Madam Becaud hurried purposefully along the
narrow corridor
which linked the musty cellar rooms of the Chateau de la Croix.
It was 7.50 pm. She must not, on any account, be late. The
passageway was cold and bare.
Swiftly she moved through the few dim pools of light thrown down
by a naked row of bulbs.
Tonight, as always, as she bustled along listening to the hard
and spikey echoes of her heels,
she was struck by the dark, forbidding atmosphere of this hidden
underworld.
Above her head, in violent contrast, every room of the old house
was the very essence of opulence and glamour,
each one a distillation of countless generations of inbred
elegance and the product, of course, of unimaginable wealth.
The young Count and his beautiful new wife were clearly from this
ancient mould, filling the chateau with the greatest of
treasures, trawled from the world's finest salerooms.
How she loved them. Together they bore the family name with the
greatest pride and and an aura of flawless respectability.
Cultivated with meticulous care, it seemed to glow from the very
stones of the old family home.
A smile flickered around the edges of Madame
Becaud's mouth as she reached her destination
- a locked door, swathed in darkness, at the far end of the
passage. She was so proud to be one of
the "Inner Circle" ... one of the honoured few who knew
the secrets of the house and this nether world deep below.
For nearly half a century she had served the family and now she
was valued as part of it herself. It was her moment of deepest
satisfaction when the Count and Countess had turned to HER -
Madame Becaud - when the 'darkness' had fallen upon them,
so soon after the wedding.
Within days of the honeymoon the fighting had begun - the halls
had rung with their jibes and stings. " Pervert ! " ...
" Pig ! "
She shivered at the thought. More than once, the young Countess
had fled the house in tears.
Madame Becaud was proud to be a " Woman of the World ".
She understood these signs.
It came as no surprise when the pair confessed a certain "small
imbalance" in their marital affairs
- a certain "disparity of taste", unspoken in their
courtship.
Her advice had been wise and eagerly accepted. A new position
would be advertised - an "Assistant" to the Count.
It was agreed at once and tranquility returned once more. The
chateau was at peace.
She fumbled a key into the lock and stepped inside.
Only a dull glow from the passage spilled into
the chamber but Madame moved quickly through the darkness.
Her confidence was born of long experience.
A desk lamp snapped brightly into life, casting a small arc of
light across a polished table, itself of great antiquity.
On its surface lay a single sheet of parchment, weighted by an
ornate column clock.
Madame liked her creature comforts, especially down here.
Unearthly light, green and ghostly, weakened by the lamp's
translucent shade, probed into the darkness
but she could see nothing of the bizarre display which lay, she
knew, beyond the desk.
There was no sight ... but there was sound.
She could hear it very clearly. Set against the ticking of the
clock there was a lower note, a quiet, unsteady wheezing
which hissed out of the gloom. Madame cast down her eyes and
scratched a scarlet fingernail across the paper
on the desk, tapping gently at the first name on the list.
" 8pm. Dupres. 21 Years. Blonde. References Impeccable ...
"
She glanced at the clock. 7.55.
Motionless, she listened, ears straining for the sound of
approaching footsteps.
In this house, punctuality was paramount. The Count pursued his
life with ritual precision
and would tolerate nothing less from others - particularly his
staff. It was a simple fact and totally accepted.
7.59. As the second hand swept upwards through
the last remaining seconds of the hour
a faint but rapid squeaking grew louder on the boards outside the
door.
8 pm. Ritual precision indeed.
Satisfied, Madame Becaud smiled briefly and turned to look into a
young and handsome face, slightly flushed with exertion.
He stood slightly swaying in the doorway, his long rubber riding
boots twittering again on the polished floor.
Cream jodphurs hugged him tightly from knee to waist, where they
disappeared into the folds of a crisp white linen shirt.
Long whisps of blonde hair were pulled tightly back into a pony
tail, held by a simple leather thong.
So simple. So imposing. Cultured elegance flowed easily from
every pore.
A riding crop dangled from one strong hand, the metal tip of its
woven grip flashing in the lamplight.
From the other hand hung a battered Gladstone bag, creased and
wrinkled by great age and frequent use.
Madame Becaud gazed at him with glowing admiration as she
listened to the striking of the clock behind her.
No greetings were expected on either side and words were not
exchanged. It was the custom at such times.
As the final sharp rings died away, the housekeeper cleared her
throat.
Her statement was as loud and clear as it was precise.
She spoke into the darkness.
"8 pm. Candidate Number One.
The terms and conditions of this appointment have been made clear
to you. The ... er ... "
She paused.
"The requirements of His Excellency the Count and of this
examination have been made known to you.
Your consent and oath of silence have been signed."
She moved to the side of the door, her hand seeking out a light
switch high up on the wall.
"I will return in 50 minutes. The ... interview ... begins
with my departure ... "
In one practiced movement, she stepped out into the corridor,
drawing the door closed behind her and flicking on the light.
The key turned firmly in the lock and the muffled clatter of her
heels grew fainter, slowly fading into silence.
In the beam of a single spotlight, the secret of the chamber was
revealed ...
or
