SAD NEWS

8/2/03

Alas, it is with a heavy heart that I make this entry. Prey God that her soul rests in peace!

The firemen and "paramedics" have just left; they were begrimed and tearful, but still cheerful - what manner of men are these! To see such suffering, and yet preserve the outer coating of manly dignity!

In the main, to lose a scullery maid is no great loss. They come and go. To have one caught in the portcullis ...

Words fail me.

R.I.P. my sweet.

FEAR OF HEIGHTS

9/2/03

To my very great shame, I have not yet conquered my fear of heights.

Gwyneth might still be alive had I had the courage to climb the ladder to the Murder Hole, and stay the portcullis.

I dread the inevitable inquiry ... and the inquest. I have had word that Inspector Digglesworth will call tomorrow; I have never found him to be a particularly affable creature, and I suspect him very strongly of having tipped off the RSPCA to our latest mole shoot. His brother, the Rev. Digglesworth, has held a very low opinion of me for some time. I foresee a difficult day ahead.

Gwyneth will be buried with quiet dignity, whether her family like it or not. A sealed casket was prepared some weeks ago, on the off-chance of a calamity such as this. It is heart-breaking indeed to think that two people will be laid to rest, but, I ask you, what life would her child have lived? It was always inconceivable that the fleeting friendship which formed between us over these past years could have blossomed into anything more than vile unpleasantness.

(I must be going mad to think that an unborn child deserves the title of "person". It is only when I am awake that thoughts such as these consume me !!)

So, I shall consider Gwyneth's burial to be a burial of one person, rather than two. I shall have an heir one day; I am convinced now that it is not beyond me.

I tried to climb the West Tower again tonight. My legs refused to carry me beyond the windows of the Hindu Room. The portcullis block and tackle creaked above, the ropes slack for the first time in a century.

People will say that it was I who loosed those ropes last night. That it was I who let fall the dreadful gate upon her head.

Let the present decry me as a murderer! I shall not falter. The future and past blood of the Karstein-Schmidts runs deep below this land, and shall run deep for many years to come.

Of that you may be assured!!

BLOODY BUT UNBOWED!!!

10/2/03

Our family have been stout defenders of the guardians of law and order in this land for centuries past. My ancestors have a proud record of service on the Bench, and in the House. We have never blanched at the thought of administering stout punishment to the unworthy, the unfortunate, and the unlucky.

The 4th Duke, Alfred (commonly known as "The Scourge of Persia"), while at that time generally lauded across the Western World for his cruelty, receives now little recognition for the great advances which he wrought in the fields of science, especially in the advancement of medical knowledge.

It was Alfred, at the 7th Council of York (circa 1278), who proposed the abolition of the torture of prisoners at the hands of the State. Unfortunately, it was felt among the other representatives that Alfred merely wished to secure for himself a monopoly upon the practice, and his proposal was rejected. Never one to be brushed aside, Alfred arranged that the 8th Council of York be convened here at Gedditon Hall; although some considerable distance from York, it was felt by the delegates that the hospitality for which our family has always been renowned could not lightly be gainsaid and, besides, they all felt rather bad about having to vote him down as they had. And so, they agreed to his proposal.

That any returned alive from the 8th Council is a matter to be wondered at, even today. It is said that Alfred considered his excommunication a small price to pay for the medical knowledge which he acquired during that brief period. His notes on the entire affair are preserved here, and his observations upon the transplant of organs from living subjects are vivid, and detailed. Needless to say, the Council of York did not sit again for some time.

I must confess that as I sat before Inspector Digglesworth today, Alfred's endeavours were to the fore in my mind.

What has become of the Policeman in England today? Not content with their former role as servant of the public, they appear to have begun to think of themselves as MASTER!

Thank God that I had by my side such an able man as Ringstead, LLB and Notary Public. My "no comments" shattered Digglesworth's pompous demeanour. No charges today!

As I slouch here this night, unable to sleep, I curse the beast which gave birth to a man such as D. I retain my passport yet, but shall not flee. Is not our motto "Always Right, Seldom Mounted"?

I raise a toast to you, Alfred, and wish you luck, wherever you might be.

[memo to self: join Masons]

THE HORROR!!!!!

11/2/03

I have seen IT!

Barely can I raise myy fnger to the deskk to type this note.

It was there when I climbed the Crook'd Stair to bed tonight. At first I thought it another patch of mould upon the wall. Then I saw those dread eyes, red-hot pokers burning into my soul!

THE MOLE OF WOE!!!

Dear Friends, I am temporarily undone. I shall attempt to continue later, DV.

THE MOLE OF WOE RETURNS

13/2/03

These past days I have spent in my chamber. Two days have passed as twenty.

Were it not for the unswerving ministrations of Francisca, and copious amounts of Doolittle's Semi-Quaff, I would not be here to write this entry.

Looking in the glass tonight, I felt I was looking at another person entirely; my face drawn and haggard, my eye bloodshot, and drooping. I fancied I saw the mark of Cain on my forehead but, reaching up, I found it to be no more than a knot of veins, entangled in the many furrows of my brow.

And in my reflection, I see IT. The dread Mole.

For these many centuries past, the Mole of Woe (may its fur fall out!) has been the harbinger of doom to the Karstein-Schmidts.

This odious Beast appeared to the 1st Duke, on the eve of the Battle of Ludlum, in 1271. Through a mist that was quickly rising upon the Cornish Coast, His Grace's vassals spied it, and mistook it for a stray watchdog. They let it pass through the lines, to the tent wherein slept my ancestor. It is written by Brother Phillipus, a scholar of that time, that the Duke's screams rent the heavens, and when his guards tore open the tent, they found him prostrate, his visage creased into such an expression of horror that even those battle-hardened warriors had never dreamed to see. Briefly brought back to sense by ministration of blood-letting and strong mead, His Grace could say nought but this:

"The Mole of Woe knows me and my kin. His gift is swift death."

Of the Mole, there was nothing to be seen.

The Duke was quite unable to join the fight that following day, and without his stout and barbaric leadership, all was swiftly lost. When his enemies entered the tent, they found him poised squatting above a horse bucket, his pantaloons around his ankles, and a dreadful grimace upon his face. He was quite dead.

The 2nd Duke, Horace, was a mere babe in arms when the Mole came calling. Close to midnight on a full moon night, the sentries heard a splash in the moat, and looking down, saw the poor child floating there, face downward in the weeds. A dark shape, the size of a large badger, was seen gliding across the surface towards the lawns. The guards discharged their weapons at the Beast but, though they swore under the most awful tortures that they had scored direct hits, the Beast did not falter in its course. It is said that the only reaction brokered by the stinging shots was a lazy wallow, and the glint of two murderous red eyes.

Alas, it has been the fate of every male scion of this House to encounter the Mole of Woe. Some meet it sooner than others; the end result is invariably fatal to the encumbent Duke.

And, three days ago, it was my turn!

When I saw the eyes burning in the gloom above the Crook'd Stair, my knees gave way. I dropped my candle, and the plate of plover's eggs which was to be my supper. I had seen enough in that brief instant to know what it was that crouched before me - that hunched body, grey, but seeming to flare with fire at the extremities, the huge, cruel claws quivering below those red coals ...

I felt that the wrath of heaven was then to be puked upon my shoulder, and waited, frozen, for my doom to descend.

My life flashed before me - no! this is more than mere cliché my friends! - I saw the late Duchess recoil as the round struck her nose then her brain, I saw Gwyneth wriggle briefly beneath the horrid weight of the portcullis, I saw the face of each and every vassal turfed out of our small-holdings. And I would have embraced death then ...

Francisca found me at dawn, quite prone upon the stair, half-eaten plover's eggs dotted all around me. God Bless her for her care and kind heart! She spoke to the loathsome Digglesworth, and told him to stay clear for a week or more. Apparently, he was suspicious, but stated he would "bide his time".

How much time shall I have to bide?

Without issue, I shall be the last Duke of Earl. All my relatives are dead many years.

I cannot blame poor dear Alice for her reluctance to yield to me. She made it very clear on our wedding night that there was to be no "beastly touching". I suspect that had we had children, she would more than likely have had them smothered in their cots.

As for Gwyneth ... it would never have been appropriate.

Will our proud heritage die with me? My looking-glass tells me that I am already a dead man.

Perhaps I have been so for years.

SALVATION???

14/2/03

Thank God for Francisca!

Her plan is so simple, yet shot through with genius. Only she could have thought of it.

All this day was spent in preparation - a visit to the Crypt, a quick call at the butchers, a letter to Digglesworth.....

I live yet, and the tables may still be turned.

Tomorrow night shall be the end of days, or the Genesis of Gedditon.

IT IS OVER.

16/2/03

I sit in Alice's bedchamber, and relate to her the story.

Were it not for Francisca, I am sure that all would have been lost. It was she who spotted the dread Mole's one weakness.

Finding me prone on the Crook'd Stair, her first thought was to see to my care. When she had me safely tucked up in my bed, she began to clear up the mess which had been left by my sudden collapse. She picked up the candle, and the plover's eggs, the remains of what would have been my supper; the latter objects she brought to me, knowing how fond I am of them.

"Eggs ... eggs!" I cried, "But who has nibbled them! I shan't eat nibbled eggs!"

Dear Francisca assumed that I was still in delirium, and putting the eggs aside, went to fetch some beef tea.

Later that morning, somewhat restored, I related to Francisca the terrible events of the previous night. Suddenly she became quite excited.

"Do you mean to say, Your Grace, that you had not touched the plover's eggs before the .... thing appeared?" she interjected.

"Well of course not, dear child", I responded, somewhat mystified.

Francisca's green eyes lit up.

"Then who has nibbled them, for it wasn't me!"

Many accounts exist of the circumstances surrounding the appearance of the Mole of Woe. Some are quite clearly not contemporaneous, and are unworthy of further mention. Most however, have the ring of truth about them, having being written by the deceased's closest vassals, often under extreme tortures.

Reviewing these accounts took me the better part of three hours. This exercise confirmed to me what I had all along suspected - there was no written evidence that the Mole consumed physical matter of any type.

But I knew better. None but the Mole could have feasted upon my supper. The servants had long before retired to bed, and there are no animals of any type within these walls. It was the Mole, and no doubt of it!

But to what end could this knowledge be used?

I turned to the Library's vast collection of works dealing with the Supernatural. I leafed through tome after tome; should I have wished to kill any number of vampires, werewolves, or mummies, then most assuredly I could have, many times over. Of the Mole of Woe, and suggested methods of dispatch, the books were strangely silent.

I would have to improvise.

I dispatched Francisca to Holcold's, the local butcher with whom I have a close relationship, with a very specific order.

I then made my way out to the grounds, and set off for the Crypt.

The Crypt is an eerie place at the best of times. Towering grey among the oak trees in the dying light of a cold and blustery February evening, it is not the spot for a picnic. But I had not come to eat, I had come to harvest.

All the Karstein-Schmidts rest there. Some occupy hefty stone edifices, some rest in niches in the dripping walls, some, alas, lie scattered higgledy-piggledy on the mossy floor. It is these latter inhabitants that are most likely to perturb the casual visitor - a torch's flame will pick out a femur here, a ribcage there, a shattered skull grinning by one's foot. Lost glories, abandoned souls ...

It took me some time to find what I was looking for. As I picked it up, the empty sockets seemed to glare balefully at me. I quickly deposited the item in my bag, and fled.

My letter to Inspector Digglesworth went out at around 8pm on that Friday night. A desperate gambit yes, but now I was a desperate man.

Francisca had returned from Holcolds some time earlier, and all was ready on the culinary front.

Before retiring, I took a walk to the door of the Keep, and looked around me. All was quiet, the lawns spread out in the gloom across the moat; the moon was full, and would remain so for at least one more night. All was ready.

11.30 p.m., Saturday the 15th. I sat on the topmost battlement of the Keep. I had not been to such a height since I was a small child, and I required a couple of tots of armagnac and the steady hand of Francisca to get up there at all. I kissed her upon the cheek, and sent her back to the stables. God Bless Her, she left me with tears in her eyes.

It was a cloudless night, and the view from my new eyrie was panoramic. In the moonlight, I could make out the line of oaks which marked the end of the North lawns. From the oaks to the moat, the lawns were absolutely flat and grey; they seemed to suck the eye in, and leave one dizzy. Or perhaps that was the armagnac.

I looked at my hands. They were calloused and trembling, after their hard day of work.

Six hours I had spent on developing the munitions which I hoped would send the Mole of Woe to a fiery fate. I had determined that I would shoot the thing - have I not shot moles all my life? The extermination of this Beast however, required a distinct alteration to my customary practices.

I had set aside my trusty Bravo 51 sniper rifle, and picked out something a little more ... robust. For this job, only the Steyr IWS 2000 would suffice.

I broke down a 15.2 mm shell, and into the top, I carefully inserted my own charge - fragments of the crushed skullbone of Peregrin, 1st Duke of Earl. I said a short prayer in his memory, and hoped that he wouldn't object too much. This was, after all, in the best of causes.

I prepared three more such shells; at the end, I was quite exhausted, my nerves tingling.

One more shell went into the clip. There would be no need to modify that one. I left what remained of old Peregrin in a kerchief on the worktop; if I should live through the night, then this brave warrior would not lose his head forever.

11.55 p.m. I put my eye to the IR sight, and swept across the lawns. Nothing moved. After a little while, I rested.

"A watched kettle ..." I muttered to myself.

A few more minutes passed, and I began to feel a certain amount of discomfort in my arse. The night was cold, and my bones are not what they once were. I stretched, then sighted again.

Gadzooks! There it was!

Just south of the treeline, a grey shape, the size of a large badger, was ambling towards Gedditon Hall. Did I tremble? Did I scream? No, I laughed inwardly, for Francisca had been right. Before the Beast, a line of tiny white objects stretched in a straight line to the edge of the moat, where was deposited a mound of the same. At each of the mysterious blobs, the Mole of Woe halted, and, when it moved on, the object was no more.

Plover's eggs. Holcold's best, hard-boiled that day by Francisca. Who could have guessed the Mole's secret passion? Soon, I prayed, they would prove to be its downfall.

Hours seemed to pass. The Mole was a slow eater, of that there can be no doubt. Despite the distinctly chilly nature of the night, a sweat had broken out upon my brow, and my eye, pressed to the sights, began to water. I blinked, and blinked, and still the Beast seemed no closer. With my present weapon, I could no doubt have picked it off at up to a kilometres distance, but I had to be sure. And so I waited, and waited.

As the loathsome thing came closer to the moat, and to its doom, the most extraordinary thing occurred. From out of the grass on all sides, appeared the snouts of hundreds of ordinary moles. They burst from the burrows, and scurried up to the Beast, thronging round it, as bridesmaids around a bride. They bowed and snuffled, and rubbed their claws together, producing a rustling noise of the type I imagine has not been heard on this Earth since the plague of locusts in ancient Egypt.

"Closer, my pet", I murmured into the stock, "Closer ..."

The Mole of Woe had now reached the pile of eggs at the edge of the moat. I blinked one more time, and re-sighted. Through the lens, the Beast assumed an enormous size, its eyes like red-hot bowling balls, its furry body a behemoth, its claws the scoop of a JCB. The other, corporeal, moles held back, standing upon their hind legs, and sniffing the air. They looked like nothing less than a field of grey wheat, swaying in the breeze.

I zeroed the cross-hairs and, as it reared up for an instant to swallow an egg, I squeezed the trigger.

My shot did not go awry, striking the Evil Thing right between the eyes, and exploding in a memorable and most satisfactory firework display. I fancied I saw the face of the 1st Duke, finally released from his awful last earthly grimace, smiling at me through the crimson mulch.

I shall not forget 'til my dying day the horrid and unearthly screams which then rent the air. It seemed that all the Banshees, Harpies and other foul things of the night had gathered together to chorus the Mole's last breath in this World.

When I cleared the powder from my face, and sighted again, the lawn was bare - nothing was to be seen, save a few half-nibbled plover's eggs.

I was free!

And so, Alice, that is the tale.

Inspector Digglesworth? Ah yes. Here is the letter he received that day:

"Dear Boss,

Should you wish to nab the Dukeyness for his awful crimes, be on the lawns before the moat at midnight, this night.

There will be more murder afoot, I promise 'ee that.

A Friend."

Trust D. to be late. I had hoped that he and the Mole would become very close acquaintances before I fired the shot, but that was not to be. He turned up at 12.24, and lollopped across the grass below my eyrie. I had just raised the rifle to finish the night's work, when the Beast's earthly companions re-surfaced. Obviously decidedly unhappy with the turn which the night's events had taken, they set upon Digglesworth. I shall not record here the events which transpired; suffice it say that even small claws can find purchase.

I walked the grass today, and not even a button remains.

And what of my future? Dear Alice, when I dispatched that Thing, I saw in its face, your dear face. That I (accidentally) dispatched you in a similar fashion will haunt me for the rest of my days.

I shall not remarry. I know that Francisca has, over the years, formed a very close attachment to me, and indeed, I have felt some warmth towards her. It would be unfair however, on both of us, were I to let emotions take the place of common sense. After all, were it not for the wonders of modern surgery, she would still be a sailor called Francis. She shall never be able to bear an heir to Gedditon.

I shall write today to a group of whom I have read many wondrous things. Perhaps these Raelians are the answer.

Goodnight, dear Alice. Goodnight ...