by Dilys Xavier
Peter’s insides knotted as the burly man climbed menacingly to his feet. He had often wondered why everyone called him Murphy; no one addressed him by a Christian name. When he had asked Brucie, one of his overtly tattooed companions, the man had answered; ‘It’s Mac. You know, Mac da knife.’ Then he had laughed sardonically and flicked open a long bladed instrument. ‘He’ll cut you as soon as look at you.’
When the man walked into the garage, Peter turned to him and smiled weakly.
‘I was just about to offer Murphy a deal, Brucie,’ he said, hesitantly. ‘I was going to suggest that he buys all the vans at a knock-down price and take over the operation.’ He looked from one man to the other. ‘What do you think of that idea?’
‘It stinks.’ Murphy kicked an empty can across the floor to emphasis his remark.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said it stinks. We’re going to leave things the way they are,’ Murphy said, his voice pitched low. ‘You’ve got too much to lose if things cock up. If anything goes wrong, you’re going to move heaven and earth to get us out of it, aren’t you? I’m right, and you know it. So you just piss off, mind your own effing business and we’ll continue to deliver all the free whiskey you want and your share of the profits like we agreed.’
‘But ...’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot to mention – just don’t try anything on.’ He gestured to his companion. ‘Brucie likes thumping people, and he knows how to hurt a man real bad.’ Murphy walked over to where Peter stood, visibly shaken. ‘And if that doesn’t work, we’ll pay a visit to that classy blonde of yours.’ Then he turned his back on Peter and hissed. ‘Now piss off.’
Peter stumbled back to his Jaguar in a daze. His hands shook as he fumbled the key in the ignition. With infinite care he reversed the car clear of the shed and drove away from the industrial estate. As soon as he was out of sight of the complex he stopped the car, flung open
the door and vomited into the gutter. He mopped the sweat from his brow and then used the handkerchief to scrub the spittle from his mouth. He’d never been so frightened in all his life.
‘What am I going to do now,’ he muttered, as he restarted the engine. He thought Murphy would have jumped at the opportunity to buy the vans and had not bargained on the man’s response. What seemed to be a fool-proof way to make some easy money had backfired disastrously. He stifled a sob, convinced that it would only be a matter of time before they were caught and he would be implicated in the matter.
Unable to think clearly, he drove into the nearby village and pulled up outside the local pub. The Wheatsheaf Inn was always well patronised on the weekend, and today was no exception if the number of cars parked outside were any indication. He picked his way through the drinkers to the bar and ordered a whiskey, downed it in a gulp, and then asked for a double.
Just as he settled himself beside a dividing partition, Richard Carlisle walked into the bar. As Peter watched, the man pulled up a barstool, ordered a drink and began talking to the man standing nearby. He saw Richard glance in his direction, but he was confident that he could not be seen easily, as he was on the other side of the partition.
After a few minutes the two men left the bar to speak to an old man sitting only two tables away from him on the other side of the frosted glass divider. Peter had no intention of eaves-dropping deliberately, but when the group began to discuss Langley Hall, the recent death of John Sinclair and the missing heiress, loud enough for him to hear every word, he pricked up his ears. Within ten minutes, the couple at the table between himself and the trio stood up and took their leave. Concerned that he might be noticed now, he drained the last of his whiskey, sidled out of his chair, and unobtrusively slipped out through the exit at the far end of the bar. But not before he had gleaned the context of Carlisle’s probing questions.
Now he had something else to worry about.
*
It was mid-morning before Richard awoke next day. He rubbed his eyes sleepily and peered at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and sighed. His tongue looked as if it was covered in fur. ‘Oh, boy,’ he muttered, as he recalled how he had celebrated his good fortune the previous evening. ‘A strong coffee may help, but I think I need a hair of the dog that bit me.’ He gave a little smile, thinking, Thank goodness it’s Saturday and I don’t have to go to the office.
As he showered and shaved, Richard wondered how he should go about obtaining the necessary documents to prove that he was the rightful heir to Langley Hall. Then he recalled his conversation with Nicole. Of course, she knew the ropes, she’d know where to obtain the birth, death and marriage certificates, and anything else he needed, too. But he would have to wait until Monday morning to find out, and that seemed a long way off.
When he wandered into the Wheatsheaf Inn, Richard caught sight of Marc Dalzel sitting on his own at the far end of the bar. He ordered a beer and then joined the fellow golfer. The man made the usual comments about the weather, and then casually remarked that he had heard John Sinclair had been buried.
‘Nice fellow, John,’ Marc said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Always give you the time of day, he would. I did a bit of work for him up there at Langley Hall, you know. Yes, he’d always say hello, not like that Lowestoffe woman, who’s going to inherit the manor. She’s as cold as they come.’
‘So you know a bit about the place?’ Richard said, trying to sound casual. ‘What’s the story about the missing daughter? Do you know what it’s all about?’
Marc glanced idly around the room and then pointed to an elderly man sitting by himself. ‘That’s the fellow to ask. Old Aubrey Mackay knows more about what went on at the manor than anyone in the district. Buy him a few beers and he’ll tell you the whole history of the place, he will.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you. Get him a half of bitter.’
The elderly man looked up as they approached the table.
‘Hello, Aubrey,’ Marc gestured at the empty chairs, ‘Mind if we join you?’
‘No of course not.’ He looked at the beer that was placed in front of him. ‘Is that for me? Thanks.’
‘I was telling Richard that you’re almost an authority on Langley Hall.’
Aubrey acknowledged Marc’s compliment and he was only too happy to talk about the place. He had worked at the estate for many years, and recalled the day when Elizabeth eloped with her soldier boyfriend.
‘There’d been a hell of an argument when he said he wanted to marry Liz,’ Aubrey said, a far-away look in his eyes. ‘The old man threatened to call the police and have him thrown off the property.’ He took a sip of beer. ‘Pretty girl, she was; could have had her pick of all the men for miles around, but she’d set her heart on that young fellow and that was that.’
‘Do you know where they were married?’
‘No, they kept it secret. If the old man had found out he’d have put a stop to it.’ He shook his head. ‘No, they just disappeared into thin air. Of course, everything was topsy-turvy at that time, and that made it easier.’
‘But surely Sir Hugh could have found them. He must have wielded a fair amount of influence with police as lord of the manor.’
‘Rumour had it that they went abroad,’ Aubrey said.
Marc nodded knowingly,
‘A lot of young folks emigrated at the time; maybe they went to Australia or Canada.’
‘Yes, she was a lovely lass,’ Aubrey continued as though Marc had not spoken, ‘but she could be just as stubborn as her father when it suited her.’ He wagged his forefinger. ‘Mind you, I never blamed her for taking off. Sir Hugh was too strict by far.’
‘Do you remember the soldier’s name?’ Richard tried to sound as casual as possible.
‘I’m not sure, but it could’ve been Dick.’ The old man shook his head. ‘It’s a long time ago, and my memory isn’t what it used to be.’ Then he brightened up as he remembered something else. ‘I think he met Liz when he was home on leave for the weekend.’
‘I suppose his folks are dead by now?’
‘Oh, yes, they died years ago, but I have a feeling that a daughter still lives in the family home at Crickleburn.’
‘Do you know whereabouts?’
Aubrey hesitated. ‘I’m not too sure, but I think it was one of the cottages near the old mill.’
After Marc left, Richard thanked the old man for his help, and stopped at the bar on his way out. He handed the barman two tenners. ‘That’s to buy Aubrey Mackay a few beers.’
He could barely contain his excitement as he climbed into the Saab. It was a long shot, but he felt lucky. It was only five miles to Crickleburn; he would be there in ten minutes.
CHAPTER FIVE
The small village of Crickleburn had been divided by a stream many years earlier, but it had long since been covered over to accommodate the growing pressure of traffic. However, the old mill still marked the spot where the water course had run. Whoever converted the building to its present form did a wonderful job of restoration, and the effect was aesthetically pleasing as well as practical. Even the water wheel had been retained and restored to its former glory.
Richard locked the car and walked towards the dwelling, but as he approached the front door he realised it was occupied by a couple with young children. The person he was seeking would be older, much older. He looked across the road at the row of stone cottages. Aubrey Mackay had mentioned something about some houses that had been provided for the people working in the mill. They might the very ones that had been occupied by Dick’s family after the war years.
Although they all looked very much the same, one of them stood out from the rest. The pale apricot walls contrasted with the nondescript colours of the houses on either side and were emphasised by two flower baskets hanging outside the front door. The bright touch of colour also tended to highlight the dark stained wood around the windows and give the whole place a delightful picture-book appearance. The garden was a blaze of colour; full of marigolds, snapdragons, petunias, and blooming shrubs heavily laden with flowers. It was a credit to who ever lived there.
As he continued to admire the display an elderly woman came out the door bearing a watering can. She was dressed in a tweed skirt and donkey brown cardigan and a matching pair of walking shoes that were well worn and cracked with age. Her full head of grey hair was pulled back in a loose bun and held in place by a clip. A pair of half-moon glasses balanced precariously on her nose and seemed to accentuate her twinkling grey eyes.
‘Isn’t it a lovely day,’ she said, smiling warmly.
‘Yes, it certainly is,’ Richard said. ‘You’ve got the right idea, taking advantage of the good weather to get out into the garden.’
The woman made no comment as she tipped water into the baskets, but when she realised that he was still standing on the pavement she stopped.
‘Are you enquiring about the house that’s for sale?’
‘No, I’m just poking around,’ Richard replied. ‘I’ve never driven through this part of the county before although I only live about fifteen minutes away. I have a bungalow on the other side of the old housing estate. It’s rather small, but suits me for the moment. I inherited it when my mother died a few years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ The woman clucked her tongue sympathetically. ‘I’m on my own too. My husband, God rest his soul, passed away the winter before last. He always got worse in the winter. Caught pneumonia in occupied Germany after the war, and it affected his lungs. Dreadful thing, the war.’
‘Those flower baskets really set off the house,’ Richard said, in an effort to change the subject.
But the woman continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Both my brothers went into the army. Couldn’t wait to join up, but they were too late to be in the fighting. Joe was killed when a lorry he was driving overturned during some sort of exercise.’ She sniffed. ‘He was so proud of himself; had a picture taken sitting up behind the wheel, he did. But my favourite brother, Dickie, seemed to lead a charmed life, he came home full of plans for the future, he did.’ A frown crossed her brow. ‘But then he did something stupid: Fell in love with a girl from the manor and they ran away to get married.’
Richard’s pulse quickened. He had to make a conscious effort not to let any excitement temper his words.
‘That’s interesting. I wonder what happened to them?’
‘Oh, they went down to Cornwall. Tried his hand at this and that, but without much success. Years later, his wife wrote to tell me she’d had baby boy; very excited, they were, because they’d been trying for over ten years.’ She paused as if trying to think of something. ‘I can’t remember what they called the child. The next time she wrote was to tell me Dickie had been killed when a tractor rolled on top of him. All his wonderful plans had come to nought and when he finally got the son they wanted he didn’t live long enough to enjoy him. Hardly fair, is it?’
Before he could comment the woman sighed. ‘Well, that’s life isn’t it?’ As she turned to go inside, she paused. ‘I was just about to make a cup of tea, would you like to join me?’
Richard was lost for words for a few moments. Not only had he met his father’s sister, but now she was inviting him into her home - into the very house where his parents had lived when he fell in love with Elisabeth Williams. When he recovered his voice, Richard thanked her, ‘Yes, that would be nice.’ As she led the way into the cosy kitchen he introduced himself. ‘I’m Richard Carlisle.’ He pulled a card from his pocket, it was almost a reflex action when he met someone new, and handed it to her. ‘I’ve got a small electronics business.’
‘What a coincidence,’ the woman remarked, switching on the kettle. ‘My maiden name was Carlisle, Agnes Carlisle, but of course it’s been Frobisher since I married Bert. He and Dickie served in the same regiment, you know.’
‘Tell me about your brother, Dickie,’ Richard said, as casually as he could.
She laughed. ‘A real one for the girls he was. A good looking fellow too, it was no wonder Elizabeth fell for him.’ She filled a plate with biscuits and cut a couple of slices of chocolate cake. ‘I’ve got a picture of him in uniform. I’ll show it to you in a minute.’
‘Who was Elizabeth? Was she the daughter of Sir Hugh Williams?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a snap of her with Dickie, somewhere.’ Agnes Frobisher looked at Richard in amazement. ‘Glory be, you’ve finished your cake already, you must have been hungry. I’ll cut you another slice. I suppose you didn’t have any breakfast and been up the pub all morning.’ She shook her head. ‘I know what you men are like.’
Over the next half-hour, Agnes filled in some of the gaps in Aubrey Mackay’s narrative. She confirmed his story that Elizabeth had met his father when he was home on leave. It was love at first sight, and they arranged to meet clandestinely behind the church after the service within minutes of their first encounter.
‘There was a terrible fuss about it when Sir Hugh found out. Her being his only daughter and all.’ Agnes shook her head as she recalled the incident. ‘I can still see Dickie’s face when he told me her father had threatened him. But, he was adamant that if he served his country like a good citizen, he had the right to marry who he wanted.’ She heaved herself up off the chair and went into another room.
When she returned Agnes handed him two photographs. The first was of a man in uniform, and the other showed him standing beside an attractive, young woman. The woman he recognised instantly as his mother. He nodded politely, forcing himself to stay calm as he looked at this visible proof of his link with Langley Hall. Of course he had seen pictures of his parents before, pictures of his father, but never in uniform.
‘They were a handsome couple,’ he remarked, quietly, handing the photos back to the woman.
As she placed them on the sideboard, Richard suddenly realised that Agnes Frobisher was his aunt. He bit back the desire to explain his relationship with the people in the photos and with her, but he thought it might be better not to
say anything under the present circumstances. Apparently she had not noticed any family resemblance, but then he looked more like his grandfather, Sir Hugh, than his own father. He pulled his mind back to what she was saying.
‘I don’t think Dickie ever saw himself as head of the manor, but it was a pity the way things turned out.’ Agnes poured herself another cup of tea. ‘You wouldn’t think a man would ban his only daughter from the house, would you? But that’s pride for you.’
‘But I heard that he relented later in life.’
‘Too late then wasn’t it? Elizabeth was a chip off the old block, and just as proud and stubborn as her father. She probably never forgave him. Anyway, she’d turned her back on that kind of lifestyle and it would have been difficult to readjust.’ Agnes sighed softly.
‘People don’t let you forget. She’d have had a hard time of it, if I know her family. But of course they’re all dead now, all the older ones, anyway.’
Richard felt very sorry for the woman. She must have been saddened by the whole episode. Reluctantly, he rose to his feet and made an excuse to leave. He shook her hand and had to check himself from kissing her cheek; amazed at the feelings she had generated within him.
‘Thank you so much, Mrs Frobisher,’ he said, with a catch in his voice. ‘You’ve been very kind, and I’ve enjoyed talking with you.’
‘You’ve brightened my day, too,’ Agnes said, patting his hand. ‘Come back and say hello again.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe I’ll have a bigger chocolate cake next time.’
Richard waved again as he climbed into his car and watched the old lady close the door before putting the key in the ignition. I must come back and visit her again, he thought, when everything is settled; after all, she was the only link he had to his late father. He sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, unsure of what to do next. His mind turned to Catherine Lowestoffe and Peter Hamblyn.
He wondered what they would do if they knew how close he was to claiming his inheritance. Richard was not overly concerned about Peter Hamblyn, but Catherine was a different kettle of fish all together. She would probably fight tooth and nail to hang on to the estate.