The Pendragon Legend (7 page)

And then, to my immeasurable satisfaction, I came face to face with the culprit. Of course it was a window. It wasn’t properly shut. It swung to and fro like a corpse on the gallows. I
immediately
set about trying to close it.

I say trying, because this was no simple task. The window had a fiendishly historic lock. It now dawned on me how very clever I was to have once perused an excellent standard work on old English locksmithery. This was one of those very rare occasions, crosswords apart, when the knowledge I had acquired would be put to some use. I slammed it shut with a flourish that no Shakespearean chambermaid could have bettered.

The tension in my nerves eased. Wearily, but immensely
reassured
, I staggered back to my room. Through a combination of sheer courage and technical skill I had seen off my major fear. I would take a sedative and at last get some sleep. The business of the revolver could wait till the morning.

But fate willed otherwise. The window was merely a gentle prelude.

The moment I reached the bend in the corridor I saw a light outside the door of my room. I stepped two paces closer, and then, forgetting all sense of geography in my fright, began shouting in three languages at once. In front of the door, with a flaming torch in his hand, stood a gigantic medieval figure.

Just to be clear on this: not for a moment did I think it could be any sort of ghostly apparition. While it is a fact that English castles are swarming with ghosts, they are visible only to natives—
certainly
not to anyone from Budapest.

In fact the astonishing thing was, that it wasn’t a ghost. If the spirit of some elderly Englishman appears in a castle by night, there can be no complaint. It is something we have all been
prepared
for by literature. We solemnly vow to give his bones a decent Christian burial, and that is that.

The single most eerie thing about our planet is that there are no such things as ghosts. For this, as for everything else, there must be a rational explanation, but it has always escaped me. What, for example, is one supposed to do, at midnight, when a giant
medieval
figure that is not a ghost is standing before your bedroom door? It is in fact in excellent health, and though it stares at you in a slightly hostile way, it politely enquires:

“You have perhaps mislaid something?”

“Would you be so kind as to explain who on earth you are?”

“My name is John Griffith, sir.”

“Pleased to meet you. The Earl, I think … ”

“Yes, sir. I am in the service of the Earl of Gwynedd. Would you have mislaid anything?”

I related the story of the window. My new acquaintance
listened
to my tale with typical British impassivity. I had the distinct feeling he did not believe a word I said. We were silent for some time. Then he added:

“So all is well. Good night, sir … But if I were you … I would avoid going out into the corridors at night … These old corridors are somewhat … draughty. I mention this just in case.”

And he strolled away, torch in hand, a truly medieval vision.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but the advice seemed to carry some sort of threat.

Back in my room, I began setting things straight. John Griffith had not been wearing medieval costume but, so far as I could be sure in my rather peculiar state of mind, garments from the early seventeenth century—a black doublet with puffed sleeves and padded black trunk hose. His collar was turned down as in the later portraits of Shakespeare. But enough of that.

I felt like the old Israelite in the Bible—I forget his name—who went in search of his father’s asses and found a kingdom. The window I had been driven towards by my nervous false alarm had proved to be only a window. On the other hand, it was an
undeniable
fact that cartridges had been removed from my revolver, and that I was under surveillance from a giant in period costume. All this required some thought.

I decided to lock the door, only to discover, with an
astonishment
greater than any I had experienced earlier that night, that while it had a lock, there was no key.

Nonetheless I went to bed. I was exhausted, and managed somehow to put all these worrying concerns from my mind. I was just drifting off when I heard the door quietly open.

The wind poured in again, and all the terrors of the night came flooding back. My heartbeat stopped, my brain ceased to
function
, but my instincts were still working—a bit like St Denis
strolling
away from Montmartre after his decapitation.

I flicked the light on, aimed the empty revolver at the intruder, and said:

“Stop!”

I seemed to be acquiring a sort of sleuth-like nonchalance.

With confidence, and consciousness, returning, I realised it was Maloney. He wore a black, skin-tight outfit which I immediately decided must be for rock-climbing. He closed the door carefully behind him and whispered:

“Hullo-ullo-ullo.”

“Hullo-ullo-ullo,” I returned, with a slightly interrogative
intonation
.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he went on.

“Optimistic as ever,” I replied. “How did you get here? And
more to the point, what are you doing in that outfit? Do you always dress up for your constitutional?”

“My dear Doctor, we haven’t time for your witticisms. Some very odd things are going on in this building.”

“They certainly are.”

“If I wasn’t from Connemara, I’d swear the place was haunted. But as things are, I don’t know what to say. Tell me, have you by any chance come across … er … what shall I call it … an
apparition
?”

“It depends what sort of apparition you mean.”

“A huge great fellow, in a sort of Christmas pantomime outfit. With a torch in his hand. He stares at you and then moves away. Not a nice experience.”

“I’ve actually spoken to him. He’s called John Griffith.”

“Well, not a very ghostly name. In Wales every other person is called Griffith. But what’s he up to, prowling round outside our rooms?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“I can’t help it, but I am not happy with bogey-men like that lurking outside my room. And have you noticed anything else? For example, have you a key in your door?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Same with me. And were your belongings searched while we were at dinner?”

“Well … the cartridges have been removed from my revolver.”

“Hm. The thought occurs to me … Doctor, would you just check that the parcel we put in your suitcase is still there?”

Though the idea that anything might have been taken out of my luggage seemed improbable, I stepped out of bed, opened my second suitcase—the one I hadn’t yet unpacked—and searched through it, again and again. There was no trace of the parcel.

“Interesting,” Maloney observed. “There are either thieves, or ghosts, walking this house. What do you make of it all?”

But I didn’t see the matter as quite so simple. Had there been thieves on the prowl they would have taken my money, or my cigarette case at the very least, not my revolver cartridges and Maloney’s mysterious little parcel. Once again, my suspicion of the man was strongly aroused.

“Tell me, Maloney—if you don’t mind my asking—what exactly was in that parcel?”

He gave me a searching look.

“So you opened it?”

“Are you mad? Are you suggesting that I am responsible for the loss of your package? Tell me right now: what was in it?”

“Just various rock-climbing things: they wouldn’t mean
anything
to you. The powder you saw was a kind of resin. To rub on the rope before I use it.”

The next instant he dashed to the door, pressed his ear against it and listened. Now I too could hear footsteps approaching. He stepped back into the middle of the room and, without any
introduction
, burst out into “Happy days are here again”, beating time with a paper knife on a glass. He made a terrific noise. The
footsteps
faded into the distance.

“Sorry about that,” he remarked. “I suddenly feel more
cheerful
. Life is great. This house is almost as good as the jungle. I remember when I was in Labuan, enjoying a quiet game of poker with the major, and this native policeman burst in to say that a band of orang-utans were approaching and had already sacked three houses. Orang-utans can be very nasty when they gang up in this way. There’s always a dominant female with them, and if she gets killed, the rest all run away. Fine, but how does a chap know which of those hairybacks is the old lady? I said to the major: ‘Just leave this to me. I know their little ways.’ I went out, and there they were, a pack of grinning apes … ”

But by then I wasn’t in the mood to wait for Maloney’s story to finish. I was quite convinced that his manic behaviour was
deliberate
, that there was some purpose concealed under this cloak of idiocy—as with the Brutus we read about at school.

It’s true I am prone to suspicion, but I was certain that he had begun singing when the footsteps approached in order to establish an alibi: to show that he was with me and not making any
trouble
, not getting into any mischief; he was just having a little
singsong
…

“Sorry,” I said. “Can we leave the dominant female for some other time? Would you kindly explain why you’re in climbing gear at this time of night? In the films, by the way, it’s what the hotel
thieves wear … And in any case, you haven’t explained how you got to my room.”

“Oh, that’s simple. You know, as we arrived I noticed that there was a balcony up here on our floor, with carved figures taking the weight of the one above on their heads. I immediately felt I just had to climb up there. I’ve never done bearded stone statues before. And then I couldn’t get to sleep, I was so upset by the unfriendly reception we got from the Earl. Anyway, night climbing is my
speciality
. So I togged up and went out on to the balcony.”

“And climbed up?”

“No, that’s my point. I got out on the balcony, and found that the whole castle was surrounded.”

“What?”

“Oh yes. A horseman was standing at the gate, with a torch in his hand. He spotted me, and started shouting at me.”

“What was he saying?”

“I’ve no idea. He spoke some really strange local dialect.
Actually
, he only said one word, but I didn’t understand even that. But just that one word was pretty unpleasant. So I came back inside.”

“And then?”

“Then I tried to get back to my room, and met this thingy … this apparition … in the corridor. I started to get curious. I thought I’d come and ask you. You’re such a clever person, I was interested to see what you’d make of it all. So, what do you think?”

“What do I think? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio Than are dreamed of in your philosophy’.”

“Why do you call me Horatio? Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Whichever you choose. And now I must wish you a more peaceful good night.”

“Good night, Doctor. And don’t dream about strange figures in fancy dress.”

He left, and I went back to bed, absolutely exhausted. I felt like a shipwreck victim finally washed up on the obligatory desert island.

But I couldn’t sleep. Too tired even to think, I lay in a sort of comatose restlessness, if there is such a thing, for what seemed hours on end.

Something was happening. Something was definitely
happening
. The Parcae were spinning their threads. The fate of the House was alive and active in one of the rooms; a serious crisis in the history of the Pendragons was about to unfold.

And there stood—or rather lay—I, János Bátky from Budapest, with my endless premonitions and fears, helpless, not knowing a thing, confused and defenceless, at the very heart of the plot.

Suddenly I heard such an extraordinary noise I virtually flew out of bed and rushed to the window.

Maloney had not lied. Outside the window, with halberd and torch, a horseman in black galloped away into the darkness.

Next morning the sun shone so benignly on the fabled green lawn of the park that I thanked God once more that I was in Britain. The sun rarely shines in these islands, but when it does the effect is so wonderful it is as if it were smiling down on a new-created world.

I was still shaving when Osborne entered my room. After the dismal night I had passed his appearance was almost as refreshing as the sunshine itself. His whole being radiated that special quality of youth that is the greatest treasure of these islands, and unique to them. Surely nothing ill can dwell in a house where a young man like that can feel so contented.

“Hello, Doctor. I trust you had a good night. The saying is,
whatever
you dream about on your first night here will come true.”

“Well, as far as that’s concerned, I had a most interesting night. I’m not even sure what was dream and what was reality. I’m glad of the chance to speak to you about it in private. I tell you, some very strange things took place.”

“Strange things? We’ve had none of those here in two hundred years, unfortunately. I can’t speak for the time before that,
especially
when we were still up in Pendragon. Llanvygan is the most petty bourgeois place in the whole United Kingdom.”

“My notions of the petty bourgeois are somewhat different.”

“Well, you’d better tell me about your little adventures, then.”

“Where shall I start? First of all, didn’t you feel the Earl received us, how shall I say, rather coolly?”

“Oh no, not at all. In England, as you know, it’s a point of principle that a guest should be received with the least possible fuss, to make him feel at home. But perhaps my uncle did overdo it slightly.”

He was deep in thought.

“But you are right, up to a point,” he continued. “My uncle practically never invites anyone, and you must have made a great impression on him to be asked. Cynthia and I were delighted when he told us—we hoped he might be abandoning his
habitual
reclusiveness—and we were surprised that he wasn’t more pleased to see you.”