“Mostly in the ‘neo’ prefix. It makes it more interesting.”
She was making a childish wreath from some yellow flowers called dandelions in English, and staring despondently into the distance. Our intimacy had come to a critical moment. I now bitterly regretted having said so much. What is the point of talking to the woman you love? It can only cause unpleasantness.
“I’m afraid we don’t really understand each other,” she said, in the sort of far-away voice she might have heard in a theatre. She should have added a ‘sir’.
Then she started to chatter with great animation about her lady friend, who did understand her.
We set off back to the castle. I found it impossible to speak, as always happens to me when I have done something really stupid. And I felt rather sorry for myself. Only now did I realise how much she mattered to me, the little Lady of the Castle, who had lost her way.
When we arrived there was a telegram waiting for me.
OSBORNE CAPTURED STOP IMPORTANT TELL NOBODY STOP COME IMMEDIATELY — KRETZSCH
I was back at the very heart of the battle.
Morvin’s gang must have recognised Osborne as he followed Eileen St Claire in one of his ridiculous disguises. Assuming nothing worse had happened to him, they had now rendered him harmless. But of course, they were after his life too …
I packed my bags at once. Though I had no idea what I might achieve, I could hardly wait to get to London.
I did not tell the Earl or Cynthia the reason for my departure: I didn’t want to alarm them prematurely. I comforted myself that everything might still turn out well.
I managed to get away on the afternoon train. London had never before seemed so far from North Wales, nor with so many superfluous cities in between.
Arriving, I dashed to the hotel and enquired after Lene.
“Miss Kretzsch …? Miss Kretzsch?”
A somewhat casual search for her began. She hadn’t been seen at lunch. No one had noticed her at breakfast. Finally, the cleaner reported that she hadn’t spent the night in her room either.
Dinner time came, but no trace of Lene. By nine o’clock I could wait no longer. I left a note with the porter to say I’d be back by eleven. Then, like a tenderly grieving lover returning to scenes frequented with his dear departed, I went round every pub where at one time or another I had drunk with her. I knew she couldn’t possibly go to bed without her nightcap. If she were to be found anywhere accessible to reason, it would be in a pub.
In my distress, and because my thoughts were entirely focused on her, I knocked back a couple of pints wherever I went. I did not succeed in finding her, but by the time I returned, some time after eleven, I was in a thoroughly pleasant beer-haze and looking forward to a good night’s sleep.
“Has anyone called for me?” I asked the porter, with less than perfect articulation.
“Yes, sir. A gentleman.”
“You didn’t recognise him? It was Miss Kretzsch, in disguise.”
“That is indeed possible, sir,” he replied gravely. “He said he’d come from a Mr Seton, with an important message.”
“What wonderful notions she has!” I said to myself. “She must be up in her room.” And I dashed merrily up the stairs.
I knocked, but there was no answer. I hammered on the door and began shouting, in German:
“Lene! Lene! Open up. It’s me, Bátky! Come on, open up, will you!”
Roused by these barbaric syllables, the proprietress appeared, in her nightgown.
The proprietress was a woman of strict moral principles. The hotel rejoiced in its reputation for the highest respectability, a virtue that in England calls for rigorous policing. Seeing me battering on a lady’s door she paled and gave me a look which, had I been sober, would doubtless have turned me to stone.
“Mr Bátky! … ”
With what bleakly chilling tones she could prolong that unfortunate first syllable!
But I was drunk, my sight and hearing blurred the harsh edges of reality, and I was in an optimistic frame of mind.
“Hello, Mrs Stewart! How are you?” I exclaimed happily. “Do you know, you’re putting on weight.”
“In my establishment ladies do not receive male visitors in their rooms, especially at this time of night. Mr Bátky, you astonish me. Go downstairs at once. I must ask you to kindly remove yourself from this hotel at your earliest … ”
Cowering under the weight of her authority, I crept back to my room and was soon fast asleep.
I woke early the next morning, stone cold sober. I dressed rapidly and hastened down to the porter. My head was buzzing with all the steps I had failed to take the night before.
“Is Miss Kretzsch back yet?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
I had a vague notion that someone might have enquired after me the previous day.
“Who came asking for me?”
“A gentleman. From a Mr Seton.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he’d call again this morning. He asked if you would wait for him without fail.”
This reassured me to a certain extent. My gravest omission of the night before had been not to let Seton know what was happening. But apparently he was already fully informed. Lene must have been in touch with him. My visitor would make all this clear.
I finished my breakfast and passed the time restlessly perusing the papers. I simply glanced at the headlines, rather cursorily. But one suddenly hit me:
CHILD ABDUCTED
MYSTERY HORSEMAN IN ABERSYCH
Strange occurrences have been reported over the past twenty-four hours in Abersych, Merioneth. Sian Prichards, thirty-six, a local farmer, was woken some time after midnight by someone at the door calling his name. Not recognising the voice, and filled with a sense of foreboding, he debated for some time whether to go out, but eventually decided to do so. Outside he found a man on horseback. He appeared to be very old, and was dressed in black. His enormous size, his striking costume and pale face struck terror into the witness. The man then uttered something in a strange tongue, after which Prichards remembers nothing more. When he recovered consciousness he was standing where he had been, outside his front door, but the stranger had disappeared, and with him Prichard’s ten-year-old son. The Police are understandably treating his report with caution. Initially they were concerned that the informant might be mentally disturbed, but his reputation in the village is that of a sober, respectable citizen who has never been known to do anything unusual or eccentric. The boy’s mysterious disappearance lends a degree of credibility to his story. The police are baffled. No trace of the horseman has been found, and no one other than Pritchards has seen him.
Abersych was perhaps six miles from Pendragon …
I was in no doubt as to the identity of the abductor. But what possible motive …?
However I gave it no further thought. The whole thing was beyond rational understanding. The mere fact of its happening was a slap in the face for logical analysis. If indeed it had happened …
But then from the depths of my mind, used as it was to making historical associations, rose an alarming image: that of Bluebeard. It seemed to me to explain everything.
I wasn’t thinking of the legendary Bluebeard, who killed his wives, but the historical one.
His real name was Giles de Rais, Marshall of France in the fifteenth century, at the time of the Maid of Orleans and the Hundred Years’ War. He spent his entire, very considerable, fortune on alchemical experiments, without result. In the end, he decided to turn to the dark powers for help.
To win favour with Satan he hunted down and murdered small children by the hundred. The entire province became depopulated as if smitten by plague.