The Pendragon Legend

by Antal Szerb

“And you can sit here, telling me all these dreadful things,” I shouted, “in the heart of London, in a brightly lit room … I thought that this sort of skulduggery was uttered only in cellars lit by kerosene. Aren’t you worried someone might hear you?”

  “Do speak a little more softly,” he said with a smile. “Wherever we talk I run the risk of Seton’s men boring a hole in the wall and listening in. That’s why I chose the one place in London where everyone can see us. And where I can keep an eye on them. No one could have overheard our conversation, with the slight possible exception of these two brown people at the next table. But they’ve been chatting away excitedly the whole time. Secret plans to liberate India, I should guess. But you haven’t yet given me a reply to my offer.”

  “I won’t either. Tell me on what terms you will return the manuscript. I’m not interested in anything else.”

  “Good Lord! When we’ve settled everything else, of course you’ll get the manuscript back. It’s a ridiculous point of detail.”

  “Do you have it on you?”

  “I do.”

  “Show me. How do I know you aren’t trying to trick me?”

  With a sardonic grin, Morvin reached into his pocket and pulled out the manuscript. He held it at a cautious distance.

  If only I had a bit more aggression in me … like a tiger, I’d … But I didn’t.

  Again he laughed silently.

  “I know that violence isn’t in your nature.”

  Suddenly an idea hit me. It seemed like a stroke of genius.

  “You would do better to just hand me the manuscript and clear out,” I uttered, with blood-curdling calmness. “You’ve fallen into a trap, Dr Morvin. I arranged this morning for two detectives to be here. They are in the room. The moment you step through that door they’ll nab you and whisk you off to the police station. But I can spare you that, if you’ll just hand over the manuscript.”

  His silent laugh went on for two whole minutes. Eventually he regained speech:

  “Do you really think I’m an imbecile? That’s wonderful. You can be quite sure that we’ve been watching every movement you’ve made since you got back to your hotel. I know that you didn’t go out until this evening. And you didn’t telephone anyone. You sent a wire, and an express letter, both to Llanvygan. By the way, they suffered little mishaps and won’t get through. Your little bellboy isn’t quite as unapproachable as you are. You don’t really think I’d be here to negotiate with you if I wasn’t quite certain of my ground? It’s you that Seton’s men are watching, not me.”

  I gave a deep sigh.

  “This is nothing to do with me,” I said. “Have you anything else to tell me, or may I go?”

  “What’s the hurry? You’re the one who has to consent—like a beautiful woman. Not immediately, of course. Though I can’t myself see what there is to dither about.”

  “I have to have that manuscript,” I pleaded wildly.

  “Look here, dear Doctor; I think you must be a little slow on the uptake. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s not uncommon among even the best scholars. You often find a surprising distance between abstract thought and practical common sense. Go back to your hotel and have a good sleep. I think you must also be rather tired. I’ll find another time for us to continue our exchange of ideas. I’m quite sure that sooner or later you’ll see things the way I do … Until then, think about it.”

  And he made for the exit. In a trice he had paid at the cash desk and disappeared.

  I remained sitting at the table, in a dull stupor. Yes, there certainly can be a distance between abstract thought and practical common sense. It almost hurt to think how stupid I had been, how helpless and utterly, utterly stupid.

  Gradually the place emptied. The two Indians were no longer at the next table. In the middle of the room a group of some twenty Americans, perpetually young old ladies and men with their neckties askew, were creating a steady din like the roaring of metal.

  I collected my coat and shuffled out, completely crestfallen.

  As I reached the door someone called my name. I raised my head, to find the Indian couple arm in arm with Morvin.

  “Doctor Bátky, step this way,” the woman said, in German.

  As I approached I noticed that the two well-built Indians were holding Morvin by force. He was a rather small man, and was struggling desperately to free himself.

  “Ruhe, ruhe,” the lady urged him, with the solemnity of a grenadier of Frederick the Great. “Don’t make a scene in the street, it’ll ruin your reputation. Dr Bátky will now call a policeman from Piccadilly Circus. We three will testify that you have stolen the manuscript that you have on your person. If necessary, we shall summon the Director of the British Museum by telephone. We shall ask him to testify that the Doctor received the manuscript from him. On the other hand, you may spare yourself all this trouble, and also the poor innocent Director of the British Museum, if you just hand it over.”

  “How can I do that when you’re holding both my arms?”

  “Tell us which pocket it’s in, and Dr Bátky will take it out.”

  “The right one,” he squealed.

  With mounting joy, I extracted it from his pocket and placed it in my own.

  “So that’s the business side dealt with,” the Indian gentleman stated. “Dr Morvin, sir, I must draw your attention to the fact that I have a revolver in my right pocket. Don’t try anything funny. Just clear off as fast as you can.”

  They let him go. The next moment he was in a taxi and had vanished out of sight.

  “János Bátky,” I said, in a trance.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Lene Kretzsch.”

  “And I Bannerjee Sadh Mukerjee Osborne Pendragon am,” said the Indian, removing his beard and his turban.

  “Let’s drink to this,” I said, as soon as I had begun to recover myself.

  But to get a drink in London after eleven isn’t easy. We had no choice but to visit a Lyons Corner House, where you can have alcohol late at night provided you also eat.

  We took a table on the first floor of the four-storey tea palace where, among the fake, gaudily-decorated marble columns and blaring orchestra, the less well-off Londoner briefly pursues the illusion that he too is an inhabitant of the glittering party world of the cinema screen.

  Osborne adjusted his hair and tie with a fastidious grace. Lene gazed at him with undisguised admiration, and moved forward to put her arm around his neck. Visibly embarrassed, he drew his chair away. I was hardly surprised.

  “So, what are we drinking?” I asked.

  “Beer,” Lene proclaimed confidently. “Lager for a celebration.”

  Beneath his mask of brown, Osborne went pale.

  “That’s one drink I have never had in my life. Something else perhaps, just now?”

  And to our dismay he ordered champagne: Veuve Clicquot.

  “I must seem to you an angel from Heaven,” he began. “One of those you see hovering over the right shoulder of the martyr in Renaissance paintings.”

  “Something like that,” I replied. “Could you explain a little more about the workings of Providence?”

  “Oddly enough, it’s all quite simple. I can tell you in very few words. Just after you left, the day before yesterday, my uncle sent for me. We had a long chat, something we don’t often do, to our sincere mutual regret. Since I was coming to London anyway, he asked me to call on Seton and tell him what had gone on in the last few days. I suspect he wanted to save himself the trouble of writing a letter: it’s something he hates with a passion. He prefers to send an envoy—that’s another of his princely characteristics.

  “But as an historian you will also be interested in the mental and psychological springs of great events. When you finally come to write the history of our family, I’d like you to recall the following passage:

  In the last days of July 1933, the youngest scion of the House of Pendragon underwent a strange transformation. In his soul there had long burned an unquenc
hable craving for adventure which, with nothing to feed on, was consuming his very bosom. During those fateful summer days he came to understand his historical mission. He felt that the grave, possibly fatal, but overriding and exalted duty lay before him to explore the impenetrable web of mystery and vice which, in the first decade of the second quarter of the twentieth century, had enveloped the ancestral seat of his family.”

  “It’s like listening to a great … ” declared Lene, with yearning in her voice.

  “My starting point was the following observation, a somewhat Sherlockian, or more properly Holmesian, one: Maloney never received any letters at Llanvygan, and always took his own to the post office at Corwen. I was there with him on two of these occasions, but on both I stayed outside. It didn’t seem totally improbable that when he called he also collected his mail. So in the morning I went straight there. His death was still a secret. I asked if there was anything for my friend. The girl knew who I was and immediately handed me an envelope addressed to him.

  “As one determined to do whatever was necessary—like a pirate of the Southern Seas—and had renounced all conventional morality—like an ambitious waitress in search of a career—without a moment’s internal struggle, I opened the letter. It was typed, unsigned, and pretty unsympathetic in tone. It threatened our poor friend—who must by now inhabit one of the lower circles of Hell—that unless something decisive happened fairly soon, not only would his future funding be cut off, but he would be handed over to the police, obviously for some earlier misdemeanour. I had the impression it wasn’t the first hint of this kind he’d received. It certainly explains his desperate attempt that last night.”

  “This much I knew,” I said.

  “As soon as I arrived I went to see Seton. In some way I don’t fully understand I must have made an impression on him, made him think I was now old enough to know my own mind, because for the first time in my life he spoke to me seriously. The conversation certainly opened my eyes. I learnt from him that my uncle had only to stretch out his hand and strike, and with a single blow he could become the master of a mind-numbing fortune.

  “For a month or two now,” Osborne went on, “he has been in possession of evidence which points quite unmistakably to the fact that William Roscoe was murdered by his doctor. Or rather, not so much proof as a biological discovery which I don’t actually understand, nor I think does Seton, but on the basis of which it is quite clear that it was murder. Roscoe’s rather romantic will stipulated that if he fell victim to murder the estate should pass to the Earl of Gwynedd.”

  “I know this too.”

  “But my uncle, to Seton’s perfectly understandable despair, is unwilling to instruct him to take the necessary steps. He carried out the experiments with a Dr McGregor, who died in a car accident.”

  “I believe this accident was also Morvin’s doing.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because before I came to Llanvygan someone threatened me over the phone, and told me the same would happen to me. I now understand the whole thing. At that time Morvin and Co thought I was a doctor on my way there to continue what poor McGregor had begun … But why doesn’t the Earl want any of this made public?”

  “The reason for his reluctance, so far as I could wheedle it out of Seton, is emotional or sentimental. This may sound unlikely, but my uncle was in love with the lady who is now William Roscoe’s widow and sole heiress. It seems he still has a soft spot for her because he’s convinced that she had no part in Roscoe’s death, and if the full terms of the will were enforced it would punish an innocent person. Morvin’s gang are aware of the Earl’s discovery,” he went on, “because my uncle somehow let Mrs Roscoe know about it, hoping to persuade her to sever her connection with Morvin, whom my uncle considers the only one guilty.

  “Seton however is quite certain that Roscoe’s widow knew her husband was murdered. He thinks the only way to get the Earl to take action would be to convince him that she’s been party to the attempts made on his life since the biological evidence came to light, and that she was fully aware of Maloney’s mission. It’s my job now to provide that proof. But where does one start? Even Seton, who is as canny as any man alive, hadn’t the faintest idea. I had nothing to go on but the name Morvin. That much Seton did know. He even gave me Morvin’s address, and that’s what I set out with.

  “By the time I got going it was already lunchtime, so I went to a small restaurant in an old corner of the City, a place people from my college use when they’re in town. There I met Lene. I’d known her at Oxford as one of the outstanding women athletes.

  “Well, I don’t want to flatter her, but I’ve always thought of her as a clever, active, thoroughly decent sort—in a word, a real man. I decided to ask her to be my assistant. Luckily she had the time.”

  “When would I not have time to be with such a lovely man?” she interposed.

  Again he quickly turned away, and continued.

  “We put our heads together to see what could be done. For inspiration, we tried to dredge up memories of our reading and films we had seen, but unfortunately neither of us had ever been an devotee, not realising how useful it might turn out to be in later life. We thought of reading through the entire works of Edgar Wallace, but there wasn’t time. The only memory we did share was of the German film Emil and the Detectives. “Drawing on what we could recall, we went through it trying to establish the method by which little Gustav-with-the-Horn and the other children caught the man in the bowler hat. We discovered that it was every bit as simple as great truths usually are. They just followed in his footsteps until all was revealed.”

  “Never let him out of your sight,” Lene intoned, as if it were a moral axiom.

  “But it occurred to me that Morvin might recognise me. Events have proved that someone has been providing him with precise information about everything to do with Pendragon House—just the sort of thing you would expect from a systematic murderer. We decided to disguise ourselves, myself so as not to be recognised, and Lene to fit in with me.”

  “Indian costume was best,” Lene interjected, “because in London it doesn’t stand out, it really does change your appearance—and it’s nice and colourful. I’ve a lot of Indian friends, male and female, so it wasn’t difficult to borrow what we needed.”

  “Anyway, we put on our stunning disguises, took up position outside Morvin’s house, and when a man came out looking like what we expected from Seton’s description, we followed him by taxi and on foot. First he went to Grosvenor House, then on to your hotel. He hung around there for quite some time, and spoke to a man in Highland costume—obviously the one who took the manuscript—and then went to a chemical works in Southwark. After that he had lunch at the Elephant and Castle, as we did. From there he went all over the place, but nothing of interest happened. In the afternoon he went back for tea in the lounge of Grosvenor House, with a rather good-looking lady.”

  “She was nothing special, just very expensively dressed,” Lene remarked, rather warmly.

  “I hope you had a good look at her,” I said. “It was probably Mrs Roscoe.”

  “So that’s my uncle’s taste … ” said Osborne, and paused for thought. His face gave no indication whether he shared it.

  “A really repulsive woman,” said Lene. “How could anyone have her hair that vulgar reddish-blond colour?”

  “So that’s how we got to the Café Royal. You can imagine my surprise when I saw Morvin approach you. He was right about one thing. If we hadn’t overheard that conversation, appearances would certainly have been against you. But we caught every word.”

  “And that was enough to complete your mission,” I retorted. “Now you and I both know that Mrs Roscoe was a party to Maloney’s expedition. I also know it from when we drove together to Chester. Did you hear what Morvin promised me? Where would he get the money for all that if he didn’t have access to the Roscoe millions? Besides, as you will have gathered from our conversation, I spent so
me time in her company. Like Morvin, she tried repeatedly to persuade me to give evidence. I’ve no doubt that if we tell all this to the Earl he’ll see that she certainly isn’t innocent, but a real threat to his life.”

  “Do you know, I’m not so sure of that. My uncle is much cleverer than we are, and a clever man always manages to find reasons for what his instincts dictate. You might tell him all this and he’d still give you ‘proof’—as broad as daylight to him—that she’s innocent. Besides … I don’t know … if I were you I certainly wouldn’t mention the intimate relations you had with Mrs Roscoe. Given his past—and possibly still current—feelings, it wouldn’t be very tactful.”

  “That’s very true. But what should we do next? There’s no time to lose. After today’s setback Morvin will almost certainly resort to desperate measures. I think we are in some danger, all three of us.”

  “Well, I’m not scared. We’ll use another disguise tomorrow. But you should get straight back to Llanvygan and wait there for developments. Don’t tell the Earl any more than the simple facts, the theft and recovery of the manuscript, not forgetting my manifold merits. We’ll prowl around London for a day or two, this time after Mrs Roscoe. Perhaps we’ll have the same fantastic luck as we did today.”

  “Never let her out of your sight,” Lene chanted again.

  Cows were grazing in the meadows, and the English ladies in my compartment were being served tea on trays as we trundled by. I leant back and once again perused du Fresnoy’s Memoirs, the recovery of which had been such an adventure.

  Lenglet du Fresnoy led a busy life. A defrocked clergyman, he was one of those unsatisfactory types who later came to be known as ‘seekers’. In his day, however, ‘seekers’ did not grow beards and question the existence of God. Fresnoy’s quest was for the secret of making gold and he was the author of a book on the history of alchemy which is still in use today.

  His memoirs reveal the intellectual life of the second half of the eighteenth century in all its (for me) charming confusion. These were the years when people tried to create gold and produced the iron of the industrial revolution: a mental climate woven from the threads of Freemason quackery and theatrical philanthropy, the world familiar to us from The Magic Flute and Dumas’ biography of Cagliostro. The manuscript advanced deeply religious, ethical and humanitarian ideas side by side with anecdotes that even today would be considered bawdy, in which Casanova himself, the truest son of the century, makes a fleeting appearance.