Presents...
by Mark Wynn
I find that I am forced to put my thoughts to paper for fear that if I confide in anyone I may end up in some asylum or bedlam house. In all honesty I believe that I belong there myself. I get ahead of myself, and this account must be accurate, if only for my own sanity.
Martin Levine, a
friend of mine by correspondence, requested that I join him at his new estate in
an agent for the publishing house involved with Martin's memoirs.
When we arrived at the village we headed for the Cann Office public house
for a spot of lunch and coincidentally to rendezvous with the other of Martin's
guests. On the way we were offered
a ride in the motor car of an officer and a gentleman, one Robert
Lindsey, a Sergeant in His Majesty's Royal Artillery. The
Sergeant was also on his way to the rendezvous.
A stroke of luck which would save us a considerable walk.
Upon arrival at the public house we had the opportunity to meet the remainder of the guests. The party consisted of Miss Cynthia Parker, an associate of Martin's in the thespian sphere; Marcus Daliard a theatre and arts critic, Justin O'Gyle, a gentleman who claimed to be representing "Third Parties", 'though I suspect he was working for a rival publishing house. Sergeant Major Elliot Tombs, erstwhile army officer turned "action consultant" for the blossoming cinematic industry; Geoffrey Hilton-West, a gentleman of high social means and somewhat of a dilettante. Jack Conway, a collector of rare literature, although he had the stance and attitude of a man of action, not an academic. Our party was complete with the presence of Aubrey Mullholand, a philosopher and student of religious text.
Martin
had one of his game keepers, Mark or Andrew Masters (I confess I could
not distinguish the two brothers from one another) show us
the surrounding grounds of his newly acquired and very picturesque
property. Whilst on the return
journey, in tall grass near to the house, we discovered an apparent treasure
trove of household silver and other valuables.
Martin confirmed that the articles were family heirlooms, the absence of
which he was unaware. We
investigated further to try to uncover the perpetrators of the theft.
Imagine our horror when approaching the
site of the cache we were ambushed by masked gunmen !
An occurrence one certainly does not expect in a sleepy Welsh village.
Several of our party set off to investigate further but Mr Wright and Sgt
Major Tombs were taken hostage. Whilst
the rest of us retreated they managed to make a valiant bid for freedom, however
the Sgt Major was quite
seriously injured in the attempt.
Once free and again safely within our midst, the erstwhile captives
described the mysterious assailants as having strange accents, but were unable
to place the dialect.
A chance find on our return to the house revealed a most macabre discovery. Nestled snugly against the roots of a tree near the path, like some obscene grouse, was a severed human hand ! This grizzly remnant was identified as belonging to the previous owner of the house, a Mr Algernon Platchett, by the distinctive ring it still wore. It seemed beyond the realm of coincidence that this and the mysterious armed men could not be linked. Once back at the house, while dinner was being prepared for us by Martin's maid Lorretta (a curious character who had a habit of talking to the empty air), Mr Wright chanced upon a scrap of a letter that related to certain archaeological studies performed by Mr Platchett and his colleagues in Egypt. These writings not only mentioned names I consider too sacrilegious to put to paper, but also detailed a strange religious cult and a ritual performed by the aforementioned archaeologists which seemingly unleashed a blasphemous spirit upon the world by use of mystical totems. As we discussed these unprecedented events over dinner, volunteers stood guard over the house so that our woodland hunters would not approach us by surprise. This was a most fortunate decision, for attack the house they did. The assault upon the house was bravely thwarted, thanks to our more combatant companions. We began to grow concerned that they might yet return under cover of darkness.
