Love Strikes a Devil Read online

  Author’s Note

  In the second half of the nineteenth century in France there was a boom in the publishing of books on magic.

  Church authorities were worried by a vogue for the supernatural at a time when anticlericalism was widespread throughout the country.

  One consequence of this craze for the occult was that Paris acquired a sinister reputation as a centre for Black Magic.

  Many literary young men were talking about magic, but after a while something even more horrifying came into being, which was Satanism.

  One of the best-known literary personalities was Marquis Stanislas de Guaita, the poet, who became obsessed with magic after reading the books by Eliphas Levi and founded the Kabbalistic Order of the Rose Cross.

  Guaita eventually undermined his health and his reason with prolonged nightly vigils as he surrounded himself with old spell books, magic manuscripts and occult apparatus.

  Both he and a poet called Dubus took drugs.

  Dubus, as I describe in this book, had hallucinations and died half-mad in a Paris convenience after injecting himself with an overdose of morphine.

  Catholic hostility to Satanism became joined with their dislike of Freemasonry. In an encyclical by Pope Pius IX in 1873 it was stated that Freemasons were working on Satan’s behalf throughout the world.

  There is no doubt that the Belle Époque, as the period was called, was deeply affected and smeared by the rise of Black Magic.

  When the controversy over the scandal of the Dreyfus affair exploded in 1898, there were widespread fears that sinister attempts were being made in secret to destroy the social order of the nation and even its civilisation.

  Chapter One ~ 1893

  Vincent Mawde thought with a sigh of relief that he had at last found a place where he could stop for the night.

  He dismounted and took his horse under a tree.

  The animal was too tired to have gone any further. Nevertheless he hobbled his legs so that he should not escape before morning.

  Then he looked for a sandy place where he could sleep without, as he had endured last night, feeling a number of sharp stones under his blanket.

  He had a tent, if that was the right word for it.

  It covered him while he slept and protected him from being bitten by the mosquitoes and other insects to be found in that part of India.

  He was tired, desperately tired.

  Yet he looked forward to eating first the meagre fare he had brought with him and having a drink.

  This he did and then, taking the two bottles of Indian beer that were left, he walked to the other side of the trees and set them down in a small stream, which would keep them cool until the morning.

  When he returned, the sun was sinking down towards the horizon.

  It would not be long before it was dark. But there would be the moon and stars to alleviate the darkness.

  He erected his tent and put inside it a thick blanket for him to sleep on.

  He certainly would need nothing over him.

  He had already pulled off most of the light clothes he was wearing which were those of a low caste Indian traveller.

  He was in disguise and it was seldom when he travelled that he was himself.

  At least now he was on his way back to civilisation.

  By the Mercy of God, having completed the mission that he had been sent on, he was still alive.

  He was just about to crawl into his tent when he heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs approaching him.

  He was instantly alert, afraid that it might be yet another enemy.

  He had already escaped from quite a number.

  Then, as the man drew nearer, he could see the uniform coat that he was wearing.

  Vincent gave a shout of delight. Holding up his hand in welcome, he stood waiting until the young Officer reached him and dismounted.

  “Vincent! Is it really you?” the newcomer asked. “I had almost given up hope of finding you.”

  “I certainly had no idea of seeing you here, Nicolas,” Vincent Mawde replied. “But why are you searching for me?”

  “I have such a lot to tell you,” Nicolas Giles said. “Where can I leave my horse?”

  “Where I have put mine,” Vincent replied, “under the trees.”

  Without saying any more, Nicolas Giles led his horse towards the trees.

  Vincent Mawde looked after him with a puzzled expression on his face.

  What possible reason could there be for his fellow Officer to have come in search of him in what he thought of as the ‘back of beyond’?

  In less than a week he would have been back in his Barracks.

  It seemed extraordinary.

  However, after being alone for so long, it was extremely good to see a friendly face.

  Fewer than five minutes passed before Nicolas came striding back from the trees, pulling off his uniform coat as he did so.

  Vincent had pitched his tent below some rocks that had once been the ruin of a Hindu Temple.

  They afforded him both protection from the sun and somewhere to rest his back.

  He was sitting now with his feet stuck out in front of him.

  His face, like his body, was darkened and it would have been difficult even for his nearest relatives to recognise him as a fair-skinned Englishman.

  Nicolas joined him and, throwing his coat down on the ground, said,

  “I cannot tell you how glad I am to have found you. All I can say about this country is that it is too big and too hot!”

  Vincent laughed.

  “I agree with you. At the same time I would not be anywhere else.”

  “I am afraid that is where you will still have to be,” Nicolas replied.

  Vincent looked at him in surprise.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was told by the Viceroy to come and find you.”

  “The Viceroy?” Vincent repeated. “What the hell does he want now?”

  Nicolas held out a newspaper.

  “First of all, Vincent, he sent you this.”

  Vincent took the newspaper from him and saw that it was open at the Court Circular pages.

  “It’s bad news, I am afraid,” Nicolas added.

  Vincent glanced down the page and saw that one entry had been underlined.

  He read,

  “DEATH OF THE FOURTH MARQUIS OF MAWDELYN

  We deeply regret to report the sudden death of the Marquis of Mawdelyn, the Lord Lieutenant of Berkshire,

  The Marquis had been in ill health for only a few weeks before he died last Thursday.

  The Head of one of the oldest and most respected Families in England, he will be deeply missed both in this country and in his traditional position at the Court of Queen Victoria – ”

  There followed a long description of the many positions that the late Marquis had held with distinction and the large number of decorations that he had been awarded.

  The last paragraph read,

  “The Marquis never married, and his heir is Captain Vincent Mawde, who is at present serving abroad with his Regiment in India. Captain Mawde is the son of the late Lord Richard Mawde, a younger brother of the Marquis.

  The funeral will take place on Saturday at Mawdelyn Priory.”

  Vincent read the entry to the end.

  Then he put down the newspaper with a sigh and Nicolas said,

  “I am sorry, Vincent, and it means, of course, that we shall lose you.”

  “Then I suppose I shall have to go home,” Vincent agreed.

  “That is what the Viceroy said,” Nicolas replied, “and he also thought that you should do so at once without returning to Barracks.”

  Vincent raised his eyebrows.

  “Why did he say th
at?”

  There was a short pause before Nicolas replied,

  “That is another thing I have to tell you. You have an enemy.”

  “I am aware of that,” Vincent answered.

  “I don’t mean the enemies you have just been coping with. There is nothing unusual about them.”

  “Then what do you mean?” Vincent asked in bewilderment.

  “When you left,” Nicolas said, “and you will remember that it was in the middle of the night, Jeffrey Wood came to hear about it at once through his batman.”

  Vincent knew Jeffrey Wood well. He was a brother Officer in the Regiment for whom he had no particular liking.

  Major Wood resented that he received special treatment because of his involvement in what was secretly referred to as The Great Game.

  Vincent would disappear from his normal Regimental duties for long stretches at a time and no one asked questions as to where he was.

  There was, of course, no particular date known of when he was likely to reappear.

  He was sent on special missions by the Viceroy and the High Command of the Army and most of his brother Officers accepted this as a matter of course.

  However, Major Jeffrey Wood was jealous that Vincent should be in such personal touch with the Powers that be.

  His sarcastic remarks about favouritism irritated Vincent, although most of the time he paid no attention to what he thought was a childish attitude on the part of a man who was older than he was.

  Now he asked,

  “What has the ‘Galloping Major’ been up to?”

  “When you left in the middle of the night,” Nicolas told him, “nobody but me saw you go.”

  “I remember that.” Vincent nodded. “And it was all hush hush as usual.”

  “Well, Jeffrey became aware that your room was empty,” Nicolas continued, “and before it was daylight he had moved in just in case somebody else staked a claim on it!”

  Vincent laughed.

  “That sounds very like the Major’s tactics and I hope he was comfortable.”

  “He was murdered!” Nicolas said quietly. “Sometime between the moment he climbed into your bed and when his batman called him in the morning.”

  “Murdered?” Vincent exclaimed. “I don’t believe it!”

  “It is true,” Nicolas answered. “The man who did it was caught.”

  “Who was he?”

  “An Indian of no particular interest and when they persuaded him, somewhat roughly, into telling the truth he said that he had received his orders from England.”

  Vincent stared at his friend.

  “I don’t believe you!” he said. “Who in England could possibly want me killed?”

  “Apparently they paid him well for he had quite a great deal of money on him,” Nicolas replied.

  “It must have been the usual Russian stirring up trouble amongst the tribesmen.”

  “The Viceroy and apparently also the Commander-in-Chief think differently,” Nicolas said, “and they have advised you to go home since you are now the Marquis of Mawdelyn, but also to go secretly and on no account to return to Barracks.”

  “But you have the man who killed Jeffrey in custody.”

  “The Viceroy thinks he is not the only one who has been given instructions to get rid of you. You remember that incident in the bazaar two months ago?”

  Vincent frowned.

  Of course he remembered it.

  He had been walking back through the bazaar after a secret meeting with a man who had given him some very valuable information.

  Because there had been no reason to visit the man in disguise, he was actually wearing his uniform.

  He had appeared to be shopping as many soldiers did when they were off duty.

  The conference, however, had taken longer than he had anticipated.

  It was now getting dark and the shops were lighting up their wares with small oil lamps or candles.

  There were the dark shadows off the streets that in India could always be sinister and were best avoided.

  Vincent was pushing his way through a crowd of men and women, goats, dogs, donkeys and the occasional sacred cow.

  At the time there were quite a number of soldiers in the vicinity.

  One officer whose name he did not know moved up to him in the crowd to say,

  “You are Mawde, aren’t you? I wanted to ask you – ”

  As he spoke, Vincent saw a stallholder beckon to him and he thought he was telling him that he had ready the present he had ordered for one of his friends in England.

  “Just a moment,” he said to the young Officer beside him, “I want to speak to that fellow.”

  He pushed his way through a crowd of children to the stallholder.

  He learnt that his guess was right and the present had just arrived and the man said that he would send it to the Barracks the following morning.

  “Thank you, Ali,” Vincent said to him. “I am very grateful to you. I will have the money ready when the parcel reaches me.”

  He turned round to return to where the young Officer was waiting for him.

  He saw to his surprise that while he had been talking to Ali a crowd had gathered.

  The Officer was lying on the ground.

  He had been stabbed from behind with a long, thin stiletto-like knife and was dead before they could get him to a doctor.

  There was absolutely no reason that anyone could ascertain why a young man who had only recently come out from England should have been murdered.

  At the time his Commanding Officer had said to Vincent when they were alone,

  “I have a suspicion, Mawde, that, as he was stabbed in the back and you were both in uniform, that knife was meant for you!”

  Vincent at the time had thought it was likely.

  After so many secret missions there were naturally some people who were suspicious.

  They did not say so, but they suspected that he was not the ordinary British Officer that he pretended to be.

  However, as nothing further happened, Vincent had put the incident out of his mind until now.

  “There is no doubt at all,” Nicolas was saying, “that Jeffrey Wood died because he was in your bed. That is why, Vincent, you must leave India as quickly as possible.”

  “I cannot understand it, Nicolas,” Vincent remarked. “I can assure you that I have never imagined having an enemy in England who dislikes me enough to commit murder.”

  “Two,” Nicolas pointed out quietly.

  “The whole thing is absurd!” Vincent exclaimed. “But, of course, I shall do what I am told. I suppose somebody will be kind enough to pack up my belongings and send them home to me?”

  “I am sure that will be seen to,” Nicolas replied.

  “It all sounds very strange,” Vincent murmured. “We expected to be in danger out here, but it is a very different thing when it happens at home.”

  “I agree with you,” Nicolas said, “and I expect there is an explanation, if we only knew the truth. But apparently the madman, who will, of course, be hanged, is quite convincing.”

  “Perhaps he thought that it was one way of saving his skin,” Vincent suggested.

  As he spoke, he saw Nicolas put down the bottle of beer that he had been drinking and it was empty.

  “Are you still thirsty?” he asked. “Would you like another?”

  “Need you ask?” Nicolas replied. “I have been riding all day in this gruelling heat. I would drink the Atlantic if it was available!”

  “I have two more beers,” Vincent said. “I will give you one and share the second with you.”

  “It is something I would rather have at the moment,” his friend laughed, “than all the Rajah’s jewels!”

  “I will go and fetch them,” Vincent said, “and it will cheer you up to know that I have another blanket. I will toss you to decide who has the tent. It is too small for two.”

  He rose as he spoke and started to walk back towards the trees.

 
He was just going to the stream to find the beer when he saw that Nicolas had not taken the bridle off his horse.

  Nor had he hobbled the animal as considerately as he had done with his horse.

  Vincent was extremely fond of animals and always wanted them to be as comfortable as he was himself.

  He therefore removed the bridle and made the hobble looser.

  Then he gave the tired horse a drink from a collapsible bowl that he had used for his own horse.

  This meant going to the stream and back again.

  When he had finally unpacked a blanket and picked up the two bottles of beer, he had been away for quite a long time.

  Now the sun had completely vanished and, as is usual in the East, there was no twilight.

  The stars were already filling the sky. A full moon was rising behind the mountains, which were just a short distance away to the North.

  There were many shadows, but where the moonlight shone it was as easy for Vincent to see his way back as if it had been daylight.

  Carrying the two bottles, he walked towards the tent.

  As he reached it, he realised that Nicolas must have gone inside.

  His feet that he had removed his riding boots from were outside the opening.

  “I have brought your beer, Nicolas,” he called out, “and, if you are keeping away from the flies, they have vanished now until morning.”

  There was no answer.

  “Come out!” he called again. “I have your blanket for you and I will toss you for the tent, as I said I would.”

  He bent down to look inside.

  Nicolas continued to lie still and silent.

  Vincent pulled up the flap of the tent so that the moonlight illuminated the young man’s body.

  He was lying on his back and the moonlight also glimmered on something shining just above his heart.

  Before Vincent even touched him, he realised that Nicolas was dead.

  *

  Charisa came running down the stairs as she heard a carriage draw up outside the front door.

  She had been waiting for over an hour for her father to return home.

  Now, as he stepped out from an open carriage drawn by two of his excellent horses, she gave a cry of delight.

  “You are back, Papa! I was wondering why you were away for so long.”