Such was the oppressive weight of the terror that again passed over me, I dared offer no protest against this diabolical plan.
At that moment St Germain reappeared. He had now donned the robes of a Freemason and the insignia of the Great Chosen One. His hands held a wand and a cut-glass bowl.
‘We must be quick,’ he said. ‘If we are to achieve anything, it must be done tonight. There is a new moon, and Venus lies in Capricorn. Such nights are auspicious for acts of magic.’
I fell to my knees and implored them to abandon this terrifying plan, which might jeopardise their eternal salvation. But Bonaventura replied with an evil laugh that he wouldn’t give a groat for the salvation of any of us. I begged them to allow me at least to stay behind, or to go away, because I felt something unspeakable was about to take place. At this, His Lordship drew his sword and threatened to transfix me if I left them, now that I was party to their secrets. Thus he compelled me to accompany them.
In the courtyard three horses had been prepared for us, saddled in black. His Lordship led the way as we galloped at lightning speed through the dark night. Our path led to a high mountain, on whose peak loomed the ruin of an awe-inspiring castle, the haunt of owls, ghosts and witches. We tethered our steeds to the gatepost of a dilapidated wall, His Lordship lit the torches we had brought, and we stepped into the ruin.
Lord Bonaventura performed some sort of secret action, and a blackly-gaping spiral staircase opened at our feet. I stumbled down it, my knees shaking uncontrollably. Words cannot express my horror when I suddenly felt the step I was standing on begin to sink under me. I grasped wildly at a wooden rafter, but it soared upwards with a Satanic laugh. I screamed in terror at His Lordship, but he remained where he was, describing strange circles in the air with his flaming torch, then dashed on ahead of us, like a madman.
We arrived in a vast hall, whose furthest corners seemed to disappear into the far distance. From them, it seemed to me, I could make out the dull roar of the sea, or some other sound very like it.
The hall was full of coffins, whose lids slowly rose and then descended again, like so many mouths, gaping and shutting, ready to bite, warning us to go no further.
Half-crazed with terror I stumbled into the next room, where a horror awaited us that would prove even more dreadful than anything that had gone before.
At its centre stood an altar, which His Lordship pushed to one side. Beneath it we found the stone slab of a tomb, which, with miraculous ingenuity, St Germain managed to move from its position.
Inside the vault stood a catafalque, and on it lay an ancient figure of gigantic height. He was gorgeously apparelled in the robes of an earlier period, and the rings on his fingers bore jewels the like of which I had never seen. He lay with his eyes open, as do the blind; he neither saw nor did he move. Bonaventura and I hid in fear behind the altar that had been pushed aside. St Germain was deathly pale. He too would doubtless have drawn back had he not been ashamed to show his fear.
With his wand he drew a line above the figure lying in the tomb, then slowly sprinkled the contents of the vial on its forehead.
The sleeper shook himself, and turned his head towards us. The face was that of a man who sees. Very slowly, he raised his head, leant over on one arm, and uttered the most terrible cry.
At that moment the subterranean sun that lit the room began to darken, and bells, which we suddenly noticed around the sides of the room, began to toll.
Petrified with terror, we saw that the figure was slowly rising and preparing to leave his tomb.
At that point St Germain uttered a loud shriek and fled, with His Lordship and myself hard on his heels. Clambering up the spiral stairs was almost impossible, as he could barely move his limbs for fear and needed my constant support, which, given his enormous weight, was no mean imposition. By the time we had returned to the castle he was delirious with fever.
St Germain’s elixirs were of no avail. We remained constantly at his bedside. He must have suffered for about a week, then passed away, having remembered us both in his will …
At Rhyl I changed to a smaller train, which slowly wound its way through a landscape that became steadily more sombre and mysterious as it neared the heart of the North Welsh Mountains. The names of the stations became increasingly outlandish, barbaric and ancient-sounding. We were now in the Celtic Forest, the land of myth and legend, the birthplace of fairies and of Merlin the magician, the unfathered child conceived from the ashes of the dead. Today the Welsh are a sober, sardonic people, but the trees, the rocky outcrops and the lakes remain, as does the old atmosphere. Once it teemed with marvels, and even now it silently fosters the seeds of fresh mystery.
At Corwen the Earl himself was waiting for me, with a car. I gave him the manuscript, and was about to tell him why I had tarried a day in London.
“You must be tired and hungry,” he said. “First we’ll have dinner.”
But he looked tired himself, and worried. We spoke little before reaching the hotel, where he was received with all the deference due to a feudal lord. We dined in a private room, but again there was little conversation. Only after coffee and cognac did he finally ask about my adventures.
I told him everything that was directly relevant to the matter. I did not mention where I had spent the night after the manuscript was stolen, only that I had not slept in the hotel.
What shocked him most was that the letter written to Morvin described how Maloney had wrestled with a giant before falling to his death.
“Now I am certain! There is a spy at Llanvygan!” he exclaimed. “Someone is writing to Morvin. That’s how he knew you were going to London to fetch a manuscript. But who could it be? No one, apart from Osborne and Cynthia, knew of your trip … Could someone have been eavesdropping?”
Then, after a pause for deep thought:
“So you actually saw someone on the balcony?”
“Oh, yes.”
He averted his gaze.
For a long time nothing more was said.
Eileen St Claire, too, had spoken of a mysterious, indefinable presence. And Lenglet du Fresnoy’s memoirs had provided a key which, however horrifying and capable of inducing insanity, could explain everything — the rider with the flaming torch, the old man beside the Castle Lake, the voice deep in the bowels of Pendragon that made Osborne stop before the open trapdoor, and Maloney’s quasi-ritual death by wringing of the neck …
What terrifying secret did the Earl’s silence conceal? Or rather, what did it betray?
“Perhaps you should continue,” he suddenly remarked. The spell was broken.
I went on with my tale. Osborne’s miraculous appearance amused him greatly.
“What is the lady’s name?”
“Lene Kretzsch.”
“Would you mind spelling that?”
I spelled it.
“Magnificent! T-z-s-c-h! Five consonants for a single sound. That’s really grand.
“I’m glad you found Osborne with a girl,” he continued. “His horror of women has caused me some concern. One of us has to get married, and I’d rather it were he. What is she like? I’d like to know his taste.”
“I think the only taste that could be inferred would be hers. I have the impression that Osborne plays an extremely passive role in the friendship. But Lene Kretzsch is a robust, fine-looking creature. Her figure is quite perfect, in the classical sense … ”