The Devil's Mirror (22 page)

At this, the lady slapped my face! Confusion, shame, dyspepsia and doubt transfixed my body and impaled my mind. What had I said to offend? Then, as comprehension dawned, I instantly assured her: ‘No, no, dear Gwen, not
those
orbs! I meant your
eyes!
’

Mollified, and well-content that I had not made coarse and quite unchivalrous reference to a certain area, or areas, of feminine constructitude that must, at all costs, be avoided in the conversation and
belles-lettres
of decent, civilised, and healthful peoples (thus instantly excluding the French and other primitive races), my revered Lady Gwendolyn—in a surprising show of pent-up passion positively pagan in its undisciplined and unrestrained ardour—placed her gloved hand upon my elbow.

The sensation, I hesitantly confess, was not entirely unpleasing to me. Checking my baser impulses, however, I tactfully drew away and changed the topic of conversation: ‘The weather here,’ I giggled nervously, ‘is it always so warm?’

Solicitous of my comfort, dear Gwendolyn replied, ‘I know full well that the etiquette which is the bedrock—
excuse me, I mean bulwark!
—of your life forbids you to remove that handsome frock-coat of thick, plum-coloured velvet—’

‘Oh, indeed it does!’ I cried in horror (or, if you will, horrour).

‘But, prithee,’ she continued, ‘will you not disavow for once strict protocol, and doff at least that heavy, long, black Inverness cape, and that great woollen muffler, as well as that tall stovepipe hat and those fuzzy earmuffs? Eschew these things, gentle Bosley, I entreat you; oil, eschew, eschew!’

‘Gesundheit,’ I rejoined, in the language of that legend-haunted region. ‘But tell me, pray: how has it come to pass that you are alive and well, when it was reported by unimpeachable sources such as
The London Times
that you had perished in the African wilds, along with, your splendid spouse, my trusted friend. Lord Jeremy (he with whom I frolicked, as a lad, on the playing fields of dear old Dampley, and whose presence was a constant deterrent to the outward show of my affection for you, cookie)?’

As she replied, dear Gwendolyn moved gracefully to the harpsichord nearby and effortlessly ran through the first volume of Bach’s
Wohltemperirte Klavier.
‘Do you not find fascinating,’ she smiled, ‘Mr Bach’s original ideas concerning keyboard technique, such as the new use of the thumb, and the curved position of the hand in fingering?’

It would not have been meet for me to point out that Mr Bach’s revolutionary techniques were formulated in 17–––, almost –– years previously, and therefore far from new; so, instead I sat down beside her and casually ripped off the second volume of the
Wohltemperirte Klavier
, saying as I did so, ‘My admiration for Mr Bach is somewhat marred by certain features of his private life. Surely a man who sired twenty children (their legitimacy notwithstanding) must be considered rather excessive in his personal habits?’

A shadow fell across the keyboard and I looked up to discover a man gazing balefully down upon me. There was something strange about him, but I could not quite decide what that thing was. ’Twas not alone the mask of bronze with which he hid his face, nor yet the spiked and iron gauntlets on his hands, nor even that snarled black leather whip he held and stroked with a loving caress—but there was
something
decidedly unique about him.

I rose from the harpsichord, saying, ‘Baron –––––, I presume?’

‘I see you have trouble pronouncing my name,’ he replied. ‘No matter: you may call me by another name...’

He paused, treating me to a long, dramatic stage-wait before he added: ‘Sarcophagus.’

Sarcophagus! The grim tenor (and grimmer baritone) of that name struck terror to my soul, constricted my heart, dilated my eyes, flared my nostrils, and covered my suddenly pallid skin with gooseflesh.

‘My god, you look
terrible
,’ said Sarcophagus, obviously concerned.

‘It is nothing at all,’ I said, tremulously.

‘Perhaps this whip is disquieting to you?’ he suggested, crisply cracking it.

‘Not a bit,’ I hoarsely croaked.

‘Or these metal gauntlets?’

I shrugged carelessly. ‘Gauntlets,’ I said, ‘schmauntlets.’

‘Then possibly this mask—would you prefer me to remove it?’

‘
No, no!
’ I bellowed, fearing to look upon what honors might lie under that bronze exterior.

‘Then,’ said Sarcophagus, ‘let us repair to my study, where we can partake of a glass of sherry before dinner.’ Turning to Gwendolyn, he said, ‘You will excuse us, my dear?’

She nodded (but surely I espied a single tear in the corner of her eye?). I followed Sarcophagus into his study.

It was elegantly furnished, and a cheery fire crackled on the hearth. As he poured the wine, he said, ‘You had best be seated, Sir Bosley, for I will now a tale unfold whose lightest word will harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, thy knotted and combined locks to part and each particular hair to stand on end, like quills upon the fretful porpentine.’

‘I say,’ said I, ‘that’s rather good!’

‘It should be,’ he replied, ‘it’s Shakespeare.
Hamlet
, Act One, Scene Five.’

‘Then,’ I said gaily, accepting the glass he offered me, ‘let us drink to Hamlet, shall we?’

‘I would much rather drink,’ he slowly said, ‘to Frankenstein!’

‘To Frankenstein? Do my ears (these pink, oysteroid swirls of cartilage, two in number, that flank my skull, one to either side) deceive me? Why, pray, would any man of sense and sensibility lift a glass to that detested name?’

‘Ah,’ said Sarcophagus darkly.

‘Ah?’

‘Exactly: ah.’ He waved me to a chair. ‘Make yourself as comfortable as you can, Sir Bosley, for therein lies (what else?) a tale within a tale...’

‘If Frankenstein’s Monster,’ said Sarcophagus, ‘had fructified with the daughter of Count Dracula, do you realise that the resultant progeny would be the most evil creature ever to stalk the earth?

‘And if that creature were of the female sex, and set her feminine wiles upon the notorious Werewolf of London, can your limited mind grasp what would be the detestable issue of
that
union?

‘If, on another licentious occasion, she coupled with that undead and famous Mummy of old Egypt, producing yet another horrifying offspring; and (to continue) if
that
spawn mated with her child sired by the Werewolf—half-siblings though they might be—can you find it within your circumscribed and finite brain to picture, to imagine, to conjure up in all its dark, Satanic awfulness, what manner of being might be the end result of all those loathesome lusts?

‘Think upon him!—the mingled bloods of vampire, werewolf, mummy, plus Dr Frankenstein’s nameless anthology of reanimated tomb-scrapings—would any creature be more hideous? more dangerous? mote terrifying? more socially undesirable?

‘And: more wretched? Ay, sir—wretched! For but consider: every night, at the first rays of the moon, the vampire and werewolf taints would struggle for supreme dominion over his body! Torn on a veritable rack of warring bloods, his poor sinews would shape themselves into a Thing half-wolf, half-bat! And if you think his
days
would hold any solace for him, think again! The vampire in him would yearn to rest, by day, in a coffin filled with Transylvanian soil—but the Mummy in him would pine, with equal urgency, for his own upright Egyptian mummy-case and wrappings! As for that part of him descended from Frankenstein’s foul creation—ah, but some things cannot be spoken of in mixed company...’

‘Mixed company???’ I piped, looking about the room for any signs of feminine intrusion.

‘Human,’ explained Sarcophagus, pointing to me, ‘and inhuman.’ He pointed to himself.

‘What fustian farce is this?’ I demanded of him.

‘Farce?’ he shrieked. ‘Not so! Tragedy, dear sir, tragedy both dark and dire. For, as you have doubtless guessed, a creature such as I have described this very moment lives and breathes—
and drinks wine with you!
Drinks wine, and likewise blood! The blood, for example, of your late friend, Lord Jeremy, whom I, in ravenous wolf-bat form, fell upon and drained quite dry, on the wild savannahs of the Dark Continent!’

‘
The London Times,
I sniffed, ‘blamed his death on an ordinary African bat. Who do you expect me to believe—you or
The Times
?’

‘Your precious
Times
also reported the death of Lady Blushmore,’ Sarcophagus pointed out, ‘whereas, in reality, I spared her for...’ he guffawed hideously ‘... somewhat more human sport!’

‘Sir!’ I snapped, leaping to my feet,‘retract that foul remark! Though you are a full Baron (with papers, I hope, to prove it), and I am but a simple English knight, yet even so... I... even so...’

The room (not I, for a change) was reeling! ‘The wine,’ I stammered thickly, ‘the wine...’ I slumped to the floor, my head pounding.

‘O true apothecary!’ said Sarcophagus. ‘Thy drugs are quick.’

‘
Hamlet
again?’ I groaned from the floor.

‘
Romeo and Juliet,
Act Five, Scene Three,’ he answered, as I felt myself sink into a black quagmire of senselessness.

I awoke in a dungeon. Slime glistened on the grey stone walls. I became aware of Sarcophagus standing near me; and, struggling to my feet, I said, ‘Baron, I think you will agree I have the right to put a question to you.’ He nodded. I said, ‘Thank you. It is this: in dungeons, why does slime always glisten on the grey stone walls?’

‘It isn’t easy,’ he replied. From behind me, I heard a moan of despair. Swivelling about, my startled eyes beheld sweet Gwendolyn, tied to that devilish medieval instrument, the torture-wheel! And, even worse, she had been stripped completely
naked
! (Save for a high-necked, ankle-length chemise of heavy wool.)

‘Oh, Bosley,’ she sighed languorously, ‘I hate to tell you this, but the Baron is a fiend!’

‘Judge not, that you be not judged,’ I said, piously. ‘He is innocent until proven guilty.’

‘Bosley! Listen to me!’ she cried. ‘By dint of loathsome crafts and occult vileness long hidden from mankind, he means to mesmerise and hold imperial sway o’er all this vasty world!’

I said, ‘If mere intent could brand a man a fiend, then all of us might be escutcheoned so (save but myself, of course).’

‘But Bosley!’ she screamed. ‘He will tear me slowly limb from limb upon this Wheel!’

‘Mere hearsay,’ I said, ‘irrelevant and immaterial.’

‘Also,’ added Sarcophagus, ‘I plan to put
you,
Sir Bosley, to death by suffocation.’

‘Baron,’ I replied, ‘you are a fiend.’

‘See? See?’ said Gwendolyn.

‘For many good sound demonological reasons too complex and laborious to go into,’ said Sarcophagus, blithely skirting the issue, ‘there is but one way by which I may be freed from this quadruple heritage of monstrousness that weighs so heavily upon me. A man of pure heart must sacrifice himself by stepping into the airless interior of
this
...’

He pointed to a strange upright coffin made of stone and covered with Egyptian symbols. He opened it: I perceived that it was partially filled with soil—Transylvanian soil, my intuition divined. He shut the lid again. I said, ‘A most amazing confluence of cultures; and an interesting compromise. This, then, is your sarcophagus, Sarcophagus?’

‘Precisely.’

‘And if I step inside its stifling depths, I will free you from that fourfold curse and make of you a normal, wholesome man?’

‘Hell, no!’ roared Sarcophagus. ‘It will free me from three-fourths of that fourfold curse. Who needs them all? I just want to be a simple vampire!’

‘Then I refuse!’ I said firmly.

‘Indeed? Please lend your oysteroid cartilages to the latest flash,’ he said. ‘If you
don’t
step into the sarcophagus, Lady Blushmore will be torn slowly limb from limb upon that wheel!’

‘See? See?’ said Gwendolyn.

‘That threat, vile sir,’ I said, ‘would carry weight—
if
I were quite convinced of one certain vital item of intelligence.’

‘Your meaning, sirrah?’ drawled Sarcophagus.

I turned to the lady, speaking slowly, in a mere attempt to gain that precious jewel, time. ‘The face,’ I said, ‘is that of Lady Blushmore. But faces can be changed by guileful guise, as well as guiseful guile. Proof positive must be provided me that she is, in very deed, that peerless peeress who alone has ruled my heart these lengthy years.’

‘Proof?’ cackled Sarcophagus madly. ‘If proof be the theme and burthen of your thoughts, why, then—what say you to THIS?’ On these words, he reached out and, with a single shameless r-r-r-r-rip, rendered the lady’s upper self quite drapeless to my scrutiny.

Fearful for her shattered modesty, I averted my eyes, crying, ‘No! It is not meet!’

‘
Not meat???
’ snickered Sarcophagus. ‘By you, these are matzo-balls, maybe?’

‘Gwendolyn,’ I sighed, ‘it
is
your own sweet self! In truth, I never doubted same. It was a mere attempt to gain that precious jewel—’

Sarcophagus broke in: ‘It was a mere attempt to cast your knightly peepers on them headlights!’ he cynically smirked. ‘By Tophet, young fellow, you have more wits and good red manly blood than I had hitherto assumed! I find you a worthy opponent!’

‘Remove the lady from that dreadful contrivance,’ I said softly. ‘I will enter the sarcophagus.’

The Baron untied her, and I, made happy by the thought that my death would save from torment my own true love, stepped forward to my doom.

As I opened the lid of my final resting place, I turned to the Baron. ‘Before I leave this vale of tears. Sarcophagus,’ I said, ‘satisfy my curiosity on one or two small points, if you will.’

He bowed elaborately, saying, ‘Be my guest.’

‘I put it to you that all this occult jargon about sacrifices and the lifting of curses is but a tissue of lies. Is it not closer to the truth to say that you intend to pass off my lifeless corpse as that of this lady’s deceased husband, Lord Jeremy, and thus collect the not inconsiderable double indemnity insurance which he carried? Is it not likewise true that my seeming-sweet Gwendolyn is actually in league, not to say cahoots, with you in this foul scheme?’ I paused and faced him squarely, then added: ‘Am I not correct in these assumptions,
Jeremy?