too aware that he eschewed visitors of any kind. Especially
visitors like myself, who came to learn of the legends of
the manor. He had granted me an audience mainly because
I was representing the finest publishing house in Europe,
and he had developed a collegiate friendship with my
editor, who had forwarded my biography—a biography
rife with knowledge of shades and shadows, demons and
demimondes, conflicts and covens. I was an expert in all
things weird and unholy, albeit an unwelcome one.
Lord Kettering was now sixty-five and had been
universally known as a key ex-member of the House of
Lords, and as a horseman and athlete whose vitality belied
his years, but of late rumors circulated that mysterious
incidents in the manor had sapped his strength and shaken
to a degree his mental faculties. He appeared drawn and
tired, and one instantly noted the cracks that radiated from
his smile. His blue eyes were still bright, however, and only
a little gray tinged his jet-black hair. I introduced myself
and he offered me a chair opposite him. We sat for some
minutes before the fire without speaking while I recovered
from the chill without.
At length, the nobleman addressed me in a
subdued tone. “You have had a long journey from the
City. May I suggest that I have you taken to your room
where you can rest before dinner? After we eat, I will be
happy to begin answering your questions.”
“That would be wonderful,” I replied. “I know you
value your privacy and I truly appreciate you taking the
time...”
19