The Mortdecai Trilogy

by Bonfiglioli, Kyril

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear boy, I had forgotten that undergraduates used once to have a little Latin. Now; catching this chap; I honestly cannot think of a method which would have much hope of success. I suppose one could leave an attractive young woman unguarded in a spinney or copse – but who would volunteer to be the bait? One could hardly tether her, could one, it would look suspicious. No, I think your best plan is to fight him on his own terms and bar him from your neighbourhood for good – make him cry vicisti, which – ’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. Yes; you must give him a whiff of grape-shot and let him know that he’s outgunned; he will give you best, I’m sure, and turn his talents elsewhere. In short; you must have a Mass said.’

  ‘A Mass?’

  ‘A Satanic Mass, naturally. One of the real, juicy ones. You will then be, as it were, under the protection of his, ah, Supervisor, and he’ll have no choice but to leave you and yours alone. You might say it will put the fear of the Devil into him, heh heh.’

  I found myself in a quandary. How real was the witchcraft element in our rapist? Dryden, the top scholar in the field, clearly was satisfied that the man was a dangerous adept – but then, how potty was Dryden? Could I go back to Jersey and tell George and Sam that what we needed was a Black Mass? On the other hand, what was on the other hand? Lying out night after night in damp potato fields, hoping that the chap would blunder into one’s arms? And what would that prove? Or lie in wait in the wardrobes of likely victims’ bedrooms? Quite absurd; moreover, if the Beast of Jersey was any guide, our man would have been watching the chosen house for hours, perhaps days, and rapable women abound in Jersey – if you don’t object to legs like bedroom jugs.

  ‘Very well,’ I said at length. ‘We’ll give the Satanic Mass a crack of the whip; I’m sure you know best.’

  ‘Capital, capital; I always said that you were a capable man. I remember saying so to the Dean when –’

  ‘Yes, John. Now, how does one go about arranging that sort of beano?’

  ‘Of course, let us be practical. First, we must select a suitable Mass. What? Oh, goodness, yes, there are many. Many. By far the best is the Medici Mass, it never fails, it is positively and finally lethal, but there are no reliable texts of its Graduale to be had – all corrupt, every one of them, such a shame. In any case, the Missa Mediciensis involves the dismemberment of a beautiful young boy, which I fancy you might think a horrid waste – or am I thinking of a chap with a name like yours who came up in the same year as you?’

  ‘Bonfiglioli?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, that was he. Sorry, Mortdecai. And in any case, unless your Jersey witchmaster is uncommonly learned he may not have heard of that particular ritual and it is of the greatest importance that he should know what forces you are throwing against him. You see that, don’t you?’

  ‘It makes sense, certainly.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Now I have it: the very one, the Messe de Saint Sécaire.’

  ‘And who, pray, was Saint Sécaire?’

  ‘Well, he probably wasn’t a saint; in fact he may never have been what you or I would call a person even, but his name is known everywhere from the Basque country to the Lowlands-Low amongst the sort of people who know about that sort of thing.’

  ‘You speak in riddles, John.’

  ‘Naturally. Now, you will need only three things: first, an unfrocked priest, for the ritual demands it. I know the very chap: he teaches in a prep-school in Eastbourne and is both reliable and cheap. It will only cost you his steamer-fare – chaps like that never travel by air for obvious reasons – and a few bottles of Pastis; some clean straw to sleep-it-off on and perhaps a couple of fivers as a going-away present.’

  ‘I have a servant called Jock who will anticipate his every need.’

  ‘Splendid. Then, you will need a text of the Ritual. There is only one sound copy in existence: it is in the incomparable library of a ridiculous old lecher called Lord Dunromin. I shall give you a letter to him: if you grovel a bit and pretend to believe that he is – as he loves to think – the wickedest man in England, he may be persuaded to let you have a sight of the manuscript and copy out such parts as differ most grossly from the Ordinale. Pay particular attention to the peculiarities of the Introit, the Kyrie and the, well, the equivalent of the Agnus Dei.’

  I scribbled some notes on my shirt-cuff, for I knew that such an anachronism would please him.

  ‘Finally,’ he went on, ‘and this may be a trifle difficult, you will need a ruined church which has been deconsecrated – preferably one with a toad dwelling beneath the altar. Do you suppose you could manage that, eh?’

  ‘As a matter of fact there is just such a place in Jersey; it’s called La Hougue Bie. An abandoned sixteenth-century chapel stands on a mound which contains one of the finest megalithic pre-Christian tombs in Europe. I am sure toads abound there but, should they be absent, it would be the work of a moment – and indeed a kindness – to introduce them to such a haven.’

  ‘Excellent! You are sure that the chapel has been deconsecrated? No? Then you must make sure. You could, of course, desecrate it yourself, but it’s not really the same thing and you might find the process a little trying. There would be, perhaps annoyances, in a place of such antiquity. I’m sure you understand me.’

  ‘Only too well.’

  ‘Then I think we have covered everything and you, no doubt, will be eager to get to bed.’

  I didn’t sleep awfully well, perhaps I’d eaten something which disagreed with me. Once I awoke in a panic: some frightful cantrip had been chanting itself inside my head, but it was only an innocent verse from The Wind in the Willows:

  ‘The clever men at Oxford

  Know all that there is to be knowed.

  But they none of them know one half as much

  As intelligent Mr Toad!’

  I couldn’t understand why it had frightened me so much.

  8

  By the One who may don the black raiment

  Of the Goat which was never a goat

  Now come I to exact the dread payment

  For the lie that was born in the throat.

  In a High Place, to decent men nameless,

  Guarding ever the Branchless Rod,

  Lies a thing which is pallid and shameless,

  Ill with lust for a frightful god.

  O, Ashtaroth, darling of Sidon,

  Loathly Chemosh, who raves in the night,

  I bring the red kiss which shall widen,

  For thy servant, a way to thy sight.

  Asmodeus

  Dryden was kind enough to take me to my train in the morning. He drives fast and decisively but he has his own little theories about how to deal with other road-users and the drive was not enjoyable. I once diffidently pointed out to him that we were entering a one-way street: he beamed at me, an index finger laid against his nose, and cried:

  ‘Ah, but which way? We are not told, you see!’ This savouring of his triumph led him to mount the pavement, so I let the rest of the trip unwind itself without further comment – and with my eyes closed. I remember wishing that I knew a cantrip or two to recite.

  How Dryden puts you on a train is as follows. He stalls his elderly Wolseley on the ‘TAXIS ONLY’ sign, leaps out, pops the jack under the sill and gives it a couple of turns. This, he finds, gives him some twenty minutes’ grace. Then he strikes a Joan of Arc stance, umbrella pointing to the empyrean, and cries ‘Porter!’ again and again, in tones of increasing pitch and theatricality, until every sensate being within earshot is frantically seeking porters for the poor gentleman and you, his passenger, are quite magenta-hued with shame and chagrin.

  When a porter is at last thrust forward by the compassionate throng, rubbing his red eyes and peering about him in the unaccustomed daylight like a spider evicted from a Scotchman’s purse, Dryden takes him firmly by the arm.

  ‘This gentleman,’ he explains, laying
a forefinger on your waistcoat, ‘has to travel to London. It is most important.’ He gently turns the porter to the East and points along the up-line. ‘London,’ he repeats. ‘Pray see to it, and you are to keep this for yourself.’ With this he turns away, his duty done, he has looked after you. The porter gapes at the tiny coin pressed into his palm, but his sense of humour prevails and he takes your bag with a half-bow and offers to carry your umbrella, too. He leads you to the ticket-office and explains to the clerk just what it is you need. When he has got you into a corner-seat-facing-the-engine in a first-class compartment and has straightened the anti-macassar, he looks around as though seeking a travelling-rug to tuck about your knees. You over-tip him grossly, I need scarcely say. You know that later you may find it all most amusing, but just now you want to spit.

  As the train gave a preliminary lurch I rose and looked out of the window. Dryden was on the platform – perhaps he had been asking the guard to look after me. But no, he was hurrying along, bobbing up and down to scan first-class compartments.

  ‘Hoy!’ I cried, waving. He broke into a canter, but the train was a match for him.

  ‘Turnips!’ he seemed to cry as he lost ground. ‘Turnips!’

  ‘Turnips?’ I roared, but by then we were out of earshot.

  ‘What the devil does he mean, “turnips”?’ I mused aloud as I sat down. Unnoticed by me, the compartment had filled. Opposite me, a respectable old woman, who in the ordinary way would have offered me a religious tract or two, was offering me the nastiest look you can imagine. I played the only possible counter-move: I fished out my silver pocket-flask and took a swig. It did her a power of good. In the diagonally opposite corner sat an albino priest, who looked up from his Breviary to give me a saintly, sloppy smile, as much to say that, if my DTs became intolerable, he would wrestle in prayer with me. The fourth corner was occupied by an obvious merchant-banker – try as they will, they cannot disguise those shifty eyes, that rat-trap mouth. He was working on The Times crossword, but to the exclusion of turnips, pocket-flasks and everything else: it is this power of concentration which singles out a man for the merchant-banking trade.

  The old lady continued to stare fixedly at the tasteful sepia view of Tewkesbury Abbey, above my head, perhaps willing it to fall on me. I must say I rather liked the cut of her jib, while her clear distaste for the Mortdecais of this world did her credit. I have often thought of acquiring an old lady to keep as a pet. They’d be of little use for a shooting man, of course – no nose, d’you see, and useless over marshy ground – but for the town-dweller they are incomparable. I cannot understand why people pay fortunes for nasty cats and dogs who leave puddles and puppies and kittens all over the place when, for nothing but the cost of her keep, one can have an old lady, clean as a new pin and warranted past child-bearing. Old ladies can help one, too, in countless little ways such as marking shirts and arranging flowers: tricks which few dogs and no cats can be taught. True, they can be noisy, but I imagine that a few cuts of the whip would break them of this – or I dare say they could be surgically muted for a trifling sum. True, too, they are a wasting asset and, if you had the bad luck to pick a poor doer, she might become bed-ridden and linger on for years; a misery to herself and a burden to others. I suppose the thing to do would be to leave, pointedly, a bottle of brandy and a loaded revolver on her commode, as one used to do with a Guards Officer who’d been caught with his fingers in the tambourine.

  People shouldn’t keep people if they’re not prepared to look after them, don’t you agree?

  London, of course, was hell: it gets worse every day. I pine for the slow, placid, pastoral way of life they still enjoy in New York. Leaving my bag at the Connaught I pottered about until luncheon, having a chat with a shirt-maker here, a haberdasher there and a boot-maker in t’other place. Then I refreshed myself with oysters at a place whose name I shall not tell you, for I do not wish you to go there: you would not like it and there is barely enough room for me.

  When it was time to call on Lord Dunromin I made my way to his club, which is one of those ancient, hateful clubs called Bogg’s or Crutt’s or Frigg’s – you know the sort of thing. This particular sink, known to other clubmen as the ‘Senior Lechers’, is a bad place. Members must be old, contemptuous, well-born but spurned by decent society, and expensively dressed in quiet bad taste.

  The club porter flicked an eye over my clothes, glanced at the label inside my hat and admitted that the Earl was in the Smoking Room and might well be expecting me. Did I know where the Smoking Room was? I looked at him stonily – I’ve been squashed by experts. He led me to the Smoking Room.

  The Earl didn’t get up. He has been the wickedest man in England for years: he now hopes to be the rudest, too. The All-England selectors have long had their corporate eye on him. He looked at my clothes. The two-second glance contrived to embody genuine embarrassment, suppressed amusement and feigned compassion. It was well done; he was in a different league from the hall-porter. I didn’t wait to be asked, I sat down.

  ‘How do you do?’ I said.

  ‘Oink,’ he replied

  This brought a waiter. Lord Dunromin loudly ordered ‘a glass of the cheese port’ for me, while pouring himself something from a decanter at his elbow.

  He turned to the window to sneer at a passing omnibus. I studied him. His face was a shade or two darker than my port, a shade or two paler than his. Viewed through my glass, his features became quite black, only the eyes gleaming redly.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, rounding on me, ‘are you going to interview me or not?’

  This threw me somewhat, but it seemed a small thing to do if it would give him pleasure.

  ‘Of course. Sorry. Now, how long have you considered yourself to be the wickedest man in England?’ I asked.

  ‘Europe. And I don’t like that word “considered”. And, since I was fifteen. Sacked from all three Public Schools, both Universities, four clubs and the Foreign Office.’

  ‘My word. And to what do you attribute your success?’

  ‘Lust. What they call sex nowadays. Workin’ me wicked will on school matrons, housemaids, chaps’ wives, daughters; that sort of thing.’

  ‘Have you enjoyed it all, and have you given it up now?’

  ‘Enjoyed, yes, every minute. And given up now, yes again. Too easy, too tiring, interferes with the television. Watching it, I mean, not the reception, har har.’

  I gave him a perfunctory smile.

  ‘Too easy?’ I asked, as rudely as I could.

  ‘Nowadays, yes, definitely. Look at the way these young fellers with the awful hair get away with it: all pursued by herds of young women, lowing with lust, beggin’ for it. Why, when I was a boy we were proud to get even an ugly bit of crumpet, but look at ’em now – have to fight the gels off. Pretty gels, too, ugly ones seem all to have vanished. It’s like the policemen, I suppose,’ he added cryptically.

  ‘But since those early days, Lord Dunromin, you’ve never found it difficult, have you?’

  ‘Certainly not. Certainly not. Just the reverse. Indeed, I’ve never understood why men of our generation’ – I started: surely he didn’t mean to include me? – ‘ever found seducin’ difficult. I mean, we few really competent seducers can never feel vain about our prowess for we know how absurdly, how insultingly simple the whole thing is. I mean, to start with, women are nearly all astonishingly stupid – you must know that – it’s hard to believe, sometimes, that they belong to the same species as you and me. Do you know that nine out of ten of ’em cannot tell margarine from butter? It’s a fact, I promise you, I’ve seen it proved again and again on the television.

  ‘Then there’s another thing in the seducer’s favour: almost all women, whether they know it or not, are actually dyin’ to be seduced – it’s important to them, d’you see. Some want it because they’re not married, some because they are; some because they’re really too old for it and some because they’re too young, heh heh; beautiful women need it t
o flatter their vanity and ugly ones need reassurance; a very few need it because they’re over-sexed but these are the exceptions – most of them are really quite frigid but they go on assuming the horizontal in the hope that their next mount will be Mr Right himself, who will at last waken them and induce in their absurd insides the magical moment they have all read so much about in the garbage they all read. In short, I doubt whether there’s such a thing as an unseducible woman in the world. Tragic thing is, not one in a thousand is worth your powder and shot. Experto crede. Older ones, by and large, are the best value: they always think it might be their last time, d’you see.’

  I’d had quite enough of this, it sounded like an editorial in the Boy’s Own Paper or an epilogue by a YMCA Warden, but, just as I was about to break in, the Earl was back in his stride, his pink and bulging eyes fixed on the ceiling, his voice sonorous.

  ‘Any man armed with this simple knowledge is invincible: he can cut a great swathe through the female ranks like an Attila as long as his glands hold out. He need not be handsome, glib or rich (although, a motor-car is considered pretty essential these days), indeed, it often rather helps to be poor, scrawny and tongue-tied. Even the portly need not despair, for experienced gels dread the assault of a bony pelvis and many of them associate us chubbier chaps with their fathers, for whom they have usually nurtured a furtive, pubescent passion.

  ‘As I say, the mere knowledge that it’s a bowler’s wicket should be enough to give the would-be stud all the advantage he needs, but while I’m on the subject I might as well dish out a few practical tips for which I have no further use. Are you taking notes?’

  ‘Well, no,’ I said, ‘as a matter of fact I –’

  ‘Then do so. Hey, waiter, bring a glass of brandy for my er, for this er, gentleman. No, no, you know, that other brandy. Now, listen attentively.