Titus Gore and the Peacock Mask

Well, I was stumbling about, trying to find the crystal lens mentioned in the Case of the Phantom Horse, when I tripped over one of the footstools in the lumber room. It skittered across the floor at a rate of knots, while I sat up rubbing my head and elbow (the corners on that old sewing box are inconveniently hard . . . ). The footstool burst its stuffing and one of the feet came a little loose. I finally staggered over to pick it up – and the foot fell to the floor, thus adding a bruised foot to the list of injuries. The stuffing proved more interesting however : some absent-minded relative had used old, soft paper as interfacing for the cover – and had not, I believe, realised there was a manuscript tucked in between the sheets. I am confused though; if this story is not part of Great Uncle Sebastian’s treasure hunt, I had better not look for clues in it – but what if it is . . . .? Anyway, this all happened on Hallowe’en Eve, so it seemed apposite to add it . . . albeit a couple of days late . . .

The Peacock Mask

Who was she ?

The colours were . . . iridescent. Flowing in greens and purples, she glided and fluttered about the crowd, tall, elegant, a silver collar about her neck, the whole shimmering ensemble topped by a magnificent peacock mask, plumage of healthy tail feathers each sporting a splendid deep blue eye.

Everyone (or nearly everyone) who was anyone had elected to come in maschera – no fewer than fifteen dominos could be counted, followed closely by a dozen or so Laughing Cavaliers, several Medusas, one or two Anne Boleyns, escorted by their merry Henries.

Titus Gore had not condescended to dress up; considering it something of a vulgar occupation (when not related to detective work); besides which, he feared his cravat would have got crushed in the process. He had already made a grand concession in choosing the purple number embroidered with skulls in silver thread.

‘Mr Gore!’ purred Madame Houpelande, swathed in turban and silks and hardly trying at all to escape from a seraglio, ‘I swear you haff not touched a drop since you arrived, nor iffen attempted a round of cardz! Wot shall we do wiv you ?’

‘I am quite provided for, Madame Houpelande,; indeed, there is quite enough to keep me absorbed only by looking – for example, the lady over there –’ and he attempted to point out the wonderful creature in the Peacock Mask. But somehow she was just out of sight, or perhaps there were too many people – either way, Madame H quite failed to make her out.

Minutes later, a gentle applause came from the gaming table – young Count Adelhof had made a grand win. One of the other players staggered away; ruined.

‘Ah, that will be Lord Halesbury,’ murmured Madame H. ‘I had better zend zomeone to look ofter him, So many of these young men carry meanz of self-diztruction about their personne . . .’

It was to her credit, that, for she made sure the ruined man was accompanied by various people as far even as his front door well after midnight, much the worse for drink.

There, her duties as hostess surely ended; and sadly, although inevitably, they were not enough: three days later word came through that the man had indeed blown his brains out after  all.

Local society in the small Mediterranean resort was turned on its head by the news. Amidst all the furore, only Titus Gore recalled the emerald green figure with the Peacock Mask. He had observed her hover behind the hapless Halesbury but minutes before he had lost his fortune; he had seen her drift out to the terrace – and on following, was only in time to see her melt into the dark.

His suspicions were on the alert – but there was little to be done in this situation save leave the place for his cabin booked aboard the Maritanius.

There was a party held shortly after his return to London at Lady Cholmondeley’s; music, dance, chatter – and cards. A table was set up – admittedly, the stakes were a trifle lower, but still enough to cause acute private embarrassment to a few of the guests were they to lose. This however only added to the piquancy of the evening’s entertainment, and before long, the table was busy. The music flowed, couples danced in the ballroom.

Everything was at the height of gaiety, when suddenly . . . there she was again . . . gliding, brilliant, emerald gown sweeping, bright blue peacock feathers with staring purple eyes ringed in gold . . . stepping between the milling guests . . . seemingly aimless in her weaving walk . . . yet nobody save Titus appeared to observe or even see her.

Titus whipped out a small multi-coloured lens and peered at her through it. The immediate image of a carrion bird surrounded by sulphur alerted him to the possibility that not all was quite as it should be.

This time, he did not stop to ask anyone who she was; he followed her with his eyes – she was moving in discreet but determined purpose in the direction of . . . the gaming table.

Titus narrowed his eyes, set his shoulders, patted his cravat and  . . . leapt.

Tables, footmen, trays with drinks, trays with food, baronets, a dowager or two – all were sent flying as Titus hurled himself in the direction of the gamers and  . . . the Peacock. She had stepped behind a young baronet, one Geoffrey Tewsbury, just as he was about to play his hand.

Titus attempted to pull her away, but his hands met only air, and he bumped instead into the back of Tewsbury,

‘I say!’ was the general response, and ‘Fellow’s drunk! Damn him, what’s he been drinking ? I’ll have some of that !’

Stopping briefly with the merest of apologies, Titus dived over to the French windows where he could still catch a glimpse of the Peacock’s dress floating out - but by the time he got there, all he found was a frail, greyish peacock feather, lying on the terrace. He pulled a handkerchief out and wrapped the item up carefully before placing it in his pocket.

‘Well!’ declared  Lady C, as she absently picked up a rose from a broken vase on the floor, ‘that was fun.’

There was only a minor interruption to the game in question – but enough to give young Tewsbury time to think twice before showing his hand.

‘I say!’ he said afterwards to Titus in private, ‘lucky you kicked up such a fuss: I was in quite a daze; kept hearing this voice telling me to play them, play the cards. But then once you crashed into us, I was able to think clearly and held on to them. Just as well, or I would have lost the lot! Dashed bad show that would have been. Might have topped meself . . .’

Later, in the comfort and quiet of his own study at home, Titus sat frowning at a black mirror wreathed in mist. Steam issued from a nearby kettle, which in turn was sitting over a spirit stove. There was a gentle whirring sound: a hamster running its wheel. Not usually cause for comment in most respectable houses : only in this particular instance, the wheel happened to be connected to a bicycle pump and a mahogany box.

 A face finally appeared on the mirror; not a reflection:  nondescript, longish and oval. Another mask, of sorts.

‘There you are,’ said Titus, a trifle impatiently.

‘I am here. I was sleeping,’ replied the face in the mirror, tonelessly. ‘What is it ?’

‘You sleep ? Oh well, never mind that now – what do you  make of this ?’ And he held up the greyish peacock’s feather he had found at Lady C’s.

There was a silence, followed by an audible gasp from the mirror.

‘Where did you find this ?’ came the reply finally.

‘At a party. Does it matter where ?’

‘Destroy it. Destroy it, or she will return.’

‘But who is she ?’

‘Ask me not,’ and with that the face vanished, to return briefly a few seconds later.’But make sure you destroy it,’ it said again, and this time disappeared completely. Nothing he could do brought the phantom face back.

The fireplace had been flickering dully all evening. Titus stepped over to it, stoked up the embers and when the flames began to flicker, threw the feather into it.

A massive flame lashed out, seemingly at him – he lurched back, toppled over the bric-à-brac table, and next was lying full length on the floor. The flame rose out and into the room, taking on menacing proportions, yet curiously contained – indeed, not so much a flame as a flaming figure, serpentine, narrow, with a face – great heavens above, a face that darted at him out of the flame, jaws wide open, eyes like those of a peacock’s feather . . .

There was a sudden hiss, and the fire all but went out. Titus Gore peered up through half closed eyes.

Mrs Slatter stood over him with a now empty jug.

‘I suppose there is an explanation for the muddy boots in the hall ? And the soot coming out of the chimney ? The local bobby came to inform me. So I gathered there was something amiss up here. Another time you might think twice before igniting unknown combustibles.’ She bustled off.

There was a perfectly horrid smell of brimstone about the house for several days later, which Mrs Slattern complained about at length.

As for Titus Gore, he now rarely attends parties without quickly checking the whole room through his multi-coloured lens to assure himself that the Peacock Lady has not, after all, returned.