Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

I passed the ruined lodge and entered a land where poets commune with long forgotten gods and lovely dark-eyed nymphs ride in on the night wind. Not a leaf stirred, although the grass rippled beneath my feet: the total silence suggested it might be masking a phantasmagoria of subtle sounds that would be meaningless to anyone not versed in their tonality. Presently the drive emerged into a vast semi-circular space that lay before a large, grey-stoned house.

Two storeys high. Twin rows of deep set mullioned windows. A flight of steps leading up to a double, weather-stained oak, iron-studded door. A tapering steeple reared up from imitation turrets on either side. The windows did not – or so it seemed – reflect the sunlight: the house – or so it seemed – did not cast a shadow. A familiar house – yet so strange and sinister.

I ascended the steps and entered a large, marble columned portico, then rapped on one door, there being so far as I could see, neither knocker, bell-pull nor exterior handle. Almost at once the left door opened and a tall, lean old man with a sad, lined face bowed his white head and asked:

“How can I help you, sir?”

I said – words flowing from my tongue in an unruly stream:

“I am looking for Caroline Fortescue . . . the Caroline Fortescue . . . who I believe is Lady Bramfield. Will you kindly ask Lady Bramfield if she will receive me?”

The deep-set, dark eyes, glittered and after an interval the strangely husky voice manufactured a reply.

“It is to be regretted, sir, that her ladyship cannot entertain visitors. She is well advanced in years, you understand. Beyond the frontiers of normal human existence.”

“So I have been given to understand. Around one hundred and seventeen.”

Even then I was prepared for an emphatic denial, but the old man merely bowed his head and said: “We are all as old as time permits, sir. But age consumes – burns up the essential essence. It is to be hoped you have not travelled far.”

I was being given the polite brush-off, but I had to get into that house and come face to face with the incredible. Bribery was out of the question, but a veiled threat might be an answer.

“You discharged a maid – a woman who told my editor an astounding story. If it is true she will be paid not to disclose the whereabouts of this house to anyone. Always supposing I get exclusive rights for publication. But if she is allowed to approach the popular press . . .” I shrugged my shoulders. “Half of Fleet Street will be pounding on this door and screaming their questions to high heaven.”

The frail mask of imperturbability trembled and I caught a brief glimpse of naked fear.

“We have nothing to hide. That women – creature – was an inveterate liar.”

“Then you deny that Lady Bramfield is Caroline Fortescue?”

The man was incapable of telling a direct lie; could only give an evasive answer that was more revealing than a straightforward admission.

“I can only repeat, sir – this is the home of Lady Bramfield.”

God forgive me for I told a deliberate lie; made a promise that I had no means – or intention – of keeping.

“If you will let me in, let me interview Caroline Fortescue, I will make certain that the story is not published while she lives.”

He shook his head several times, then reluctantly retreated a few steps, a move that I interpreted as an invitation to enter. The hall looked like something from a horror film; age darkened panelling lined the walls, the high windows were so covered with grime and cobwebs, the few items of furniture – an oak settle, two or three massive armchairs and a large credence table – could barely be seen through the ensuing gloom. A wide staircase curved its way up to a landing that surrounded the hall on three sides, part of which had most probably once served as a musicians’ gallery.

The old man led me past the staircase and through a doorway situated in the far right hand corner and into a room that was an oasis in that place of dust, neglect and gloom. It was comfortably, even luxuriously furnished; fitted carpet, a settee that looked as if it might be transformed into a spacious bed, deep armchairs and a drop leaf table, not to mention several gilt framed paintings that hung on plush-wallpaper covered walls.

The old man lowered himself into a chair and after motioning me to one opposite, emitted a deep sigh. “We have retreated over the years. Closed up most of the house and concentrated our forces into three rooms. This one, the kitchen and her ladyship’s bedroom. Not counting the bathroom of course. I was trained to keep clean. But her ladyship had not bathed for sometime. There are many intimate duties that I am called upon to perform, but . . . That is why I engaged that woman.” He again shook his head. “A serious mistake. But it never occurred to me that – that creature would pry into her ladyship’s private papers.”

“Integrity is dead,” I murmured.

“You may well say so, sir.”

I edged my chair forward. “You are Mr Jenkins?”

“Just Jenkins, sir. Only the lower servants called me Mr Jenkins in the old days. And then only when I was elevated to the post of butler. Even my late wife called me Jenkins for the entire of our married life. No disrespect was intended, in fact you might say it was a kind of title. When her ladyship was young – or younger than she is now, – she used to say: Jenkins, you’re one of nature’s noblemen. “‘He chuckled, a low rasping sound that threatened to disintegrate into a cough. “She liked her little joke.”

He lapsed into a thoughtful silence and I waited patiently for the floodgates of memory to open. I tried to imagine what it was like living in this great barn of a house, with no one to talk to, but that old-old woman – and shuddered. Presently that harsh, cultivated voice spoke again.

“I did not know she was Caroline Fortescue until after his old lordship died. Her father you understand. In the Bramfield family, when there is no heir, the title descends through the female line. Her ladyship never married. Perhaps no man could possibly measure up to those heroes she invented. After long and deep reflection I think that was more than possible. She was a great writer, wasn’t she, sir?”

“Almost if not quite,” I answered as truthfully as I could.

“Most of the critics thought so. Did you know that some thought she was a man? True. The trouble she went to making certain no one found out who Caroline Fortescue really was. Used to ride ten miles once a week to Tuppleton to collect correspondence from her publishers and such like.”

“Did her publishers know?” I enquired.

He shook his head. “No, sir. She used another name for her correspondence. Cookham, I believe it was. It was part of her agreement with them that no one would ever try to find out her true identity.”

“But why the secrecy? Most women would revel in being a world-famous authoress.”

Jenkins actually grinned. Bared his discoloured teeth and crinkled his face into an almost impish grin.

“Why indeed, sir. I think it was this way. She wanted to share her make believe world, but she didn’t want it invaded. I’m no hand in expressing myself and that’s the best way I can describe it. For her writing a novel was a very personal business, for imagination will only go so far and she had to put a lot of herself into it. Sometimes all of herself – if you follow me. Her ladyship was every man, woman and child who walked through those dozen books.”

“The soul bared and sent forth into the world, sliced and packed?” I suggested.

“Nicely put, sir, although I’m not all that sure what it means. But I know there’s a question you’re dying to ask. How old am I? Am I right?”