The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

by Gerald Durrell

  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. Already it was difficult to see the end of the street. It was obviously going to turn out to be a real peasouper and I was glad to be home. My housekeeper, Mrs Manning had a bright and cheerful fire burning in my small drawing-room and, next to my favourite 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.

  ‘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 such an evening.

  ‘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, and thought no more about it. Presently Mrs Manning reappeared, dressed for the street. 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 mieouw of greeting and jumped gracefully on to 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 puns 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, stretched and yawned as if 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 there, 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, gypsy-like 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 fine, white, even teeth. His voice had a peculiar husky, lilting, musical quality that was most attractive, an effect 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?’

  ‘Yes. 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 opportunity 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 upon 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 I 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 could 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 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 amusing the thought of 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.’

  We drank. 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 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 you noticed the size and blackness and lustre of his eyes. They seem to probe you, almost as if they could read your very thoughts. The impression they gave made me uncomfortable, to say the least. But then he smiled and immediately the eyes flashed with mischief, good humour 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 l
eft 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 that 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 in Paris who could do the job just as well, if not better.’

  ‘I think you do yourself an injustice,’ said my visitor. ‘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 spontaneously 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 I had no reason to doubt the man’s sincerity. 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, you could start 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 all right?’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I would think that the job would take you a month or so, but from my point of view please stay as long as it 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. 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 both to remember and to 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 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 was of great urgency. Surely he could have written to me? Or did he perhaps think that 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 I said, when his face was in repose his eyes were so fiercely brooding and penetrating that they made me uneasy and filled almost with a sense of repugnance. But then when he smiled and his eyes filled with laughter and he talked with that husky, musical voice, I had been charmed in spite of myself. He was, I decided, a very curious character, and I determined that I would try to 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 cooked myself a late supper.

  A few days later I ran into my old friend Edward Mallenger at a sale. 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 Count . . . 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 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’s place in the Gorge du Tarn.

  ‘Do you know that area of France?’ Edward asked.

  ‘I have never been to France at all,’ I confessed.

  ‘Well, it’s a desolate area. The house is in a wild and remote district right in the Gorge itself. It’s a rugged country, with huge cliffs and deep gloomy gorges, waterfalls and rushing torrents, not unlike the Gustave Dore drawings for Dante’s Inferno, you know.’

  Edward paused to sip his drink thoughtfully, and then occupied himself with lighting a cigar. When it was drawing to his satisfaction, he went on. ‘In the house, apart from the family retainers of which there only seemed to be three (a small number for such a large establishment) was the uncle and his nephew whom, I take it, was your visitor of the other night. The uncle was – well, not to put too fine a point on it, a most unpleasant old man. He must have been about eighty-five, I suppose, with a really evil, leering face, and an oily manner that he obviously thought was charming. The boy was about fourteen with huge dark eyes in a pale face. He was an intelligent lad, old for his age, but the thing that worried me was that he seemed to be suffering from intense fear, a fear, I felt, of his uncle.

  ‘The first night I arrived, after we had had dinner, which was, to my mind meagre and badly-cooked fare for France, I went to bed early, for I was fatigued after my journey. The old man and the boy stayed up. As luck would have it the dining-room was directly below my bedroom, and so, although I could not hear clearly all that passed between them I could hear enough to discern that the old man was doing his best to persuade his nephew into some course of action that the boy found repugnant, for he was vehement in his refusal. The argument went on for some time, the uncle’s voice getting louder and louder and more angry. Suddenly, I heard the scrape of a chair as the boy stood and shouted, positively shouted, my dear Peter – in French at his uncle: “No, no, I will not be devoured so that you may live . . . I hate you.” I heard it quite clearly and I thought it an astonishing thing for a young boy to say. Then I heard the door of the dining-salon open and bang shut, the boy’s foot-steps running up stairs and, eventually, the banging of what I assumed was his bedroom door.

  ‘After a short while I heard the unde get up from the table and start to come upstairs. There was no mistaking his footfall, for one of his feet was twisted and misshapen and so he walked slowly with a pronounced limp, dragging his left foot. He came slowly up the stairs, and I do assure you, my dear Peter, there was positive evil in this slow, shuffling approach that really made my hair stand on end. I heard him go to the boy’s bedroom door, open it and enter. He called the boy’s name two or three times, softly and cajo
lingly, but with indescribable menace. Then he said one sentence which I could not catch. After this he closed the boy’s door and for some moments I could hear him dragging and shuffling down the long corridor to his own quarters.

  ‘I opened my door and from the boy’s room I could hear muffled weeping, as though the poor child had his head under the bedclothes. It went on for a long time, and I was very worried. I wanted to go and comfort the lad, but I felt it might embarrass him, and in any case it was really none of my business. But I did not like the situation at all. The whole atmosphere, my dear Peter, was charged with something unpleasant.

  ‘I am not a superstitious man, as you well know, but I lay awake for a long time and wondered if I could stay in the atmosphere of that house for the two or three weeks it would take me to finish the job which I had agreed to do. Fortunately, fate gave me the chance I needed: the very next day I received a telegram to say that my sister had fallen gravely ill and so, quite legitimately, I could ask de Teildras Villeray to release me from my contract. He was, of course, most reluctant to do so, but he eventually agreed with ill-grace.

  ‘While I was waiting for the dog cart to arrive to take me to the station, I had a quick look round some of his library. Since it was really extensive it spread all over the house, but the bulk of it was housed in what he referred to as the Long Gallery, a very handsome, long room, that would not have disgraced one of our aristocratic country houses. It was hung with giant mirrors between the bookcases, in fact, the whole house was full of mirrors. I can never remember being in a house with so many before.

  ‘He certainly had a rare and valuable collection of books, particularly on one of your pet subjects, Peter, the occult. I noticed, in my hurried browse, among other things, some most interesting Hebrew manuscripts on witchcraft, as well as an original of Matthew Hopkin’s Discovery of Witches and a truly beautiful copy of Dee’s De Mirabilius Naturae. But then the dog cart arrived and, making my farewells, I left.