things. Nevertheless, I fancied myself a sober, rational, level-headed man, able to separate reality from fancy, as well as anyone else of vaguely scientific bent.
I had liked Votable, I was grateful to him for his invitation and, for all it had been veiled in oblique warnings, I fully intended to take it up.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Athenaeum Club
Pall Mall
Dear Monmouth,
Further to our meeting and conversation. The school archivist is Dr V. V. Dancer. I have spoken to him and he will make available to you such material as is in our possession. If you would care to contact him he will make all necessary arrangements with regard to your visit.
On another matter, I recall your saying that you seek rooms in proximity to the river. By chance I have heard of some which may be suitable. They are at Number 7, Prickett’s Green, Chelsea, S.W. which houses are part of estates belonging to the School.
I have given much thought to the venture you wish to undertake and gone over most carefully in my mind such things as have been mentioned or hinted to me. They are not pleasant things, the man’s reputation was a dark one and in certain places unhappy memories linger. But if, as I suppose, you will not bedeterred, then again I would urge you, be vigilant, be wary.
I shall not be available for several weeks from today, and would wish you to understand that I prefer to have no further interest in this matter.
Yours etc.
Archibald Votable.
I sat in silence beside the window of my room, the letter open before me on the table. In the dank inn yard below, I could hear the sound of water clattering into a bucket, and a curt order given by the landlord.
The Headmaster had not struck me as a weak man or one who would be easily unnerved but his letter betrayed his fears. He did not wish to have anything more to do with me and my enterprise, because he had spoken to someone about Vane, learned more, perhaps, than he had previously known, and what he had learned had made him afraid.
I was not deterred, but the warning made me pause, and for the first time consider the whole matter rather more seriously. Yet still I knew tantalisingly little. What was supposed to be the danger? What was I being warned against? What was the nature of the stories, rumours, hints, about Conrad Vane, a man some twenty years dead? I felt as if I were groping ahead through a fog, hearing odd whistles and low cries to me to look out, pay heed, but having no clue as to what I was to beware of or in which direction it might lie.
A dog yelped in the yard, yelped again and then fell abruptly silent.
And then, into my mind came a picture of my late Guardian, the man who had raised me from boyhood and helped to direct and mould my character. What would he have done? What advice would he give me now? I knew at once, and also knew without doubt that I would follow it. I would continue with my plans with caution, not dismissingthe warnings I had been given, however vague, with any false bravado. My Guardian had been a courageous man and an adventurous one. He had also been prudent. I could do no better than try to emulate him.
In the meantime, I intended to call at Number 7, Prickett’s Green, S.W.
I found a row of three-storey, stuccoed houses set back behind their own rectangle of garden, with elm trees to either side, overlooking the wide embankment and the River Thames. It was a fine late afternoon, clear and already frosty, the sun low to the west and staining the sky deep crimson and sending gilded darts shooting across the black surface of the water.
I had walked the whole way, keeping the river on my left and revelling in the complementary beauties of sky and river, bare trees and handsome buildings.
Further east the road was busy with traffic, but as I came up to Chelsea it grew quieter. Many times I stopped to lean against the embankment wall and look up and down river, enthralled by all I saw upon it, and then turned to stare at the houses, to admire the
I had liked Votable, I was grateful to him for his invitation and, for all it had been veiled in oblique warnings, I fully intended to take it up.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Athenaeum Club
Pall Mall
Dear Monmouth,
Further to our meeting and conversation. The school archivist is Dr V. V. Dancer. I have spoken to him and he will make available to you such material as is in our possession. If you would care to contact him he will make all necessary arrangements with regard to your visit.
On another matter, I recall your saying that you seek rooms in proximity to the river. By chance I have heard of some which may be suitable. They are at Number 7, Prickett’s Green, Chelsea, S.W. which houses are part of estates belonging to the School.
I have given much thought to the venture you wish to undertake and gone over most carefully in my mind such things as have been mentioned or hinted to me. They are not pleasant things, the man’s reputation was a dark one and in certain places unhappy memories linger. But if, as I suppose, you will not bedeterred, then again I would urge you, be vigilant, be wary.
I shall not be available for several weeks from today, and would wish you to understand that I prefer to have no further interest in this matter.
Yours etc.
Archibald Votable.
I sat in silence beside the window of my room, the letter open before me on the table. In the dank inn yard below, I could hear the sound of water clattering into a bucket, and a curt order given by the landlord.
The Headmaster had not struck me as a weak man or one who would be easily unnerved but his letter betrayed his fears. He did not wish to have anything more to do with me and my enterprise, because he had spoken to someone about Vane, learned more, perhaps, than he had previously known, and what he had learned had made him afraid.
I was not deterred, but the warning made me pause, and for the first time consider the whole matter rather more seriously. Yet still I knew tantalisingly little. What was supposed to be the danger? What was I being warned against? What was the nature of the stories, rumours, hints, about Conrad Vane, a man some twenty years dead? I felt as if I were groping ahead through a fog, hearing odd whistles and low cries to me to look out, pay heed, but having no clue as to what I was to beware of or in which direction it might lie.
A dog yelped in the yard, yelped again and then fell abruptly silent.
And then, into my mind came a picture of my late Guardian, the man who had raised me from boyhood and helped to direct and mould my character. What would he have done? What advice would he give me now? I knew at once, and also knew without doubt that I would follow it. I would continue with my plans with caution, not dismissingthe warnings I had been given, however vague, with any false bravado. My Guardian had been a courageous man and an adventurous one. He had also been prudent. I could do no better than try to emulate him.
In the meantime, I intended to call at Number 7, Prickett’s Green, S.W.
I found a row of three-storey, stuccoed houses set back behind their own rectangle of garden, with elm trees to either side, overlooking the wide embankment and the River Thames. It was a fine late afternoon, clear and already frosty, the sun low to the west and staining the sky deep crimson and sending gilded darts shooting across the black surface of the water.
I had walked the whole way, keeping the river on my left and revelling in the complementary beauties of sky and river, bare trees and handsome buildings.
Further east the road was busy with traffic, but as I came up to Chelsea it grew quieter. Many times I stopped to lean against the embankment wall and look up and down river, enthralled by all I saw upon it, and then turned to stare at the houses, to admire the
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