by Antal Szerb
The stone slab revealed an opening through which we could see a large, four-sided pit, in the centre of which stood a catafalque, like a bed pillowed with old damask cushions: a bed from which the sleeper had already risen. There was no trace of the body, no bones to be seen, no legendary rings.
“If nothing else, the rings at least ought to be there,” I stated. “But in an enclosed space like this bones should also have lasted three hundred years. As you see, the pillows are as new.”
“The tomb’s been robbed and the bones removed,” Maloney said.
“Or, his earthly remains were reinterred somewhere else, in some previous age,” Osborne conjectured. “We’ll have to ask my uncle: he’ll know.”
Once more, I took a good look at everything in the vault, closely examining the body of light. But I could form no idea of what it might consist. We turned to go.
We closed the door carefully behind us. I had a moment’s concern that I hadn’t put out the light as we went; then I reflected that this particular light had been burning for three hundred years, and continued on my way.
We passed through the crypt and laboured up the spiral stairs. Reaching the top, we noticed that the corridor along which we had first come to it led in two different directions. No one could remember whether the entrance lay to the left or the right. We eventually decided it must be to the right, and set off.
But in fact we should have gone to the left, as we discovered only after passing through several underground rooms. In the total darkness, barely penetrated by Maloney’s torch, it was hard to find any bearings at all. Finally, with considerable unease, we admitted to one another that we had no idea how to get back. From each of the pitch-black rooms several other rooms would open out, and they were all identical.
“Trust my instinct,” Maloney repeated. “Connemarans have good eyes for the dark. I don’t say this always applies to me, but I do have my days.”
We put our trust in his instinct.
This subterranean wandering had a strangely familiar feel. I had so often dreamed that I was walking down endless dark corridors, not knowing where I was going, and in mounting terror. I knew there was one door I must not open, a room I was forbidden to enter or something unspeakable would happen to me.
Maloney went ahead with the torch. Osborne and I tried to keep close behind, in hopes of at least seeing something. But his instinct carried him along so rapidly, and our way was so meandering, that we finally lost sight of both him and his torch.
I staggered on after Osborne, unable to make anything out, and then, at a bend in the passage, fell somehow further behind, with only my ears now to guide me. From time to time Maloney would give a shout to tell us which way to go.
Osborne, now fully ten paces ahead of me, suddenly cried out in terror. I rushed towards him.
“Doctor, have you a match?”
“No … but my lighter might work … ”
I tried it. We gazed around, in its dim, flickering radiance. At first we noticed nothing unusual, then, a few steps along, in the direction we were supposed to have taken, an open trapdoor gaped. Had we gone any further we—or rather Osborne, being the one in front—would have plummeted into its pitch-black emptiness
“Didn’t you hear anything?” he asked, struggling to master his shock.
“Only you, when you yelled out.”
“Doctor, do you know what happened? … Just as I got there, someone caught hold of my arm and said, ‘Stop!’ So I stopped. Didn’t you see, or hear, anything?”
“No.”
“Very strange. If I’d taken another three steps, Miss Jones would have been proved right.”
Meanwhile the light reappeared: Maloney had returned.
“Why aren’t you coming?” he shouted. “What’s going on here?”
“Stay where you are!”
He came to a halt. We closed the trapdoor.
“How come you didn’t fall down it?” Osborne asked.
“I suppose I went some other way. That’s Connemara instinct for you.”
We stood there for a long time, deep in thought. We were all shocked, our minds filled with superstitious notions of fate. Eventually we set off again, and soon found ourselves back in the daylight.
But by the time we got back to Llanvygan one thought was nagging away inside my head with such unpleasant persistence it took all the pleasure from my amazing discovery. Even the crestfallen faces of my fellow scholars were banished from my mind by the idea: Maloney must have found and deliberately opened the trapdoor, so that Osborne would fall into it.
Back at Llanvygan, we found a lot more going on than usual. The Earl had returned.
Over dinner I told Cynthia I had found the tomb of Rosacrux, and explained to Osborne how I had known of its existence. Osborne listened with unusual seriousness, like a man in the grip of a major spiritual crisis. It was as if he had become truly aware of the remarkable ambience around him.
Hearing the story, Cynthia went pale.
“Didn’t I say that the Rosacrux legend had a peculiarly Welsh feel to it? … but how terrible … how unspeakably terrible … ”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t put it into words … Can’t you sense it? It’s like being in another age … and where is the body? Where is Asaph’s body?”
After dinner, the Earl summoned Osborne to him, and Cynthia retired to her room. Maloney and I were having a couple of drinks.
“Listen, Doctor,” he said, looking directly at me in a way he had never done before. His glance generally wavered, roving about constantly.
“Listen to this. Sitting here as we are now makes me think of the time, about ten years ago, when the IRA took me prisoner. They claimed I’d betrayed their secrets to the security forces. It wasn’t in fact true, but appearances were against me. In those days, back home, human life didn’t count for much. Thirty minutes stood between me and death. Eileen St Claire saved my life. Those men gave her absolute obedience.”
He stopped, and gazed at me expectantly.
“Why are you telling me this, Maloney?”
“Because … had I been smart at the time … I would have betrayed everything to the security forces. By now I’d have a fat job in India, in the Civil Service. But because I was stupid and kept my mouth shut, my only reward was to get out alive. Now you, Doctor, could also be smart.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Just think about what I’ve said.” And off he went.
A terrible nervousness seized me. I got up and went to my room.
For some time I paced back and forth at frenetic speed. It was as if my nerve ends were raw and exposed. Everything irritated me: the room I was in, the rough touch of my trousers (which hadn’t been properly ironed) rubbing against my knees; the sudden realisation that I should have written to a female acquaintance two weeks before.
After a while these different worries seemed to fuse into a single one, which proved all the more distressing: I no longer knew what I was distressed about—the worst state of mind possible.
I seated myself in the armchair, took out my writing pad, as I always do in times like this, and began jotting down a list of causes for alarm.
1 Who tried to shoot the Earl, in whose interest?
2 Who left the trapdoor open?
3 Who held Osborne back in the darkness?
4 Rosacrux’ tomb.
5 Any connection between the above, the old man beside the lake, and the Earl’s monsters?
The answer to the third question was probably ‘no one’. The instinct for self-preservation can lead us to do things which might easily be thought miraculous. I knew a man who shot himself in the heart, having first made certain where it was under his ribs. He’s still alive today (if he hasn’t died of something else). According to his doctors his heart jumped aside at the very last minute.
Instinct warns us of mortal danger. Some organ we haven’t yet discovered senses the approach of death
. In the Pendragons this organ must have been particularly well-developed. The Earl pulled his car up just a few yards from the cable, and Osborne stopped before the trapdoor. The inner command was so urgent he imagined someone had actually seized his arm and spoken: a momentary division of consciousness.
And to the second question—who left the trapdoor open?—the same answer might also apply: no one. It could well have lain open for three hundred years. However you could not say the same for the shot taken at the Earl …
Now, if anyone had deliberately left the trapdoor open, it could only have been Maloney. He’d been no more than a few steps ahead of us and, by some miracle, hadn’t fallen through it himself. And then the shot … Maloney could nip up the ancient, fluted walls and their buttresses like a scalded cat. I’d seen it with my own eyes.
At that moment the door opened and Maloney was standing at my side. He glanced rapidly all round the room, clearly searching for something, then tore the pad from my hand and rushed with it over to the lamp.
“Are you mad?” I shouted at him, jumping to my feet.
“What have you written here?” he demanded. “I don’t know your lingo, but I can read the word Roscoe here.”
He pointed to the paper, where my crabbed hand had written Rózsakereszt sírja.
“That’s not Roscoe; it’s Rosacrux. But what’s it to do with you?”
Suddenly he burst into a gabble:
“Doctor, don’t be angry … you’re so incredibly clever, you know everything anyway … But you must sit down … we may only have a minute or two.”
He rushed to the door, glanced along the corridor, and returned.
“Tell me, Doctor,” he began, seizing my arm in a fever of excitement, “have you seen the documents?”
“What documents?”
“We haven’t time for games. Old Roscoe’s letters, the ones he wrote about people wanting to kill him. And the alleged proofs. You should know … ”
“Well … ?”
In that moment a hundred possibilities were racing through my head.
“I’ve seen them,” I said, with sudden decision.
“And what was your opinion?”
“My opinion?” I echoed, momentarily at a loss. “What’s that to do with you? I shall give my opinion to the Earl and the Earl alone.”
“What can you lose by telling me? Do you believe the illness old Roscoe died of can be artificially induced?”
“It certainly can.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I can,” I replied, remaining in character.
“Then listen to this. And think about it carefully. What’s the most you can expect from the Pendragons? Only the fee you’ve earned. Why should you get anything more? If you’re smart, you’ll join us instead. I’ve no time to explain, they’ll be here any moment … We’ve got an incredible amount of money, you know. You wouldn’t even ask what we’d be prepared to pay. You must get in touch with Morvin. If you say the word, I’ll give you his address.”
At that moment there was a knock at the door. Osborne entered. His face was flushed, and he looked extremely ill at ease.
“Excuse me,” he said to Maloney, “but I’m obliged to ask you for a word in private. Perhaps you’d come with me to my room?”
“I’ve no secrets from the doctor. The doctor is my friend.”
“As you wish, Maloney. But what I have to say is not perhaps something you would want others to hear. I have a message for you from my uncle.”
“Well, well. At last the noble lord deigns to speak with me.”
“This is very difficult,” said Osborne, and sat down. Then he stood up again, and lit a cigarette. He was clearly at a loss where to begin.
“During my uncle’s absence,” he began at last, “there were more strange happenings in the house. His writing desk and bedroom cupboards were forced open. He tells me that while the burglar was pretty skilful, he did leave traces.”
“And he took money?”
“No, nothing was taken.”
“Then there’s no problem. So, where do I come into this?”
“The Earl asks me to inform you that the documents relating to the Roscoe business are not kept in the castle.”
Maloney leapt to his feet.
“Do you mean to say I … ?”
Then he suddenly fell silent.
“I have something else to tell you, Maloney,” Osborne continued, with a new purposefulness. His awkwardness had vanished and a grim irony had taken its place. “The person concerned could only have got into the chamber through the window. The door was locked and permanently guarded. Now the Earl is fully aware of your talents as a rock climber … ”
“That’ll do!” Maloney yelled. “I’ve had quite enough of your insinuations. In five minutes I’ll be out of this house, and the Earl will have to answer for … ”
“And furthermore, the Earl asks me to return this to you. It seems you left it behind.”
He handed over a small, bow-shaped knife, of a type common in South India. I had seen it before, in Maloney’s possession.
“Damn!” he exclaimed. It was his last word. The next moment he had left the room.
We dashed out after him, first helping John Griffith to his feet in the corridor, Maloney having knocked him over in his haste.
The gate-keeper had seen him running towards the garage. We watched as a motorbike swerved wildly into the long avenue down the centre of the park.
“Bastard!” said Osborne. “Never again will I own such a brilliant bike.”
“What next?” I asked.
“Let him be. The Earl doesn’t intend taking any action against him.”
We stood there for a while gazing after him, somewhat nonplussed.
“Are you tired, Doctor?” asked Osborne. “If it’s not too much trouble, we might perhaps go up to the library. My uncle would very much like a word with you, in private.”
I hurried up to the library, full of expectation.
The Earl was seated behind his enormous desk. He rose as I entered. Standing over me he seemed even taller than he actually was. It was as if some principle of monumentality were being deliberately stressed: his presence seemed to fill the entire library, immense as it was. Even the rows of books appeared to gaze down from their carefully ordered shelves with a different air—no longer items in a museum but living things responding to the benign gaze of their master. Everything now seemed exactly where it should be, in its intended place in the overall scheme of things: the unusually long reading tables, the globes of the world, the ascetically-robed statues of venerable ancients stooping over the bookcases.
We sat for some time, in a companionable silence.
“So he’s gone,” he said at last. “As a matter of fact I’m rather pleased it’s turned out this way. Are you comfortable in that chair?”
I assured him I was, even though I was leaning forward, rather stiffly, watching every movement of his lips.
He stood up and rang a bell. Rogers brought in two finely-cut old glasses and a cobwebbed bottle on a tray.
“Try this port, Doctor. A unusual year,1851. As a born collector you’ll find it rather interesting. To our friendship.”
The port was of a quality to make you weep. The Earl meanwhile was toying hesitantly with a large key.
“No doubt you already have the full picture of what has happened. It’s your habit to order facts methodically, and you believe in causality. Nonetheless I believe I owe you an apology. I received you here the way the commander of a besieged castle would receive a good friend coming from the enemy camp.”
“A very appropriate simile, My Lord. I don’t see how you could have behaved otherwise. In your place I should have either thrown my visitors out, or left myself.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
His method was worthy of royalty. He was aware of his own need to apologise, but he left the apologies to be made
by the person to whom, in truth, he owed an explanation. But my respect for him was immense and I was happy to enter into the reversal of roles.
“They had twice tried to kill you before I arrived. You certainly had cause to think that one of your new guests might have come with bad intentions.”
“I did have my reasons for suspecting Maloney.”
“As for myself, I can see now that, thanks to his cunning, I arrived here fully equipped to arouse even greater suspicion that he did. I seemed to present the bomb on a silver salver.”
The Earl smiled.
“Well, as you’re so generously finding reasons to excuse my behaviour, I think I should do the same. Since I invited you, why should I have doubted you?”
“For a start, it must have been suspicious that I was Maloney’s friend.”
“May I just ask,” he interposed, “had you known him long?”
“No. I’d met him just a few days earlier, at the British Museum.”
“How’s that? You met him after I’d invited you here?”
“Yes. It’s obvious now that he attached himself to me in order to accompany me here, no doubt to divert suspicion onto me.”
“Have you any idea how he, or those who sent him, knew of your intended visit?”
“Absolutely none.”
“Then I fear there’s a spy at Llanvygan. There’s no other explanation. Who could it be? But please continue.”
“Maloney told Osborne, and no doubt Osborne passed it on to you, that I’d only gone to Lady Malmsbury-Croft’s to make your acquaintance and to get myself invited here. That is certainly not the truth. You must forgive me, but I am a foreigner, and until that day I had only a fleeting knowledge of Your Lordship’s existence.”
“I know. I’ve spoken since to Lady Malmsbury-Croft. She said you didn’t particularly want to attend her soirée.”
“Anyway, I arrived here in highly suspicious circumstances and at a particularly bad moment. You’d not even had time to rest after that attempt on your life in London. And all the circumstantial details were somehow linked by the ring I gave you on my arrival. Though I must say I don’t fully understand the story behind the ring.”