by Greig Beck
Jenny turned back to the road. “Oh, and dress well; this place is expensive.”
Steve grinned. “Well, I’m out.”
Emma turned in her seat. “Got to be Ben. Only he really knows what to look for.” She smiled at him. “And I can accompany him as I just bought some new clothes. We can pretend to be a couple.”
“Or brother and sister,” Andrea added with a smirk.
“What do we do?” Dan asked.
“Enjoy our hospitality.” Jenny shot back. “I’ve put you all up at Fairstowe House; it’s a bed and breakfast down at Crowborough, so close to the Manor. It’s nice; there’s a traditional English pub down the road, and the place has a lot of history. So while Ben and Emma visit the estate, the rest of you can go for nature walks, exploring, or just sleep off your jet lag.”
“Well, that works just fine for me.” Steve sighed and eased back in his seat.
“Well done, and thank you, Jenny,” Ben said. “How far exactly to the Manor?”
“From Fairstowe House, just a few miles. From here, 50 miles, so sit back, take in the scenery, and get comfortable, as it’ll still take us about 3 hours, with most of that just getting out of this damned city.”
“Well then.” Ben also eased back in his seat. “I’ll be working off my jet lag right now.” He closed his eyes.
*****
The squeal of breaks and a sharp elbow in the ribs told him they’d arrived, and Ben opened his eyes to a scene that reminded him of a cross between Harry Potter’s Hogwarts and the cover of one of his mother’s prized House and Gardens magazines.
“Wow,” Steve said from the front seat.
Fairstowe House had to be 200 years old if it was a day. Its sandstone and dark brick façade was covered in climbing roses, and leadlight windows held glimpses of golden lamps burning within.
“Looks inviting,” Ben observed, pulling back the door on the van. The group piled out and stood in the courtyard, smelling rose, lavender, and a hint of wood-smoke.
“Oh yeah, I could get used to this.” Emma turned slowly, hands on hips.
The front door opened and a woman holding a tea towel wiped her hands on it, and then flicked it up over her shoulder. She smiled, making her cheeks glow even more.
“Jennifer?”
“Yes, hello, Mrs. Davenport.” Jenny strode forward to shake the woman’s hand. She turned. “And my American friends.” She pointed at each, giving names. Ben and the group grinned and waved as their names were called.
Jenny looked pleased. “And let me know if you need help translating. Their accents can be a little difficult.”
Steve laughed. “Wait until she gets a load of our manners then.” He gave the older woman a wry smile. “Don’t believe a word of it, Mrs. Davenport, we’re a well-behaved bunch.”
The older woman smiled warmly. “Well, of course you are. And call me Margaret, please.” She stood to the side. “This way, this way, do come in.”
“Beautiful house, Margaret,” Andrea said, following first. “Looks old, um, I mean, grand and historically old.”
Margaret stopped in the living room. “Not that old; the Fairstowe country house, stables, and even rose beds are all approaching two centuries, but inside, you’ll find all the mod cons.”
The fireplace popped behind her, and Ben smelled burning cedar. Except for the slightest waft of mustiness, Ben loved it – it was warm, comfortable, and they seemed to have it all to themselves.
Margaret beamed. “I have a room for each of you.” She raised her chin. “I was told that you each wanted a single room; was that suitable?”
Dan nodded. “Sure, still all single for now, but we’re working on it.” He let his eyes slide to Ben. Emma glared in return.
“It’s absolutely perfect, Margaret, and thank you.” Jenny then checked her watch. “It’s 4pm now, and we’ll be going out for dinner, so I think we’ll get settled and clean up.” She raised her eyebrows. “What say we then meet down here at 7pm? I know a perfect place for dinner.”
CHAPTER 07
48 Hours to Apparition
Comet P/2018-YG874 wasn’t a big one by any astral mapping standards. Its designate name was Primordia, and it probably originated in the Oort cloud a hundred million years ago.
To date, there are nearly 6,000 known comets in the inner solar system and many billions more in the outer system. Only about one comet per year can be seen with the naked eye, and most are unremarkable.
Primordia had been travelling in an elliptical orbit in a periodic recurrence of every 10 years. It would approach the Earth, pass by it, and then head back to the inner star where it was grabbed again and then flung back out into the solar system for yet another cycle around the 3rd planet from the sun.
Due to the effects of solar radiation, the small body emitted the usual coma and icy tail, giving it the distinctive comet streak. When a comet finally appears to the naked eye, it is called an apparition.
The Primordia apparition was unremarkable, except for one thing – its comet nuclei, or central core, had a significant concentration of iron and other rare minerals that created a significant magnetic distortion on the surrounding solar geography.
The Primordia Earthly cycle had it passing closest to South America, directly over a vast tabletop mountain in Venezuela. It was only observable for a few days, but in that time, strange distortions occurred on the mountaintop – things became rearranged, reordered, pathways created and doorways opened.
In 48 hours, Primordia’s first magnetic wave effects would be felt. And in Eastern Venezuela, the season was once again at its wettest.
CHAPTER 08
Venezuelan National Institute of Meteorological Services
Mateo bobbed his head from side to side as he read the data on the bank of screens before him. “Storm gathering, but centered.” He switched to the satellite images. “Very strange; just over the deep eastern jungle.”
Mateo was fresh from university and armed with a degree in meteorological and climate sciences, and he’d never seen anything like what he was looking at; he didn’t even know of a precedent for it in any textbook. There looked to be a small developing hurricane, but coming out of nowhere. It was tiny and centralized. But strangely, staying centralized.
He cursed under his breath as his computer systems refused to give him the data he wanted. The cloudbank swirled and was so dense that it wasn’t allowing any thermal or even geographic readings over the site. Worse, as he watched, the satellite image started to blur over the affected area as if there was a smudge on his screen.
“Hey, boss, this can’t be right. Look.” He rolled his chair backwards and pointed.
Santiago sighed and also rolled his chair backwards. The slightly portly man was Mateo’s superior and had been in the role for over 30 years. He rolled himself closer, took one look, and grunted.
“Yeah; wet season, and this year, the wettest. It’s rare, but it happens.” He rolled back to his own workspace.
“Huh?” Mateo’s frown deepened. “This is unprecedented. It looks like a hurricane, small, but so dense it’s now almost impenetrable.”
Santiago snorted. “Not everything that occurs within the boundaries of what we collectively group under the term weather is in textbooks. Um… ” He reached up to pull a battered old paper folder from a shelf and thumbed through it for a moment before handing it to the young man.
“Here, see, every 10 years, like clockwork, there is a unique phenomenon that happens in these parts. Only during the wettest of wet seasons.” He shrugged. “The conditions manifest over a single area, only remain for a few days, and then just as abruptly, dissipate and then vanish.” He shrugged. “Theories are that it is caused by an upwelling of thermal activity in the area that alters ground heat, and then the associated humidity and air density.”
“Wow.” Mateo grinned. “And we can’t see anything through that cloud?”
“Mmm, yes and no.” Santiago pointed to the folder. “Turn the pages, th
ere, that’s it. We flew a high-altitude plane over the site twenty years back, and used LIDAR to bounce some laser off the area. Those images are what came back.”
Mateo frowned. He knew of LIDAR; they were the Light, Imaging, Detection and Ranging devices that were used to map areas by illuminating them with a laser light, and then reading the reflected pulses with a sensor – they were extremely accurate.
Mateo frowned. “It can see everything, except for this one large tepui in the inaccessible eastern zone – the top, it’s…not there.” He looked up, open-mouthed. “I don’t understand.”
Santiago winked. “A mystery wrapped in a conundrum, hmm?”
Mateo grinned back. “This is why I love this job.”
Santiago chuckled. “And that’s why they call us the bureau of climate guessology – we only know what’s happening some of the time.”
CHAPTER 09
Next morning, 8am sharp, Ben and Emma met Jenny downstairs. Ben still felt like he was going to burst; Margaret had made them toasted muffins, little sausages as long as his thumb, eggs and bacon, plus hot tea. Ben ate most of it, but stopped short on the bacon – it was floppy and undercooked and not crispy like he preferred it. He found out later that this was the way it was usually eaten here – yech.
Jenny led them back into the drawing room, and Steve, Dan, and Andrea soon joined them. They all flopped down into oversized armchairs and couches.
“What’s your plan, Jenn?” Steve asked his friend.
Jenny had a teacup to her lips and seemed to gulp the remaining contents. Ben was amazed at the quantity of tea that these guys put away; it put American coffee drinkers to shame.
Jenny replaced the cup in its matching fine china saucer and smacked her lips. “Our meeting is set to occur in another hour, and one of the reasons I chose Fairstowe was that it’s only 10 minutes from the Manor. Our cover story is that Emma and Ben are considering moving to the area for work, and will be bringing their elderly mother with them. You’ll be wanting help with her, of the highest standard.” She looked at Ben. “She’s 86, has no real health or dietary issues, but is slightly foggy of thinking, okay?”
Ben nodded. “Got it.”
“You drive the conversation. Don’t get bogged down in your details. You ask the questions and get them to show the pair of you around. Even better if once they’ve given you a quick tour, you’re allowed to do a bit of wandering around by yourselves.” She sat back and sighed. “And the million pound question is, looking around for what?”
Ben exhaled slowly through his nose. It was a question he had raked over his memory many times trying to tease out some clue, but came up empty every time.
“All we know is that the author, Arthur Conan Doyle, hid my great, great grandfather’s notebook at Windlesham Manor somewhere on the estate.” He gave her a wry smile. “And he didn’t exactly say where.”
“Good lord.” Jenny’s brows went up. “Do you know how big…?”
“Yes, yes.” Ben looked skyward for a moment. “I know, huge. This might be damn mission impossible.”
Emma sucked in one of her cheeks. “All we know is it’s somewhere under the earth, in a place that only Doyle and his ancestor knew about.”
“Hmm. This is just like Doyle, a man who liked mystery and intrigue.” Jenny’s eyes narrowed. “But this does mean that your ancestor had been here before. We could have used that, but unfortunately, all connection between the Manor and Doyle has now been severed. So we can’t expect them to give you any good graces in relation to the search.” She grimaced and shook her head. “I don’t like your chances.”
“Me either,” Ben said. “Just hoping that something jumps out at us.” He sighed.
“Might it have already been found?” Jenny asked.
“Maybe, but we think it’s unlikely,” Dan said. “There’s been no mention of it, and this notebook would have rated a mention, somewhere.”
“Unless it was purchased on the black market and went straight into someone’s private collection,” Ben added.
“I still think, no,” Dan said. “There isn’t even a mention of the notebook existing other than in the correspondence between Benjamin the 1st and Doyle. I think wherever it was put, it stayed there.”
Jenny checked her wristwatch. “Well, we got a date, so we better just keep our fingers crossed. Otherwise, at least it will have been a nice holiday for you.”
In 20 more minutes, Jenny herded Ben and Emma back into the van. Dan, Andrea, and Steve had come out onto the front steps to wave them off, and Steve gave them a thumbs-up as they pulled out.
Ben waved back in return, and then began to chuckle.
“What?” Emma nudged him.
“Well.” Ben still grinned. “One minute I’m at a funeral, then you turn up, and suddenly I’m on the other side of the world about to try and trick my way into an old folk’s home.” He looked across at her.
She smiled. “Yeah, and one minute, I’m running an everyday adventure tour business, you turn up, and suddenly I’m swept away by Hurricane Cartwright. See, I could say the same about you.” Her smile widened. “But at least no one can accuse us of having a dull life together, huh?”
He lowered his brow. “You do know I was thinking about moving back home just to enjoy the dull life.”
“And yet, here you are.” Emma jiggled her eyebrows.
“Windlesham Manor coming up,” Jenny said.
The van turned off the main road onto a heavy tree- and bush-lined avenue. The magnificent oak and chestnut trees created a green tunnel for them to pass through before they arrived at an impressive sandstone entrance gate with a single silver pole by the side with intercom. Jenny slowed and lowered her window. She reached out to press the button.
“Jennifer Brock with the Cartwrights; we’re expected.” She turned to wink at them.
They only had to wait a few moments before the gates buzzed, clicked, and then slowly began to swing ponderously inwards. Ben noticed that there were discrete cameras mounted on each of the sandstone pillars.
“Good security,” he observed.
“Hm-hmm.” Jenny eased the van forward. “But I’ll wager it’s more to keep the elderly from wandering away rather than keep intruders out.”
They drove up a winding gravel driveway and pulled up in front of the magnificent house. It was only two floors, but enormous. Climbing fig adorned one wall, and roses bloomed all around its perimeter. Everything seemed so green and lush, and Ben saw under a few leafy canopies there were huge garden umbrellas with wheelchairs pulled up beneath them. Tiny heads of fluffy white hair turned to watch them approach.
In another moment, a woman appeared on the top steps and gave them a friendly wave. She had a powder-blue cashmere cardigan over a silk blouse, and pearls the size of marbles adorned her neck.
She first crossed the lawn to the wheelchairs and chatted to a few of her residents. She patted shoulders, poured tea, and laughed at something one of them said. Then she began to head towards them.
Ben smiled at the perfect pastoral scene. The sunshine was warm on his face, the gardens fragrant, and guests looked happy. Ben turned to Emma.
“Make a note; this is where I want to retire.”
She scoffed. “I thought you were retired now.”
“Ms. Brock?” The woman’s smile was open and honest.
“Mrs. Hurley,” Jennifer responded and stepped forward, hand outstretched. They clasped hands, and Jennifer motioned to her friends.
“The Cartwrights: Benjamin and Emma.”
“Of course.” She held out one firm and dry hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
The older woman’s eyes ran up and down Ben from his hair to his shoes for a fraction of a second, missing nothing.
Ben noticed that the woman’s attire could be described as understated elegance. She was dressed simply, but expensively. And though he and Emma were dressed nicely, it probably told Mrs. Hurley they might just not be in the Manor’s league. Ben only hoped
that being from out of town, she might give their casual attire some leeway.
“You’re making inquiries on behalf of your mother, Mr. Cartwright?” Her perfect eyebrows rose.
Ben nodded. “Yes, she’s getting on, and always wanted to move somewhere with a nice climate, and plenty of class. Windlesham Manor was recommended to us.”
Mrs. Hurley nodded as though this would be expected. She turned and started to walk towards the garden beds, talking as she went. Ben briefly looked to Emma, shrugged, and they followed.
She took them in a circuit around the house, pointing out the plantings, a separate building she called the aqua room that contained a swimming pool, aqua-aerobics center and sauna, plus a full gymnasium. Ben wondered what Arthur Conan Doyle would have made of his grand old house turning out like this. Being a visionary, maybe he would have approved.
She stopped underneath a large oak tree. Its wizened trunk was gnarled, heavily aged, but yet they could make out the initials, A.C.D., carved into it.
“Arthur Conan Doyle was here.” Ben smiled.
She tilted her head. “I assume you did some research prior to arriving and would know this was his home and where he wrote many of his wonderful stories.” She waved an arm around gently. “This impressive Edwardian country house was where Sir Arthur Conan Doyle spent the final 23 years of his life living happily with his wife and family.”
“Yes, we did,” said Emma. “We also found that in 1955, the last of the Crowborough estate grounds were sold out of the Doyle family. The remains of Sir Arthur and his wife Lady Jean Conan Doyle were removed and reburied at All Saints Church, Minstead in the New Forest, Hampshire. I guess all that remains now is his spirit.”
Mrs. Hurley gave Emma a cool look. “And perhaps also his memories.” She waved an arm around. “I like to think we’ve done the Doyle legacy proud. The Manor needed significant restoration work, and the grounds were in a terrible state. This tree is the only thing that remains of the gardens as they once were.”