From Aberystwyth with Love

Porphyria eyed him briefly and said to her vanquished tutor, ‘Phwee!’

There was a pause.

‘I need to go to the little girl’s room,’ said Calamity.

The Count flashed in anger. ‘Who told you about that? There isn’t one. It’s a lie!’

‘I mean, the you know  . . .’

‘Papa!’ said Salome. ‘She means the water closet.’

The Count smiled. ‘Oh yes, of course. Forgive me. It’s at the top of the stairs, next to the nursery.’

Calamity turned to offer her thanks but the girl poked her tongue out, quickly, while the Count was looking elsewhere. Monsieur Souterain caught the gesture but, instead of offering admonishment, made a forlorn attempt to ingratiate himself in Salome’s favour by offering complicit glances and feigning mild shock at her naughtiness. Salome disdained the offer of an alliance and in a move of exquisite cruelty gave the tutor a long-drawn-out quizzical look that directed everyone’s attention to the odd face he was pulling. His spirit crushed, Monsieur Souterain returned his attention to his turbot and for the next few minutes the silence in the room was broken only by a tinny Morse code as the fish knife in his trembling hand rattled against bone china.

We ate in silence. Porphyria started rubbing my flesh again. I took out one of the garlic capsules and put it in my mouth. I bit and breathed at her. The result was dramatic. She jumped back and began coughing violently. Her hand flew to her mouth as if she was about to be sick and the other hand sought furiously in the folds of her heavy dress; she found her purse and snapped it open, taking out an asthma puffer. She drew deep and long breaths on the inhaler, interspersed with agonising groans.

‘It’s nothing, do not be alarmed,’ shouted the Count trying to restore calm. The tutor took the girl to the window and opened the casement. She continued to cough and gasp.

‘Just a little childhood asthma,’ announced the Count.

Calamity returned and whispered into my ear. ‘There’s a rocking-goat in the nursery.’

I inclined my head and hissed, ‘A what?’

‘Rocking-goat.’

‘Is everything OK?’ asked the Count seeing us confer.

‘Absolutely wonderful,’ I said. ‘Calamity was just complimenting you on the . . . porcelain of your bathroom.’

He smiled and in that diplomatic smile could be seen generations of breeding that had perfected the art over the years of concealing disbelief, of smiling while plotting to stab. Calamity smiled back, equally false, but without the advantage of generations of breeding. She said, ‘Actually, I was just telling Louie that there appears to be a mob carrying torches outside my window.’

The Count dismissed her remark with a slight wave of his hand. ‘If you are concerned about them keeping you awake, I really shouldn’t worry. They soak their brands in tar, you see, which means they usually go out after about forty minutes. Once that happens the men tend to lose motivation and retire to the inn.’

‘Are they angry about something?’ I asked.

The Count gave a weary sigh. ‘Angry? Of course they are angry, they are serfs, they live in a permanent state of choler.’ He raised a goblet of wine and then thrust it back down on the table, causing the wine to spill. ‘I mean, it really is too much sometimes. They are an ungrateful lot in the village, they really are. They moan incessantly about the excesses of my ancestors and yet half of them have turned their hovels into boutique hotels to accommodate a tourist trade that wouldn’t exist were it not for the excesses they so loudly condemn. If it wasn’t for us they would still be eating turnips and swedes. You see them carrying medieval torches above their heads but half of them drive Volvos. But they forget, you see; that’s the trouble with serfs, they have very selective memories.’ He turned to his manservant who was standing at the fireplace. ‘Igor, what are they moaning about this time?’

‘Easter 1393, my lord.’

The Count made a choking sound in the back of his throat that signified exasperation and said, ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake!’

‘What happened at Easter 1393?’ asked Calamity.

‘Oh just a bit of harmless tomfoolery,’ said the Count. ‘One of my ancestors needed a new castle in a hurry, you see, so he organised an Easter party for the villagers. They all turned up in their Sunday best and there spread out before them were tables heaving under a feast the like of which they had never seen before in their sweaty lives. There was roasted ox and venison, chickens and partridges and all manner of dainty fowl, milk-fed veal and suckling pig, hedgehog pie and rabbit pate, squirrel souffle and pan-roasted field mouse, carp from their lord’s ponds, and real blancmanger made with lamb and almonds and for afters there was Turkish delight made with the tears of a virgin. All day they filled their red pox-scarred faces with my ancestor’s finest Burgundy; they danced and sang and partied and burped until sundown at which point they all learned a rather painful truth about there being no such thing as a free lunch. At an order from the Count they were all surrounded by soldiers while the blacksmith went from each to each putting fetters upon wrist and ankle. Then, still wearing their party clothes, the entire village was force-marched fifty miles north to a desolate windswept rocky promontory where they were told to start building a castle. As I say, it really is a rather droll tale. They worked from before dawn till late into the night, and were given just enough food to keep daily funerals in the single figures and ensure that work was not interrupted by excesses of weeping. Travellers who passed through the region nine months later related wonderful tales of seeing these workers slaving away almost naked because their clothes had rotted to rags and fallen quite away.’

‘Did they ever return to their village?’ I asked.

‘You know,’ said the Count thoughtfully, ‘I really can’t remember. I think they all died during the construction of the castle but it is possible the Count had them put to death. He would have been quite justified in doing so since the workmanship was appallingly shoddy. In fact, when the Count saw the finished castle he refused to set foot in it and used it instead to store his hosiery. But the moral is one of rank ingratitude: seven hundred years later and the locals still bang on about that castle but not one of them ever mentions the lovely party that preceded it.’

There was a short silence after the Count had finished his story, and the servants poured the coffees. The Count stood up and said, ‘Porphyria, take Miss Calamity off to play with your toys after dinner. Mr Louie, you will find port and cigars in the library. You must excuse me, I rather fancy an early night, we have a great day ahead of us tomorrow, is it not so?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was meaning to ask you about the arrangements. We need to catch the early train to Brasov.’

A mild confusion creased his brow and then he burst into a wide grin. ‘Ha ha ha! Early train to Brasov! Yes very good, very dry. Your sense of humour is apt to catch one unawares.’ He raised his glass. ‘And now, before I retire, why don’t you all join me in one last toast to our patron and provider, the great Mr Mooncalf!’

Later, as I sat on a wine-coloured chesterfield enjoying the Count’s port, Monsieur Souterain appeared looking flustered.

‘Where is Mademoiselle Calamity?’ he said.

‘She’s playing with the children.’

‘Oh no! No, this must not be! You must leave this place tonight.’

‘But we’ve only just arrived.’

‘You must flee, you are in great danger, you must flee tonight. And take me with you. I have arranged everything. A carriage will wait by the scullery door tonight at nine. From your room, follow the corridor away from the great hall and take the first left after you pass the triptych depicting the Impaling of the Mother and Child. There you will find a staircase that leads directly to the scullery. Look out for the maid with webbed fingers, she will show you to the carriage  . . .’

‘Souterain!’ a voice rang out along the cold stone corridors. His eyes opened wide with fear. ‘I must go. Please, I beseech you, find Calamity, nine o’clock, remember!’ He ran away looking back. ‘Remember!’ he cried. ‘Nine o’clock.’

‘Webbed fingers,’ I shouted.

A few seconds later Porphyria appeared.

‘Have you seen Monsieur Souterain?’

‘No, not since dinner.’

‘I thought I heard voices.’

‘Yes, it seems to be a peculiar property of this castle; we heard children’s voices just now from an empty