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.“Yes, sir.A gentleman.”“You didn’t recognise him? It was Miss Kretzsch, in disguise.”“That is indeed possible, sir,” he replied gravely.“He said he’d come from a Mr Seton, with an important message.”“What wonderful notions she has!” I said to myself.“She must be up in her room.” And I dashed merrily up the stairs.I knocked, but there was no answer.I hammered on the door and began shouting, in German:“Lene! Lene! Open up.It’s me, Bátky! Come on, open up, will you!”Roused by these barbaric syllables, the proprietress appeared, in her nightgown.The proprietress was a woman of strict moral principles.The hotel rejoiced in its reputation for the highest respectability, a virtue that in England calls for rigorous policing.Seeing me battering on a lady’s door she paled and gave me a look which, had I been sober, would doubtless have turned me to stone.“Mr Bátky! … ”With what bleakly chilling tones she could prolong that unfortunate first syllable!But I was drunk, my sight and hearing blurred the harsh edges of reality, and I was in an optimistic frame of mind.“Hello, Mrs Stewart! How are you?” I exclaimed happily.“Do you know, you’re putting on weight.”“In my establishment ladies do not receive male visitors in their rooms, especially at this time of night.Mr Bátky, you astonish me.Go downstairs at once.I must ask you to kindly remove yourself from this hotel at your earliest … ”Cowering under the weight of her authority, I crept back to my room and was soon fast asleep.I woke early the next morning, stone cold sober.I dressed rapidly and hastened down to the porter.My head was buzzing with all the steps I had failed to take the night before.“Is Miss Kretzsch back yet?” I asked.“No, sir.”I had a vague notion that someone might have enquired after me the previous day.“Who came asking for me?”“A gentleman.From a Mr Seton.”“And what did he say?”“He said he’d call again this morning.He asked if you would wait for him without fail.”This reassured me to a certain extent.My gravest omission of the night before had been not to let Seton know what was happening.But apparently he was already fully informed.Lene must have been in touch with him.My visitor would make all this clear.I finished my breakfast and passed the time restlessly perusing the papers.I simply glanced at the headlines, rather cursorily.But one suddenly hit me:CHILD ABDUCTEDMYSTERY HORSEMAN IN ABERSYCHStrange occurrences have been reported over the past twenty-four hours in Abersych, Merioneth.Sian Prichards, thirty-six, a local farmer, was woken some time after midnight by someone at the door calling his name.Not recognising the voice, and filled with a sense of foreboding, he debated for some time whether to go out, but eventually decided to do so.Outside he found a man on horseback.He appeared to be very old, and was dressed in black.His enormous size, his striking costume and pale face struck terror into the witness.The man then uttered something in a strange tongue, after which Prichards remembers nothing more.When he recovered consciousness he was standing where he had been, outside his front door, but the stranger had disappeared, and with him Prichard’s ten-year-old son.The Police are understandably treating his report with caution.Initially they were concerned that the informant might be mentally disturbed, but his reputation in the village is that of a sober, respectable citizen who has never been known to do anything unusual or eccentric.The boy’s mysterious disappearance lends a degree of credibility to his story.The police are baffled.No trace of the horseman has been found, and no one other than Pritchards has seen him.Abersych was perhaps six miles from Pendragon …I was in no doubt as to the identity of the abductor.But what possible motive … ?However I gave it no further thought.The whole thing was beyond rational understanding.The mere fact of its happening was a slap in the face for logical analysis.If indeed it had happened …But then from the depths of my mind, used as it was to making historical associations, rose an alarming image: that of Bluebeard.It seemed to me to explain everything.I wasn’t thinking of the legendary Bluebeard, who killed his wives, but the historical one.His real name was Giles de Rais, Marshall of France in the fifteenth century, at the time of the Maid of Orleans and the Hundred Years’ War.He spent his entire, very considerable, fortune on alchemical experiments, without result.In the end, he decided to turn to the dark powers for help.To win favour with Satan he hunted down and murdered small children by the hundred.The entire province became depopulated as if smitten by plague.And, as the notes of the subsequent inquiry reveal, these murders became increasingly cruel and satanic.At first he merely tortured the children and chopped them into pieces; then he came up with the idea of roasting them over a slow fire.The next refinement was to use them for various obscene acts while torturing them to death.As he later confessed, the greatest pleasure of all involved squatting on the butchered bodies of his victims.In the final phase, they were sexually violated.None of this had any effect.The Devil did manifest himself on a number of occasions, but was unremittingly hostile.At one point he flogged one of de Rais’ friends, an Italian alchemist, almost to death.The Devil is not a kindly master.Eventually the Inquisition caught up with him.They excommunicated him as a follower of Satan and handed him over to a secular court, which sentenced him to death.He repented his sins and begged the people, on his knees, to forgive him his crimes.And the wonderful people of that time pardoned their children’s murderer.Sobbing and wailing, they accompanied him to the scaffold and implored God to have mercy on his soul …“The gentleman is here,” said the porter.“The one who was looking for you.”I made my way quickly into the foyer.A sharp-eyed man, looking like a detective, was waiting for me.“Are you János Bátky?” he asked.“I am.”“Excuse me, but I must ask for some proof of identity.The matter is sufficiently serious to oblige caution
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