The Pendragon Legend

by Antal Szerb

  Eventually the Inquisition caught up with him. They excommunicated him as a follower of Satan and handed him over to a secular court, which sentenced him to death.

  He repented his sins and begged the people, on his knees, to forgive him his crimes. And the wonderful people of that time pardoned their children’s murderer. Sobbing and wailing, they accompanied him to the scaffold and implored God to have mercy on his soul …

  “The gentleman is here,” said the porter. “The one who was looking for you.”

  I made my way quickly into the foyer.

  A sharp-eyed man, looking like a detective, was waiting for me.

  “Are you János Bátky?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “Excuse me, but I must ask for some proof of identity. The matter is sufficiently serious to oblige caution. Mr Seton specifically asked … ”

  “As you wish,” I replied, and showed him the photograph in my passport. All foreigners have to carry one in Britain.

  “Thank you. You are aware that the Hon Osborne Pendragon has been abducted by James Morvin and his accomplices. Miss Kretzsch gave you this information.”

  “She did.”

  “We’ve been looking for him since yesterday afternoon, on Mr Seton’s instructions. Events have played into our hands, and since last night we’ve had a pretty good idea where he might be. Morvin owns a chemical works in Southwark. From remarks let slip by one of his workmen we think they’re hiding him there. We can force an entry without attracting attention this morning, as it’s closed on Sundays. Mr Seton would very much like you to accompany us. This is obviously going to end up in court, and he will need witnesses. He and Miss Kretzsch are already in Southwark, waiting for you. Are you prepared to join us?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then perhaps we should be on our way.”

  We climbed into a taxi and were driven to the south bank, then raced through the squalor of Southwark between endless factory buildings. The streets were deserted. It was a Sunday, in England.

  We stopped in a little backstreet. We stepped out and four men came up to us. A tall gentleman with a silver moustache and a bowler hat held out his hand.

  “Seton.”

  “I’m Bátky.”

  “Do you have a revolver? Then we’re ready.”

  “Yes. Excuse me … Where is Miss Kretzsch?”

  “She’ll be here in a moment. But I think we should start.”

  We came to a wooden fence surrounding one of the smaller factories. The gate was unlocked, and we entered the yard.

  The first building was an office. The man I had come with, the one who looked like a detective, opened the door with a master key. The office area consisted of three rooms. None of them yielded anything of interest.

  “He must be in one of the warehouses,” said Seton.

  One of these had a particularly grim exterior, massive and windowless. From the very first glance it aroused my suspicion. I said as much to Seton.

  “Right. We’ll do this one first. Sheridan, go and stand guard by the gate.”

  There was a padlock on the door. The detective-type picked up a stout plank and, with an impressive swing, smashed it off. Then he opened the door with a master key.

  “After you,” I gestured politely to Seton.

  “You first,” he replied.

  Then, dispensing with any further courtesy, they grabbed me and pushed me inside.

  I rolled down some steps. The big door banged shut behind me.

  Had I broken any bones?

  But there wasn’t time to investigate. From out of a corner two huge negroes came rushing at me. They seized me and began to throttle me.

  “Mr Seton! Mr Seton!” I yelled.

  The negroes let go and stared at me, their white teeth gleaming.

  “You too?” they shouted, and they started to laugh.

  It was Osborne and Lene.

  “What do you mean, ‘me too’?”

  “They got you as well.”

  I still hadn’t grasped it.

  “But … but … I came here with Seton.”

  “Seton? What did he look like?”

  “Nice-looking chap, getting on a bit. Silver moustache.”

  “Splendid. Seton never had a moustache in his life,” said Osborne.

  “But how did you get here? Why did you leave Llanvygan?”

  “Why? Because Lene wired to say you’d been abducted and that I should come immediately.”

  “I what?” she choked. “I’ve been sitting in this dump since yesterday afternoon discussing the finer points of sociology with Osborne. But it’s impossible to get through to him. And all this time I’m fainting with hunger.”

  “Do you think … they intend starving us to death?”

  “Looks like it. All they’ve done is throw in a few ham and cheese sandwiches, and a couple of apples—as if we were circus bears or something. What do they think I am?”

  “But how did you get here?” I asked.

  “Very simple,” said Osborne. “As per our programme, the day after you left we disguised ourselves like this and followed Mrs Roscoe. We didn’t have much luck at the start. Mrs Roscoe spent the whole day doing whatever she does with her life. But yesterday, first thing in the morning, she came here. We’d seen Morvin here once before. When she went inside Lene had the bright idea of following her in. We’d pretend we were looking for work and take the opportunity to have a look around.”

  “It was a brilliant idea,” Lene chipped in. “The instant we stepped through the gate ten guys rushed at us and threw us in this cellar. I didn’t even have time to say Heil Hitler. We’ve been sitting here ever since.”

  “And that’s it,” said Osborne. “The profession of detective is not without its hazards.”

  “And now you’re here as well,” Lene added. “These people seem to be very thorough.”

  “What do they want?”

  “It’s a little matter of death by starvation. My God, when I think of all the sauerkraut in Schmidt’s … ”

  “Or perhaps they intend blackmailing my uncle,” said Osborne.

  We sat in thoughtful silence.

  “In all the books I’ve read,” I remarked, “when it gets to this point the captives try to think of ways of escape.”

  “So let’s try to think.”

  “The classic formulae never quite apply,” Osborne sighed. “We can’t tunnel out through the wall with our bare fingernails. We’re underground.”

  “Perhaps we could force the door?” suggested Lene.

  “Doesn’t seem likely.”

  For a long time we talked and talked. My companions were very lethargic. For all their resolute cheerfulness, the confinement seemed to have sapped their energy. It was already the lunch hour. By the time night fell, I thought, even the hotel fare would be something to rejoice over. And above all, how would I cope without my cup of tea?

  “We should try the lock,” I insisted. “I may not know much about the triumph of modern technology, but I’ve read a lot about old English ironwork. Maybe I’ll think of something.”

  I stood up and tentatively pushed the handle down.

  The door opened. It hadn’t been locked.

  This was not the solution I had expected. For some minutes I stood in the open doorway gasping with surprise.

  Then we drew our revolvers and dashed out into the yard.

  We looked to the right, then to the left. Not a soul anywhere. We raced over to the fence, pulled the gate open and were in the street. At this point we noticed a large sign hanging on the gate:

  TO LET

  But there was no time to ponder this new mystery. At the first telephone box we summoned a taxi and drove to the Pendragon mansion in Eaton Square. Lene and Osborne washed their colourful disguises off, and we went out to dinner.

  Lene resisted Osborne’s invitation to the Ritz.

  “Impossible. You’ll see why.”

  We went instead to a little place in
Soho. No sooner had we finished the dessert than she ordered another bowl of soup, and followed it with a meat dish. In all, she disposed of two complete meals, swiftly and in total silence. Then she leant back in her chair.

  “Now, let’s do some thinking.”

  We started thinking.

  “The real puzzle isn’t that they abducted us,” Osborne began systematically, “but that they let us go. Why did they do that? Or, why did they let us go so soon after they’d caught us?”

  “Obviously, because the reason for keeping us no longer applied,” I suggested. “So what follows from that? That something occurred while we were in there.”

  A new kind of unease flooded over me. Who knows what might have happened to the Earl, or perhaps Cynthia … ?

  “I think we should phone Llanvygan at once.”

  We paid the bill and left.

  As we stood waiting in the Post Office for a long-distance connection, Lene suddenly smacked her forehead.

  “It’s so simple. They captured us because they didn’t want us following them. They kept us out of the way so that we’d lose the trail.”

  It rang true. Meanwhile Llanvygan had come on line, and Osborne was speaking. We waited in mounting anxiety for him to emerge from the booth.

  “I spoke to Rogers. My uncle is fine. He’s in his laboratory and didn’t want to come to the phone. However … ”

  “Well?”

  “Cynthia left yesterday afternoon. She went by car, taking a suitcase. She hasn’t come back. Rogers has no idea where she went. There was a telegram.”

  My heart sank. A telegram. She too … Yes, she too must have been ensnared with a piece of fictitious news. And here was I, her sworn champion, with her favour in my shield, helpless.

  Lene stroked my head.

  “Poor little Doctor. But don’t fall apart just yet. Look … assuming that like us she was lured away by Morvin’s lot, it’s unlikely she’s come to any harm either. She’s got the least reason for anything to happen to her.”

  “Well,” said Osborne. “Of the many possibilities inherent in the universe, only one is relevant right now. We must go to Grosvenor House and see what Mrs Roscoe is up to.”

  This made sense, and we went straight there. The Delage, emblazoned with the Pendragon coat of arms, worked its usual effect. We were received with the greatest deference.

  Osborne went up to the reception counter and called out to one of the distinguished-looking gentlemen gathered behind it:

  “Mrs Roscoe?”

  “Mrs Roscoe left yesterday.”

  “Oh, dear. Where was she going?”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  And he began thumbing through a book.

  But at that point an even more imposing dignitary pushed him roughly aside and snarled:

  “Mrs Roscoe did not say where she was going.”

  She had obviously left her instructions.

  We went out, and carried on walking down Park Lane, full of nervous excitement. A procession of limousines glided past us, carrying fairytale princesses. Oh, London … (But I’m writing this ‘Oh London’ bit now: I didn’t have time for it then.)

  Suddenly Lene stopped in her tracks and whooped: “Hoi-hoi!”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve got it. Listen. We’ve worked out why Osborne and I were held—so that we couldn’t follow them. But that doesn’t explain why the Doctor and Cynthia were lured away from Llanvygan, assuming of course it was Morvin who wired her. The connection is this: we were detained to stop us realising that they were going, and you were called away to stop you seeing them arrive. They must have been preparing to leave for Llanvygan, and they wanted to find the Earl there without you present.”

  “That’s awful!”

  “It isn’t awful yet. Half an hour ago the Earl was alive and well and working in his laboratory. I like people who work in laboratories …but never mind that. If we leave now we can get there before midnight.”

  It seemed an excellent idea. We jumped in the Delage and set out for the west. We were there by eleven thirty.

  The staff were all fast asleep. After a great deal of knocking we were finally let in. We asked Rogers to let the Earl know of our arrival.

  “I’m very sorry, but that’s impossible,” he replied. “His Lordship took a sedative before going to bed and gave strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. I really am very sorry, but you must please understand, I would be risking my position here … ”

  We knew his stubbornness well, and resigned ourselves to the fact that we would not see the Earl before the morning.

  A sudden thought occurred to Osborne, and he turned to Rogers:

  “I say … did anyone call on His Lordship while I was away?”

  “Only the Reverend Dafyd Jones.”

  “No one else?”

  “No, sir.”

  I was back in my historic bed (Queen Anne, I believe). With time, this room had come to seem like home. A not entirely restful home. Somewhere above my head the giant axolotls swam. A few yards from my window stood the balcony Maloney had fallen from. And there was the vivid memory of the night rider circling the house with his flaming torch. It was home to me, as a trench would be to a soldier. I pulled my head down under the blanket.

  There was a knock at the door and Osborne entered.

  “Forgive me. Rogers was lying. I saw it at once, the way his whiskers kept twitching.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I woke Griffith and gave him a grilling. It isn’t true that no one’s been to visit. A woman came, twice, in a car. From the description it’s obviously Mrs Roscoe. She first appeared in the morning, but he was out. He hadn’t slept here that night. And he was out the whole day. She left a message to say she’d be back in the evening. And—can you imagine?—she did come back, and he refused to see her.”

  “He refused to see her? But that’s marvellous. So the danger’s over. Or rather … ”

  “Or rather, you can’t be so sure. They’re very resourceful, and it won’t be easy to talk them out of their little schemes. You could even call them stubborn. But at least we’re here now. We’ll take care of him. Lene has a gift for looking after people.”

  We wished each other a restful night.

  My night wasn’t particularly peaceful. I kept seeing Cynthia, exposed to a thousand dangers, now in the clutches of Morvin’s gang, now among the axolotls.

  The next morning the Earl joined us at breakfast. Lene was late. While we waited for her we brought the Earl up to date on what had been happening. He listened without interest: something else seemed to be preying on his mind. I thought of the stolen child, and an oppressive sadness, mingled with a paralysing sense of fear, descended on me.

  “Uncle,” Osborne asked, “where did Cynthia go?”

  “Cynthia?” he replied, distractedly. “She went to London. Your aunt, the Duchess of Warwick, wired to say she was unwell and would like Cynthia to nurse her. Her gout, I should imagine … ”

  Osborne leapt to his feet.

  “I’ll ring Aunt Doris. I’m afraid it’s another of these fictions … ”

  And off he went.

  A this point Lene entered. Her apparel was in interestingly bad taste, the sort of thing that would go down well in Berlin.

  The Earls’ greeting was a mixture of obliging kindness and extreme detachment. She didn’t like it.

  “You remind me so much of my poor uncle Otto,” she remarked.

  “I do?”

  “Absolutely. He also studied the flies on the wall when speaking to you. I can’t stand it if someone doesn’t look me in the eye when he addresses me.”

  The Earl stared at her in astonishment.

  “That’s better. You know, you have a really intelligent face. Your family all seem to be fairly bright. I always thought old families were full of idiots.”

  “Osborne will show you round the park,” he replied. “It’s rather pretty.�
� And he buried himself in his tea.

  Osborne returned, ashen-faced.

  “Trouble,” he announced. “Aunt Doris is in perfect health.”

  “God bless her,” Lene added.

  “Hang on a second. Aunt Doris says the telegram must be in error. Cynthia got there the night before last, slept there, and left, quite early the next morning, saying she’d be back. That was yesterday. She hasn’t been seen since.”

  I glanced at the Earl. He was stroking his forehead.

  “Where could she be?” he asked in a completely neutral voice. He seemed overwhelmed by a grief so profound that nothing new could touch him.

  We all felt desperate and helpless. Even Lene was unable to drum up her usual reassuring indelicacy.

  Osborne took her out to show her the park. I was pacing up and down the terrace, when the Rev. Dafyd Jones appeared.

  “Oh, Doctor, I am so happy to find you. You lead such a spiritual life. I must speak to you whatever the cost.”

  In silence, his face anxious as ever, he dragged me off to a remote section of the park.

  “What do you make of it all?” he whispered, when we were out of sight of the castle. “Is it not unspeakably dreadful?”

  “It is dreadful,” I replied. “We haven’t the slightest idea where she might be.”

  “But there was no other way, sir. It was inevitable. I told you, did I not, that no good would come of it. All these experiments.”

  “But what are the experiments to do with Miss Cynthia?”

  The vicar wasn’t listening.

  “Because that’s the way it is. First with animals. Axolotls,” he shuddered. “Then people.”

  “What exactly are you talking about?”

  “Why, about the child he abducted in Abersych.”

  “Oh yes, the child … Who do you say abducted him?”

  “The Earl,” he said, in a fierce whisper.

  “Never. Why would the Earl do a thing like that?”

  “To experiment, sir. To experiment. To kill him, and then revive him. He’s grown tired of mere animals.”