And, as the notes of the subsequent inquiry reveal, these murders became increasingly cruel and satanic. At first he merely tortured the children and chopped them into pieces; then he came up with the idea of roasting them over a slow fire. The next refinement was to use them for various obscene acts while torturing them to death. As he later confessed, the greatest pleasure of all involved squatting on the butchered bodies of his victims. In the final phase, they were sexually violated.
None of this had any effect. The Devil did manifest himself on a number of occasions, but was unremittingly hostile. At one point he flogged one of de Rais’ friends, an Italian alchemist, almost to death. The Devil is not a kindly master.
Eventually the Inquisition caught up with him. They excommunicated him as a follower of Satan and handed him over to a secular court, which sentenced him to death.
He repented his sins and begged the people, on his knees, to forgive him his crimes. And the wonderful people of that time pardoned their children’s murderer. Sobbing and wailing, they accompanied him to the scaffold and implored God to have mercy on his soul …
“The gentleman is here,” said the porter. “The one who was looking for you.”
I made my way quickly into the foyer.
A sharp-eyed man, looking like a detective, was waiting for me.
“Are you János Bátky?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Excuse me, but I must ask for some proof of identity. The matter is sufficiently serious to oblige caution. Mr Seton specifically asked … ”
“As you wish,” I replied, and showed him the photograph in my passport. All foreigners have to carry one in Britain.
“Thank you. You are aware that the Hon Osborne Pendragon has been abducted by James Morvin and his accomplices. Miss Kretzsch gave you this information.”
“She did.”
“We’ve been looking for him since yesterday afternoon, on Mr Seton’s instructions. Events have played into our hands, and since last night we’ve had a pretty good idea where he might be. Morvin owns a chemical works in Southwark. From remarks let slip by one of his workmen we think they’re hiding him there. We can force an entry without attracting attention this morning, as it’s closed on Sundays. Mr Seton would very much like you to accompany us. This is obviously going to end up in court, and he will need witnesses. He and Miss Kretzsch are already in Southwark, waiting for you. Are you prepared to join us?”
“Of course.”
“Then perhaps we should be on our way.”
We climbed into a taxi and were driven to the south bank, then raced through the squalor of Southwark between endless factory buildings. The streets were deserted. It was a Sunday, in England.
We stopped in a little backstreet. We stepped out and four men came up to us. A tall gentleman with a silver moustache and a bowler hat held out his hand.
“Seton.”
“I’m Bátky.”
“Do you have a revolver? Then we’re ready.”
“Yes. Excuse me … Where is Miss Kretzsch?”
“She’ll be here in a moment. But I think we should start.”
We came to a wooden fence surrounding one of the smaller factories. The gate was unlocked, and we entered the yard.
The first building was an office. The man I had come with, the one who looked like a detective, opened the door with a master key. The office area consisted of three rooms. None of them yielded anything of interest.
“He must be in one of the warehouses,” said Seton.
One of these had a particularly grim exterior, massive and windowless. From the very first glance it aroused my suspicion. I said as much to Seton.
“Right. We’ll do this one first. Sheridan, go and stand guard by the gate.”
There was a padlock on the door. The detective-type picked up a stout plank and, with an impressive swing, smashed it off. Then he opened the door with a master key.
“After you,” I gestured politely to Seton.
“You first,” he replied.
Then, dispensing with any further courtesy, they grabbed me and pushed me inside.
I rolled down some steps. The big door banged shut behind me.
Had I broken any bones?
But there wasn’t time to investigate. From out of a corner two huge negroes came rushing at me. They seized me and began to throttle me.
“Mr Seton! Mr Seton!” I yelled.
The negroes let go and stared at me, their white teeth gleaming.
“You too?” they shouted, and they started to laugh.
It was Osborne and Lene.
“What do you mean, ‘me too’?”
“They got you as well.”
I still hadn’t grasped it.
“But … but … I came here with Seton.”
“Seton? What did he look like?”
“Nice-looking chap, getting on a bit. Silver moustache.”
“Splendid. Seton never had a moustache in his life,” said Osborne.
“But how did you get here? Why did you leave Llanvygan?”
“Why? Because Lene wired to say you’d been abducted and that I should come immediately.”
“I what?” she choked. “I’ve been sitting in this dump since yesterday afternoon discussing the finer points of sociology with Osborne. But it’s impossible to get through to him. And all this time I’m fainting with hunger.”
“Do you think … they intend starving us to death?”
“Looks like it. All they’ve done is throw in a few ham and cheese sandwiches, and a couple of apples — as if we were circus bears or something. What do they think I am?”
“But how did you get here?” I asked.
“Very simple,” said Osborne. “As per our programme, the day after you left we disguised ourselves like this and followed Mrs Roscoe. We didn’t have much luck at the start. Mrs Roscoe spent the whole day doing whatever she does with her life. But yesterday, first thing in the morning, she came here. We’d seen Morvin here once before. When she went inside Lene had the bright idea of following her in. We’d pretend we were looking for work and take the opportunity to have a look around.”
“It was a brilliant idea,” Lene chipped in. “The instant we stepped through the gate ten guys rushed at us and threw us in this cellar. I didn’t even have time to say Heil Hitler. We’ve been sitting here ever since.”
“And that’s it,” said Osborne. “The profession of detective is not without its hazards.”
“And now you’re here as well,” Lene added. “These people seem to be very thorough.”
“What do they want?”
“It’s a little matter of death by starvation. My God, when I think of all the sauerkraut in Schmidt’s … ”
“Or perhaps they intend blackmailing my uncle,” said Osborne.
We sat in thoughtful silence.
“In all the books I’ve read,” I remarked, “when it gets to this point the captives try to think of ways of escape.”
“So let’s try to think.”
“The classic formulae never quite apply,” Osborne sighed. “We can’t tunnel out through the wall with our bare fingernails. We’re underground.”
“Perhaps we could force the door?” suggested Lene.
“Doesn’t seem likely.”
For a long time we talked and talked. My companions were very lethargic. For all their resolute cheerfulness, the confinement seemed to have sapped their energy. It was already the lunch hour. By the time night fell, I thought, even the hotel fare would be something to rejoice over. And above all, how would I cope without my cup of tea?
“We should try the lock,” I insisted. “I may not know much about the triumph of modern technology, but I’ve read a lot about old English ironwork. Maybe I’ll think of something.”
I stood up and tentatively pushed the handle down.
The door opened. It hadn’t been locked.