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Gideon was silent for a moment.
“Yes, a great contrast,” he said, “but as every village
must have its idiot, so every family must have its black
sheep or its madman.”
“Oh, come now, Gideon,” I protested, “surely that’s a
bit too harsh a criticism?”
“You think so?” he asked and in the half light I could
see that his face was shining with sweat. “You think I am
being harsh to my dear relative? But then you have not
had the pleasure of meeting him, have you?”
“No,” I said, worried by the savage bitterness in his
voice and wishing I had let the subject drop since it
seemed to disturb him so much.
“When my mother died, I had to go and live with my
‘dear’ uncle for several years until I inherited the modest
amount of money my father left me in trust and then I
could be free of him. But for ten years I lived in
purgatory with that corrupt old swine. For ten years not
a day or night passed without my being terrified out of
my soul. There are no words to describe how evil he is,
and there are no lengths to which he will not go to
achieve his ends. If Satan prowls the earth in the guise of
a man, then he surely inhabits the filthy skin of my
uncle.”
He got up abruptly and went into the house, leaving
me puzzled and alarmed at the vehemence with which he
had spoken. I did not know whether to follow him or not.
But presently he returned carrying the brandy decanter
and two glasses. He sat down and poured us both a
generous amount of the spirit.
“ I must apologize, my dear Peter, for all my histrionics, for inflicting on you melodrama that would be more in keeping in the Grande Guignol than on this terrace,”
he said, handing me my drink. “Talking of my old swine
of an uncle always has that effect on me, I’m afraid. At
one time I lived in fear because I thought he had
captured my so u l. . . you know the stupid ideas chil
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dren get? It was many years before I grew out of that. But
it still, as you can see, upsets me to talk of him, so let’s
drink and talk of other things, eh?”
I agreed wholeheartedly, and we talked pleasantly for a
couple of hours or so. But that night was the only time I
saw Gideon go to bed the worse for liquor, and I felt
most guilty since I felt it was due to my insistence that he
talked to me about his uncle who had obviously made
such a deep, lasting and unpleasant impression on his
mind.
Over the next four years I grew to know Gideon well.
He came to stay with me whenever he was in England
and I paid several delightful visits to the Chateau St.
Claire. Then for a period of six months I heard nothing
from him, and I could only presume that he had been
overcome by what he called his “travel disease” and had
gone off to Egypt or the Far East or even America on one
of his periodic jaunts. However, this coincided with a
time when I was, myself, extremely busy and so I had
little time to ponder on the whereabouts of Gideon.
Then one evening, I returned home to Smith Street dead
tired after a long journey from Aberdeen and I found
awaiting me a telegram from Gideon:
ARRIVING LONDON MONDAY THIRTY CAN I STAY STOP
UNCLE PUT TO DEATH I INHERIT LIBRARY WOULD YOU
CATALOGUE VALUE MOVE STOP EXPLAIN ALL WHEN WE
MEET REGARDS GIDEON.
I was amused that Gideon, who prided himself on his
impeccable English, should have written “put to death”
instead of “died” until he arrived and I discovered that
this is exactly what had happened to his uncle, or at least,
what appeared to have happened. Gideon arrived quite
late on the Monday evening, and as soon as I looked at
him I could see that he had been undergoing some
harrowing experience. But surely, I thought, it could not
be the death of his uncle that was affecting him so. If
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anything, I would have thought he would be glad. But my
friend had lost weight, his handsome face was gaunt and
white and he had dark circles under his eyes, which
themselves seemed to have suddenly lost all their sparkle,
and luster. When I poured him a glass of his favorite
wine he took it with a hand that trembled slightly and
tossed it back in one gulp as if it had been mere water.
“You look tired Gideon,” I said. “You must have a few
glasses of wine and then I suggest an early dinner and
bed. We can discuss all there is to be discussed in the
morning.”
“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 alrig h t. . . 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
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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 i t . . . he did i t . . . he did i t . . . ” 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 ghas
tly smile.
“My dear Peter,” he said, “I do apologize . . . so
stupid of me . . . I suddenly felt fai nt . . . 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 chateau in France to cook for him. Mrs.
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315
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, ‘4 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
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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 tom 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. 1 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
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317
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, mattres 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 thing, 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.
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“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 1 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
Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992) Page 39