I am a solitary creature by nature, and I have only a very small circle of friends — close friends — whom I see perhaps once or twice a year, preferring, for the most part, my own company. However, my time spent at the château with Gideon had an extraordinary effect upon me. It began to dawn upon me that I had perhaps made myself into too much of a recluse. It was also borne upon me most forcibly that all my friends were of a different age group, much older than I was. Gideon, if I could count him as a friend (and by this time I certainly did), was the only friend I had who was, roughly speaking, my own age. Under his influence I began to expand. As he said to me one night, a slim cigar crushed between his strong white teeth, squinting at me past the blue smoke, “the trouble with you, Peter, is that you are in danger of becoming a young fogey”. I laughed, of course, but on reflection I knew he was right. I also knew that when the time came for me to leave the château I would miss his volatile company a great deal, probably more than I cared to admit, even to myself.
In all our talks Gideon discussed his extensive family with a sort of ironic affection, telling me anecdotes to illustrate their stupidity or their eccentricity, never maliciously but rather with a sort of detached good humour. However, the curious thing was that he never once mentioned his uncle, the Marquis, until one evening. We were sitting out on the terrace, watching the white owls that lived in the hollow oaks along the drive doing their first hunting swoops across the green sward in front of us. I had been telling him of a book which I knew was to be put up for sale in the autumn and which I thought could be purchased for some two thousand pounds. It was an important work and I felt he should have it in his library as it complemented the other works he had on the subject. Did he want me to bid for him? He flipped his cigar butt over the balustrade into the flower bed where it lay gleaming like a monstrous red glow worm, and chuckled softly.
“Two thousand pounds?” he said. “My dear Peter, I am not rich enough to indulge my hobby to that extent, unfortunately. If my uncle were to die now it would be a different story.”
“Your uncle?” I queried cautiously. “I did not know you had any uncles.”
“Only one, thank God,” said Gideon, “but unfortunately he holds the purse strings of the family fortunes and the old swine appears to be indestructible. He is ninety-one and when I last saw him, a year or two back, he did not look a day over fifty. However, in spite of all his efforts I do not believe him to be immortal and so one day the devil will gather him to his bosom. On that happy day I will inherit a very large sum of money and a library that will make even you, my dear Peter, envious. Until that day comes I cannot go around spending two thousand pounds on a book. But waiting for dead men’s shoes is a tedious occupation, and my uncle is an unsavoury topic of conversation, so let’s have some more wine and talk of something pleasant.”
“If he is unsavoury, then he is in contrast to the rest of your relatives you have told me about,” I said lightly, hoping that he would give me further information about his infamous uncle.
Gideon was silent for a moment.
“Yes, a great contrast,” he said, “but as every village must have its idiot, so every family must have its black sheep or its madman.”
“Oh, come now, Gideon,” I protested. “Surely that’s a bit too harsh a criticism?”
“You think so?” he asked and in the half light I could see chat his face was shining with sweat. “You think I am being harsh to my dear relative? But then you have not had the pleasure of meeting him, have you?”
“No,” I said, worried by the savage bitterness in his voice and wishing that I had let the subject drop since it seemed to disturb him so much.
“When my mother died I had to go and live with my dear uncle for several years until I inherited the modest amount of money my father left me in trust and I could be free of him. For ten years I lived in purgatory with that corrupt old swine. For ten years not a day or a night passed without my being terrified out of my soul. There are no words to describe how evil he is, and there are no lengths to which he will not go to achieve his ends. If Satan prowls the earth in the guise of a man then he surely inhabits the filthy skin of my uncle.”
He got up abruptly and went into the house. I was puzzled and alarmed at the vehemence with which he had spoken. I did not know whether to follow him or not, but presently he returned carrying the brandy decanter and two glasses. He sat down and poured us both a generous amount of the spirit.
“I must apologize, my dear Peter, for all my histrionics, for inflicting you with melodrama that would be more in keeping in the Grande Guignol than on this terrace,” he said, handing me my drink. “Talking of my old swine of an uncle has that effect on me, I’m afraid. At one time I lived in fear because I thought he had captured my soul . . . you know the stupid ideas children get? It was many years before I grew out of that. But it still, as you can see, upsets me to talk of him, so let’s drink and talk of other things, eh?”
I agreed wholeheartedly, and we talked pleasantly for a couple of hours or so. But that night was the only time I saw Gideon go to bed the worse for liquor. I felt most guilty since I felt it was due to my insistence that he talk about his uncle who had made such a deep, lasting and unpleasant impression on his mind.
Over the next four years I grew to know Gideon well. He came to stay with me whenever he was in England and I paid several delightful visits to the Château St Claire. Then for a period of six months I heard nothing from him. I could only presume that he had been overcome by what he called his “travel disease” and had gone off to Egypt or the Far East or even America on one of his periodic jaunts. However, this coincided with a time when I was, myself, extremely busy and so I had little time to ponder on the whereabouts of Gideon. Then, one evening, I returned home to Smith Street dead tired after a long journey from Aberdeen and I found awaiting me a telegram from Gideon.
Arriving London Monday thirty can I stay stop Uncle put to death I inherit library would you catalogue value move stop explain all when we meet regards Gideon.
I was amused that Gideon, who prided himself on his impeccable English, should have written “put to death” instead of “died” until he arrived and I discovered that this is exactly what had happened to his uncle, or, at least, what appeared to have happened. Gideon arrived quite late on the Monday evening and as soon as I looked at him I could see that he had been undergoing some harrowing experience. Surely, I thought to myself, it could not be the death of his uncle that was affecting him so. If anything I would have thought he would have been glad. But my friend had lost weight, his handsome face was gaunt and white and he had dark circles under his eyes that seemed suddenly to have lost all their sparkle and lustre. When I poured him out a glass of his favourite wine he took it with a hand that trembled slightly and tossed it back in one gulp as if it had been mere water.
“You look tired, Gideon,” I said. “You must have a few glasses of wine and then I suggest an early dinner and bed. We can discuss all there is to be discussed in the morning.”
“Dear old Peter,” he said, giving me a shadow of his normally effervescent smile. “Please don’t act like an English nanny, and take that worried look off your face. I am not sickening for anything. It’s just that I have had rather a hard time these last few weeks and I’m suffering from reaction. However, it’s all over now, thank God I’ll tell you all about it over dinner, but before then I would be grateful if I could have a bath, my dear chap.”
“Of course,” I said immediately, and went to ask Mrs Manning to draw a bath for my friend, and to take his baggage up to the guest room.
He went upstairs to bathe and change, and very shortly I followed him. Both my bedroom and the guest room had their own bathrooms, for there was sufficient room on that floor to allow this little luxury. I was just about to start undressing in order to start my own ablutions when I was startled by a loud moaning cry, almost a strangled scream, followed by a crash of breaking glass which appeared to emanate from Gideon
’s bathroom. I hastened across the narrow landing and tapped on his door.
“Gideon?” I called. “Gideon, are you all right . . . can I come in?”
There was no reply and so, greatly agitated, I entered the room. I found my friend in his bathroom, bent over the basin and holding on to it for support, his face the ghastly white of cheese, sweat streaming down it. The big mirror over the basin had been shattered and the fragments, together with a broken bottle of what looked like hair shampoo, littered the basin and the floor around.
“He did it . . . he did it . . . he did it . . .” muttered Gideon to himself, swaying, clutching hold of the basin. He seemed oblivious of my presence. I seized him by the arm and helped him into the bedroom where I made him lie down on the bed and called down the stairs for Mrs Manning to bring up some brandy and look sharp about it.
When I went back into the room Gideon was looking a little better, but he was lying there with his eyes closed, taking deep, shuddering breaths like a man who has just run a gruelling race. When he heard me approach the bed he opened his eyes and gave me a ghastly smile.
“My dear Peter,” he said, “I do apologize . . . so stupid of me I suddenly felt faint . . . I think it must be the journey and lack of food, plus your excellent wine . . . I fear I fell forward with that bottle in my hand and shattered your beautiful mirror . . . I’m so sorry . . . of course I will replace it.”
I told him, quite brusquely, not to be so silly and, when Mrs Manning came panting up the stairs with the brandy, I forced him to take some in spite of his protests. While he was drinking it, Mrs Manning cleaned up the mess in the bathroom.
“Ah. That’s better,” said Gideon at last. “I feel quite revived now. All I want is a nice relaxing bath and I shall be a new man.”
I felt that he ought to have his food in bed, but he would not hear of it, and when he descended to the dining-room half an hour later I must say he did look better and much more relaxed. He laughed and joked with Mrs Manning as she served us and complimented her lavishly on her cooking, swearing that he would get rid of his own chef, kidnap Mrs Manning and take her to his château in France to cook for him. Mrs Manning was enchanted by him, as indeed she always was, but I could see that it cost him some effort to be so charming and jovial. When at last we had finished the pudding and cheese and Mrs Manning put the decanter of port on the table and saying good night, left us, Gideon accepted a cigar. Having lit it he leant back in his chair and smiled at me through the smoke.
“Now, Peter,” he began, “I can tell you something of what’s been happening.”
“I am most anxious to know what it is that has brought you to this low ebb, my friend,” I said seriously.
He felt in his pocket and produced from it a large iron key with heavy teeth and an ornate butt. He threw it on the table where it fell with a heavy thud.
“This was one of the causes of the trouble,” he said, staring at it moodily. “The key to life and death, as you might say.”
“I don’t understand you,” I said, puzzled.
“Because of this key I was nearly arrested for murder,” said Gideon, with a smile.
“Murder? You?” I exclaimed, aghast. “But how can that possibly be?”
Gideon took a sip at his glass of port and settled himself back in his chair.
“About two months ago I got a letter from my uncle asking me to go to see him. This I did, with considerable reluctance as you may imagine for you know what my opinion of him was. Well, to cut a long story short, there were certain things he wanted me to do . . . er . . . family matters . . . which I refused to do. He flew into a rage and we quarrelled furiously. I am afraid that I left him in no doubt as to what I thought of him and the servants heard us quarrel. I left his house and continued on my way to Marseilles to catch a boat for Morocco where I was going for a tour. Two days later my uncle was murdered.”
“So that’s why you put ‘uncle put to death’ in your telegram,” I said. “ I wondered.”
“He had been put to death, and in the most mysterious circumstances,” said Gideon. “He was found in an empty attic at the top of the house which contained nothing but a large broken mirror. He was a hideous mess, his clothes torn off him, his throat and body savaged as if by a mad dog. There was blood everywhere. I had to identify the body. It was not a pleasant task, for his face had been so badly mauled that it was almost unrecognizable.” He paused and took another sip of port. Presently he went on. “But the curious thing about all this was that the attic was locked, locked on the inside with that key.”
“But how could that be?” I asked, bewildered. “How did his assailant leave the room?”
“That’s exactly what the police wanted to know,” said Gideon dryly. “As you know the French police are very efficient but lacking in imagination. Their logic worked something like this: I was the one that stood to gain by my uncle’s death because I inherit the family fortune and his library and several farms dotted about all over France . So, as I was the one that stood to gain, enfin, I must be the one who committed murder.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” I broke in indignantly.
“Not to a policeman,” said Gideon, “especially when they heard that at my last meeting with my uncle we had quarrelled bitterly and one of the things that the servants heard me saying to him was that I wished he would drop dead and thus leave the world a cleaner place.”
“But in the heat of a quarrel one is liable to say anything,” I protested. “Everyone knows that . . . And how did they suggest you killed your uncle and then left the room locked on the inside?”
“Oh, it was possible, quite possible,” said Gideon. “With a pair of long-nosed, very slender pliers, it could have been done, but it would undoubtedly have left marks on the end of the key, and as you can see it’s unmarked. The real problem was that at first I had no alibi. I had gone down to Marseilles and, as I had cut my visit to my uncle short, I was too early for my ship. I booked into a small hotel and enjoyed myself for those few days in exploring the port. I knew no one there so, naturally, there was no one to vouch for my movements. As you can imagine, it took time to assemble all the porters, maids, maîtres d’hôtel, restaurant owners, hotel managers and so on, and through their testimony prove to the police that I was, in fact, in Marseilles and minding my own business when my uncle was killed. It has taken me the last six weeks to do it, and it has been extremely exhausting.”
“Why didn’t you telegraph me?” I asked. “I could have come and at least kept you company.”
“You are very kind, Peter, but I did not want to embroil my friends in such a sordid mess. Besides, I knew that if all went well and the police released me (which they eventually did after much protest) I should want your help on something appertaining to this.”
“Anything I can do,” I said. “You know you have only to ask, my dear fellow.”
“Well, as I told you I spent my youth under my uncle’s care, and after that experience I grew to loathe his house and everything about it. Now, with this latest thing, I really feel I cannot set foot in the place again. I am not exaggerating but I seriously think that if I were to go there and stay I should become seriously ill.”
“I agree,” I said firmly. “On no account must you even contemplate such a step.”
“Well, the furniture and the house I can of course get valued and sold by a Paris firm: that is simple. But the most valuable thing in the house is the library. This is where you come in, Peter. Would you be willing to go down and catalogue and value the books for me. Then I can arrange for them to be stored until I can build an extension to my library to house them?”
“Of course I will,” I said. “With the greatest of pleasure. You just tell me when you want me to come.”
“I shall not be with you, you’ll be quite alone,” Gideon warned.
“I am a solitary creature, as I have told you,” I laughed, “and as long as I have a supply of books to amuse me I shall get along splendidly, don’t
worry.”
“I would like it done as soon as possible,” said Gideon, “so that I may get rid of the house. How soon could you come down?”
I consulted my diary and found that, fortunately, I was coming up to a rather slack period.
“How about the end of next week?” I asked and Gideon’s face lit up.
“So soon?” he said delightedly. “That would be splendid! I could meet you at the station at Fontaine next Friday. Would that be all right?”
“Perfectly all right,” I said, “and I will soon have the books sorted out for you. Now, another glass of port and then you must away to bed.”
“My dear Peter, what a loss you are to Harley Street,” joked Gideon, but he took my advice.
Twice during the night I awakened, thinking that I heard him cry out but, after listening for a while all was quiet and I concluded that it was just my imagination. The following morning he left for France and I started making my preparations to follow him, packing sufficient things for a prolonged stay at his late uncle’s house.
The whole of Europe was in the grip of an icy winter and it was certainly not the weather to travel in. Indeed no one but Gideon could have got me to leave home in such weather. Crossing the Channel was a nightmare and I felt so sick on arrival in Paris that I could not do more than swallow a little broth and go straight to bed. The following day it was icy cold, with a bitter wind, grey skies and driving veils of rain that stung your face. Eventually I reached the station and boarded the train for what seemed an interminable journey, during which I had to change and wait at more and more inhospitable stations, until I was so numbed with cold I could hardly think straight. All the rivers wore a rim of lacy ice along their shores, and the ponds and lakes turned blank, frozen eyes to the steel grey sky.
The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium Page 16
