| General Fiction posted June 12, 2019 | Chapters: |
...63 64 -65- 66... 
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Chapter 65: A night at The Willows
A chapter in the book The French Letter
The Slaying of the Markhor Pt 1
by tfawcus
| Background Chapter 66 flows directly from Chapter 65. They would be best read together. (Rather too long for one post, I split them to give you more members' cents and two chances at the Lucky Leprechaun) |
Last Paragraphs of Chapter 64
"Really? I remember my grandfather spouting some tommyrot about mountain fairies. You don't mean to tell me that Helen believes in all that rubbish?" He took a swig of port and refilled both our glasses.
"Yes, she does - and I've half a mind to believe it myself."
Bisto was dumbfounded. "You're not serious, are you?"
"Serious enough to fly out there with Helen and see for myself." I stood up and warmed my back against the fire. "By the way, whatever became of your great grandfather?"
There was an unearthly silence, broken only by hoot of an owl in the woods. Bisto looked at me strangely and said nothing.
Chapter 65
"Here's to his memory, anyway." I drained my glass and put it down. "Time to hit the sack. Plenty to do in the morning." I hesitated. "Will you be all right, Ian?"
"Yes, thanks. It was awfully good of you to drop everything and dash over. Can't say how much I appreciate it." He drew on his cigar and stared into the heart of the fire. "I shan't be far behind you, but it would be a pity to waste the remainder of this. Jenny used to have a box of them sent down from London each year for my birthday."
I could see how difficult it was going to be for the poor man to readjust but thought it best to leave him to reflect in solitude. Nonetheless, I was left wondering about the mystery of his great grandfather. Why had Bisto been so reticent about sharing it with me?
I climbed the stairs with care, so as not to wake Helen but floorboards in old houses creak and groan. I felt as if I were treading on ancient ghosts, disturbing their sleep. A threadbare carpet of oriental design ran the length of the corridor. A blue-and-white potpourri holder stood like a sentinel on a flame mahogany whatnot between two doors. However, the dried petals of summer were unable to mask the pervading odour of fust and decay. Moonlight filtered through a skylight above the landing, illuminating the wooden stand, making the rich colour of its wood glisten like freshly spilled blood.
Tiptoeing, silent as a wraith, I reached the bedroom door and inched it open. That was a mistake. A quick push might have done the trick. Instead, the hinges gave a long-drawn-out creak, a banshee wail, enough to wake the dead.
Helen sat bolt upright. "What was that?"
"Only me," I whispered. "Did I wake you?"
"Wake me? You scared the living daylights out of me."
She snuggled close as I climbed in beside her. "I feel sure this place is haunted. I haven't slept a wink." Burying her face in my shoulder, she inhaled deeply. "You smell of cigar smoke."
"Yes, I'm afraid Ian was smoking in the library. Although he freely admits it's a filthy habit, that doesn't seem to deter him."
"Sometimes, filthy habits are hard to break. Perhaps it's because he imagines the cigar has been rolled between the thighs of a nubile señorita."
'That's a myth."
"Really?" She ran her fingers down my body. "It doesn't feel like a myth to me."
"You're incorrigible."
"Mmm."
The following morning, I woke early. My mind was a-whirr with the funeral arrangements that Bisto and I still needed to make. There being no sign of movement from Helen, I slipped out of bed, threw on some clothes, and went downstairs. This time, I opened the door with a sharp jerk to deprive it of its infernal creak. I also made a mental note to ask Bisto for a can of penetrating oil.
He was already up, standing in the conservatory, watching the sunrise. A pale wash of salmon and silver threw the trees by the river into sharp relief. The first rays were beginning to break through branches to work their magic on a dew-studded lawn, making it shimmer like an eastern veil.
Bisto greeted me without turning around. "It looks as though it's going to be a glorious day. Just look at that gossamer web suspended between the rose bushes. Isn't it wonderful?"
"A strand of pearls fit for a faerie queen."
"Still on about your blasted fairies, are you? Why don't you go and write a poem about them while I take Biggles out for his morning walk?" There was an unfamiliar edge of sarcasm to his voice. "No, I've a better idea. After you went to bed last night, I rummaged through the bookcases and found my grandfather's journal. He has a fanciful turn of phrase that I find disconcerting, but in it he gives an account of my great-grandfather's time in the Hindu-Kush. You expressed an interest."
"That's kind of you," I said. "I'd be fascinated to read it."
"I've left it out on the table in the library. It's a thin, leather-bound volume. Never published, of course. Full of Victorian romanticism and flowery language. Not my cup of tea at all. Anyway, you're welcome to browse before breakfast if you've nothing better to do." He gave a disdainful harrumph and headed for the door.
"Come on, Biggles, old chap. Time to chase a few rabbits."
The first thing I noticed when I entered the library was the absence of the markhor's head. Bisto had replaced it with a seven-tined stag, noble in form, with nostrils flared, a truly magnificent specimen. He had obviously taken my warning to heart.
There was a brown, calfskin volume on the table with "Tales of the Hindu-Kush by Sir Robert Kidman K.C." etched into the cover in gold letters. Interesting, I thought - a barrister. One might expect more incisive prose than Bisto gave him credit for. I thumbed through the pages of cursive script until I reached a page entitled "The Slaying of the Markhor":
It is with a heavy heart that I relate this seminal chapter in my father's affairs. It marked the beginning of the end for him. Aspects border on the fantastic. Indeed, I fear that there may have been elements of the supernatural involved in his tragic downfall. Nonetheless, I shall leave that for you, dear reader, to judge for yourself.
I moved to a chair by the bay window through which the early morning sun now streamed, affording me a modicum of warmth, and settled there to read the book in comfort. I found the narrative absorbing...
"Really? I remember my grandfather spouting some tommyrot about mountain fairies. You don't mean to tell me that Helen believes in all that rubbish?" He took a swig of port and refilled both our glasses.
"Yes, she does - and I've half a mind to believe it myself."
Bisto was dumbfounded. "You're not serious, are you?"
"Serious enough to fly out there with Helen and see for myself." I stood up and warmed my back against the fire. "By the way, whatever became of your great grandfather?"
There was an unearthly silence, broken only by hoot of an owl in the woods. Bisto looked at me strangely and said nothing.
Chapter 65
"Here's to his memory, anyway." I drained my glass and put it down. "Time to hit the sack. Plenty to do in the morning." I hesitated. "Will you be all right, Ian?"
"Yes, thanks. It was awfully good of you to drop everything and dash over. Can't say how much I appreciate it." He drew on his cigar and stared into the heart of the fire. "I shan't be far behind you, but it would be a pity to waste the remainder of this. Jenny used to have a box of them sent down from London each year for my birthday."
I could see how difficult it was going to be for the poor man to readjust but thought it best to leave him to reflect in solitude. Nonetheless, I was left wondering about the mystery of his great grandfather. Why had Bisto been so reticent about sharing it with me?
I climbed the stairs with care, so as not to wake Helen but floorboards in old houses creak and groan. I felt as if I were treading on ancient ghosts, disturbing their sleep. A threadbare carpet of oriental design ran the length of the corridor. A blue-and-white potpourri holder stood like a sentinel on a flame mahogany whatnot between two doors. However, the dried petals of summer were unable to mask the pervading odour of fust and decay. Moonlight filtered through a skylight above the landing, illuminating the wooden stand, making the rich colour of its wood glisten like freshly spilled blood.
Tiptoeing, silent as a wraith, I reached the bedroom door and inched it open. That was a mistake. A quick push might have done the trick. Instead, the hinges gave a long-drawn-out creak, a banshee wail, enough to wake the dead.
Helen sat bolt upright. "What was that?"
"Only me," I whispered. "Did I wake you?"
"Wake me? You scared the living daylights out of me."
She snuggled close as I climbed in beside her. "I feel sure this place is haunted. I haven't slept a wink." Burying her face in my shoulder, she inhaled deeply. "You smell of cigar smoke."
"Yes, I'm afraid Ian was smoking in the library. Although he freely admits it's a filthy habit, that doesn't seem to deter him."
"Sometimes, filthy habits are hard to break. Perhaps it's because he imagines the cigar has been rolled between the thighs of a nubile señorita."
'That's a myth."
"Really?" She ran her fingers down my body. "It doesn't feel like a myth to me."
"You're incorrigible."
"Mmm."
*****
The following morning, I woke early. My mind was a-whirr with the funeral arrangements that Bisto and I still needed to make. There being no sign of movement from Helen, I slipped out of bed, threw on some clothes, and went downstairs. This time, I opened the door with a sharp jerk to deprive it of its infernal creak. I also made a mental note to ask Bisto for a can of penetrating oil.
He was already up, standing in the conservatory, watching the sunrise. A pale wash of salmon and silver threw the trees by the river into sharp relief. The first rays were beginning to break through branches to work their magic on a dew-studded lawn, making it shimmer like an eastern veil.
Bisto greeted me without turning around. "It looks as though it's going to be a glorious day. Just look at that gossamer web suspended between the rose bushes. Isn't it wonderful?"
"A strand of pearls fit for a faerie queen."
"Still on about your blasted fairies, are you? Why don't you go and write a poem about them while I take Biggles out for his morning walk?" There was an unfamiliar edge of sarcasm to his voice. "No, I've a better idea. After you went to bed last night, I rummaged through the bookcases and found my grandfather's journal. He has a fanciful turn of phrase that I find disconcerting, but in it he gives an account of my great-grandfather's time in the Hindu-Kush. You expressed an interest."
"That's kind of you," I said. "I'd be fascinated to read it."
"I've left it out on the table in the library. It's a thin, leather-bound volume. Never published, of course. Full of Victorian romanticism and flowery language. Not my cup of tea at all. Anyway, you're welcome to browse before breakfast if you've nothing better to do." He gave a disdainful harrumph and headed for the door.
"Come on, Biggles, old chap. Time to chase a few rabbits."
*****
The first thing I noticed when I entered the library was the absence of the markhor's head. Bisto had replaced it with a seven-tined stag, noble in form, with nostrils flared, a truly magnificent specimen. He had obviously taken my warning to heart.
There was a brown, calfskin volume on the table with "Tales of the Hindu-Kush by Sir Robert Kidman K.C." etched into the cover in gold letters. Interesting, I thought - a barrister. One might expect more incisive prose than Bisto gave him credit for. I thumbed through the pages of cursive script until I reached a page entitled "The Slaying of the Markhor":
It is with a heavy heart that I relate this seminal chapter in my father's affairs. It marked the beginning of the end for him. Aspects border on the fantastic. Indeed, I fear that there may have been elements of the supernatural involved in his tragic downfall. Nonetheless, I shall leave that for you, dear reader, to judge for yourself.
I moved to a chair by the bay window through which the early morning sun now streamed, affording me a modicum of warmth, and settled there to read the book in comfort. I found the narrative absorbing...
 Recognized |
List of Characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
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