Authors: R. Chetwynd-Hayes
I chose a room two floors up that commanded a view of the overgrown back garden and decided to take a thick wad of notes from that bag and buy a portable oil stove and a complete set of saucepans.
But number one question. When did the old devil want feeding next?
I looked at my watch and saw that the time was twelve-fifteen, so it would be reasonable to suppose that lunch—pigs’ blood and mince—should be served around one o’clock. Frankly I lacked the courage to ask Mr Acrudal where the nauseating mixture could be found—or obtained—but finally I went down into the hall and found a gold-coloured round tin that contained around three pints of thick blood and a bulging newspaper parcel.
I could sympathize with my predecessor who heaved when she saw her employer tuck into this muck, particularly when my nose told me the mince—and maybe the blood as well—was most definitely off.
I washed an iron saucepan as best I could, bunged the soggy mess into it and actually managed to stew it over an old hurricane lamp I found in one corner of the so-called kitchen.
I did my best to flavour this horrible concoction (boiling blood explodes into evil-smelling blisters) with pepper and salt, plus a nutmeg I found the large cat playing with, while pretending fat healthy maggots weren’t being done to death down below.
At one o’clock precisely I carried a tin tray on which slid back and forth a deep bowl containing bubbling, flavoured, blood-seeped, spicy mince. I had also succeeded in washing a dessert spoon, and after pushing the door open with my right knee, lurched across the littered floor to where the old-young man sat behind his desk. He really brightened up when he saw me with the tray and when I bunged it down in front of him, he grabbed the spoon and began shovelling the mess in.
It was a dreadful sight and sound. Slop-slub-lip-smacking with what missed the target dribbling down his chin. When the bowl was half empty he paused for breath and expressed sincere appreciation.
“The best blushie I’ve tasted in years, Miss Benfield. You are talented... so talented. Just give me the same for dinner and we’ll get along famously. I knew by your smell that we’d haunted the same track.”
I said primly, “So pleased to give satisfaction, sir,” and backed out of the room. I didn’t know what he meant by smell and could only regard the remark as some kind of insult.
Having taken care of my new employer’s requirements, I began to sort out my own. I explored the house from attic to basement and confirmed my original opinion that neglect had resulted in devastation, but a few weeks’ hard work could make the place at least liveable again. But not by me. As money seemed to be no object, I decided to dig well down into that carpet bag and hire a cleaning firm; the kind of organization that takes care of offices and showrooms. In the meanwhile I turned out a small bedroom on the third floor, took over a quilted double divan that must have cost a pretty penny when new, shook the dust out of some red blankets, unwrapped pink sheets and pillow-cases that sometime in the past had been sent to a well known laundry.
I uncovered three bathrooms—literally—and threw their contents out of a landing window and watched them land in an enclosed dank area. Two tubs had to be written off as what appeared to be cinders and wood ash had been thrown into at least six inches of water, resulting in corrosion that in some places had eaten through the metal. But one was still in reasonable condition and I managed to scrape it clean and plug two holes with putty that I found clinging to the banisters. By five o’clock that part of the house that I would be using was at least clear of surface rubbish and filth and I was free to think of my own needs.
I visited Mr Acrudal and to my disgust found he had licked the bowl clean and by his greedy enquiring look clearly thought I had brought a replacement.
I said, “Sir, I will need money, mainly for food for myself and having this house cleaned from top to bottom.”
He put his head on to one side and looked not unlike an intelligent dog that is trying to understand what it is being told to do. Then there came from his throat what I can only describe as growled words.
“Cleaned... from... top... to... bottom?”
“Yes, sir. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, the place is a disgrace the way it is. I was thinking of engaging a cleaning company.”
“More than two strangers... strangers... in... the... house?”
“Well, there’s no way I can do all the work myself and we can’t leave it the way it is.”
He reached down and produced that carpet bag again and dumped it on the desk. He fumbled around inside for a few moments and brought out a bundle of fifty pound notes that must have totalled at least seven hundred pounds. Then for the first time so far as I was concerned, he got up and eased his way round the desk, clutching the money in one hand and supporting himself with the other. I think there was something wrong with the left foot—or rather I thought so then. In fact as he drew nearer I couldn’t dismiss the thought that he was in some way deformed, terribly deformed, although a slight limp was the only outward sign.
Then he was close up—breathing on me.
I all but choked on the stench of decay that might have seeped through water-logged churchyard loam. I retreated back one step, before his right hand formed a band of steel round my left arm and jerked me forward until our faces were only a few inches apart. Then he smiled, a strangely sweet smile that revealed beautiful white teeth and instantly I forgot his grotesque appearance, the foul breath and the oddness about him; instead I became aware of a rising wave of excitement that later made me distrust my own senses. His voice came quivering from his open mouth as a thrilling whisper.
“Do whatever you wish... at all times the house is yours, but never... never... allow strangers... to cross my threshold.” His smile became more pronounced and such was my fascination I could even ignore those long eyeteeth. “Please understand that. If work is too much... leave it. Confine yourself to preparing the so excellent blushie and I will demand no more.”
He released me, thrust the money into my hand, then returned to his chair and became engrossed in reading what looked like an old document.
After a while my limbs became once again capable of movement, so I bolted back into the hall and took refuge in the room I had requisitioned for my own use. The bundle of money still clutched in my left hand forbade all thoughts of decamping and making for the nearest YWCA for even the most incorruptible soul must surrender to greed when loot is constantly thrust into its vicinity.
But there was another reason why I would find it increasingly more difficult to leave this house, no matter how fearsome it might become.
Rudolph Acrudal was without doubt ugly, repulsive and sinister, but I knew now he radiated some kind of charm that sooner or later I would find irresistible.
***
I got some kind of routine working—and surprised myself.
Mr Acrudal’s rations came from the local butcher, who dumped can and parcel on the top step each morning, plus whatever I ordered for myself. I may add my spiced blushie so pleased my employer that he would eat nothing else—not even the black pudding, a fact that aroused the interest of the butcher when I paid him every Friday morning.
Having done things to an elaborate cash register, I was given a printed receipt, before a red face creased into a wide confidential grin.
“Tell us the truth, love. What the ‘ell does he do with all this blood and mince? I mean it’s not as though it comes from fresh meat. From the beginning I was told it must be high. Straight up. Warm, runny and smelly. And the blood—thickish.”
I always started out by giving the same answer: “That’s Mr Acrudal’s business and mine,” but after a while the need to talk to someone who is nice to me, got the better of discretion and I finally admitted I had to cook the horrible mess which Mr Acrudal was so kind as to say he enjoyed. And although Mr Redwing—that was the butcher’s name—expressed disbelief, I could see he wanted to believe and pass on what he believed to an enthralled public.
Then while carving me a nice piece of topside: “No one seems to know what he looks like, him never coming out in daylight. Is it true he has ‘orns under his hair?”
Of course I could only gasp: “Of course not. It’s not as bad as that. Don’t be silly.”
I think it was about then that I became aware that the house was being watched. Not openly, but sometimes from a parked car, or the shadow cast by an old tree. Dark, squat, round-shouldered men was the only impression I got, never actually seeing them close-up, you understand. I wasn’t all that worried, assuming that such was the interest as to what took place in the house, some nosy parker—or parkers—were hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr Acrudal at one of the windows.
I started another kitchen on the first floor, buying one of those elaborate oil stoves complete with oven and grill; and a table high fridge and sink unit. Getting the sink connected up without letting Mr Acrudal know, took a bit of organizing, but I did it by donning a boiler suit and putting in an occasional appearance in the Master’s room, complaining how wrong it was for a woman to have to do this kind of work without help.
He never commented, but tried to hide behind a massive tome that looked as if it had been stored in a damp cellar for a few years. In fact all the books in that room gave me that impression. Any road, by the end of the first month I had made myself as comfortable as the surroundings would permit and more or less adapted to what could only be called a bizarre situation. But that failing that my dear mother had so often stressed had killed the cat—namely curiosity -would not give me any peace.
For example: he had never allowed me to see his bedroom or so much as move a book in that awful room where he spent so much of his time.
So I gave the rest of the house a good going-over, and got the impression Mr Acrudal had been there a long time.
I found newspapers going back to 1870, some announcing the abdication of Napoleon III. Cupboards were crammed with them, some seemingly unopened, others with rectangular holes where paragraphs and entire columns had been cut out. I unearthed books bound in plain covers lacking both title and author, the script in some foreign language which I would never understand in a thousand years.
I was about to replace one when I saw a piece of paper sticking out from the middle pages, thrust in hurriedly I would imagine as a book marker, which turned out to be a letter written—thankfully—in English.
I would have you believe me, Sir, that I do not as a rule pry into other people’s correspondence; my mother raised me properly but when you’re eaten up by curiosity and badly want to know who -what—your employer is, you’d be a saint—which I beg leave to say I’m not—not to read a few lines scrawled on a piece of paper.
I can remember every word.
Rudolph, a word of warning: Total abstinence of essential fluid will age a body that should retain youth for nigh on eternity. Waste not the gift our sire gave you. The blushie diet will only sustain.
H.
And that was all. I put the paper back in the book, then settled down to have a good think. When I was a kid my dad was always swearing to practise Total Abstinence, which meant not drinking booze in any form whatsoever. His good intentions were usually drowned in about fourteen days.
But I had never heard booze called essential fluid—although my dad might have thought it was—and certainly couldn’t entertain the idea not drinking the stuff would age the body. Quite the contrary I would have thought.
And my employer’s diet was mainly blood and rotten meat. Blushie. To my mind the only nourishing meal he ever ate was his early morning black pudding—or blood sausage as I’ve heard it called. But now he’d given that up.
Blood!
It would seem that my employer needed blood in some form or another to sustain life, but according to H he wasn’t getting it in the right quantities—or quality. In other words he wasn’t getting the right kind of blood.
Yes, sir, I’ve seen my ration of horror films and my mind came up with the question: What kind of being needs a diet of blood to exist?—and supplied an instant answer.
A vampire.
And it was no use calling myself a silly twit and repeating “Vampires don’t exist” over and over again, for my bloody brain came up with another question: How do you know they don’t exist? And I remembered the long eye-teeth and suddenly imagination created a fantasy-picture, complete with sound, touch and colour. I was being held by one large hand while the other tore my dress leaving my throat bare, hot stinking breath on my skin; then came a sharp pain and I became as a virgin on her wedding night, terrified, gasping—and shuddering with ecstasy.
***
“We were reckoning the other day,” Mr Redwing said, adjusting his straw hat to a more becoming angle, “that your boss must have eaten his weight in rotten mince several times over. Doesn’t he have any vegetables? Or salad?”
I’m not good at lying so I just shook my head.
“Thought not. My missus says if you just eat meat and nothing else, you’re in line for scurvy. Like they did in Nelson’s navy. Hope you look after yourself, love.”
“I do that. Plenty of salad and fruit. But is that true about scurvy?”
“Sure thing. Ask any doctor. Must have a balanced diet.”
After the lapse of three days I had come round to ridiculing the very idea of Mr Acrudal being a vampire. Or at least half convinced myself I was ridiculing the idea, which is almost the same thing. But certain facts could not be erased, particularly my employer’s strange diet and the damned letter, which for my peace of mind, I should have never read.
Now Mr Redwing’s little snippet of information had set fire to the dry grass of conjecture, highlighting the fantastic more vividly than ever. If a hundred percent protein diet resulted in scurvy, then Mr Acrudal should have been dead long ago. If one thought about his health at all, the only reasonable assessment must be neither good or bad, but Acrudal-normal.
So far as I knew he took no exercise, the only movement being from workroom to bedroom, with periodical visits to the bathroom. Presumably he washed there, but I was willing to swear he never took a bath or shaved. I assumed that his hair must grow, that is to say on his head, but his face remained smooth, which made me wonder if there was any hair on his body at all.