The Most Dangerous Animal of All Read online

  After school, Van volunteered at the de Young Museum, in Golden Gate Park. In the Ancient Arms room, he honed his skills cleaning, maintaining, and preserving medieval weapons. It was in that museum filled with relics from the past that Van became fascinated with weaponry and the art of killing.

  William and Bill realized that Van was different, but that he was also very intelligent, and they enjoyed listening to him pontificate on this topic or that. He knew a little something about almost everything. They were also impressed with his musical talent.

  “Where did you learn to play like that?” William asked one afternoon when Van was showing off on the piano in his living room.

  “Mother taught me,” Van replied. “I also listen to a lot of classical music and operas. I’ll show you.”

  Van introduced William to Giacomo Puccini’s Tosca, another tale of lust and murder that Van particularly liked. “Puccini adapted ‘Miya Sama, Miya Sama’ from Act II of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Mikado,” Van explained. Before long, William became a fan, and the two boys spent their evenings reciting the words from The Mikado to each other until William knew them as well as Van.

  At school, they mostly spoke to each other in German, which annoyed and alienated the other students. But when Van joined the English-Speaking Union, an organization with the charter to preserve the language and culture of the motherland, he began to cultivate a proper English accent and called everyone by their surname, which was similarly annoying to his classmates.

  “You know, Bellingshausen, my family roots trace back to England and royalty,” Van bragged. “My father told me I am a distant relative of Queen Elizabeth.”

  William didn’t know whether to believe him, but he let him have that one, because you never really knew with Van. And when his friend’s assumed accent sounded like someone caught in the middle of a conversation between Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, William just smiled. He let Van have that, too.

  But whenever Van turned the conversation to an Asian slave box, a four-inch cube made of dark wood that William had once shown him, William got a little nervous. Van believed that some cultures collected the souls of their slaves for the afterlife in boxes like that one, and Van had become fascinated with the notion of killing one to put in the box. Walking together down the hallway between classes, Van would often point out a pretty girl. “She’d make a good one, don’t you think?” he would say, and laugh.

  William knew what he meant and worried sometimes that Van wasn’t joking.

  7

  After graduation, in 1953, William left San Francisco to spend several months in Mexico, sailing away on a sixty-eight-foot yawl. Van had other plans. He had befriended Alexander Victor Edward Paulet Montagu, a member of British Parliament, at an English-Speaking Union meeting. Montagu, commonly known as the Viscount of Hinchingbrooke, had been impressed by Van’s knowledge of England and amused by his stiff British correctness. He took a fancy to Van and invited his young American friend to England for a stay at his father’s home, Hinchingbrooke House, with the promise of meeting the queen. Excited about the prospect, Van convinced my grandfather to buy his passage to England as a graduation present.

  On May 4, 1953, the RMS Ascania safely sailed into the port in Liverpool, England, and Van disembarked to begin his adventure.

  The viscount had arranged for a car to bring Van to the family estate, just outside Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire, some three hours southeast of Liverpool. Although Victor maintained a residence in London, he had arranged for Van to have the pleasure of experiencing high country living. Originally, the massive house had been built as a church, around 1100. It had later become a nunnery before coming into the possession of Richard Williams (also known as Richard Cromwell) in 1536. Cromwell and his sons added numerous rooms, a medieval grand entrance, and the Great Bow Window that gave Hinchingbrooke House its distinct character. Debt forced the Cromwells to sell their prized possession to the Montagu family in 1627. The Montagus continued with improvements, and when it came into the possession of the fourth Earl of Sandwich, John Montagu, Hinchingbrooke House became known for its lavish parties, hosted by the earl and his mistress while his wife lived her life tucked away in a sanatorium.

  When they pulled onto the grounds of the manor, Van noticed the family’s coat of arms. The words Post tot naufragia portum (“a haven after so many shipwrecks”) served as the family motto.

  Once inside the majestic home, my father was struck by the smell—a mustiness that had seeped for centuries into every crack and crevice of the dwelling. Immense portraits lining walls, elaborate draperies, exquisite furnishings, scented candelabras—nothing could overcome that first impression. Van sniffed and covered his nose.

  “My American friend,” Victor Montagu said when he greeted Van as he emerged from a shadowy hallway. “How was your trip?”

  “It was good, Sir Montagu,” Van said, looking up at the man approaching him.

  At forty-six years of age, the viscount was a striking figure—tall, with broad shoulders and a slender build. “Welcome to my family’s home,” he said, instructing the manservant to show Van to his room.

  Over the next few weeks, Van received a thorough education in English history and politics as he and the viscount alternated their time between Hinchingbrooke and London. Victor Montagu had become very involved in politics as a young man and had a wealth of knowledge to bestow upon his guest. He had served as the private secretary to Stanley Baldwin, a well-respected lord president of the council, and had written several books by the time Van met him. He had also served in World War II before being elected to Parliament. Van absorbed every word the viscount said, storing each new bit of information in his memory, to be revisited later with William, especially the fact that Queen Elizabeth and King James I had slept within these walls.

  But Van had trouble sleeping within those walls. Each night, he listened intently to the sounds of old boards creaking, cracking, as if someone or something was walking the halls. The sounds would get closer and closer, louder and louder, until Van huddled under a blanket in the corner of his room. Watching.

  Waiting.

  For hours.

  And then morning would dawn and the sun would cast its reassuring light across the room. Van would finally close his eyes and sleep until breakfast was served, where he usually ate only a piece of bacon or two with his tea.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Victor asked as he wolfed down baked beans, sausage, bacon, eggs, and fried bread.

  “Mother rarely cooks breakfast, so I’m not used to eating a lot in the morning.”

  “Americans,” Victor said, laughing. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Well, at least the tea will keep you going.”

  Van nodded. He liked English tea, if for no other reason than that it was part of the culture he so desperately wanted to adopt.

  “I’ve got something special in store for you,” Victor announced. “We’re going to London for the queen’s coronation.”

  Van was delighted. The Montagu family, through its royal connections, fed his Anglophile appetite and emboldened him to model the walk, talk, and style of dress of his blue-blooded hosts. And on June 2, 1953, my father stood in Trafalgar Square, amid the throngs of fawning people who had gathered to watch Elizabeth II ride by in the spectacular horse-drawn coach that would take her to Westminster Abbey, where she was crowned in the coronation theater in the same chair in which kings had been crowned since Edward, in 1274. For Van, this was the thrill of a lifetime, but he would later express his displeasure to William that he had been stuck outside with the commoners instead of seated with the viscount’s family. After all, he was related, he insisted.

  Upon their return to Hinchingbrooke House the following month, Montagu resumed his tutelage of his American friend.

  “I need to sort through some of the old letters and documents that my father stored away. Would you like to help?”

  “Yes, sir,” Van said. “I’d love to.”

  Van follo
wed the viscount into an office furnished with heavy wooden desks and bookshelves lining the walls. He reverently searched the titles, drawn to the bound leather covers and the parchment paper inside.

  “You can touch them,” Victor said, noticing Van’s expression.

  Van pulled one from a shelf. Carefully, he opened it, letting his fingers run across the texture of the pages. He noticed everything—the print, the binding, the yellowing. Victor let Van browse while he placed stacks of letters on a desk and began looking through them. “Look at this,” he said.

  Van walked over and took the letter Victor handed him. It was written by Captain James Cook and addressed to John Montagu.

  “John was the fourth Earl of Sandwich. You know, they named the sandwich after him,” Victor said, with a laugh. “He was a nefarious fellow, but it was his sponsorship of Captain Cook’s explorations that brought him the most notoriety. Do you know there are islands named after this house and John Montagu off the Australian coast?”

  Van nodded. He had read everything he could about the family before he arrived.

  “Was he really a member of the Hellfire Club?” Van ventured, turning the conversation to the subject he most wanted to discuss. He had come across this tidbit in his readings.

  Sensing Van’s interest and enjoying his fascinated audience, Victor stood up and closed the door. He and Van talked for hours, discussing the club’s history and the rumors that had swirled around its members. “No one really knows what is true and what is not,” Victor said.

  Over the next two months, Van learned everything he could about the club, and grew excited about sharing his newfound knowledge with William when he returned home. He quizzed the viscount relentlessly, tucking away each detail to be savored later. Amused, Montagu fed Van’s fantasies, unwittingly inspiring in his young friend a greater interest in the occult. The club allegedly comprised eighteenth-century English gentlemen who made sacrifices to Venus and Bacchus, animals, and sometimes nymphs. Van loved the rumors of orgies, debauchery, and sacrifices by noblemen such as Sir Francis Dashwood and the fourth Earl of Sandwich. Their motto, Fais ce que tu voudras (“Do what you will”), meant nothing was off-limits. Everything Van heard was the antithesis of his father’s teachings, and Van knew that Earl would have been none too pleased had he known how his son was utilizing his time in England.

  The days passed by rapidly, and Van hated the thought of returning to the United States.

  But then one night, as Van lay in his bed, unable to sleep once again, he listened to whispers of the past echoing through his room. Chilled by the damp air that pervaded the house and fearful of spirits that he was sure lurked nearby, he pulled his blanket tightly around him. When he heard the ominous sound of boards creaking in the hallway, he tensed. It sounded louder this time, more defined. He jumped from his bed and ran into the corner of the room. Using his blanket as a shield, he sank to the floor, hoping the sound would stop.

  It did. Right outside his door.

  Van watched in terror as the door opened slowly. An eerie orange glow from the lantern on the wall in the hallway spread into the room, illuminating a shadowy figure.

  The next morning, he abruptly decided to cut his trip short and return home.

  Before he left, Victor showed Van his family’s collection of ancient weaponry. He presented Van with a bronze mace, shaped like the head of a bull. Its mouth opened into a menacing grimace, and Van detected a pungent odor when he tried to look inside. My father politely thanked the viscount for the unusual gift and for inviting him to stay at Hinchingbrooke, but he couldn’t wait to get away from the castle and its dark secrets.

  In early September, my father boarded the RMS Franconia, bound for Quebec, with mixed emotions—sadness at leaving behind a royal lifestyle he enjoyed and relief at being away from the ghosts that haunted him at night.

  In 1962, upon his father’s death, Victor Montagu sold Hinchingbrooke to the Huntingdon and Peterborough County Council, ending five hundred years of private family ownership, and in 1964 he renounced his position as the tenth Earl of Sandwich, after only two years. In the ensuing years, Victor would lose his prominence in government and earn a reputation for being eccentric.

  Back in San Francisco, William noticed a change in Van. His friend had become obsessed with spirits. Van talked incessantly about the fourth Earl of Sandwich and the Hellfire Club. “A lot of devil worshipping and satanic ritual went on in those meetings. I heard they also sacrificed slaves. I wish I could have been there for just one meeting, just to get one slave.”

  “Your father would have a heart attack if he heard you talking like that,” William said.

  Van laughed. “Yes, he would. And he paid for the trip.”

  “Have you heard from Montagu since you’ve been back?”

  “No, and I don’t think I will.”

  “Why not?”

  Van looked uncomfortable, hesitating before he spoke. “He made a move on me while I was there,” he confessed.

  “What did he do?” William asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Van said.

  William didn’t ask him about the incident again, but he didn’t quite believe his friend. Van had a way of twisting the imagined into reality.

  “What happened to your head?” William asked, suddenly noticing a large bump protruding from Van’s forehead.

  “That damned mace,” Van said, shifting his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. He had shown William the mace earlier. Van had hung it over his bed at an angle, supported by a metal bracket, the handle resting in a makeshift support. “Last night, while I was sleeping, something hit me in the head. It hurt like hell, and when I sat up, the mace was in the bed. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. I’m telling you, William, there’s something evil about that mace. It’s possessed by medieval spirits. I know it is. Here, look at it and tell me what you think,” Van insisted, handing the offending weapon to his friend.

  William gave the mace a thorough inspection, then lifted the bull’s mouth to his nose and grimaced at the foul odor. “Smells like old blood,” he said.

  “I have to get rid of this thing. It’s going to kill me,” Van said, fear evident in his eyes. “Do you want it?”

  “No, thank you,” William said adamantly.

  Van spent the next months searching for someone, anyone, who would take the mace off his hands. Finally he found a collector and rid himself of the evil spirit that had attacked him at night.

  8

  The Korean War had provided a disturbing threat during my father’s high school years. While William, Van, and Bill had enjoyed playing make-believe war in the ROTC, none of the boys had any interest in heading overseas after graduation to fight in a real war. They had decided early on that they would enroll in City College of San Francisco, a two-year preparatory college that did not offer ROTC but would keep them out of the draft if their names were to be called. Fortunately for the boys, the war ended in 1953, but they enrolled in the school anyway. Van and William opted for criminology, while Bill pursued drama—he had already decided he wanted to become an actor and was determined to achieve that goal. William wanted to become a private investigator, while Van simply liked the idea of studying forensics. His real interest was music, but he was already far beyond what a college could teach him and found music classes boring and repetitive. Gertrude had made sure of that.

  By this time Van was an accomplished organist and a classical music aficionado, partial to Bach. He sometimes spent his spare time playing the pipe organ at Grace Cathedral, a French Gothic Episcopalian church on California Street. It had taken thirty-six years to build the church, but when it was complete, an architectural masterpiece awaited sinners who walked through its doors.

  Stained-glass windows, depicting Jesus and his disciples, Mother Mary, and other biblical characters, radiated a spectrum of color across the arched ceiling over Van’s head as he sat at the organ, caressing the keys. To his left, a circle with a
cross in the middle graced the marble floor.

  When Van played, passersby would stop, lured into the beautiful church by the magical sounds echoing from the vast open space. Built in 1934, the organ featured approximately 7,500 pipes, each contributing to the magnificent sound of the instrument. Even Van felt humbled when he heard the music his fingers created.

  Although he had asked her more than once, Gertrude refused to come to the church to hear him play, and she no longer allowed him to play the piano in their living room, because Harlan no longer wanted Van in the house. Eager to be rid of Gertrude’s son, Harlan was doing everything he could to make Van’s home life as miserable as possible.

  In need of an outlet other than the church, Van discovered the Lost Weekend tavern, at 1940 Taraval. The bar itself seemed ordinary enough, long and cylinder-shaped, with tables and chairs that lined the walls to the right. A mirrored bar surrounded by deep mahogany dressed the wall to the left. The blond-and-black mosaic-tiled floor, so common in buildings built in 1930s San Francisco, gave the bar a familiar appeal. But it was the Wurlitzer organ jutting out from the center of the bar that caught Van’s attention. Raised on a platform, the organ’s pipes stretched upward to the edges of a circle of wood on the ceiling.

  “Do you need an organ player?” he asked the bartender one afternoon, eyeing the massive organ appreciatively.

  “Got one,” the bartender said. “Some guy named LaVey. You should come by and hear him on Friday nights. It’s a different scene, man.”

  The following Friday, Van and William sat at the end of the bar, nursing a drink, waiting to hear how the Wurlitzer would sound. Van’s fingers itched to touch the ivory keys. When the bar began filling with people, he guessed he wouldn’t have long to wait. He watched curiously when patrons began gathering in a circle on the floor around the organ while the tables and chairs remained empty. He could feel an air of excitement building in the room.