There was a moment when Lord Bruton could not command the power of speech, so horrified was he by the sights before him. And it was then that Ellery appeared at his elbow with a glass of port on a silver tray. His Lordship’s initial reaction was to knock both butler and drink roughly away and scream that this Falstaffian over-indulgence in spirits was a thing not warranted in such a respectful house. But there was a light in the butler’s eye which was so ingratiating and calming, that almost against his better judgement, His Lordship took the glass and drank it down. He told himself it was for fortification. That he needed it to better steady his nerve and steady his hand before he beat the bones of all in front of him.
Except, after he’d quaffed that sweet liquid, his rage quelled with remarkable and unprecedented swiftness. He had arrived determined to yell, to cause physical violence to his brother and all who accompanied him, and then force his house back into proper order. But after that one glass of port he decided to just take another and a calm settled over him. He actually threw his arm around Sir Marmaduke and the buxom, slatternly strumpet and resolved on the spur to spend some time convivially in the company of his younger brother. Even though it went strongly against his nature to do anything with his brother or to indulge too freely away from his club and his cohorts. Ellery seemed to read this change of mood perfectly, as there was a glass ready for both Lord Bruton and Sir Marmaduke before either one of them had chance to utter another word.
What happened over the next few days, or even how many days His Lordship spent at Bruton Hall, were points on which he was sadly unclear. It seems that he joined his brother in dissipation and debauchery. Of course this was most out of character for His Lordship, who had never so openly disgraced himself in front of the servants. Lord Bruton knew that he was one of nature’s betters and always liked to demonstrate the fact. So it seems incredible that he found himself waking up in the hallway with the new housekeeper standing over him laughing. That was not the least of it. Later he told of decadent feasts at which ladies and gentlemen ate in states of undress. More alarmingly, he confessed that young wenches were brought in from the village for he and his brother both to ravish, and that the whole household watched and cheered like bear-baiters as they fornicated.
It seems there wasn’t much time for consideration, that His Lordship rarely had opportunity to ponder what was happening or why he was acting in such an unaccountable fashion. Physical pleasure was all his mind concentrated upon. Of course it was no surprise that Sir Marmaduke was so easily tipped into louche behaviour with not the merest thought to social standing; but for Lord Bruton to follow him was quite astounding.
Eventually, His Lordship did have to tear himself away from Bruton Hall. Affairs of finance needed attending to. It was Ellery who made the import of this clear to him, bills of fare were outstanding and Lord Bruton had to speak to his solicitor to release monies. It was for the best for the excellent name of Bruton that these matters were handled before any bailiffs were summoned.
(That was richness itself. The man, Ellery, referencing the good name of the family, when he had apparently done nothing the last few weeks but hasten it towards ultimate disgrace. A chastised Lord Bruton told us later though that he didn’t react with anger when Ellery used that tool to reputational leverage, to his mortification he merely giggled and then belched.)
It was a wrench, Lord Bruton said, to tear himself away from the den of depravity which had risen in his ancestral home. Such was his intoxication though, that he was still laughing with glee as his coach rode off. He had said farewell in a decidedly cheerful tone, squeezed the nearly naked breech of a gigantic Latina whore who had allegedly been brought down all the way from Bristol, and promised all in the house that he would return soon.
It was only when he was safely ensconced in his London residence that his right self somehow revived. The desperate torments of indescribable shame lashed his person. He lay awake, sorting remorsefully through his recent memories and trying to make believe that they were scenes from some unaccountable nightmare the like of which he had never endured. But he knew the truth of the situation, he knew that these were genuine memories that he could reach out and touch, before pulling back in utter revulsion. By morning, his intense embarrassment had metamorphosed to uncontainable anger at this complete loss of both personal and family dignity. His thoughts spun like a top, trying to determine who was responsible, who he should chastise, and the main person who came to mind was Ellery.
In all of His Lordship’s most recent and most dreadful memories, Ellery was there – a d____d sparkle in his eye which seemed to override all moral objections. It was difficult for Lord Bruton to put into words, but it seemed that each time his inner self rose in righteous rebellion against the appalling behaviour of the house, Ellery was nearby with a glance to calm him again. He thought back to the day the man was first hired, and only then did it truly strike him quite how incongruous a development that had been.
With the outraged horror of clarity, His Lordship began to consider what an insidious presence this Ellery was. It seemed almost like sorcery the way that butler controlled everything within the walls of his family’s grand old house. With one ingratiating glance he seemed able to stifle any objection a gentleman, or even a man with a fragment of moral fibre, could raise. How did this monster in human form manage to wield such malignant charm? By what demonic magic had this individual – a stranger – taken control of the Bruton’s ancient seat?
The blood of Lord Bruton did truly boil. Hatred swiftly became the primary emotion coursing through his veins. He despised Ellery, this accursed butler and whatever manipulations he used to stage his debauches. Sir Marmaduke too had fallen even further from the good name of Bruton. His Lordship’s anger towards the latter gentleman was exacerbated when he discovered that Sir Marmaduke was sending out invitations to his many friends and lackeys, telling them to join him at Bruton Hall. In bold black and white lettering, brazenly promising them libations and ladies.
The invitees belonged almost exclusively to the aristocracy. Not peers or dukes themselves, lordlings and younger brothers in the main, but still gentlemen who had the ears of those whose opinion mattered. If word was widely disseminated of the terrible, bacchanal happenings in that house, then the family name would be ruined forever. His Lordship would be forced to resign from his clubs, he’d be shunned, left with no option but to travel overseas to escape his shame.
Once again Lord Bruton headed to his childhood home with as much celerity as could be whipped from his horses. As the coach raced he struggled to keep himself still; such was his passion, his fists occasionally committed violence against the other seats.
This time it was Ellery himself who pulled back the front door, that lopsided smile already upon his face. His shoulders were stooped, but in a way that suggested mock subservience rather than anything of the genuine article.
“Ah, Your Lordship,” said the butler. “We were not expecting you.”
“D__n every one of your bones!” cried Lord Bruton as he charged past that odious servant.
However his pace halted as he took in the full view of that grand old hallway. The ancient curtains had been torn from the windows and food was now scattered and rotting across the beautiful marble floor. His Lordship glanced to the portraits of his ancestors, and saw that they’d been vandalised with monocles and fangs. But the most disturbing sight was the colour. The great old oaks which had been left natural since the sixth Lord Bruton had built that marvellous house, were now dripping red. It was a rich and full scarlet, the kind he’d last seen in such quantities on the battlefield. Was it blood? Surely it could not possibly be blood, but mere paint which ghoulishly resembled that vital liquid. The entire hall was coated in the stuff, it dribbled from the rafters, smeared the windows, ran down the paintings.
His Lordship reached the oxygen-starved level of the apoplectic; a fury beyond any which had consumed him before. His face was nearly as red as the hallway, truly
outraged that something so dreadful could happen within Bruton Hall. Words were inadequate for the pounding emotion he felt, and so he stood – as if impotent – eyes goggling at that terrible sight, fists opening and closing as if unsure whether to beat Ellery to death on the spot or instead throttle him.
Ellery caught his eye and persuaded him to follow the butler’s gaze.
His Lordship found his vision arrested by the sight of Emma Willingham.
Emma Willingham was His Lordship’s goddaughter. She was the third child of his close friend, Lord Willingham, and the only one worth a d__m! Lord Bruton was godfather to all three, the other two being sons who had had high hopes placed upon them and swashed to disappointment at nearly every single opportunity. Emma however was rich with life, haughty and daring. She was the joy of her father’s eye and a great favourite of Lord Bruton. If Lady Bruton hadn’t died young (and miserable) without providing any heirs, then she was the kind of daughter he would have hoped for.
Now, this young lady – who was the epitome of all that the best English society offered – sat before him with all modesty surrendered. There was not a stitch of clothing upon her youthful body.
This should have been the final insult. By all that was right, His Lordship should have pummelled Ellery into the marble tile for allowing such a disgrace. He was incontrovertibly convinced that this infernal butler was the evil force behind every outrage, and this was the most appalling atrocity of all. This young girl was beautiful, a lady who did credit to her family. Now she took a position that couldn’t help but destroy her good name, her very future. She was a bare seventeen years old and losing all the respect she deserved.
Except, as it always did in that blackguard Ellery’s presence, the fury abated within Lord Bruton. Only this time it was replaced by that most extraordinary of emotions – pure lust. Suddenly His Lordship felt a phenomenal desire, a state of longing which had never been inspired by his late wife, or by any of the ladies he’d met on his travels. The way Emma looked at him, so arch and seductive, simpering and lubricous, substituted any hint of anger for something much more consuming. He forgot all about Ellery and just staggered forward to his young goddaughter, determined to make her his doxy. It was perfectly apparent there were no thoughts of resistance in her mind. When their bodies came together – his old and corpulent, hers fresh and sensual – it was as if the two of them had never wanted anything more.
Weeks His Lordship spent at Bruton Hall. Together with Emma, together with everyone else. There was a louche and easy spirit to the house. Lord Bruton must have taken temporary leave of his senses as he was happy to share the affections of his goddaughter with his brother, his brother’s friends, with men he’d never seen before. There were other female guests to amuse his fancies – some of them noble-born, some as common as the heel of a shoe: it didn’t matter which was which in his concupiscent nakedness – the wine kept flowing and every erotic game was available. Pleasures previously unimagined and inconceivable to His Lordship were opened up to him. Innumerable sins of the flesh, each of which he enjoyed without abandon, thinking nothing of his debasement.
And of course Ellery was present at all moments, maintaining watch over each fresh carnality. Like the most unprincipled tapster, ensuring each reveller had refreshment, food and a warm body to entertain themselves.
Whereas everyone else – His Lordship, guests, servants, the common trollops who seemed to have been ferried in en masse from London’s least salubrious establishments – were far the worse for grape and grain, Ellery never seemed to partake. The butler was the one sober man at Bruton Hall and everyone was thankful to him for so expertly taking care of their indulgences. The silver tray he carried as he circled Bruton Hall both night and day seemed to be perpetually stocked and ready for every individual’s desire. If one of the guests wanted to chew on an ostrich leg, then Ellery had it ready for them in a moment; if a lady needed a pair of scissors to chop off her locks in wild fancy, then Ellery could provide them almost before the words had left her mouth; while if His Lordship craved a bottle of Napoleon brandy as he bore gleeful witness to the enjoyment around him, then all he had to do was proffer a glance and Ellery would furnish it instantly.
The most shocking example of the butler’s prescience occurred on His Lordship’s last night of that particular visit. Again there were urgent financial matters to be attended to, and again Ellery prompted His Lordship that they should be dealt with as expediently as possible. His Lordship had pursed his lips like a four-year-old when told he was required to leave, but Ellery assured him in every spirit of friendship that existed between a servant and master (friendship? As if under normal circumstance, any mere servant would be able to claim such familiarity with Lord Bruton!) that the revels would be waiting for him when he returned.
That evening Lord Bruton sat back on what he now called – in a joke which made him guffaw like a lower-class drunk at a music hall – his throne. The giant carved oak chair which had once been his father’s at the dining table. Hitherto he had always been too respectful to the memory of the previous Lord to allow anyone to do more than respectfully regard it. But now it had been brought to the ballroom and His Lordship lazed back indolently while assorted coupling proceeded around him. Not a single individual present worried themselves with habiliment any longer. There was no need, they all knew each other so well. The moonlight reflected off the newly red walls of the ballroom as the younger members of the party cavorted gaily around their king.
There was a cousin of the Brutons whom Sir Marmaduke had invited, a fey and feckless sort who His Lordship had rarely given a moment’s time to. As they danced, this cousin was bumped into by lovely young Emma. All were intoxicated and it was clearly a misstep, but this cousin of the Bruton reacted with all his petulance and shoved Emma to the ground. She fell with a yelp.
Of course, she was the absolute favourite of His Lordship. In an instant his only thought was that he should kill that cousin. And there, right beside him was Ellery, holding a silver tray on which lay the finest cleaver of the kitchen.
The appetency and the implement came together so perfectly that His Lordship felt he had little choice. He was propelled forward from his throne and swung the weapon like the young warrior he’d once been. His cousin’s face dissolved into shock and terror, which just reminded Lord Bruton of all the weaknesses he’d ever despised him for.
In the sudden quiet of the ballroom, the cleaver swished through the air three times. Each occasion ending with a dull, wet thud. The cleaver first gashing wide along the young man’s shoulder. He yelped like a hysterical little girl whose delicate toes had been squashed by a clumsy dance partner. But that cry gurgled to nothing as Lord Bruton slashed his neck almost to the young man’s vertebrae. Incredibly this cousin stayed standing, showing far more resolve in death than he ever had in life. Lord Bruton brought him down with a blow that smashed and sunk deep into his left cheek. Breaking his flesh, breaking his skull and popping out his eyeball on impact. So far did the cleaver penetrate, so forcefully did it take position in the fresh cracks of the cousin’s face, that it took two young men to later heave it free.
A sickening clarity returned to Lord Bruton for the briefest flicker of a moment. He was stunned by what he had done. To murder a member of his own family, a man with similar blood in his veins, was disgraceful. No matter the man’s many faults, it was a sin against all their noble shared ancestors. But then the roar of cheers from the assembled throng overwhelmed him, applause for such a marvellous act. Emma pressed herself close and showed her gratitude, while others skipped around the corpse in delight. The butler congratulated him with a smile. And with that all thoughts of scandal and moral decrepitude left his mind altogether, and Lord Bruton jollied himself with his guests, having only a vague sense that he’d committed any sort of crime.
However, the next morning it was a shaken and penitent Lord Bruton who slunk away from his ancestral home. Just how he managed to escape the walls he did
not know. All he remembered was that as dawn came, he peered down and saw the splatter of his cousin’s blood across his fingers. As the ladies danced around him he was conscious of the stains heavy upon his hands; as the party imbibed like ancient Celts, even as they cheered, he could feel it itching his skin; when the sun rose fully, he once again coupled with Emma (rutted shamelessly like two animals in a sty) and could see the blood smear across her as well. The smell of it clung to them, not even the finest perfume of Arabia would sweeten its stench. Despite the bewitching chicanery of that infernal butler, despite all he had already surrendered of himself, at some point that morning his insides rebelled and he departed as hastily as he could from his beloved Bruton Hall.
He had his London residence opened again and tried to make sense of what was happening in his country seat. His mind fuzzy with incomprehension, he tried to fathom a reason for the simply unaccountable way he’d behaved. All in that house were so corrupted now, everyone had been tarnished and abandoned without hope. And the same applied to him. His Lordship had always above all concerned himself with the good name of Bruton. It had been important to him that certain aristocratic standards and beliefs were publicly maintained and enforced. But the sheen of respectability had been rubbed rudely away and Lord Bruton found himself looked upon as nothing but a roué and a degenerate.
On Berkeley Square he was cut. Lord and Lady Ammingsworth saw him quite plainly, but marched past as if he were nothing more important than a chimney sweep. The news was clearly abroad. One afternoon he tried to take refuge in his club, as if believing by showing himself in the company of good and true men, all rumours heard would be expunged from the debit sheet.
The very second Lord Bruton entered however, the chill of the Arctic swept through the building. There was a great reluctance from any of the members to even look up from their drinks. His Lordship tried to appear undeterred, taking his spot in his favourite chair and perusing The Times as if all was usual. However, after only half an hour, he received a note which read: “To Lord Bruton. Emperor in the land of the fornicator, the sodomite, the bestiast.”
The Strange Fate of Lord Bruton Page 2