Dr Porthos and other stories Read online

  Dr Porthos and other stories

  Basil Copper

  (version 4,1)

  *****

  Contents

  Basil Copper: A short biography

  The Grey House (1967)

  Doctor Porthos (1968)

  The Knocker at the Portico (1971)

  The Flabby Men (1977)

  Shaft Number 247 (1980)

  When Greek Meets Greek (1997)

  There Lies the Danger... (2002)

  Ill Met by Daylight (2002)

  The Adventure of the Crawling Horror (1979)

  Basil Copper: A short biography

  Basil Copper (born 1924) is a prolific English writer and former journalist and newspaper editor. He became a fulltime writer in 1970. In addition to horror and detective fiction, Copper is perhaps best known for his series of Solar Pons stories continuing the character created as a tribute to Sherlock Holmes by August Derleth. Married, Copper is a longtime resident of Sevenoaks in Kent.

  Copper had his very first short story "The Curse" published when he was 14 years old; however his first professionally published short story was "The Spider" in the Fifth Pan Book of Horror Stories(1964). His first book was the Mike Faraday novel The Dark Mirror (1966).

  The first of Copper's stories published by editor August Derleth was "The House by the Tarn" in Dark Things (1971). Copper went on to have a long-lived relationship with Derleth's Arkham House, which published his collections From Evil's Pillow (1973) and And Afterward, the Dark (1977) and his novels Necropolis (1980) and The House of the Wolf. His work drew praise from Donald Wandrei who said of him:"He beguiles the mind as he lures the imagination beyond the outposts of reality." Copper's work was also championed by editor Peter Haining.

  Copper's best-known macabre tales include: "The Academy of Pain", "Amber Print", "The Recompensing of Albano Pizar", "The Candle in the Skull”, "Better Dead", the acclaimed Lovecraftian novella "Beyond the Reef", "Bright Blades Gleaming" and "Ill Met by Daylight".

  Copper is also noted for his Cthulhu Mythos story "Shaft Number 247" in New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (1980).

  Copper's novel The Great White Space (1975) features a character called Clark Ashton Scarsdale who appears to be an affectionate tribute to Clark Ashton Smith.

  Though his important work is in the domain of the macabre, he has also written the long-running novel series featuring hard-boiled Los Angeles private detective "Mike Faraday" (58 novels from 1966 to 1988).

  Copper's interests include swimming, gardening, travel, sailing and historic film material. One of England's leading film collectors, his private archive contained almost one thousand titles (at 1977). He founded the Tunbridge Wells Vintage Film Society and has often given talks at various film organisations in London. He has been a member of the British Film Society and the Vintage Film Circle of London.

  Copper's work has been translated into many languages, reprinted in leading anthologies and filmed for television by Universal Pictures.[3] The TV adaptation was of his well-known macabre story "Camera Obscura", filmed as an episode of Rod Serling's Night Gallery in 1971.

  His novels Necropolis (a crossover between a Victorian Gothic and a detective story) and The House of the Wolf (a novel of lycanthropy) were both illustrated by Stephen Fabian. Necropolis received a 1981 nomination for the Locus Award Best Fantasy novel category.

  Copper edited a 1982 two-volume omnibus collection of Derleth's stories of the 'Pontine' canon, published by Arkham House, a publishing firm founded by Derleth himself and chiefly publishing weird fiction (such as Cthulhu Mythos tales); in that edition, Copper "edited" most of the tales in ways that many Solar Pons aficionados found objectionable[citation needed]. A later omnibus, The Original Text Solar Pons Omnibus Edition, was issued in 2000 under the imprint of Mycroft & Moran (a name which is itself a Holmesian jest); Mycroft & Moran was long a subsidiary of Arkham House (but is no longer so).

  Copper has received many honours in recent years. In 1979, the Mark Twain Society of America elected him a Knight of Mark Twain for his outstanding "contribution to modern fiction", while the Praed Street Irregulars have twice honoured him for his work on the Solar Pons series. He has been a member of the Crime Writer's Association for over thirty years, serving as chairman in 1981/82 and on its committee for a total of seven years.

  In early 2008, a bio-bibliography was published on him: Basil Copper: A Life in Books, compiled and edited by Stephen Jones. The volume received the 2009 British Fantasy Award for Best Non-Fiction.

  In March 2010, Darkness, Mist and Shadow: The Collected Macabre Tales of Basil Copper was launched at the Brighton World Horror Convention as a two-volume set by PS Publishing.

  The Grey House

  I

  To Angele, standing in the sunlight of a late summer afternoon, The Grey House, as they came to call it, had an air of chill desolation that was at variance with the brightness and warmth of the day. It was uninhabited and had evidently been so for many years. But Philip was delighted with the place; he clapped his hands like a child of five and then strolled around, his arms folded, lost in silent admiration. He needs must have it and wouldn’t rest until he had rooted out the local agent and made an offer for the house.

  Philip, her husband, was a writer; apart from a series of successful detective stories which brought him the larger part of his income, he was the author of a number of striking tales of mystery and the macabre. The Grey House would give him inspiration, he chuckled: Angele, stifling her doubts, didn’t like to dampen her husband’s enthusiasm and trailed round behind him and the estate agent with growing dislike.

  They had spotted the place after a long day’s drive in the older parts of Burgundy. Then in early afternoon, they had stopped for a late lunch in the small medieval city which nestled among the blue haze of the surrounding mountains. The view was enchanting and after lunch they spent a pleasant hour on the ramparts, tracing out the path of a small river which wound its way foaming between great boulders and woods of dark pines.

  It was Philip who first sighted The Grey House. It was down a narrow lane and the path to it was long choked with nettles. It was the last house, separated from its neighbours by several hundreds of yards of rough cartway and trees, overgrown shrubbery and bushes. It was unquestionably a ruin. The place looked something like a barn or stable.

  It was largely constructed of great blocks of grey stone, which decided them on its name, with one round-capped turret hanging at an insane angle over the big front door, large as a church. There was a round tower at one side, immensely old and covered in lichen. The roof, of red crab tiles, sagged ominously and would obviously need a lot of repairs.

  The big old wooden door was locked but Philip led the way with enthusiasm, cutting a swathe through breast-high nettles for his wife. They followed the great frowning wall down the lane until the property obviously came to an end. The rest of the lane was an impenetrable mass of brambles. But Philip had seen enough. Through the trees below the bluff he could see the rusted iron railings of a balcony and there were even some outbuildings and what looked like an old water mill.

  “We could get this place for a song,” he told his wife gleefully. “It would want a lot of doing up of course, but the terrace would be ideal for my writing and what a view!”

  Against such enthusiasm Angele could find no valid argument so half an hour later found them back in the city square, at the office of M. Gasion, the principal of the main firm of estate agents in the area.

  M. Gasion, a short broad-shouldered man of cheerful aspect and obviously addicted to the grape was shattered at the prospect of such a sale. The property had been on his books for more than forty years, over twenty years before
he acquired the firm. Therefore, he was a little hazy about the antecedents of the estate. Yes, it would need a lot of doing up, he agreed; he did not think monsieur need worry about the price.

  It would not be heavy and as they would see, though it needed a great deal of renovation, it had possibilities, distinct possibilities. He positively purred with enthusiasm and Angele could not help smiling to herself. A purchaser like Philip would hardly happen more than once in a lifetime; no wonder M. Gasion was pleased.

  It was absurdly cheap, she had to agree. The asking price was £300, which included the main building and tower, the terrace, outbuildings and mill house, together with a short strip of orchard below the bluff on which the terrace was set. Nothing would do but that Philip must conclude the deal then and there. This called for a great deal of bustle and the notaire was sent for, while Angele, Philip and the agent went on a tour of the building. There was further delay while the key was hunted up but at last the small procession set off.

  The big door gave back with a creak after M. Gasion’s repeated applications and the first ray of sunshine for something like forty years found difficulty in penetrating the interior. The unusual activity round the old building had not passed notice among the local people who lived higher up the lane and Angele had seen the curious glances they cast towards her, though Philip, as usual, was too absorbed in talk with the agent to notice anything.

  Angele glanced over her shoulder as they went in the main door and was not surprised to see a small knot of gawping householders standing at the last bend in the lane in front of the house. Surprisingly, the house was wired for electricity but the main switchboard inside the door, fixed by great bolts directly into the ancient stone, was bare except for fragments of rusted wire and fittings covered with verdigris. The electricity had been cut off in the twenties, when the last tenants left, explained M. Gasion.

  He carried a powerful electric lantern, despite the brightness of the afternoon. The house had formerly belonged to the de Menevals, the great landed proprietors who had now died out. They had owned a chateau which formerly stood in a vast park on the mountain opposite. The building had burned down in a great fire and explosion over a hundred years earlier and now only the stones remained. The last de Meneval, Gaston, had died a violent death, said M. Gasion with relish. He was apparently a great one for the ladies and had kept The Grey House for entertaining his girl friends.

  “Une maison d’assignation,” he explained to Philip with a smile, man to man. Philip returned the smile with a grin and the trio went into the house. Angele could not repress a shudder at the interior and wondered what deeds the old house had seen. She and Philip had visited the ruins of the old chateau earlier the same afternoon; it was one of the sights of the district. The park was now kept as a public pleasaunce, and the guide had told the stories of blood and violence with distinct enthusiasm.

  But one did not need even that to picture dark scenes of lust centuries before, as they gazed at the ruined and distorted remains of the house, which even now bore traces of charring on ancient beams and on the undersides of blackened stones. She was disquieted to hear that The Grey House had belonged to the de Menevals too, and her own French ancestry - her mother had come from these very parts - with its heightened sensibilities, rang a little bell somewhere back in her brain.

  When the door swung open even the agent was not prepared for the long undisturbed foetor which met them; it was so strong that it seemed almost to darken the sunlight and they were forced to open the main door and remain outside for a few minutes before they could enter.

  “Faugh!” said M. Gasion, with unrestrained disgust, but even this did not seem to dampen Philip’s ardour.

  “Loads of atmosphere, eh?” he said, turning to Angele with a smile. After a minute they descended some broad stone steps. The smell was still strong but not so offensive and Angele had to admit that it was probably due to vegetable decay. To her surprise, the light of the agent’s torch, supplemented by small windows high up, disclosed a vast stone hall. There was a fireplace to one side in which an ox could have been roasted and the remains of an old gallery which had collapsed with age and woodworm.

  But the floor was covered with an indescribable medley of old rubbish. It was impossible to do more than look hurriedly around and be careful where one trod. Many of the massive roof beams would need replacing and Philip’s face became more thoughtful as the tour continued. The house would evidently need a great deal more renovation than he had bargained for. However, he brightened as they went through into the other rooms. The stones of the house were sound and would merely need replastering and painting. There were two more large reception rooms, though nothing on the scale of the old hall, which was partly subterranean; another room was used as a kitchen.

  On the top floor, under vast, sagging roof beams, through which the sky could be seen, was another huge room over the Great Hall below. This could be partitioned and would make a corridor with bathroom, and three large bedrooms, said Philip. Or he could make a study and leave one spare bedroom for guests. The open mass of the tower spread out from one end room of this large upper storey and Philip could find no place for that at the moment, in his ready-made scheme of things.

  They had saved the best for last; off the kitchen, whose door was finally forced with screaming protest, they came upon the glory of The Grey House. It was nothing more or less than a large tiled terrace, but it gave the place a cachet that finally clinched the deal in Philip’s mind, weighing the cost, as he was, against the utility and suitability of the house for his writing purposes.

  The rusty iron railings which enclosed the terrace, had evidently been of great elegance, and would no doubt be so again; Philip was already confiding to M. Gasion that he would have them painted pale blue. He could have his writing table comme ca and they could eat dinner under electric light at night sur le balcon. Even the agent was momentarily impressed by his enthusiasm.

  For the view was magnificent; that could not be gainsaid. Below the balcony, the terrain dropped sheer for forty feet or so over a stone outcrop, to the small strip of orchard which was part of the purchase. A thick belt of leafy trees blotted out the immediate view, but above them were wooded hills and valleys, with the stream trickling between until the eye was arrested by the mountain opposite surmounted by the ruins of the old chateau. Angele was surprised to see how the white of the stones stood out against the dark blue haze, even at that distance. Just below and to the left was the small stone building of the old water mill, through which the stream meandered beyond the orchard.

  When they tore themselves away from the unearthly beauties of that sylvan view, dusk was already falling and the tinkle of the water in the mill house had assumed a melancholy that it had lacked in the sunlight of the earlier afternoon. A thin mist was already rising above the belt of dark trees which abutted the orchard. Angele pointed this out to Philip as perhaps being undesirable, unhealthy.

  “Oh, no,” said Philip with a short laugh. “Bound to get a mist with water at this time of the year, especially after the heat of the day. We’re too high up for it to affect us in any case.” But nevertheless, even as he spoke, the mist, white and clammy, almost like thick smoke, drifted up over the trees and already the farthest trees were wavering in its tendrils.

  No more was said; the party went back indoors, led by M. Gasion’s enormous torch and once outside, the door was firmly locked and secured by double padlocks. The trio were silent on the way back to the town and after a little reflection, M. Gasion spoke to Angele. Philip had gone to get something from the car and they were alone for a moment in the office.

  “You do not like the house, madame?”

  Angele was non-committal. She did not want to spoil Philip’s evident delight in the property, but at the same time she had many reservations of her own about the dark, silent grey pile above the water mill, which sounded so eerily in the dusk. Instead, she stammered some words about the property being so derelict and the
enormous expense she was afraid her husband would be put to.

  The agent’s face cleared as though it had been sponged. If that was all that was worrying madame, he was prepared to lower the price.

  Quite frankly, he had been rather taken aback by the degree of decay; he would be quite happy to take the equivalent of £250 to effect a quick sale. Philip had just returned from the car at this moment and was delighted with the news; so Angele had unwittingly been the means of sealing the bargain.

  The notaire also; a lean, vulpine man named Morceau had just arrived, cross at being disturbed at his favourite cafe. Introductions were made, M. Gasion produced a bottle and some glasses and over much agreeable smacking of lips and handing round of delectable little biscuits, the details of the sale were worked out.

  An hour later Philip and Angele left the office, potential owners of The Grey House. They were to stay at a hotel in the city for a few days until the legal niceties had been gone into; that would take time, but there was nothing to stop monsieur from having the property surveyed or putting work in hand, for the remainder of the proceedings were a formality. So Philip signed a paper, handed over a cheque, wired his literary agent in London that he was staying on and would write, and worked himself into an agreeable enthusiasm over the possibilities of The Grey House.

  It was decided between him and Angele that they would return to London for a couple of weeks, to wind up their immediate affairs and then return to Burgundy for the autumn. They would occupy themselves during that time by working on the house, assisted by local labour and then decide, with the assistance of a local architect, just what major repairs and alterations would be necessary. They would go back to London in November and keep in touch with the work through the architect. Then they intended to return to The Grey House in the spring to supervise the final stages and arrange for a house-warming.