“You sure this is the place, Rick?” he said, looking doubtfully through the windscreen, which was smeared with frozen droplets of mud.
“I entered the postcode in the satnav. Can’t fail.”
“Oh, yeah.” O’Leary wound down the window on his side and craned out to see beyond the gates. The cold air gripped him about the face. There was a glimpse of a steep slate roof, part of an upstairs window reflecting the sky.
“Last chance,” Rick, the driver, said. “Are you really going to go through with this?”
“Ten thousand pounds will last us until summer. That’s the guaranteed minimum.”
“Rather you than me.”
“Yes, but you haven’t seen her photograph,” O’Leary said, who had.
He climbed out, opened the rear door. He put his overnight valise on his shoulder, then pulled out a larger case. He set the case on the ground next to the car, slammed the door, and walked across to the gates. Peering through, he could see a display board just beyond, mounted beside the driveway. It was supported on two stout timber legs, had a border of astronomical signs, and was fronted with a sheet of clean glass.
At the top, in clear cursive lettering, were the words: The Atchievements of Mme Louisa de Morganet. Beneath were several more lines, but a gust of cold wind sent down a shower of frost particles from the tree above, and he backed off. O’Leary returned to the car to collect the case.
“What do you suppose an ‘atchievement’ is?” he said. “With an extra ‘t’?”
Rick was leaning across towards him, from the driver’s seat.
“A spelling mistake? Look, close the bloody door. You’re making the car cold.”
O’Leary slammed it, but the window was still open. He leaned down beside it.
“The pub is about a mile further on,” he said. “The Shepherd and Dog. Keep the expenses down, okay? You might yet be right about this being a scam.”
“You’re seeing sense at last.”
“Come on, Rick. You stand to gain too.”
The two men gripped hands through the window, but they were too familiar with each other to make it seem forced. O’Leary backed off and stood away as the car and its trailer resumed the erratic course down the icily furrowed lane.
O’Leary carried his luggage to the gate and went through. The drive curved between the trees. On each side were lawns, under the frost for now, but they and the flowerbeds around them were neatly maintained. He paused by the display board to read it properly. Beneath the large heading was the following:
Mme de Morganet is well qualified in, and a skilled tutor of, the following atchievements. Please enquire for more information, and the rates that apply.
Musicianship (including Composition), Foreign Languages (including Translation and Interpretation), Literary Endeavour, Oil Painting, Saddlery and Equestrianism, Astronomy, Aquatic Sports, All Domestic Accomplishments (including Kitchen Skills, Crochet, Needlepoint, Embroidery, Knitting, Sewing), Oratory, Marksmanship, Actuarial Calculations, Tax Returns, Law of Probate, Law of Property, Law of Torts...
FINALLY CERTAIN THAT he had come to the right place, O’Leary continued along the drive, chilled by the wind. The house was a large one, probably Victorian, but in good condition and with up-to-date features. The windows had been tastefully double-glazed, and on the far corner there was an outlet for a central heating boiler. White condensation was whisked away by the wind. He pressed the bell button beside the door.
There was a long wait, longer than he expected, while the chill wind blustered around him, sweeping down from the overhanging hills. The house was situated at the foot of the South Downs, but in this weather the hills gave no shelter at all. Flurries of fine snow were seeding the wind, stinging his cheeks. Uncertainties ran briefly through him: the right address but maybe the wrong day; perhaps he should have phoned ahead...? Finally the door eased open, giving a glimpse of a hallway, a flight of stairs. Warm air flowed out at him.
A woman was there, wearing a thick pullover and jeans and a tweed cap.
“Mr O’Leary, I believe? Otherwise known as Oliviera, the magician?”
“I am,” said O’Leary.
“You are most welcome, Mr O’Leary. Madame is expecting you, and has asked me to show you into the drawing room. She will join you as soon as possible.”
While she said this she held the door open wide, and O’Leary stepped in. She closed the door swiftly behind him, sealing the house against the wind. A feeling of comfort and welcome swirled invisibly around him. The woman took his coat and his overnight bag, but O’Leary kept hold of his case of magic materials. He never let it out of his sight.
He said yes, he would enjoy a cup of tea, and went through into the drawing room.
As the double doors closed behind him he realized he was in a mausoleum of the past. The enormous room was filled to cramming point with objets d’art: busts, sculptures, stuffed birds of prey in domed glass cases, huge screens and lanterns, four immense bookcases, piles of unsorted books on every level surface, a hand-wound trumpet phonograph, a tall birdcage holding several brightly coloured parakeets, two pianos, one of them a concert grand, a harpsichord and several wind and string instruments, two or three music stands, a variety of thick-piled carpets with oriental designs. Swords, lances, shields and ancient firearms were mounted on every wall. In the spaces between were the trophy heads of wild animals: a cheetah, an antelope, an antlered deer. Bric-a-brac had been placed on every remaining surface. The air was suffused with a rich, clean smell: furniture polish, good wood, leather, paper, varnish.
He saw two large armchairs and a settee placed around a hearth. The fireplace was dominated by an enlarged black-and-white photograph of a man in old-fashioned clothes. O’Leary wound his way through the elegant clutter of the room, sat down in one of the chairs, and awaited the arrival of Madame de Morganet.
THE HOUSE, THE circumstances, were not entirely what Dennis O’Leary was expecting, although there had been a clue in the address. This was a select area of Sussex, the strip of land between the South Downs and the Weald, wooded and fertile, with several large houses. An undefined sense of financial well-being had always been detectable in his exchanges with Madame de Morganet, but the opulence of her home was still a surprise.
A middle-aged unmarried man, O’Leary was often lonely when not touring, but loneliness was not a habit he wanted to keep. His career had become a sequence of mild successes – he was a good-enough illusionist and his skill brought pleasure to his audiences and a more or less steady income. He still depended on bookings at clubs and business functions, because he had not done well on television. Two or three of his tricks were unique to him, so he guarded their secrets with care. They were his most valuable properties, but he could not live on secrets.
When not touring, he lived in a small room at the top of a terraced house in Leicester, his car and trailer parked at the rear by arrangement with his landlady. Rick, contentedly married but always hard up and complaining about the meagre wage O’Leary paid him, lived close by. The previous winter, during one such break in work, he had happened upon Mme de Morganet on one of the more restrained internet contact sites (Responsible Adults seeking Mature Friendship). At first he had deliberately not selected her link – her self-description made her sound eccentric, or desperate, or weird, and probably all three, while her photograph was ambiguously shadowed.
Rick, when he found out, egged him on. “At least she sounds exotic,” he said. “Might cheer you up a bit.”
After paying the fee, O’Leary exchanged several tentative emails with her. They elicited enough information from each other to feel a meeting should follow. It took several weeks to arrange, because soon after they made contact, O’Leary began a tour in the north of England. She was a harmless distraction while the work went on. He grew fond of her sometimes bizarre messages, which came as a welcome change in his workaday life.
O’Leary told her all the facts about himself that he knew to be true:
that he was unmarried, not rich but not hard up, healthy, sane, not saddled with onerous debts or obligations, and that he was at an age she might consider suitable.
He learned that she was a childless widow, that she had been grief-stricken by the loss of her husband, but that he had left her well-provided-for with a house and an investment income from family securities. She described herself as interested in O’Leary’s skill as an illusionist, and said she would love to learn from him. More touchingly, she said that she was lonely and anxious to find a long-term partner. O’Leary told her, shyly, much the same.
Sitting alone in her drawing room, surrounded by the huge collection of antiques, he felt more ill at ease than he could ever remember. But then, unannounced and without any fuss or sense of ceremony, Mme de Morganet entered through the double doors. A gust of warm air followed her in and circled around him, bearing with it the merest hint of patchouli. He stood up to meet her.
THEY SHOOK HANDS conventionally, exchanging names, then Mme de Morganet drew back from him. They stood apart, regarding each other frankly and intently, but not discourteously. Both smiled. Neither of them appeared to feel uncomfortable with this exploratory staring, nor that they were embarrassing the other.
That she was a handsome woman was instantly in no doubt. She appeared to be in her late thirties, although at first sight O’Leary could not be sure. Her raven hair, with a touch of silver, was set off by a bold streak of purple. Her stance was upright but informal, her long gown of dark-grey satin made sombre but also more feminine by black and purple ribbons. She wore a veil, pushed back above her face so that it rested on her hair. She wore black satin cocktail gloves, fingers exposed, with long lacy armlets. Her fingers were heavy with rings, all of them white gold or silver. Their claw settings held dark gems. She had put something on her face, too pale, while her eyes were lined too darkly. Her lips were glossed and deep red.
“Well, Mr O’Leary,” she said soon enough. “This is my house and I am pleased to welcome you to it.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “I am delighted to meet you at last. I’m sorry it has taken so long to arrange, but I enjoyed your emails.”
“And I yours. Please, let’s dispense with formalities. You must call me Louisa, and I shall call you Dennis.”
He nodded his acceptance of this and they smiled broadly. In spite of the attempt to break the ice, she spoke in measured, almost formal tones, as if reciting aloud, or addressing someone who might not understand. However, far from being intimidated by her, now that he was standing close to her O’Leary felt a sudden mad urge to sweep her into his arms.
She sat down on the settee with a deep rustling of satin, indicating he should sit beside her. He did so, but stayed at the far end. They began to converse, at first remarking conventionally on his journey and the unusually cold weather. The woman who had opened the door to him came in with a tray of tea things. Her tweed cap had disappeared. As they started on the buttered scones and delicate little cakes, O’Leary felt the atmosphere growing more cordial by the minute.
A quiet joy was rising in him. Louisa de Morganet was a mature, beautiful and intelligent woman, a romantic individualist in the way she liked to dress, but obviously modern and open-minded in outlook. Years of experience, and his own deceptive profession, had taught him never to accept at face value anything seen or quickly learned. He resolved to keep this in mind for the time being.
They asked questions about each other. O’Leary had rarely spoken about himself to anyone before. His harmless revelations about his past felt awkward and unnatural at first, but Louisa’s manner was so welcoming and candid that his inhibitions began to fade away.
She was in return forthcoming about herself. She told him how she had met her late husband, François, a Frenchman who worked in the London City branch of a Parisian bank. She indicated the framed photograph above the fireplace. François had a moustache, goatee beard and long sideburns, and was posed stiffly wearing a dark frock coat and with a cane in hand. He looked irritated by being photographed, and glared at the camera, ill at ease.
François, she said, had swept her off her feet, married her, taken her to his family home in Provence, where she discovered he came from a long line of aristocrats. They went on an extended tour of European countries, far to the east – Roumania and Bessarabia – thence to countries bordering the Mediterranean: Lebanon, Turkey and Greece. It was, she said, from meeting members of his family that she developed her taste for knowledge, the learning from others of practical and artistic skills. The de Morganets were academics and professionals, all polymaths. The family was extensive and widely dispersed.
When she and François returned to England they bought this house. She spoke warmly but distantly of him, and O’Leary realized that she must still be feeling her loss.
François de Morganet had contracted tuberculosis while they were on their travels. It afflicted him severely and he died within a year of their return.
Louisa looked mortified by her memories. “He was in so much pain, day and night, terrible discomfort. And the blood – so much blood! I shall never forget, never! Mon pauvre mari, mon chéri!”
She was staring into her lap, but then she raised her head, looked at the photograph above the fire.
O’Leary saw tears welling in her eyes, unnerving him, so he left the settee and wandered around the crowded room, easing his way between the many pieces. Soon, Louisa composed herself. She was standing when he turned back to her. She lightly touched his hand as they resumed their seats, and encouraged him to sit a little closer.
Outside, the dark of the evening had closed in, the wind blustering around the gables and roof pinnacles. The open fire, a mound of logs, blazed cheerfully. The serving woman quietly entered the drawing room and went around lighting the lamps, a number of gas mantles, but there were candles too. Once these were alight more scented essences drifted through the room.
“Mrs Acland – did you show our guest to his room?” Louisa said.
The woman was about to leave the drawing room. “No, madame, I brought him straight in here, as you asked.” She nodded, then closed the doors.
“Why don’t you let her show you where you will be sleeping?” Louisa said to O’Leary. “You must need a rest after your journey and then we will meet for dinner. You will hear the gong.”
O’Leary wanted to say that he was not feeling at all tired – indeed, he was energized and alert – but he decided against it.
“Do you like to dress for dinner?” He shook his head, but vaguely, feeling his way. “I prefer to,” Louisa went on. “But it’s up to you.” She glanced at his case of magical effects and apparatus. “I assume this is not your overnight case?”
“No. These are the tools of my trade. What you asked me to bring.”
“Excellent. This evening we shall relax after we have dined, and come to know each other more. But tomorrow I shall be intent on learning about your conjuring. You need have no worries about secrets. I honour all confidences in my quest for knowledge.”
“You wish to become a magician?” O’Leary said.
“I intend to add the art of illusionism to my atchievements.”
She pronounced the word deliberately, her tongue briefly touching her teeth, making the small but distinct dental sound of the ‘t.’ She was looking closely at him, as if to judge his reaction.
O’Leary headed for the stairs, clutching his case of magic. Mrs Acland, who had been standing in the hall, courteously swung the doors open to allow him to pass through. She led O’Leary to the room on the top floor where he would sleep.
A LOG FIRE had been set in the grate and was burning cheerfully. A gas mantle gave a steady but weak white light into the room. As he entered, O’Leary groped instinctively for an electric switch. One was there on the wall beside the door, and a shaded fitting hung on a flex in the centre of the ceiling, but no light issued from it.
A change of his own clothes was laid out for him, in fact the sharply c
ut suit that he wore when he was performing. Never normally to be worn in daily life, the royal-blue suit had an inner lining that was a secret network of hidden pockets and slits, loops of thread, elastic bands.
The bedroom was under the steep roof of the house, well-proportioned, clean and furnished in traditional style. The bed stood high off the floor. The dormer window, built out of the sloping roof, was heavily curtained with dark green damask, satin stripes worked into the thick fabric, reaching to the floor, tasseled. A small shower room and toilet lay beyond a white-painted door.
He could not gain a signal on his mobile; no text messages had arrived since he left Brighton earlier. He pressed the handset to the window, hoping to enhance whatever network signal there might be, but there was nothing. He had wanted to contact Rick, tell him how things were working out, but it was not to be.
He booted up his laptop, but there was no wi-fi within range. He looked around the room for a cable connector, without success. He knew that Louisa had repeatedly emailed him, so there must be a landline connection somewhere in the house.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his legs dangling. A stuffed owl, inside a glass case on a low shelf, stared at him with wide orange eyes. O’Leary could still smell patchouli, where a trace of it had transferred to his hand. He ran his fingers beneath his nostrils, smiling to himself. He rolled back across the bed and pedalled his feet in the air with pleasure.
An hour later, when he heard the gong sound from the stairwell below, O’Leary walked downstairs for dinner, dressed in his stage suit.
THERE WAS NOTHING to be seen of Louisa the next morning when O’Leary went early to breakfast. He ate alone, sitting at a long, highly polished oak table. It was in a windowed conservatory, heated by circulating pipes and filled with exotic trees and shrubs. They stood in calm array around him, while outside the trees in the garden and in the woods beyond were bent and battered by a chill, sleet-bearing easterly wind.
The Future of Horror Page 27