Kat Wolfe Takes the Case

by Lauren St. John

  There was nothing regular about Hamilton Park. Not the paddocks of gleaming horses or fields of pedigree goats and cows. Not the landscaped gardens of roses and lavender. Not the maze. And certainly not the seventeenth-century Jacobean house which, the chauffeur told them, had forty-eight bedrooms.

  ‘Wonder if any are haunted,’ muttered Harper, and Kat giggled.

  A butler opened their car doors and a woman with elegant curls and a face creased with smile lines stepped forward and shook their hands.

  ‘Welcome, Harper. Kat, I’m delighted to finally meet you. I’m Freya, His Lordship’s personal assistant. I’m so sorry that your mum wasn’t able to join us. She let me know that she was dealing with an emergency. We’ve had a last-minute hitch our end too. Kat, your grandfather has been so looking forward to your visit and is devastated that he couldn’t be here to greet you. Regrettably, he’s been unavoidably detained.’

  Kat was so upset, she didn’t trust herself to speak. She doubted that her grandfather knew what it meant to be devastated. If he did, he’d understand why she felt that he let her down every time she’d allowed herself to care.

  ‘And who is this?’ Freya asked as Pax lolloped past her on three legs to meet another Border collie, this one arthritic and greying at the whiskers. There was a friendly growl from Pax and a great deal of tail wagging from the other dog, then the pair careered off through the gardens.

  ‘Pax!’ yelled Kat.

  ‘Let them have fun,’ said Freya with a smile. ‘Flush – he’s your grandfather’s dog – will take good care of Pax, and so will James, our head groom. He’s wild about dogs. Come this way, girls. Let me show you to your rooms.’

  They followed the PA into an echoing marble hallway with angels and chariots on the ceiling and a chandelier so big, it could have illuminated London. At the top of a staircase carpeted in crimson was a gallery to rival many art museums.

  ‘Are those your ancestors?’ whispered Harper as she craned her neck to look up at yet another gilded painting of unsmiling men whipping frightened horses after fox-hunting dogs.

  ‘Hope not.’ Kat scowled, still fuming about her grandfather’s disappearing act.

  Freya explained that most of the bedrooms and suites in the house were reserved for government officials, visiting dignitaries and businessmen, while those in the North Wing had been turned into offices. As they passed it, Kat glimpsed a warren of beige rooms and clerks as foreboding as the men in the paintings.

  ‘You’ll be staying in the South Wing, His Lordship’s personal residence,’ said Freya. ‘He thought you might like the Tower Room.’

  Harper was alarmed. The ‘Tower Room’ conjured up images of the freezing Tower of London room where Anne Boleyn had been held before Henry VIII chopped off her head. It would have slit windows and ravens cawing on the sill. She’d have nightmares.

  The first surprise was that the South Wing bore no resemblance to the rest of the manor house. Kat had expected it to be the most decadent, gold-plated, luxurious section of all. In reality, the decor was sparse and tasteful.

  The floorboards smelt of beeswax polish and creaked underfoot. Every worn rug told a story of Arabian or New Mexican nights. The bookcases overflowed with well-thumbed novels and the walls were lined with animal pictures: hares, birds and baby foxes all frolicking in the snow. Even so, the rooms had a lonely air.

  ‘His Lordship’s study,’ Freya informed them as they passed a closed door. They climbed more stairs. ‘Bet you think you’ll need a compass to find your way back.’ She laughed. ‘The house can be overwhelming at first. I’ll give you a map.’

  For Harper, the Tower Room was love at first sight. It was round, cosy and had wrap-around vistas of the forest and rose gardens. Best of all, it featured two four-poster beds with damask canopies.

  ‘That’s yours on the right, Harper,’ Freya said.

  There were new pyjamas on the pillow, and a book on the codebreakers of Bletchley Park with a collection of Emily Dickinson’s poems on the bedside table. There was also something else – a shiny rose-gold laptop. Harper touched it reverently.

  ‘His Lordship wasn’t sure if you’d be bringing your own,’ explained Freya. ‘He thought you might like the use of a computer while you’re here.’

  Kat’s bedside table was stacked with mystery novels and a magnificent photographic book on horses. There were pyjamas on her pillow too.

  None of it made her feel better. It was obvious that Freya had organized everything. Her grandfather didn’t have time to be a grandfather, so he paid other people to do it. Nevertheless, she remembered her manners, as instructed by her mum. ‘Thanks for going to so much trouble, Freya. It’s kind of you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me! It was His Lordship’s doing. Everything except the pyjamas, that is. He’d have been hopeless choosing those. Now, I’ll leave you to freshen up. Tea will be served in the orangery.’

  As soon as she left, Harper began bouncing on the bed. ‘If I’m dreaming, don’t wake me up. Cute PJs, a super-fast laptop and a princess-in-a-castle four-poster. This is one enchanted room!’

  ‘I suppose it is, if you like that sort of thing,’ Kat said sulkily. She stomped downstairs to find the bathroom.

  ‘Don’t judge your granddad until you’ve heard his excuse,’ Harper called after her. ‘There could be a national emergency. War might have broken out.’

  Or maybe he just can’t be bothered, Kat thought angrily as she tried to recall which door hid the bathroom. She opened the cleaning cupboard and a mop fell out. She also found the library, the laundry room and another guest room.

  The last door opened on to her grandfather’s study. Kat couldn’t resist sneaking a peek inside. A bay window overlooked the maze and a field of horses. On the far wall was a bookcase and a painting of the Dark Lord with a Clydesdale mare and Flush the Border collie. A photo of his surfer son, Rufus (Kat’s father), a journal and two fountain pens were the only things on his tidy desk.

  Feeling guilty about invading his personal space, Kat turned to go. It was then that she saw the childish crayon drawings on the other wall. Her drawings. Along with her first school photo and one of her aged two, beaming with no teeth. Also framed was a painting she’d done of a horse, a prize-winning school essay with a gold star and a collage of a family picnic in Bluebell Bay. In the centre was a photo of Kat, tousled and grinning, with her grandfather. He was formal in his shirt and smart trousers, but looked as close as he ever got to happy.

  ‘Wow,’ said Harper, who’d come in silently behind her. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’d say this proves he does care.’

  A grin broke like sunshine across Kat’s face. ‘Maybe he does. A bit.’

  She smiled all the way to the orangery.

  Kat couldn’t sleep. Her mind whirled from the ‘Kat Wolfe’ wall in her grandfather’s study, to the Welsh mountain pony she’d met on a tour of the stables, to the candlelit vegan feast the chef had prepared just for her and Harper.

  The pony thoughts reminded her of Pax, who’d bonded with Flush, and before long she was pining for the pets in Bluebell Bay: Tiny, Xena, Charming Outlaw, Orkaan and escape-artist Mr B. She winced when she recalled the near catastrophe with the Pomeranian, which in turn got her thinking about the Swanns and the Jurassic Dragon. From the dinosaur, there was only one place to go: Johnny Roswell’s life and mysterious death; and Harry Holt, who might or might not be guilty.

  And all the time Kat strained her ears for the faintest rumble that might signal the return of her grandfather. Freya had insisted he’d be home before morning.

  She tossed and turned a while longer before sitting up. It was 1.20 a.m. Where was he? Disappointment prickled at her again. Was she really going to spend a whole weekend at Hamilton Park without ever seeing him?

  The soft clunk of a car door had her tiptoeing past Harper’s bed to the window. A limousine was on the drive. Her grandfather shook the chauffeur’s hand and went inside. Kat climbed back into bed. Now he was hom
e, she’d be able to sleep.

  At 1.45 a.m., she gave up. She was thirsty. If she nipped to the kitchen for a glass of water, she’d soon nod off.

  But when she got downstairs, the light was on in her grandfather’s office. As she crept by, she glimpsed him through the partly open door. He was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, looking old and broken. That was the word that came into Kat’s head: broken.

  Without thinking, she tapped twice and went in.

  Startled, he got clumsily to his feet. ‘Kat! What are you doing up at this hour? Is everything all right? Are you cold? Do you need another blanket or pillow? Are you hungry? Can I fetch you something to eat or drink?’

  Kat couldn’t help laughing. ‘Grandfather, you’re the one who’s been working late, not me. Can I get you something?’

  His smile reached his tired eyes. ‘Thanks, Kat. Do you know, I feel better already, seeing you. I’m truly sorry for not being here when you arrived, especially . . . well, especially since I haven’t been in contact much – err, at all – over the last few months. If it’s any consolation, I think of you every day when I walk into my study and see your pictures. Your mum used to send them to me every Christmas. They were the best presents I ever got. Still are.’

  ‘Then why have you been avoiding us?’ asked Kat, taking the liberty of curling up in an armchair.

  He sighed but didn’t deny it. ‘Too many threats.’

  ‘Threats? Who from?’

  ‘From whom,’ her grandfather corrected. ‘Too many to mention. Most people believe that spying ended with the Cold War. In truth, it’s worse than ever. If there are military, business or cybersecrets to be stolen, someone’s trying to steal them. On top of that, I’m dealing with a situation. That’s why I was late today.’

  Kat was intrigued. She’d often wondered if he’d been a spy himself. ‘What situation?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t talk about live operations. What I can say is that we’re in a race against time. There are people in this world who want to destroy all that’s beautiful and good. We have to stop them or die trying.’

  A chink of ice lodged in Kat’s heart. When he said ‘we’, he meant himself. He had to stop them or die trying.

  It reminded her of Johnny Roswell’s last words to his sister: ‘When I’m done, JoJo, everyone will see these monsters for who they really are.’ Once he’d gone, JoJo had bitterly regretted not asking her brother who he’d meant.

  Not wanting any future regrets, Kat asked, ‘Who are they, Grandfather, these monsters?’

  ‘Monsters?’ He snapped out of a dark reverie. ‘Who said anything about monsters? Goodness – is that the time?’

  While he was speaking, Kat had noticed a pair of Pi-Craft binoculars on his desk. They were similar to the ones in the unclaimed army briefcase she’d discovered at Avalon Heights. She’d attempted to use them but couldn’t get them to focus. Her grandfather’s fountain pen was identical to the pen in her briefcase too. Kat had also tried that but found it useless. It had a scratchy nib and leaked ink.

  If the Minister of Defence used Pi-Craft products, they were neither ordinary nor defective. Kat decided to inspect her own pen again. It could be a voice recorder.

  ‘Those binoculars – are they any good?’ she asked casually.

  He picked them up. ‘These are night-vision glasses. The best there is.’ He polished the lenses. ‘They’ve given me an idea. Are you sleepy, young Kat?’

  ‘No, wide awake.’

  ‘How would you like an adventure? A horse adventure?’

  ‘Now? At two in the morning?’

  His haunted face creased into a grin. ‘No time like the present.’

  Kat grinned back. ‘Yes, please!’

  He opened a cupboard and removed a parcel wrapped in brown paper. It had her name on it. ‘Better put these on, then. Where we’re going, you’ll need to keep warm.’

  They took a secret tunnel to the stable block.

  ‘It was put in when the house was built to give the lord of the manor the best chance of escaping by horseback in times of war or any other emergency,’ explained Kat’s grandfather, lifting a rug in his study to reveal a trapdoor. ‘The only people, other than me, who know of its existence are Freya, James – my head groom – and now you.’

  ‘Do you ever use it?’ asked Kat as she followed him and his weaving torch under the foundations of the old house, sneezing in the musty air. Her new riding boots squeaked.

  ‘All the time when I was a boy – and your dad was just the same. He and his friends were forever down here playing smugglers and cops. These days, my work gets in the way of most things. I wish I could visit the stables more often. Being around animals is the fastest way of banishing stress, don’t you find?’

  They came up beneath the wood shavings in the Clydesdale mare’s stall.

  ‘Won’t the groom mind being woken in the middle of the night?’ asked Kat, reaching up to stroke the mare’s white blaze.

  ‘Why do we need James’s help?’ Her grandfather led the horse to the mounting block. ‘You know how to put on a bridle, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘And I think I can strap a bareback pad on to my own horse. Faith and I have been friends for over eighteen years. She’s a genuine gentle giant. I’ll take the reins and you can cling on behind. If you’ve never been on a Clydesdale, don’t be nervous. It’s like riding a sofa.’

  A buttery three-quarter moon lit their path. When they entered the forest, and its glow was extinguished, they continued in the dark. Not so long ago, the thought of entering a pitch-black wood in the small hours with her secretive grandfather would have terrified Kat. Tonight, she felt perfectly safe. It had a lot to do with how he was around animals. She’d introduced him to Pax, who was sharing a basket with Flush in the tack room, and he and the collie had taken a shine to each other at once.

  ‘Look at the intelligence in her eyes,’ he’d enthused, wanting every detail about her background and injured paw. Kat had left out the part about how she’d plucked Pax from a dynamited cliff face. As her grandfather had talked, Flush and Faith, who’d been with him all their lives, had watched his every move with trusting brown eyes. So Kat trusted him too, though she didn’t know – and he hadn’t said – where they were going.

  But Faith knew. The Clydesdale was alert and sure-footed on the forest path, unfazed by the snapping twigs, the whistling wind, or the owl that glided by on ghostly wings. Kat was impressed. Charming Outlaw would have bolted halfway to Scotland by now.

  Twice, Kat heard hoofbeats, as if they were being shadowed by a phantom horseman, but there was never anyone there.

  When a lake shone through the trees, her grandfather reined in Faith and helped Kat down. After tethering the horse to a tree, he guided Kat to a mound between two pines. Hidden beneath a pile of leaves was a wooden hatch, which opened to reveal concrete steps. He put a foot on the second step and held out a hand, as if nothing could be more normal than inviting his granddaughter to descend into a coffin-shaped hole in a midnight forest.

  Kat hesitated on the brink, wishing that Harper, who could always be trusted to yell, ‘Kat Wolfe, what the heck are you thinking!’ wasn’t asleep in a far-off tower.

  The Clydesdale’s head shot up. She whinnied at the black trees.

  ‘Is something out there?’ Kat was thoroughly spooked.

  ‘Come on, Katarina,’ her grandfather said impatiently. ‘It’s only a squirrel.’

  Kat ducked down into a snug space containing a bench, cushions and rugs, and a heap of faded, dog-eared books. It was a wildlife hide. Her grandfather set his torch on a shelf, and Kat flicked through the mini library as he arranged rugs and poured her hot chocolate from a flask. Picturing her own father, Rufus, at her age, watching birds and reading Swallows and Amazons, David Copperfield and Call of the Wild made her feel closer to him than she’d ever done. And watching her grandfather dunk a piece of shortbread into his hot chocolate made him s
eem more human too.

  He switched off the torch. A slim panel whirred up, exposing the lake shore. Perched on the bench, Kat found herself with an ant’s-eye view. Her grandfather tucked a rug around her shoulders and handed her the night-vision glasses.

  ‘Now we wait.’

  Kat had only ever seen one hide, which she’d visited with her class on a rainy day in East London. She’d shivered and been munched by midges while waiting forever to see depressed ducks and a few brown birds.

  Here, she was toasty in her new fleece and, thanks to the Pi-Craft binoculars, super-powered. Before she’d managed two sips of hot chocolate, a majestic stag ambled to the water’s edge and drank deeply. When he raised his head and shook his antlers, sparkling droplets sent ripples rolling outwards like mercury.

  Kat was entranced. Fish jumped. Otters rustled in the reeds. A nightingale sang. More deer stepped daintily from the oaks.

  She adjusted the binoculars and spotted a badger’s striped snout. ‘Grandfather, look!’ she cried. But she’d spoken too loudly. The badger retreated. Crestfallen, she watched as the deer drifted away, and listened as the nightingale fell silent.

  After that, nothing happened for an age. Kat’s eyelids were drooping when her grandfather roused her.

  A hare had materialized in front of the hide. It was more spirit than animal, its silhouette edged with gold moonlight, its whiskers silver. It was so near that Kat could have touched it without stretching. Confident it was safe, it began grooming itself. Nose, paws and fluffy tail were all washed to perfection. Then, something startled it, and it was gone as if it had never been. Kat knew she’d remember that moment all her life.

  ‘Happy?’ asked her grandfather.

  Not wanting to break the spell, she could only nod. For her, the best part was that the animals hadn’t known she was there. It was as if she’d been given a free pass into their private world. Into her grandfather’s world, too.