The Shadow of Langley Hall

by Dilys Xavier

  *

  Catherine was waiting for Peter when he arrived back at Langley Hall later that afternoon.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. ‘Louise said you had gone before she’d came down for breakfast. I thought you were going to take her to the hairdressers. She had to take a taxi into town and back again.’

  ‘She can afford it, and anyway I had other things to do,’ Peter retorted. ‘I’ve got problems enough without worrying about your gossipy cousin, or rather I should have said, we’ve got problems.’ He paused to let his words sink in.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Catherine grabbed his arm. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘When I called into the Wheatsheaf for a drink, Carlisle was there. He was asking all kinds of questions about this place, about you and all the rest of it.’ Peter related what he had overheard of the conversation between the two men and Richard Carlisle. ‘It doesn’t bode well for either of us.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t like the sound of it at all. Not one little bit.’ Catherine fiddled absent-mindedly with the long string of honey coloured amber beads around her neck. ‘He’s up to something. It worries me that he invited himself into the manor the way he did. Do you think he had any idea he was related to Papa?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘When I think of him looking at that portrait on the day of Cousin John’s funeral it sends shivers down my spine. He’s so like Papa, right down to the lazy eyelid. It’s uncanny.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, sarcastically. ‘Those physical traits can miss a generation and be handed on to the grandchildren. I’ve seen it all too often. He may be the cause of my losing all of this.’ She gestured at their spacious surroundings. ‘I’m accustomed to living in style; I want it to stay that way.’

  Peter walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. He tried to appear calm, but his stomach felt tightly knotted. This was all he needed on top of the morning’s disastrous episode with Murphy. He was just about to top up the glass when Catherine stopped him.

  ‘What else is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ he replied, shaking her hand off.

  ‘It’s got something to do with those men you employ to bring things back from Europe, hasn’t it? What are you importing that warrants you sending vans over there every day of the week?’ She peered at him closely. ‘You haven’t got mixed up in anything illegal, have you? She slipped her hand into his. ‘Surely your income from this place is sufficient. There’s no need for you to continue with any other business activities, is there?’

  Peter choked back a sob as he caught a glimpse of real affection in her eyes.

  ‘Apart from the fact that we need each other, I’m quite fond of you Peter,’ Catherine said, softly. ‘I wouldn’t like to see you hurt.’ Then she told him about Cecile’s suggestion. ‘I’ve already invited a few others, and I’m sure Mr Richard Carlisle won’t pass on the opportunity to attend.’ As Peter nodded his head she squeezed his fingers. ‘Would you like to invite your sister, Anna?’

  After Catherine left the room, Peter sank down onto a nearby chair. Yes, she was right; his association with Murphy wasn’t worth the risk. But how was he going to extricate himself? The Irishman knew that he couldn’t afford to be involved in anything illegal, and that he would do everything possible to quash any charges that might arise out of the man’s activities.

  ‘I’m their insurance policy,’ he muttered.

  Like Catherine, he had become accustomed to their lifestyle, and he didn’t want to lose it either. He had convinced himself that what he had done was for their common good. After all if he didn’t want to be seen as Catherine’s consort, he needed to be financially independent.

  Peter had always envied Catherine; everything seemed to fall into her lap. In fact this was the first time he’d ever seen her concerned that the estate was going to be taken away from her. Concerned wasn’t a strong enough word - she was almost paranoid. He sighed. Maybe the threat of losing Langley Hall had made her feel more dependent upon him; maybe that’s why she had shown she cared about him; maybe she could love him for himself.

  And what about Anna? His sister was nearly twenty years younger than himself. She had been born when their parents were in their mid-forties, and they all but idolised her. Against their better judgement they had allowed her to move into a shared house while she completed the last year at college, but only because Peter had promised to keep an eye on her.

  She was delightfully naïve, but her boyfriends seemed to respect her youthful innocence. However, he still worried about her because he knew how easily young girls could be led astray, become sexually promiscuous, or be introduced into the drug scene. He shuddered as he recalled that, in all possibility, he was now involved in that criminal activity.

  As he poured himself another drink, Louise came into the room.

  ‘Ah, Peter, I wonder if you could find time to do something for me?’ she asked, in a simpering tone. ‘Catherine’s just told me about the dinner party, and I didn’t bring anything with me that’s suitable for the occasion. Fortunately, I found a lovely dress this morning, but it has to be altered. Can you pick it up for me on Tuesday?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be happy to do that for you, Louise.’

  ‘Catherine’s invited that nice Mr Carlisle to the dinner party, too. He’s such a charming man, I shall look forward to talking with him again.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘I’m sure you’ll both have a lot in common.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Almost mindless of the traffic around him, Richard mentally reviewed the events of the past few hours as he drove home. His whole world had changed dramatically during the past few hours. If he hadn’t dropped into the Wheatsheaf for a drink and struck up a conversation with Marc Dalzel he would not had the chance to talk to Aubrey Mackay. And if he hadn’t driven to Crickleburn, he would never have met Agnes Frobisher. It had made it possible for him to have a lot of questions answered in a very short time. What had started as a chance encounter in the pub had ended up with an enlightening conversation with his father’s sister. It was quite an incredible turn of events.

  His modest bungalow seemed strangely cold when he opened the front door. It had to be his imagination, but nevertheless he gave an involuntary shiver. After making a cup of coffee he sat down on the sofa and opened the morning newspaper, glanced at the headlines, leafed through the sports pages, and then cast it aside. Unable to concentrate on anything, he rifled through the morning’s mail, re-checked his answer phone and then switched on the television. There was nothing that interested him so he turned it off again. Then he laughed aloud.

  ‘I’m too excited about everything, that’s the problem.’

  Unable to decide what to do he walked into the study and booted up the computer to see if there were any e-mails. He sighed noisily as he scanned through the messages that had been downloaded. Most were either unsolicited letters, or queries that he did not feel like answering. Deleting the rubbish, he stared blankly at the screen and then shut the machine down. He had to do something to occupy his mind, get out of the house, go somewhere; to a restaurant or a cinema.

  All his attempts to make a date for the evening had come to nothing. One after another, his casual girlfriends said thanks, but no thanks. Every one of them had a prior engagement. He thumbed through an old address book, desperately trying to find someone else to phone. Heidi?

  No, not after what she did on the last date. Liza? Drinks too much. Jennifer? Hmm, maybe - no, she never knows when to shut up. Richard threw the book back on the table in exasperation.

  ‘Hells bells, there isn’t anyone ... ah, yes of course. Helen.’ He picked up the phone, convinced that she’d be delighted to have dinner with him that evening. Then he stopped. She would take it as an open invitation to resume their relationship and that was inviting trouble.

  For a brief
moment he was tempted to have a snack at the golf club, but ruled out that idea straight away. He would probably drink too much and might be tempted to say something he might regret later. Disconsolately, he dialled the local Chinese takeaway and placed an order. When it arrived, he settled down in front of the television and watched the re-run of a film before catching up on the all the sports news.

  By the time he’d consumed a couple more beers he was ready for bed. As he lay back against the pillows he reflected on the day’s events, and felt pleased that he’d stayed at home after all, because in his excited state of mind he may have inadvertently blurted out something about his claim on Langley Hall. That would really let the cat out of the bag.

  He was convinced that Catherine Lowestoffe would do everything in her power to make sure he did not succeed, whether by legal means or otherwise. Of course, he couldn’t blame her for that, as she had too much to lose. Anyway, he would probably do the same if the roles were reversed; he would fight tooth and nail to stop it happening.

  As he switched out the light, he recalled his mother’s favourite saying whenever he had badgered her for an answer to what he considered a pressing problem. She always said, ‘Everything works itself out in the end’.

  *

  When the peaceful morning was shattered by the insidious noise of a motor mower being started, Peter looked up from his breakfast. Why was Dave Straw cutting the lawns on a Sunday? Then he remembered. The man was a keen bowls player and he often arranged to work weekends in lieu of a day off during the week so that he could play in mid-week tournaments.

  The craggy faced gardener shut off the engine as Peter approached.

  ‘Morning, guv,’ he said, and swallowed awkwardly, ‘I expect you’ve come to tell me to cut down on the noise?’

  ‘No, it’s okay, Dave. I’d just forgotten that you were working today.’ He looked around the gardens. ‘It’s a lovely day to be outside, anyway.’ Then he laughed. ‘You’re outdoors every day aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and on my days off, I play bowls.’ The gardener swallowed again. ‘Er, I hope it’s all right, but I brought the wife’s young brother with me. He’s computer mad; sits in front of the thing all day. Betty suggested that he come with me and get some fresh air and a bit of exercise.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  When the man called, ‘Where are you, Gerald?’ a gangly youth appeared from behind some bushes. ‘This is the governor, Mr Hamblyn. Say hello to him.’

  The lad rubbed his pimply face and muttered a hello.

  ‘I’m not into computer games myself, but I’ve heard they can be quite addictive,’ Peter said, in an endeavour to be friendly. ‘I’ve neither the time nor patience to persevere with them, I’m afraid.’

  Dave excused himself, restarted the mower and headed off across the lawn leaving Peter and Gerald alone.

  The lad rubbed his face again, self-consciously, as if waiting for Peter to speak. Then he blurted out, ‘I don’t spend a lot of time playing games, it’s more fun surfing the net.’ He made a feeble attempt to laugh. ‘Of course, I can’t spend as much time on it as I’d like to because Mum complains about the phone bill, but I think I can get around that now.’

  ‘What? You mean you bypass the telephone company accounting system?’

  Gerald gave an awkward laugh. ‘Don’t suppose I should tell you, but I think I’ve found out how to send a signal down the line that indicates that I’m off-line, even when I’m still connected.’ His voice held a note of pride. ‘Don’t tell Uncle Dave, will you? He gets a bit funny about things like that.’

  ‘So you’re a hacker?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Gerald, proudly. ‘I’ve got into some interesting places.’ He looked anxiously at Peter. ‘But I don’t do any harm, Mr Hamblyn. I don’t change anyone’s programmes or anything like that.’ He dropped his voice. ‘It’s only a bit of fun, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll keep your secret.’

  Intrigued by the boy’s disclosure Peter asked him to explain just how he was able to hack into someone’s computer. Unable to resist the opportunity to boast of his exploits, Gerald explained the intricacies of his nightly forays. As the boy continued to talk, Peter wondered if he could use the lad’s knowledge and expertise.

  ‘So how easy is it to hack into someone’s computer?’ he enquired, as if he was just curious about the procedure. ‘Say you wanted to get into my computer, for instance, how would you find out the name of my server or email address?’

  ‘Oh, there’s lots of ways,’ Gerald said, with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Most times I just try my luck and see what comes up. But the guys who are serious use a person’s credit card number, or something else like that.’ He gave a high pitched laugh. ‘There’s lots of ways of finding out people’s details.’

  Just as Peter was about to question the boy further, Catherine called to him. As he headed back across to the lawn, he thought about the lad’s disclosure, and wondered why he felt strangely excited by what he had learned. Maybe he could ... could what? It didn’t matter for the moment, but he felt sure that the knowledge would be helpful in the future.

  Catherine was half way to the stables when he caught up with her.

  ‘Louise wants to have a pub lunch, although I can’t understand why. I told her that Julia’s sister is quite a good cook and I’m sure she can do a roast dinner, but to no avail. Can you suggest somewhere?’

  ‘The Wheatsheaf Inn is the closest and I’ve been told the Sunday menu is reasonably good.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘Apart from that I can’t think of anywhere else that won’t be full of football fans swilling lager and yelling advice to their team.’

  ‘Will you come with us? I’ll feel more comfortable if you’re there.’

  Peter hesitated. ‘No ... I don’t think so. No, I’ll grab a sandwich or something light. I’ve been drinking too much lately.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘I’m probably still over the limit from yesterday. I can’t afford to lose my licence.’ When Catherine protested, he shook his head. ‘You can’t go to the pub and drink orange juice: I can’t anyway. No, you go off with Louise, I’ll be okay.’

  *

  Richard bounced out of bed the next morning, flung open the window and smiled at the new day. He felt extremely pleased with himself. The conversations of the previous day with Aubrey Mackay and Agnes Frobisher had filled his dreams. In his state of fantasy he had presented their testimonies along with all the other evidence of his rightful claim to Langley Hall, and had seen the court find in his favour.

  He had seen himself drive up to the house, throw open the door, and announce his arrival to the stunned occupants. Of course, Richard knew that it was a most unlikely scenario, but the idea made him chuckle. However, there was still a lot to do before anything remotely like that would become a reality.

  The Sunday papers carried the story of another cache of explosives found in a London suburb, and precious little else. He turned to the sports pages. More bad news for the struggling Jordan team; another sponsor had backed out of a deal at the last moment.. He flung the paper aside and picked up the phone book. There were a few Frobishers listed but only one at Crickleburn. It had to be Agnes. But even as he began to dial the number he knew it was not the right time to contact her again; better to stick to his original plan.

  He glanced at his watch. It might be a good idea to go to the office and catch up on some of the work he should have done on Friday. Nicole had probably piled his desk high with correspondence that needed attention and left scribbled notes to remind him what was what. Yes, he mused, it would be better to get on top of it today and start the week with a clear desk. Slipping on a clean pair of chinos, he shrugged himself into a light jacket and picked up the car keys.

  He had a quiet morning on his own there, and he got through a lot of work, but when he finally laid aside the last document, he was surprised to see that it was nearly one o’clock. Switching off the computer, he let himself out of the buildin
g and climbed into the Saab. As he drove out of the parking lot, he mentally tossed up whether he should go to the golf club or call into a pub for a bite to eat. He really wasn’t in the mood to play golf, even though it was a lovely day.

  The first pub he stopped at was full of football fans, clutching pints of lager as they stared at the giant television screen. He turned around and headed towards the The Wheatsheaf Inn; it would be reasonably quiet there.

  *

  Catherine waited until Louise had clipped her seat belt and then headed in the general direction of the pub Peter had recommended. She hesitated before she swung into the car park of The Wheatsheaf Inn as if unsure whether she had come to the right place. Then she saw a sign depicting a farm worker cutting a sheaf of wheat with an old fashioned sickle. She turned to Louise, ‘Apparently this place has a reputation for good food.’ She gestured at the number of parked cars. ‘I hope there’s a vacant table. Would you like to try the restaurant or shall we have a meal in the bar?’

  ‘Oh, let’s go into the bar,’ Louise said, decisively. ‘I much prefer the atmosphere of a public bar. I like all the noise and banter.’

  Catherine sighed. ‘Well, at least it won’t be as dingy as some of the pubs in your part of the world. I don’t know how anyone can put up with the smell of spilt beer and stale cigarette smoke; it can be quite overpowering at times. And with all those scruffy old men propping up the bar, I always found it a bit off-putting.’

  ‘Oh, you get used to it after a while,’ Louise said, lightly. ‘Of course if you like pseudo coaching inns with do-it-yourself antique horsy bits and pieces then you’re in the right country. But our pubs are full of character, they don’t look like picture postcards. No, give me a good old Irish pub any day.’

  They had just sat down and ordered a drink when Richard Carlisle walked into the bar.

  ‘Oh, look there’s that nice Mr. Carlisle,’ Louise said catching sight of him. ‘Let’s ask him to join us.’ Before Catherine could object, she had called out to him. ‘Yoo-hoo, Mr, Carlisle.’