The Satanist (46 page)

‘You’ll see,’ came the terse reply; and no further word was spoken until, ten minutes later, they pulled up outside Fulham Police Station.

Ordering the Indian to get out, Barney marched him into the Station, produced his official pass, showed it to the Duty Sergeant and said: ‘I am charging this man with kidnapping a Mrs. Margot Mauriac at or about six p.m. on Saturday last, 30th April.’

‘It ees not true,’ quavered Ratnadatta, his face now a dirty shade of grey. ‘This man, he ees mad. He carries a pistol and haf threaten me with it.’

The Sergeant ignored him, and wrote out the charge. Looking the wretched Satanist full in the face, Barney went on, ‘You may add, Sergeant, that the name Margot Mauriac was an alias for Mary Morden.’

Instantly Ratnadatta realised the terrible implication that lay behind that disclosure. His mouth dropped open, his eyes grew wide with horrified despair. Barney then administered the
coup de grâce
,

‘I hope that soon we shall be able to prefer a further charge against this man of participation in the murder of the lady’s husband.’ At that, Ratnadatta gave a loud groan, put a hand over his eyes and, his knees buckling, slid to the floor in a dead faint.

While two constables picked him up and carried him away to a cell, Barney completed the formalities. He then asked the Sergeant to telephone a message to Special Branch for immediate relay by wireless to Inspector Thompson. It was simply to the effect that he would not, after all, be participating in the raid, so the Inspector must take over the job of doing his utmost to secure the incriminating photographs.

Immediately he was back in his car he got out his maps and soon located Fulgoham as a village near the southern end of the county and about five miles east-south-east of
Cambridge. It was barely fifty miles from the centre of London and only just over half an hour had elapsed since he had waylaid Ratnadatta in the cul-de-sac. He reckoned that if he stepped on it, he should get to Fulgoham well before eleven o’clock.

At this hour the roads, apart from those in west-central London, were fairly free of traffic, so he decided it would be quicker to go by way of Kensington and Cricklewood until he struck the North Circular Road beyond Golders Green. There he turned north-east and made good going along the broad by-pass till he reached the Great Cambridge Road which took him to within a few miles of his destination.

In Fulgoham village there were still a number of American Servicemen about, mostly with girls whom they had picked up in Cambridge and brought out for the evening on motor cycles or in small cars. After enquiring of several men for Colonel Washington’s house, Barney found a Top Sergeant who was able to give him definite directions to it. The Cedars lay two miles further on along the road to Six Mile Bottom. It was on the right side of the road and a white-painted, five barred gate stood at the entrance of a drive leading to it.

Barney heaved a sigh of relief. The fact that Colonel Washington was known in Fulgoham and that he lived at the Cedars on the road to Six Mile Bottom was the first confirmation he had had that Ratnadatta had not been lying; at all events as far as the Colonel was concerned. It now remained to see if he was right in his belief that Mary had been taken to the house and was still there.

Fifty yards past the gate, Barney ran his car on to the grass verge, pulled up and got out. Fully aware that he was now about to enter on a desperate venture, he made certain that his pistol was in working order, then walked to the gate, opened it, slipped through and shut it softly behind him.

The drive was only about a hundred yards long, and there was sufficient moonlight for him to see the house at the end
of it. Ratnadatta had thought it pretty, but it was in fact an Edwardian monstrosity of jumbled roofs and half-timbered stucco.

Stepping on to the grass beside the drive, and taking such cover as he could from groups of shrubs, he cautiously made his way forward. Chinks of light showed between the drawn curtains in some of the downstairs windows; so when he was within twenty yards of the house he began to skirt round it. At the back, from what he guessed to be the kitchen windows, chinks of light were also showing.

This indication that the inmates of the place were all still awake made him decide that he must postpone breaking in until later; but for hours past his mind had been obsessed with the thought of freeing Mary so, having made his way right round the house, he could not resist the temptation to creep up to a big bow window on the right of the front door, and see if he could get a glimpse of the room on the off-chance that she was in it.

The gravel crunched faintly under his feet as he tiptoed across the drive, but he felt confident that the sound would be drowned by that of a radio which came from the room towards which he was stealthily making his way. He reached the bay window and spent some minutes trying to get a view of the room, but all he could see through the chinks were strips of carpet and the legs of a chair. Greatly disappointed and still wondering if Mary was in the room, he backed away towards the front porch.

Suddenly a dark shape leapt from it. Footfalls grated harshly twice on the gravel behind him. His hand went to his automatic but, before he could swing round or draw it, he was struck on the back of the head. Stars and circles whirled before his eyes, his knees gave way and he fell to the ground unconscious.

Mary’s first conscious thought on waking on the previous Sunday morning had been that she was in a strange bed. The feel of the sheets, warm but slightly slippery, told her that. She opened her eyes and caught her breath. They were black satin. For a moment she gazed across them at the side of the room she was facing. In its centre there was a bay window with drawn curtains, but bright light filtering between them showed it to be broad day outside. An ornate dressing-table made of pale grey wood stood in the embrasure; its stool and two chairs which were also within her view matched it, showing that it formed part of an expensive modern suite.

Her heart began to beat more rapidly. Cautiously she turned over, feeling certain already of what she would see. There, on the pillow next to hers was a man’s head. The hair on it was crew-cut and so fair as to be almost white. The face was turned towards her but inclined downwards, its lower part concealed by the top of the folded sheet. Under the hair-line there was a good forehead – broad rather than high – too thick, fair eyebrows and, between them, a great hooked nose. Her bedfellow was fast asleep and breathing so gently that she had to listen to catch the sound.

Chaotic memories of the previous night’s events were now tumbling about in her mind: Abaddon, with his strangler’s fit upon him, gripping her by the throat; Ratnadatta wearing her murdered husband’s shoes; Pope Honorius forcing her to swallow the aphrodisiac; the middle-aged, grey-haired man for whom she had been made to play the role of prophetess; Ratnadatta again, and her desperate struggle with him; her boundless relief when she found herself outside the temple in the cool night air, and
believed that the American was going to take her home. But he hadn’t. Instead he had suddenly decided to compound with his infernal master for not attending the Walpurgis Eve Sabbat by performing some special sacrifice on his own. Then he had said that he would give her the night of her life. Well, in a sense, he had.

As he had headed the car back and turned north-west along the Fulham Road, she knew that after the act which she had so rashly just put on – of appearing disappointed that he meant only to run her home then return to the Temple – she could not possibly revoke on that and suddenly declare that she felt too tired for love-making. She knew instinctively too that, even if she had attempted to make him change his mind, now he had decided to take her down to the country nothing she could say would stop him.

There had remained only the possibility of catching her rescuer off his guard and making her escape. But of succeeding in that, her chances were far less good than they had been when she had thought of getting away from Ratnadatta earlier that evening. Then it had been daylight and she could have seen any policeman they were going to pass a hundred yards before they reached him; now it was dark. Then they had been in a taxi so, had she decided on desperate measures, she could have called on the driver for aid; now she was in a private car, alone with her captor. One thing only could favour an attempt by her to get away from him. That was the car’s being held up by the lights at a main cross-road for some minutes. Even if she failed to get the door open and scramble out before he grabbed her and pulled her back, if she shouted for help while the car was still stationary, someone might have come to her assistance.

But at this hour there was little traffic and the American drove skilfully and fast. At both Knightsbridge and Hyde Park Corner the lights favoured him; without once having had to pull up they turned north and ran smoothly through the Park. At Marble Arch she had had her chance. If she had been her normal self she would have taken it; but the
succession of crises she had been through that evening had left her still half dazed and mentally exhausted.

As the car slid to a standstill, he whisked out his cigarette case and a lighter. Holding them out to her he told her to help herself and light a cigarette for him. It was then that her mental reactions, having slowed down, betrayed her. Instead of ignoring him and making her bid for freedom, she automatically took the case and lighter. With both hands occupied she was rendered temporarily as helpless as if she had been handcuffed. For a moment she thought of throwing the things back at him or dropping them; but, before she could nerve herself to take the plunge, the traffic lights turned orange.

She lit a cigarette for him, but did not take one for herself. While the car sped up the Edgware Road she lay back and shut her eyes. Tears welled from their corners as she upbraided herself for her lack of resolution. She knew by then that she was beaten; that she was no longer capable of making the violent effort necessary to give her even a chance of getting away. She tried to console herself with the thought that, in spite of all she had gone through that evening, she had been incredibly lucky. She had escaped being strangled by Abaddon, being raped by Ratnadatta, and being made a prize in a lottery for a number of other men after her initiation as a Sister of the Ram. Perhaps her luck would still hold and some unforeseen occurrence prevent the American from having his way with her. If not, he was, anyway, only one man and a fine, clean-limbed, fiercely handsome specimen of manhood at that. Mental fatigue dulled her concern about what might happen to her when they reached their destination, and she resigned herself to the belief that she had now become the plaything of Fate.

He, meanwhile, thought she had fallen asleep; so he refrained from talking to her. And, in fact, before they were clear of the suburbs of London, nature did take charge. Fears, hopes, memories, all became submerged under the urgent demand of her brain for rest and for the next hour
she slept soundly, untroubled by even the suggestion of a dream.

When he woke her the car was stationary before the porch of a house. It had been raining and she smelt the fresh scent of the wet on grass and conifers. As she got out she glimpsed a stretch of lawn and a big cedar caught in the headlights of the car. He had already rung the bell. After a few minutes lights went on, there came the sound of bolts being drawn back, and the door was opened by a big Negro in a dressing-gown. He murmured apologetically:

‘I wern’t expectin’ you back, boss.’

‘No matter, Jim,’ his master replied. ‘Rout out Iziah and tell him to take the car round to the garage. Then you can both get back to bed. We’ll look after ourselves.’

In the lighted hall Mary had a chance to get a really good look at the man into whose power she had now fallen. Although she was a little above the average height for a woman, her head came up only to his shoulder. His face had a reddish tan, his eyes were black as sloes and, as he grinned down at her, he exposed a mouthful of strong, ivory-white teeth.

‘Honey, your sleep’s done you good,’ he told her. ‘You’re looking fine now, just fine. All you need is an underdone steak and a carafe of red wine to make you feel like the Queen of Sheba. But you’ll have to make do for tonight with what we can find in the Frigidaire. Come along now, this way to the cookhouse.’

He led her down a passage to a twenty-foot square kitchen, with a scullery and larder, both of ample size, beyond it. They were equipped with every modern device that could help to provide good food and easy service: a huge deep freeze, a giant fridge, a double-width automatically-controlled cooker, a double sink, dish-washer, mix and whip, and numerous other gadgets. Waving a ten-inch long hand round, her host said:

‘This place was quaint before I moved in. All of thirty years out of date. But I soon fixed it. What are dollars for ‘cept to make life different from dressing in a bearskin and
living in a cave. I put things right in no time, and shipped over a team of boys to look after me.’

Throwing open one door of the fridge he went on: ‘Now, what’ll you have: jellied eels, smoked salmon, cold fried fish Yiddish style, prawns in aspic, Russian salad, stuffed tomatoes? And in the larder there’ll be a raft of other things: cold meat, onion pie, gherkins, pickled walnuts and lots else.’

They selected several dishes and put them on the kitchen table. He showed Mary where the plates and cutlery were kept, so that she could lay up two places, then took from the other side of the fridge a bottle of champagne and two of stout, by mixing which in a big jug he made up two quarts of Chancellor Bismarck’s favourite tipple, usually known as Black Velvet.

Mary had had no dinner, so as soon as they sat down she suddenly felt hungry. He encouraged her to eat and drink, and himself ate with obvious enjoyment a supper that three normal-sized men would have found more than enough if shared between them. In less than half an hour, the jug that held the Black Velvet was empty.