Cherringham--The Secret of Combe Castle Read online

  Jack followed her to the front door. Sarah pulled on an old-fashioned bell-pull, and he heard the sound of an enormous bell ringing deep inside the house.

  “Never been called a grackle before,” he said. “I’m guessing it’s not a nice thing?”

  “It’s grockle,” she said. “And you’re guessing right. Means ‘tourist’ — and not an especially desirable one.”

  The door opened and Jack did a genuine double-take.

  Facing him was the man who’d just driven away up the drive.

  Identical in tweed suit — apart from the jumper. This man’s was dark green.

  “Um, Mr. FitzHenry?” said Sarah, sounding to Jack just as surprised as he was.

  The man stepped forward, a welcoming grin on his face. He held out his hand for them to shake.

  “Miss Edwards,” said FitzHenry. “And you, sir, must be Detective Brennan!”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” said Jack, shaking hands. “Jack please. But didn’t we just see you … in the Jag?”

  “Me? Good Lord no! That wasn’t me. That was Baby. Ha ha! Me? In a Jag? That’ll be the day!”

  Jack stared at him.

  Sarah was right. Eccentric was exactly the word.

  “Welcome to Combe Castle,” said FitzHenry. “Come in and let’s have a drink. Never too early for a drink, yes?”

  He turned and disappeared inside.

  Jack looked at Sarah and shrugged. She shrugged back.

  Let the adventure begin, he thought.

  Then they followed, and Jack shut the door behind them.

  *

  “Ha ha, very funny, very funny indeed!” said Oswald, raising his glass. “To Baby, the most miserable bugger in all England!”

  “To Baby,” said Sarah, confused but not wanting to seem rude.

  She raised her very small glass of sherry to Oswald’s toast and took a sip. Crazy to be drinking this early.

  But when in Rome — or a crazy castle …

  Across the grand but faded sitting room she saw Jack lift his glass to his lips without drinking.

  Never on duty — she knew that was Jack’s unbreakable rule.

  She watched as Oswald slung back his large Scotch and slammed his glass down on the side table by the big log fire.

  He reached across for the bottle, but Sarah saw Edwina, who sat on the sofa next to it, place a firm hand on his wrist.

  “No, dear,” she said. “That will be quite enough.”

  “No? Not even a snifter?”

  “Not even a snifter.”

  “Hmmph,” said Oswald. Then he turned to Jack.

  “Wish I’d seen your face old boy. Grockle! Grockle! Where does Baby get them from?”

  “It was very amusing, and confusing, Mr. FitzHenry,” said Jack, giving their host what Sarah knew was his most patient and insincere smile.

  “Oswald, please — Jack! Do forget the royal connection. All chums here, hmm?”

  Royal connection? That seemed improbable.

  Something to be checked out later.

  “So who is ‘Baby’?” said Sarah.

  “Oswald’s always called him that,” said Edwina. “His real name’s Rufus.”

  “He’s Baby to me,” said Oswald. “We’re two minutes apart you see.”

  “Most costly two minutes in England,” said Edwina.

  “I love to needle him. Older brother and all that!”

  “I’m still not sure I get it,” said Jack.

  “The glorious tradition of primogeniture,” said Oswald, reaching for the scotch.

  Sarah saw Edwina give Oswald a steely eyed stare and his hand slid back.

  “You see, I was born two minutes before Rufus, and Pater — being a stickler for tradition — made sure in his will that I inherited this whole estate—and he inherited nothing.”

  “Nothing?” said Sarah.

  “Nearly nothing — few acres that’s all,” said Oswald laughing.

  “I guess he wasn’t very happy about that,” said Jack.

  “Happy? Ha! He’s never got over it. In fact, I say to him every bloody time I see him — ‘bloody well get over it Baby! Get over it!’ But he doesn’t. That’s why I call him Baby. Ha ha!”

  “Oswald! Language.”

  The master of the house seemed to shrink like a turtle into his shell at his wife’s barked injunction.

  “At least your brother doesn’t have to find half a million a year just to keep this decrepit wreck from falling down,” said Edwina. “If you ask me Oswald, he’s the winner, not you.”

  “Not the point old girl, not the point. Point being — I’m Lord of the Manor — and he’s just Baby, scuttling around the county in his silly old car effing, blinding, and cursing the day I was born. Ha ha ha!”

  Edwina shook her head and rolled her eyes. Sarah imagined she got a lot of exercise doing that.

  “Does Rufus live here in the house with you?” said Sarah.

  “Good God no,” said Oswald.

  “What a dreadful notion,” said Edwina.

  “He lives in the Dower House up on North Field, ‘bout a mile away across the estate. Tiny cottage, of course.”

  “So he doesn’t have anything to do with running the place?” said Jack.

  “Doesn’t contribute a damned thing,” said Oswald. “Parasite, that’s what he is. Sure you don’t want a top-up Jack?”

  Sarah watched as Oswald turned to his better half to see if he might be given a green light for another blast. But her stony face clearly communicated that would not be well received.

  Jack shook his head. “No thanks. Mr. FitzHenry, Sarah told me you’ve gotten some … unwanted … letters. May I see them?”

  Sarah watched Oswald nod to Edwina. She got up, went to a bureau in the corner of the room and came back with a folder.

  Sarah took it from her and opened it. Jack came and stood by her.

  “We’ve had four different letters in the last month, all in there,” said Edwina.

  “Plus the rather nasty signs we found in the displays last night,” said Oswald. “I cut them down and put them in the file.”

  Sarah laid the contents out on the coffee table which stood before the fire.

  Two of the letters were written in ink on light blue writing paper, both brief and to the point. The first one set the tone: ‘FitzHenry, sell up if you know what’s good for you. Your kind should get a proper job not live off the rest of us. Get out before we burn you out.’

  Sarah read the second, which differed only in that it called Oswald a ‘fascist pig’ and Edwina ‘a fat spoiled cow.’

  “Whoever wrote them can’t possibly have met me,” said Edwina. “I may be spoiled. But I am not — categorically not — fat.”

  Truth be known, Sarah thought, Edwina wasn’t exactly thin either.

  Sarah looked at the other two letters created from words cut from newspapers. These were blunter — probably to save on cutting up words, she thought. ‘GET OUT OR DIE! THERE WILL BE BLOOD! EAT THE RICH!

  “Eat the rich?” said Jack. “Haven’t heard that in a few years.”

  “Exactly,” said Oswald. “I thought it was all rather a joke, you know? One of these new activist types with too much time on his hands and a grudge against the landed gentry! But then they broke in and — well, you know.”

  Sarah saw a look go between Oswald and Edwina. A look of concern. Behind the bluster, these two were clearly worried about the threats.

  “Sure,” said Jack. “Sarah told me what you found in the museum.”

  “Museum?” said Oswald. “Not a museum old chap. Museums are ten a penny. This is an Odditorium! Only one in the country!”

  “I tell you what,” said Jack, putting down his sherry, the liquid still untouched. “Why don’t you show me what they actually did in the, er … Odditorium, while Sarah here takes a proper look at the letters?”

  “Excellent idea,” said Oswald. “I’ll just drop this back into the kitchen on the way—”

  He ma
de a grab for the bottle.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” said Edwina with a glare of steel. “I’ll do it.”

  Sarah saw Oswald’s lip quiver. Then he nodded meekly, and put his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  “After you old chap,” he said.

  And the two men left the room.

  5. The Scene of the Crime

  “Just a couple more rooms Jack — if you’re up for it, old boy?” said Oswald proudly. “Lot of people don’t even get this far!”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I see ‘em sometimes from our bedroom window, scurrying back to their coaches!”

  “Well, that’s the whole idea, right … give them a scare?”

  “You’ve hit the nail on the proverbial head there,” said Oswald, heading up a narrow staircase that led away from the dungeons and up into the ruins of the castle.

  Jack followed, his mind still grappling with the bizarre ‘horror exhibits’ which Oswald had so proudly shown him.

  Too bad Sarah hadn’t come along. But they had decided beforehand that it was best if she use the time to learn what Edwina may … or may not know.

  Oswald opened a door in a Gothic arch and Jack stepped through — to find himself in a long corridor back in the eighteenth-century mansion.

  “Quite a maze, isn’t it?” said Oswald. “Half the exhibits are in the new house — but the rest are in the old castle. The guided tour goes from one to the other, up, down, then back again, you see.”

  “I’ve got to admit I’m pretty lost.”

  “Precisely! All adds to the sense of mystery!”

  “But you live in the main house?” said Jack.

  “Most of the time — though our, er … married quarters are up in the castle tower.”

  “Very romantic,” said Jack.

  “Very bloody cold, I can tell you!” said Oswald, heading off down the corridor. “This way!”

  “I’m guessing that whoever tampered with the displays must have known their way around?” Jack said.

  He saw Oswald stop and consider this.

  “Hmm. Damned if I hadn’t thought that through. You might be right.”

  “So then — who would know their way round?” said Jack. “How many staff do you have?”

  “Ha! Staff? You must be joking!”

  “You don’t have any — at all?”

  “Edwina’s front of house — all charm and smiles. And I’m technical manager, chief cook and bottle-washer!”

  “Well, whoever put those signs up must have been happy wandering about down in the dungeons with just a torch, don’t you think? They’d have to be familiar with the layout.”

  “Hmm, I suppose that’s true,” said Oswald.

  “What about your brother?”

  “Baby? Nonsense. I mean why would—”

  “But he does know his way round?”

  Oswald looked uncomfortable with the notion.

  “Hmm. We did grow up here. But … Baby? Good Lord no. It’s not possible.”

  “Dunno Oswald. These kind of things … anything’s possible.”

  Oswald shook his head as if the idea was anything but possible. Then he turned and led Jack along another dusty corridor, until they reached a door marked ‘Modern Times.’

  We’re about to leave the days of beheadings and hangings, Jack thought.

  Jack watched Oswald reach up and wipe a spider’s web from the door.

  “Bit of a bonus, this room. Very popular.”

  “How much do you charge for the whole tour?” said Jack.

  “Tenner each, fiver for the little ‘uns,” said Oswald.

  “You let children into the dungeon displays?” said Jack.

  “Can’t stop ‘em,” said Oswald. “Need to have an adult with them, of course. Funny thing though. I don’t think kids these days scare so easily. They often come running out of there laughing their heads off.”

  “Nervous reaction, I expect,” said Jack.

  Based on the zombies, vampires and buckets of blood on TV, Jack guessed that Oswald’s displays might look pretty creaky.

  “Hmm, never thought of that,” said Oswald, opening the door and stepping back to let Jack in.

  “Ta-da!” he said.

  Jack stepped into the room and looked around.

  Nothing had prepared him for this.

  “Quite something, isn’t it?” said Oswald.

  Jack looked at Oswald, grinning proudly.

  Eccentric, thought Jack. That’s the word I should use. That’s the polite word: eccentric.

  He looked back into this ‘modern’ room. It was filled with wax models dressed in what looked like cast-offs from a thrift shop. Men in suits, women in fifties dresses, groups of soldiers, a handful of rather politically incorrect Middle Eastern gentlemen, extras from Lawrence of Arabia.

  In pride of place stood four men in black suits, three with guitars, one at the drums.

  Surely not, thought Jack. Can’t be …

  “Let me guess,” he said. “The Beatles?”

  “Spot on!” said Oswald. “Quality of the models, gives it away, no? Cost a small fortune!”

  If there were still some visitors left at this stage of the tour, Jack was sure they’d be running for the exits after seeing John, Paul, George, and Ringo with their moth-eaten hair, glass eyes, and shoeless brown feet.

  “Guessing vermin must be a problem for you,” said Jack.

  “How’d you know, old chap?” said Oswald. “Rats won’t leave Paul alone.” He sniffed. “Everyone’s favourite Beatle!”

  “John seems to have survived okay.”

  “Not their cup of tea, it seems. Don’t blame ‘em. He was never mine. Too damned political, all that world peace nonsense! Come on, plenty more to see.”

  *

  Sarah sat back on the faded sofa and watched Edwina pour the coffee into chipped mugs.

  The woman looked tired, under strain, and was clearly putting a brave face on things.

  So far she’d given Sarah straight answers to her questions.

  “So there’ve been no recent changes you can think of on the estate which might have given someone a grudge?” she asked, taking the coffee which Edwina handed to her.

  “No,” said Edwina. “I mean, we’ve got some farm workers who live over in the farm cottages. But we look after them properly — if we didn’t we’d have no income at all.”

  “The museum doesn’t bring in much then?”

  “Oh — next to nothing. Some days nobody comes at all.”

  “To be honest, I thought you’d closed down years ago.”

  “God. Be better off if we had,” said Edwina. “We can’t afford to advertise as it is.”

  “You could have a website.”

  “Oswald doesn’t believe in the internet.”

  “Ah,” said Sarah.

  “He thinks it’s just a fad.”

  Sarah kept a straight face and made a note in her notepad.

  “What about the village? Anyone there who might be a suspect?”

  Another head shake. “We owe money to half the tradesmen in Cherringham.”

  “Could it be one of them?”

  “I don’t see the manager of Costco’s starting a vendetta — do you?”

  “What about visitors — anyone unusual?”

  “Apart from the people who pay to go round Oswald’s Odditorium you mean?”

  Sarah smiled.

  “There was that awful woman from the estate agents …”

  “Oh? You mean Cauldwells?”

  “That’s it. Some young girl with one of those silly made-up names.”

  “I didn’t know there was a woman working there—”

  “Anjii, that’s it. One ‘j’, two ‘i’s. Turned up a couple of weeks ago. Prowled around the house like a predator. Oswald loped after her giggling like a child, with his tongue hanging out.”

  “Why was she here?”

  “Said she had a buyer — wanted to do a ‘valuation.’”<
br />
  “Did she?”

  “If she did, she didn’t tell me. Anyway, Oswald will never sell. ‘The royal blood of England flows through this house.’ Blah blah blah …”

  Sarah picked up the letters again and slid them across the table to Edwina.

  “What about the writing — do you recognise it?”

  “No,” said Edwina.

  “The whole tone of the letters seems political. Are either of you involved in politics, or have some connection to any big business?”

  “Ha! I wish.”

  “Shares maybe?”

  “Sold long ago.”

  “No plans for fracking for oil? GM crops?”

  Sarah watched Edwina shake her head: “As if! Where do I sign?”

  “And neither of you has been in the press lately? No reason for you to be a focus for some kind of local problem, maybe class resentment?”

  “We live an extremely quiet life here, Sarah.”

  Sarah made some notes in her notepad, then changed tack.

  “What about Rufus?” she said. “When we saw him this morning he looked pretty angry.”

  “Rufus is always angry.”

  “Could he have written the letters?”

  “Doesn’t look to be in his hand.”

  “He could have got someone else to do it. Why was he angry?”

  Sarah saw that Edwina was choosing her words carefully.

  Now we’re getting somewhere, she thought.

  “Okay. What I tell you now must remain in the strictest confidence,” said Edwina.

  “Of course.”

  “Oswald invited Rufus over and asked him for a loan.”

  “Let me guess,” said Sarah. “Rufus said no?”

  “Hit the roof. Went ballistic. Ranted, raved, called Oswald every name under the sun.”

  “He certainly looked agitated when we met him,” said Sarah. “Do you mind telling me how much Oswald asked for?”

  “Hundred thousand.”

  Some loan, thought Sarah.

  “Does Rufus have that kind of money?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I thought he didn’t inherit?”

  “Picked up some loose change from Oswald’s uncle when the old chap popped his clogs,” said Edwina. “Felt sorry he had been shut out of this mess! And then did rather well in the city with it.”

  “But why ask him? Can’t you go to the bank for a loan?”

  “Really? You show me a bank we don’t owe money to,” said Edwina.