The Secrets of Dr. Taverner

The Secrets of Dr. Taverner
by Dion Fortune

Table of Contents

Editor's Preface i
Introduction by Dion Fortune ii
I Blood Lust 1
II The Return of the Ritual 22
III The Man Who Sought 41
IV The Soul That Would Not Be Born 57
V The Scented Poppies 69
VI The Death Hound 91
VII A Daughter of Pan 109
VIII The Subletting of the Mansion 133
IX Recalled 157
X The Sea Lure 172
XI The Power House 190
XII A Son of the Night 211
Dion Fortune Biography 239

The Secrets of Dr. Taverner

i

Introduction
By Dion Fortune

These stories may be looked at from two standpoints, and no
doubt the standpoint the reader chooses will be dictated by
personal taste and previous knowledge of the subject under
discussion. They may be regarded as fiction, designed, like the
conversation of the Fat Boy recorded in The Pickwick Papers,
"to make your flesh creep," or they may be considered to be
what they actually are, studies in little-known aspects of
psychology put in the form of fiction because, if published as a
serious contribution to science, they would have no chance of a
hearing.

It may not unreasonably be asked what motive anyone could
have for securing a hearing for such histories as are set forth in
these tales, beyond the not unreasonable interest in the royalties
that usually fall to the lot of those who cater for the popular taste
in horrors; I would ask my readers, however, to credit me with
another motive than the purely commercial. I was one of the
earliest students of psychoanalysis in this country, and I found,
in the course of my studies, that the ends of a number of threads
were put into my hands, but that the threads disappeared into the
darkness that surrounded the small circle of light thrown by
exact scientific knowledge. It was in following these threads out
into the darkness of the Unknown that I came upon the
experiences and cases which, turned into fiction, are set down in
these pages.

I do not wish to imply by that, however, that these stories all
happened exactly as set down, for such is not the case; they are,
however, all founded on fact, and there is not a single incident
herein contained which is pure imagination. That is to say, while
no picture is an actual photograph, not one is an imaginary
sketch; they are rather composite photographs, obtained by
cutting out and piecing together innumerable snapshots of actual
happenings, and the whole, far from being an arbitrary product
of the imagination, is a serious study in the psychology of
ultraconsciousness.

ii

I present these studies in super-normal pathology to the
general reader because it has been my experience that such cases
as I chronicle here are by no manner of means as uncommon as
might be supposed, but, being unrecognized, pass unhelped. I
have personally come across several instances of the Power
House, some of which are well known to the members of the
different coteries who are interested in these matters;
"Blood-Lust" is literally true, and both these stories, far from
being written up for the purposes of fiction, have been toned
down to make them fit for print.

"Dr. Taverner" will no doubt be recognized by some of my
readers; his mysterious nursing home was an actual fact, and
infinitely stranger than any fiction could possibly be. It is a
curious thing that the picture of him drawn from fancy by the
artist who illustrated these stories for the Royal Magazine is a
recognizable likeness, although that artist had neither seen a
photograph nor had a description of him.

To "Dr. Taverner" I owe the greatest debt of my life; without
"Dr. Taverner" there would have been no Dion Fortune,' and to
him I offer the tribute of these pages.

--Dion Fortune, London.

********************

Blood Lust

I

I have never been able to make up my mind whether Dr.
Taverner should be the hero or the villain of these histories. That
he was a man of the most selfless ideals could not be questioned,
but in his methods of putting these ideals into practice he was
absolutely unscrupulous. He did not evade the law, he merely
ignored it, and though the exquisite tenderness with which he
handled his cases was an education in itself, yet he would use
that wonderful psychological method of his to break a soul to
pieces, going to work as quietly and methodically and
benevolently as if bent upon the cure of his patient.

The manner of my meeting with this strange man was quite
simple. After being gazetted out of the R.A.M.C. I went to a
medical agency and inquired what posts were available.

I said: "I have come out of the Army with my nerves
shattered. I want some quiet place till I can pull myself
together."

"So does everybody else," said the clerk.

He looked at me thoughtfully. "I wonder whether you would
care to try a place we have had on our books for some time. We
have sent several men down to it but none of them would stop."

He sent me round to one of the tributaries of Harley Street,
and there I made the acquaintance of the man who, whether he
was good or bad, I have always regarded as the greatest mind I
ever met.

Tall and thin, with a parchment-like countenance, he might
have been any age from thirty-five to sixty-five. I have seen him
look both ages within the hour. He lost no time in coming to the
point.

"I want a medical superintendent for my nursing home," he
told me. "I understand that you have specialized, as far as the

1
Blood Lust

Army permitted you to, in mental cases. I am afraid you will find
my methods very different from the orthodox ones. However, as
I sometimes succeed where others fail, I consider I am justified
in continuing to experiment, which I think, Dr. Rhodes, is all any
of my colleagues can claim to do."

The man's cynical manner annoyed me, though I could not
deny that mental treatment is not an exact science at the present
moment. As if in answer to my thought he continued:

"My chief interest lies in those regions of psychology which
orthodox science has not as yet ventured to explore. If you will
work with me you will see some queer things, but all I ask of
you is, that you should keep an open mind and a shut mouth."

This I undertook to do, for, although I shrank instinctively
from the man, yet there was about him such a curious attraction,
such a sense of power and adventurous research, that I
determined at least to give him the benefit of the doubt and see
what it might lead to. His extraordinarily stimulating
personality, which seemed to key my brain to concert pitch,
made me feel that he might be a good tonic for a man who had
lost his grip on life for the I time being.

"Unless you have elaborate packing to do," he said, "I can
motor you down to my place. If you will walk over with me to
the garage I will drive you round to your lodgings, pick up your
things, and we shall get in before dark."

We drove at a pretty high speed down the Portsmouth road
till we came to Thursley, and, then, to my surprise, my
companion turned off to the right and took the big car by a cart
track over the heather.

"This is Thor's Ley or field," he said, as the blighted country
unrolled before us. "The old worship is still kept up about here."

"The Catholic faith?" I inquired.

"The Catholic faith, my dear sir, is an innovation. I was
referring to the pagan worship. The peasants about here still
retain bits of the old ritual; they think that it brings them luck, or
some such superstition. They have no knowledge of its inner
meaning." He paused a moment, and then turned to me and said
with extraordinary emphasis: "Have you ever thought what it
would mean if a man who had the Knowledge could piece that
ritual together?"

I admitted I had not. I was frankly out of my depth, but he
had certainly brought me to the most unchristian spot I had ever
been in my life.

His nursing home, however, was in delightful contrast to the
wild and barren country that surrounded it. The garden was a
mass of colour, and the house, old and rambling and covered
with creepers, as charming within as without; it reminded me of
the East, it reminded me of the Renaissance, and yet it had no
style save that of warm rich colouring and comfort.

I soon settled down to my job, which I found exceedingly
interesting. As I have already said, Taverner's work began where
ordinary medicine ended, and I have under my care cases such as
the ordinary doctor would have referred to the safe keeping of an
asylum, as being nothing else but mad. Yet Taverner, by his
peculiar methods of work, laid bare causes operating both within
the soul and in the shadowy realm where the soul has its
dwelling, that threw an entirely new light upon the problem, and
often enabled him to rescue a man from the dark influences that
were closing in upon him. The affair of the sheep-killing was an
interesting example of his methods.

II
One showery afternoon at the nursing home we had a call
from a neighbor--not a very common occurrence, for Taverner
and his ways were regarded somewhat askance. Our visitor shed
her dripping mackintosh, but declined to loosen the scarf which,
warm as the day was, she had twisted tightly round her neck.

"I believe you specialize in mental cases," she said to my
colleague. "I should very much like to talk over with you a
matter that is troubling me."

Taverner nodded, his keen eyes watching her for symptoms.

"It concerns a friend of mine--in fact, I think I may call him
my fiancé, for, although he has asked me to release him from his
engagement, I have refused to do SO; not because I should wish
to hold a man who no longer loved me, but because I am
convinced that he still cares for me, and there is something
which has come between us that he will not tell me of.

"I have begged him to be frank with me and let us share the
trouble together, for the thing that seems an insuperable obstacle
to him may not appear in that light to me; but you know what
men are when they consider their honour is in question." She
looked from one to the other of us smiling. No woman ever
believes that her men folk are grown up; perhaps she is right.
Then she leant forward and clasped her hands eagerly. "I believe
I have found the key to the mystery. I want you to tell me
whether it is possible or not."

"Will you give me particulars?" said Taverner.

"We got engaged while Donald was stationed here for his
training (that would be nearly five years ago now), and there was
always the most perfect harmony between us until he came out
of the Army, when we all began to notice a change in him. He
came to the house as often as ever, but he always seemed to
want to avoid being alone with me.