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                      SEX, LIES, AND NECROMANCY

                                  by

                    Daniel Parsons and Brandi Weed

                A disagreeable task is its own reward.
                            -- Oscar Wilde

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"Hello, this is Agent Ardrin Castamir.  I'd like to talk to Agent
Angel Braithe."
     "One moment, Agent Castamir... I'm afraid Ms. Braithe is not in
at the moment.  Should I put you in contact with her supervisor?"
     "Isn't he in the hospital?"
     "Why, no...  Oh I see, she was assigned to Mr. Grayson yesterday.
You'll be working under him too, then, won't you?"
     "Yeah, I guess." Ardrin wondered just how much information was in
that file this person was looking at. "Can I talk to him?"
     "Certainly."  There was a long silence, during which Ardrin had
to feed more money into the phone.  Damn government hospitals don't
let you make long-distance calls from your room.
     "'ello."
     "Hello, this is Ardrin Castamir.  You our new supervisor?"
     "Yeah, thas me.  Tom Grayson.  Where that 'ell are ya?"
     "I'm in Inverness.  I just got out, so I'm coming back down."
     "Don't bother.  We're going up there tommorah.  There is
something you can do up there, though."
     "What?"
     "Interview the Finger girls.  I want to know everything they know
about tha man, his timetables, and any associates.  And while you're
there, I want you to check out tha... uh... Benevolent Temple of Banoi
Brith.  It's some kind of weird group.  We made an appointment to meet
up with 'em tommorah morning."
     "I've heard of them.  How the hell are they connected?"
     "Receiving funds.  Get locations, membership, officers.  If you
can get their financial records, so much tha better."
     "How am I supposed to do that?"
     There was a silence at the other end of the line. "You got your
badge, roight?"
     "Uh... yeah."
     "Then use it."
     "Um... sure."
     "Great.  Be seein' ya."
     *click*

                            *     *     *

     Angel and Janie had driven back to Cambridge to the Philosophy
department, but Merryweather was not in his office.  The department
secretary explained that he was at his summer home in the Orkneys, and
wouldn't be back down until the beginning of the next term.
     "A summer home in the Orkneys?"
     "I can't imagine why," Angel said. "I never knew anyone went to
the Orkneys if they could avoid it.  They're quite inhospitable."
     Janie nodded. "Also, aren't the Orkneys right near Scotland?"
     "Yes.  Only a few kilometers off the coast." Angel turned back to
the secretary. "Excuse us, but could you give us the address?  And is
there anyone here who knows the professor that we could talk to?"
     "Certainly.  You can talk to Professor Stromson, I suppose.  He
has the office right next to Merryweather's, and probably sees him
more often than anyone."
     Professor Stromson's office was smaller than Merryweather's, or
maybe it was just that Stromson was larger.  He was very short,
shorter than Angel, and his considerable girth was barely contained by
a faded old cardigan of uncertain age.  He had bright red suspenders,
apple-like cheeks, and a small, red nose, looking for all the world
like a lawn gnome whose hat had gone missing and was having a jolly
time wandering around looking for it.
     "Dr. Thor Stromson?  I am Angel Braithe, and this is Janie
Calder.  We are from MI5, and would like to ask you a few questions
about your associate, Dr. Merryweather."
     "Ah, I see," he said in a pronounced Norwegian accent. "Sit down,
pleese.  I think you can poot those books on the floor dere.  Now,
what is it about old Merrywedder?"
     "We were wondering if you knew any associates of his, projects he
had been working on, any activities or hobbies?"
     "Hmm... I had last known Percy to be working on a treetment of
the I-Thou relationship wit respect to quantum physics.  But I do not
think you are interested in that."
     Angel raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps not."
     "I'd be interested.  It's always entertaining to hear non-
physicists talk about QM."
     "Not now, Janie.  We would like to know what he has been doing of
a non-academic nature."
     "Um... it is difficult to say.  I know he does not teach, and has
published little since he was tenured.  He had never discussed what he
does outside of the college.  I do not think I can help you."
     "Does he have any books on Crowley?" Janie asked.
     "I think he does have one or two.  More than that I do not know."
     "How long has he been tenured?  He seems quite young for it."
     "He was a full professor when I came here in 1975.  And no, he is
not so young, though I do not think he looks his age so much.  He
looked almost the same then as he does now."
     "That's curious.  How old is he?"
     "I do not know.  I know his parents are dead, of an automobile
accident which injured him as well, before he got his doctorate."
     "How was he injured?"
     "I believe the accident left him incapable.  No, impotent.
Incapable?  I think..."
     "No, it is impotent.  Thank you, professor.  Has he been acting
any differently lately?  Any changes in his normal routine?"
     Stromson shook his head. "Nothing I have noticed.  Merrywedder,
as I have said, is not open to others, and can be hard to know."
     "I see.  Thank you, professor." Angel stood up and gave him her
card. "If the Professor comes back, I would appreciate it if you would
call us immediately.  We are not going to arrest him, we would just
like to ask him some more questions."
     Stromson took the card. "I will do so.  Tell me, why is there all
this attention?  I do not believe Percy could be involved in any
wrongdoing, it does not seem like him."
     "We only want to get some facts cleared up, that's all.  We'll be
going now.  Good day, Professor."
     "Certainly." Stromson smiled engagingly. "We are always happy to
have pretty girls come in to the department; there are so very few who
do."
     Janie looked around, blinked a bit, and grinned. "Uh, thanks."
     Stromson showed them to the door, and they walked out to the
library.  "Interesting little fellow.  I like the way his glasses sit
on his nose."
     Angel laughed quietly. "Yes, I suppose he is rather engaging.  I
wish he knew more about Merryweather, though."
     "There should be stuff on professors in the library."
     Percival Harcourt Merryweather had been granted his doctorate in
Philosophy in 1961, even though his educational background was very
spotty.  There were a listing of research affiliations dating back to
World War II, but he had never received his baccalaureate.  The
doctorate was granted based on "his superior abilities and knowledge
of Assyrian religion and Middle Eastern scholarship."
     "This is very irregular," said Angel. "A full professor who never
received a bachelors degree?  And it doesn't even list a date of birth
for him."
     "Irregular, nothing.  It's fucking weird."
     "Janie..."
     "Yes, yes, I know.  Language.  But look, he had a paper published
with him listed as a contributor in 1948.  Figuring he had to be in
his 20's, at least, he'd be at least 70 now, and he does not look that
old at all.  I mean, philosophy professors never die, but that's
really pushing it."
     "I didn't know philosophy professors were immortal.  But I see
what you mean.  The faculty registers don't have much on him, not even
pictures, though this 1965 yearbook does have a picture with him in
the background."
     They looked at the picture.  He looked almost the same as the day
he had ushered them out of his office. "He does seem well preserved."
     "Embalmed, more like."
     "Hmmm... let's see what we can find on the Shriners."

                            *     *     *

     With his radio blasting, Ardrin drove out of Corpac, where he had
been interviewing Janet Andrin.  She didn't know anything, except for
the number of a Swiss Bank account she'd offered him.  After tacking
attempted bribery onto the receiving stolen goods charges, he didn't
get anything else out of her. Rebecca McEwey was being held in Aboyne.
The local cops had uncovered a few things with her unwilling help,
like a couple bales of marijuana, and a box with 5,000 pounds buried
under the floor.  But she wouldn't say anything about Finger.
     After Ardrin had his credentials checked, he went down to the
basement for the interview.  McEwey was tall and good-looking, even
better than Andrin had been, and she stared defiantly at Ardrin as he
sat down.
     "Hi there.  I want you to know that I am an officer of MI5, and
anything you say will be recorded and may be used against you.  You
are under no obligation to reply, nor are you under oath to tell the
truth at this time.  Do you understand?"
     "Yes, I understand."  Her green eyes narrowed as she tossed her
head so her auburn hair fell over one shoulder. "Well, officer.  I
hope you didn't get hurt too badly."
     "Nah," Ardrin said, ignoring her stare. "I would like to ask you
a few questions."
     "My time is yours.  What do you want from me?"
     "John Finger was listed as one of your accounts.  You balanced
his books for him, but no files on his finances could be found at the
castle or at your home.  Where do you keep your personal copies of his
records?"
     "I don't." She smiled. "John is a very special case, and I don't
handle him the way I handle my others.  Everything has been destroyed.
There's nothing left for you."
     "Uh-huh.  You are aware of his activities, and that you can be
implicated in them?"
     McEwey laughed. "Balancing the man's records is not much of a
charge, is it?  I have sales records for everything I have, by the
way, including those cars I'm sure you suspect he gave to me."
     "I don't think so.  We've been able to match the serial numbers.
They were stolen, and we can prove it."
     "Well I bought them, and I can prove it.  I have copies of all
the papers, completely above board."
     "Those papers can be forged, Ms. McEwey.  In fact, your Maserati
was stolen from the same truck that one of his other girlfriends' cars
came from, and we know Finger gave it to her."
     "What?"
     Ardrin looked up into her face.  She was still smiling, but it
looked stiff, as though she had forgotten she still had it on. "Yes,
she had another Maserati, and a Rolls Royce.  Quite a car too, as well
as some very valuable jewelry and --"
     "You're lying."
     "No, Ms. McEwey, I'm not." Ardrin showed her a picture of Janet
Andrin he had found in her house, a lingerie shot with her long blonde
hair disarrayed seductively over her ample bosom. "She wasn't as smart
as you, though.  Didn't get any papers to prove she owned the stuff.
Some of the others did, but they all fell through."
     Staring at the picture, McEwey said, "The others?  What others?
Who were they?"
     "I'm not at liberty to say, ma'am." Ardrin took back the picture.
"Now, I would like to know where Finger's money goes."
     McEwey hardly seemed to hear Ardrin.  She just kept staring at
the files he had next to him.  "We were particularly interested in
Inverness." Her eyes jumped, and Ardrin suppressed a grin. "You know
something about that?"
     "I... he... how..." She shook her head. "Would you tell me
something, detective?"
     Ardrin raised his eyebrows.
     "Why do you want to know about Inverness?"
     "We believe that a certain fraternal organization based there was
receiving money through one of these accounts, which --"
     "That BASTARD!  I knew it!  Well, I hope she rots.  Yes, she was
getting his money, and putting into the Temple.  Lots of it, too,
hundreds of thousands of pounds.  She's also the one who got the drugs
for him.  You can rest assured that I don't know anything about that,
and wouldn't touch the stuff for anything."
     Ardrin nodded, unable to keep from smiling. "Yes.  You know how
she's been transferring all the money?"
     "She works for the bank!  How do you think she does it?"
     "Of course.  Now, about the marijuana.  How do they bring it in?"
     "It's hidden in a small truck.  Three bales, just about every
quarter.  Nasty business, I don't know what he's doing with it, but I
have nothing to do with it."
     "Great.  Now, who is this woman?"
     "She..." McEwey stared at Ardrin in confusion. "I thought you had
arrested her."
     "No, we haven't arrested anybody in Inverness.  I have to warn
you that trafficking marijuana carries a minimum sentence of 10 years
in this country.  And so far, you're the only name we have connected
with those bales."
     McEwey glared at Ardrin. "Jillian Flash.  And I'll bet he was
doing her anyway."
     "Uh-huh.  Nice talking to you.  Hope your trial goes all right."


Daniel Parsons                                             Brandi Weed
                      Questions or comments to bweed@muddcs.cs.hmc.edu
        Available for ftp from ftp.cs.pdx.edu, in /pub/frp/stories/SLN
-- 
Brandi Weed                       "I've got a good mind to join the club
bweed@muddcs.claremont.edu         and beat you over the head with it."
bweed@muddcs.cs.hmc.edu					--Groucho Marx