The Art of Murder

before, but all lovingly bound in the softest calf-skin.

I had still not been formally introduced to Oglebee when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned to see the man himself standing rather uncomfortably close. He was an exuberant host and I’d had many a chance to observe him during the course of the evening. In an oddly high-pitched, reedy voice, with a mild, indefinable accent, he had held forth at dinner upon a range of interesting subjects and regaled his guests with a succession of wonderful anecdotes. He was small, barely passing my shoulder, and had a bird’s face: pinched nose, and small black eyes that darted quickly from side to side as he spoke. And when his eyes were occasionally fixed straight ahead, he had the rather unnerving habit of seeming to look straight through you. He exuded immense confidence, almost disturbingly so, and I am happy to admit that, with him, I immediately felt I had to up my game. The acting skills that had served me well with the common herd of humanity, even with Oxford dons and artists, suddenly seemed insufficient. Oglebee, I realised, was a man apart.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘Entertainment has been arranged.’

He beckoned to the others and we all followed him into a large room adjoining the library. We began chatting amicably, and perhaps a little drunkenly. At dinner I had been careful to imbibe little, surreptitiously tipping most of what I had been given on to the carpet. Some instinct told me I needed to keep a level head.

The room already lay in deep shadow, but then a team of servants appeared and began quenching the remaining candle flames. This cast us all into absolute darkness. The sound of music sprang from some hidden source. It was music such as I had never heard before. I could not imagine how Oglebee had managed to bring it into the room without any visible performers, but I quickly forgot how strange this was for suddenly a line of six lights appeared. They moved across the room, and as the glow grew brighter I realised they were candles in gold holders each carried by a young woman. Their naked bodies were painted gold and each woman had blonde, waist- length hair. They began to dance exquisitely.

I felt a wooden object pushed into my hand. I could barely see it in the half-light, but as I bent close I could make out a pipe. I went to push it away, but saw that it was Oglebee sitting next to me, offering the contraption. He nudged it back and nodded. I could not refuse. I took a child’s drag on the pipe’s ebony tip. Oglebee laughed and poked an elbow in my ribs. ‘Oh, stop pretending, young man,’ he said. ‘I thought you were … an artist!’

There is an unpleasant void in my memory. It lasts from soon after I took a deep draw on that pipe to a point in time where it seems a veil was drawn aside and I slowly surfaced into some form of normal consciousness. I detest losing control, or worse still, being forced to lose it. But that must have been what happened, for the next thing I recall is seeing a pair of breasts swaying in front of me and feeling a burning sensation in my groin. I remember pushing out my arms and pressing against soft flesh. I knew I was naked. I clambered to my feet a little unsteadily and took a deep breath.

It was dark, and several moments passed before my eyes began to adjust. I found a robe of some sort. Ignoring the cries of the girl I had pushed away, I staggered towards a source of light. I almost collided with the edge of a door as I pulled it towards me and stepped into a wide corridor. Light spilled from under a line of doors to either side of me. I could hear strange animal sounds: grunts, a scream, something falling, a heavy object crashing to the floor and shattering.

I reached the end of the corridor. The walls were sliding away. I knew I was still intoxicated, but I felt drawn onward. There was another door, with a large brass handle. I clutched it in my hand, turned it clockwise, pushed the door open and fell forward.

I lay sprawled on the floor for what seemed an age. Then, slowly, I pulled myself to my feet. I felt a stabbing pain in my side and did my best to ignore it. I looked around. Light seeped in at a window in the far wall. In front of this I could make out the shape of a chair and a man sitting in it, straight-backed. I took a step forward, and then another. I saw Oglebee. He was facing me in a large, throne-like chair. He was wearing a white robe smeared with red. The head of a young woman lay in his lap, her long blonde hair draped to the floor. He was stroking her hair. Her eyes stared at me, sightless. Utterly dead, of course.

I would be lying if I said I was not shocked. I was, but it did not last long and it was rapidly replaced by an intense ripple of excitement, a thrill I had only rarely experienced in my life up to that point. I smiled at Oglebee.

‘I thought you would enjoy it, William,’ he said. ‘I understood what you were the moment I set eyes on you.’

‘You did?’ I said, genuinely puzzled. I kept being drawn to the dead girl’s sightless eyes. After a moment, Oglebee lifted the head, still dripping blood and gore, and laid it carefully on the floor beside his chair.

‘Of course, young man. You are not the first and you will not be the last.’

‘Oh, I rather supposed I was unique,’ I said quietly, staring into his small black eyes.

He chuckled. ‘What is it that drives you?’

‘I could ask the same of you, Mr Oglebee.’

‘Yes, you could. But I asked first. Humour me.’

I said nothing for a moment, staring at the man, trying to read his face and failing utterly. ‘I realised some time ago that I’m searching,’ I began. ‘Searching for something very difficult to find.’

‘In a way we are all searching, are we not? Even the brainless masses are searching. It’s just that they don’t actually realise it.’

‘Does that mean you are searching too?’

He chortled again. ‘Oh! Believe me, William, I searched assiduously. But then I realised the thing I sought did not exist.’

‘So you stopped?’

Oglebee glanced down at the head resting on the floor. He nodded towards it. ‘I stopped searching, if that is what you mean. Now I’m happy to entertain myself. You see, you are a very fortunate young man.’

‘I am?’

‘Yes, because you have great talent. Your friends praise you very highly.’

I stared at him, expressionless.

‘You don’t really understand what I’m talking about, do you?’

I did my best to call his bluff, but it was useless. Employing all the skills I had learned proved of little value to me at that moment. Oglebee knew me, he really knew me. He seemed to know everything.

‘It is time, William, for you to move on. What you seek is not there. It’s time for you to have some fun instead … to deploy your talents fully. I cannot tell you what to do. I can only guide and advise you. Think about combining your natural instincts with your natural talents.’

I was still confused, but realised I should at least make a pretence of understanding, in the hope that, later, I really would comprehend. I realised that Oglebee would miss nothing, that I would not be fooling him in this way, but I could think of nothing else to say or do.

‘How do …’ I began, but Oglebee raised a hand to stop me.

‘I cannot tell you what to do. I’ve said that already, William. It is for you to work out what I am trying to explain to you. However, I will give you one small piece of advice to help you on your way.’ He fell silent for a moment. The room was utterly silent, unnaturally so. It felt as though we were floating in space. ‘To move on,’ he said, ‘you must eradicate your past. You must begin again. Shed your skin. Become someone new.’

I was still not entirely convinced. After all, I had been searching for a long time and I had dwelt on the matter of the soul since childhood. But I knew Oglebee was right about two things at least. It was time I had some fun, and it was time to expunge the past.

I took some time away from my studies using the excuse that my father was ill and that I needed to return home for a few days. No one seemed to care. I caught an early-afternoon train and had the carriage all to myself for the entire journey. I changed trains in London and arrived in Hemel Hempstead just as it was getting dark. I was travelling light, with just an overnight bag, and so I walked the mile or so from the station to Fellwick Manor. It was a clear night, unusually warm, the stars out in all their chaotic profusion. I’ve never liked the stars.

There was a light on in my father’s study at the front of the house. I could see it through a small gap in the curtains. My shoes crunched on the gravel. I pulled the bell and waited, listening to the sounds of my father hauling himself up from his chair in the study and walking across the floor. I had chosen the servants’ half-day for this