“Dear old Peter,” he said, giving me a shadow of his normally effervescent smile, “please don’t act like an English nanny, and take that worried look off your face. I am not sickening for anything. It’s just that I have had rather a hard time these last few weeks and I’m suffering from reaction. However, it’s all over now, thank God. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner, but before then I would be grateful if I could have a bath, my dear chap.”
“Of course,” I said immediately, and went to ask Mrs. Manning to draw a bath for my friend and to take his baggage up to the guest room.
He went upstairs to bathe and change, and very shortly I followed him. Both my bedroom and the guest room each had its own bathroom, for there was sufficient room on that floor to allow this little luxury. I was just about to start undressing in order to start my own ablutions when I was startled by a loud moaning cry, almost a strangled scream, followed by a crash of breaking glass which appeared to emanate from Gideon’s bathroom. I hastened across the narrow landing and tapped on his door.
“Gideon?” I called, “Gideon, are you alright . . . can I come in?”
There was no reply and so, greatly agitated, I entered the room. I found my friend in his bathroom, bent over the basin and holding on to it for support, his face the ghastly white of cheese, sweat streaming down it. The big mirror over the basin had been shattered and the fragments, together with a broken bottle of what looked like shampoo, littered the basin and the floor around.
“He did it . . . he did it . . . he did it . . .” muttered Gideon to himself, swaying, clutching hold of the basin. He seemed oblivious of my presence. I seized him by the arm and helped him into the bedroom, where I made him lie down on the bed and called down the stairs for Mrs. Manning to bring up some brandy and look sharp about it.
When I went back into the room, Gideon was looking a little better, but he was lying there with his eyes closed, taking deep shuddering breaths like a man who has just run a gruelling race. When he heard me approach the bed, he opened his eyes and gave me a ghastly smile.
“My dear Peter,” he said, “I do apologize . . . so stupid of me . . . I suddenly felt faint . . . I think it must be the journey and lack of food, plus your excellent wine . . . I fear I fell forward with that bottle in my hand and shattered your beautiful mirror . . . I’m so sorry . . . of course, I will replace it.”
I told him, quite brusquely, not to be so silly, and when Mrs. Manning came panting up the stairs with the brandy, I forced him to take some in spite of his protests. While he was drinking it, Mrs. Manning cleaned up the mess in the bathroom.
“Ah. That’s better,” said Gideon at last. “I feel quite revived now. All I want is a nice relaxing bath and I shall be a new man.”
I felt that he ought to have his food in bed, but he would not hear of it, and when he descended to the dining room half an hour later I must say he did look better and much more relaxed. He laughed and joked with Mrs. Manning as she served us and complimented her lavishly on her cooking, swearing that he would get rid of his own chef and kidnap Mrs. Manning and take her to his château in France to cook for him. Mrs. Manning was enchanted by him, as indeed she always was, but I could see that it cost him some effort to be so charming and jovial. When at last we had finished the sweet and cheese and Mrs. Manning had put the decanter of port on the table and, saying goodnight, had left us, Gideon accepted a cigar, lighted it, and leant back in his chair and smiled at me through the smoke.
“Now, Peter,” he said, “I can tell you something of what’s been happening.”
“I am most anxious to know what it is that has brought you to this low ebb, my friend,” I said seriously.
He felt in his pocket and produced from it a large iron key with heavy teeth and an ornate butt. He threw it on the table, where it fell with a heavy thud. “This was one of the causes of the trouble,” he said, staring at it moodily, “the key to life and death, as you might say.”
“I don’t understand you,” I said, puzzled.
“Because of this key I was nearly arrested for murder,” said Gideon with a smile.
“Murder? You?” I said, aghast. “But how can that possibly be?”
Gideon took a sip of port and settled himself back in his chair. “About two months ago,” he said, “I got a letter from my uncle asking me to go and see him. This I did, with considerable reluctance as you may imagine for you know what my opinion of him was. Well, to cut a long story short, there were certain things he wanted me to do . . . er . . . family matters . . . which I refused to do. He flew into a rage and we quarrelled furiously. I am afraid that I left him in no doubt as to what I thought of him, and the servants heard us quarrel. I left his house and continued on my way to Marseilles to catch a boat for Morocco where I was going for a tour. Two days later my uncle was murdered.”
“So that’s why you put ‘uncle put to death’ in your telegram,” I said. “I wondered.”
“He had been put to death, and in the most mysterious circumstances,” said Gideon. “He was found in an empty attic at the top of the house which contained nothing but a large broken mirror. He was a hideous mess, his clothes torn off, his throat and body savaged as if by a mad dog. There was blood everywhere. I had to identify the body. It was not a pleasant task, for his face had been so badly mauled that it was almost unrecognizable.” He paused and took another sip of port. Presently he went on. “But the curious thing about all this was that the attic was locked, locked on the inside with that key.”
“But how could that be?” I asked, bewildered. “How did his assailant leave the room?”
“That’s exactly what the police wanted to know,” said Gideon dryly. “As you know, the French police are very efficient but lacking in imagination. Their logic worked something like this: I was the one who stood to gain by my uncle’s death because I inherit the family fortune and his library and several extensive farms dotted about all over France. So as I was the one who stood to gain, enfin, I must be the one who committed murder.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” I broke in indignantly.
“Not to a policeman,” said Gideon, “especially when they heard that at my last meeting with my uncle we had quarrelled bitterly, and one of the things the servants heard me saying to him was that I wished he would drop dead and thus leave the world a cleaner place.”
“But in the heat of a quarrel one is liable to say anything,” I protested. “Everyone knows that . . . And how did they suggest you killed your uncle and then left the room locked on the inside?”
“Oh, it was possible, quite possible,” said Gideon. “With a pair of long-nosed, very slender pliers, it could be done, but it would undoubtedly have left marks on the end of the key, and as you can see it’s unmarked. The real problem was that at first I had no alibi. I had gone down to Marseilles, and as I had cut my visit to my uncle short, I was too early for my ship. I booked into a small hotel and enjoyed myself for those few days in exploring the port. I knew no one there so, naturally, there was no one to vouch for my movements. As you can imagine, it took time to assemble all the porters, maids, maîtres d’hotels, restaurant owners, hotel managers and so on and, through their testimony, prove to the police that I was, in fact, in Marseilles and minding my own business when my uncle was killed. It has taken me the last six weeks to do it, and it has been extremely exhausting.”
“Why didn’t you telegraph me?” I asked. “I could have come and at least have kept you company.”
“You are very kind, Peter, but I did not want to embroil my friends in such a sordid mess. Besides, I knew that if all went well and the police released me (which they eventually did after much protest), I should want your help on something appertaining to this.”
“Anything I can do,” I said. “You know you have only to ask, my dear fellow.”
“Well, as I told you, I spent my youth under my uncle’s care, and after that experience I grew to loathe his house and everything about it. Now, with this latest thi
ng, I really feel I cannot set foot in that place again. I am not exaggerating but I seriously think that if I were to go there and stay I should become seriously ill.”
“I agree,” I said firmly. “On no account must you even contemplate such a step.”
“Well, the furniture and the house I can, of course, get valued and sold by a Paris firm; that is simple. But the most valuable thing in the house is, of course, the library. And this is where you come in, Peter. Would you be willing to go down and catalogue and value the books for me, and then I can arrange for them to be stored until I can build an extension to my library to house them?”
“Of course I will,” I said, “with the greatest of pleasure. You just tell me when you want me to come.”
“I shall not be with you; you’ll be quite alone,” Gideon warned.
“I am a solitary creature, as I have told you.” I laughed. “And as long as I have a supply of books to amuse me I shall get along splendidly; don’t worry.”
“I would like it done as soon as possible,” said Gideon, “so that I may get rid of the house. How soon could you come down?”
I consulted my diary and found that, fortunately, I was coming up to a rather slack period. “How about the end of next week?” I asked.
Gideon’s face lit up. “So soon?” he said delightedly. “That would be splendid. I could meet you at the station at Fontaine next Friday. Would that be alright?”
“Perfectly alright,” I said, “and I will soon have the books sorted out for you. Now, another glass of port and then you must away to bed.”
“My dear Peter, what a loss you are to Harley Street,” joked Gideon, but he took my advice.
Twice during the night I awakened, thinking that I heard him cry out, but after listening for a while and finding all was quiet, I concluded that it was just my imagination. The following morning he left for France and I started making my preparations to follow him, packing sufficient things for a prolonged stay at his late uncle’s house.
The whole of Europe was in the grip of an icy winter and it was certainly not the weather to travel in. Indeed, no one but Gideon could have got me to leave home in such weather. Crossing the Channel was a nightmare, and I felt so sick on arrival in Paris that I could not do more than swallow a little broth and go straight to bed. On the following day it was icy cold, with a bitter wind, grey skies and driving veils of rain that stung one’s face. Eventually, I reached the station and boarded the train for what seemed an interminable journey, during which I had to change and wait at more and more inhospitable stations, until I was so numbed with cold I could hardly think straight. All the rivers wore a rim of lacy ice along their shores, and the ponds and lakes turned blank frozen eyes to the steel grey sky.
At length, the local train I had changed to dragged itself, grimy and puffing, into the station of Fontaine and I disembarked and made my way with my luggage to the tiny booking office and minute waiting room. Here, to my relief, I found that there was an old-fashioned, pot-bellied stove stuffed with chestnut roots and glowing almost red hot. I piled my luggage in the corner and spent some time thawing myself out, for the heating on the train had been minimal. There was no sign of Gideon.
Presently, warmed by the fire and a nip of brandy I had taken from my travelling flask, I began to feel better. But half an hour later I began to worry about Gideon’s absence. I went out onto the platform and discovered that the grey sky seemed to have moved closer to the earth and a few snowflakes were starting to fall, huge lacy ones the size of a half-crown, that augured a snowstorm of considerable dimensions in the not-too-distant future. I was just wondering if I should try walking to the village when I heard the clop of hooves and made out a dogcart coming along the road, driven by Gideon muffled up in a glossy fur coat and wearing an astrakhan hat.
“I’m so very sorry, Peter, for keeping you waiting like this,” he said, wringing my hand, “but we seem to have one catastrophe after another. Come, let me help you with your bags and I will tell you all about it as we drive.”
We collected my baggage, bundled it into the dogcart, and then I climbed up onto the box alongside Gideon and covered myself thankfully with the thick fur rug he had brought. He turned the horse, cracked his whip and we went bowling down the snowflakes which were now falling quite fast. The wind whipped our faces and made our eyes water, but still Gideon kept the horse at a fast trot.
“I am anxious to get there before the snowstorm really starts,” he said. “That is why I am going at this uncivilized pace. Once these snowstorms start up here they can be very severe. One can even get snowed in for days at a time.”
“It is certainly becoming a grim winter,” I said.
“The worst we’ve had here for fifty years,” said Gideon.
He came to the village and Gideon was silent as he guided his horse through the narrow, deserted streets, already white with settling snow. Occasionally a dog would run out of an alley and run barking alongside us for a way, but otherwise there was no sign of life and the village could have been deserted for all evidence to the contrary.
“I am afraid that once again, my dear Peter, I shall have to trespass upon your good nature,” said Gideon, smiling at me, his hat and his eyebrows white with snow. “Sooner or later my demands on our friendship will exhaust your patience.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Just tell me what the problem is.”
“Well,” said Gideon, “I was to leave you in charge of François and his wife, who were my uncle’s servants. Unfortunately, when I went to the house this morning I found that François’s wife, Marie, had slipped on the icy front steps and had fallen some thirty feet onto the rocks and broken her legs. They are, I’m afraid, splintered very badly, and I really don’t hold out much hope for their being saved.”
“Poor woman, how dreadful,” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” Gideon continued. “Of course, François was nearly frantic when I got there, and so there was nothing for it but to drive them both to the hospital in Milau, which took me over two hours, hence the reason I was late meeting you.”
“That doesn’t matter at all,” I said. “Of course you had to drive them to the hospital.”
“Yes, but it creates another problem as well,” said Gideon. “You see, none of the villagers liked my uncle, and François and Marie were the only couple who would work for him. So with both of them in Milau, there is no one to look after you, at least for two or three days until François comes back.”
“My dear chap, don’t let that worry you.” I laughed. “I am quite used to fending for myself, I do assure you. If I have food and wine and a fire I will be very well found I promise you.”
“Oh, you’ll have all that,” said Gideon. “The larder is well stocked, and down in the game room there is a haunch of venison, half a wild boar, some pheasants and partridge, and a few brace of wild duck. There is wine aplenty, since my uncle kept quite a good cellar, and the cellar is full of chestnut roots and pine logs, so you will be warm. You will also have for company the animals.”
“Animals, what animals?” I asked, curious.
“A small dog called Agrippa,” said Gideon, laughing, “a very large and idiotic cat called Clair de Lune, or Clair for short, a whole cage full of canaries and various finches, and an extremely old parrot called Octavius.”
“A positive menagerie,” I exclaimed. “It’s a good thing that I like animals.”
“Seriously, Peter,” said Gideon, giving me one of his very penetrating looks, “are you sure you will be alright? It seems a terrible imposition to me.”
“Nonsense,” I said heartily. “What are friends for?”
The snow was now coming down with a vengeance and we could see only a yard or two beyond the horse’s ears, so dense were the whirling clouds of huge flakes. We had now entered one of the many tributary gorges that led into the Gorge du Tarn proper. On our left the brown and black cliffs, dappled with patches of snow on sundry crevices and ledges, loomed over us, in places ac
tually overhanging the narrow road. On our right the ground dropped away, almost sheer, five or six hundred feet into the gorge below where, through the windblown curtains of snow, one could catch occasional glimpses of the green river, its tumbled rocks snow-wigged, their edges crusted with ice. The road was rough, snow and water worn, and in places covered with a sheet of ice that made the horse slip and stumble and slowed our progress. Once a small avalanche of snow slid down the cliff face with a hissing sound and thumped onto the road in front of us, making the horse shy so badly that Gideon had to fight to keep control, and for several hair-raising minutes I feared that we, the dogcart and the terrified horse might slide over the edge of the gorge and plunge down into the river below. But eventually Gideon got it under control and we crawled along our way.
At length the gorge widened a little, and presently we rounded a corner and there before us was the strange bulk of Gideon’s uncle’s house. It was a very extraordinary edifice and I feel I should describe it in some detail. To begin with, the whole thing was perched up on top of a massive rock that protruded from the river far below so that it formed what could only be described as an island, shaped not unlike an isosceles triangle, with the house on top. It was connected to the road by a massive and very old stone bridge. The tall outside walls of the house fell straight down to the rocks and river below, but as we crossed the bridge and drove under the huge arch, guarded by thick oak doors, we found that the house was built round a large center courtyard, cobblestoned and with a pond with a fountain in the middle. This last depicted a dolphin held up by cherubs, the whole thing polished with ice and with icicles hanging from it. All the many windows that looked down into the court were shuttered with a fringe of huge icicles hanging from every cornice. Between the windows were monstrous gargoyles depicting various forms of animal life, both known and unknown to science, each one seeming more malign than the last and their appearance not improved by the ice and snow that blurred their outlines so that they seemed to be peering at you from some snowy ambush. As Gideon drew the horse to a standstill by the steps that led to the front door, we could hear the barking of the dog inside. My friend opened the front door with a large rusty key and immediately the dog tumbled out, barking vociferously and wagging its tail with pleasure. The large black-and-white cat was more circumspect and did not deign to come out into the snow but merely stood, arching its back and mewing, in the doorway. Gideon helped me carry my bags into the large marble hall, where a handsome staircase led to the upper floors of the house. All the pictures, mirrors and furniture were covered with dust sheets.
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