The Pendragon Legend (25 page)

“Cynthia, let the poor feel sorry for the poor. You should be proud and pitiless. If I were in your place … my whole life would be an unending parade of low-level sadism. It would be a byword for nonchalance and aloofness. I would never once take up a book, not even by accident. I’d fill my days with golf, or, if there is some sport even more exclusive and boring, I’d go in for that. I’d travel. I’d visit galleries and decide that Leonardo painted rather well considering he was so common. I would say very little: pride is so much more easily expressed through noble gestures. I don’t
suggest
it would be very amusing, but to do one’s duty never is.”

“Would you really change places with me?”

“Would I? This minute.”

“I really don’t understand you. I’d so much rather be in your position. To devote one’s life to scholarship … to truth, and the service of mankind … ”

“You may rest assured that my personal scholarship has never served mankind. Because there is no such thing as justice, no
universal
humanity. There are only versions of justice and different sorts of people. And it has always given me particular pleasure that my own scholarly efforts, let’s say, in the field of old English ironworking, have never been of the slightest use to anyone.”

“You speak like someone who has no ideals.”

“True. I am a neo-frivolist.”

“And how does that differ from old-fashioned frivolity?”

“Mostly in the ‘neo’ prefix. It makes it more interesting.”

She was making a childish wreath from some yellow flowers called dandelions in English, and staring despondently into the distance. Our intimacy had come to a critical moment. I now
bitterly
regretted having said so much. What is the point of talking to the woman you love? It can only cause unpleasantness.

“I’m afraid we don’t really understand each other,” she said, in the sort of far-away voice she might have heard in a theatre. She should have added a ‘sir’.

Then she started to chatter with great animation about her lady friend, who did understand her.

We set off back to the castle. I found it impossible to speak, as always happens to me when I have done something really stupid. And I felt rather sorry for myself. Only now did I realise how much she mattered to me, the little Lady of the Castle, who had lost her way.

When we arrived there was a telegram waiting for me.

I was back at the very heart of the battle.

Morvin’s gang must have recognised Osborne as he followed Eileen St Claire in one of his ridiculous disguises. Assuming
nothing
worse had happened to him, they had now rendered him harmless. But of course, they were after his life too …

I packed my bags at once. Though I had no idea what I might achieve, I could hardly wait to get to London.

I did not tell the Earl or Cynthia the reason for my departure: I didn’t want to alarm them prematurely. I comforted myself that everything might still turn out well.

I managed to get away on the afternoon train. London had never before seemed so far from North Wales, nor with so many superfluous cities in between.

Arriving, I dashed to the hotel and enquired after Lene.

“Miss Kretzsch … ? Miss Kretzsch?”

A somewhat casual search for her began. She hadn’t been seen at lunch. No one had noticed her at breakfast. Finally, the cleaner reported that she hadn’t spent the night in her room either.

Dinner time came, but no trace of Lene. By nine o’clock I could wait no longer. I left a note with the porter to say I’d be back by eleven. Then, like a tenderly grieving lover returning to scenes frequented with his dear departed, I went round every pub where at one time or another I had drunk with her. I knew she couldn’t possibly go to bed without her nightcap. If she were to be found anywhere accessible to reason, it would be in a pub.

In my distress, and because my thoughts were entirely focused on her, I knocked back a couple of pints wherever I went. I did not succeed in finding her, but by the time I returned, some time
after eleven, I was in a thoroughly pleasant beer-haze and looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

“Has anyone called for me?” I asked the porter, with less than perfect articulation.

“Yes, sir. A gentleman.”

“You didn’t recognise him? It was Miss Kretzsch, in disguise.”

“That is indeed possible, sir,” he replied gravely. “He said he’d come from a Mr Seton, with an important message.”

“What wonderful notions she has!” I said to myself. “She must be up in her room.” And I dashed merrily up the stairs.

I knocked, but there was no answer. I hammered on the door and began shouting, in German:

“Lene! Lene! Open up. It’s me, Bátky! Come on, open up, will you!”

Roused by these barbaric syllables, the proprietress appeared, in her nightgown.

The proprietress was a woman of strict moral principles. The hotel rejoiced in its reputation for the highest respectability, a
virtue
that in England calls for rigorous policing. Seeing me battering on a lady’s door she paled and gave me a look which, had I been sober, would doubtless have turned me to stone.

“Mr Bátky! … ”

With what bleakly chilling tones she could prolong that
unfortunate
first syllable!

But I was drunk, my sight and hearing blurred the harsh edges of reality, and I was in an optimistic frame of mind.

“Hello, Mrs Stewart! How are you?” I exclaimed happily. “Do you know, you’re putting on weight.”

“In my establishment ladies do not receive male visitors in their rooms, especially at this time of night. Mr Bátky, you astonish me. Go downstairs at once. I must ask you to kindly remove yourself from this hotel at your earliest … ”

Cowering under the weight of her authority, I crept back to my room and was soon fast asleep.

I woke early the next morning, stone cold sober. I dressed
rapidly
and hastened down to the porter. My head was buzzing with all the steps I had failed to take the night before.

“Is Miss Kretzsch back yet?” I asked.

“No, sir.”

I had a vague notion that someone might have enquired after me the previous day.

“Who came asking for me?”

“A gentleman. From a Mr Seton.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he’d call again this morning. He asked if you would wait for him without fail.”

This reassured me to a certain extent. My gravest omission of the night before had been not to let Seton know what was
happening
. But apparently he was already fully informed. Lene must have been in touch with him. My visitor would make all this clear.

I finished my breakfast and passed the time restlessly perusing the papers. I simply glanced at the headlines, rather cursorily. But one suddenly hit me:

Abersych was perhaps six miles from Pendragon …

I was in no doubt as to the identity of the abductor. But what possible motive … ?

However I gave it no further thought. The whole thing was beyond rational understanding. The mere fact of its happening was a slap in the face for logical analysis. If indeed it had happened …

But then from the depths of my mind, used as it was to making historical associations, rose an alarming image: that of Bluebeard. It seemed to me to explain everything.

I wasn’t thinking of the legendary Bluebeard, who killed his wives, but the historical one.

His real name was Giles de Rais, Marshall of France in the fifteenth century, at the time of the Maid of Orleans and the Hundred Years’ War. He spent his entire, very considerable,
fortune
on alchemical experiments, without result. In the end, he decided to turn to the dark powers for help.

To win favour with Satan he hunted down and murdered small children by the hundred. The entire province became
depopulated
as if smitten by plague.

And, as the notes of the subsequent inquiry reveal, these
murders
became increasingly cruel and satanic. At first he merely tortured the children and chopped them into pieces; then he came up with the idea of roasting them over a slow fire. The next
refinement
was to use them for various obscene acts while torturing them to death. As he later confessed, the greatest pleasure of all involved squatting on the butchered bodies of his victims. In the final phase, they were sexually violated.

None of this had any effect. The Devil did manifest himself on a number of occasions, but was unremittingly hostile. At one point he flogged one of de Rais’ friends, an Italian alchemist, almost to death. The Devil is not a kindly master.

Eventually the Inquisition caught up with him. They
excommunicated
him as a follower of Satan and handed him over to a secular court, which sentenced him to death.

He repented his sins and begged the people, on his knees, to forgive him his crimes. And the wonderful people of that time pardoned their children’s murderer. Sobbing and wailing, they accompanied him to the scaffold and implored God to have mercy on his soul …

“The gentleman is here,” said the porter. “The one who was looking for you.”

I made my way quickly into the foyer.

A sharp-eyed man, looking like a detective, was waiting for me.

“Are you János Bátky?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Excuse me, but I must ask for some proof of identity. The
matter
is sufficiently serious to oblige caution. Mr Seton specifically asked … ”

“As you wish,” I replied, and showed him the photograph in my passport. All foreigners have to carry one in Britain.

“Thank you. You are aware that the Hon Osborne Pendragon has been abducted by James Morvin and his accomplices. Miss Kretzsch gave you this information.”

“She did.”

“We’ve been looking for him since yesterday afternoon, on Mr Seton’s instructions. Events have played into our hands, and since last night we’ve had a pretty good idea where he might be. Morvin owns a chemical works in Southwark. From remarks let slip by one of his workmen we think they’re hiding him there. We can force an entry without attracting attention this morning, as it’s closed on Sundays. Mr Seton would very much like you to accompany us. This is obviously going to end up in court, and he will need
witnesses
. He and Miss Kretzsch are already in Southwark, waiting for you. Are you prepared to join us?”

“Of course.”

“Then perhaps we should be on our way.”

We climbed into a taxi and were driven to the south bank, then raced through the squalor of Southwark between endless factory buildings. The streets were deserted. It was a Sunday, in England.

We stopped in a little backstreet. We stepped out and four men came up to us. A tall gentleman with a silver moustache and a bowler hat held out his hand.

“Seton.”

“I’m Bátky.”

“Do you have a revolver? Then we’re ready.”

“Yes. Excuse me … Where is Miss Kretzsch?”

“She’ll be here in a moment. But I think we should start.”

We came to a wooden fence surrounding one of the smaller factories. The gate was unlocked, and we entered the yard.

The first building was an office. The man I had come with, the one who looked like a detective, opened the door with a
master
key. The office area consisted of three rooms. None of them yielded anything of interest.

“He must be in one of the warehouses,” said Seton.

One of these had a particularly grim exterior, massive and
windowless
. From the very first glance it aroused my suspicion. I said as much to Seton.

“Right. We’ll do this one first. Sheridan, go and stand guard by the gate.”

There was a padlock on the door. The detective-type picked up a stout plank and, with an impressive swing, smashed it off. Then he opened the door with a master key.

“After you,” I gestured politely to Seton.

“You first,” he replied.

Then, dispensing with any further courtesy, they grabbed me and pushed me inside.

I rolled down some steps. The big door banged shut behind me.

Had I broken any bones?

But there wasn’t time to investigate. From out of a corner two huge negroes came rushing at me. They seized me and began to throttle me.

“Mr Seton! Mr Seton!” I yelled.

The negroes let go and stared at me, their white teeth
gleaming
.

“You too?” they shouted, and they started to laugh.

It was Osborne and Lene.

“What do you mean, ‘me too’?”

“They got you as well.”

I still hadn’t grasped it.