We got into the car, Maloney in the driving seat and the two of us in the back. The memory of Cristofoli served only to deepen the mystery that seemed to surround her like a birthright.
There was little conversation, and its tone was somehow rather distant, without genuine interest. At last the topic that Maloney had mentioned cropped up, and she expounded her views on the similarities between the Hungarians and the Irish.
“Both nations spent hundreds of years under the oppressive ‘protection’ of a more powerful neighbour. Both showed real greatness when they had to fight against tyranny, and somehow both fell into confusion and lost their way the moment they won their independence.”
She then spoke of the blighted centuries endured by the Irish, their national martyrs, and Kathleen-ni-Hoolihan, the immortal hag who, in her own ghostly way, symbolised the ghost-haunted land of Ireland.
She described these beautiful and touching things — which of course I had heard before from Irish patriots — in such a remote and ethereal way it was like a lesson being repeated. I found myself wondering, to my surprise: was there any aspect of life on earth she wouldn’t take as a source of instruction, or a call to duty?
We took a light lunch at Birmingham, then continued on our way. We had by now exhausted our fund of general topics without establishing any real personal contact. This saddened me, I must admit. I felt it would all be in vain: I would never succeed in penetrating her hinterland.
We were not far from Chester when she turned to me:
“I would like to ask you a favour. You’re going to Llanvygan, to the Earl of Gwynedd. The Earl was once a very good friend of mine — perhaps the best I ever had. Later, we became estranged, irrevocably estranged, as the result of a misunderstanding. But I am still very fond of him, and wish him welclass="underline" from a distance, of course. And now I feel the need to remind him of my existence, after all these years.”
So! A lyrical confession! But the manner, the tone in which it was delivered, was such as she might have used to tell me her new butler was proving satisfactory. When this woman opened her heart she became even more enigmatic than when she remained silent.
“I wonder if you would give him this ring? Perhaps you’ll think it odd that I should ask you rather than Maloney, whom I have known all these years … but you know Maloney. He’s a thoroughly nice boy, from an excellent family, but somehow not a person you would trust with a florin. That’s why I’m asking you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I should be delighted to be of service.”
“And I must also ask you not to tell the Earl from whom you received it. Tell him it was sent to you in an anonymous letter requesting you to pass it on to him.”
“Excuse me, but surely you want the ring to remind him of you?”
“Oh yes, but I would like him to work out for himself who sent it. If he can’t manage that, then he doesn’t deserve to be so much in my thoughts. And you will give me your word of honour that you will never, in any circumstances, tell him that you got it from me.”
This was not a request, or even a command. It was a simple statement of fact, delivered in the same colourless tone as her previous speech, a simple assumption that I would now give her my word. She spoke as if the possibility never occurred to her that one might not accede to her wish.
I gave her my word.
Yet something inside me protested fiercely. Quite apart from the malign aura that clung to her from the association with Cristofoli, I could not forget that Eileen St Claire was Maloney’s friend. All this might well have been arranged in advance, a conspiracy. Every suspicious circumstance seemed to be aimed at Llanvygan, entangled ever deeper in this unfathomable mystery. Her personal secret was part of the greater secret surrounding the Earl, the one that my intuition warned me so strongly against, the one that attracted and repelled me so intensely. And yet, I had given my word. Why? Because Eileen St Claire was so extremely beautiful, and I am so helpless.
I put the ring away.
And thus we arrived at Chester. Maloney and I got out at the station and took our leave.
“So you will do what I asked you,” she said. “When you get back to London, tell me what the Earl said. Goodbye.”
She looked at me, smiled, and took off her glove.
“Yes, you may kiss my hand.”
We were sitting on the train, continuing our journey. At one point Maloney asked if I would put a package in my suitcase, as it was too large for his. Nothing else of note occurred on the way.
Soon we were winding in and out among the mountains of North Wales. There was a change of train, after which the landscape became even more picturesque, and by the time we reached Corwen it was distinctly rugged. Osborne was waiting for us, and after a brief exchange of greetings we set off again.
The road ran through a narrow valley between precipitous mountains. Osborne slowed down.
“The track on the left leads directly up to the old family seat, Pendragon Castle. As you can see, the surface has been rather neglected. Only tourists use it now; the peasants avoid these parts. They’re still worried about old Asaph, the sixth Earl. That was where he practised his black arts.”
The valley widened out, and we could now see the ruins of the castle, high on the mountain peak, perched on the barren edge of the cliff and looking for all the world as if it had grown out of the rock itself. Huge, black birds circled round the derelict Norman tower. Maloney expressed exactly what I was feeling when he remarked:
“It must have been damned uncomfortable, living up there.”
After that, the landscape became rather more friendly. In no time at all we passed through the village of Llanvygan and caught sight of the opulent iron railings of the park. A mighty avenue of trees led to the castle, a large, bright, inviting construction, altogether different from what I had been imagining. Once inside, however, the poor lighting in the vast rooms, the ancient furniture and the immense silence left me feeling properly subdued once again.
As I dressed I composed a little speech with which to greet my host. We were shown into a spacious hall, across which the Earl, with a young girl at his side and three liveried footmen behind him, approached us with rapid steps. It all had the air of a princely reception. His severe, distinguished countenance wore an expression far removed from that of the amiable scholar-aristocrat I had met at Lady Malmsbury-Croft’s. He did not even wait for us to greet him. He simply shook my hand and began speaking, as if issuing the orders for the day.
“So you’re Maloney? Very good. I hope you will enjoy your stay. This lady is my niece Cynthia, Osborne’s sister. Rogers — the butler — has instructions to show you to the library in the morning, Doctor. Regrettably, I am unable to dine with you tonight. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes. I’ve received a ring, sent to me in an anonymous letter, asking me to give it to you. I think I should let you have it straight away.”
The Earl took the ring, and his face became even bleaker.
“You say you don’t know who this ring is from?”
“I have no idea, My Lord.”
The Earl turned on his heel and left us without another word.
“Interesting man,” Maloney remarked.
But my astonishment and dismay were too much for me. I felt absolutely disconsolate. It was impossible to deny: my premonition had not deceived me. Eileen St Claire brought men nothing but trouble. And now, it was quite clear, she had caused me to lose the Earl’s goodwill. What a fool I am! I always come to grief when I do favours for other people. John Bonaventura Pendragon was right: “Every good deed gets the punishment it deserves.”