The Mammoth Book of Dracula (58 page)

Then we talked. Even now, I have to admit that man had a wonderful brain. He told me all about the stars and how this world is only one among millions of suns and things and there must be billions of civilizations and one day clever, but funny-looking creatures will either visit us or we’ll visit them and ...

Sorry. I didn’t mean to break down like that, but when I think how things could have been if he hadn’t turned out to be a crook, me heart’s fit to break.

Anyway he came to see me quite often and took me out once or twice a week, always somewhere swanky, but there was one thing I thought was strange. After he’d paid the bill, he entered the amount in a little black book. He said it was so he could claim it back against tax, which didn’t sound right, for a friend once told me that you can only get tax rebate for entertaining foreign buyers, but I didn’t say anything, just supposed he knew his business best.

Then he got to talking about money, saying that lots of people did not realize they were sitting on thousands, until the matter was brought to their attention.

“Let’s take your case, Laura,” he said, “that house of yours, you could raise forty thousand quid on it any day. Invested by someone who knows his business, you could double it within six months, pay back the mortgage and use the extra thirty thou for further investments. That kind of thinking has laid the basis of many a fortune. I know—that’s the way I started out.”

Honestly it sounded right, particularly the way he put it, and when I said I wouldn’t like to mortgage my mum’s house, he said fair enough, he was only talking about what could be done, but God forbid he should influence me in any way. But if I should ever consider the idea, he’d be pleased to help me.

The seed had fallen on fertile ground, if you get my meaning. All of us could do with some more money, and the very thought of having thirty thousand nicely invested made me feel good. So one day I said I’d like to investigate the possibilities a little further—and that was it.

He cleaned me out in three weeks. He did all the paperwork—all I had to do was sign, the milkman witnessing my signature. First the mortgage on the house, then liquidating my little investments, for Michel said they were only chicken feed and he’d do much better for me. He explained for tax reasons all the money would be paid into a bank account under his name ...

Thank you for the handkerchief, sir, these little lace things he brought me are no good when you shed buckets as I’ve been doing over the past few months.

What? Of course ... well I had to get myself a proper job, didn’t I? I mean I was down on my uppers. The house gone, me in a shabby bed-sit and not a penny coming in. I got taken on by a local store, but I wasn’t really fitted for it. Me ankles swelled up with all that standing and when the customers got nasty, I answered back, which didn’t please their mightinesses on the sixth floor, so I was soon out on my ear.

Then I read this advertisement. See? I’ve got the newspaper cutting here:

COOK HOUSEKEEPER required by single gentleman. Live-in all found. Salary by negotiation. Ring Mr Rudolph Acrudal 753. 9076.

As I’ve said I’m not all that good at housekeeping, but I’m not all that bad at cooking, so long as no one expects anything fancy. And with a single gentleman there’s no woman to find fault—so why not?

The voice that answered the phone sounded genteel, which reassured me, for I find educated gentry are more easily pleased than your jumped-up-come-by-nights, and it was agreed I should come round right away, so I gave Mr Acrudal (pronounced Ac-ru-dal. I must say it took a bit of getting used to) my name and hired a taxi, for it’s just as well to give the impression that you’re not hard-up when applying for a job, and got myself driven to the address the gentleman had given me over the phone.

An old Victorian terrace house it was, four storeys high including the basement, with a flight of cracked grey steps leading up to the front door. The place didn’t look so much run down as neglected, and I could imagine an old bachelor who just couldn’t be bothered to have it done up.

He answered the door—Mr Rudolph Acrudal—a tall lean man who could have been any age. Honestly, I couldn’t make up my mind if he was a worn-out thirty, or a young seventy. He had a mass of black hair sort of sprinkled with white, as though he had been painting the ceiling and splashed white paint over his hair.

High cheekbones and a hooked nose and two long eye-teeth that dimpled his lower lip, which I might as well say were black. The lips I mean. His ears tapered to a sharp point at the top, making him — what with sunken black eyes—look like those old prints of the devil. He wore a tight-fitting black suit that included stove-pipe trousers. True. I swear on oath. He jerked his head back and forth several times and then said in a rusty kind of voice:

“Miss Benfield—yes? Good. Come in—don’t just stand there. The sun may come out at any time and that won’t be good for my health.” And he all but pulled me into a hall that stunk of damp and what could have been burnt fat, and where every floorboard creaked when you took a step forward, to say nothing of the odd flake of plaster that floated down from the ceiling, particularly when Mr Acrudal slammed the front door.

He led the way into a front room that looked even worse than the hall, being mostly dominated by a giant old desk and a mixture of books and papers that lay everywhere. Honestly I thought for a moment it was the dumping area for Let’s-have-all-your-old-books-and-newspapers-week. But he upended one wooden armchair, so that everything on it—including a huge tom cat—slid on to the floor. He half sat on the desk and gave me the doings.

“My wants are simple. Breakfast—black pudding on toast. Lunch—pig’s blood mixed with lightly done mince. Dinner—the same. Nightcap—a glass of pig’s blood.” He looked at me intently. “How does that strike you?”

I spoke boldly—it always pays in the long run: “Well, sir, it wouldn’t suit me, but if that’s what you want—I’ll try to make it as tasty as possible.”

He jerked his head up and down and I could swear he was dribbling as though the very thought of his favourite diet had started his mouth watering. “Good. The last housekeeper I had, heaved up when she saw me shovelling in the mince and blood. That’s settled then. You have a free hand. Make sure I’m fed and moistened three to four times a day and you can do what you like.”

I said, “Thank you, sir. I can see there’s plenty to do. And where will my quarters be?”

“Wherever you care to make them. Plenty of empty rooms on all floors. I use this one and the one next door. No need for you to go in there. As for money ...”

“I was about to mention that, sir.”

He bent down and brought forth a large old carpet-bag from beside the desk, which he dropped in my lap. When I opened it I found wads of bank notes—fifty pounds, tens and fivers. Mr Acrudal waved a dirt-grimed hand.

“Pay yourself a hundred a week, then take whatever is needed for housekeeping.”

I shook my head firmly. “That won’t do at all, sir. We won’t know where we are. I’d like you to keep this bag somewhere safe and pay me whatever is required each week.”

His face—white as a pig’s belly—took on a real bad-tempered expression and I thought to myself: I wouldn’t like to cross you, me lord, that I wouldn’t. For now, his face from dead-white turned to a light grey. Very off-putting it was. Never seen anything like it before. Then he kind of spluttered out words it took me some time to understand.

“Don’t... ar ... r ... g ... u ... e with ... me ... m .... m ... e w...o...m...m...a...n...D...o...o...o...a...s...I ... say.”

He scared the wits out of me and I was about to give him a piece of my mind and then walking out, when I remembered the cold bed-sit and the two quid and small change in my handbag, so I nodded like, an idiot and said: “All right, sir ... calm down. I’ll make a note of all the money I take and let you have a statement once a week.”

He did calm down, but appeared to be tired out as though the outburst had drained him.

I got out of the room as fast as my legs would take me and after
I
had cooled down a bit, began to explore the house. The kitchen I found in the basement, if the grease-lined hell-hole could be identified in any way as a place for preparing food. Do you know there was an old rusty iron range that heated an antiquated boiler with a tap on one side. A plain deal table collapsed when I tried to move it. Damp rot had done its worst to the floorboards and I almost broke an ankle when my foot sank into rotting wood. I made up my mind then and there—the kitchen was a write-off.

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.