Chapter 6

The room was immaculate. There was a large, yet undeniably feminine desk backed by a pair of French doors. The walls were lined with bookshelves which contained a variety of reading material and several pictures of Mrs. Scofield and well-known elites. Dashiell counted four, no five, senators as well as three former Presidents and their wives. Mrs. Scofield clearly travelled the circles of power.

The desk was dominated by an old-fashioned typewriter. “She typed the manuscript by hand?” Dashiell asked.

“Yes,” Watson replied. “She did not want details escaping before she was ready and she felt that computers could be hacked too easily. She kept the only copy locked in her desk, except when she was reviewing it.”

“And that copy is gone now?” Regina asked.

“It is,” Watson confirmed.

Dashiell had been moving slowly toward the other large piece of furniture in the room, the chaise lounge. Laying on it, like Cleopatra, was Mrs. Scofield. Her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful. Whatever had caused her death had apparently not caused her any pain.

Dashiell walked slowly around the body and chaise, examining for any clues of occult practices. He chanted a cantrip under his breath, designed to detect the presence of any other spells cast by another. He felt nothing.

He stopped near Mrs. Scofield’s head. “Which direction is that?” he asked, pointing in a line from her head out the window.

Watson looked up. “West.”

Dashiell nodded. He’d have preferred north, but you worked with what the scene gave you. And on the plus side, it wasn’t south. That also spoke against someone with occult experience.

He reached into his bag and drew out eight candles. He was going to surround the body with two circles. Five of the candles would represent the points of the pentagram. Four were used to mark the four cardinal directions. He had eight candles because the candle at the top of the pentagram also represented one of the directions, tying the circles together.

Dashiell opened the book he had brought and flipped it open to a dog-eared page. Regina and Watson stood by the desk, watching.

Dashiell begin to chant words from the book as he placed a candle on the floor, near Mrs. Scofield’s head. He walked clockwise around the chaise, mapping out a circle. When he got to a point in line with her right hip, he placed another candle. He then placed one near her feet and one on a line with her left hip. He then moved back to her head.

He then touched the candle near her head and began a different chant. He moved counterclockwise this time. When he reached a spot in line with her left shoulder, he placed another candle. He walked around the circle, placing the other four candles in the pentagram. When he was finished, he touched the candle near her head a third time. You could draw a circle that would intercept all eight candles.

Dashiell then went back in his bag. He pulled out a small brass brazier and set up a small tripod. In the brazier, he placed three sprigs of dill. He then took out a taper of cedar wood and lit it with a lighter. Once it was burning, he walked around the circle, clockwise, lighting all eight candles. When they were burning, he placed the taper in among the dill.

A sharp smell began to dominate the air of the room as the herb burned. Dashiell blew gently on the smoke, urging it toward the body. He began a new chant from the book.

The smoke crept along the floor, surrounding the chaise, ringing the body of Mrs. Scofield. It danced up around her head, entering her nostrils.

Regina gasped as the smoke moved with an apparent intelligence. Watson merely looked on, his staid demeanor betraying no emotion.

Dashiell finished chanting. “Elizabeth Mallory Scofield,” he intoned. “Your work here on Earth is not quite finished. I call upon your spirit to come forth, that you may disclose unto us how you died.” He raised his hand imploringly toward the body.

Nothing happened.

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