“He didn’t much like it here, I’m happy to say. He loved having the title, but there was that old difficulty, you see. He married and remained here for eleven years, at the end of which time his wife died bearing him his third son, who did not survive infancy. He took his remaining sons with him on a voyage to Italy, and left the care of the manor to a trusted steward, with whom he corresponded frequently.
“By this time he had become an expert poisoner. If his diaries are to be believed, he enjoyed a dalliance with Lucrezia Borgia.”
The old man opened his eyes and stared at me. “Supposedly, after a decade abroad, Lord Varre and his youngest son died in Italy, where they were buried. Indeed, there is an elaborate crypt bearing our family name near the villa he owned there. His eldest son inherited titles and land, and returned to England.”
“He died? But-”
“Supposedly. The young man who returned to England was said by one and all to greatly resemble his father. So much so, he was mistaken by some to be his father, until they realized that his father would have been a middle-aged man. He was a generous landlord and master, so these questions did not trouble others for long. And if he did not seem to age, well, his father was the same, wasn’t he?”
“You’re saying it was indeed Adrian. But if so, what of his sons?”
“There were indeed two bodies buried in that crypt in Italy.”
“His own sons!”
“Adrian’s love of himself always surpassed his love of his family. The only shows of sorrow I have ever read in his diaries were oblique references to his losses. Losses he had caused, of course.”
I was speechless with dismay. Lord Varre lay quietly, allowing me time to consider all he had said.
“The Borgias!” I finally choked out. “Good God-if this occurred at the beginning of the sixteenth century, do you mean to say it has gone on for three hundred years?”
“At times, he left us in peace. And he learned other tricks, of course. Stagecraft became one of his accomplishments. A trusted servant would be well paid to help him to present himself as a much older man. There were rumors from time to time, but the servants learned, of course, that there was a high penalty for indiscretion. Mostly, he traveled, seeking thrills that were harder and harder to find.
“When he wasn’t at home, he took on other identities. He was a master forger and created himself as a German Freiherr, a French comte, an Italian visconte. His wealth and address made him believable, as did hundreds of years of acquiring fluency in a wide range of languages. He sometimes remained in these guises even when he returned here. He would be the cousin who was a German baron, a French count, or an Italian viscount. A bright young man, he seemed, so self-possessed. He charmed everyone, and those who had lived in the area for a long time noted the family resemblance. He began to take his sons and grandsons to the now well-populated crypt in Italy. Eventually his offspring became aware of the pattern, so that when he found the need to spend time in England as Lord Varre, his sons easily became convinced that it was better to live one’s life as a wealthy gentleman in France or Italy than to die young and join one’s ancestors in that crypt.”
He again suffered a coughing fit, and I begged him to rest his voice for a while. He did, and Shade laid his head on the bed beside him. He gently stroked the dog’s fur and smiled. “Ah, Shade. What a comfort you are, old friend.”
Shade made a low sound of pleasure.
“You doubtless wonder,” Lord Varre said after a time, “why Adrian was willing to give up such power to you. You received the care of Shade, and a ring, and some other-gifts, I take it?”
“Yes, at Waterloo.” I showed him the ring.
“Adrian arrived here again not long after he met you. I had never seen him without Shade. He told me of his plans for you. You were meant, Captain Hawthorne, to be an unsuspecting temporary vessel, one might say.”
“Temporary?”
“Yes. This past winter, Adrian began to receive messages from the dying-he avoided them for the most part, but in the recent war-filled years, this was not easy. He had become an admirer of Bonaparte, from all I can gather. He was rather disturbed, for once in his life, by boredom and complacency, because the dying told him there would be another. At long last, he would be allowed to die. Shade would choose a new master on a certain date in June, at a certain place. So Adrian hurried back here. This was the second time in my life I had seen him, this time posing-of all things-as a young cousin of mine returned from America.”
He brooded for a few moments, and it seemed to me that some strong emotion was acting upon him. Indeed, he wiped brusquely at his eyes before he went on.
“His manner was a remarkable thing for me to observe-Adrian, whom I had every reason to hate-was in a panic. He produced a key and ordered Wentworth, the only one of my servants who is aware of the true state of matters, to unlock a set of rooms in the cellars that have been forbidden to the rest of the family. He began scouring his books and at last seemed to believe that he had found a solution to his troubles.
“He did not tell me the whole-but he mentioned that it had something to do with a mourning ring, some power he invested in it.”
“This one?” I said, holding up my hand. “The mourning ring he gave me at Waterloo?”
“Perhaps. I cannot be certain. He collected them. I have asked Wentworth to give you that collection. You are also to have his remaining books and papers.” He frowned. “Do not fail to take them, Captain Hawthorne.”
I assured him I would do as he wished.
“Good…good. In any case, Adrian told me that he must go to Belgium but would return shortly. Now he was quite pleased with himself. He believed he had retained his power of regeneration-that is, of recovering from wounds. It would take him a bit longer without the dog, he said, but he would recover. There were other cemetery dogs and he would find one and draw it to him.
“I had already seen that he had developed the power to bring others under his influence. I, myself, found him difficult to resist, and he seemed to find my resistance more amusing than troublesome. His influence was not merely over humans, most of whom were glad to do his bidding. He could bring birds to his hand. If there was an ill-tempered horse in the stables, he could ride it as if it were a child’s pony. I have seen him coax a fox from its lair and pet it as if it were a cat.
“He felt confident that he had a method of reclaiming his full power, but he also saw an opportunity. His plan was to grow a bit older here, with me playing his grandfather. He would wait a little more than twenty years, and when his body reached forty-four in natural appearance, he would reclaim his gift from you.”
“Why did he want to reach that age?”
“When he had first stopped aging, he noted that although some men lived to be seventy or more, a great many men did not live past forty. As time went on, more men lived longer, and he foresaw this trend would continue. In this day, a twenty-four-year-old man is considered to be a young man. He felt at forty-four he would be taken more seriously in business dealings and the like, and yet still be young enough to travel and partake of sports, take mistresses, and father children.”
“So,” I said, feeling a mixture of relief for my own part and disgust with Adrian, “I will be free of this in twenty years?”
He gave me a sorrowful look. “I’m sorry, Captain Hawthorne. I must most sincerely beg your forgiveness.”
“I’m sure you have it, for I can think of no wrong you’ve done me.”
“Oh, but I have, you see.” He placed a trembling hand over mine. “Forgive me, Captain Hawthorne, but in this very house, I murdered Lucien Adrian deVille, first Baron Varre.”