Cherringham--The Secret of Combe Castle Page 4

  “Ah …”

  “And one of those banks currently wants its money back. It’s so very tedious. In fact if we don’t pay them by the end of the month I do believe we lose the lot.”

  “You mean the house …?”

  “Land too.”

  Sarah stared at Edwina FitzHenry.

  She shrugged: “Anyway, Rufus was our last hope. If we don’t find cash, and a lot of it, in the next two weeks it’s goodbye Combe Castle.”

  “I see,” said Sarah, nodding.

  But in truth — she didn’t see.

  Why were they so bothered about these letters when — more importantly — they soon wouldn’t even have a house to live in?

  There was something else going on here.

  Something that Oswald and Edwina FitzHenry weren’t telling them …

  6. More than Meets the Eye

  Jack thought he’d seen everything.

  But nothing prepared him for the last room in Oswald FitzHenry’s Odditorium.

  The room was enormous — at least half the width of the mansion. But it wasn’t the size that surprised him — it was the instant feeling that he’d been here before.

  And in a way, he had.

  The room contained a near life-sized copy in wood and moth-eaten canvas of the ancient stone circle of Mabb’s Hill which lay just outside Cherringham.

  Jack had been there many times and recognised it instantly.

  But it had never looked quite like this.

  The circle was populated with more decaying wax figures.

  A handful of what looked like Victorian gentlemen stood awkwardly on the edge of the circle, gesturing, pointing, hands raised in alarm, top hats aloft.

  And in the centre of the circle two men in black trousers and white shirts with suspenders lay on the ground, their shirts red with blood.

  Each man held a pistol in his hand.

  Behind them, two more wax figures stood propped up against the ancient stones: these two, dressed in suits and heavy winter capes, also armed and apparently also badly wounded, with a ridiculous amount of blood drenching their waistcoats.

  In front of the tableau Jack could see a faded wooden sign:

  ‘The Infamous Duel of Mabb’s Hill, December 1898! Lord Basil FitzHenry Pays the Ultimate Price for Defending his Honour!’

  “Well, detective,” said Oswald. “Here we are! A real-life crime scene for you to solve!”

  Jack laughed. “I’m guessing forensics aren’t going to be much use here.”

  He stepped into the tableau and examined the bodies, one by one.

  “Well,” he said, “from their wounds I’d say these three will survive if we can get them to a good hospital in time.”

  “Go on …”

  “But this one’s a gonner. Clean head shot.”

  “Bravo!” said Oswald. “Care to hazard a guess at what happened?”

  “I’ll let you tell me,” said Jack. “I doubt anything I could come up with will match your family history.”

  “Very true!” said Oswald. “It was quite a cause célèbre in its day. Page two of The Times, no less. So here’s what happened: My unfortunate great-grandfather Lord Basil — who lies here with the bullet in his brains — lived rather the high life due to the immense fortune his own grandfather, Ralph, had amassed as a privateer in the East Indies.”

  Oswald walked around the giant diorama, clearly enjoying his tale-telling.

  “Never one to miss the opportunity to proudly declaim his royal blood too. One night a drunken Percival Pelham scoffed at the equally drunk Lord Basil’s oft-repeated claim. ‘Royal blood indeed’ he laughed.”

  “I think I can guess what happened next …”

  “Yes. Basil challenged Pelham to a duel. The duel took place at dawn the following morning at Mabb’s Hill. Both men and their two seconds were still — according to eyewitness accounts — so blind drunk they could hardly stand. On command, the duellists fired their pistols — and the shots went so wide of the mark that they completely missed their intended targets and hit the seconds instead!”

  Jack laughed. Despite his initial reservations, this was — in fact — quite the story.

  “The seconds, though wounded, believing the shots to be deliberate, fired back immediately. Sir Percival was wounded. But poor Lord Basil was killed instantly.”

  Jack shook his head.

  “Guns and alcohol. Never a good combination. You said Lord Basil was rich. What happened to the money?”

  “Ah well, there’s the rub,” said Oswald. “So sudden was the great man’s death that it appears he made no provision for a will. Nor did he bother to jot down the details of where he’d invested the dosh.”

  “You mean it just disappeared?” said Jack.

  “Sadly, yes,” said Oswald, looking wistful. “Dashed shame, you know. If we had even a smidgen of what went missing we’d be on the hog’s back.”

  Jack shook his head. “Bad luck. But you know; it all must be somewhere …”

  “But where, Jack, where? And on that note — here endeth the tour! We’ll head back via the library if you don’t mind; I do believe I left a half open bottle of a rather sturdy Cabernet there after supper last night.”

  Jack watched him give a theatrical wink, then he turned and headed off down another corridor as Jack followed.

  It was either that — or get lost here for days …

  *

  Sarah had just decided that she’d got all the information she was going to get from Edwina when the doorbell rang.

  Edwina got up and hurried to the window to look out onto the gravel forecourt.

  “Good lord,” said Edwina. “Visitors.”

  Sarah got up and joined her at the window. She could see a minibus and a group of giggling girls climbing out, carrying phones and cameras.

  “I’d better deal with this,” said Edwina, heading for the door. “Help yourself to another coffee.”

  Sarah slipped the folder of letters into her bag and eyed the coffee. It would be cold by now.

  She wandered slowly around the room.

  Even this room’s like a museum, she thought.

  There were tall bookcases, battered chairs and side tables. Above the fireplace, a faded painting depicted the house and castle — sometime in the eighteenth century, she guessed. The gardens looked immaculate, the house perfect, its stone façade white.

  So different now. She went back to the window and looked out. Edwina was still involved with the tour bus.

  Time for a little tour of my own, she thought.

  And she headed out of the sitting room and into the house …

  *

  Ten minutes later, having got lost twice in the endless corridors of the dank manor house, she decided she’d better head downstairs and find Jack.

  Most of the doors in the house that she’d tried had been locked.

  The ones that were open led only to bedrooms that were now being used to store stacks of furniture and mountains of cardboard boxes.

  Halfway down the main flight of stairs however, she heard music coming from a corridor.

  She stopped, then turned back and slowly walked down the corridor, past door after door. As she did, the music got louder.

  Pink Floyd? Hardly the choice of Oswald or Edwina …

  She stopped at the last door. The music was loud.

  She knocked.

  No response.

  She knocked again, louder.

  The music stopped abruptly. Then the door opened.

  Facing her was a tall, skinny man in T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, with long black hair.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  Sarah stepped back as a fug of dope smoke hit her from the room.

  “I’m sorry — I didn’t know there were staff living here.”

  She watched the man blinking and peering at her, as if slowly coming round from a long sleep.

  “I’m not bloody staff. I’m Odysseus,” he said. “You lost your tour?”
>
  “No, I’m, um, a guest,” said Sarah.

  “Snap!”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’re a guest,” said Odysseus. “And so am I. So — snap. The game. No?”

  “Ah, I see,” said Sarah, not seeing at all. “Look sorry to bother you, I’d better be going …”

  “Shame,” he said. “Give my love to Ma and Pa.”

  Sarah watched him turn to go back in the room.

  “Hang on,” she said. “You mean you’re the FitzHenrys’ son?”

  “Son and heir,” he said, turning back. “Lucky me! Came down from the smoke first thing to help the old parental antiques deal with the strain.”

  “They didn’t mention you.”

  “Probably forgot. They’re getting on, you know. And remembering things was never their forte. Fancy a drink? Or something a little more exotic?”

  “I won’t, thanks,” said Sarah. “Will you be here for a few days? I’d like to talk to you when you’re a bit less …”

  “Stoned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good luck finding such a moment then. You from the bank?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Shame. Thought you might be advising them. They won’t listen to my damned advice.”

  “Which is?”

  “Sell up pronto! Let the place go. Buy a bolt-hole in the sun. Purchase paradise. Drink rum until the sun sets. Smoke happy baccy and watch life go by.”

  Sarah could see he was beginning to drift off.

  “Well, I guess that’s good advice for all of us. Most of it. Nice to meet you, Odysseus, and let’s talk soon.”

  And with that she headed off down the corridor to find Jack.

  Nothing in this house is what it seems, she thought.

  And no wonder it’s called the Odditorium …

  7. Comparing Notes

  Though it was still early, Jack suggested to Sarah that they discuss things at the Ploughman’s.

  “Kind of feel that … this pub just gets ideas flowing,” he said pulling into the car park.

  “Spoken like a true Brit and pub aficionado,” Sarah said.

  Jack laughed at that. She knew he enjoyed it when she noticed him settling into life in this Cotswold village.

  Now they sat in a corner table, a pint each in front of them, as Jack spread out the threatening notes that Sarah had borrowed from the FitzHenrys. The Ploughman’s was surprisingly busy. The first frosty evening probably making the idea of a pub visit even more appealing to the locals.

  “Okay, detective,” he said to her, tapping the threatening notes on the table, “What do you notice?”

  She picked up the notes and rifled through them. “Okay. Well the handwritten ones look strange. Printed capital letters. I don’t know — they’re just odd. And these …”

  She picked up two notes with glued letters cut out of a newspaper in classic fashion, each warning ‘Leave Now.’

  “Never saw an actual note like this,” she said. “Except on the telly.”

  Jack laughed at that. “Little old school, hmm? Someone not up with the times when an anonymous email would be just as effective.”

  “Unless you knew that the intended receiver didn’t have email.”

  “Right.”

  Sarah looked at Jack. “Meaning … someone who knew that Oswald was a luddite. No internet, no email. Hence, using the post.”

  “Exactly. That’s good to know, and—”

  “Jack. Hang on a second. Are you thinking we’ll dive into this? For real? Help them?”

  He looked around the pub. “Why not? Crime business is a little slow …”

  “As is my design work. Though it will pick up after the holidays.”

  Then he took a sip of his beer. “And if it lets us have a chat, share a pint … why not help the ‘royal’ FitzHenrys?”

  She laughed. “Agreed. So, it’s someone who knows them. And …”

  Now she picked up the envelopes.

  “The post marks. Two from London. One Oxford. One … Bourton-on-the-Water.”

  “And what do you think that means?”

  She felt that beyond simply looking at this paltry evidence they had, Jack was also enjoying seeing how well she did with speculation and—

  Deduction!

  Classic. There was more than a little Holmes and Watson in this chat.

  “All right. So we either have … a lot of people in different places who want them gone.”

  “Or?”

  “Someone who went to great lengths to hide the true locale. Maybe with business in London.”

  “Good. But what about this one?”

  He waved the envelope that came from Bourton-on-the-Water.

  “That’s quite near.”

  “I know. Sweet place.”

  “Maybe they didn’t have time for a jaunt to London?”

  “My guess as well. Bit of sloppiness in their threats.”

  “I love this,” she said. “Like these notes, the envelopes … all part of a puzzle.”

  He grinned at that. “Fun, hmm? So, you noticed the printing on the hand-written notes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Look at the letters. Seems to me it’s someone who did it using their left hand — if they were a righty, that is.”

  “Yes. You’re right! Someone worried that even their normal printing would give them away.”

  “And the cut-out letters from the newspaper? All the same typeface, most the same font size. They had one newspaper, and just used that.”

  Sarah looked at those notes again. “Looks like the Evening Standard. Though I doubt that helps us.”

  “No, but again, done quickly, with what was at hand.”

  Jack looked away then, as if taking in the crowd at The Ploughman’s. People talking, telling stories, some ready for the chilly trek home.

  But she knew Jack was thinking.

  Then returning from his mysterious reverie, he looked at her.

  “If I was serious … about the threats … I’d take more care.”

  “You mean the threats aren’t real?”

  “Not saying that. But there is something here, besides the clues that it was done by someone who knows the penniless FitzHenrys.”

  She took a sip of the beer, thinking … there’s also more here than just these notes and the vandalism.

  She filled in the blanks.

  “We need to find out more.”

  A big grin from Jack. “Yup.”

  “Okay, I can dig into the history of the place. See what we don’t know.”

  “And check on the idea that there is royal blood somewhere.”

  She laughed. “Will do.”

  “And I will pay a call on Baby, Rufus FitzHenry. See what he thinks of all this.”

  “He certainly meets our criteria. Knows Oswald, not happy with them, and would know the layout of the place.”

  “Right. I’ll visit him first thing.”

  “And what about a visit to Cauldwells? See who’d want to buy that property?”

  “You up for that?”

  “An intimidating chat with an estate agent? Does it get any better?

  Jack laughed. “I guess not … and maybe dinner tomorrow at The Spotted Pig to update each other? Might as well enjoy the perks of the work.”

  “Daniel and Chloe will welcome the break from my usual! I’ll let them order a pizza.”

  Jack took a deep breath.

  Funny, she thought, how he came to life at times like this. So quiet, living on the river … but when he had his teeth into a mystery it seemed like play to him.

  And then another thought …

  Me, as well.

  And they finished their beers and left the still bustling Ploughman’s, plans for the next day in place.

  8. Truth and Lies

  The following morning, after a brisk walk with Riley, Jack drove back to Combe Castle.

  Only this time, just as he entered the road that led down to the ramshackle castle, h
e took a sharp left, towards the Dower House — the small cottage just visible on a distant hill.

  After the brusque encounter with Rufus the day before, Jack didn’t know what to expect from the disenfranchised brother.

  Can’t be a happy camper, Jack thought.

  The narrow road went straight past a small wooded area where Jack saw someone leaning against a tree. The man was looking out in the direction of the just-risen sun, holding something.

  As Jack cruised closer, the man turned and Jack recognised a rather over-sized bong in his hand. From the description Sarah had given him, Jack guessed the person holding the bong was the ever-stoned heir to Combe Castle, Odysseus.

  Odysseus seemed to reel back a bit, startled by Jack’s arrival, then the stoner actually waved with the bong.

  Jack brought a hand to his forehead, acknowledging the smoky salute.

  What a son, Jack thought.

  Starting the day in a purple haze.

  Then, the roadway cut right, and Jack turned onto a gravel driveway that led to the small cottage.

  And he noticed a big difference right away.

  The brown gravel stone of the driveway was the perfect size: the Sprite didn’t kick up any jagged chunks as it slowed to the front of the cottage.

  Then there was the cottage itself. Painted a pale yellow, with rich brown trim, the Dower House looked great. A white picket fence surrounded a small garden and the cottage, gleaming, slats looking freshly painted.

  Meticulous.

  To complete the idyllic picture Jack saw a tendril of smoke streaming from the chimney.

  As much of a mess castle Combe was, this small place looked immaculate.

  Jack prepared himself to be surprised.

  He pulled in front of the low fence, got out, undid a latch, and followed a stone path — again in perfect condition — to the front door.

  A ram’s head knocker shone on the door. No doorbell visible, so Jack pulled on the ram’s horns and knocked twice.

  In just a moment — almost as if he’d been expected — the door to the cottage opened.

  And there was Oswald’s doppelganger, his face grim, set.

  No happy greeting here from ‘Baby.’

  And Jack had to wonder whether the ostracised brother would even talk to him …