by S M Hardy
I nodded, still looking at the massive horse. ‘Just for a few days.’
‘Right,’ Dan said. ‘I’ll get them saddled up for you.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ I offered.
Despite saying she hadn’t been on a horse for years, Emma appeared immediately at home on the aptly named Angel, who was as placid as Dan had promised. As for me, well, I hadn’t ridden for a good few years either, but when I had I’d ridden hard, especially when I’d been here on leave with Simon. We’d either been sleeping, drinking or riding and, sitting on Jericho trotting along the bridle path towards the forest, I felt like I’d never been away.
The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the air smelt fresh and clean with the ever-present, overriding aroma of cut grass and vegetation. With Emma riding along beside me I felt on top of the world and it was seriously tempting to say to her, ‘You know what? Let’s give the clearing in the forest a miss.’ It was definitely going to bring our moods down. Once again I had to remind myself it was one of the reasons I was here, in fact, the only reason: to see if I could help my old friend find out what had happened to his brother. I had told him the how, now I had to try and find out the who and why.
The clearing hadn’t changed any since our last visit. It was still dark and gloomy, overly quiet and had an atmosphere that instantly put me on edge. We both dropped down off our steeds and Emma held onto Jericho’s reins while I took another slow walk around the perimeter of the circle, and it was a circle, an almost perfect circle. It brought to mind my previous notion that this area had deliberately been left devoid of trees when the woodland had been planted or had subsequently been cleared.
I walked into the middle and closed my eyes. Oliver, speak to me. Tell me why this happened to you.
I stood there waiting and boom – once again I am seeing the world through Oliver’s eyes and feeling it with his senses. I am in a darkened room, maybe some kind of vault or mausoleum. I am not alone. People surround me. It’s cold. Damp stone chills my sandalled feet and mould-streaked walls enclose me and the others, mildew scenting the air. Lamps flicker, giving off a yellow, oily light enveloping us in shifting shadows.
The faces of the men and women surrounding me are covered with the same masks of black leather I saw in my previous vision, though I sense it’s mainly for effect, Oliver knows his companions, I am positive of it. As I look around I try to gain some clue from the congregation. The figure next to me turns slightly and I catch a glimpse of a slender white neck, a woman’s neck, and around it hangs a string of jet beads upon a silver chain that glints and shimmers in the lamplight. There’s something wrong with this picture. She reaches out and presses a dagger into my hand and …
I am in a child’s room. Painted wooden mobiles of the moon and stars hang above the empty bed. And there are feathers – feathers everywhere. Floating in the air like snowflakes, coating my face and sticking to my lips. More feathers litter the carpet. I feel like a child again. Smiling, I turn and walk from the room, the words I am not a monster reverberating through my head. And, with a wrenching sensation inside my mind, he was gone, leaving me slightly light-headed and unsteady on my feet.
I forced the feeling aside; I had to think. He had been showing me these visions for a reason – but why didn’t he speak to me? Though something was now very clear – Oliver had known his killers. Why, then, didn’t he tell me who these people were? Surely he no longer felt any loyalty to them? As for the feather-filled bedroom – what was that all about? Whatever he was trying to impart to me I didn’t get it.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.
Emma walked to my side, the horses both trailing along behind her. ‘Anything?’
‘Yes, but …’ I gave a frustrated shake of my head. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
I threw my arm around Emma’s shoulders and we started off along the track out of the woodland, letting the horses trot along behind us. As we walked, I told her what I’d seen, venting my frustration at being given such tiny titbits of knowledge.
‘So you think Oliver was involved with some sort of cult?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’ I kicked at the dirt beneath my feet, remembering what one of my old training instructors used to say, If, laddie, it looks like shit and smells like shit, it is, more than likely just that – shit. ‘They were all wearing masks – what else could it be?’
She frowned at me for a moment and her expression grew doubtful. ‘In this day and age? Really?’
‘Unless you can think of an alternative?’
I walked along beside her in a bit of a daze. If it hadn’t been for what I’d seen I wouldn’t have believed it either. It was 2020, for God’s sake, not 1720. But for all that – it didn’t really matter what I believed or thought. If these people were members of some sort of weird cult or playing at being devil worshippers, or were just plain bat-shit crazy, they had still killed one man and possibly his son and daughter-in-law. So where did this leave William’s daughter, who, within twenty-four hours, would be arriving at Kingsmead? Was she on their hit list too? Crazy people did crazy things, I knew this only too well.
‘Do you think Laura is in danger?’ Emma asked, and her putting into words what I was already thinking didn’t help ease my growing anxiety.
For some reason the feather-filled room floated through my head. I was missing something. ‘I would be very interested to see the police report of her parents’ death,’ I said.
‘You think Simon will get one?’
I laughed, although I was in no way amused. ‘I have no doubt he will. Simon is a very important man.’
She stopped walking. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
I rubbed my beard, which I saw from her expression hadn’t gone unnoticed. ‘Simon works in a government department,’ which was a bit of an understatement, he was head of a government department; a covert government department. Emma wasn’t stupid, she got the picture.
‘Ah-ha, so that’s how he got hold of the police report on Oliver’s death.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ and, despite knowing if it was my family member who had been murdered I’d do exactly the same thing had I been in his position, it still made me angry, unreasonably so. I guess because I knew Simon always did whatever it took to get his own way, even if it meant abusing his position. It was the kind of man he’d become – or maybe it was how he had always been only I hadn’t realised. Reggie was the more perceptive of the two of us. In retrospect I could see it now. He had never really liked Simon as much as I had; he only hung out with us because of me; I was his friend, not Simon. I was a stupid young man and now I was a silly old fool and I was beginning to seriously wish I’d torn up his letter and hadn’t let Emma talk me into coming.
We carried on with our ride, but the sunshine seemed a little less bright and the scenery a little less vibrant; the dark clouds of reality had taken the joy out of the morning. Consequently we were back at the manor, showered, changed and ready for lunch earlier than planned.
As soon as we walked into the living room I knew something was wrong and my simmering anger instantly drained away. Simon was pacing the floor, shoulders hunched with an expression so grim anxiety fluttered in my chest.
‘At last,’ he said upon seeing us.
I glanced at my watch; by my reckoning we were over ten minutes early. ‘What’s the matter?’
He strode towards me thrusting out his hand, his cheeks flushed and expression angry, frightened, agitated, possibly all of them. ‘This,’ he said. ‘This.’
I glanced from his face to his outstretched fingers; in them was a greetings card. I hesitated and, with a curt gesture of his head indicating he wanted me to take it, he pushed it into my hand. It was a greetings card. Emblazoned on the front in gold lettering were the words ‘Happy Birthday’ beneath which was a pastel drawing of an iced cake with a single burning striped candle. I frowned at him, confused by his reaction.
‘Open it,’ he snapped.
I flipped the car
d open and was aware of Emma moving in close to see. Inside, written in blue ink with a flourish were the words: Dearest Edward, wishing you a very happy birthday, from all your friends at Goldsmere House. Hoping you have a wonderful day with your family. My stomach gave a lurch – Goldsmere House? If I’d never heard of the place again it would’ve still been too soon. Unfortunately, I could never completely wipe it from my life; it was always hovering there at the back of my mind.
I had to swallow a couple of times before I could bring myself to speak. ‘Goldsmere House?’
A look of irritation flickered briefly across Simon’s face before my own reaction registered with him. ‘You’ve heard of it?’
I nodded, reading the words again. ‘This was addressed to your brother Edward?’
‘I received it this morning. Had he lived it would have been Ed’s seventieth birthday today.’
Emma took the card from my limp fingers and turned it over, studying the front, back and inside before handing it back to Simon.
‘And you’ve never heard of Goldsmere House?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, looking from Emma to me. ‘Where is it? What is it?’
I didn’t think there was any way of sugaring this pill. ‘Goldsmere House is an exclusive care home,’ I said, trying my best to be tactful.
His eyes narrowed. ‘There’s more to it than that,’ he said, again looking from me to Emma. ‘I can tell by your faces.’
A memory floated through my head. A flash of lightning and the dark silhouette of Goldsmere House looming up ahead of me, as I drove through the torrential rain lashing against the windscreen of the Jag.
‘I think I could use a drink,’ I said.
CHAPTER SIX
‘So this Goldsmere House is some sort of upper-class asylum?’ Simon said, passing me a large whisky.
‘More or less,’ Emma said.
I took a swig of my drink. ‘It’s a place where rich people hide their dirty little secrets,’ I said, not bothering with diplomacy.
‘Dear God,’ Simon said.
‘Maybe there’s been some sort of mistake,’ Emma quickly said, as ever trying to calm the waters.
To my way of thinking it was going to take a lot more than a few words. If what we surmised was true, the much-loved brother, who Simon thought had died almost forty years ago, had actually been alive and living in a mental institution for all those years. It didn’t bear thinking about. The big question, however, was why had Goldsmere sent a birthday card to his home address?
‘You have to phone them,’ I said.
He gave a curt nod, his expression grim.
Emma found him the phone number and we all sat clustered together as he made the call and put it on speaker. The phone was answered on the third ring by a slightly officious-sounding woman. ‘Goldsmere House, how can I help you?’
Simon cleared his throat. ‘Hello, is it possible to speak to whoever is in charge?’
‘To whom am I speaking?’
‘Simon Pomeroy.’
‘Oh,’ she said, clearly knowing the name. ‘Please hold the line for one moment.’ There was a faint click and orchestral music began to play. I vaguely recognised the tune. It was quietly gentle, but uplifting, comforting music chosen to put anxious families of patients at their ease. It wasn’t having the desired effect: after a minute Simon began impatiently tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair.
There was another click and the music abruptly ceased. ‘So sorry to keep you, Mr Pomeroy,’ a pleasant female voice said. ‘I am Alice Barnard, the manager here. What can I help you with today?’
‘Ah, yes,’ Simon said, sounding, for him, nervous and tentative, reminding me of how he hated being the one who wasn’t controlling the situation. ‘Ah, I received a card from you today addressed to Edward in celebration of his birthday.’
‘Oh good, we wanted him to know we were thinking of him. Is he well?’
Simon pulled a face at me.
‘Ask her why they sent it here,’ I whispered.
‘It was very kind of you, Ms Barnard, but I’m rather at a loss as to why you should send it here – and now.’
It went very quiet on the other end of the phone. ‘Ms Barnard?’
‘I was under the impression from your brother that Edward was going to live with the family during his twilight years.’
‘Really?’
Another moment’s silence. ‘Mr Pomeroy, I think perhaps you should be having this conversation with your brother Oliver,’ she said, with that practised sympathetic voice medical professionals use when they’re delivering bad news.
‘My brother Oliver is dead, Ms Barnard.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Dead?’
‘Yes, dead, and I have not seen hide nor hair of Edward. In fact, until we started having this conversation, I believed Edward to have died some forty-odd years ago.’
‘Oh dear,’ the woman said. There was something in her tone of voice that worried me and, had she not been talking to a patient’s family member, I think it more than likely the expletive would have been stronger.
‘I’d better pay you a visit,’ Simon said.
There was a soft sigh from the other end of the phone. ‘I agree,’ she said, ‘and it’s probably best we have a conversation sooner rather than later,’ and with that Simon arranged to call on her that afternoon. When he hung up, he appeared drained.
‘What on earth is going on?’ he asked no one in particular.
As much as I didn’t want to go anywhere near Goldsmere House, there was only one thing I could say. ‘Do you want us to come with you?’
Emma drove as Simon and I had both knocked back large whiskies. I wished I’d had more. The journey passed in an anxiety-fuelled blur, the beautiful countryside unseen, vanquished by my darker memories.
As we pulled into the lane leading to Goldsmere I had a feeling of déjà vu. I had visited this place once before and I had hoped never to visit it again.
Although a high-security unit, the buildings were surrounded by lovely gardens, but the electronic gates, high walls strung with razor wire and the inner palisade steel security fencing told the story: they didn’t want anyone getting out without their say-so. Although last time I’d visited it had been dark, and I hadn’t exactly been compos mentis through loss of blood, it looked to me like the security had recently been upgraded.
From the front of the building one could be forgiven for thinking you were about to enter a rather posh hotel, even inside it had the air of an expensive establishment’s lobby and reception area. The only giveaway was the number of staff wandering around with clipboards, dressed in hospital whites.
Upon our arrival we were required to sign in and give our names and addresses before being ushered into an office by the softly spoken receptionist. The room was more like a gentleman’s study, the high walls lined with shelf upon shelf of leather-bound tomes. This was completely at odds with the slim, middle-aged woman who hurried from behind a huge desk stacked with files and pieces of paperwork, to greet us, hand outstretched. Dressed in a pink tweed skirt with matching pink cardigan and a double string of pearls she looked more like a kindly headmistress than the manager of a mental institution. She introduced herself as Alice Barnard and her expression was so serious it didn’t take psychic abilities to know we were about to get some very bad news.
‘Firstly, I would like to offer my sincere condolences for your sad loss. Your brother Oliver was such a lovely man,’ she said to Simon.
‘You knew him?’ Simon said.
She summoned a tight smile. ‘Oh yes, he visited every few weeks or so and usually took dear Edward home for a couple of days once a month.’
She gestured that we sit in a more informal area furnished with a sofa and chairs surrounding a long coffee table and I guessed this alternative was intended to make any visitors feel more comfortable. I had news for her – it didn’t. We all sat, perched uneasily on the edges of our seats.
‘And h
ow long had this been going on?’ Simon asked.
‘I couldn’t say for certain, but for at least as long as I’ve been here, so over ten years.’
‘You said on the phone that when Oliver collected Edward last time it was for good?’ Simon said.
‘Yes, he said he was taking Edward home,’ she replied and was interrupted by a knock on the door and an orderly appearing with a tray of tea, coffee and biscuits. Not another word was spoken, other than a whispered thank you from the manager, until he left. ‘Are you aware of what we do here?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and it came out as a curter response than I’d meant.
There was a moment’s embarrassed silence before Ms Barnard continued. ‘Then you know Goldsmere is a very private and exclusive home for the mentally disabled, whether it be by some kind of head trauma or psychological disorder, like debilitating dementia, for instance,’ she said.
‘How “mentally disabled”?’ Simon asked.
Ms Barnard gave a sigh. ‘In quite a few cases very,’ she replied. ‘Obviously there are several levels of care we offer, but all our patients are residential and most of them are very unlikely to return to normal society.’
‘They’re not here to be cured?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she shook her head emphatically. ‘No, they’re incurable.’ Ms Barnard had apparently found her groove. As uncomfortable as it was for us, she was now talking about a subject she knew and knew well. ‘Sadly, our patients’ families usually can no longer cope. In fact, they would be irresponsible to try in most cases, but on the whole our patients are unlikely ever to return back into the family circle.’
‘Then why was Edward allowed home?’ Simon asked.
‘We don’t make the decisions – we provide a service. However, we take our patients’ and their families’ needs very seriously. Edward was terminally ill. He had only a few months to live at most. Your brother wanted him to spend his last days at the family home.’ She smiled sympathetically. ‘Myself and Dr Gilbert, our senior consultant, did try and dissuade your brother, but he gave his assurance he would personally ensure Edward received his medication as prescribed. We had no reason to doubt him, as your brother knew very well how Edward behaved if unmedicated.’