The Shadow of Langley Hall

by Dilys Xavier

  Liselle was delighted to hear from her and wanted to know what she had been up to since they last talked. Before they said goodbye, she chided Cecile for trying to juggle too many men at the same time.

  ‘But I enjoy the challenge. I like the excitement. Besides I haven’t met any one man who can provide for all my needs.’ As she put the phone down she added the words, ‘but of course I could be wrong.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Although Joshua Browning would not have looked out of place in a rugby scrum his skill as defence lawyer was formidable. After shaking Peter’s hand, he got straight down to business. At the end of their discussion it was quite clear that he could counter any awkward questions the police might ask. When Peter suggested that he should move back to his own apartment to save Catherine any embarrassment, the solicitor advised him to remain at Langley Hall for the time being.

  They were taking their tea when the detectives arrived. After Catherine had shown the police officers into the drawing room, she retired to her own apartment. She wanted it to be obvious that she was not involved in the matter and wanted no part in the proceedings.

  Detective Sergeant George Howells began by reading out the statement Peter made when he was first interviewed. The officer also referred to a copy of the constable’s notes and the obvious discrepancies in a later testimony. When he had finished, the detective produced the government analyst’s report.

  It stated that the substance found in the car was heroin.

  ‘Would you care to explain how the drug got there?’ D.S. Howells asked. He glanced sideways at his companion, D.C. Frankie Butterworth, who had just opened his notebook. ‘I must warn you to be careful what you say because your accounts of the incident have been riddled with inconsistencies.’

  Peter looked from one detective to the other and then turned to Joshua Browning. When the solicitor nodded he began his narrative. Carefully, and with deliberate slowness, he started by explaining how he had visited the garages and seen Murphy return with the sachet of heroin. He spoke of his angry reproach and their subsequent heated argument. Then he related how the Irishman and another man had attacked and beaten him almost senseless.

  ‘I don’t know why I snatched the plastic bag out of his hand,’ Peter said, shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘Maybe I saw it as an opportunity to have a hold over him. You know, use it to compromise him.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that, Mr Hamblyn? What did you hope to achieve by your actions?’

  Once again Peter looked towards his solicitor, and once again the man nodded.

  ‘I suspected that he was running drugs, or intended to at some point,’ Peter replied, hesitantly. ‘I suppose it might be better if I start right at the beginning, when I first met Murphy in the pub.’

  Over the next twenty minutes, Peter described how he had agreed to finance the Irishman’s operation, how the man had exploited him, and eventually threatened him with violence. He went on to explain why he had taken the risk, citing his failing import business and the increasing problems with the Inland Revenue department. Finally, he told them that the bank had intended to withdraw his overdraft.

  ‘I’d have been declared bankrupt.’

  The two detectives continued to take copious notes as they questioned him at length. They asked where the garages were located, who else was involved, and then took a description of Murphy and his companions. As Frankie Butterworth snapped his notebook shut, D.S. Howells rose to his feet.

  ‘I shall have to confer with my superior,’ he said, ‘and see whether he intends to press charges. Technically, you have restricted the course of justice, but under the circumstances that may be waived.’ He looked at the solicitor and then at Peter. ‘I shall ask you not to leave the premises until I have contacted you again. It might be wise to have Mr Browning present at that time.’

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ Peter’s voice barely concealed his tearful anxiety.

  ‘No, but I can’t rule out that possibility at some later date.’ D.S. Howells motioned to his companion that it was time to leave. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  As they moved towards the door Peter called them back and asked that, if at all possible, his relationship with Catherine and his role as manager of the estate be kept private.

  ‘I don’t want Miss Lowestoffe implicated in any way.’

  ‘We’ll pass on your request, but I can’t make any promises.’

  After they had gone, Joshua tried to assure Peter that the situation was not as bad as it seemed, but his words fell on deaf ears; he could not be comforted. Shortly afterwards he escorted the solicitor to the door and thanked him once again for coming at such short notice. When he returned to the drawing room, he dropped down onto the sofa and sat staring into space until the maid knocked timidly on the door.

  ‘Shall I clear the tray now, Mr Hamblyn?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, and tell Miss Lowestoffe that I’d like to talk to her.’

  Catherine joined him soon afterwards.

  ‘Are you all right, Peter?’ she asked, sitting down beside him and clasping his hand. ‘What did Mr Browning say, is everything going to be okay?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. Then at her insistence Peter related what had taken place. Even though he had been advised to stay put, he reiterated his intention to move back into his old apartment as soon as possible, so that his name would not be linked to Langley Hall should there be any publicity about the matter. He sighed noisily. ‘I daresay the media will find out sooner than later; we’re well known to them. They’ll splash our names all over the front page of the local papers like they did when they covered Cousin John’s funeral.’

  ‘But I don’t like the idea of your being alone,’ Catherine said. ‘Isn’t there somewhere else you can go? What about your parents? Surely you could go there for a week or two?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Peter agreed, reluctantly. ‘But I don’t want the press banging on their door, either.’ He passed a hand over his face. ‘I’ll wait until they take the stitches out first; by that time I’ll probably know what the police are going to do.’

  *

  When he arrived home that evening, Richard gathered up the mail lying on the floor behind the front door and sorted through it quickly. Tom Clancy’s letterhead caught his eye. He had not expected to hear from him so quickly; maybe he was trying to make up for his former tardiness. He tore open the letter, glanced at the figure and nodded; it was reasonable. The builder stated that he was unable to commit himself to a definite date at the present time, but hoped that he would be able to fit the job in before the end of the month. Dropping the letter on the table, Richard wandered into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and as he reached for a mug, he pondered his situation.

  Should he go ahead with the work or not? After all he would probably sell the house anyway. Was it worth the effort? Did he want to put up with the inconvenience of having the place pulled apart? In the end he picked up the phone, and called the builder.

  ‘When will you be able to start work?’

  ‘Like I said,’ Tom Clancy replied, ‘I’m snowed under right now. It’s impossible to give you a definite date at the moment. It’ll be at least three to four weeks before I’m in a position to even think about it.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ As they spoke, Richard gazed absentmindedly at the old bureau that stood against the wall he wanted removed. ‘It’s just that I’ll need to make some arrangements in case I’m on the road when you come,’ he added.

  ‘I’ll give you a call next week to let you know how things are going, okay?’

  Richard continued to stare at the wall after he switched off the phone. He had thought about enlarging the room ever since his mother died, but for one reason or other had not gone ahead with the idea. Elisabeth had preferred to have an anteroom between the entrance and the sitting room, but to his mind it was just a pokey little alcove that was made even smaller by the bureau his mother had inherited from her aunt. She was fond of it,
and so it had occupied pride of place from day one.

  On the few occasions that he had thought to get rid of it, his mother’s words would ring in his ears; ‘I leave it there to remind me of Aunt Judith. If she hadn’t left me the house, we would have had a very hard time of things.’ Of course it was a reminder to him as well, so he felt obliged to keep it.

  However he would have to find another place for it now. He opened the flap and stared at the profusion of old letters, circulars and other odds and ends that had he stuffed in there over the years. They would have to be sorted out before it was moved, but not today. As he closed the lid, the phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Richard.’ Cecile’s sultry voice seemed to ooze out of the phone . ‘I’ve just phoned to say how much I’m looking forward to the weekend. It’ll be nice to get away somewhere quiet, away from the hustle and bustle of this place.’

  ‘And the possibility of meeting someone we might not want to run into.’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘Everything’s organised. Now all we have to do is wait until Friday.’

  ‘That seems a long way off.’

  ‘Well, let’s have dinner on Wednesday evening. We could go to Gambini’s.’ When she agreed, Richard suggested that he should call for her at about seven o’clock. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you then.’

  He switched off the phone and smiled to himself. She had seemed excited about their planned weekend in Guernsey. Richard had to admit that he was just as eager, and wondered what would be the outcome of their vacation. For the first time in years he felt that he might have found someone with whom he could form a lasting relationship. ‘We’ll see,’ he murmured. ‘It’s early days yet.’

  In the meantime, he had a great deal of work to do.

  The next morning he found his desk was littered with notes from Nicole that she felt he should handle personally. They all wanted urgent replies. Things had moved on since his successful trip to Leicester. The order he received from Fullers Electric seemed to have started the ball rolling; now everyone wanted to know more about the new piece of equipment he had helped develop.

  His concentration was broken when he heard the postman talking to Nicole. He walked to the doorway and looked questioningly at her as she sorted through the mail. She shook her head.

  ‘Still nothing,’ she replied to his unspoken question.

  Richard drew in his breath and slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand.

  ‘I suppose we should have sent a recorded letter, then we’d have known when it was delivered. Is there any other way of finding out if they’ve received our letter, other than phoning the departments who will issue the documents?’

  ‘Not really.’ Nicole hesitated for a minute. ‘I could find out if the bank has cleared your cheque. Then we’d know if they’re handling your application.’

  ‘Okay, that’s a good idea. Let me know when you’ve found out anything.’

  Once the day’s work was over he relaxed at home for a while before going over to see to Cecile. When she opened the door to him he almost gasped. She was wearing a sheaf dress, not unlike the one she had worn when they first met, but this one was a deep burnt orange. The almost plain accessories seemed to embellish the garment and draw attention to her exquisitely styled hair. As his admiring gaze swept down to her feet and back again, she smiled.

  Resisting the impulse to embrace and kiss her, Richard lifted her fingers to his lips as he breathed in the subtle, but heady perfume she wore. It conjured up sensuous images of dusky maidens that once inhabited the mystical world of ancient Arabia. Just a sufficient hint of musk to be enticing, but not enough to be overpowering.

  ‘You look absolutely stunning, Cecile.’

  ‘Thank you. Come in, I won’t be more than a few minutes.’ She closed the door behind him and gently touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. ‘You’re a very persuasive man, Richard.’

  Gambini’s restaurant had a special atmosphere. The dark drapes and deep plush red carpet were offset by strategically placed smoky mirrors that ingeniously reflected the subdued lighting. The effect was not only seductive, but also highly conducive to ensuring that the patrons felt pampered and special. The menu was changed regularly, the food always superlative, and the service equally good. An evening at Gambini’s was usually unforgettable.

  Richard was very particular as to whom he brought to the restaurant. He wanted it to be memorable for him too, so he only went there when it was for a specific occasion, or if the woman was very special. Helen was the only woman he had regretted bringing to the place, because although she appreciated the sensuality of their surroundings, she had been out of her depth and it showed. But he did not need to concern himself about Cecile; she would instinctively know how to conduct herself at all times.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Carlisle.’ The waiter led them to a secluded corner and pulled out the chairs. He placed two menus on the table. ‘Shall I ask the wine waiter to attend to you now, sir?’

  After he had gone, Richard handed Cecile a menu. She laid it down on the table and smiled. ‘You choose for us both. I want to see if you know what appeals to me.’

  After the wine waiter had taken his order, Richard scanned the pages of the menu.

  ‘Avocado Guacomole for a starter? Or maybe a salad of baby cos with seared scallops.’ Richard saw the hint of a smile form on her lips. ‘This looks interesting; grilled lamb chops with boiled cabbage and mashed potatoes. No, only joking. Let’s have Roast Pheasant in Red Wine, that should be more to our taste.’

  ‘And for dessert?’

  ‘Treacle pudding with a big dollop of clotted cream and a bowl of custard on the side.’ He tried hard to keep the laughter out of his voice. ‘But we’d better stick to pancakes with brandied cherries and sour cream.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Cecile said, joining in his laughter. ‘I really fancied some treacle pudding.’

  Richard chose a light New Zealand white wine to accompany the first course, and Cabernet Sauvignon from the Hunter Valley in New South Wales to supplement the pheasant. They finished the meal with coffee and Drambue. It was well after eleven o’clock when they left the restaurant and drove back to Cecile’s apartment.

  She handed him the key and waited for him to open the door.

  ‘You’re not in a rush to go home are you?’ The timbre of her voice suggested a cosy drink to be followed by an equally intimate time ahead in her bedroom.

  ‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag me away from you tonight,’ he whispered, removing the white stole from around her shoulders almost as soon as they got inside. ‘I can’t remember when any woman stirred me the way you do. But, let’s not rush things, let’s enjoy all we do together.’

  Richard had barely taken a sip of his drink, when Cecile rose to her feet and pulled on his hand.

  ‘Bring it with you.’ She led the way into her bedroom, shedding clothes as she went, so that by the time he had reached her side she was wearing only a pair of skimpy briefs. ‘You can take those off,’ she murmured into his hair.

  Just before dawn, he eased himself out of the bed, and gently kissed Cecile’s forehead before retrieving his clothes off the chair. Taking one last look at her he quickly dressed and made his way out of the apartment, smiling broadly. The sheer exhilaration of their lovemaking, the intimacy of their togetherness, and the total feeling of excitement, far exceeded anything he had ever experienced with a woman before. Ever.

  He was still wearing a smug expression when he walked into the office an hour later.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When George Howells and his off-sider walked back into the police station, the duty sergeant nodded towards the door at the far end of the passage.

  ‘The governor wants to see you two.’

  Chief Inspector Jones looked up as they entered the room and pulled the briar pipe from his mouth. He pointed the stem at the senior detective.

  ‘Well, what’s the story?’

  ‘It’s messy, but I don�
�t think Hamblyn’s involved with drugs.’ The sergeant glanced at his companion. ‘Frankie and I think he was set up by this guy, Murphy, and didn’t know what he was letting himself in for.’ The Detective Sergeant went on to relate the context of their interview and concluded with the statement. ‘Like I say, Hamblyn’s just a smook.’

  ‘Do we have anything on this Murphy fellow?’

  DC Butterworth hesitated for a moment before he answered.

  ‘We haven’t been able to connect him with anything, but we’ve pulled in his mate for questioning a couple of times. That’s the one known as Brucie. He’s a nasty bit of work. Almost beat another guy to pulp during a brawl at the Rising Sun last year, but his brief got him off the hook.’

  ‘Nothing else?’ Jones’ tone of voice was brusque.

  ‘No, not at the moment, but we can have a talk with Murphy, see what he’s up to.’

  The Inspector knocked the dottle out of his pipe and then returned his gaze to the two detectives. ‘No, not yet. I’ve had a whisper about a chap flogging illicit booze around the car boot sales. My informant has seen the same fellow talking to a drug pusher, so it looks as if the story is true. This Murphy fellow probably feels pretty confident that Hamblyn won’t report him to the police for fear of incriminating himself.’

  He pointed the stem of his pipe at Frankie Butterworth.

  ‘You go down there on your own. Have a poke around the industrial estate; pretend you’re looking for a lock-up to rent. Don’t ask too many questions, just keep your eyes open and get the layout of the place.’

  As he refilled his pipe, Inspector Jones turned to the detective sergeant.

  ‘Work out how many men you’ll need to seal off the area, but don’t do anything else until you clear it with me.’ As they turned to go, he called out. ‘And don’t let it be known that you’ve been to Langley Hall; in fact it’ll be better to keep away from Hamblyn for the time being. We don’t want any nosy reporters putting two and two together.’