The Evil at Monteine. Brian Ball

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      “Up here,” said Richard, pointing out another opening through gorgeous red velvet curtains.

      Again we were in a corridor, much narrower, which led upwards to one wing of the castle. There was a rounded roof that looked as if it might be the original stonework.

      Eventually we reached a fairly short corridor. There were two doors.

      “Yours,” said Richard, stopping at a smallish, heavy oak door. “Mind your head.”

      They must have been shorter in the Middle Ages, for I had to stoop to get into the room.

      “And the step,” said Richard.

      I stepped down onto thick carpet and saw one of the most attractive rooms I’ve ever been in. It was small, with stone walls and a fairly low ceiling; yet though it should have seemed cold and even damp, that wasn’t the feeling I had. The carpet was thick Wilton, a dusky sort of gold, and the furniture mid-Victorian, all delicate mahogany with gold-patterned inlays. A small window gave enough light; I looked out and again I could see the long, slow, grey waves of the North Sea.

      Richard put the case down and pointed out the television set, the tiny bathroom, and the telephone for room service.

      “It’s so pretty!” I said. “I hate antiquey rooms stuffed with bits of junk, but this seems so right.”

      Richard murmured agreement and ran his hand along my back.

      “Whoever fitted this place out was an artist,” I said. “And stop that, or I can’t talk. You haven’t started to tell me anything about International. How did you hear about the job?”

      Richard sighed. “It was all so easy, really. It was a couple of weeks back. I met a fellow I know vaguely and we said how are things, then the talk got around to jobs—then I saw the advertisement, and we talked about it. After a few drinks it seemed a good idea if I rang through.”

      “Just like that?”

      “That’s how International work, apparently. You call them, and if they like you they send for you to be evaluated.”

      “To Monteine Castle? Just like that?”

      “Oh no. Interviews in London first, then a meeting with the British directors. After that they said I’d need to be vetted by their tame headshrinkers.”

      “So you rang them?” I prompted.

      “They said I probably fitted the bill at the interview.”

      “And they told you to come here? It’s more like a hotel than a set of offices.”

      “That’s where they’re so subtle, Anne,” yawned Richard. “They watch you. You’ll see, love. When we go down to dinner, you’ll meet the rest of the team—the headshrinkers. Don’t you know how they operate?”

      I’d heard something of selection procedures, but I’d never had occasion to be involved at this level before.

      “Tell me,” I said.

      “Falco Jensen, Eric Fitch, and Monica,” he said. “They’ve so much brain between them they’re top-heavy. And they watch, Anne, by God, they watch!”

      I looked around as he said it, and for a moment I had a return of that unpleasant, bewildering sensation I had experienced when I first caught sight of Monteine Castle.

      I had to examine the room to see if anyone was watching. It sounds crazy, but I was sure that there was another presence in the room.

      “Now what?” asked Richard, as I padded about the clinging carpet.

      “You know how I am about strange rooms.”

      I opened the wardrobe and looked under the bed. I pushed aside a sliding door in a cabinet, and saw a smooth blank screen.

      “Every comfort,” said Richard. He showed me the recess behind the bed-head board. “Any strange men?”

      “All right, I’m a fool,” I apologized. I didn’t want to spoil his pleasure, for he was pleased about the job.

      “It can be a bit creepy in the dark,” he said. “And along the cliffs at night you sometimes get the feeling that you’re at the end of the world. It’s as lonely out here as anything I’ve known at sea. There’s something about the cliffs at night that’s positively eerie.”

      I shivered and went to the window again. I didn’t want to know about the cliffs at night. In the gathering gloom of evening, the sea had a slow and surging emptiness that was disturbing. I turned back to Richard.

      “Who’s Monica Sievel?”

      “Monica’s an expert on psychotic traumas, so Falco tells me. I can’t tell you much about him, but I’ve heard of this character Fitch before, and I know for a fact that he’s an expert in his field. But you’ll see them soon—and be seen, Anne,” he warned. “Oh, there’s no secret about it, old girl,” he said, laughing. He had noticed that I didn’t like the idea at all.

      “Look, stop being so serious about it all! They have to compare notes about my reactions to everyday events—they showed me the charts they make up. Everything goes down: the way I walk, the things I say when they ask me questions, the way I begin a conversation, what I eat, how I dress, everything. I bet they’re talking over your arrival right now, Anne. It’s the way they work,” he insisted as I began to say how much I disliked the idea of being on trial. “Look, it’s a joke, Anne. It really is funny!”

      “All right, it’s funny—so long as you get the job.”

      “It’s in the bag!”

      “Well, that’s all right.”

      It wasn’t, of course.

      “A couple of gins will put you right, love. Let the shrinks look into our souls—they’ve nothing better to do, so we might as well let them have their fun.”

      “You go down,” I said. “I know the way.”

      It sounded absurd, but I didn’t want to appear before the staff at Monteine Castle arm in arm with Richard, as if we were a married couple.

      Richard waited a moment.

      “I’m getting a shower—I’ll be half an hour. Don’t drink too much.”

      After Richard left I took time over my toilet. Then I made my way downstairs.

      I had no trouble in finding my way through the corridors and passages until I came to the working-lounge which served as a sitting room and library, and then I must have taken a wrong turning, for instead of passing through the arched passageway which led to the imposing iron-work stairway, somehow I found myself in a dark, narrow, brick-lined tunnel, which wound downwards very steeply.

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