaps a book of sorcery or brazen head. A note appended indicates that Chorazos and all his followers perished in the Great Witch Hunt of 1597.

[Bookman]

Harwood turns his attention to the piles of books, his mind racing. Sotland, blood and keys. Bathory, that was the infamous countess, bathed in blood of virgins to maintain her youth. Another Scottish connection, what the Hell was it with Scottish noblemen this week? Secrets of the Heavens - that was what the tower in Andalusia was meant to hold wasn't it? And hadn't there been something about the Key and the Gate in those annotations somewhere? He approached the piles and stared slightly in brief confusion. Well looking wouldn't get him anywhere.

After quarter of an hour searching it becomes terribly clear that he would need more time and a map to find anything in these piles.

Look Father, this lot is somwhat beyond me to fathom out I'm afraid. Might it make sense for you to keep finding the things and then for me to start cross checking, doing further work and so on? I can make some notes and run it all against what we already know.


aka Harwood has spent his one point of library use for this investigation but he has a pile of occult to go yet

[WinstonP]

Reverend Poole looks up from his notes and pinches the bridge of his nose, blinking rapidly, as if to clear his head.


My apologies Harwood. Sometimes when my mind is spinning, I am practically deaf. Let me finish my notes for my Scotish acquaintance and then I can assist you in hunting further clues about your friend the Doctor, Friar Coe, and associates. Here is the index... Please do not treat that as a shopping list, friend. I am happy to talk about duplicates of course... No offense, I am sure. You know my position, such as it is depends on my work as the 'custodes librorum"

[Taavi]

The two scholars carefully work their way through Little St Hugh's masses of literature treasonous, heretical and long-forgotten. Gradually, some further nuggets emerge from the dross.
It seems that a Scottish Laird McDonald of Glen Coe, accompanied by his cousin, a Catholic priest (unnamed) and various retainers, accompanied the Flight of the Earls of Tyrone and Tyrconnell to Spain in 1607, leading to them being condemned by James I. These would appear to be the ancestors of Don Alejandro. Their titles in Ireland (and Scotland) were redistributed to other branches of the family who remained loyal.
Harwood, who is well-versed in folklore, recalls that this Flight is supposed to be the basis of an old Devonian custom in which a monstrous figure representing "The Earl of Rone" (or Tyrone) is chased into the sea by rampaging villagers.
The collection contains no further references to the Coe or Cor families beyond the pamphlet the Reverend had uncovered previously. However, the Earls of Tyrone appear subsequently - it would appear that they took up the predilictions of the former title holders, as an Earl of Tyrone, also Baron de la Poer (aka Baron la Poer, Baron Power), was put in the Tower in the late 1600s (where he died) on charges of Jacobism, Treason and Heresy. It is difficult to tell from the records whether the last was simply a reference to Catholicism or something more - there is some reference to "perverted sacraments" and "the vile ways of his fathers" and "popish transubstantiations and hocus pocus".

[WinstonP]

Fascinating... I must confess I am rather worn down from all this work Harwood. Unless there is some other pressing question, shall we call it a day? I have some household chores that cannot wait much longer. I am sure you understand? I will be most happy to come by Grant's tomorrow and for as long as I can be of service."


Unless Harwood objects, Poole begins to rebox the collection... Taking careful note to make sure no books have wandered into any pockets. He then sorts his notes for his Scottish 'friend'' and places them on the table along with the relevant books- bookmarked of course. Finally he packs his bags, snuffs the lamps, and heads out into the night.

[Taavi]

It is growing late, and a damp chill rises from the ancient stones of the cellar. Perhaps it's time to seek more convivial surroundings, or a warm bed.

[Bookman]

For the last half hour Harwood has been silent, except for muffled cursing, his pencil flying across whatever rough paper he could find. Periodically he breaks off to check something in one of the pile of books he and the Reverend have uncovered. He finally lays down his pencil, and with a slightly unfocused look fumbles for his tea and takes a swig. Grimacing, he puts it quickly back down, wondering when he last took some. Looking at the clock he realises how long he has been working and turns to the Reverend, noticing he is speaking to him.

Sorry Father, missed that completely. I've been trying to put all this in order. Give me five minutes to run through this with you just to check I haven't missed anything out? Cheers.

He adjust his notes, takes a moment, and then looks at the Reverend again.

Right. Our story opens some point in the late 1530s, early 1540s. A friar at a Scottish monastery - almost certainly around Glencoe - one John Cor, is thrown out with the other friars during the dissolution. He blames Protestantism and the people turning from Transubstantiation for this and becomes obsessed with proving the reality of the conversion of bread and wine. Now since our friar was the licensed whisky distiller of the monastery, he distils Communion wine with the aid of books he gathered from the monastery library before he left. He wants to get the Blood of Christ out of it. He starts collecting the texts which will become this wooden book and leaves a purpose to his descendants. He claims to be working for the 'Hidden Pope' and has special authority to conduct alchemical experiments. For his sins he is executed at Smithfield by everyone's least favourite Tudor.

Now a little later than this in Eastern Europe the followers of a rogue Greek monk, the disciples of the Chora Azos, set up in the Ottoman Empire. They claim to follow a mysterious Leader who knows the Key to the Sky. This leader was possibly one Giorgio Biandrata who, amongst other things, worked for Stephen Bathory, the uncle of the most notorious lady murderer in history. He is charged with 'immorality' and is supposedly killed by his nephew in the late 1500s. However...

We come to...ummm..1595. Dr John Dee. Oh, yes must see her and give her those notes. Sort that...

Harwood brushes through the paper on the table, takes a piece and scribbles a note.

Sorry, Dee leads the eradication of a cult in Finchley, the members of a Cultus Chorazos. The Leader is reputed to have fled to the West and is likely to have set up this group. He flees again to Scotland, via Cambridgeshire (where Hopkins would later hunt of course). The cult apparently sought a 'book of sorcery' or a 'brazen head' – Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, eh? A couple of years later the great witch purges supposedly finish them off.

Cut forward a couple of years to 1607 and one McDonald of Glencoe, accompanied by an unnamed Catholic priest, flees with the Earls of Tyrone and Tyrconnell to Spain. He of course becomes the ancestor of Don Alejandro. At some point in the late 1600s an Earl of Tyrone, Baron de la Poer, ends his days in the Tower on heresy charges relating to sacramental perversions and odd transubstantiations. You know, there was an English branch of the de la Poer family, enobled as the Barons Exham. Some near Anchester, there was some scandal about them as well at about the same time.

Harwood pauses and puts the first section of his notes down. He considers for a moment.

So we have a Catholic heresy in Scotland starting in Glencoe, a cult of strange background linked to heretical Eastern Europeans which was hunting for something in Scotland, a flight to Spain of a prominent nobleman and a mysterious priest from Scotland, all linked by blood rites and odd interpretations of the Communion.

Jump foward to 1828 and Irving comes in. He travels to Granada and joins the US consul. A few years later he produces the Alhambra, a collection of Moorish legends and tales. The manuscript survives in the embassy collection. Here's an interesting sidenote. In the 1830s we get the first sightings of Springheeled Jack. One figure accused of being Jack was? Henry Beresford, 3rd Marquess Waterford. Amongst other titles, Beresford held the Earldom of Tyrone and the Barony...de la Poer. I wouldn't mention this except for two things. One of the places Jack appeared was Aldershot – which you mentioned in connection with the etymology of Cor and Marsh. This all fits strangely with that broadside you discovered...where are we. Yes.

Jack be Nimble, Jack be quick
Jack springs out of your bailwick
Caw, Caw, Jack-a-Daw
A bauble and a bottle and he'll spring no more.

Harwood shrugs slightly.

Mention again of the 'true pope' being in Scotland, even if he is a 'drunken swynk'. of course that could be a reference to alchemical experiments with distillation of wine. I leave bottle connotations entirely to your own sense of paranoia.

Harwood takes an absent-minded sip of his tea, makes a face, and then turns back to his notes.

Anyway, through the Victorian era the Cor family seems to lose its way from the high minded theology to spiritualist treasure hunts. It is they who refine the process of using a bottle to trap spirits which they can then...

Harwood pauses, his eyes dart round the room.

Umm, interrogate with a, with a pendulum. They use the spirits to learn secrets and find treasure. They hunt a lot in the South of London, and indeed Aldershot. For the last few generations they have supplied ghosts to some 'collegium', robbing graves to distil the essence 'for the club's entertainment and education'. Oh which reminds me,

Harwood checks the time and hurries on.

In 1878 The Sette of Odd Volumes is founded by Quaritch. Burton is a member as, it seems is a member of the Cor family as Burton gives him an inscribed copy of the Thousand and One Nights. This is annotated and links Labtayt and Iram, which of course all ties in with the Alhambra. This brings us mostly up to the present day.

In no particular order. Transients are grabbed off the streets and taken to a gentlemen's club where they are fed booze until they pass out and have strange dreams.

Some of Irving's possessions come up for sale, a sale which pulls a number of members of the aristocratic occult set to London. The manuscript is annotated and corrected mentioning, amongst other things, 'plombos' (possibly a pendulum source) and the Glencoe translation. Amongst the visitors is a Spanish aristocrat descended from our Scottish start. A man with an interest in odd Catholicism and publishing heretical texts. Don Alejandro.

About the only thing we know about him beyond the surface is that odd things happen around him. Whatever happened to Laura being one, and...well, I think he might use robins for spies. I know that sounds odd, but the Contessa nearly did her nut when she saw one watching her, and there is that red connection. I don't know, maybe I'm seeing ghosts over this thing.

Anyway, the current Cor, a wine-distilling doctor down on his luck, sells some books to Wellington who brings them to us. However Wellington got them, one of the books is the Burton, the other the not-Codex. For his actions he ends up quite possibly trapped in a bottle somewhere, hey, maybe they needed to do that to question him about the books? Hmm, perhaps we should get them out from the shop.

Finally, and bringing us right up to date, another Scottish aristocrat is looking for information relating to an obscure cult which may or may not tie right in to the heart of this mystery.

Anything I've missed? Thoughts? The one thing that strikes me is that we have not considered what they want the manuscript for. What is the treasure? To what gate does the key fit? If it is the Key of the Heavens, is it a way of reading the stars? What are they all after?

[WinstonP]

I say there Harwood, you have nicely summed things up. I am not sure that we can connect the two Scotsmen together however, with out some greater linkage than their their nationalities.


Rev. Poole yawns visibly and begins to button his coat.


Shall we pick this up tomorrow then? The air down here plays hell on my lungs after too long. So very dry.

[Bookman]

Harwood supresses a wry grin at the non-too-subtle hint.

Yes, of course, bear with me a moment.

He sorts the papers out from the piles around him and gets up, tidying his tie, putting on his coat and generally making ready to depart.

I have no doubt you know a pleasant hostelry somewhere round here? I regret I cannot stay for dinner this evening, I must meet a gentleman who...well, let us just say that custom hath made in him a property of easiness. However, I certainly owe you a decent dinner as soon as we have put the worst of this business behind us and got through this blasted auction. I shall no doubt see you tomorrow for more study of this book perhaps?

[WinstonP]

Harwood, you think me too mercenary. I genuinely do get a little cough when I spend too long down here, generous gift of beverage from a friend or no. I shall of course accept your offer of a meal however. I shall also call upon your associates tomorrow at Grant's. Perhaps a cup of tea and some sleep will clear the cobwebs from my mind and I shall have some fresh insight into these mysteries?


He gathers his papers and buttons his coat.


I can not say what it is about this place but sometimes... sometimes... I get the feeling that I am not welcome here. Like I am an intruder in someone else's home, or better yet a guest who has stayed long after the cakes have run out and the tea cold. Come, let us leave these stones to their own counsel. No doubt the Templars need to stretch their legs as much as I?


Upon exiting the crypt, Rev Poole returns to his drab rooms where he brews yet another pot of tea (black, strong), feeds the cat, and spends a few moments reading from a bundle of care-worn letters tied in a pink cotton ribbon, written in a feminine hand and all dated from before the War. Having his fill, he pens a short note, puts it in an envelope, and stacks it atop a similar pile of unsent letters he keeps in a box next to the letters bound in pink cotton. In dismal silence, he douses the light, and lays down on his still bed, hoping that sleep will take him.