*Suitable for Adult Readers only
From the Diaries of Miss Alicia Johns, December 19__
‘He collected women, that son of a _________, and we could not touch him. They put hapless idiots on the case and he played them all. I sat across the table from him a fortnight ago and looked him in the eye. He showed me the book: the pictures, the letters, the pleading notes. He laughed in my face and I, I did nothing. My fingers twitched, my hand shook and I just sat there,’ said Chief Lestrade. He raised his glass in a hand that would not keep still, and slammed it down. He looked around his apartment.
‘Chief, Chief, please get hold of yourself,’ said I gently, trying to calm him down. I put a hand on his shoulder, for he was shaking. The tremors come on him sometimes these days, and it is not always anger, though tonight it is. I have been working for his department these past two years, and while officially my work is record keeping, summarising and filing, the decorated head of Scotland Yard’s Special Department has come to rely on me in many ways. He is no longer the man who could hunt down fugitives in the field himself, but he keeps going.
‘I am all right, Alicia,’ said he in a gruff voice. ‘Do you know that he actually sent me a Christmas card? It came only this morning. It lies there on my table. He has invited me to his mansion in Portloe. I should have flung it into the fireplace, but it is useful to be reminded once in a while of what you cannot do. He sits there looking at the ocean, indulging in the worst misdeeds and mockeries. There is nothing I can do.’
I looked over to the table.
‘Portloe, Cornwall?’ asked Sir Shash. He had been listening for a while.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Count Vesper is extremely fond of the sea.’
‘Why could he not be touched?’ said the Indian aristocrat.
‘Sir Shash,’ replied Chief Lestrade, ‘not one of his victims has come forward, for fear of disrepute to themselves and to their families. You see, he likes to attract women only from the most respectable families, aristocratic and well known in social circles. We knew because we had been told privately by more than one victim, under oath of discretion.’
‘He is a blackmailer, then?’
‘Not in the financial sense, not that I know of. He enjoys the control, the influence and the fear he can command, and he…’
I saw Sir Shash look the Chief dead in the eye. The Chief said nothing. I knew he could not bring himself to say it, and so it was I who answered on his behalf.
‘He… revisits them.’
I stayed with the Chief for a while after Sir Shash had left. Sir Shash had presented him with a most magnificent handwoven Indian scarf and given me some plum cake, saying that no one made it quite like his housekeeper Agnes. I tried some just now. He might not be wrong.
From the Diaries of Miss Madeline Bassett, December 19__
Look there
Invitation
All charm and elegance
My chest feels like a stormy sea
Lips smile
That cinquain only scratches the surface of the excitement I feel. I have been feeling bored of always being in either London or Totleigh. The Count truly is a man of his word. Inviting me, and inviting Stiffy and Harold too! Dare I suspect that he wants to see me most of all? Why should he not? He is a poet at heart, as I am. Life has a way of throwing kindred souls together. The stars always know, and they make divine plans.
I remember that night in the ballroom at the Kit-Kat Club. I still remember his splendid aristocratic manner and his dancing. And Roderick acting so rudely and walking off! Count Vesper did not let it bother him one bit. What a gentleman! So handsome, too. No wonder Roderick was jealous. He has not spoken to me since, which is most unbecoming, really. I cannot be taken for granted like this.
Still, I should be glad to go away to Cornwall and see a village New Year for a change. A new year is upon us, and perhaps a new friendship with it. I hope I did not send that acceptance telegram too readily. I think Stiffy said she was looking forward to meeting him again. Or did she not? Never mind, diary.
My mind aflutter
New experiences wait
A warmer winter
From the Diaries of Stiffy Byng, December 19__
Harold accepted that invitation from Count Vesper. He told me over supper. Look at how soundly he sleeps. I suppose he truly appreciates the opportunity the Count has given him. It is going to be remunerative, and from what he has told me, that is some sum he has been promised for a two-day event filled with sermons and scripture quizzes at the school in Portloe. The Count seems a sincere trustee indeed.
Madeline called me, all agog with excitement, over the telephone. The Count has invited her, too. No surprises there. He is probably going to propose to her or something. He was looking at her with such admiration. I don’t mind this development at all. Someone needs to tell Madeline that anyone is better than Spode. That Neanderthal oaf!
Vesper is so dashed handsome. There is a touch of the smooth rogue about him, but I think I might be a trifle biased there, because he is not English. Those eyes, they sparkled with mischief that night at the Kit-Kat Club, and he was effortless with his charming, old-fashioned compliments. I suppose I should get hold of myself. Thank God my Harold is even better looking. Is Harold flexing his muscles even as he sleeps? I don’t think I can write more tonight.
From the Diaries of Miss Alicia Johns, December 19__
I had breakfast with Sir Shash today. He wasn’t really expecting me. I knocked on the door of his apartment and his housekeeper answered. She is quite the good-looking girl, Agnes. He registered mild surprise when she announced my name, but he was quite cordial in his manner. He had been sitting at his breakfast table with a bowl of oatmeal. I have no idea what I should think of him despite having met him before. The apartment was small but well furnished, and astonishingly well maintained. I knew he sometimes helped the Chief with extraordinary matters. Was that the reason he had been knighted? He was too young to be knighted. Yet there he was.
I noticed the book he had been reading: Memories of Masai Mara by Darrell Rivers. I half smiled. I knew the author. I had been to school with her.
He stood up and said, ‘Miss Johns, please do take a seat. I will be with you in a moment. Forgive me, where are my manners? Would you join me for breakfast? Agnes here will quickly make some soft scrambled eggs and serve them with toast and marmalade. Some sausages perhaps? Agnes?’
‘Just scrambled eggs and toast will do, sir,’ I said with a smile, and joined him. ‘I am rather hungry. You don’t mind me barging in like this, do you? Or is “where are my manners” the right question?’
‘Ha ha,’ he said. ‘You remind me of someone. She is pretty sure when she wants breakfast too.’
‘I take it you are referring to Lady Roberta.’
‘You know her?’ he asked.
‘I have heard of her many admirable qualities,’ I said truthfully. Chief Lestrade had once told me that there was no better shot in England, and that she had joined Sir Shash in doing things that the Yard never speaks about.
He looked at me as if to ascertain whether I was speaking the truth, and then smiled.
‘Please sit.’
I sat down. He noticed me noticing the book beside him.
‘I like to read about places,’ he said.
‘I know the author,’ I said.
‘You really do? That is something. How?’
‘We were at boarding school together.’
‘So you are that Alicia,’ he said. ‘You were known for your tricks and stage performances at school. Darrell mentioned you very fondly.’
‘You have met her in person?’ My expression must have betrayed too much curiosity.
He said softly, ‘Yes, I knew her. That was before she left England a few years ago to pursue her passion and curiosity about the world. Now I know her through her work.’
I noticed the slight change in his tone. A memory, bittersweet perhaps? Darrell was a workaholic. She always had been. Her work came first. She had not been home in years.
He said, ‘To what do I owe the honour of your visit, Miss Alicia?’
‘Just Alicia, please. Do you mind if I call you Shash? I mean no disrespect. It is only that you are so young.’
‘My friends call me Shash, Alicia.’
‘Shash, it is. Thank you. The Chief only tells you things that he knows may be close to your heart. I am here because I know that the man he spoke to you about has invited a friend of yours to his mansion in Portloe, Cornwall.’
He looked shocked. ‘Who among my friends?’
‘The Chief has had him shadowed every time we have known of him being in London. It was at the Kit-Kat Club that he met your friends: Miss Madeline Bassett, Mrs. Pinker and the Reverend Harold Pinker. Our man overheard him ask Miss Bassett to visit his mansion for the New Year celebrations. He told her that he would invite her cousin, Mrs. Pinker, and her husband, the Reverend Mr. Pinker, as well. We know they are your friends.’
‘When did he invite her?’
‘I am not sure about that; we could not be sure of that. Perhaps you should ask them, if you can.’
He got up from the table and went to his telephone. Agnes brought me my breakfast. A moment later, I heard him speak with Mrs. Pinker.
‘Stiffy, where are you? I need to speak with you,’ he said.
He came back to the table some moments later and said, ‘You will have to excuse me, Alicia. I have an urgent appointment. My apologies, and I hope to meet you again soon. Please do finish your breakfast. Agnes will give you some freshly squeezed juice too, or coffee if you prefer.’
He left. I looked at Agnes.
‘Madam, please do not mind. He often leaves suddenly.’
I looked at Agnes again. She was film heroine material. I said, ‘Shouldn’t you be on stage, Agnes? What are you doing here?’
‘I have no interest in being on stage, madam. I think I am doing respectable work, and my mum did the same before me, and Sir Shash is a kind employer. Some orange juice, or would you like apple instead?’
I wondered why exactly I had visited him. It was not just because the Chief had wanted me to.
From the Diaries of Stiffy Byng, December 19__
I received the strangest phone call from Shash today. He does have a high opinion of my acting abilities. I know I am good at it, and I suppose looks help too. The Reverend’s wife does have her vanity. Hah! I wonder what Harold would think of that.
What surprised me was what Shash had to say about Count Vesper. He sounded quite concerned. The Count is apparently a very dangerous man. I would never have figured that to be true. He was roguishly charming, but this… this makes the whole thing even more exciting. I am to be bait. It really seems too marvellous.
Then I remembered Madeline. She would not heed a word that Shash or I said. She has been absolutely bowled over ever since that dance at the club. She has always been that way: batty, lost in her own dreams and romances, and dripping with emotion. She does not have a mean bone in her body. No wonder he singled her out in that dance. With Roderick acting up, she may be seriously rethinking her life’s choices.
At the dance, the Count showered me with compliments too, and yet never enough to put Harold on the alert. My word, was he planning to make a move on me too?
Shash says I am not to tell Harold. Naturally. Harold would never allow me to be used as bait. He would probably go straight to Cornwall himself and try to break down a door. I am not sure that would be the best idea.
We are taking the train tonight. Madeline too, but she will be travelling from London.
From the Diaries of Miss Madeline Bassett, December 19__
Snowfall
I leave behind
The locomotive waits
My! I shall sail on wheels and then
Sunshine
I am positively beaming. The Count sent me the loveliest of regards through a telegram today. He says he cannot wait for me to grace his mansion. I wonder who else he has invited. I know Stiffy and Harold are going, but I am truly curious. Will I be meeting aristocrats from other lands? Will there be another dance? Oh, it is a pity everything is so modern nowadays. My heart says there is still hope. After all, there are still gentlemen like the Count. Apparently, he knows a great many duchesses.
I have my suitcase packed. I hope I chose an elegant mix. I did indulge myself and bought that one Victorian gown. Stiffy will surely rib me about it, but I do look good in it. The proprietress at the boutique was thrilled when I twirled in it.
The one thing that I did not enjoy this bright morning was an uneasy feeling of being followed by a tall man in an overcoat. Or was it just my imagination? He seemed to be walking the exact roads that I walked. Thankfully, he passed me by just as I entered the apartment building. A thick moustache, too. Was it Roderick in disguise, trying to keep an eye on me? I would not put it past him. I could not get a clear look.
I am being silly. I have a train to catch, diary, and I shall talk to you again in the first-class carriage.
From the Diaries of Miss Alicia Johns, December 19__
We got on the train on the heels of Miss Bassett. I have never travelled in first class before. My compartment was adjacent to Miss Bassett’s. As twilight faded, the train made its departure. It was colder than usual. Mrs. Pinker and the Reverend would make their own way, on a later train, from Hockley-cum-Meston and we would reach Cornwall early in the morning.
I observed her. She was one of those fragile-looking aristocratic beauties. Her mannerisms on the platform seemed to suggest that she had never had to lift a suitcase in her entire life. She was a little fidgety and kept looking over her shoulder. I think Ian has to work on his shadowing skills. He is too tall and good-looking, and that moustache practically announces itself. Ian probably fancies himself an American cowboy or something. Is there a girl on the platform who hasn’t noticed him? The Chief says that one day Ian will take his spot. Do sharpshooters make Chiefs?
I was feeling hungry. Sir Shash walked into the compartment. He thrust a brown paper bag at me. Inside, I found three sandwiches.
‘Homemade. Agnes is good with sandwiches. I had one on the way here,’ he said with a half-smile.
‘I can’t have so many,’ I said.
Presently, Ian came in. He had a compartment of his own further down the corridor. I knew he wanted to chat a bit. He shook hands with Shash and offered him a cigarette. Shash shook his head and nodded at the paper bag. Ian looked inside and grabbed a sandwich. What a glutton! I shall have to tell him to watch his calorie intake one of these days. He is always eating. We can’t have him getting out of shape now.
Sir Shash went to Miss Bassett’s compartment.
‘This matter at hand, Miss Johns: how does it end? I mean, no one will really come forward, will they?’ asked Ian, halfway through the second sandwich.
I did not really have an answer. An attendant came to ask for supper orders.
From the Diaries of Miss Madeline Bassett, December 19__
Haunted
His eyes I see
A mask that never slips
Memories or the hollow hurt
Prayers
Diary, you would never guess what happened! I know the universe is always crafting its own tales. It is truly in winter that the magic seems to spill over, unconstrained by the usual boundaries between realms. I have bumped into Sir Shash and dined with him in the supper car. What are the odds that he should be on this train? I am so glad I met him just when I was most anxious about the tall man in the overcoat who has been following me all day. I told Shash all about him, and he told me not to worry. That was a relief. Shash isn’t like all the other fatheads from the Drones Club, and neither is Bertie. They are sweet all the time. I disagree with Honoria about her assessments of both.
That man with the moustache, he got on this train too, and he is in this very carriage. I got a clear look at him this time. Strangely, he is a handsome enough fellow, and he dined with a female companion in the car. Am I being too suspicious? I have no valuables on me, or at any rate nothing that would entice him to try to rob me. He does not look like a thief. Too much swagger, really. I suppose some women may even find him attractive. His companion was making eyes at him throughout supper. She is so pretty herself. Yes, perhaps I have been guilty of making too much of mere coincidence.
Shash and I chatted a great deal over supper. I told him about the invitation. I wondered if he would be scandalized. He wasn’t. Then again, why should he be? The world has changed. I have every right to socialize as I please. Our conversation drifted towards crime, perhaps because of my apprehensions today. Shash told me a scary story of an aristocrat who was arrested recently for the attempted kidnapping of children, and of another who supposedly preyed on innocent women but roams free, undetected by the law. I must have looked very worried, for he hastened to change the subject. I decided to turn the tables on him and teased him about his intention to get married. Poor fellow kept making awkward noises after that.
I suppose I could just turn in for the night. I know you wonder who that cinquain is for, diary. Never you mind, I shall keep some secrets from you too. I will write more once I reach the Count’s mansion in Portloe. I really hope I am right about the tall man in the overcoat.
Shash is just down the corridor. I can always call out to him.
From the Diaries of Stiffy Byng, December 19__
Harold is sleeping. He can always fall asleep quickly. I cannot sleep at all. Secrets have their own price. I am suddenly feeling quite apprehensive. I hope Madeline is not at any actual risk. I know I shall not have Harold by my side.
Why did I even agree to this foolish idea? We should be on a cosy rug in front of the fireplace back at the vicarage, sipping something soothing. Shash said the Count deserved to be in prison for a very long time. I am inclined to agree, but I am unable to fathom why the police cannot do something about this man. Surely there are ways of bringing scoundrels to justice that do not involve private citizens. I know I am equally to blame for accepting the idea and playing along. God, I hope I have done the right thing.
From the Diaries of Stiffy Byng, December 19__
We arrived at Truro later in the morning than expected. The train had an unexpected stop on the way, I suppose. I slept quite late, and it was Harold who woke me up and almost carried my sleepy self out of the carriage. The sun was already bright. The chill of London had been replaced by more tolerable weather, and the warm sun on my face felt good. Portloe was a little more than ten miles from Truro. There was a vehicle waiting for us: a Miravelle-Royale, no less. A gigantic, tanned-looking chauffeur, who introduced himself as Karl or some name like that, had come to pick us up and drive us to the Count’s mansion.
As we drove through the somewhat rocky landscape that makes up most of the Roseland Peninsula, the picturesque charm of it was something to behold. Soon we noticed a few whitewashed granite cottages with slate roofs, clinging tightly to the steep hillsides and looking down onto a pebbled beach littered with wooden crabbing boats. The water was blue-green. The air already smelled richly of salt water, wood smoke and the daily catch. The fishermen were busy at their work, and long rows of heavy hemp fishing nets lay carelessly about. I recalled reading somewhere about rumours of smuggling in the nineteenth century. I came to the conclusion that the place could evoke images of romance and adventure quite easily. Madeline would be delirious in a matter of hours.
The road was winding, and we finally saw the mansion on the cliff. It perched dramatically on the jagged, dark cliffs just east of Portloe harbour, cutting a striking silhouette against the raw Atlantic horizon. The chauffeur said that it had been built in the eighteenth century and had fallen into disrepair. It was the Count who had restored it to its glory. It looked large and impressive: all dark Cornish granite and killas stone and mullioned windows. The salty air had enlivened the walls with pale green lichen and deep ivy.
The Count himself stood at the gate. Smiling. With Madeline by his side. Her expression told me that she already was, as I suspected, in a daydream born of self-hypnosis. A small prayer escaped my lips.
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