McGregor … where had I heard the name? Of course, the mysterious telephone caller …
“Who was this Dr McGregor?”
“You don’t know? He was the young doctor who was here a few months ago to help the Earl with his experiments. A decent, upright Scotsman, a very good man — apart from his experiments. But … he came to a bad end. A motoring accident. He’s dead. He was your predecessor. Think about it, before it’s too late. Think, sir, of your immortal soul. I’m sure I can count on you. I see in your eyes that beneath your hardened exterior a human heart is beating, one that is capable of understanding … Give me your word.”
Good Heavens, get this madman out of here. What has any of this to do with me — this Castle Lake, these glutinous corpses? … I’m leaving this afternoon.
“Reverend, on my word of honour, I am not a medical doctor. As I live and breathe. My father and mother and all my aunts wanted me to be a doctor, but I had no talent for it whatsoever.”
“You aren’t a doctor?” he asked, in deep amazement. “Then what are you?”
“Er … it’s not easy to define. Let’s say, for the sake of simplicity, a historico-sociographer. Or something like it. But by no means a doctor. Upon my word, I’ve never witnessed a dissection in my life.”
The parson clutched his head.
“More complication … Historico-whatever … then why did you let me say so much? About such dreadful secrets? Excuse me … delighted to make your acquaintance, quite delighted … ”
“The pleasure is mine.”
I took a deep breath and made off rapidly.
That same afternoon we all set off for Pendragon.
Passing through the village, we met the Rev Jones. Etiquette required that we stop for a little chat.
“Tell me, vicar,” said Osborne, “when were you last up at Pendragon?”
“Not for ages. Five months ago, when some archaeologists came and I took them up.”
“Have you heard any talk of someone living up there now, in the ruins?”
“I have indeed,” he replied after some hesitation, and rather nervously. “Several people have noticed lights in the tower.”
“Who do they think it might be?”
“We’d prefer not to say, if you don’t mind. Lately the Earl has been going up there rather more often. It could be him, spending the night up there. Possibly he has a guest up there. It’s not for us to enquire.”
He stared straight ahead, clearly embarrassed.
“All the same,” continued Osborne, “it seems unlikely that such a strange event wouldn’t be discussed in the village. Tell me candidly what people are saying.”
“Osborne, please don’t think that I pay attention to the foolish gossip of peasants,” he replied, colouring deeply. “Besides, the Earl owns the castle, he can do what he likes up there. I for one can’t imagine a gentleman such as himself entertaining his lady friends in so bleak a place as the tower.”
Osborne roared with laughter.
“Lady friends? That’s not very likely. At most, the Pendragons tolerate women within the limits of marriage, and even then without much enthusiasm … Now, we have a notion to go up there. Won’t you join us, vicar? We might well need you for a spot of exorcism.”
The vicar went pale.
“Osborne … Do you really intend going there?”
“Of course. I see no reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Oh dear God,” … He wrung his hands. “It’s impossible, impossible … My dear sister, as you know, is endowed with some remarkable abilities.”
“I know.”
“Just this morning, she said … ”
“Well?”
“That some mortal danger awaited you if you went up to Pendragon.”
“Sensational. How would she know that?”
“Don’t forget, she foresaw the recent attempt on the Earl’s life, which almost succeeded. I didn’t mention it then because I didn’t fully trust her abilities, I didn’t want to cause unnecessary alarm, or be thought superstitious. My conscience has troubled me ever since for my faint-heartedness.”
“Tell me, vicar … Could we not discuss this with Miss Jones herself?”
“But of course — that would be best of all. We should be greatly honoured if you would visit our humble abode.”
We stepped out of the car. The vicarage was a few yards away, and we went in.
Miss Jones was seated beside the window in the back room. She apologised for receiving us sitting down.
The tiny old woman was almost completely hidden under the pile of blankets. Only her long, narrow and remarkably ugly face could be seen. She had the intense, burning eyes of visionaries and myopics, that seem to gaze inwards rather than out.
“Jane,” the parson began, rather anxiously, “Osborne desires to go up to Pendragon.”
The old woman’s face became convulsed, as if she’d received an electric shock. She voiced some meaningless sounds, regained her capacity for speech with much difficulty, then said:
“Dear, dear, dear Osborne, do not go to Pen-Annwn. Penn-Annwn is the mouth of Satan. A terrible time awaits the whole House of Pendragon. You are every one of you in mortal danger. For you in particular, it would be death to enter the grounds of Pen-Annwn.”
“Thank you very much for the depth of your concern for me, Miss Jones. But, as an interested party, and an admirer of the science of prophecy, I’m enormously curious to discover exactly how you can know this with the certainty of something you’d read in a newspaper.”
She became completely calm, and deadly serious.
“Do you believe in the power of dreams?” she asked.
“No, I don’t,” he replied. “If I did, I should long ago have had some terrible experiences with women. I often dream of one who turns out to have no face. Then I need to climb this staircase, but I always slip back down. But this has never happened to me in real life.”
“I believe in dreams,” I chipped in.
“Really?” the old woman said.
“In psychoanalytic terms.”
“In what?” she asked. She was a little behind the times.
“Well, it isn’t the sort of thing one would explain to a young lady.”
“Whether you believe in dreams or not … ” she began: “if you don’t, so much the worse for you.”
There could be no more joking. It was obvious that the old woman would be deeply offended if we didn’t take her seriously.
“Would you please, Miss Jones, tell us your dream, and explain its meaning,” said Osborne.
The old woman’s face assumed an expression of satisfaction.
“Pull your chairs up closer and listen carefully. Last night I dreamed I was a young girl, walking outside, along the bank of the river. I was wearing an enormous Florentine hat.”
This, for a start, stretched the imagination.
“And Arthur Evans … did you know Arthur Evans? No, you couldn’t have known him. But I’m not going to tell you everything, only the most important things. Well, I told Arthur to go on ahead, and I’d follow just behind. And then suddenly there it was, standing before me, the dog … Do you understand? The dog.”
The old woman began to cough, expressively and heart-rendingly.
“Forgive me, what dog?” Osborne asked, when Miss Jones had done coughing. “This one here?”—and he pointed to the half-dead Pekinese at her feet.
“Oh no, it wasn’t a dog, it was an angel. The dog was standing there, don’t you see? The one with the white coat and the red ears.”
“Ah.”
“I was terribly afraid. But I couldn’t run away. Then the dog looked at me and asked, ‘What are you having for your tea?’ ‘Cauliflower,’ I said. ‘And coffee. Oh yes, and there was a little strawberry cake,’ I told him. I didn’t want to be less than truthful. ‘Young shoots must be eaten,’ he said. ‘They’re very nourishing. It’s what I’m having today.’ ‘And where are the young shoots?’ ‘In my head,’ said the dog. And there was something green sprouting from his head. This frightened me so much I woke up.”