The Dyrysgol Horror and Other Weird Tales. Edmund Glasby

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СКАЧАТЬ He wore a dark grey, strangely-padded jacket and a pair of black trousers. A thin film of sweat covered his face and strands of black hair hung damply against his forehead. It was clear that he had been engaged in some form of physical activity. But Owen’s eyes were not concentrated so much on the man’s appearance as on the heavy and dangerous-looking broadsword he carried in his right hand.

      “Lord Ravenwood.” Owen stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet with you once more. I hope this is not an inconvenience.”

      Ravenwood paused for a moment, throwing a brief, untrusting glance at the Detective Inspector’s hand, before transferring his broadsword to his left hand and shaking it. “Inspector, I understand that there’s been another disappearance from the village. Is that correct?” His manner and accent were polite, precise, and yet somehow rather chilling.

      Owen nodded his head slightly. “I’m afraid so.”

      “Hmm. And am I also to understand, as this is your second visit, that I’m under some suspicion?”

      Owen felt uncomfortable under the other’s dark scrutiny. There was something unreadable in the man’s piercing gaze—something dark and slightly sinister that engendered the uneasy feeling within him that this man had seen horrors not fit for human sight. “This is all purely routine. I’m sure you understand the gravity of the situation. I was wondering if we could just have a little talk.”

      Ravenwood contained a laugh. “A little talk, is it? What you actually mean is can I explain where I’ve been all evening, and whether or not I had anything to do with the unfortunate’s death.”

      “Who said anything about anyone being killed?” Owen countered, making a mental note of what the other had just said. It was little things like this that often revealed the true details about another’s involvement. It never ceased to amaze him how even the most astute could talk themselves into difficulty. It was just a question of giving them enough rope—

      “Come now, Inspector. Surely you don’t believe that all of the people who’ve disappeared over the past year or so are still alive, do you? Where do you think they’ve gone? Why would they ‘up-sticks’ as it were, leaving their families and loved ones behind? Of course they’re dead. You know this as well as I. But please, why don’t you go into the study and make yourself comfortable whilst I change into something less intimidating. Franklins will show you the way.” He turned and made his way back along the corridor.

      “If you’d follow me,” said the manservant, ushering Owen towards one of the doors that led off from the main entrance hall. He led the way along a wide corridor, hung at intervals with weird trophies which successive generations of Ravenwoods had obviously collected from all over the world.

      “What’s with the sword?” inquired Owen.

      Franklins turned. “Sorry?”

      “The sword. Does the viscount make a habit of walking around his house armed such as that?”

      “No, sir. It’s just that he always insists on an hour’s swordplay most evenings. He follows quite a vigorous routine of both physical and mental exercise, as did his father. Here we are.”

      From the doorway, Owen could see that inside the study there was a warm fire blazing in the open hearth. The walls were lined with stags’ heads and bookcases, the contents of which appeared old, yet well looked after. In one corner, at the far end, stood a suit of antiquated plate mail armour. Opposite it was an upright, stuffed bear. A long oaken table, surrounded by several chairs, lay in the centre of the room, and a large, dusty chandelier hung from above, lending the place an air of forgotten and now long-lost opulence. A pair of crossed halberds hung above the fireplace.

      “If you’d just wait here,” said Franklins gesturing to one of the chairs. “I’m sure his Lordship will not be long. Would you care for a drink?”

      “Not whilst I’m on duty. Thanks all the same.” Owen strode over to one of the chairs and sat down, casting his eyes over the numerous collections and antiques that adorned the walls. This was the same room he had been in the last time he had paid the viscount a visit, and from the looks of it nothing had changed in the slightest. Just how many rooms were there in the castle, he thought. Twenty? A hundred? Although some of the castle, certainly when seen from the outside, appeared to have suffered greatly from the ravages of time, it was abundantly evident that many of the interior living spaces were perfectly functional.

      On the table in front of him, within arm’s reach, there were numerous books. There was also a very antiquated globe, a collection of strange brass paperweights and a silver tray bearing a large crystal-cut decanter and several empty wine glasses. Nonchalantly, he picked one of them up and spun it in his fingers so that the harsh glare from the overhead lights was reflected in a million splintered rainbow shards off its faceted surface. A thousand eyes of fire, green and blue and red, winked at him mockingly. Hastily, he set it down on the table again.

      After a few minutes, he heard a door close and the sound of approaching footsteps.

      Now dressed in a velvet smoking jacket and slippers, Ravenwood stepped into the study. He looked far more relaxed, and some of the sternness seemed to have dissipated from his face. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Inspector,” he said, trying to sound as genial as possible for that late hour of the evening. “I take it that Franklins has offered you a drink?” he said, removing the top from the decanter.

      “Not for me, thanks.”

      “As you wish.” Ravenwood poured himself a glass of wine and then slid into one of the chairs facing the other. “Now, Inspector, how can I be of assistance?”

      “Well, that’s just it,” began Owen uncertainly. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. The facts as they stand have me truly baffled, and all that I can tell you with any certainty is that over the past few months there have been nine disappearances from the nearby village and its outlying farmsteads. Now, as I said at our last visit, I’m not from Dyrysgol. My headquarters are in Tregaron, some twenty miles away, and I’d be the first to admit that things are more than a little strange around here.”

      “You’re referring to the locals?”

      Owen gave a half-hearted smile. “Well, in a way, I suppose. You undoubtedly know what they’re like better than me. Simple people with simple outlooks. Anyhow, they seem to have formed the opinion that, well—”

      He hesitated, unsure how to complete what it was that he wanted to say.

      “That I’m in league with the Devil?” Ravenwood interrupted, trying to keep his voice even. “And that, no doubt, it is I who am responsible for the disappearances. No doubt they have told you that I am a sorcerer, conjuring demons from the bottommost pits of Hell, or perhaps a necromancer, raising the dead from the nearby graveyard in order to fulfil my diabolical schemes. I daresay there are some who claim to have seen me with a gathering of witches up on Bryn Garwynn, dancing by firelight around the stone circle there.” He took a measured sip from his wine glass.

      Owen cleared his throat. “Something like that. I suppose if we look at it from their perspective, it’s not that difficult to form such a belief. You never venture out and you’d have to admit that this property is unusual.”

      “And that’s the basis on which to judge another’s character? Come now, Inspector, surely you can see, as a man of logic, that the superstitions and the fears are all in their minds. I admit that I am somewhat reclusive, preferring my own company to that of others, СКАЧАТЬ