Elizabeth sets off for Ireland but what are Rookfield and Roland’s intentions towards her and are they working together? Jon attends an evening's entertainment at Clonlaw House where Lord Clonlaw has a proposition for George. Hidden past relationships come to light. George handles a mysterious dagger.
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Elizabeth sets off for Ireland but what are Rookfield and Roland’s intentions towards her and are they working together? Jon attends an evening's entertainment at Clonlaw House where Lord Clonlaw has a proposition for George. Hidden past relationships come to light. George handles a mysterious dagger.
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
THIS HOUSE WILL DEVOUR YOU Season One
A Podcast concerning love, madness, mystery, murder and dead gods in 1920's Ireland and England
THWDY Episode 1.08
'Hunger Marches'
SOCIETY OF ESOTERICA,
LONDON, W.
30th November, 1925,
Dear Jon,
The most dreadful thing has happened. I have missed the mail train in an awful turn of events and I am not sure I will be able to catch another, as it is now midnight as I write this and my fare was only valid in November. I am so sorry Jon and I do not know what to do.
I am in a small room in the Society of Esoterica’s building, made up with a spartan bed and washbasin. There is no window, just a broken mirror and a small chest containing what can only be described as esoteric knick-knacks. I am afraid I may be locked in but I am scared to try the door, who knows what may be the other side?
The way it happened was thus. I had been preparing all day for the travel and the catching of the evening train from Euston and I was getting a little nervous, especially about the boat crossing in the winter weather. Celia suggested we should calm my nerves with a visit to a nearby establishment serving the most delicious martinis. I have to say they did calm me, for a time. But as I was taking my leave, to get a cab up the few short streets to Euston with my luggage, I was beset by an angry mob of men, waving placards about a Hunger March. These Hunger Marches are not new. Men from the northern towns and the coal-miners in Wales are suffering these days, unable to earn a decent wage or being given the assurance of a basic job. I feel for them, but their protest right there was most inconvenient. The cab driver was an ignorant fellow too and said “won’t get through that lot, miss” – so perforce I had to walk!
It was a struggle, shouldering my way through the crowd, who were shouting and jeering, and a ragged unwashed lot they were too! I had to hold my breath as they elbowed me out of the way and waved their arms aloft with the banners and placards. At that point I truly regretted the martinis.
I forced myself as far as a place where the road narrowed and the pavement stopped and the density of the mob in the gathering gloom became insufferable. I could feel myself becoming quite faint and I stumbled over, falling onto hard road and immediately having my hands trampled on by uncaring protestors. Then I heard a familiar voice calling, “Look out for the lady!” and whoever would you expect to come surging through the mob than Dr. Rookfield, his dark curly hair dishevelled, his tie awry, sweat beading on his brow. Heaven only knows what he was doing there, but I was glad to see him.
Dr. Rookfield pulled me up rather roughly by the hand and somehow miraculously cleared a way through the crowds, leading me to a side alley where there was some respite from the throng. Calling out, “Osborne, here!” another fellow emerged from the crowds, and you can imagine my surprise that it should be Roland! I had not seen him since I left Clatbury and I had quite forgotten his surname. However at that point I had not sufficient composure to query why he was here and how they knew each other. Are they supporters of the Hunger Marchers?
“Elizabeth!” cried Roland. “Whatever are you doing in London?” Well, he should know that of course, the sun-ray treatment was his idea.
“Sun-ray treatment,” I gasped. “Not sure it’s – working”.
Rookfield produced from a pocket a large pewter flask. Wiping the mouth of it assiduously with a large chequered handkerchief, he offered it to me.
“Whiskey,” he said. “Put some fire back into ye.”
I took a sip and immediately felt warmed through and my quavering legs gained a little strength.
“Society’s nearby,” said Roland. “Maybe best to recover there?”
Rookfield nodded and taking me by the arm, led me further along the alley, which opened out onto a well-lit street heading into Fitzrovia. I realised they meant the Society of Esoterica. Of course, it was Roland who had recommended Mr. Forsyth to me!
I didn’t really think the Society buildings the best place to retreat to, and I mentioned about catching my train, but Roland took my bag and my other arm and the pair of them basically frog-marched me here, despite my protests, both insisting I was tired and shocked from my ordeal and must rest.
Once we arrived, Rookfield opening the door with a key, we went into a lounge, not the one I’d been in on my original visit, but a rather plush room with dark velvet drapery and an abundance of strange ornaments. We sat down and, though I was keen to get going, I took off my coat, for it was rather airless. Rookfield went to a fine wooden cabinet in the corner and took out some glasses and a decanter. Looking suspiciously at the level of fluid in the decanter he said, “I bet it was that damn blighter Clonlaw drunk this down and didn’t organise a refill.”
Clonlaw! I thought to myself, and it suddenly all came back to me how Mr. C. King had signed into the visitors’ book and how I had meant to ask Dr. Rookfield all about him.
“Clonlaw?” I said, and Rookfield continued, “Yes, he’s a lord in Ireland, owns a grand Waterford estate, managed to be unaffected by all the political turmoil of course, but I think his occult investigations may be taking a nasty turn. I’d steer well clear if it were me,” and he gave me a rather meaningful look, so I thought I should show my hand.
“My brother, George, is at Kilphaun Hall, which I believe to be nearby,” I said, “and I am due to travel to meet him and my – my” – you, Jon – “I must catch the mail train!” and I gathered my things about me and made to leave. But they would have none of it! Rookfield said I was still in shock and it was no time to go catching a long distance overnight train in my state. Roland offered to take me to the station the following day, though from the look Rookfield gave him I am not sure what is intended or what indeed they have going on together.
Roland lit a fire in the grate and Rookfield found a bottle further into the cabinet, so they insisted we relax and in time the room did become more cheerful and I was able to feel more at ease. I did realise how much of a shock I had been in, trying to get to the station amid all those horrible men, and failing. But I was nervous to enquire further about Clonlaw, so, once I had recovered my composure, I asked, somewhat timidly, “So how are you two gentlemen acquainted and are you supporting Workers’ Rights?”
I was pleased to see this took them both by surprise and they gave each other rather challenging looks. Rookfield spoke first. “Yes, Osborne, it was odd to bump into you there in that scrum just before I caught sight of Miss Sanderson. What had you been doing there?”
“Ah,” Roland demurred. “The -er - fact is I was actually looking for Elizabeth.” Addressing me, he continued, “Your Mother, Elizabeth, came to see me after receiving a telegram from you which upset her greatly, as she did not feel you were in a fit state to travel and make a sea crossing and some news from an aunt of yours in Ireland further added to her concerns. I mentioned that I had some business in Town and would try to meet you. I was on my way to the address in Bloomsbury that she gave me when I got embroiled in that protest. But Rookfield, it was pure chance to see you there.”
“I’ve always – ahem – supported the underdog,” said Rookfield. I could tell he was lying if he was trying to suggest he’d been part of the Hunger March. I could only think he too was coming to find me, and the pair of them, jointly or severally, were trying to stop me travelling to see you. Why?
“You haven’t,” I continued, “explained how you are acquainted, and why are we here? Are you both members of this society?”
Maybe this was too easy a topic, for they both appeared to relax. Rookfield started reminding me about his philosophical studies, which seem to have a significant occult bias, and then explained the Society had been founded over a hundred years ago by a group of natural philosophers, ones that were asking big questions about the origins and meanings of life and other existences, at a time when the other learned societies were becoming pigeonholed into disciplines; geology, astronomy, biology etc. Esoterica suited the more eccentric contingent. That popinjay, Sir Finian Dashwood, was one of the founders – he pointed to an overly ornate bust of a Georgian era man about town, now pushed into one of the shadowy corners of the room, long forgotten. And of course, he concluded, the Society building nowadays could be used very conveniently as a sort of London club, but without all the fuss and formality.
“The Society has some fascinating artefacts,” said Roland, before adding his own involvement originated through an interest in esoterica uncovered on archaeological digs and the spiritual interests of the ancients. “Have a look in that case over by the window”.
I was intrigued, and pleased of the excuse to get to my feet, so I had a look in the case. A bit like a museum display cabinet, it had a lot of crumbly old clay bits and bobs, poorly labelled. Only one caught my interest – a pendant, about the size of a biscuit, with an intricate detail that resembled a triskelion. I could barely decipher the label. It seemed to make no sense. “K-povos” I read, sceptically.
The two men looked at one another, but if Rookfield had been going to expand on the topic, he decided against it. Instead he asked Roland more about archaeology and the talk moved on to Roland’s interest in the Bronze Age mounds of the Wiltshire downs. I was anxious to deflect this train of conversation in case there was a suggestion that I should return there with him. Fortunately I remembered something else I had meant to ask Rookfield.
“Dr. Rookfield, my father’s archaeological papers, I gave some to you, didn’t I, the other day? You are planning to return them?”
Roland was very interested and before I knew it I had expanded on what I knew of Father’s adventures in Egypt and Greece, before Egyptology had become quite the fashion, and the papers and sketches he had brought back with him, which suggest an intriguing link with our house in Co. Waterford.
Dr Rookfield said, “I have sent them to the printers to make a copy. Perhaps tomorrow I can collect them and return them to you.” Looking at his watch he observed it was a quarter to midnight and time to settle down in the society’s rooms for the night, assuring me there was ample space and privacy for all.
So that is what happened, and it has calmed me down writing this to you. But now I am alone in the room I think I heard a lock turn in the door and muffled male voices in the corridor and I am overcome with renewed despair now I have looked at my train ticket and realised it will not be valid tomorrow. I wish you were here, Jon, and we could keep our own counsel.
With love,
Elizabeth
-----------------------------
'The Knife that Bites'
-----------------------------
Kilphaun Hall
Monday 1st December 1925
Dearest Elizabeth,
The hour is late here and I am sitting at my writing desk exhausted from my journey up and back from Dublin. Did you miss your sailing? I waited in the terminal for an age after the last passenger went past and still you did not materialise. I telegrammed Celia and got an alarmed response as she thought you safely on your way. I was so very much looking forward to seeing you again and holding you in my arms.
Instead I am too tired to sleep yet, so I’ll write you of the peculiar evening we spent at Clonlaw House and leave it out for the maid to send first thing. I am sure all is well and I will hear from you before you even receive this letter on Wednesday but I cannot not worry.
George, Aunt Edith, Mr Simmons, Alex and I travelled by crowded car to Clonlaw House two evenings ago. The roads were pitch-black, our headlights insufficient for the wet gloom that had descended as night fell. There was little chatter in the car, mainly because of the disapproval radiating from Aunt Edith. She dislikes Lord Clonlaw and also would have preferred to have left poor Alex behind as his behaviour was again erratic. I have noticed that he is mostly himself during the day but as the night draws in, he becomes increasingly distracted and has taken to long walks in the evening. Mr Simmons, who is back for a few days, has complained that someone has uprooted several of the new plantings that fill in the missing triskelion patterns in the garden. I said nothing at the time but I could not help but notice the mud on Alex’s shoes and trousers. The plan was for the historian to travel up with me to Dublin today but he is now staying on to supervise the excavations. Yes you read that right.
Clonlaw House was a blazing beacon in the night and inside the lights sparkled off the jewellery of the local great and good. It seemed we had been appended to quite a grand affair. There was a certain brittle jolliness to it though. Ireland may be at peace but there is also a sense of something coming to an end. We have seen this ourselves back in England where the great houses have been undone by death duties and a lack of staff due to the many war dead.
Well it was quite the evening though I did not mix as much as I would have liked. Alex needed watching and Mr Simmons kept button holing me to drone on about his damn plants. George meanwhile took maximum advantage of spending the evening in Lily’s company. I was happy for the two lovebirds but also thinking warmly of your imminent arrival. After dinner there was dancing, which I avoided and instead sat with Aunt Edith. I quickly regretted that choice as fortified by wine and port, she had recovered her good humour and began planning our wedding for us!
We were joined by Lily and George, flushed and laughing from the dance floor. Soon after, Lord Clonlaw also arrived into our little cabal. His dinner jacket just emphasised how pale and sickly he looked. He made some awkward small talk and I could not help but notice his disapproving glances at George and Lily’s easy familiarity, though he hid it well enough.
I remembered back to the first time I’d seen the man - on the steam packet to Wexford - and how I’d thought him spider-like. I think I was right, just not how I had intended. There is definitely something of the predator about Lord Clonlaw.
You know the way a memory can ambush you, seemingly rising out of nowhere and abruptly colouring one’s mood or perception of what is happening? This happened to me then. I had a vision of the man on that heaving vessel clutching a religious medallion and praying to it. It was in the shape of a crooked old man. Like the old man in my dream (if that is what it was) who killed Foley, like the imagery on the stained glass pyramid atop Kilphaun Hall.
Any good cheer that was in me slipped away and I found the rest of the evening drained of colour and joy. George brought up the mound first I think. Certainly he was keen to describe the stories Alex had told us but as a joke. Clonlaw looked as a man uncertain how to bring up a subject but eventually he declared that while George might jest, he himself had of late become quite interested in the mystical and in particular the ancient Celtic practices. I said dryly that I had not realised he was a fan of Yeats and his circle, which earned me a frown in turn. Alex wandered past at that moment and Clonlaw exclaimed, “Just the man I was looking for, along with of course you, George. I have a matter to discuss, a proposition if you like. Perhaps we three could retire to my study while Captain Ross entertains the ladies?”
I was pretty sure there was an insult meant in there somewhere but I was happy enough to keep Edith and Lily’s company over his. They had just departed and I had snaffled champagne for us off a passing waiter when Aunt Edith, who had been quiet in Clonlaw’s presence said, “That can’t be right.”
Lily asked her what wasn’t.
Aunt Edith said “Charles” - she always called Lord Clonlaw that - “was into that nonsense even as a young man. That’s how he knew Elizabeth’s father, Frederick.”
Well this was news to me and I suspect to you too. According to Edith, the two men both took up with some occult club when they were in college and became fast friends.
“Charles”, she said, “was always a sickly one and Frederick used to joke that he was seeking an elixir of youth. In the way that young people like to shock their elders, Charles would say in turn that he’d do a deal with the devil for such a thing. Well, he clearly never found a devil that would lower itself to talk to him.”
Edith remembered that his niece was sitting beside her.
“Oh pardon me my dear, I don’t really mean that.”
Frankly it looked like she very much did.
I asked how George did not know of his father’s friendship with Clonlaw.
“Oh they fell out years ago. Frederick claimed Charles had done him wrong in some business in Greece or somewhere. Just as well if you ask me. Frederick dropped this occult nonsense after that. Thank god the children’s mother is a devout Christian and kept George and Elizabeth away from such heathen notions.”
I wonder at that. Clonlaw is clearly very interested in what is in the mound but also did not know of it until Alex spilled the beans. It cannot be a coincidence that your father bought Kilphaun Hall. I can imagine him having kept up his interest but keeping it hidden from your mother and you, disguising it as his archaeology hobby, a grown up version of his youthful enthusiasms. The falling out must be real, as it sounds like there was no rapprochement between the two men before your father’s untimely death.
I wonder did he come to the conclusion that there was great treasure right on Clonlaw’s doorstep, that the later was ignorant of, and thought to steal a march on him by buying Kilphaun Hall, before the war for independence interrupted everything? And Clonlaw is most definitely interested in what is in the mound. I could tell him, that if my dreams are anything to go by, it will be nothing good.
George came back then and to our bemusement he had a neat bandage wrapped around his left hand. It turns out that Charles has persuaded George to allow him to fund a dig at the mound. Charles mind you, not Clonlaw. George of course has only an eye for how this will help get Clonlaw out of his way as regards Lily and he has agreed. He had the sense at least to insist Alex oversee the excavations.
It is very irregular. I’m sure one needs licences and such to carry out these things, not just decide you’re going to start digging next week. But then Lord Clonlaw is used to getting what he wants and it is in such a remote spot that if they are careful, it’ll never come to the attention of the authorities.
“But what about the bloody hand?” I asked impatiently.
“Ah yes, the hand. I was bitten by a dagger! Charles was showing me some of his artefacts. He has a whole cabinet of them under lock and key. He insisted I hold his prized possession, some sort of druidic ritual dagger nonsense that was found locally. Fellows probably used it for sacrificing virgins and what not, eh? Anyway this knife, nasty triangular blade on it and a hideous bone handle, I swear it suddenly twists in my hand and stabs me in the palm. I laughed it off as clumsiness from too much good Bordeaux but it gave me quite a turn I can tell you. Nearly decided to not go ahead with the dig but Charles was solicitousness itself and talked me round.”
And there we have it Elizabeth. Or nearly, for there is one more thing to tell you. For a while now I was fearful that I was slowly going mad here in this strange house. Now though I fear that I am the only sane one. The workers and the servants complain of malevolent spirits, people go missing, the gentry scheme over the remains of the ancient gods, and now not only Alex but your brother has started acting oddly. I was late up yesterday, sleeping off the unneeded whiskey we had on return from Clonlaw’s and went outside to a commotion in the garden. George of all people was shouting at the gardeners, red faced and pulling up plants they had newly put down. He was incoherent to be honest and only calmed down once I got him inside. Then, he seemed unsure of why he had got so angry.
Tonight when I got back from Dublin, Mrs Moore the housekeeper was waiting up for me. Apparently he has been acting peculiar all day and Lily who had called over for lunch left in tears. Mrs Moore is concerned for his well-being as was I the more she told me. I’ll aim to talk to Lily tomorrow and then George and try and get to the bottom of this.
Elizabeth, I hesitate to ask as I distrust their motives but whether it is in your father’s papers or the archives of the Esoteric Society, I think we need to know more on this old god Crom and possibly more importantly, the history of Kilphaun Hall and who built it.
In my previous letters I have accused the locals of being a superstitious lot, without I must admit much of any evidence to back it up. How ironic then, that it is I now who sees in everything the workings of a dark god returning.
I hope to have heard from you before you receive this. Otherwise I plan to travel to England to find you, Kilphaun Hall and all in it be damned.
Love
Jon