attention, except to note that the items I had put up
fetched more than I had anticipated they would. The
bidding over, I made my way through the crush and out
into the street. It was a dank, raw day in February, with
that unpleasant smoky smell in the air that augers fog
and makes the back of your throat raw. As it looked
unpleasantly as though it might drizzle, I hailed a cab. I
have one of those tall, narrow houses in Smith Street,
just off the Kings Road. It was bequeathed to me by my
mother and does me very well. It is not in a fashionable
part of town, but the house is quite big enough for a
bachelor like myself and his books, for I have, over the
years, collected a small but extremely nice library on the
various subjects that interest me: Indian art, particularly
miniatures; some of the early natural histories; a small
but rather rare collection of books on the occult; a
number of volumes on plants and great gardens; and a
very nice collection of first editions of contemporary
novelists. My home is simply furnished but comfortable,
and although I am not rich, I have suffucient for my
needs and I keep a good table and very reasonable wine
cellar.
As I paid off the cab and mounted the steps to my front
door, I saw that, as I had predicted, the fog was starting
to descend upon the city and already it was difficult to
see the end of the street. It was obviously going to turn
out to be a real pea-souper and I was glad to be home. My
housekeeper, Mrs. Manning, had a bright and cheerful
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fire burning in my small drawing room, and next to my
favorite chair she had, as usual, laid out my slippers (for
who can relax without slippers?) and on a small table all
the accoutrements for a warming punch. I took off my
coat and hat, slipped off my shoes and put on my
slippers.
Presently Mrs. Manning appeared from the kitchen
below and asked me, in view of the weather, if I would
mind if she went home since it seemed as if the fog was
getting thicker. She had left me some soup, a steak-and-
kidney pie and an apple tart, all of which only needed
heating. I said that this would do splendidly, since on
many occasions I had looked after myself in this way
when the weather had forced Mrs. Manning to leave
early.
“There was a gentleman come to see you a bit earlier,”
said Mrs. Manning.
“A gentleman? What was his name?” I asked, astonished that anyone should call on an evening like this.
“He wouldn’t give no name, sir,” she replied, “but
said he’d call again.”
I thought that, in all probability, it had something to
do with a library I was cataloguing then, and thought no
more about it. Presently Mrs. Manning reappeared,
dressed for the street, and I let her out of the front door
and bolted it securely behind her, before returning to my
drink and the warm fire. My cat Neptune appeared from
my study upstairs, where his comfortable basket was,
gave a faint meow of greeting and jumped gracefully
onto my lap where, after paddling with his forepaws for a
short while, he settled down to dream and doze, purring
like a great tortoiseshell hive of bees. Lulled by the fire,
the punch and the loud purrs of Neptune, I dropped off
to sleep.
I must have slept heavily for I awoke with a start and
was unable to recall what it was that had awakened me.
On my lap Neptune rose and stretched and yawned as if
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297
he knew he was going to be disturbed. I listened but the
house was silent. I had just decided that it must have
been the rustling scrunch of coals shifting in the grate
when there came an imperious knocking at the front
door. I made my way to the front door, repairing, as
I went, the damage that sleep had perpetrated on my
neat appearance, straightening my collar and tie and
smoothing down my hair, which is unruly at the best of
times. I lit the light in the hall, unbolted the front door
and threw it open. Shreds of mist swirled in, and there,
standing on the top step, was the curious, gypsylike man
that I had seen watching me so intently at Sotheby’s.
Now he was dressed in a well-cut evening suit and was
wearing an opera cloak lined with red silk. On his head
was a top hat whose shining appearance was blurred by
the tiny drops of moisture deposited on it by the fog,
which moved, like an unhealthy yellow backdrop, behind him. In one gloved hand he held a slender ebony cane with a beautifully worked gold top and he swung
this gently between his fingers like a pendulum. When he
saw that it was I who had opened the door and not a
butler or some skivvy, he straightened up and removed
his hat.
“Good evening,” he said, giving me a most charming
smile that showed very fine, white, even teeth. His voice
had a peculiar husky, lilting musical quality about it that
was most attractive and enhanced by his slight but
noticeable French intonation.
“Good evening,” I said, puzzled as to what this
stranger could possibly want of me.
“Am I addressing Mr. Letting . . . Mr. Peter Letting?”
I10 ^slccd
“Yes,” I said, “I am Peter Letting.”
He smiled again, removed his glove and held out a
well-manicured hand on which a large blood opal
gleamed in a gold ring.
“I am more delighted than I can say at this opportuni
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ty of meeting you, sir,” he said, as he shook my hand,
“and I must first of all apologize for disturbing you at
such a time, on such a night.”
He drew his cloak around him slightly and glanced at
the damp, yellow fog that swirled behind him. Noting
this, I felt it incumbent on me to ask him to step inside
and state his business, for I felt it would hardly be good
manners to keep him standing on the step in such
unpleasant weather. He entered the hall, and when 1 had
turned from closing and bolting the front door, I found
that he had divested himself of his hat, stick and cloak,
and was standing there, rubbing his hands together,
looking at me expectantly.
“Come into the drawing room Mr. . . .” I paused on a
note of interrogation.
A curious, childlike look of chagrin passed across his
face, and he looked at me contritely. “My dear sir,” he
said, “my dear Mr. Letting. How excessively remiss of
me. You will be thinking me totally lacking in social
graces, forcing my way into your home on such a night
and then not even bothering to introduce myself. I do
apologize. I am Gideon de Teildras Villeray.”
“I am pleased to meet you,” I said politely, though in
truth I must confess that, in spite of his obvious charm, I
was slightly uneasy for I co
uld not see what a Frenchman
of his undoubted aristocratic lineage would want of an
antiquarian bookseller such as myself. “Perhaps,” I
continued, “you would care to come in and partake of a
little refreshment— some wine perhaps, or maybe, since
the night is so chilly, a little brandy?”
“You are very kind and very forgiving,” he said with a
slight bow, still smiling his beguiling smile. “A glass of
wine would be most welcome, I do assure you.”
I showed him into my drawing room and he walked to
the fire and held his hands out to the blaze, clenching and
unclenching his white fingers so that the opal in his ring
fluttered like a spot of blood against his white skin. I
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299
selected an excellent bottle of Margaux and transported
it carefully up to the drawing room with two of my best
crystal glasses. My visitor had left the fire and was
standing by my bookshelves, a volume in his hands. He
glanced up as I entered and held up the book.
“What a superb copy of Eliphas Levi,” he said enthusiastically, “and what a lovely collection of grimoires you have got. I did not know you were interested in the
occult.”
“Not really,” I said, uncorking the wine. “After all, no
sane man would believe in witches and warlocks and
sabbaths and spells and all that tarradiddle. No, I merely
collect them as interesting books which are of value and,
in many cases, because of their contents, exceedingly
amusing.”
“Amusing?” he said, coming forward to accept the
glass of wine I held out to him. “How do you mean,
amusing?”
“Well, don’t you find it amusing, the thought of all
those grown men mumbling all those silly spells and
standing about for hours in the middle of the night
expecting Satan to appear? I confess I find it very
amusing indeed.”
“I do not,” he said, and then, as if he feared that he
had been too abrupt and perhaps rude, he smiled and
raised his glass. “Your very good health, Mr. Letting.”
He drank, and he rolled the wine round his mouth and
then raised his eyebrows. “May I compliment you on
your cellar,” he said. “This is an excellent bottle of
Margaux.”
“Thank you,” I said, flattered, I must confess, that this
aristocratic Frenchman should approve my choice in
wine. “Won’t you have a chair and perhaps explain to me
how I may be of service to you.”
He seated himself elegantly in a chair by the fire,
sipped his wine and stared at me thoughtfully for a
moment. When his face was in repose like that, one
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noticed the size and blackness and luster of his eyes.
They seemed to probe you; they seemed almost as if they
could read one’s very thoughts. The impression they
gave made one uncomfortable, to say the least. But then
he smiled and immediately the eyes flashed with mischief, good humor and an overwhelming charm.
“I’m afraid that my unexpected arrival so late at
night— and on such a night— must lend an air of
mystery to what is, I’m afraid, a very ordinary request
that I have to make of you. Simply, it is that I should like
you to catalogue a library for me, a comparatively small
collection of books, not above twelve hundred, I surmise, which was left to me by my aunt when she died last year. As I say, it is only a small collection of books and I
have done no more than give it a cursory glance. However, I believe it to contain some quite rare and valuable things, and I feel it necessary to have it properly catalogued, a precaution my aunt never took, poor dear. She was a woman with a mind of cotton wool and never, I
dare swear, opened a book from the start of her life until
the end of it. She led an existence untrammelled and
unruffled by the slightest breeze of culture. She had
inherited the books from her father, and from the day
they came into her possession she never paid them the
slightest regard. They are a muddled and confused mess,
and I would be grateful if you would lend me your
expertise in sorting them out. The reason I have invaded
your house at such an hour is force of circumstances, for
I must go back to France tomorrow morning very early,
and this was my only chance of seeing you. I do hope you
can spare the time to do this for me?”
“ I shall be happy to be of what assistance I can,” I
said, for I must admit that the idea of a trip to France
was a pleasant thought, “but I am curious to know why
you have picked on me when there are so many people
who could do the job just as well, if not better.”
“I think you do yourself an injustice,” said my visitor.
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“You must be aware of the excellent reputation you
enjoy. I asked a number of people for their advice and
when I found that they all, of their own free will, advised
me to ask you, then I was sure that, if you agreed to do
the work, I would be getting the very best, my dear Mr.
Letting.”
I confess I flushed with pleasure, since there was no
way of doubting the man’s sincerity, and it was pleasant
to know that my colleagues thought so highly of me.
“When would you wish me to commence?” I asked.
He spread his hands and gave an expressive shrug.
“I’m in no hurry,” he said. “Naturally I would have to
fall in with your plans. But I was wondering if, say,
sometime in the spring? The Loire valley is particularly
beautiful then and there is no reason why you should not
enjoy the countryside as well as catalogue books.”
“The spring would suit me admirably,” I said, pouring
out some more wine. “Would April be alright?”
“Excellent,” he said. “I would think that the job
should take you a month or so, but from my point of
view, please stay as long as is necessary. I have a good
cellar and a good chef, so I can minister to the wants of
the flesh, at any rate.”
I fetched my diary and we settled on April the fourteenth as being a suitable date'for both of us, and my visitor rose to go.
“Just one other thing," he said as he swirled his cloak
around his shoulders. “I would be the first to admit that I
have a difficult name to remember and pronounce.
Therefore, if you would not consider it presumptuous of
me, I would like you to call me Gideon, and may I call
you Peter?”
“Of course,” I said immediately and with some relief,
for the name de Teildras Villeray was not one that slid
easily off the tongue.
He shook my hand warmly, once again apologized for
disturbing me, promised he would write with full details
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of how to reach him in France and then strode off
confidently into the swirling yellow fog and was soon lost
to view.
I returned to my warm and comfortable drawing room
and finished the bottle of wine while musing on my
strange visitor. The more I thought about it the more
curious the whole incident became. For example, why
had Gideon not approached me when he first saw me at
Sotheby’s? He said that he was in no hurry to have his
library catalogued and yet felt it imperative that he
should see me, late at night, as if the matter were of great
urgency. Surely he could have written to me? Or did he
perhaps think the force of his personality would make
me accept a commission that I might otherwise refuse? I
was in two minds about the man himself. As 1 said, when
his face was in repose, his eyes were so fiercely brooding
and penetrating that they made one uneasy and one was
filled almost with a sense of repugnance. But then when
he smiled and his eyes filled with laughter and he spoke
with that husky, musical voice, one was charmed in spite
of oneself. He was, I decided, a very curious character,
and I determined that I would try and find out more
about him before I went over to France. Having made
this resolution, I made my way down to the kitchen,
preceded by a now hungry Neptune, and fixed myself my
late supper.
A few days later I ran into my old friend Edward
Wallenger at a sale, and during the course of it I asked
him casually if he knew of Gideon. He gave me a very
penetrating look from over the top of his glasses.
“Gideon de Teildras Villeray?” he asked. “D’you
mean the C o u n t. . . the nephew of the old Marquis de
Teildras Villeray?”
“He didn’t tell me he was a Count, but I suppose it
must be the same one,” I said. “Do you know anything
about him?”
“When the sale is over we’ll go and have a drink and
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I’ll tell you,” said Edward. “They are a very odd
family . . . at least, the old Marquis is distinctly odd.”
The sale over, we repaired to the local pub and over a
drink Edward told me what he knew of Gideon. It
appeared that, many years previously, the Marquis de
Teildras Villeray had asked my friend to go to France
(just as Gideon had done with me) to catalogue and
value his extensive library. Edward had accepted the
commission and had set off for the Marquis’ place in the
Gorge du Tam.
Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992) Page 37