The Mammoth Book of Terror (36 page)

“This . . . Jenkins . . . ?”

“Used to be butler donkeys’ years ago. Now he’s all there is. Except when that woman was there. Lordy, I’d give anything to know the rights of it. The old place is
falling to bits. Young man, if you ever get past the front door, it would be a mercy if you’d pop back in here and tell me what’s what.”

“But first,” I prompted, “I must get there. Now if you’ll kindly tell . . .”

“Ah! Turn right and walk down the main street, then turn left, cross the stile and cut across Five Acre Field until you reach Miles Lane. Turn left and two miles further on you’ll
come to Manford Bridge which you can’t miss because it’s got a broken wall on one side. A mile or so on and you’ll reach Bramfield Walk. A hundred yards to the left are the Old
House iron gates. One’s fallen down. The house is at the end of the drive.”

“A taxi . . . ?”

“Young man you appear to have a stout pair of legs. It’s a nice walk so long as you keep clear of Mr Masterton’s bull. Now heed me. Even if you don’t get into the house,
keep your eyes open and let me know what you see. If the old lady is still about, she might be looking out of a window or something.”

I admitted that was a remote possibility, then asked:

“When did you last see Lady Bramfield?”

One not over clean hand went up and began to scratch her head.

“Now you have me! Must have been when I was a child. Over thirty years ago. And I remember she looked old then. She can’t still be alive.”

I passed the ruined lodge and entered a land where poets commune with long forgotten gods and lovely dark-eyed nymphs ride in on the night wind. Not a leaf stirred, although the grass rippled
beneath my feet: the total silence suggested it might be masking a phantasmagoria of subtle sounds that would be meaningless to anyone not versed in their tonality. Presently the drive emerged into
a vast semi-circular space that lay before a large, grey-stoned house.

Two storeys high. Twin rows of deep set mullioned windows. A flight of steps leading up to a double, weather-stained oak, iron-studded door. A tapering steeple reared up from imitation turrets
on either side. The windows did not – or so it seemed – reflect the sunlight: the house – or so it seemed – did not cast a shadow. A familiar house – yet so strange
and sinister.

I ascended the steps and entered a large, marble columned portico, then rapped on one door, there being so far as I could see, neither knocker, bell-pull nor exterior handle. Almost at once the
left door opened and a tall, lean old man with a sad, lined face bowed his white head and asked:

“How can I help you, sir?”

I said – words flowing from my tongue in an unruly stream:

“I am looking for Caroline Fortescue . . . the Caroline Fortescue . . . who I believe is Lady Bramfield. Will you kindly ask Lady Bramfield if she will receive me?”

The deep-set, dark eyes, glittered and after an interval the strangely husky voice manufactured a reply.

“It is to be regretted, sir, that her ladyship cannot entertain visitors. She is well advanced in years, you understand. Beyond the frontiers of normal human existence.”

“So I have been given to understand. Around one hundred and seventeen.”

Even then I was prepared for an emphatic denial, but the old man merely bowed his head and said: “We are all as old as time permits, sir. But age consumes – burns up the essential
essence. It is to be hoped you have not travelled far.”

I was being given the polite brush-off, but I had to get into that house and come face to face with the incredible. Bribery was out of the question, but a veiled threat might be an answer.

“You discharged a maid – a woman who told my editor an astounding story. If it is true she will be paid not to disclose the whereabouts of this house to anyone. Always supposing I
get exclusive rights for publication. But if she is allowed to approach the popular press . . .” I shrugged my shoulders. “Half of Fleet Street will be pounding on this door and
screaming their questions to high heaven.”

The frail mask of imperturbability trembled and I caught a brief glimpse of naked fear.

“We have nothing to hide. That women – creature – was an inveterate liar.”

“Then you deny that Lady Bramfield is Caroline Fortescue?”

The man was incapable of telling a direct lie; could only give an evasive answer that was more revealing than a straightforward admission.

“I can only repeat, sir – this is the home of Lady Bramfield.”

God forgive me for I told a deliberate lie; made a promise that I had no means – or intention – of keeping.

“If you will let me in, let me interview Caroline Fortescue, I will make certain that the story is not published while she lives.”

He shook his head several times, then reluctantly retreated a few steps, a move that I interpreted as an invitation to enter. The hall looked like something from a horror film; age darkened
panelling lined the walls, the high windows were so covered with grime and cobwebs, the few items of furniture – an oak settle, two or three massive armchairs and a large credence table
– could barely be seen through the ensuing gloom. A wide staircase curved its way up to a landing that surrounded the hall on three sides, part of which had most probably once served as a
musicians’ gallery.

The old man led me past the staircase and through a doorway situated in the far right hand corner and into a room that was an oasis in that place of dust, neglect and gloom. It was comfortably,
even luxuriously furnished; fitted carpet, a settee that looked as if it might be transformed into a spacious bed, deep armchairs and a drop leaf table, not to mention several gilt framed paintings
that hung on plush-wallpaper covered walls.

The old man lowered himself into a chair and after motioning me to one opposite, emitted a deep sigh. “We have retreated over the years. Closed up most of the house and concentrated our
forces into three rooms. This one, the kitchen and her ladyship’s bedroom. Not counting the bathroom of course. I was trained to keep clean. But her ladyship had not bathed for sometime.
There are many intimate duties that I am called upon to perform, but . . . That is why I engaged that woman.” He again shook his head. “A serious mistake. But it never occurred to me
that – that creature would pry into her ladyship’s private papers.”

“Integrity is dead,” I murmured.

“You may well say so, sir.”

I edged my chair forward. “You are Mr Jenkins?”

“Just Jenkins, sir. Only the lower servants called me Mr Jenkins in the old days. And then only when I was elevated to the post of butler. Even my late wife called me Jenkins for the
entire of our married life. No disrespect was intended, in fact you might say it was a kind of title. When her ladyship was young – or younger than she is now, – she used to say:
Jenkins, you’re one of nature’s noblemen. “‘He chuckled, a low rasping sound that threatened to disintegrate into a cough. “She liked her little joke.”

He lapsed into a thoughtful silence and I waited patiently for the floodgates of memory to open. I tried to imagine what it was like living in this great barn of a house, with no one to talk to,
but that old-old woman – and shuddered. Presently that harsh, cultivated voice spoke again.

“I did not know she was Caroline Fortescue until after his old lordship died. Her father you understand. In the Bramfield family, when there is no heir, the title descends through the
female line. Her ladyship never married. Perhaps no man could possibly measure up to those heroes she invented. After long and deep reflection I think that was more than possible. She was a great
writer, wasn’t she, sir?”

“Almost if not quite,” I answered as truthfully as I could.

“Most of the critics thought so. Did you know that some thought she was a man? True. The trouble she went to making certain no one found out who Caroline Fortescue really was. Used to ride
ten miles once a week to Tuppleton to collect correspondence from her publishers and such like.”

“Did her publishers know?” I enquired.

He shook his head. “No, sir. She used another name for her correspondence. Cookham, I believe it was. It was part of her agreement with them that no one would ever try to find out her true
identity.”

“But why the secrecy? Most women would revel in being a world-famous authoress.”

Jenkins actually grinned. Bared his discoloured teeth and crinkled his face into an almost impish grin.

“Why indeed, sir. I think it was this way. She wanted to share her make believe world, but she didn’t want it invaded. I’m no hand in expressing myself and that’s the
best way I can describe it. For her writing a novel was a very personal business, for imagination will only go so far and she had to put a lot of herself into it. Sometimes all of herself –
if you follow me. Her ladyship was every man, woman and child who walked through those dozen books.”

“The soul bared and sent forth into the world, sliced and packed?” I suggested.

“Nicely put, sir, although I’m not all that sure what it means. But I know there’s a question you’re dying to ask. How old am I? Am I right?”

Although I had not given the matter any thought, I nodded.

“Yes, if you don’t mind telling me.”

He laughed, his former reticence now replaced by a kind of senile gaiety. “Bless you I don’t mind at all, sir. I’m eighty-five. Coming up to eighty-six. Her ladyship was
thirty-two when I was born. In this very house.”

“You don’t look it,” I said with all sincerity. “I would have placed you in the early seventies.”

The compliment (if such it was) pleased him and he expanded, began to regard me with an expression that suggested growing approval. Presently he leaned forward and asked in a harsh whisper:

“Would you like to have a little peep at her ladyship?”

I nodded vigorously. “I would indeed. Will . . . will it be all right?”

“So long as we’re quiet. Time for me to look in on her anyway. But it’s not one of her good days. I could tell that this morning. Not a movement – not so much as an eye
flicker.”

Jenkins got up and together we went back into the hall, then up the great staircase and on to the landing. He stopped at the first door, the one facing the stairs, and tapped gently on the top
left panel. He looked back over one shoulder.

“She can’t hear of course, but I couldn’t enter her room without first knocking. It wouldn’t be respectful.”

He had worn a deep groove in his life that made certain his route to the grave was straight and narrow. After placing a slightly tremulous forefinger to his lips, he opened the door and preceded
me into the room beyond. The smell was stomach heaving. The sweet, cloying stench of body decay. It was well established as though the walls, items of furniture had become deeply impregnated,
before being heated up by the coal fire that spluttered and roared from an ornate iron grate. Jenkins handed me a large red handkerchief and whispered:

“Keep that pressed to your nose, sir. You’ll become acclimatized to the smell after a bit.”

I greatly doubted if that were possible, but curiosity made me advance a few steps further into the room, for there was a distinct feeling I had slipped back in time and was now in an
ill-smelling pocket of history that must be explored even if I choked in the process. I gave the room a quick glance. A large fourposter bed that rightfully belonged to a museum; ancient padded
chairs with faded brocade covering; shelves that hid two walls, packed with books – and any number of bound manuscripts. The bed was neatly made – and empty. My head jerked from left to
right, my eyes seeking that which my brain did not wish to see.

A chaise-longue was situated in front of the fire with its raised back towards us, concealing whosoever or whatever it supported. Jenkins tiptoed across the room and peered downwards, a gentle
smile transforming his face into that of a benign male nurse. His loud whisper drew me reluctantly forward.

“As I thought, sir, she’s asleep. You can come and have a little peep, but quietly if you’d be so kind.”

I imitated his tiptoe approach, feeling like a frightened child who is trying not to awake a sleeping cobra. I kept my eyes firmly riveted on Jenkins and did not look down until I had all but
bumped into him. All that remained of Caroline Fortescue was dreadful. A tiny skeleton covered with wrinkled, grey skin. At least that was the first impression. Later when I had found the courage
to examine her more thoroughly I realized that ingrained dirt was responsible for the greyish hue and the skin resembled crumpled parchment that had been draped over the bones by a careless
taxidermist. There must have been a veneer of flesh beneath, but one had to accept such a supposition on trust.

A few white hairs clung to an obscenely gleaming skull, a few more sprouted from the sunken chin; dark eyes were half covered by lids that appeared to have lost the ability to open or close. The
hands were hideous claws, the backs ridged by black swollen veins. I could not detect the slightest sign of life. She was attired in a rusty black gown that covered her from neck to ankles, while
her feet were encased in grey woollen stockings.

When I was in a condition to speak I whispered: “Do you have to attend to all of her needs? Feeding, toilet requirements . . .? You know what I mean.”

He sighed gently. “As much as possible. Her intake is very small. A little warm milk laced with glucose. Poured slowly from a feeding cup. There’s little discharge. Moving her is a
very delicate business.”