Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

Although I had not given the matter any thought, I nodded.

“Yes, if you don’t mind telling me.”

He laughed, his former reticence now replaced by a kind of senile gaiety. “Bless you I don’t mind at all, sir. I’m eighty-five. Coming up to eighty-six. Her ladyship was thirty-two when I was born. In this very house.”

“You don’t look it,” I said with all sincerity. “I would have placed you in the early seventies.”

The compliment (if such it was) pleased him and he expanded, began to regard me with an expression that suggested growing approval. Presently he leaned forward and asked in a harsh whisper:

“Would you like to have a little peep at her ladyship?”

I nodded vigorously. “I would indeed. Will . . . will it be all right?”

“So long as we’re quiet. Time for me to look in on her anyway. But it’s not one of her good days. I could tell that this morning. Not a movement – not so much as an eye flicker.”

Jenkins got up and together we went back into the hall, then up the great staircase and on to the landing. He stopped at the first door, the one facing the stairs, and tapped gently on the top left panel. He looked back over one shoulder.

“She can’t hear of course, but I couldn’t enter her room without first knocking. It wouldn’t be respectful.”

He had worn a deep groove in his life that made certain his route to the grave was straight and narrow. After placing a slightly tremulous forefinger to his lips, he opened the door and preceded me into the room beyond. The smell was stomach heaving. The sweet, cloying stench of body decay. It was well established as though the walls, items of furniture had become deeply impregnated, before being heated up by the coal fire that spluttered and roared from an ornate iron grate. Jenkins handed me a large red handkerchief and whispered:

“Keep that pressed to your nose, sir. You’ll become acclimatized to the smell after a bit.”

I greatly doubted if that were possible, but curiosity made me advance a few steps further into the room, for there was a distinct feeling I had slipped back in time and was now in an ill-smelling pocket of history that must be explored even if I choked in the process. I gave the room a quick glance. A large fourposter bed that rightfully belonged to a museum; ancient padded chairs with faded brocade covering; shelves that hid two walls, packed with books – and any number of bound manuscripts. The bed was neatly made – and empty. My head jerked from left to right, my eyes seeking that which my brain did not wish to see.

A chaise-longue was situated in front of the fire with its raised back towards us, concealing whosoever or whatever it supported. Jenkins tiptoed across the room and peered downwards, a gentle smile transforming his face into that of a benign male nurse. His loud whisper drew me reluctantly forward.

“As I thought, sir, she’s asleep. You can come and have a little peep, but quietly if you’d be so kind.”

I imitated his tiptoe approach, feeling like a frightened child who is trying not to awake a sleeping cobra. I kept my eyes firmly riveted on Jenkins and did not look down until I had all but bumped into him. All that remained of Caroline Fortescue was dreadful. A tiny skeleton covered with wrinkled, grey skin. At least that was the first impression. Later when I had found the courage to examine her more thoroughly I realized that ingrained dirt was responsible for the greyish hue and the skin resembled crumpled parchment that had been draped over the bones by a careless taxidermist. There must have been a veneer of flesh beneath, but one had to accept such a supposition on trust.

A few white hairs clung to an obscenely gleaming skull, a few more sprouted from the sunken chin; dark eyes were half covered by lids that appeared to have lost the ability to open or close. The hands were hideous claws, the backs ridged by black swollen veins. I could not detect the slightest sign of life. She was attired in a rusty black gown that covered her from neck to ankles, while her feet were encased in grey woollen stockings.

When I was in a condition to speak I whispered: “Do you have to attend to all of her needs? Feeding, toilet requirements . . .? You know what I mean.”

He sighed gently. “As much as possible. Her intake is very small. A little warm milk laced with glucose. Poured slowly from a feeding cup. There’s little discharge. Moving her is a very delicate business.”

I had to ask the question. “Wouldn’t she be better off dead? That . . . that is nothing more than a slowly rotting corpse.”

Jenkins slowly turned his head and I stared into eyes that glittered with sullen, old man’s rage. His harsh voice seared my brain.

“How dare you suggest such a thing, sir? Her ladyship is very much alive – possibly more than you or I. There may be a slow decay, but it has been going on for a very long time. On her good days she’s lively enough. That she is.”

A wave of excitement drove the repulsion, the body-numbing horror into temporary retirement – and I gasped:

“You mean that . . . she can hold an intelligent conversation?”

“When she so wishes. So mind your tongue, sir, and be respectful when you talk of her ladyship.” His anger went as quickly as it had come and he once again became the model servant, the solicitous nurse, displaying a kind of coy tenderness that was slightly nauseating. He addressed the bundle of skin-wrapped bones.

“I will come back, my lady, in about an hour. In time to serve dinner. Just finish your little snooze.”

Having delivered this final instruction he again laid a finger on his lips, then began to tiptoe back towards the door, while I followed with my normal flat-footed steps. I could see no reason for these elaborate anti-noise precautions; it was doubtful if the explosion of a ten ton bomb would awaken Caroline Fortescue before she was ready. Always supposing she ever woke at all.

We returned to Jenkins’s room, where I ventured to make a request that I had no reason to suppose would be granted.

“Would it be possible for me to stay here for a few days?”

Jenkins screwed up his face into an expression of deep concentration, before nodding slowly.

“I cannot believe her ladyship would object, sir. After all you have given your word not to reveal anything you see or hear during her lifetime. And to be frank, I will not be sorry to have some company. Lately I’ve got into the habit of talking to myself: and that’s a bad sign.”

I hastened to express gratitude. “That’s very kind of you and I promise not to be a nuisance in any way. And of course, I’m quite willing to pay . . .”

He raised an admonishing forefinger. “That’s out of the question, sir. You are her ladyship’s guest. I will open up one of the smaller rooms and do my best to make you comfortable. If you would care to sit with her ladyship for a few hours, I will be grateful.”

That was the entire purpose of the exercise, although how long I could stand that infernal stench was a matter for conjecture.

Jenkins insisted I share his dinner and I must say he did himself well. Roast lamb, succulent baked potatoes and Brussels sprouts, followed by an excellent college pudding. We also shared a bottle of excellent claret, a smooth gentle vintage that sent a golden glow coursing through my veins and enabled me to view the grim prospect of spending several hours in that stinking room with something akin to equanimity. Jenkins did not stop talking for the entire of the meal, his brain releasing little snippets of information, the importance of which did not register until long afterwards.

“A sheltered life,” he said, sipping from his glass. “Never went out into the world. Private tutors, a select circle of friends that was never enlarged. As each one died, no one came to replace them. His old lordship was the same. Content to vegetate here and between them they invented a wonderful country where all problems could be solved by arranging words in a certain way. By the time she was a grown woman, she could no more face the real world, than pigs can fly. Do you follow me, sir?”