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.
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.
And then he walked in.
The organist bowed slightly to the crowd before taking his place behind the Wurlitzer.
“Welcome. I’m Anton Szandor LaVey,” he said, his voice reverberating through the microphone. “Remember, evil backwards spells live.”
His minions, crowded together on the floor, clapped enthusiastically.
Van listened intently as the first notes began flowing through the pipes. Modern classical. Not what he had expected. LaVey was good. Van knew he was better.
He sat quietly through the first set, hearing every chord breathing through the pipes.
He hoped to meet LaVey when he took a break, but that didn’t happen. When the music stopped, the organist began speaking, and Van observed as the room became deathly silent except for the sound of LaVey’s voice. His audience was mesmerized.
Van was impressed. This unusual man, dressed all in black, held the crowd in the palm of his hand as he explained that they should indulge themselves in all things.
Van listened and watched for what seemed like hours. No one left the bar.
Finally LaVey stood up, the mirrors behind the bar replicating his image as he bowed before stepping down from his throne.
Van flagged the bartender.
“Do you mind if I play for a minute?” he said, handing him a five-dollar bill.
The bartender shrugged. “Go ahead, but I don’t think anyone will pay attention. They come for