by Alan Jansen
‘You don’t need to get over-agitated, Mr Eccelstone; calm yourself. The facts of your murky past do not concern me personally and will never come out unless you betray me. Even if you do betray me at your own immense cost, nobody will be able to touch me, I can guarantee you that. Just do what I request and I will see that you are compensated way beyond what you can ever expect. In fact, you could even retire for good.’
Without beating about the bush, I then mentioned the sum of money I would be paying Ecclestone for his services – a sum that nearly made him fall off his chair.
‘You have my word, Miss Southton. All will be done as you ask,’ said a visibly shaken, but very satiated, Eccelstone – still quite unable to grasp his good fortune in light of the sum of money I had promised him …
The arrangement with Eccelstone was not very elaborate, but it was conclusive and would end my old identity forever. He was to inform Pop and Ben that I had been lost at sea while attempting a solo sailing expedition around the south coast of England. Pop knew I loved to sail and that I had acquired a small yacht many years ago for that purpose. The story would be that the coastguards at Cornwall, Devon, Dorset, and even the Isle of Wight had searched for me and my boat for weeks without any success. I would finally be declared lost at sea – dead.
Of course, matters couldn’t be settled immediately. I still lived in my small flat in Half-Moon Street, although the money Mom had left me in her will was gargantuan. I was a wealthy woman even before inheriting Mom’s money. I was just a teenager when the news of Uncle Cheroot’s death in that plane crash reached us on the farm. A solicitor from London came to visit us shortly afterwards and informed Mom that Uncle had left us all generous sums of money. Mom got the most – not that she needed it, for in later years she became a multimillionaire in her own right through the sales of her paintings. I was left a vast sum in trust to be paid to me upon my twenty-first birthday. Although stinking rich, I didn’t live in riotous dissipation – the flat in Half-Moon Street still my simple abode, although I could afford a palatial dwelling in London or anywhere else. Eccelstone informed me that my new identity had to be stolen from a dead baby or completely forged by a master forger who had an array of identities I could choose from. I didn’t like the notion of taking on a dead baby’s identity, so I eventually settled for a completely fake, but perfectly usable, identity. My new passport was in my same surname, Southton, but I had changed my first name to Rosamund and my age to twenty-five. With Eccelstone being also very skilled in most financial matters, I was soon able to transfer all my monies and assets into a bank account in Switzerland under my new name. I also opened several other bank accounts in prominent banks home in England and one in France. As I said, all this took some time. When everything was ready, I asked Eccelstone to set about staging my ‘death at sea’. I was fifty-five when Pop and Ben got the news of my ‘death’. My new life had started. I abandoned my horrible ‘looking old’ make-up for good, and was ready to move on …
Ecclestone personally travelled down to the farm as I had ordered and informed Pop and Ben of my supposed demise. He also read out my testament that left handsome emoluments to Pop, Ben, and Belinda, and their three daughters who were my only known adult relatives. Minus the sum allotted to the few charities I supported, they would receive a great amount of money. After the terms of my will were carried out and after I had paid off Eccelstone, the main part of my cavernous fortune was still intact – hardly dented.
I didn’t know how Pop reacted to the news of my death. A decade or so ago, he would have been devastated, for Pop really loved me in his funny old way, but Pop was past eighty-five now, forgetful, slatternly, and almost gaga. I suppose even so he would have grieved in whatever way his failing mind could comprehend my demise. I cried a lot thinking about Pop. I didn’t have the same affection for my father as what I’d had for my late mother, but I really missed him, and the thought that I would never see that rustic, honest man again made me immensely sad. Ben would grieve too. Although he and I were never close as siblings, we definitely shared a bond.
I had originally thought of moving into a pensionnat in France – use it as a vantage point from where I could travel in my search for Uncle, but having looked at a good many at Rennes, I found them somewhat crowded and the rooms too small, so I decided to buy a residence instead, one where I could rule the roost. I purchased a modest chateau a few kilometres away from the city that stood out in its isolated splendour. The nearest dwellings were a few farmhouses, which I could see from a distance when I stood on my balcony on the upper floor. I employed a gardener, a maid, and a cook. They did not stay with me at nights, just finishing their work each day and then travelling back to their respective homes in the city in the evening by bus – a bus service operated by the Rennes City Council. The cook had an old Renault car, which she drove sometimes, offering the others a lift, but it was often the bus that the trio used. The bus stopped just a few metres from the chateau, although I never used it. I could have bought a new Bentley or a Mercedes, but I bought a used Citroen DS 21 from a reputed car dealer in the city, in an effort to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Although from 1969, the car was in excellent condition, and made me feel at least partially ‘French’. I speak fluent French, although with an accent, but anyone speaking fluent French is always accepted by the French as one of their own, especially if one is white-skinned and blue-eyed as I am.
Director Duchamps did as he had promised and found me a person whom he declared was a well-renowned historian in France who also did genealogy research and was much sought after by those who could afford his services for investigating such matters. He also mentioned in passing that this person was even an expert on occult history. Why he mentioned that I did not know, for I had not disclosed anything about Uncle ever being connected to occult matters to him in our initial meeting. At a meeting at the solicitor’s office, Duchamps gave me the name of a certain Professor Gaston Richelieu, whereupon I paid the former his fee and departed. I discovered later that the professor wasn’t a very wealthy man as his French surname sort of suggested, but that he was widely respected in academic circles. I made some further discreet investigations and discovered that he did indeed enjoy a solid reputation of possessing an erudite knowledge of ancient occult matters, in addition to his family tree investigating talents. I quickly made an appointment with him and drove to the city fully intent on worming out all the information I could from him on where Uncle could possibly be living in France and absorb any knowledge he had about ancient Druids, vampires, fairies, pixies, elves, and the like …
Professor Richelieu lived on the top floor of an old five-storey building, still standing from the post-Napoleonic era. His apartment was huge with many rooms, and it had a balcony that covered all the four corners of the building. As mentioned, I had made a prior appointment, so the professor was waiting for me, quickly ushering me into a large firelit room, obviously his study. The room contained an Empire-style desk in one corner which looked antediluvian, probably several hundred years old (I had developed a taste for antiques just like Uncle Cheroot.), while old-fashioned bookshelves that held thousands of books hid the four walls behind. Apart from a visitor’s chair in front of the desk, and one behind it, there was no other furniture, although a very impressive Persian Hamadan rug placed on the floor in in the centre of the room caught my eye, as did a solitary painting above the mantelpiece that looked like a genuine Rubens. As if the books on the shelves weren’t enough, there were hundreds of books scattered all over the floor, some even carelessly placed on his expensive rug. It was obvious to me that my host very definitely didn’t care for luxurious trappings of any sort.
The professor politely pulled out the chair in front of his desk, indicating in an old-fashioned gesture for me to sit down. Sitting down in his own chair behind the massive desk, he casually picked up an apple from a large bowl of fruit and started peeling it with a pointed fruit knife, looking at
me keenly all the while. Gazing upon the professor’s very confidence-inspiring aged face, I decided instinctively to tell all, holding nothing back. I gave my uncle’s name as Voldemort, the name he went by when he visited us, and which I believe is indeed his true name. I didn’t expect my false first name (Rosamund) and my false age as stated on my passport to fool the professor should he decide to dig deep into my true identity. I knew instinctively that the professor would somehow discover my true age and identity after I had related my story to him. Mom was a sort of giveaway. There weren’t that many famous still-life and landscape painters hailing from the Cotswolds who had recently died, so he would be able to put two and two together relatively easily. There was no danger in telling the truth to this complete stranger, so I told him the events that started over forty years ago, when I was just twelve, leaving out nothing that had to do with Uncle, our family’s experiences with him, and my own strange fate. The revelation of my true age startled him – leaving him gaping at me in doubt, wondering whether to believe me or not. It was not only that my face looked incredibly young but also that my arms showing out from my sleeveless dress were smooth and well rounded, almost like a baby’s, and my fingers were completely unmarked by the kind of wrinkles one sees in middle-aged and older people. Masking his surprise at the admission of my age, Professor Richelieu listened intently to my story as I rattled on. I had expected the learned professor to react with doubt or at the least show some sign of trepidation as I told my story, but instead his eyes shone like a cat’s in the darkness, a look of utter interest carved on his lined and aged face.
‘Mademoiselle Southton, you say you never saw your uncle actually eat – that the food on his plate was surreptitiously given to your dog?’
‘Not all food, Professor. Uncle did eat sweets, bread, and cheese, and he drank loads of champagne and sometimes red wine. I don’t really know if he actually ate meat and fowl, but whenever they were displayed on our dining table, he wasn’t happy, toying with his food, and giving most of it to my dog when he thought nobody was looking. I did see him eat a forkful of meat sometimes, but afterwards, when dinner or lunch was over, he would hightail it to the bathroom to retch the lot out. Uncle’s retching was not a secret and made my mother quite worried, but he would always laugh it off and say he did it deliberately to keep his immaculate figure trim.’
‘And you say he always wore sunglasses during the day when outside?’
‘Yes. He said he had an eye condition and that sunlight made it worse.’
‘Hmm … what about that red stone you say you saw him sucking on during his first visit when you were twelve? Did you ever get a good look at it?’
‘No. Uncle was very secretive about that stone. I never did have a good look at it, as I could never find it. Uncle rarely wore it around his neck like he did when he faced his enemy Drakenwund. However, in his battle with that terrible monster, I saw the stone clearly before it sent out that beam of red light directed head-on at the beast. I saw then that it was a largish bottle-shaped object probably carved into shape from crystal or something similar, for no glass could have shone and dazzled like that red object did. The top of the dazzling stone was neck shaped, in all likelihood intentionally cut like that.’
‘Regarding the great wound on your jugular when Drakenwund’s scale pierced your neck, was it the first time a wound healed so quickly on your body?’
‘Yes, Professor. I had many wounds in my childhood, injuries I got when hiking in the woods, playing with my fellow pupils at school, or horsing around with Inky. They all bled normally and took a normal time to heal. After the Drakenwund incident, no wound on my person lasted more than a minute – and I never got sicknesses of any kind, not even a cold in the winter. I was even shot at by a jealous lover, but after blacking out a minute or so, I saw there was no entry or exit wound.’
‘So, small and deep wounds on your person heal within seconds, you say, and you haven’t had any sickness since you received the blood of your uncle on the day of the dragon incident?’
‘Yes, yes, Professor. That is correct.’
The professor’s next action almost frightened me out of my wits. He suddenly leaned over the desk separating us and stabbed me with the sharp knife he was using to peel his apple. The knife pierced my right hand, which had been resting on the surface of his desk. The weapon went deep in my hand before he withdrew it instantly. Blood gushed out from my wound in a flash, but as quickly as it came, the flow stopped, the blood coagulated, and the wound closed up. Within less than a half minute, there was no visible wound. To say that I was enraged by the professor’s action would have been an understatement. I rose up infuriated by his action and made for the door, fully intending to leave at once. The professor rose from his chair, too, beating me to the door. For a man of advanced age, he moved very quickly. Blocking the door and putting out his hands in supplication, he requested – nay, begged – that I stay, a look of absolute contrition on his aged face.
‘Mon Dieu! Oh Mon Dieu! Oh, dear, dear lady. Dear Mademoiselle Southton. … Please forgive my actions. I beg a thousand pardons. I took a great liberty, a colossal risk. But you see, dear lady, I get so many clients making appointments with me claiming falsely this and that, including immortality – some even saying outright that they are vampires or werewolves who need my help to be free from their afflictions. I just had to be sure that you were telling me the truth. Sapristi! I know now beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are indeed a being endowed with a special gift – a gift you were not born with but that was inflicted upon you on purpose. Please stay, Mademoiselle, and let’s discuss this matter further. I promise you that your secret will be safe with me, and I promise further to do my utmost to find out what sort of creature – if I may call him that – your uncle is, and what curse or blessing he has passed on to you through the exchange of blood he was forced to make with you to save your life. But hark! Dear lady, have a care! I must also warn you that the being that you seek, although he has been benevolent to you and your family in the past, may not be pleased if you intrude on his privacy. I feel it incumbent on me to give you this advice.’
I was still thoroughly chagrined and intensely angry over the professor’s stabbing stunt, but I decided to stay on. If I wanted to know what or who Uncle was, what I had become, and how to find Uncle, then I had to play ball. The professor’s next statement, however, surprised me even more than his lunging stab on my hand …
‘I will this very evening after you have departed pore over my ancient books and records and find out what your uncle is – if he is human or another species altogether. I will do my very best. I will also advise you then of how and where he is probably living. I do not want any payment from you, but I ask you this great favour. Bite or stab me in my palm so that my blood is drawn, and then cut yourself and join your wound with mine before your wound heals so that our blood is exchanged and entwined. You see, Mademoiselle, I am very old and sick. My doctors give me very little promise, and I do so much want to live on. I have so much to do – unfinished business, you know. A lifetime is not enough for my studies. You have unwittingly been given a great gift from your uncle – a gift to live on without sickness or accident shortening or terminating your life. Perhaps you can pass on this gift to me too. I would be eternally grateful. Make an old man happy, Mademoiselle, please. Please …’
I looked upon his lined and anxious old face, which was alight with the hope of the truly desperate. Any vindictiveness I may have felt over his stabbing stunt disappeared in an instant. I knew I didn’t age, that I didn’t fall ill, and that wounds on my body did not affect me in the slightest, but was I given eternal life? Was Uncle enjoying eternal life? I remembered the times he had written that he had ‘drained’ Mom and given her his ‘gift’. Had he tried to make Mom eternal too? If so, why and how did he fail? Mom continued to age, however, as was confirmed in Uncle’s very short second diary entry – a fact that hastened his
departure from our lives. But if his methods had failed on Mom, why did they succeed with me? Why, and how, was I special? A myriad of thoughts fled through my mind in what seemed an eternity but in reality just took a minute or two. I had to give Professor Richelieu an answer – a short answer that would be firm and definite. I did not wish to protract the twist this conversation had taken.
‘I can’t do that, Professor! I don’t know for sure what this condition of mine is, what it implies, or what it is all about. It may well be a tremendous curse and not a blessing or a gift. I cannot make this blood ritual you are asking. What if my blood is a poison? What if it kills you? Uncle may have had a special technique to do this ritual which I don’t possess. I can’t have your life on my hands. Besides, poison or not, the blood exchange didn’t work with my mother. It could well not work with you either!’
Professor Richelieu looked upon me with sad eyes. He knew I was right, and he knew he had no right to ask me for the ‘gift’, as he put it.