On another, earlier, day, no effort would have been spared to find the cowardly miscreant who had the affront to send him such a missive. Now though, there was no chance of His Lordship gaining satisfaction for a note like that, and so he made his departure as hurriedly as he could. Calmly, although with his heart performing acrobatics, Lord Bruton gathered his possessions and walked alone through the hallowed doors of his favourite place in all the world, back to the dark and dingy streets of London.
At his Cavendish Square address there was a card waiting for him. The card of his old and dear friend, Lord Willingham. In other times Lord Bruton would have been delighted to return the call. Now however, knowing all the sins he’d committed against young Emma’s virtue, and being absolutely convinced that her father would have heard in what kind of den of iniquity Emma now resided, there was no possibility of showing his face to Willingham without moral outrage being visited upon his head.
What could he do though? That was the question Lord Bruton pondered. He knew he should charge back to Bruton Hall and throw every single corrupted soul out. The Biblical tale of Jesus’ dealings with the moneylenders came to mind, but it was not such a simple task. Those noble intentions would evaporate the moment he stepped a shod foot into Bruton Hall, as once again he fell victim to that devastating spell. As much as he despised to admit weakness, to see himself as a poltroon, he knew it would take no more than a single glimpse from Ellery’s eye for every modicum of strength to dissolve and then – without second thought or moral qualm – he would join in with the licentiousness he had arrived to halt.
How was it possible for a Bruton to fall so low? All the noble blood which coursed through his veins, all the magnificent deeds of his ancestors, how could this Lord Bruton be such a disgrace to their memory? It was easy to understand a younger son like Sir Marmaduke, even as a boy he had made himself burdensome to their father, who had predicted quite accurately that he would achieve the grand sum of nothing in life. But Lord Bruton himself, the Fourteenth Earl, was a man of true breeding and principle, a representative of The Empire who had always burnished it with pride. Now he was to be remembered for nothing more than dissipation and wild fornication. It was an utter calamity for such a fall to happen.
The only answer was Ellery. There was something of Lucifer about that man, a sense of innate wickedness which degraded morality, made blameless souls perform actions which all Christian good sense should rebel against. If Ellery were gone, then Bruton Hall would be free. The good name was ruined of course and that was a piece of damage so irreparable it made Lord Bruton actually physically weep, but perhaps as the years passed that might be forgotten and forgiven.
Maybe if he were to emigrate somewhere far away, perhaps to Ceylon. He could marry again, and this time choose a more easily pleased wife who would be capable of giving him an heir. Then at his majority, his son could return to London, cleansed by time’s healing powers of all but a whisper of scandal, and seize back the Bruton’s good name. This Lord Bruton could serve the penance (and endure it happily), while the next could reclaim the reward of virtuousness.
For his family to have any chance of redemption though, the bacchanalia at Bruton Hall had to be stopped forthwith. His Lordship had no other options. London was no sanctuary while the terrible stories made their rounds, and if the situation at Bruton Hall didn’t improve then even overseas would not be far enough to escape its fetid stench. His Lordship had to act immediately, he had to try and save what scorched and tattered fragments still remained of his family’s honour.
The previous occasions His Lordship had dashed to Bruton Hall, he had been loaded with anger. On that last journey however, fear was the over-riding emotion. The image of the crimson soaked house flashed repeatedly through his mind. His Lordship had assumed it was a rich red paint, but what if it were blood? What if other poor souls had fallen like his cousin, and rather than be buried in a churchyard, their insides had been used to decorate the walls? Blood and flesh, the unspeakable viscous contents of internal organs dripping from the rafters, flowing across the marble floors – how many persons did it account for? His Lordship remembered the red, the naked flames, the bodies lazing throughout without discretion or decorum. And he realised that what had taken up residence in Bruton Hall was Hell. It was the realm of Satan in the seat of his ancestors. Except not one of the paintings he’d ever seen of that sulphurous netherworld had looked as evil and degraded as that which now transpired within his walls.
As his carriage pulled up that final time outside the home of his ancestors, His Lordship felt a wooziness that almost made him faint like a fizgig. Dusk had just kissed Bruton Hall and from inside came the sounds of fresh frolic. Lord Bruton’s determination remained strong, but how much longer it might last he couldn’t contemplate. It may only take a glance from Ellery’s eye, or a glimpse of Emma Willingham’s youthful charms, and his resolve might snap asunder once again. His insides revolted at the sounds of the saturnalia within, but he had partaken of those enjoyments for days, perpetrating acts which he had never conceived or even imagined before and which now made him shudder with unendurable remorse. Surely his reason could not be assaulted again. He couldn’t allow the strength of his good intentions to just evaporate. Lord Bruton told himself that he would rather die than succumb once more.
The door to Bruton Hall creaked slowly open before His Lordship even reached it. Awaiting him in the gloomy shadows of the hallway was the scoundrel, Ellery. His butler’s uniform completely dishevelled, his hair greasy and unkempt, cheeks which hadn’t received a razor’s touch in at least a week. The figure he cut was a disgrace, nothing of what a true butler should be, and yet he exuded so much power.
His Lordship averted his gaze quickly, determined to avoid the eyes of that malignant manservant. Even though it wrenched his neck, Lord Bruton strained his vision to the higher reaches of the hall, knowing that the bloodstained portraits of his ancestors would revolt, rather than tempt him.
“Good evening, My Lord.” The butler’s obsequiousness dripped like golden honey from every syllable. The man even held out his hand to take His Lordship’s cloak, but Lord Bruton backed away. “A fresh ball awaits your presence, Sir. All the usual disports you have grown to enjoy, all the physical pleasures your touch now craves.”
Even though he knew it was a risk to his right mind, the Fourteenth Earl of Bruton could not help but level a dread glare at the scene before him.
There was his brother locked in an embrace with Emma Willingham, dancing what seemed to be some disgraceful intimate dance from the Continent. Neither had a stitch of respectability between them. Around these two nobles fallen so far from grace were various servants and guests, again showing the world no decorum. Slurred laughter abounded as they drank, touched and copulated. Amongst the party His Lordship recognised the young Viscount Tyrwhitt, a man just at his majority, who had often given his family cause for concern. The Viscount now seemed to be in amorous pursuit of a saucy-looking stable boy, who was evidently making sure he gave plenty of encouragement for the chase. Elsewhere was Sir Henry Breakspear, the military hero, now indulging himself with two fulsome pox’d trollops of the commonest sort. He laughed with manic glee as they wriggled and squealed in his grasp.
Sir Henry’s chair seemed raised, as if propped up and resting on some kind of platform. Lord Bruton took a step closer and gasped with soul-crushing horror at what confronted him. Across the floor was a pile of corpses, their faces pushed to the marble so nobody would have chance to recognise a single one. All these men and women, children as well perhaps, slaughtered in dear old Bruton Hall. Their bodies not buried in the Christian fashion, instead desecrated, stacked to form a pyramid at the centre of the grand old hallway. Eyes a-goggle, his gaze rose to the apex and there rested his father’s mighty chair. Sat on that throne, staring at him with a coquettishness so intense it prompted a tangible yearning, was the fair Duchess Helena Romanoff.
His Lordship had read of her visit in T
he Times. She was a cousin to the Russian royals, a distant relative of The Empress herself. The Thunderer had rhapsodised at how lovely she was, how enchanting, and neither word could be deemed inaccurate. That newspaper had also pointedly described her as demure, but that day she sat as nude as Eve, held aloft on a pile of slain bodies. Their blood dripping from the walls around her.
The Duchess raised an index finger and beckoned to His Lordship. Offered him the chance to climb this tower of slowly rotting flesh beneath her feet, and then mount her fair, youthful body. Her flawless pale skin gleamed in the red-tinted candlelight, her smile was a veritable Eighth Wonder. It was almost enough to make Lord Bruton buckle, to wipe his intentions clean from his mind so that all that mattered – all that mattered again – were his own sordid Earthly pleasures.
“As you can see, My Lord, we have your throne and an inestimable gift waiting for you.” Ellery’s obsequious tones startled His Lordship, but his gaze never left the vision that was the young Duchess. “You can be King here, Your Lordship. You’ve always considered yourself better than everyone else, haven’t you? Well, prove that fact, become King. Be the absolute King of this world!
“Surrender all to it. Forget your blessed family name, forget your so-called reputation, forget the pride you wear bumptiously as a uniform. Forget the wife you drove into an early grave, the serving girl you beat so badly she lost the child of yours she was carrying. Forget her brother who you murdered when he charged you with dishonouring her with violence. None of that matters now. All that should concern you at this moment – and for every moment thereafter – is that you can be King. King of this red paradise, this fire-tinted heaven.”
Duchess Helena fixed him with such a look of enchantment, the light from the flickering candles radiating from her skin magnificently. It was so smooth, so supple. She was royalty and she could be his. Everything Ellery said was true, he could be King there. Lords and Ladies, gentlemen and gentlewomen, would flock to enjoy themselves and he could rule them all. He didn’t need England or The Empire or anyone from the outside world. They could all go hang! He could be King of this domain, with his own Romanoff bride and everything else would be of d____d little consequence.
His Lordship took a step forward, eyes fixed on that prize of youth, beauty and stature. He could feel Ellery’s gaze behind him, nudging him on, making sure he met his fate. But somehow – as if the final vestiges of strength and honour within Lord Bruton’s noble breast mustered themselves for one last, desperate, gasping push – a wave of revulsion rose up and blotted out every other thought. Even the oh-so-tempting idea of limitless pleasure. There was his brother, the daughter of his closest friend, other nobles and dignitaries, blessed royalty – all of whom were debasing themselves in this blasted Hell!
The moment was only fleeting, a zephyr across his mind, but it gave him enough resolve. Without warning Lord Bruton thrust out his arm and knocked one of the candlesticks to the floor. It dropped with a clatter of sparks. Innocuous on another day, but there had been so much fine alcohol spilt onto the ancient timbers in the last weeks that a blaze raged almost in an instant.
Perhaps Ellery yelled out in shock and anger, maybe it was him who yanked His Lordship back. Certainly all strength seemed to depart Lord Bruton’s body and he found himself on the floor, staring up at the sanctifying flames consuming his family home. It spread quickly through the rooms, destroying all the paintings and treasures within. All his childhood memories were ashes within a few minutes.
Although the most disturbing sight were the revellers, none of whom reacted in any way to the conflagration. His brother and Emma Willingham continued their exotic dance even as the fire blistered their toes and scorched the flesh of their naked legs. Viscount Tyrwhitt did not stop his sinful pursuits though the flames devoured him and his companion. While even Sir Henry, a man keenly attuned to danger, was too sated with satisfaction to really notice. The last image His Lordship could recall was of young Princess Helena, her ivory body perched on a hill of corpses, still beckoning him with her finger even as the fire made ashes of the throne.
As you are no doubt aware, the only living person pulled from the remains of Bruton Hall was the gravely injured Lord Bruton. It was then he told us this incredible story, in a croaking, smoke-damaged voice. Why it had happened he did not know. Ellery was the name he kept mentioning and evidently he held the butler responsible for all which had taken place. Yet the why and how escaped him. His mind was wandering and he was no longer cogent, but it was clear though that he did not see the butler as human. In Lord Bruton’s fevered mind, Ellery was a manifestation of evil, some kind of demon he had crossed earlier in life (though through what action this had been accomplished, he could not possibly imagine). That demon had arrived to punish him and as Lord Bruton breathed his last – his lungs coated and choked with vestiges of smoke – he considered himself punished. The unjust victim of some dark force terrible and unspeakable.
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The Strange Fate of Lord Bruton Page 3