Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

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.”