The League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club. Registered, 2nd January 1841. Occupied Mildew Street building the following day. Club originated in meetings held at The Hog in the Pound public house, Oxford Street. Same place where Edward Oxford had worked as a pot-boy.

“Edward Oxford!” Burton cried out. “The bloody Assassination again!”

He moved on to the next paragraph.

Current membership estimated at approximately 150.

Club founder: Henry de La Poer Beresford, 3rd Marquess of Waterford (replaced as president upon his death by Edward Vaughan Hyde Kenealy). Born 26th April 1811. Inherited title in 1826, along with Curraghmore Estate in County Waterford, Ireland. Gambler, drunkard, prankster. Notorious. Nicknamed “The Mad Marquess.” January 1837, moved to England and purchased Darkening Towers Estate on the outskirts of Waterford Village. (No connection with the Irish county. Vanity? Fancied himself as marquess of an English estate?) Occupied the manor from 28th February ’37.

“And yet another coincidence, Trounce,” Burton muttered to himself. “The start of the Great Amnesia.”

Beresford killed in a horse-riding accident on the 29th of March, this year (1859). The marquessate passed to his brother, John.

The rest of the page was blank. Burton gazed at it for a moment, dwelling on the dates, then turned to the next sheet. It was Henry Beresford’s criminal record: a long list of minor affrays, vandalism, drunken pranks, violent behaviour toward women, and petty thefts. The most recent of them dated from February 1837.

On the next sheet, Trounce had written:

Visited Darkening Towers, Monday 19th September 1859. Interviewed John Beresford. He claims his brother was a harmless eccentric and showed me a significant (because of its strangeness) entry in Henry Beresford’s diary. Copied below, misspellings and other errors intact:

20th June 1837.

I must declare today quite the most astonishing, for this afternoon whilst I was out ryding, I was crossing the estate on my way back to the stables when my horse did shye, and upon looking down I beheld a man prone upon the ground, apparently in a dead faint, and garbed in a most outlandish costume of shimmering white. So taken aback was I that I gave a cry, and had to look and look again to be sure the vision was not some strange hellucination. When finally I concluded that it weren’t, I dismounted to examin the figure more close, but as I did so, I glanced back at my horse for the briefest of moments, it being nervous, and upon returning my attention to the sward I found that no figure was upon it and the grass were un-bent, giving not the slytest indication that a thing had disturbed it.

Instantly, I douted my senses, and askt of meself wether I had seen the thing at all or was, p’raps, the victim of some trick of the light or, far worse, of some failure of the brain. The more I considered the question, the more afeared I become, specially so ’cause the impression the vision had made was fayding with un-natural rapidty, as if I were un-able to prop’ly imprint a memry of it on my mind. Indeed, I was overcome by a strange confusion, being muddled in intent, the world around me all of a sudden appearing un-familiar, as if I had been engaged in some activity and then un-expectedly snatcht away from it and robbed of my powers of recollection.

I confess that a great panic overcome me, and in a trice I re-mounted my steed and dasht home, flying through the door and yelling at Brock to take care of the nag. I raced into the study, throwed meself into the chair at my desk, and as fast as I could write, in-scribed the following onto a sheet of vellum:

“The man was tall and thin and wore a suit comprised of a single piece, white and scaley in texture, that lay flush against his skin, outlining his sinyewy form in a most overt manner, though covering it entirely from the base of his neck to his wrists and ankles, and with nary a flap, opening, button, nor hook in sight. His head was consealed by a black helmet, round and shiney and flickring all over with blue flame. A flat circlar lamp, dented and crackt, was attacht to his chest, and his booted feet were strapt into stilts, of p’raps 2ft in height.”

Within minutes of setting down this slight account, the memry was reduced to the vaygest of impressions, the merest glimmering awareness that I had seed something inexplcible but knew not what.

The vellum is before me as I write, and now the description is trans-scribed into my diary, too.

Did I dream? I cannot believe so. Something strange has most certainly occurred. I feel uncannily diffrent but cannot put into further words the sensation, for there are none what fit it.

Trounce had added:

The suit Beresford describes matches exactly and without a shadow of a doubt the one I saw in the thicket in Green Park. Beresford’s brother showed me portraits of the Mad Marquess but he bore no likeness to the man who knocked me cold that day.

As to the rest of the diary, after the above-copied entry, Beresford made fewer and fewer contributions to it, none of significance. By September, he’d ceased keeping it altogether. His brother informed me that the marquess, from the date of his vision, became increasingly fascinated with the 16th-century writings of Doctor John Dee and Edward Kelley. He (John Beresford) said their body of work was the subject of Henry’s meetings in The Hog in the Pound, which commenced soon after Queen Victoria’s death and quickly led to the establishment of the League of Enochians. He also stated that his brother believed The Assassination to be “a moment when magic was manifest in history.”

The detective’s notes moved on to the League of Enochians’ current chairman:

Edward Vaughan Hyde Kenealy: Born 2 July 1819. Current address unknown (possibly resident in the club building). From Cork, Ireland. Lawyer. Called to Irish Bar, 1840, and English Bar, 1847. Extremely erratic in character. Often violent. Has apparently published poetry concerning the physical manifestation of God on Earth (have not been able to locate any of it).

The remainder of the file’s contents consisted of pamphlets published by the League of Enochians prior to March. They all advertised club meetings, with titles such as: “A Discussion of John Dee’s Quinti Libri Mysteriorum”; “On the Words of Uriel”; and “The Secret Art of Scrying.” Two in particular caught Burton’s attention. The first was “The Language of the Angels.” Printed under the title were twenty-two symbols, each with a name. They apparently corresponded to Latin letters, the equivalents being displayed beneath. Among them were the two from the tiepin—Ur and Graph—which translated to L and E—the initials of the club.

The second pamphlet—a sheet folded to make four sides of print—was entitled “The First Call of Enoch.” The inside-front page bore a long passage printed in the symbols. The facing page transposed them into Latin characters, the words looking like randomly grouped letters.

The back page offered an English translation: garbled nonsense concerning the power of angels.

However, it provided the key he needed.

He got up, crossed to one of his desks, and retrieved from it the telegraph message Christopher Spoolwinder had given him aboard the Orpheus.

With the pamphlet as his guide, he was able to give meaning to what had originally appeared to be gobbledegook:

THE BEAST . . . THE BEAST . . . THE BEAST . . . YOU SHALL BOW DOWN FOR . . . I REIGN OVER YOU . . . BORN FROM THE WRECK OF SS BRITANNIA AND . . . IN POWER EXALTED ABOVE THE FIRMAMENTS OF WRATH IN WHOSE HANDS THE SUN IS AS A SWORD . . . TO REND THE VEIL . . . FROM THE FALLEN EMPIRE . . . NOW . . . LIFT UP YOUR VOICES AND SWEAR OBEDIENCE AND FAITH TO HIM . . . FOR THE ROYAL CHARTER . . . WILL DELIVER HE . . . WHOSE BEGINNING IS NOT NOR END CANNOT BE . . .