Prologue

“And there was mounting in hot haste.”

Lord Byron

You won’t find it on any ordinance map, the National Trust will deny it exists, yet crouched on a hill in south-west Scotland is a twin-towered manor house and estate where the infection of shame and self-righteous censure has never festered.

One bright morning this Spring, the post brought a letter from today’s Laird of Blackthorne House. Having read my books, and sharing a fondness for such stories, he invited me for a visit, and a look at the diaries kept by each Laird in turn since its beginning. Enclosed was a ticket to a remote destination by rail. I was instructed to arrive after dark, and wait in the station for a motor-car to complete my journey.

As I waited, a tall, auburn-haired man who called himself Edgar Nodens (all names are fictitious), came in and asked for me. He escorted me to an ordinary black sedan and we got in the rear seat. The window shades were drawn and an opaque screen rose between us and the driver.

“Now, Sir Fagan,” he said, “I must ask you to swear that you will neither touch the curtain, nor make any attempt to see or memorize our journey, for secrecy is the only protection that preserves the many places in the world like our Blackthorne.”

I gave him my oath and assurance, and he placed a blindfold over my eyes as a double surety. The gravel crunched under the wheels, and my miles-long ride to that secret paradise began.

I have done my best in the pages that follow to convey the spirit and events that occurred at Blackthorne (and are still happening today!), so the reader will enjoy the pleasure of reliving its history. My host kindly supplied me with the nightly comforts of the pretty young maidens I found chained in my bed.

I swear that I have not added to, nor ignored, any event in the lives of the Cailean family (again, all fictitious names), or their staff and servants. All that follows is a record of what I found written in those diaries, as unlikely as our inhibited society might want to believe. I can only protest the believability of my story by quoting Lord Byron once more;

“Tis strange but true; for truth is always strange—Stranger than fiction.”

Roger Hastings