Then on the subject of business he had been almost a bore. “Always keep it simple,” Pryce had instructed Calloway. “That was my maxim in business life. Always keep it simple. If your systems are simple, solutions to problems are generally simple. Occam’s Razor, you know.”
Yet otherwise he could be a delightful companion. The two had discussed radio programmes, sharing a common joy in The Goon Show and Hancock and Journey into Space. (It was then that Calloway had started to appreciate Pryce, deciding that on balance he approved of his host.)
They discussed politics, deploring the Suez action as a pathetic, desperate act by a pathetic, desperate Prime Minister. Both men admitted to liking the new rock and roll music—“I’ve always had a taste for the blues and similar music and this is just a natural extension,” said Pryce—dismissing as narrow fuddy-duddies those older people who condemned it. They discussed films, deriving much pleasure from horror films and Capra’s comedies and De Mille’s epics.
Elmore, gaunt and probably much less old than he actually looked, served them Blue Mountain coffee while Pryce poured generous measures of spirit into balloon glasses. “Armagnac,” he said, passing a glass to Calloway. “Marquis de Montesquiou. The company was established by a descendant of Charles de Batz Castelmore, believed to be the man upon whom D’Artagnan was based. I’d never drink anything else.”
“Not even one of the fine cognacs, Hine or Otard, say?”
“Not even those. If I can’t have the Marquis, then I’d just as soon have a cup of tea.”
As soon as the butler retired, Sir Isaac offered Calloway a cigar from a beautifully carved wooden humidor.
“Thank you.” The big man sniffed with appreciation at the fine tobacco and read the name on the band. “Hoyo de Monterey. I once met an elderly French nobleman who smoked nothing else.”
“I know of him,” observed Sir Isaac. “An occultist like yourself, I believe.”
“I don’t know where you heard that,” was Calloway’s disgruntled reply. “It’s certainly not true. Nor do I think that Monsieur le Duc would relish such a description.”
“Well, I have heard some strange stories about him.” Sir Isaac trimmed the end of his own cigar with care. “As indeed I have of yourself. You are comparatively young, Calloway, but they say you have substantial knowledge of the outré. An amateur detective, too, I believe.”
“I’ve read a few books in the British Museum’s proscribed section,” muttered Calloway. “I’ve also read Conan Doyle.”
“Do you know Africa?” Sir Isaac changed the subject abruptly.
“Not really,” Calloway told the baronet. “I have spent a little time in Egypt, mainly involved with University work of one kind or another. And a stopover in Capetown while on a flight to India. Those apart, no, I don’t know Africa.”
“Interesting place. When you’re out on the savannah, you can always tell when there has been a kill. Vultures gather. You can see them wheeling about the skies from miles away.” Sir Isaac drew for a moment on his cigar and continued. “Human scavengers aren’t that much different. When anyone fairly wealthy dies, watch the vultures gather, all of them hoping for pickings regardless of how slim. It’s going to be like that when my time comes.”
Calloway grunted. The coffee was good, the brandy and cigars excellent. (If he could afford them, he thought, the cigars might even wean him away from his beloved Turkish cigarettes.) Calloway settled himself a little more comfortably into his wing-chair; he was patient and he guessed that Sir Isaac would get to the point in his own good time.
Sir Isaac studied his guest for some moments then he said: “Feathered vultures don’t make their own kills. On the other hand, human vultures might. I’m going to die, Calloway: I have good reason to believe that I’m going to be murdered and I’d like to ask your help. I don’t think it will happen for a very long time yet but happen it will.”
If Calloway had been commonplace in attitude he might have thought he was dealing with a crank or a neurotic. But Calloway was not commonplace in attitude. He looked carefully at the other’s lean, sun-weathered face and decided that Sir Isaac was serious.
“Have you proof of this?” Calloway asked. “Do you have any suspicions as to who your possible killer might be? And have you spoken to the police about it?”
“No, no and no. In that order.” Sir Isaac grinned suddenly. “Thank you for not treating me as if I’m a crazy man, Calloway. I have no proof for reasons which I will tell you shortly. I suspect that my assassin will be someone close to me, someone as yet very young, perhaps not even born. Can you imagine trying to explain that to the police? Anyway, if I did tell the police why I believe I will be murdered at an indeterminate date in the future, they would never again take seriously anything I told them.”
Sir Isaac rose from his chair and stretched his long body. At seventy-five inches he was as tall as his guest but lean and stringy, quite unlike Calloway’s great bulk. “I’d like you to come and see something, Calloway,” he said. “Bring your drink with you.”
Calloway pulled himself up, spilling cigar ash down the front of his old dress-shirt. (He had earlier discarded his scruffy dinner-jacket, the place being like a hothouse. “Can’t stand the cold,” Pryce had explained. “Not since Africa.”) An ineffectual effort to brush away the ash served only to add another stain to the garment. Pausing just long enough to refill his glass from a nearby decanter, Calloway trudged after his host who led him from the library.
Crossing a heavily carpeted corridor, the two men came to a beautifully carved oak door. Pryce reached into a trouser pocket and pulled out a length of chain to which was attached a solitary key. “No one comes in here unless with me,” he explained. He unlocked the door and the two men passed through. Sir Isaac pressed a switch and a rectangular room of impressive dimensions was instantly illuminated by softly glowing lamps mounted around the panelled walls.
At one end of the room was a great, open fireplace in which yet another fire blazed despite the fact that no one was there to appreciate it. Several large wing-chairs were grouped in front of the hearth and to one side was a small drinks trolley with decanters and glasses.
Starting midway down the room, and occupying a considerable area, was a great glass-topped table standing on eight sturdy legs while in a far shadowy corner Calloway could see what looked like a life-sized statue. The table was deep-based, perhaps slightly larger overall than a billiards table, and Pryce led his guest straight to it. He touched a switch hidden beneath one edge and the table’s whole interior was suffused with a golden light of surprising clarity. So cleverly placed was the concealed lighting system that no hint of a source could be seen.
Calloway gasped, overcome with sudden wonder. He was looking down at the most exquisitely realistic diorama that he had ever seen. Spread out below him rolled mile upon mile of African savannah, seen as if from a height of several thousand feet. There were grasslands and water-holes and distant hills interspersed with sparsely dotted clumps of acacia trees in miniature, and there were figures—almost pinpoint tiny, it was true, and yet instantly recognisable for what they were.
Great herds grazed, antelope, wildebeest and zebra, closely shadowed by packs of wild dogs and jackals and hyenas. Elephants and giraffes browsed, dust-clouds seeming to stir beneath their feet. A somnolent pride of lions rested in what little shade they could find, dozing off the effects of a heavy meal. A distant group of tribal hunters, concealed behind a group of termite hills, pointed towards the game, anticipating full cooking pots and bellies.
Then Calloway rubbed his eyes and peered again. He could not be certain, and yet … weren’t those vultures wheeling in the skies, not set into the glass but apparently hovering free?
He turned to Pryce. “My congratulations,” he said. “I have never seen anything like this before. I doubt that I ever will again. Did you create this?”
Isaac Pryce shook his head. “I manufactured the setting: the table, the lighting … The rest—il
lusion, reality, who knows?”
He refused to elaborate. Instead he took Calloway’s arm and led him to the statue in the corner. Another switch and two spot-lamps cast a gentle glow. It was not exactly a statue but something else, mounted regalia, some form of armour … Calloway was unsure.
What appeared to be an all-in-one garment of tanned reptile skin, long and lean and embellished with metal ornaments and feathers was surmounted by a grim, basilisk-like mask in time-blackened wood, with staring eyes of some precious stone, possibly agate. The mask was crowned with a high, pharisaic headdress and about the neck was a massive collar of interwoven gold and silver. Clasped in each hand was a long wooden wand or sceptre, the delicately carved rods borne as if they were symbols of authority. For some reason, Calloway found it difficult to meet the implacable gaze of the grotesquely masked head.
“Disturbing, isn’t it?” commented Pryce. “This is, or rather, was, Alchuan. No, don’t touch him you fool!—” as Calloway reached out a massive fist.
“My apologies, Calloway,” he said seconds later. “But you see, when I said that this is Alchuan, I meant that literally. Within the costume is the mummified corpse of a man called Alchuan.” He switched off the lights. “Let’s go back to the library and I’ll explain.”
“I met Alchuan almost forty years ago when I was quite a young man and newly arrived in Kenya,” said Pryce when they were once more settled with fresh drinks and cigars. “I suppose for want of a better expression you might call him a witch-doctor, although that’s not wholly accurate. Alchuan had attached himself to a local village but he wasn’t one of them. For a start, he wasn’t even negro, let alone Kikuyu.
“I don’t really know what he was but more than anything he reminded me of the paintings and carvings one sees of Ancient Egyptians, with their long, narrow heads and fine features. Alchuan spoke a great number of African languages and excellent English too. He never quite explained his origins to me but he often made allusions that I never fully understood. For instance, he frequently referred to the lizard-men of Valusia, one of the legendary races of prehistoric Earth, I believe.”
Calloway nodded agreement.
“It was Alchuan who created that wonderful display I showed you,” Sir Isaac continued. “He instructed me to have the table made and then, somehow, he created the display. It happened overnight and to this day I don’t know how or even why. But that was much later …
“Anyway, it’s too long a story to go into but early on in our relationship I was responsible for saving his life. After that we became almost like adopted father and son. He told me that among his people, the sons would keep the father’s dead and preserved body in a place of honour, for was it not the place of a father to oversee and protect his offspring. He made me promise to afford him that traditional courtesy.”
Pryce suddenly laughed. “I had a bugger of a job getting the table and the body shipped home. Had to convince all sorts of carriers and authorities that they were genuine museum pieces.”
The man’s demeanour changed abruptly. “It was Alchuan who—shortly before he himself died—foretold that in late life I would be murdered by someone close. Normally I might have ignored this as so much mumbo-jumbo. But by then I had known Alchuan for many years and had witnessed some of the strange powers that he possessed, so I accepted what he said without question. He also said that through his intervention, I would be avenged swiftly. The channel for retribution, he asserted, would be through huge man of learning and prodigious appetites, even though his description was very much more flowery. I think that possibly you’re that man, Calloway.”
“I’m nobody’s angel of vengeance,” said Calloway. “You’d probably be better off going to Sicily or the States to hire a Mafia gunman. Some of them are men of quite gross appetites and they’ve learned plenty about death and revenge.”
“I’m not saying that you will be the avenger per se,” the baronet answered. “I believe that you, if it is you, will simply act as a faucet to let flow whatever power Alchuan has set about me.” He thought for a moment, then argued: “Surely vengeance can take many forms. For instance, when a police officer investigates a crime which leads to the conviction of an offender, it could be claimed that he is the channel of society’s revenge.”
Without seeking permission, Calloway poured himself another half-glass of armagnac. “You could be right,” he grunted.
“All I’m asking, Calloway, is that if I ever call upon you, you’ll come, that if anything should happen to me, you’ll endeavour to find the truth. Just promise me that.”
“Didn’t Alchuan say if there is any way of lifting or avoiding this … destiny?”
“I thought about that,” Sir Isaac admitted. “Alchuan replied that it was written and what was written could not be undone.”
“Very well,” the big man grumbled. “If and when this happens, I agree to seek the truth. I can’t imagine the police being very happy about it but I’ll do what I can.” Then he brightened a little. “Perhaps your local bobby will turn out to be a fat philosopher and I’ll be able to stay at home …”
*
That had been twenty or so years ago and now Calloway and I were within a few miles of Sir Isaac Pryce’s home. Calloway had long ago attained full Professorship at Southdown University and his disreputable old Ford had been relinquished in favour of a disreputable old Rolls. These were the only material rewards that life had brought him. He continued necessarily to smoke Turkish cigarettes rather than Havana cigars, and he still could not afford Marquis de Montesquiou armagnac.
During the journey he had described to me that first night at Sir Isaac’s home. “And after that, not a word about the matter,” said Calloway. “It could have been just a normal weekend at a friend’s home. We did some walking, a little shooting, a lot of drinking, we talked, laughed, set the world to rights. We did not once mention Alchuan and his strange prophesy. And after that, not another word from Sir Isaac Pryce, not until I received his telegram yesterday evening.”
Calloway had shown me the telegram. It could have been in the running for the year’s terseness prize. “Now. Pryce.”
“You’re sure he wasn’t a hoaxer, or just plain eccentric?”
“It would have been an expensive hoax. He even paid my petrol costs as well as giving me one of the most luxurious weekends I’ve had in my life.” Calloway fumbled one-handed for cigarettes and the Rolls started to veer across the thankfully empty road. I snatched the packet and lit one for him. It was vile. I’ve often thought that if chocolate tasted as disgusting as tobacco, nobody would ever want a second piece in their life. So why do people persevere with cigarettes?
Calloway muttered his thanks. “As for eccentric … well, aspects of his life might strike some people as eccentric but conversely they’d strike others as remarkably sane. He didn’t have a television but TVs were not as commonplace back in the Fifties as they are now. And even today some wilder parts of the country still have reception problems. And he wouldn’t have a telephone in the house. Said that he’d had more than enough of them during his working life. Can’t say I blame him. I hate the bloody things myself, useful as they are.”
Useful for calling me out on unwanted adventures, I could have added. I didn’t trouble myself, though, for I knew it wouldn’t bother Calloway one whit. Instead I peered out at the thickening snow storm and said, “I hope to God we get there before this gets too bad.”
Had we been making this journey in summertime it could have been pleasant and enjoyable. Starting early and travelling first through the rolling downs of Hampshire and Wiltshire, we progressed via Gloucester and Warwickshire, by-passing the massive conurbation of Birmingham to reach the southern reaches of Yorkshire via Derby. Skirting the major cities of Sheffield, Bradford and Leeds we eventually found ourselves among the wild Yorkshire moors and dales, heading up toward the borders with Cumbria and Durham.
When we had set out early that morning, though, the skies had been heavy wit
h dark grey clouds and for much of the distance there had been intermittent rain and sleet, which combined with the heavy spray thrown up by vehicles on the motorways had reduced visibility enormously. Calloway’s driving style didn’t help much either and he had given me several scares. “I don’t know why you’re worried,” he had laughed. “I feel safe enough. Having a live priest in the car has got to be more reassuring than any number of St. Christophers.”
Some way beyond the Midlands the rain and sleet had eased but the clouds had darkened, becoming purple-black and oppressive, and the very air seemed to fall silent, as if waiting for the bulky mass to crush our car beneath it. As we had turned onto the little used country road that covered the final few miles to our destination, the rain and sleet had turned to snow which gradually worsened until the car’s headlights picked out nothing but a fine white covering on the road ahead and the wipers battled hard to keep the windscreen clear.
“Don’t worry,” said Calloway. “I think we’re almost there.” We continued ascending a gradually rising road and several minutes later we reached the crest. Below us, about a mile or so down in a valley, I could see the lights of a great house with a shadowy hint of crenellated turrets. Despite the dark, there was an overall impression of age and solidity. I muttered heartfelt thanks. Calloway just smirked, as if to say, “Trust me, Roderick.”
Minutes later we were standing in a porch roughly the size of a small chapel, Calloway pounding away at the iron knocker of a metal bossed wooden door, not unlike that of my church. Each massive thud returned a series of fainter echoes and Calloway only stopped when we heard the rattle of bolts being withdrawn. Unoiled hinges rasped painfully as the door was hauled open and a skinny man in a loose-fitting suit peered out at us.
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