Prologue
Before the letter...
Falling like an arrow, a ray of the sun intercepted my concerned glance. I was tired. The gun that my host had forced me to accept, weighed heavily against my chest and I was aware of its uselessness.
He was happy that didn't brag too much about my capacity to use it. Outside of a pigeon that happened to get too close to my sights and consequently a belly full of lead, I had never bagged an important possession with my gun-fire.
I looked over the mass of ruins that appeared to emerge from the earth after an earthquake. The reflection of light on the broken stones was curious and compelling at the same time.
New Forest was immense and deserted during these November days which appeared to hover in silence like the aurora of light that surrender the sector. Tim was an area for legends and there were many that had already been circulated many nights before.
It felt strange to find myself alone. My gaze was fastened to a wall, blackened by the wash of the rain which had often flooded the region. If there had not been a downward flow from the valley, the land would have resembled a true swampland.
I glanced at a ruin and although it was badly pummeled, I readily saw that many years ago people of state had lived there. But when?
The mysterious death of William the Redhead in 1100 came to mind. A death that history never uncovered teased my subtle thoughts.
The total aspect of the land would never lead one to believe that such a glorious past existed at one time. It was now hunting ground with much wooded area enhousing wild ponies and varied fowls. The sudden grave voice of Tom Godfrey released me from my dreaming. "Hello, there... I have been looking for you." I heard his heavy footsteps cracking the twigs in his path.
Before turning, I let my contemplation linger for the last few seconds that it may have its liberty. Then I slowly faced him without too much concern.
He had bagged a rabbit, which was a rare item in this particular region. The blood was fresh and flowing down from one of its broken paws.
He pointed with his pipe at the ruins. He signaled out a spot which was to the right of the horizon.
"That's Death Mansion, over there."
The name made me shiver in spite of my dreamlike condition.
I noticed that the smiling face of Tom Godfrey was unusually in fine shape and that he was quite tan. The sun was going down and the ruins took on another aspect. They became common and swallowed up in the weeds and dust that invaded them.
"It's strange that a castle should be named so dreadfully."
Tom Godfrey tried to catch eye and when he did he just hunched his shoulders.
"Yes it is an odd name."
I looked quickly at the ruins in order to take them all in before the sun should cast its last ray. I turned to my friend and said.
"No doubt a result of one of those somber dramas of the middle ages which lent its name to the mansion after one of its proprietors disappeared." My friend nodded his head.
"That is why it's called "Death Mansion" strangely enough. Something on that order to happen according to certain historians who have explored the ruin."
I wanted to go into the whole story right from the beginning but Tom grabbed me by the arm and led me away. I thought he was going to crush my theories and notions, but on the contrary he seemed to add to the intrigue.
"Come here. I want to show you something. You can see it better from here." He seemed to take a great deal of pride in showing the castle off to its best advantage. He continued to amuse me by relating a little of its history.
"It didn't happen to belong to the Tudor or Saxe Cobourg family, or even to the House of Orange, as many people would have you believe. It was the home of Lord Redgrave and his wife... who was commonly referred to as Milady... " I must admit that the story was catching my interest. Tom kept his pipe busy by pointing out a circular pavilion which was highlighted by some colorful shrubbery surrounding it. "Do you happen to know what "exclusivity" is, Sam Grant?" He didn't wait for an answer and I saw that he was becoming quite serious.
"It is quite possible for an individual to attach himself to one unique passion until that passion becomes so strong that it eventually eats you up with its fury." His eyes shone as I had never before imagined that they could. He was almost possessed.
"Parry Redgrave came to this point for having loved Milady too much." There was a silence that caught into the air. Godfrey brought me back from the middle ages by proclaiming: "Ah, there's our buggy now."
I felt awkward. My friend knew something that interested me and I wanted to find out. Was he going to let me suspend in space like that? Maybe he wasn't sure whether he could confide in me just yet?
I followed him. We climbed into the model T Ford which was marvelously practical for the brush and hilly region of New Forest.
As we were driving, I glanced at Tom Godfrey in an attempt to catch his thoughts. He appeared to be thinking, and I was sure that it had something to do with the ruins and Redgrave.
We turned a curve and I was able to see an ancient tower with its jaggedness and its shabby grey. Then all at once everything disappeared and I fixed my eyes on the route with its twists and small drops between a narrow read lane.
After twelve miles or so, we finally reached the main road that was going to lead us to Tomas Godfrey's weekend pavilion. Without looking at me, he broke the silence by engaging in the topic that we had so abruptly broken off. I heard him say with a light in his small plucky eyes: "A real love story. Beautiful hut horrible... And when I think of it...
"Please tell me about it." I purposely inveigled him into that position where the man with the deepest secret is want to let it out. He managed to light his pipe while driving altering hands on the steering wheel. It was going to come out finally.
"You're right. One ought to never keep a secret alone. And yet it is unwise to give it freely to the first one who comes along."
I didn't understand. Was he regretting having spoken so much?
"It was a fire that destroyed "Death Mansion" he said suddenly. He was quite calm and he conducted the old auto without any difficulty.
"Neither Redgrave nor his wife were found. You see, it's a great mystery."
"And your story is becoming all the more mysterious, my dear chap. You're talking in circles and you've got me in a terrible quandary. I must confess that I only understand the half of it."
"Evidently, you can't understand if I only tell a small portion about it."
He permitted himself to subside from his serious mood and find some laughter. His laugh annoyed me and I turned my head to look at the countryside which was growing arid and bleak over a large stretch.
Soon, we came to a clearing and I was able to distinguish thatched roofs and the green valleys that sloped toward the south.
"If I understand at all, I would say that the story is one of those old intrigues which go down in legend."
"Old? Why that? You mean, because these ruins seem to go back to an exclusive date in history? Not at all, my friend. This is a recent affair and not more than 15 years away. It must have been about 1935 or later."
"Really?"
He really astonished me and I was beginning to understand less by the minute.
Tom Godfrey wanted to be precise but I didn't know whether it was the difficulty of maneuvering the old model T or just his apprehension. He slowly aimed the car up a minor incline.
"I've been a neighbor of "Death Mansion" for some thirty years. You can well imagine that I am "au courant" of what has happened there."
He didn't explain anything new. I was well aware of the fact that he lived in these sectors for many years. Tom smiled as he changed gears from second to low.
"This little piece of property was handed down to me by family over fifty years ago. I was predestined to know of the place. In fact, I was here when the fire destroyed everything. I was a witness at the inquest."
"I think I remember when the papers spoke of it. But I never knew of Lord Redgrave at all. At any rate at the time I was quite busy with, other business to deal with the hazy puzzle of the chateau."
"Yes, of course. But as for myself, I live here. It would only be normal for me to show an interest in the strange event."
I knew that Godfrey was an amateur of art and that the castle was an artist's joy. Beside Tom Godfrey was the owner of an art gallery on Regent Street in London. I'm sure he had some dealings with the mansion. But this did not give me the key to the story.
"Listen to me carefully," he was quite serious. "We are both men of honor and your influence as an editor certainly will have an effect on your judgement. I'm sure you know what I mean."
I confess that I vaguely knew what he was driving at.
"The affair is now public property. The Redgraves had no inheritors or possible friend who might take things in hand. Nothing linked them with the; radical side of the issue."
"Alright. Where do you want to go, with all this?"
"I'll tell you. The story of Parry Redgrave could have a certain value for the general public. People who are paid to know and have an eye for a sensational story might be interested. Yon understand me, of course?"
I knit my eyebrows. Tom Godfrey relit his pipe and packed down the tobacco. He glanced at me with the same expression that he had just bore a minute ago. All the cards were in his hand. He had intrigued me no end and now his heavy face was puckered up under his vast moustache in a contemplative smile.
"Perhaps we can clear all this up and get down to the story when we light a nice fire in our cozy nook. You'll be able to judge for yourself what can be done with it."
We came to the hunting lodge a quarter of an hour later. It was a strong stone construction with wooded balconies. The home was designed in the Sussex style with an interior court giving the impression of seclusion and peace.
While Tom was busy preparing the rabbit that we were going to have for dinner, I took the liberty of thumbing through his library. His library was splendidly arranged in the good taste of the Victorian period. His books were finely bound and there were a great deal of them pressed cover to cover. Godfrey was a dabbler who treasured a good-sized library.
My host came into the salon with two scotches and this was sufficient enough to draw me away from the sumptuous corner of the Godfrey library. Like the lodge itself, the whiskies, were amply dosed. The warm fire that generated from the chimney of Sheraton, for that was the name of the place, helped the color of the room and gave it a joyous reflection.
I hesitated to take a book from the library and settled for my Johnny Walker. I shook my glass to get the ice to cool the sides and then met the amused look of my teasing host.
He suddenly said: 'You didn't get a chance to look at some of the books I have, did you? Particularly the red volumes which are attributed to the words written by so-called madmen. Perhaps you have heard of Philomineste Jr.?"
I had heard of him. After all, it was my profession to know of all kinds of authors, even the more obscure ones. I knew that Tom Godfrey war a man who preferred the off-shots of literature and who made a special hobby of collecting strange prints.
I left my scotch and went to the library to choose a book. One of them particularly drew my attention. It was entitled "The Fanfare".
"Curious this one. This was edited by Farleys and Sons and pertains to the "scatological" library. The cover is Moroccan as far as I can judge.
"That's right. It isn't any stranger than the rest of my books."
He wiped his hands on the apron he was wearing (after all he was in the middle of preparing the dinner and he could be excused for his appearance) and approached his collection of rare books. "Take a look at this one. I think you find it a little more curious than the others."
I took a look at the binding. This is the usual approach with those who know how to judge a book. The cover the binding and the general presentation are the prime considerations directly after the contents. I began to finger the livre.
It was well made. The paper was durable and shiny and the writing was clear. It was a manuscript which had never seen the printing stage but nevertheless was treasured like a fine example of high art.
"Well, a manuscript?" I said smiling. Tom took the book from my hands and fingered the index.
"Exactly, a manuscript One that was written over a period of several years and which ends by a double tragedy."
A spark floated around in my head. There was a correlation somewhere. It was easy. This manuscript had to do with something that tickled my curiosity not too long ago.
"I understand now. This has something to do with the terrible secret that you spoke of earlier." He seemed to hesitate for a minute and then fingering the book he nodded an affirmative "Yes."
"Lets hold off for a while. My rabbit should be ready. We can discuss it after the meal." He walked into the kitchen.
I was left there with the book in my hand and I didn't dare open it for some inexplicable reason. Mechanically, I took up my scotch and drank some without tasting the fine liquor.
Always in a pensive mood, I picked out the most comfortable of armchairs, the Windsor one near the window, and sat down. I was bathed in a yellow light which came from the lamp close by me and which contrasted with the burning logs brilliant orange.
I opened the manuscript and picked out any page just to see the handwriting. There were many words crossed out and I could see that the writer was a thinking person who was not totally gifted with a literary aptitude.
For some reason I began to think of Arnoux St. Maxim, a French author who gave his manuscripts to the editors rolled up. Once unrolled to the end, the editors found a stain of blood which marked the victim whom one was anxious to save. Since the manuscript was in roller, one could not skip pages.
Also there was something strange about the writing. It reminded me of the original manuscript offered by the great Marquis of his "One Hundred Days in Sodom... " I was filled with an emotion of an odd flavor. Just as I was about to delve into the work, Tom Godfrey wandered in and announced that dinner was ready.
I met his look and immediately saw that he bore an ironical smile. He was like someone who had promised a rare evening and who saw that it had already begun. He was nevertheless right.
He appeared to be playing with my curiosity and I had the sensation that he had me in the palm of his hand.
"Come now, leave it for later. Let's eat. I'm starved. That rabbit looks juicy." He had not touched his scotch and I felt that he was as eager as I for something delicious to happen. When I told him that he had not touched a drop of his scotch, he appeared grateful for the perception and drank the liquid in one swallow.
I closed the book and put it on the table by the lamp.
It seemed to glow in that strange light and emit a thousand diabolical flames.
At dinner we had a long discourse on troth. We even went into its historical and religions nature. Tom mentioned that the intention of all acts was at the birth of truth ad declared the nakedness of the verite more than the act itself.
"Truth can not have its real face unless it brings about something new. Truth is the most recent discovery. Age re-evaluates truth and it is discarded with whims and old fancies "
"You are quite near something extremely valuable." Tom complimented me. "That story of Redgrave and his wife. I think I'm the only one who knows of it. Unless someone has taken the copy of it when I wasn't looking. However, that seems unlikely to me."
I don't know whether Godfrey was having his little joke or what. It didn't appeal to me.
"I don't think you would be the type who would let it out of your sight very long." I avenged myself.
"No, I don't think so either. Besides its very existence is known by two people, you and I."
"But after all, this document is rather old and someone must have divulged all the secrets that it contains."
"Yes it is a pity."
"It's a pity, you say?" I was somewhat taken aback.
"Yes it is. Think of the fortune Lord Redgrave could have made with it. Let's be fair, after all."
"How old was Lord Redgrave when all this took place. Let's get down to the realistic aspect."
"He married at the age of twenty-nine and he died at thirty. Lady Clara was twenty-one when she died. However, she was already known in the best circles, and she was called by the gentry, Milady. Her death proclaimed her as Lady Redgrave. It happens to have been passed by the courts. They loved each other very much, but they were without children. All they had together were their adventures, but what extraordinary adventures they were."
"I think I know what you mean after the few lines that I managed to read."
"That terrible fire. "Death Mansion" was to far away for anyone to reach those poor people in time. The night of the incendiary found the servants on vacation. They spent the day at Ringwood. Some claim that the fire was started by a maniac. I shared the opinion until one day I came across this document. It was by mere chance. You probably remember that circular pavilion that I showed you just before we left. That's where I found the manuscript. It was one the rare places that was shielded from the fire. I found it in a desk drawer. It was probably in the pavilion that Lord Redgrave performed his literary talent."
"Didn't anyone before yon think of going through the pavilion and looking for some trace of the accident?"
"Probably, but nobody went too far. Of course, they looked over the bodies of the victims and the grounds and then closed everything off. One day I noticed that some thieves had broken in. This gave me the opportunity to take a look at the pavilion. A few things were stolen from the place, but they didn't think the manuscript had any value. And that's how I came on to it. I just read one or two pages and carried it off. After all, what would you have done in my place?"
I didn't take the time to reflect on the matter. If my friend was an art expert, I was an editor and such a manuscript would have baffled me and undoubtedly I would have pilfered it myself.
"I'm sure I would have done the same thing." I admitted.
Tom Godfrey tightened his belt and sighed.
"Even the manual of Forberg "Classic Erotology" does not go as far as this work, thought of and lived by personal experience. I believe the man who wrote this book can be considered not as one of the multitude, but someone special. Don't you share my opinion?"
"Now, I haven't as yet read it, but I think I would be inclined to accept the same opinion once I had read it."
I glanced at the book which was not too far away, lying on the table and capturing my fantasy.
"What do you plan to do, my friend? There are many facts inside that book, but it is a rarity of its kind and not permitted to see the light of day. It is filled with an outstanding number of sexual introspections and rich experiences. I'm afraid that it will take some careful handling, although in its way, it is one of the finest of its kind."
"If you'll allow me, I'd like to take it home and read it. I promise to give it a great deal of attention."
"Take it. I don't think I will be insulting the author if the book is published one day. He wrote it and I don't think his aim was to see it eventual be cast upon a burning fire."
Godfrey walked over to the table and placed his hand on the manuscript and said: "A man like Parry Redgrave would not have taken so much trouble to describe the windings and turns of his soul and his sensual properties to have the simple pleasure of auto-exhibition only."
"I don't think so either."
"And after all, this could conceivable be looked upon as a helpful book for all those whom are obsessed by the overwhelming sexual problem. I don't think we are doing an injustice to the author."
"Certainly not!" I said vehemently.
Involuntarily my hand covered the manuscript eager to gain possession of it.
Tom Godfrey smiled lightly and brought out a bottle of Hennessy as well as two cognac glasses. We sat around the dying fire sipping the marvelous liquid.
And this is the background of how the manuscript came into being. Of course, there were several things retouched, but nothing that altered the true flow of the work. I called it "Milady" and it had a quick sale. It was handsomely bound in the Crown 8 size and has been a secret bestseller ever since.