Aleister Crowley	In 1947, agent Mr W.H. of the Tabula Rasa returned to Roxborough Tower having succeeded in preventing the use of magic at a Hastings boarding house. In this dominion Mr W.H. had felt a sudden gust of wind and peal of thunder at the (otherwise quiet) moment of the death of Black Magician Aleister Crowley, the wickedest man in Britain. Crowley had attempted to shapeshift into the body of his sixty-eight year old physician Dr. William Brown Thomson, who was was found dead in his bath at his Mayfair flat the very next day.
The Beast

Thomson glanced over his shoulder. The whistler was in sight. It looked perfectly human, dressed in a gray, well-cut suit and black tie, its collar turned up against the cold, its hands thrust into its pockets. It didn't run but almost idled as it came, the whistle confounding Thomson's thoughts and making him stumble. As he turned away the second of his pursuers appeared on the pavement in front of him, drawing a hand from its pocket. A gun? No. A knife? No. Something tiny crawled in the voider's palm, like a flea. Thomson had no sooner focused upon it than it leapt towards his face. Repulsed, he raised his arm to keep it from his eyes or mouth, and the flea landed upon his hand. He slapped at it with his other hand, but it was beneath his thumbnail before he could get to it. He raised his arm to see its motion in the flesh of his thumb and clamped his other hand around the base of the digit, in the hope of stopping its further advance, gasping as though doused with icewater. The pain was out of all proportion to the mite's size, but he held both thumb and sobs hard, determined not to lose all dignity in front of his executioners. ~ The Death of Dr. William Brown Thomson.

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