* Suitable for Adult Readers Only
From the Diaries of Madeline Bassett, December 19__
I sit in my room in the Count’s mansion on the cliff at Portloe as I compose this entry. I have asked to skip breakfast and have an early lunch once Stiffy arrives with Harold. The Count had mentioned that their train was running late. He agreed to the idea of an early lunch and very politely suggested that I rest in my room for as long as I wished. He had fruit sent up by the housekeeper, another man, quite tall and gaunt. I wonder if he has any maids. Foreigners do have their own ways.
I have the most extraordinary view from my room. The window opens onto an ethereal view of the sea. The sea seems to have a blue-green tinge that I have never seen before. The weather is pleasant, and the air caresses my face. The breeze smells of joy and the prospect of new beginnings.
What a lovely welcome! The Count himself had arrived in his car to welcome me at Truro station. He had a big manservant with him. Karl, I think he was called. It was so early in the morning, and yet the Count had arrived impeccably attired, charming as ever. He does care!
Before I got off the train, I had wanted to say my goodbyes to Shash. I could not locate him in the carriage. Perhaps he had somewhere else to go. Come to think of it, I completely forgot to ask him where he had been journeying to. We spoke so much about different things, and I told him of my invitation to Portloe, and yet somehow, I missed asking about his destination. Oh well! He will understand.
The room that I am in is charmingly modern, in contrast to the rugged, salt-bleached exterior of the mansion. I am given to understand that every room has been refurbished with great care. There are many rooms here. The Count says he has eight bedrooms, for he often has distinguished guests. My room is large and has a magnificent bed piled high with silk duvets, and a wardrobe fit for a queen. There is an attached bath with a bathtub. I have already taken a long soak in it. This feels like a luxury hotel room somewhere on the Riviera. I feel great.
I wonder when the guests will start arriving for the New Year celebrations tomorrow. I had better go down now and have a conversation with the Count. I noticed a piano. Does he play? Perhaps he will give a performance at the party. He is an excellent dancer, as I have seen.
Dance O pixie prince
With grace enchant and enthrall
But sing sing for me
From the Diaries of Stiffy Byng, December 19__
Harold has been asleep for hours. I shook him twice and he did not so much as stir, and I do not think he even dreamed. I stayed beside him, because I did not know what else to do.
We had received a rousing welcome from the Count and a very excited Madeline. She hugged me and Harold several times. I know that the scenery and the mansion had already heightened her usual outbursts of enthusiasm.
Madeline has been out all afternoon, seeing Portloe on the Count’s arm. Given what Shash had told me, I was already feeling a trifle alarmed at the prospect of her being shown around by him. However, how exactly is one supposed to counter a perfectly gentlemanly offer? I have seen nothing remotely suspicious as yet, except that I have yet to encounter a maid. He did ask me to join them on the walk after Harold announced that he would prefer to take a nap. I had to decline, given that Harold looked unusually exhausted. I could see them from the window for a while, two small figures on the cliff path, and I do not think she has stopped talking since the gate.
Where are the other guests? The Count says bad weather elsewhere has been causing difficulties. The weather here is perfect. It is the kind of excuse one gives when one has not thought of a better one. However, I must admit that this is a perfectly lovely mansion, with modern interiors and comforts. Our room is beautiful. If he does anything sinister, he does it in style.
And what exactly am I supposed to do? Shash told me I was to be bait, and then forgot to say how one dangles oneself. I have been practising a somewhat coquettish smile in the mirror, and I find it suits me. I must try it on Harold. He would not be able to resist it for more than a few seconds.
Look at him sleep. He must have been exhausted. He did eat so much at lunch, and I don’t blame him. The food was delicious, and a few of the dishes I had never tried in my life. His cook is from some island nation, I am told. Well, whoever he is, he is wonderful. Anatole may have competition.
I notice a few cars coming up the drive. At last, I suppose, the guests. Four of them, perhaps five, and every one a man. Tall, well-coated and foreign-looking. Not one woman among them. I thought Madeline said he knew a great many duchesses.
Harold has to wake up now. He looks as if he is stirring.
From the Diaries of Madeline Bassett, December 19__
Oh, diary, what a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon! Supper is about to be served and I am just about ready. I have put on that Victorian gown that I purchased. It is rather fetching, and I dare say he is going to be so impressed, if he isn’t already. He was most interested in my poetry. We walked on the pebbled beach after tea and scones. Portloe is a beautiful town, though the people stare a bit. I suppose they were gossiping about the Count and me. I know the flutter it may cause.
I noticed that tall man again, the one who was on the train with a female companion. It seems they are newlyweds on their honeymoon. They are here in Portloe. I suppose this is as good a destination as any in the English winter. They actually bumped into us by accident. The Count was very graceful about the interruption and enquired about their names. I did not like how the tall man answered, though. He has a mocking sort of manner. One would expect jealousy only from the fairer sex, but perhaps men also get jealous of other men. Count Vesper is so handsome that it is natural to be envious. The woman, however, was very sweet. She had dark, short hair, a very pretty face and sparkling eyes. She said she had noticed me on the train and enquired after my health. I thanked her. They left soon after.
The Count told me that we were expecting a few guests early today. Now that we are back, with Karl having driven us, I notice four other gentlemen. All aristocrats, though it is a pity that they speak halting English. They are all so well mannered. They mentioned that they were very much looking forward to the evening.
Harold and Stiffy were in the living room when we came back. Harold looked a bit out of it. Stiffy mentioned that he had overslept, having been completely exhausted. She sounded very worried, but the Count assured us that he could have a doctor visit should Harold need it. What a gentleman!
Suddenly Stiffy said, ‘Count, are there any duchesses visiting? Madeline said you had many friends in the nobility, and we were both looking forward to meeting them.’
Then Harold added, ‘Would the sermon and school quizzes be tomorrow, Count? I only ask because I hope to be fully fit to discharge the duty you have so kindly entrusted to me.’
At this Stiffy made a face. Really, she sometimes needs to check her girlishness!
The Count reassured Harold almost immediately. ‘My dear Reverend, we shall all be most delighted to have you conduct your sessions. It is not often that the school has competitions and sermons of the nature we have organized for tomorrow afternoon. However, I shall put your health first. You look a little tired still. We have a wonderful doctor in our little community who never fails to respond to a medical emergency. Please do not worry. Perhaps we should give you a little pick-me-up. My cook, Nahzar, can create some fantastically potent mixtures. I shall have one with you.’
He warmly clasped Harold’s hand and began to introduce him to his friends.
Stiffy raised the most absurd questions. She suddenly said, ‘Count, I was exploring the house, as you said I could. You have built truly exquisite interiors. I am glad that none of the rooms were locked. It seems you have done up every room in a different theme. But then I noticed three cameras in one of the rooms. Could you tell me what they are for?’
‘My dear Mrs. Pinker,’ replied the Count, ‘I thank you for your most thoughtful compliments about the interiors of my humble mansion. Indeed, I have spared no expense. The building was in disarray when I bought it. I am a believer in traditions, madam, and in the preservation of heritage houses. I attended to the repair and refurbishment works with personal supervision. I am very proud of what we have accomplished here. My friends come from all over Europe. They too commend me on what I have done here. As for your question about the cameras, I must admit I am a trifle embarrassed. You have discovered my little secret.’
‘Secret?’ asked Stiffy. Was I imagining things, or was she sounding high-strung?
‘I am an amateur nature photographer. I also make moving pictures of the ocean and the views of Portloe in various seasons. Oh, the exquisite beauty I have recorded! That, however, is nothing compared to your graceful presence and that of Miss Bassett here. At the risk of sounding impertinent, I must confess I have rarely seen beauty and a sense of old-fashioned romance embodied in an individual quite like Miss Bassett. I am honoured to have you both here.’
I had to cut in here. ‘Count Vesper, you had promised me that you would call me Madeline.’
He smiled ever so gently and said, ‘You, madam, had promised to call me Silviu.’
What a gentleman!
From the Diaries of Stiffy Byng, December 19__
My hand is trembling. Get hold of yourself, Stiffy. What is happening here, woman? It is night. The air is colder. Supper is about to be served. A blazing fire has been lit in the dining hall.
I came upstairs saying I needed a change of clothes. I could swear that one of the guests looked at me the moment I said that. If looks could devour… this is not my fancy. A woman knows. What has Shash got me into? Where is he? Why has he not contacted me? Madeline mentioned that he was on the train with her. She was clueless about where he was headed. Is he somewhere nearby? I can only hope.
Harold is tottering about, talking to people who, I suspect, do not even speak the same language that he does. I saw Nahzar hand Harold something in a small glass, and Harold downed it with a flourish. Neither he nor Madeline noticed that Count Silviu Vesper did not answer the question I asked about female guests. He diverted attention away with his smarmy replies. I am beginning to fret. Silviu! I am not sure I have heard a name like that before. Where is he from?
Let me stay calm. I did explore every room, unafraid and unhurried. There was no suggestion of anything sinister. Every room is a work of art, with expensive and tasteful furnishings everywhere. I was fairly jolted by the cameras. I am not sure I believe his explanation. Nature photographer? A man like him? Then again, one never knows. Nobles do have their eccentricities.
I hope I am wrong, but what Shash said keeps playing on my mind. He mentioned a private journal. I was hoping to locate it but, naturally, I did not. As if such a thing would just be lying about anyway. A very tall, gaunt-looking man kept following me as I explored. He is one of the servants. He does not answer any questions. Perhaps he is mute. He never came close, just maintained a respectful distance and brought me water when I gestured for it.
Am I overthinking? Could Shash be completely wrong? What if today goes off smoothly, more guests arrive tomorrow as expected, Harold has his business with the school, and the day after we leave for London, happily?
I hope to write a happier entry later tonight, after supper.
From the Diaries of Stiffy Byng, December 19__
Harold is not well. Despite my warning him not to eat or drink too much, he did not listen. As I sit here and write just to calm my nerves, he is in the bathroom, throwing up. I tried going near him, but he waved me away and slammed the door. What can I do to help him? This whole idea has been a terrible one.
Nothing much happened during supper. It was all pleasant conversation. The Count mentioned that he was expecting more guests tomorrow. He apologised that he had failed to account for poor weather and train delays. The food was rich and tasty. I ate poorly because I kept feeling the stare of one of the Count’s friends throughout. Harold was in a chatty mood at the beginning of the meal, and then he grew quieter. He was probably feeling sick.
Madeline and the Count kept chatting incessantly, and it was then that I felt a little dizzy. It was a passing feeling. I made excuses for Harold and myself, and we came back up to our room. The Count was almost apologetic and briefly went to the kitchen. I am not sure it is the cook’s fault. Maybe it was something we ate on the train.
I feel odd suddenly. My head feels heavy.
Is someone knocking on the door loudly?
I…
From the Diaries of Madeline Bassett, December 19__
I went to check on Stiffy and Harold, but Stiffy would not open the door. I could hear Harold being sick. Poor man. Something he ate has made him completely ill. I asked the Count to call a doctor. He is seeing to it.
This is so tragic. I feel exhausted myself. Very drowsy and heavy-headed. I should lie down now. I think…
From the Diaries of Miss Alicia Johns, December 19__
Constantin’s lantern at the window at around 9.30 p.m. was our signal. Sir Shash, Andrew, Ian and I had been waiting patiently outside the estate. Constantin, our man in the Count’s mansion for the last several months, had telephoned at around 7.30 p.m. We knew supper was about to start. All these days, Constantin had waited patiently. He had pretended to be mute ever since he had entered Vesper’s employment.
Andrew had driven all the way from London to Cornwall. He had brought the guns that we could not carry on the train. He had also brought the black bag. I knew that it contained narcotics and that Shash had said the less I knew about its use, the cleaner my conscience would stay. Andrew had arrived a day earlier and had quietly arranged a meeting with Constantin in the village. Shash, Ian and I had met him very early today, after we got off at St Austell, where Andrew had been awaiting us.
We got into the estate through the main gate. It was unlocked. A gigantic, bronzed man saw us walking in and came towards us.
‘Hey, hold up! Who are you?’
Ian hit him in the face with the butt of the shotgun. He collapsed like a pile of badly arranged books in a library.
The mansion’s front door was locked. Ian pointed the double barrel at it and blew open the handle. I had expected pandemonium upon our entry. Instead, we saw an empty living room. A solitary man in chef’s whites ran towards us. Andrew pointed his shotgun at him, and he sank to his knees.
Sir Shash pointed the flintlock at his head. I was shocked.
‘Where?’ It was a growl, not a question.
The man began to cry and pointed upstairs, to a door.
Andrew cuffed the man’s wrist to the sofa and said, ‘You run, I will blow your head off.’
Sir Shash, Andrew and Ian ran upstairs. I have never carried a shotgun before. Well, there is a first time for everything. And I did work for Scotland Yard.
I heard a cry: ‘Stiffy! Stiffy!’ A door opened and I saw the Reverend Pinker stumble out. He saw me and came towards me like a charging bull.
‘Who are you?’ he said in a loud voice.
‘Police,’ I said.
He saw Sir Shash and said, ‘Shash! Shash! Is that you? Why do you have a gun?’
Shash said nothing. He gestured at Ian and Andrew. They nodded and kicked down a door. It was a bedroom. On the bed were Mrs. Pinker and Miss Bassett. They were drowsy and not in their senses, though they had not yet lost consciousness.
I saw the cameras, and five men with their coats off and their shirts half undone: two behind the cameras, two beside the Count, and the Count himself. They turned around in shock. One of them was the Count. He recognized me. Then he saw Ian.
Ian and Andrew hit the men behind the cameras with the ends of their shotguns. They fell screaming.
‘What? What? What is all this? Who are you?’ screamed the Count.
Sir Shash had his flintlock pointed at the Count’s face.
The two men standing next to him pushed past us in a sudden motion.
Sir Shash shouted, ‘Andrew, Ian, don’t let them leave. Alicia, please help Stiffy and Madeline out.’
I noticed the Reverend Pinker standing there, stupefied. He said, ‘What is going on, Shash?’
The Count was flushed. He was looking from side to side.
‘How dare you? How dare you? Who are you?’
I removed Miss Madeline and Mrs. Pinker one by one from the bed. The Reverend helped me. I said to him, ‘Please take them to the other room.’ He nodded.
I heard Sir Shash say, ‘Count Vesper, you are charged with the possession and distribution of narcotics. You are charged with the possession of inappropriate documents with the intention of blackmail. How do you plead?’
‘Narcotics? Plead? Me plead? Are you out of your mind, you savage? You threaten me, you impudent…’
Sir Shash shot him in the knee with the flintlock. I felt faint.
The Count rolled over, screaming in pain. I pointed the gun at the two men who were behind the cameras. They were trying to move. Presently, Ian returned, as did the Reverend Harold. Andrew was downstairs having cuffed the two friends of the Count who had tried to escape. I did not notice, until later, that he had also been to the cellar with the black bag.
‘Oh?’ Shash said, looking at the Count, ‘I am the savage? That may be. Maybe that is why they chose me to kill you. They chose me because I have done things you cannot imagine. Tonight, I will throw you from the roof of this mansion into the water below, after I have shot you. Your only hope is to hand over the book to me. Give it to me now. You have until the count of three. One, two…’
Shash paused and laughed.
The Count was now crying, and he pulled a key out of his trouser pocket and said, ‘In the piano, a compartment. Don’t kill me, please.’
I took the key. The book was where he said it would be. I opened it and shut it immediately. I could not bear to look at it.
I heard a siren. Constantin had returned with four local constables, as the Chief had instructed. His first words in months were, ‘Sergeant, these men are under arrest.’ I thought it a very good use of a voice.
The savages were taken away in the cars, the Count on a stretcher, still demanding his solicitor. I carried the book out myself, wrapped in a tablecloth, and did not open it again. It will go to the Chief and to no one else. The local policemen were marvelling at the quantity of narcotics found. I said nothing. It was not a lie I had told, only one I had not stopped. I knew that the right people from Scotland Yard would be here in the morning.
The Chief had told me that if we recovered the book, there was not a judge in the country who would let the Count out of jail.
From the Diaries of Madeline Bassett, December 19__
Winter
The stars looked on
And said nothing at all
I wonder what they knew and why
They hid.
I am writing this on the train, diary, with my cheek against a very cold window and my head still aching from whatever it was that disagreed with me at supper. I am told it was the cook’s mixtures. I am told a great many things. The Count has been arrested. Harold explained it to me. He said that the Count dealt in narcotics, that the police had been watching him for months, and that I was very fortunate not to have taken a greater dose. I am sure he is right. I find I cannot be angry. The Count was so gallant. He listened to my poetry. Is it possible to be a villain and to have listened to poetry? I suppose it must be. You learn something new every day.
The honeymoon couple turned out not to be newlyweds at all, but Scotland Yard. The tall man with the moustache carried my suitcase. He has a mocking manner, but he is very strong. I think I shall telephone Roderick when we reach London. He left that ballroom without a word, and I called him jealous. I must make it up to him.
Fields slide past the glass,
Oh the meadows accuse me,
And I forgive them.
From the Diaries of Stiffy Byng, December 19__
Harold is sitting beside me. He keeps frowning, and his fists are clenched on the blanket. I have been watching him for an hour. He thinks I do not know. He told me the story very gently, the way one speaks to a child who has had a fright: the Count was a drug dealer, the cook’s mixtures had disagreed with us, the police had been watching the house for months. I said, ‘How awful,’ and ‘Poor Madeline,’ and ‘I had no idea.’ It was the finest performance of my life, and it was for the one audience I never wanted to act in front of.
He saw something in that house. I do not know how much, and I shall never ask. He came out of that room with a face I have not seen on him before, and he has been holding my hand ever since, as though I might blow away.
I let them dangle me like a worm on a hook, and I did not tell my husband, and I called it bravery. Shash hung his head as he approached me on the platform. He said, ‘I am sorry. I am sorry.’ I saw his eyes, and I know he meant it. I know it wasn’t entirely his idea. And I know what he has done for people who will never know about it. I worked with him once before, too, in the Spring Heeled Jack case. No one ever knew that either. I think I am done with Scotland Yard.
From the Diaries of Miss Alicia Johns, December 19__
Ian and Andrew have stayed behind to tie up the loose ends, and I am on the morning train with nothing to do but watch. Sir Shash is sitting at the end of the carriage, reading Memories of Masai Mara. He has been on the same page for some time. I know, because I have been watching him not turn it.
The Reverend Pinker walked up to him. They spoke in whispers, and I could not hear a word. Then they shook hands, and the Reverend held on a little longer than was necessary. He went back to Mrs. Pinker and was asleep within minutes, with his head on her shoulder. Those two will need their rest.
Shash has dozed off now too, the book open on his knee. I went and sat beside him and, without thinking, I opened it. I have kept the Chief’s files for two years, and I have never been able to leave a page unread.
There were two messages inside.
The first was an autograph. I knew the hand. I used to copy it in school.
To Shash, Laugh, Live, Forget. Darrell Rivers.
The second was in a hand I did not know, quick and generous:
Shash, I got her autograph just like you asked. Bertie and I went to her school in Africa. She remembered you and smiled as she signed this. She is an explorer at heart, and I am not sure even Africa is big enough to hold her. Love, Bobbie
At Exeter, a porter ran along the platform with a telegram for Miss Johns. I had sent the Chief three lines from the village last night: BOOK RECOVERED. COUNT IN CUSTODY. NO ONE NEED COME FORWARD. This was his reply:
THE CARD IS IN THE FIRE. WELL DONE. L.
I like to think his hand was steady when he dictated it.
I folded the telegram and put it in my pocket. Sir Shash had not stirred, or so I thought.
‘Agnes is making plum cake on Sunday, Alicia,’ he said, without opening his eyes. ‘You must come.’
‘I shall,’ I said.
I wondered once why exactly I had visited him. The Chief had wanted me to. Now I think I shall go back because I have a friend who treats me to plum cake.
THE END
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