'Yes, I promise,' he said gravely.
At that she began to walk towards the door, but on reaching it she turned and said, `I shan't be seeing you again. I'm going away. But that's in the letter, so you mustn't tell my father. I'm frightened of him. But you need not be, because you have great courage. You will get away, too. My occult sense tells me that. I shan't go far at first, so I’ll be thinking of you and trying to help you. When you get back to England give my.,. my love to your beautiful lady. She, too, was kind to me.'
When Khurrem had gone Gregory sat on the edge of his bed thinking for a long time about her. Knowing how tragic her life had been, he felt that she was more sinned against than sinning, so was deeply sorry for her. By her decision to break away from her evil father she had shown more guts than Gregory would have expected, and he found himself smiling wryly at the fury Malacou would be in next morning when he learned that she had left him.
In consequence, he felt no surprise when the Satanist roused him from sleep by again bursting in on him early on New Year's Day. Malacou's face was haggard and his eyes wild. He seemed utterly distraught as he stood for a moment staring down at Gregory. Suddenly he gave a wailing cry, then gasped:
`Woe is me! Woe is me! My Master has betrayed me. Khurrem is dead! Khurrem is dead!'
Pulling himself up in bed, Gregory cried, `Good God! I knew she intended to leave you but not… not that way.'
`She asked for death,' Malacou wailed. `She has taken her own life. Immediately I woke I knew that something terrible had happened. I hurried over to the Manor. And there she was. Dead! Dead with an empty bottle of sleeping tablets still clutched in her hand. Oh, woe is me! Woe is me! I am undone and desolated. I loved her beyond bearing and she is now gone from me.'
Gregory had put Khurrem's letter beneath his pillow. Fishing it out, he opened it and read the spiky handwriting, which ran:
I can stand no more, so I have decided to take my life. My regret at Herman Hauff`'s death plays no part in this. I did not love him, but as his wife might again have found some peace of mind. I did not hate my father for what he did to me when I was sixteen and the guilt for allowing him to continue as my lover was as much mine as his. But more recently he has used my body for his abominable rites. The thought of what may result from this haunts me with terror. His caresses have become loathsome to me, and for having forced me to become a hand-maiden of evil I can never forgive him. To his other sins must be added his driving me to put an end to my earthly being. May he meet with his deserts in the Hell that he deserves and may the Lord God of Israel have mercy on my wretched spirit.
Khurrem von Altern
Having read this terrible missive, Gregory said gravely, 'Khurrem left this with me yesterday afternoon. She told me to read it this morning, then give it to you.'
Malacou took the letter and his thick red lips moved slowly as he read it through. When he had taken in its contents he let it flutter to the floor. Then falling on his knees he began to moan and bang his forehead on the ground.
Suddenly Gregory felt impelled to look away from him towards the door.- His eyes dilated, for he could have sworn that for a moment Khurrem was standing there. She was - pointing at her father and her soundless words rang through Gregory's brain like a trumpet call.
`Now! Now! His mind is distraught. He cannot resist you. Now is your chance to defeat him.'
Instantly he seized his crutch, slipped out of bed and stood over Malacou. Still on his knees, wringing his hands and tearing at his hair, the Satanist wailed, `I have lost her! I am accursed! Oh, woe is me! What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do
'I will tell you,' Gregory shouted at him.
Ceasing his cries, Malacou stared up at the figure towering over him.
`You will go downstairs and fetch that drawing of the Sephirotic Tree,' Gregory said firmly.
`You… you have thought of some way to help me,' Malacou stammered. `Yes, yes; the stars have declared you to be my friend and guardian.' Staggering to his feet, he lurched out of the room. Two minutes later he came running back, clutching the ancient parchment.
`Now,' Gregory commanded, `tear it up.'
Malacou's eyes filled with amazement, then they flickered. He shuddered, his hands trembled and from his mouth saliva ran down his chin. `No!' he panted. 'No! I cannot. It is a sacred document.'
`You must,' Gregory cried harshly. `You must! Only by recanting from evil can you hope to escape the curse that Khurrem has put upon you.'
For a long moment the eyes of both of them remained locked in silent battle. Gregory was praying frantically, `O Lord, help me to overcome him! Dear Lord, help me to overcome him!' Suddenly his body responded to a divine command. Placing the foot of his injured leg firmly on the ground, he threw away his crutch.
He did not fall or even need to ease the weight his foot had taken, but remained drawn to his full height glowering at Malacou. At the sight of his action the Satanist wilted. His eyes fell and with shaking hands he tore the parchment from top to bottom.
That evening, the 1st of January 1944, Gregory left Sassen. On the 25th of the month he landed safely in England.
+
II
The Great Strategic Blunder
Five hours after Gregory landed in England he was sitting in the lofty book lined room that had been the scene of the beginnings and ends of all his secret missions. It looked out from the back of Canton House Terrace to the Admiralty, the Foreign Office and the other massive buildings in which throbbed the heart of Britain’s war machine. The fact that it was raining did not depress him in the least.
Beside him on a small table were the remains of a pile of foie gras sandwiches off which he had been making a second breakfast, and nearby stood an ice-bucket in which reposed a magnum of his favourite Louis Roederer 1928. From it his silver tankard was being filled for the second time by his old friend and patron, Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust.
Sir Pellinore was well over seventy, but the only indication of his age was the snowy whiteness of his hair, his bushy eyebrows and luxuriant moustache. His startlingly vivid blue eyes were as bright as ever, he stood six feet four in his socks and, as a person, was one of those remarkable products that seem peculiar to Britain.
In his youth he had been a subaltern in a crack cavalry regiment and during the Boer War he had won a well-deserved V.C. A few years later his ill-luck at some of the little' baccarat parties given by friends of his for king Edward VII, and his generosity towards certain ladies of the Gaiety chorus, made it necessary for him to leave the Army and he had accepted a seat on the Board of a small merchant bank.
His acquaintances thought of him as a handsome fellow, with an eye for a horse or a pretty woman and an infinite capacity for vintage port, but with very little brain-an illusion which he still did his utmost to maintain-so the directorship had been offered him solely on account of his social connections. To the surprise of those concerned he had taken to business like a duck to water.
Other directorships had followed. By 1914 he was already a power in the City. After the war he had refused a peerage on the grounds that there had been a Gwaine-Cust at Gwaine Meads for so many centuries that if he changed his name his tenants would think he had sold the place. Foresight had enabled him to bring his companies through the slump of the thirties and he emerged from it immensely rich.