Free The Compleat Crow by Brian Lumley Page A

examined him and immediately declared the trouble to be psychosomatic.
    “What?” said Crow hoarsely, “you mean I’m imagining it? Well, that would take a pretty vivid imagination!”
    “No,” said Townley, “I didn’t say you were imagining it. I said it isn’t a physical thing. And therefore there’s no physical cure.”
    “Oh, I think there is,” Crow answered. “But last night I gave the bottle away!”
    “Indeed?” And Townley’s eyebrows went up. “Withdrawal symptoms, eh?”
    “Not of the usual sort, no,” answered Crow. “Harry, have you the time to put me into trance just once more? There’s a certain precaution I’d like to take before I resume the funny business we were talking about last night.”
    “Not a bad idea,” said the doctor, “at least where this supposed sore throat of yours is concerned. If it is psychosomatic, I might be able to do something about it. I’ve had a measure of success with cigarette smokers.”
    “Fine,” said Crow, “but I want you to do more than just that. If I give you a man’s name, can you order me never to allow myself to fall under his influence—never to be hypnotized by him—again?”
    “Well, it’s a tall order,” the good doctor admitted, “but I can try.”
    Half an hour later when Townley snapped his fingers and Crow came out of trance, his throat was already feeling much better, and by the time he and Townley left his flat the trouble had disappeared altogether. Nor was he ever bothered with it again. He dined with the doctor in the city, then caught a taxi and went on alone to the British Museum.
    Through his many previous visits to that august building and establishment he was well acquainted with the Curator of the Rare Books Department, a lean, learned gentleman thirty-five years his senior, sharp-eyed and with a dry and wicked wit. Sedgewick was the man’s name, but Crow invariably called him “sir.”
    “What, you again?” Sedgewick greeted him when Crow sought him out. “Did no one tell you the war was over? And what code-cracking business are you on this time, eh?”
    Crow was surprised. “I hadn’t suspected you knew about that,” he said.
    “Ah, but I did! Your superiors saw to it that I received orders to assist you in every possible way. You didn’t suppose I just went running all over the place for any old body, did you?”
    “This time,” Crow admitted, “I’m here on my own behalf. Does that change things, sir?”
    The other smiled. “Not a bit, old chap. Just tell me what you’re after and I’ll see what I can do for you. Are we back to cyphers, codes and cryptograms again?”
    “Nothing so common, I’m afraid,” Crow answered. “Look, this might seem a bit queer, but I’m looking for something on worm worship.”
    The other frowned. “Worm worship? Man or beast?”
    “I’m sorry?” Crow looked puzzled.
    “Worship of the annelid—family, Lumbricidae —or of the man, Worm?”
    “The man-worm?”
    “Worm with a capital ‘W,’” Sedgewick grinned. “He was a Danish physician, an anatomist. Olaus Worm. Around the turn of the 16th Century, I believe. Had a number of followers. Hence the word ‘Wormian,’ relating to his discoveries.”
    “You get more like a dictionary every day!” Crow jokingly complained. But his smile quickly turned to a frown. “Olaus Worm, eh? Could a Latinized version of that be Olaus Wormius, I wonder?”
    “What, old Wormius who translated the Greek Necronomicon ? No, not possible, for he was 13th Century.”
    Crow sighed and rubbed his brow. “Sir,” he said, “you’ve thrown me right off the rails. No, I meant worship of the beast—the annelid, if you like—worship of the maggot.”
    Now it was Sedgewick’s turn to frown. “The maggot!” he repeated. “Ah, but now you’re talking about a different kettle of worms entirely. A maggot is a grave-worm. Now if that’s the sort of worm you mean…have you tried The Mysteries of the Worm ?”
    Crow