Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  “And we need to get going,” Roxton put in. “You’re exhausted, Althea; we should get you back home.” He turned to me. “Goodbye, Mr. Dickson, it was a pleasure meeting you.” We shook, and he shot me a glance that read I’ll take care of everything. Let me handle this.

  “Goodbye, Lord John, Mrs. Rutherford. Goodbye, Miss Christina, Miss Gianetti.” I watched as they all piled in the car and slowly drove away. I waved as the young women waved to me, and stood as the motor pulled out of the village and vanished into the countryside. I remained there musing for a moment, then looked around. Fortunately, the post office was right next to the station. I went inside and said, “I would like to send a telegram to Paris, please.”

  I knew a reporter there, a young man about my own age. I sent this message:

  Joseph:

  I need a favor. See if you can find anything on a metaphysician calling himself Sâr Dubnotal. It’s important.

  Harry

  I told the man to have it delivered to Westenra House as soon as an answer came back, and left. No, it was none of my business, but I had to admit that Mr. Blake had been proved right after all–a little background research never hurt anyone.

  With my “extracurricular” activities finished, I went looking for the ride Sir Henry had promised me. I finally found it: a small trap carted by a pony, driven by a taciturn Scot whose main capacity for dialogue seemed to be the word “Urmmm.” “Lovely day, isn’t it?” “Urmmm.” “Are you well today, sir?” “Urmmm.” “Is it very far to Westenra House?” “Urmmm.” “Did you know I’m secretly prince of the Ubangi warriors come to steal your women?” “Urmmm” A most scintillating conversationalist. Suddenly motoring with the Rutherfords was beginning to look better and better all the time.

  Westenra House was some three miles east of Wolfsbridge, so it would be a bit of a ride. Fortunately, the Sun was out, the air was fresh, and the scenery was most pleasant I have always loved the English countryside. It is, in part, one of the reasons I never returned to live in my home country. Yes, America has its places of beauty, sometimes great beauty, but there is something soothing about the ancient green fields surrounded by hedges, the small, unpretentious farms, and the wildflower-ringed walking paths of England, a refreshing of the spirit very few other places can offer. Certainly the grimy, crowded, impersonal streets of New York cannot compete. Here and there were fresh, grassy pastures dotted with sheep or cows, there, a farmer out in his fields plowing behind an old horse. Yes, I sound quite the fool romantic, but I cannot help it. That is the way I truly felt. I felt myself relaxing for the first time in two days and mused that perhaps serving as a mere security agent wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. Not if the weather kept up like this.

  Still, one did have the need to talk once in a while. So I attempted one last parley with my driver, casually mentioning that I had met neighbor Christina Rutherford on the train.

  The old Scot turned his head, looked at me, and asked:

  “Aye? Did she howl?”

  “Howl?”

  This was the second time I had heard that word used in conjunction with the Rutherfords. “No! Whyever did you say that?”

  “Nothin’, lad,” the Scot replied, turning eyes back to the road. “Nothin’ at all. Be comin’ up on the House in a minute.”

  And indeed very shortly the cart reached the border of a long, high brick wall, stretching out alongside the road. We traveled beside this for several hundred yards until we reached an open, wrought-iron gate, and the driver guided the pony through it We entered into a thick clump of trees, which quickly thinned out into a spacious, well-kept garden, and I received my first look at Westenra House.

  It was, without doubt, the most pompously dull edifice I have ever seen.

  I have been in many manor houses over the years, from the richly opulent to the genteelly decrepit. But Westenra House... Westenra House... ah. Even after all these years I find it difficult to find the words to describe just how the appearance of the house put me off. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the physical structure of the place: a large, three-story mansion with two extensive wings jutting off from the main hall. If anyone else had been living there it would have been quite attractive. But with the Westenras owning it... well. Perhaps this will help me explain. In all the houses I have ever been in, from palatial to worn, magnificent to shambles, there was always an air of individuality, of familiar comfort, of actually being lived in. Even with the most conceited, socially-climbing matron you can name, in a house filled with the most expensive furniture and priceless bric-a-brac you can think of, there was always a sense of a place where memories were made and kept precious, where hearts were found and broken and mended again. A sense of home.

  Westenra House had none of that. As said before, it was physically attractive enough, but there was something missing. The sense of comfort, of individuality, was totally missing. It was too cold, too austere. If the young Westenras had been raised there, there would have been no laughter in the halls, no toys on the floor. It was a building meant only to show how rich and important the owners were, how far above they were over all others, a museum to the Westenra’s greatness and nothing more. They just happened to have a bedroom inside. A mausoleum trying to be the Coliseum.

  I could tell my silent driver felt it, too, for a veiled look of disgust passed over his face as he gazed at the place. But he said nothing and guided the trap around to the back, then pointed me roughly to a small door. Obviously one of the servants’ entrances and not a very important one. I certainly stood highly in Sir Henry’s esteem.

  “Knock loud,” the driver advised me in a mutter. “Someone’ll hear ye eventually. Prob’bly Colleen.” A brief half-smile twisted his face as he said this. But then he was nicking the reins, and I barely had time to grab my bag and leap out before the trap started moving back toward the stables.

  “Thank you!” I called, but the driver only replied back with an extra-loud “Urmm.” I took that as an “You’re welcome” Then I turned towards the door. No sense turning back now. I walked up and rapped the knocker loudly. There was no answer. I knocked again.

  While I did so, I pondered the driver’s odd words. Hmmm, I thought, a maid named Colleen. Suggestive of an Irish lass, young, red-haired and pretty. And possibly lonely. I had already had the great fortune to meet two extraordinarily beautiful women today and it had put my youthful imagination in a mood for feminine company. Already I was slicking my hair back, envisioning golden-red hair and eyes as emerald as the fabled Isle. I knocked once more and unconsciously leaned forward to impress the undoubtedly gorgeous creature that would answer.

  The door flew open, a cat dashed out and got entangled between my legs. So surprised was I that I involuntarily stepped back, right on the creature’s tail; it yowled and swiped my calf with an extended claw. Now I yowled, made an odd sort of jiggy dance with my feet, slipped on the cat again and fell right down. With an indignant “Mrrrowrr!” the cat dashed off and left me sitting upon my dignity.

  A howl of laughter met me. I looked up, reproachfully, to see a dark-skinned, square-jawed and unquestionably masculine figure leaning against the doorpost, laughing uproariously.

  My greeter was no Irish beauty. Instead it was a young East Indian youth about my own age, with quick, intelligent eyes shining with mirth at my predicament. I had to admit he was quite handsome. The unfortunate stereotype of the Indian is that of a wasted, stick-thin figure with ribs showing, dressed in a dirty loincloth and turban. But this man was tall and strapping, broad in shoulder and thick in arm. His rough hands and hard build showed many years of hard labor, but his dark, smooth skin was unblemished by weather, acne or disease. His head was bare, but a neat pointed beard bristled on the tip of his chin. Even his teeth were excellent, better than many Europeans I knew. An air of pride and confidence hung about him, and, if it were not for the older, patched clothing that marked him as some sort of servant, one might almost have taken him for the ma
ster of the house.

  He laughed immoderately at me for quite a while. I could only sit and look at him. It, the laughter that is, seemed to be something he hadn’t done in a long time “A–are you all right?” he finally managed to get out at last, between guffaws. “Did you hurt anything?”

  “Only my pride,” I grumbled, feeling my backside. Grinning, the young Indian reached down and helped me up.

  “I’d advise you to stay out of Colleen’s way from now on if I were you,” he told me. “She has a long memory and doesn’t take kindly to things like that.”

  “Colleen’s the cat?”

  “Of course. This is her favorite door. Open it once and, swoosh, she’s gone. What were you expecting?” He read the look on my face and laughed again. “Oh, I get it. Old Jack’s been playing one of his jokes on you. No, Colleen’s just the kitchen cat–not an Irish beauty.”

  “Wonderful,” I muttered, dusting myself off”

  “Seriously, can I help you?”

  “Harry Dickson. Here to help with security for the conference.”

  “Oh. So you’re one of the detectives, eh?” The young Indian rolled his eyes. “Gods, that conference. For the past two months, Sir Henry’s been on nothing but ‘conference, conference, conference’ and he blows up at the slightest delay. Everyone in the House will get on their knees and give thanks when that thing’s over. I thought it was supposed to be some sort of secret, anyway. By now everyone in the whole bloody county knows about it. Anyway, come in. Mr. Appleby’s in the kitchen–he’ll probably be the one to talk to.”

  I entered a long, narrow servant’s corridor, whitewashed and bare. It ran the entire width of the house, terminating at one end and turning a corner towards the rear That, I surmised, lead toward the kitchen. “This way,” the youth said, and guided me in that direction.

  As we walked, I commented, “I’d rather like to know whose hospitality I’m currently enjoying.”

  “Kritchna. Darshan Kritchna.”

  “Harry Dickson,” I said again, and we shook hands. “If I may ask, what do you do here?”

  Kritchna paused for a moment, thinking, and then said simply, “Whatever it is the whites don’t want to.”

  “Ah. Well.” There seemed to be nothing to add to that, so I changed the subject. “So, how long have you been with Sir Henry? Did you come with him from India?”

  “No!” Kritchna burst out so suddenly and sharply it was nearly a shout For a split-second his dark eyes flashed fire. But just as quickly it was gone. “I mean, no,” he said, in a much quieter, calmer voice. “I... came over on a ship about a year and a half ago. Working my way over. I’ve only been at the House about six months now.”

  “I see.” To say I was puzzled would be putting it mildly. Why should Kritchna have such a strong reaction to such a simple question? It wasn’t anything unusual. Many brought back particularly favored native servants with them when they came back home.

  I mused, but put the questions to the back of my mind. No use looking for mysteries when there were none. “You speak English very well,” I said.

  Kritchna nodded absently. “Self-taught, mostly. A little missionary schooling,” he muttered, but distantly, as if thinking about something else. But by now we had entered the kitchen, and put any more conversation aside.

  The kitchen was, to all appearances, the antithesis of the cold, too-showy exterior of the House. It was smaller than most from similar-sized houses, but was comfortable and warm, like a well-loved family dining area. Utensils and other kitchen paraphernalia hung in a cozily haphazard fashion everywhere–those with a beloved, absent-minded aunt or uncle will know what I mean–and the air was thick with the friendly, clean scents of soap, onions, linen and fresh-baked bread. A flour-haired old woman was bending over a huge pot of spicy-smelling soup. “Where’s Mr. Appleby, Mrs. Mulligan?” Kritchna asked her.

  The old woman looked up from her stirring and smiled kindly. “Out,” she said with a thick Irish accent. “Th’ Master called for him He should be back any moment. Who’s this?”

  “Fellow named Dickson. Here to help with the conference.”

  “Oh.” She nodded pleasantly at me. “Nice t’meet you, Mr. Dickson. Darshan, Colleen didn’t get out when you opened the door, did she?”

  Kritchna shrugged, smiling. “Have you ever known her not to?”

  “Oh, Darshan!” She tossed the spoon aside with a clatter. “Now I’ll have t’go find her. You know how the Master hates to see her wanderin’ around the yard. Here, you get over here and stir this soup. I’ll be right back.” Removing her apron, she toddled out of the kitchen. Unruffledly, Kritchna picked up the spoon and took her place “Want some soup?” he asked casually.

  I was about to decline but a growl from my stomach overruled me. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  Kritchna poured a thick, steaming goulash of vegetables and meat into a bowl and shoved it over toward me. “Tea’s in the kettle over there,” he offered, and I was quick to help myself. The soup was excellent, and my stomach thanked me over and over again. But I also wanted to know more about my curious companion. So I attempted to steer him into conversation again: “Are you the only Indian on the staff?” He nodded briefly, his attention on the soup. “Do you like working for Sir Henry?”

  Instantly, his head shot up. “Would you?” he demanded.

  I had to admit he had me there. “From what I’ve seen of him, no,” I finally confessed. “To be perfectly frank, I’m only here because my employer wants it. But if he’s that bad, why do you stay?”

  “I have my reasons,” Kritchna said gruffly. “And, ‘to be perfectly frank,’ they’re not any of your business.”

  I was properly abashed. “You’re right. I apologize. It was rude of me to inquire.”

  Kritchna sighed deeply and gave me a sheepish smile. “Don’t be. I shouldn’t have been so gruff. Sir Henry doesn’t have the monopoly of boorish behavior. I’m the one who should apologize. Seriously, working around here is fine–as long as you stick to the rest of the servants. They’re all right. Mind you, Mr. Appleby can come on a bit strong at times–but you’ll see that for yourself. Beyond that, though, he’s fine–a bit too dignified, but fair.” He sighed again. “But, as for the Westenras... they’re... they’re...” He paused, taking a deep breath as if searching for the words. Or trying to erase a bad memory. “I get along well enough with Peter,” he said at last. “He, at least, isn’t a bad sort. Weak as anything, and, well, you know, being that he’s–”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, what? If I’m to work here I’d better know something about who I’m working for.”

  “Well...” Kritchna mused a moment. “All right,” he said, “But if you ever tell anyone I told you this, I‘ll deny it. Understand?” I nodded. “All right. Peter Westenra is... well, he is...” Kritchna raised his hand. Then he waved it limply. Very limply. “See what I mean?”

  “Oh,” I replied, realizing. This was interesting. There had been no indication in the files that Peter Westenra was believed to be homosexual, and little wonder. It would mean, at the very least, scandal and social ruin to his family–and they could not have that. Not a man like Sir Henry. That explained the business with Christina Rutherford–many homosexuals hid, or were forced to hide, their behaviors under a guide of legitimate marriage. Sir Henry must have tried to arrange one, and it had fallen flat. I wondered why. From all reports, Peter was an intelligent man, certainly smarter than his sire. Surely he would have seen the benefits a marriage, even a fake one, would have given him career-wise and socially.

  “It’s a bit of an open secret around here,” Kritchna was adding “Everyone in town knows. But the fact is everybody likes him. Far better than his brother or father. He’s... well, he’s good. Not at all like the rest of the Westenras. They...” The young Indian’s voice trailed off. Then his jaw clamped smartly shut, as if he had definitely decided not to say something. “Let’s just say Sir Hen
ry doesn’t get on too well with his younger son. He’s too embarrassing. But he also can’t just deny him because of the effects it’ll have on his position. So they simply keep things quiet. Peter’ll be at the conference, but he’ll be expected to do little but sit and nod and agree with whatever his father or brother says. I have to say I feel a bit sorry for him.”

  Silently I agreed. I could imagine it–a pale, sickly child, probably quite sensitive, born into a domineering family like the Westenras. And then discovering he was gay. It must have made for many painful experiences.

  Kritchna was looking away, seemingly lost in thought. Then he said: “Look, let’s just forget the whole thing. I’m sorry, you’re sorry; let’s start over again. Would you like more soup?”

  “Please,” I replied, and about that time Mrs. Mulligan returned, carting a small black-and-white tabby: “There’s my Colleen. There’s my pretty lass.” I swore the feline gave me the most miffed look. I made a mental note to keep away from her in future. Just in case.

  Kritchna had been eating a late lunch himself when I knocked and joined me at table. We had just finished eating when the door opened and a pudgy, middle-aged man in butler’s dress strode in. He was small and balding, with grey hair on the sides, but comported himself with the regality and dignity of all butlers (which was sometimes more than their masters could do). He was holding a thick, black book beneath his arm. “Ah, Darshan, there you are,” he said. “I need to speak with you. Yesterday afternoon, I–oh, hello, young man. Who might you be?”

  I stood. “Harry Dickson, here for the conference.”

  “Ah, yes, one of the security men. A moment, young man, and I’ll escort you to the library. Sir Henry will give you your instructions from there. Now, then, Darshan–early last night I called you and couldn’t find you for about an hour. Where were you?”