The Curious Incident with Lord Piddlington

Some impressions of the material and immaterial.
  February 10, 2005

With an old soldier's steady gait, Lord Piddlington, third Duke of Baconsfield, Cavalier of the Order of the Goiter, entered into the library from his bedchambers.  There was something soothing about the smell of the place, something that always lifted his spirits, and this time was no exception.  Afflicted again with melancholy brought by the thoughts of his wife's passing, the Duke had been spending the night in a foul mood trying in vain to fall asleep.  Something in the air kept Hypnos away.  Perhaps it was the wind howling in the halls of the abandoned wings of the castle, or the trees creaking and shaking their branches in the storm gathering outside; perhaps it were the hushed, nervous whispers of the few remaining servants that vexed one's nerves stronger than any shout could.  Soul filled with foreboding at these sounds.

The size of the library was hinted at rather than revealed by the wavering light cast by the candles.  Its ceiling and far corners languished in the dark; most of the light collected around a grand mahogany desk whereupon in earlier, happier times the Duke would compose acclaimed love poems for his beloved.  A thick cover of dust lay on the furniture now; the only memento of the beloved was a framed photograph that the Duke ordered made upon her death.  It sat on the desk and in it, she looked as if she had just gone to sleep, peaceful and beautiful.  No signs of mortal decay marred her dead countenance.

As always, the Duke found himself drawn irresistibly to the desk and the face upon it.  Slowly, heavily he sank into the leather chair and stared without a word at the familiar portrait.  A tiny tear escaped from the corner of his eye and hurried down his cheek.  What cruelty, he thought, to deprive him of his soulmate and companion!  What unthinkable mockery of fate, to let him outlive the one who gave him so much happiness and joy!  What terrible misfortune, to lose her tender love and her gentle caresses!  The touch of her fingers he remembered even now, soft as a feather, light as April mists.  The sweet languor of her kisses…  The steady heaving of her bosom…

A peal of thunder crashed outside.  The Duke ignored it, absorbed in his nostalgic, lovelorn reverie.  “Oh, Anna,” he whispered into the silence.  “But you left me so terribly lonely.”

He found the thoughts of her caresses persistent and quite pleasant.  There was no denying it: his sensibilities were stirred by his wife's visage even now, in the time of mourning.  He gave the portrait a guilty, puckish grin, like a boy who, before doing mischief, already knows he will be forgiven.  “Oh, Anna,” he whispered again at that dear face calmed by death, “I do love you so.”

With these words he loosened his garments and commenced an act of self-love; yet his love was beyond the self, beyond the fetters of the mere mortal world as it soared in the rarefied airs of a higher realm, where Anna's eyes were open and alive, and her lips parted in a smile that was painful to behold for its beauty.  What he would not give only to see that blessed face again…

Loud coughing disturbed his progress.  Crude words clove the dream asunder, grated against the nerves: “Excuse me, sir!”  It was Sykes, the butler; as always, he had stepped into the room like a gingerly cat, producing not a sound.

“Damn it!” escaped from Lord Piddlington's mouth.  He hastily drew the flaps of his coat over his shameful parts and glared at the servant with considerable annoyance.  “What is it, man?”

One glance at the butler quelled his anger.  He was sweating with fear; his hands shook, making the flames of the candle they held quiver and scattering molten wax across the floor.  “What is the matter, Sykes?” the Duke repeated with concern.

“If you please, the servants are leaving, m'lord,” replied the butler, and his voice shook like his hands.  “I thought it my duty to inform you.  They refuse to stay in the castle any more.  They say the place is haunted.”

The Duke frowned, then laughed.  “Rubbish,” he said.  “Who would haunt my castle?”

Sykes gave him an anxious look and said: “If you please, m'lord, they say it's your wife.”

The Duke moved to rise in anger from his desk but thought better of it.  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked furiously from his chair.  “I will not put up with the memory of my dear wife being besmirched by mindless superstitions of imbeciles.  Who are these cowards that want to leave me?”

“All of us, sir,” returned the butler.  “If you please, m'lord, I shall be leaving, too.”

Lord Piddlington was silent for a moment.  Then he extended his hand towards the door.  “In that case, leave,” he said.  “Leave and never come back.”

As if these words were kicks delivered to his backside, the butler complied with uncommon liveliness.  He left the door open on his way out and from the hall, wind rushed in making the shadows dance and riffling the pages of books.  “Blast it!” Lord Piddlington muttered.  “The maid has left the windows open in the hall.”  As he hobbled towards the door to shut it, he groused aloud: “Haunted castle, my foot.  What monsters does the slumbering intelligence produce, indeed.  And in this day and age!”

A cracking sound behind his back gave him a start.  He turned and examined the room.  Nothing in it seemed out of the ordinary.  Outside, it must have started raining in earnest because the silence was now lined with the velvet whispers of falling water.  The Duke shook his head and returned to his desk.

Once more he faced his wife's portrait.  Syke's intrusion had diminished his feelings but a little; they were waiting in abeyance and now flared up with renewed zeal.  With a loving smile he reclined in the comfort of his chair and committed himself again to mournful, joyous celebrations.

For a while no sounds stirred in the library save the rustling of the rain, an occasional distant clap of thunder, and the Duke's stertorous breathing.  In his mind he was growing ever closer to the union with the memory of her.  It was to be but a faint echo of past delights but echoes were all he had left, lost happiness reverberating through the empty caverns of his life.

Far into his dream, he closed his eyes.  Somewhere a clock struck midnight but he paid no attention.  Oh, Anna, with skin like porcelain, eyes like emeralds.  Where hast thou gone, eternal summer's fragrant blossom?  I shall see you again, he thought, in a place where all things end well…

Lightning struck directly outside the windows.  The roar that followed shook the castle to the very foundations.  It was as if a cannon had been fired in the room.  Startled and confused, his ears ringing, Lord Piddlington opened his eyes … and felt chills crawl down his spine.  Before him, wrapped in a long shroud, pale in the candles' flickering light, stood an apparition of his wife.  He felt heat drain out of his working hand.  She was looking directly at him; her lips were moving.  At first he could not hear the words but then his name came to him as if through a layer of water.  “John,” she was calling, “oh, John.  I've come to see you, John.”

“Anna,” he wheezed, and stretched his hands to her, and started to rise.

“John, my love,” the underwater voice came again.  “It is dark and cold in my grave.  Only crows and pigeons nest—WHAT IN GOD’S NAME HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?!”

Only too late did he realise that his shame was plain for her to see.  She noticed the photograph on the desk, his clothes in disarray and his wilting flesh.  She remarked the flush in his cheeks.  She understood.

“DISGUSTING!” screamed the ghost.

“Dearest,” the Duke stammered but alas! with its translucent face distorted by revulsion and anger, the apparition wavered and dissolved into thin air.  The smell of sulfur spread through the room.  “Anna, wait!” he cried desperately.  “Don't leave me again.  Come back!  I love you!”  The empty library's sepulchral silence was his only answer.  With hands still tainted by his sin, the Duke covered his face, sank to his knees and wept.

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