I looked past him, gazing sightlessly at the window. ‘That would certainly … have its uses,’ I said.
‘Anyway, it’s been nice having this chat,’ said Graham. ‘It’s always helpful, getting a bit of objective criticism from someone.’
There was a short pause and then I snapped out of my reverie, suddenly hearing him again. ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘I found it very interesting.’
‘Well look, I’m just going into town. Can I get you anything?’
I was alone in the house for the first time. There is a sort of quietness I associate with such moments: more than absolute, it insinuates, takes root, and keeps watch. The opposite of a dead silence, it quivers with possibility. It is alive with the sound of nothing happening. You don’t get silence like this in London: not silence that you can listen to, savour, swathe yourself in. I found that I was walking around the house on tiptoe, and that the occasional noises of footsteps outside in the street or cars chugging past seemed highly intrusive. I tried to settle down and read the newspaper but could only manage it for a minute or two. With Graham’s departure the house had changed its character completely — had taken on a magical aspect, like a forbidden temple which I had somehow managed to infiltrate, and I was seized with the impulse to explore.
I made my way up the staircase, turned right on the landing, and stepped into Joan’s bedroom. It was a bright, cheerful room which faced on to the main road. There was a double bed, neatly made, with a pink duvet and several pale blue cushions arranged against the pillows. In the middle of these sat a figure I recognized from one of memory’s most distant corners: a battered yellow teddy bear called Barnabas, her bedtime companion since infancy. I noticed that his eyes didn’t match any more: one was black and the other was blue. It must have come off quite recently, and a brief, affecting image flickered across my mind — Joan sitting at the end of the bed, a needle and thread in her hand, sewing the button on, patiently restoring eyesight to this worn childhood relic. I didn’t touch him. I glanced at the neatly stacked bookshelves, the family photographs, the desk with its gift stationery and Liberty print lamp. In the corner there were more functional-looking ring binders and a cardboard box full of notes and papers. Nothing on her bedside table besides a half-empty glass of water, a box of tissues and a magazine, the cover of which boasted a picture of two green bomber jets in mid-flight, with the caption ‘The Mark I Hurricane — Britain’s wartime triumph’. I smiled and picked it up. This was the Sunday newspaper magazine published a couple of months ago with my juvenile story in it. I wondered whether Joan had simply never got around to putting it away, or if it was there for a reason, to be marvelled at and pored over every night before going to sleep. I wouldn’t have been surprised.
If this was the case, anyway, who was I to make fun of her: I had read and re-read the thing often enough myself, and even now I couldn’t resist sitting down on the bed, opening the magazine at the familiar page and immersing myself once again in the warm waters of that shallow glory.
Michael Owen [read the introduction] was born in Birmingham in 1952 and has recently received great acclaim for his novels Accidents Will Happen and The Loving Touch.
Michael was only eight years old when he created his first fictional character, a Victorian detective who went by the exotic name of Jason Rudd. He was the subject of numerous adventures, the longest and most exciting being The Castle of Mystery, of which we present the opening pages here. Sadly this is not the first in the series — an earlier case, involving a character called Thomas Watson mentioned in this extract, has been lost — but Michael assures us that it provides a good introduction to the world of Rudd and his assistant Richard Marple, which he describes as ‘Holmes and Watson revisited, with a healthy dash of surrealism’.
THE CASTLE OF MYSTERY
Chapter One
Jason Rudd, a distinguished detective of the 19th Century sat at a wooden carved table, opposite his companion Richard Marple, who had accompanied him on many of his adventures.
Jason was middle-sized and had light hair. He was more or less the bravest of the two, but Richard was extremely courageous too. Richard had dark hair and was very tall, but Jason had the brains. He could not do without Richard.
You see, Richard could perform athletic feats, and Jason couldn’t. They were about the most formidable combination in Britain.
At this moment however they were engaged in a game of Chess. The board was old and dirty, despite Jason’s efforts to polish it. Jason moved his knight and smiled.
‘Check’, he said.
But Richard moved his bishop and took Jason’s knight.
‘Bother’!
Jason sat extremely still hardly breathing. He always did this when he was thinking. He moved his queen.
‘Checkmate’!
‘You’ve won, well done’.
The two shook hands then sat down.
‘I’m getting exceptionally bored’, pronounced Jason. ‘I want something to think about. I mean, chess is alright but I’d like something like that Thomas Watson business, which reminds me, how is Thomas?’
‘Not too good I’m afraid. His arm is yet to heal’.
‘Is he in danger of dying, or worse?’
‘He is in danger of dying’.
‘He is? That is bad. We must see him. What about tomorrow or the next day?’
‘Tomorrow would be convenient’.
‘Then shall we make a day of it?’
‘Certainly, if my wife approves. Er, what is the time please?’
‘Five minutes past ten’.
‘Then I had better be going’.
‘Alright,’ said Jason, ‘Shall I see you out?’
‘No thank you’.
Jason watched Richard get his coat. He heard the door open then close.
Richard walked out. He was half-way home when a man stepped out of the dark and blocked Richard’s way.
‘I’m Edward Whiter’, he said.
He had an American accent, a beard and yellow teeth.
‘Are you Richard Marple?’
‘I am’.
‘I would wish to see you and Mr Jason Rudd together now’.
‘For what reason?’
‘I want to talk to you. It is about a very frightening business and I wish you would help me’.
‘Then when do you want us to start this?’
‘Tomorrow’.
‘I am sorry but that is impossible’
‘You must do it’.
‘Why?’
‘Because we don’t want our people to believe in it’.
‘Believe in what?’
Edward lowered his voice and whispered ‘The curse’.
‘The curse? What curse?’
‘The curse of Hacrio Castle’.
‘Alright. I’ll take you to see Jason. I’m sure that he’ll be very interested’.
‘That’s good’. He now spoke with an English accent. He sounded much pleasanter. He ripped off a false beard and smiled.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you Mr Marple,’ he said. Richard, being rather surprised held out his hand. They shook hands.
‘I–I’m very pleased to meet you Mr — Mr Whiter’.
‘Please, call me Edward. Now come on, where is Mr Rudd’s house?’
‘I wish to tell you a story Mr Rudd. I imagine that it should interest you greatly. Shall I begin?’