The Mystery Surrounding Hamplock House

by John Tan

  At this very moment, coming from somewhere that was still relatively pitch dark in the vicinity of the gardens, a cock’s clarion call rent the limpid air, sounding shrill and dissonant— but I was still speaking to Georg, and a vibration went through his body. His lean frame shook. I went on speaking in much the same vein as before; and nothing I remembered but that I was gauging his every minute reaction, to the effect of my words upon him. At length, his features relaxed, his head fell back, and slid into a deep and profound slumber. So, the person that seemed to be born for wild gesticulations and rude, loud, offensive displays had lost his fierceness of mien at last; and he was snoring like a big, bristly—hedgehogy--baby: and, after such an interminable time of profound discourse—the first that I had ever attempted—dawn gleamed translucent and pale through the bow window on my left ear. Night was guttered.

  12

  After the forensics division of the Police Department was called in to investigate, and the identities of the skeletons, two matted and rotted things ascertained, an inquest was held and Georg and I gave depositions, with what conclusion the reader already knew, and the still living members of Lara Wade’s family being found to be living in Memphis, Tennessee, a solemn funeral was arranged for the bodies of Millionaire Hamplock’s newly-discovered victims, after the funeral mass. It was held in that person’s late wife’s hometown of Coleston and laid to rest finally with proper decorum in their local Catholic Cemetery there. Thus, the mystery surrounding Hamplock House was solved for good—notwithstanding there might be minor mysteries that might have still remained there. It seemed that Davy Hamplock was a strange boy, and used to incense his father for apparently trifling things, and for that he was swished. Lara had apparently refused Augustine Hamplock a divorce, after the millionaire had fallen for Miss Fischer while they were dancing the waltz at a New Year’s main social event in a friend’s home in downtown New York. He together with his henchmen had faked the deaths of his spouse and son in the ferry sinking. After that, the way was clear for him to marry the wealthy German’s daughter, by whom he had Denys and Clarice. Greta’s daughter might have sensed something about her father, or have found evidences of something that point to some unspeakable horror perpetrated before she was born, and this purported knowledge might have disturbed her to such an extent that she found her then present life intolerable—and so she went bonkers. After the gruesome discovery, people who pretended to know, even now, spoke in whispers of Mr. Hamplock’s legacy, and this, I leave for the academicians to speculate. I do not propose to meddle with Augustine Tecumseh Hamplock’s god—or the graven image of his imagination—nor do I propose to say anything about his devil—the quantifiable evil, that so distort his mind and made him succumb to temptations that his frail flesh could not withstand. His painted god might be too good to be worth the trouble to pay heed to, and his devil too terrible that he actually is—so that seeing into his looking-glass he could not tell which he the more he resembled. His notion of himself might be a falsehood, as his idea of wealth and power, saints and sinners. Perhaps, he thought he had a great love for God and his neighbor, and in his desire and his ambition to be even wealthier and more prosperous, he was serving Him, as his numerous works of charity and philanthropic projects might suggest. He was a self-made man, and there were reports that he was one-sidedly religious when he was a young boy. It was rumored that towards the end of his life, he tried to write his autobiography, but he did not succeed.

  Just as important people write unimportant and unimpressive works, and funny people write serious fiction, he might have come to the conclusion of the banality of that precious endeavor. Serious people are known to write humorous books. Witty people write dull books; but as I am not a famous or important person, and as I hope my story don’t scandalize good people too much, I offer you the result of this my humble first-time effort. Spinsters are successful romance novel writers, but I shall end with a note of hope and romance in these last few score lines. I shall not be a spinster because I’m engaged to be married to my friend—who featured as “our mutual friend” in my earlier pages. This boy, the Yale graduate, had heard of my adventures and the outcome of them in the papers, and the way Mr. Hamplock had bamboozled everybody fascinated him endlessly. He came in hot earnest to see me while I was rounding out my stay at Hamplock House, and he said I had acted well—commendably well, despite being handicapped by my prostration at that time; but my prostration had gone out of me not too long after that! I am of sound mind and body, as I speak. There is a slab of smooth rock I walk to, to take the view of the meadows and the rutted track about half a mile from the white bridge that he and I wander hand in hand—to see and observe the chemiluminescent butterflies, of many an evening now; now that he is beside me—and it is the middle of August. It is close to the anniversary of my sister’s death. I had made my peace with Clara Amelia, and just now, I had run through the list of things that I ticked off the palm of my hand I resolved to do, and hold her gently and preciously in my memory—and one of the things I resolved—no mere platitude—is to speak to her deep in my heart, a conscious thing not difficult to do, and to tell her things about my life and share my secrets with her—like we used to do, when we were children. This is noteworthy. Of my father, our lives are better, and in our relationships we cease to be living at a tangent to one another. He reminds me of the shillyshallying songs that Clara liked as a child, and we spoke of some of the better times we had, sharing in our memory our mother’s love and quirks, affections and foibles that still danced before our eyes. Due to the request of my lover, he would like me to include two letters he wrote to me a month ago. He was a beautiful boy—who treasured the remark I once had made to him that he was indeed beautiful.

  Dear Victoria,

  A wonder like you—as it has transpired by the recent events—I shall never say goodbye to, and finding you again, after all the troubles you have faced, my own sorrows are over. All the madness of this world, all its momentary pleasures paled and faded when I thought of having you in my arms.

  A soul is many fathoms deep, and with you I plumb its infinite depths; I shall look you in the eye, and there find happiness’ bright flame—our communion of love in both our yearning, generous hearts.

  You, my dear Victoria, encapsulate the true Womanly Spirit, and I hope you are forever safe and true in my arms, returning love for love, that loves you without holding anything in reserve. I wish you, my dear, a kind and restful night.’

  Your affectionate friend,

  P.s. I hope belong to me, you will.

  Dearest Victoria, my sweet girl,

  After enhancing my already splendid professional reputation as a linguist and translator, I made a couple of bucks. I hear you are doing well yourself. Your mind has cleared completely, eh? You have succeeded in pushing back the boundaries in your mind, and all your pains are gone, you say? You are ready to go on to greater fulfillment, you tell me? It seems to me after the pain and the mental declension due to your emotional breakdown, after you have pieced back together your life, your heart and your mind is in the mood for ecstasy--

  Did you say ecstasy is the happiness you don’t go out to find; rather, it finds you? And, when other people are living their dreams, I am dreaming MY LIFE? Yes, both are good, pithy statements. Good! You don’t cast suspicions on yourself, my henceforth sure-footed girl! You say after the harrowing time your nervous system has been put through Natural Phenomena is giving you your deserved perks! You don’t continue the trend of upsets that had beset our lives some time ago. I will never reject you if I ever did that—because, boy, do you feature in my plans! Yes, you feature in my plans, like you have never done before, Victoria Wade. So, after your dark night of the soul, you are now living on the edge of near ecstasy—after having to swim or sink in a swelling torrent that swept you away—both internal and external, that were piling it on thick and fast, your emergent self is now having a great appetite for life, meaning—love and marriage. And I want to marry
you, Victoria Wade. My darling, say yes, and my hopes that I trust in lovely anticipations of a good life would be fulfilled in an instant. May God bless my hopes for happiness in your answer. I tell you, in all honesty, love that they never see, will hit the roof! When we retire from the world every night, it will be so; trust me! With the added advantage of setting off on the marital journey, with my better half equipped with the knowledge of self-discovery—

  The journey through life is through rough and uncharted terrain, and there are no signposts to tell you, you are going the wrong way, and are about to go over a precipice—and for this reason, the lessons you and I learn will be wholly our own. The illuminations that are found along the way, thereby, become a precious resource that makes the on-going journey rewarding and infinitely worthwhile. In this instance, being pommelled by fate is life-giving, to benefit the commodious soul. My love, my darling, my girl, how the memory of your loving words and courteous speech rippled through me now, penetrating my body, from my head to my extremity, and then, there was something unsaid between us! I can feel you in my innards! You are my path, happiness--thrilling me forever--

  I remain yours now and forever,