Christopher Fowler - Personal Demons

Mr Satardoo checked his watch and dismissed the ranks, but kept Mr Mack behind. 'I fear,' he intimated, 'we shall not be spared the distressing dilemma presented by the Crown Prince of Jhada's recent stay. The Archduke is renowned for harbouring similar proclivities.'

Mr Mack nodded sagely. While it was perfectly usual for royalty to arrive with a small army of personal staff, the Crown Prince had appeared with two dozen of his favourite concubines, giving rise to all manner of problems in protocol. 'I daresay we can solve the problem,' he replied, 'without having to resort to such drastic tactics as before. The Archduke is a man of greater sensitivities.'

'We shall have to see.' Mr Satardoo gave a grim little shake of his head, as if expecting the very worst. 'We shall have to see.' His eagle eye alighted upon the faintest smear of brass polish beneath the dolphin-handle of one of the entrance doors, and he set off with great relish on a mission to box the culprit's ears.

Malcolm Bridget did not come from an old-money family. He was not a knight or a lord or even well-connected, but the Imperial Rex had agreed to rent him a room. True it was one of the smaller chambers to the rear of the building, but it was a room nevertheless, and you could even glimpse the sea by leaning perilously from the bathroom window. Forsaking his former career as a tabloid journalist, Malcolm was now a biographer of international renown, and something about him had appealed to General Sullivan, whose snobbery was only surpassed by his admiration for biographers (it was no secret that the general hoped to persuade someone to transcribe his own history). And so here he was, seated in one of the great plush velvet armchairs in the Disraeli Lounge making surreptitious notes as the Archduke arrived.

First two liveried footmen in ash wigs and gilt epaulettes entered the lobby. They were followed by two young valets and a senior servant dressed in midnight blue. After this arrived a secretary who acted as the Archduke's liaison with the hotel staff. Mr Satardoo, Mr Mack and Mrs Opie headed the welcoming committee which stood to attention in two smart rows flanking the great staircase. The Archduke himself was as tall and frail as a bamboo pole. His white goatee thrust from his bony chin like a spurt of gun smoke, and matched the pale plume of his tricorn hat. He walked with the careful delicacy of a flamingo, an ascetic figure who whispered to his secretary as if he could hardly bring himself to discourse with the outside world. He wore presentation battledress of black and gold, for he had travelled here directly from an inspection of his troops.

Behind him, bearing all the earmarks of discretion that the Crown Prince of Jhada's concubines had lacked, were two demure women in the late bloom of their youth, dressed in matching bonnets and reticulated gowns of deep grey silk. Malcolm noted everything he saw, and was so adept at committing pen to paper that none saw him write. He knew that the Archduke's story was a sad one; he had seen one son shot dead and another blown to pieces in a terrible battle, and within two months had lost his wife during a plague that reached far within the walls of his palace, so far that he himself had only survived by sacrificing his right arm and replacing the appendage with a limb of gleaming steel.

He was ashamed of outliving his children, and of receiving his only injury from an illness instead of a war. He was disappointed by power and tired of the lies of men. So what on earth, wondered Malcolm, brought him here?

As the ladies of the Archduke rustled past and the entourage passed on to the staircase, spreading across it in a rising river, the biographer recapped his pen and sat back among the downy purple cushions, pondering the question. Fernandel Aracino's visit was just part of the puzzle. There was a sense of mystery here, of omission and discretion. The Imperial Rex withheld its true purpose from casual gaze. It went without saying that Mr Satardoo refused to allow him to interview the guests, but he could not even be shown inside any of the suites, and bribing a chambermaid had brought an indignant Mr Mack to his door.

There was something going on in this sunbeam-trellised hotel, this haven of calm and peaceful repose, that earned it a hushed reverence from outsiders. Mention of the hotel's name was enough to create a gap in the conversation, as if a talisman had been evoked. That evening, Malcolm spotted Mr Satardoo in the supper lounge and seized the opportunity to speak with him.

'Ah, Mr Bridget, I trust you do not find the nocturnal ozone too piquant?' he asked, referring, Malcolm assumed, to the fresh wind emanating from the open French windows that led on to the cliffs.

'Not at all, Mr Satardoo.' He seated himself opposite the plump Indian under-manager, who made a little rising gesture to acknowledge his guest. 'I've been meaning to ask you something.'

'Please feel most free to do so.' Mr Satardoo's corsets creaked like sea timbers as he leaned forward in his seat.

'Has no-one ever offered to write a history of this marvellous hotel?'

'The board of directors would, I feel, be less than willing to draw unnecessary attention to our little haven.'

'But many of your rooms are empty. Some good publicity would fill them.'

'Goodness, this hotel was not built simply to turn a profit,' said Mr Satardoo, shocked. 'It was constructed with the purpose of providing an oasis of tranquillity in a world that I fear is tipping into insanity.'

'I appreciate that, but perhaps a discreet brochure, with some tasteful photographs…'

'General Sullivan has indeed spoken of commissioning such a prospectus in the past,' sighed the under-manager, 'but the problem has always lain with authorial suitability.'

'You mean you haven't been able to find someone who could write such a thing to your satisfaction?'

'In a nutshell.'

'Then you need look no further,' said Malcolm. 'I'm your man.'.

Mr Satardoo stared at him for a moment, then emitted an eager squeak. Clearly he saw an opportunity to ingratiate himself with his superior. 'I'll attempt to initiate the introduction of such a proposal into my next conversation with the general,' he informed the biographer with unconcealed delight, 'I am most certain of success.'

He was as good as his word. In the space of an interview that lasted for exactly ten minutes, no more or less, General Sullivan approved Malcolm's appointment on the project, agreed a handsome fee, and instructed Mr Satardoo to provide him with all the information he might require for such a task, with one proviso; that he would not be allowed to interview any of the guests who were staying in the forty-seven special suites, for their privacy was sacrosanct. This seemed reasonable, and Malcolm embarked upon the project with enthusiasm. Truth to tell, although he was enjoying his stay at the Imperial Rex immensely, inactivity made him fractious and caused his mind to dwell on certain morbid preoccupations. He missed his wife, who had divorced him almost a year ago, and had grown increasingly dissatisfied with the world around him, a world that provided poor recompense for his occupation and even less spiritual comfort.

The morning after the general had given his consent to the commission, Malcolm rose early and took breakfast outside on the broad white curve of the first-floor balcony, high above the shimmering green sea. Running his hand lightly over his thinning chestnut hair, he rose as the sedate ladies of the Archduke picked a path between the tables and took their places with the regular guests. Theirs was a gesture of respect to the hotel; the Archduke could have allowed his concubines to remain in the suite with him while he broke fast, but, choosing not to draw attention to their status, sent them instead to observe normal mealtimes in the correct fashion. Malcolm smiled at the stern bodices and severe skirts that gave no hint of the fleshly passions laced within. Mr Satardoo had no need to be alarmed; the Archduke was clearly a gentleman given to the employment of tact and delicacy. He was one more part of a rich dramatic tapestry being daily woven throughout the hotel, both on its public stages and behind the scenes. It seemed a shame that part of the tapestry would remain permanently hidden from the biographer's view.