Book Read Free

Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)

Page 37

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )


  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

  296

  Gerald Durrell

  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

  The Entrance

  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

  298

  Gerald Durrell

  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

  The Entrance

  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

  300

  Gerald Durrell

  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.

  The Entrance

  301

  “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

  302

  Gerald Durrell

  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

  The Entrance

  303

  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.

 

‹ Prev