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?’
‘Most certainly’.
‘Then I shall. It was dark. There was a terrible thunderstorm breaking out over Hacrio Castle. Faint cries were coming from inside. The Black Knight was hammering Walter Bimton to death with a spiked mace. Goodbye Mr Rudd’.
He got up and left the room. Jason heard the front door open and then shut.
‘A most surprising visitor. I wonder why he left so soon?’
‘I don’t know’, said Richard. ‘What do you think of the story?’
‘It was most interesting. We must locate Hacrio Castle. It will be most interesting for us to investigate’.
‘Yes’.
‘However, at present I am more interested in Edward Whiter. Why did he go so quickly? Why, he barely said a few words before he left’.
‘It is so, Jason. I wonder also. Perhaps we will get the answer later’.
‘It may be. Anyway, Hacrio Castle – have you ever heard of it?’
‘No, not at all, and I haven’t got any idea of what it might look like, either’.
‘Neither have I’, admitted Jason. ‘Still I don’t suppose it would be of any use anyway’.
‘You’re probably right. Got any ideas as to what mystery may surround it?’
‘Oh yes, I think I have’.
‘You do?’
‘Yes’. He lowered his voice. ‘I think it’s cursed’.
I closed the magazine, after taking a last look at that silly photograph of me looking precocious and introspective in Mr Nuttall’s cowshed, and put it back on Joan’s bedside table. It was strange reading that story again; like hearing an unfamiliar voice on a tape recorder and steadfastly refusing to believe that it could be your own. The temptation was to think of it as another potential bridge to the past: a way of retracing my steps until I would be brought face to face with the eight-year-old innocent who had written it, and who now seemed such a perfect stranger. But it was obvious enough, even to me, that it actually said less about the kind of child I had been than about the books I was reading at the time: stories of nice middle-class children spending holidays together in rambling country houses which would turn out to be crammed with trapdoors and secret passages; stories of Gothic adventure unfolding in lurid comic strips, their detail hovering just this side of parental acceptability; stories of remote and enviable American teenagers who formed themselves into detective clubs, and seemed to live in unlikely proximity to any number of haunted castles, ghostly mansions and mysterious islands. It was years since I’d read one of these books. Most of my copies had been given away to church jumble sales by my mother. But it was a safe bet, I thought, that there would be a few such items still to be found on Joan’s bookshelf: and I was absolutely right. I plucked at a colourful spine and found myself staring at a cover illustration which instantly gave off the dusty odour of past pleasures. It was tempting to take the book downstairs and start reading it there and then, but some puritanical impulse stopped me, insisting that I had better things to do than to wallow in this sort of nostalgia. So I put it back on the shelf, tiptoed out on to the landing and, resuming my earlier (and certainly no more noble) programme of exploration, pushed open the door to Phoebe’s room.