by crime The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery
‘First we shall show you to your room so you can freshen up after your journey. Then I will introduce you to Sir Lambert-Chide.
Two monolithic pillars in Bath stone flanked and dwarfed them. The place was awe-inspiring. ‘How the other half live,’ said Gareth as the walked up the stone steps.
‘Quite,’ said Tremain, guiding Gareth through the open doors into an impressively spacious entrance hallway laid out with shining black and white marble tiles, marble pillars shooting up to ornately painted ceilings from which dripped fabulous crystal chandeliers. The marble walls were lined with formal portraits and a number of finely carved Romanesque statues looked down on them from their lofty plinths.
This wasn’t how the other half lived, Gareth thought; this was how the other half of the other half lived. Gattenby House positively screamed enormous wealth, power and privilege.
‘As I mentioned on the phone, you will be able to avail yourself of the many facilities we have here during your stay with us,’ said Tremain, his hand indicating for Gareth to take a staircase that seemed to have come straight from a movie set. ‘We have three swimming pools, two gymnasiums, a number of tennis courts and two state-of-the-art digital cinemas. Sir Lambert-Chide has made them all available to you.’ He turned to his rather dumbstruck guest. ‘This is a special honour, Mr Davies. This is not a hotel,’ he said, driving the fact home. ‘Few people get to see inside Gattenby House.’
‘I’m sure I shall be eternally grateful,’ said Gareth. ‘I do so dislike hotels.’ He found he had taken an instant dislike to the man. There was something in Tremain’s eyes that said the feeling was mutual.
Gareth’s room was equally elegant. Oak-lined walls, antique furniture smelling sweetly of beeswax, ultra-thick carpets that muffled the sound of his footsteps, landscape paintings on the walls, and a slab of a bed that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Palace of Versailles. The view from the large window was a fabulous sweeping vista of ornate gardens held together by finely trimmed hedges, a large circular stone fountain with a statue in its centre, and beyond these the manicured curves, rises and gentle valleys of a vast estate disappearing into the winter fug of distance as night began to pull its blanket over the landscape.
He felt he could have stepped out of a time machine and into another era altogether. It felt totally removed from the modern world, unnerving and fascinating at the same time.
His overnight bag was already on a chair by the bed. How it had gotten there before him he never worked out. Perhaps he had deliberately been taken the longer, more scenic route to hammer home Lambert-Chide’s importance.
‘Dinner will be seven o’clock prompt,’ said Tremain as he stood at the door. ‘Sir Lambert-Chide expects punctuality, but don’t worry, I will arrange for someone to come and collect you. Don’t want you getting lost, do we?’ he added.
‘Heaven forbid,’ said Gareth.
He took a shower and sat down to watch TV – one of two concessions to modern technology, the other being a telephone. The six o’clock news was on and he instantly recognised DCI Stafford and turned up the volume. He was still asking for witnesses and a photo flashed up on screen, the same he’d shown Gareth of the Polish woman. They named her this time. He noticed there were details of the murder deliberately being kept back. No mention again of the strange symbol. Mention again of the dismemberment but no mention of the arrangement of the body parts. It was shocking enough, even for six o’clock.
He dressed for dinner and was standing ready when there was a knock at the door. What he wasn’t expecting to see was a beautiful young woman, long blonde hair reaching down to settle on her upper chest, a great deal of it revealed by the low-cut neckline of a stunning blue dress. She smiled sweetly at him. A kid really, he thought, no more than twenty-four, twenty-five max; even the heavy makeup couldn’t hide her youth.
‘Mr Davies,’ she said, her voice chiming with culture and confidence, ‘I have been sent to collect you.’ She gave a light chuckle. ‘That rather makes you sound like a parcel, I do apologise!’
‘Please call me Gareth,’ he said. Her perfume wasn’t your off-the-shelf Boots brands, he thought idly, and he guessed the bangle studded through with shining white stones was not costume jewellery.
‘Gareth,’ she echoed. ‘Gareth it is. Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am Helen Lambert-Chide.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you. Daughter? Granddaughter?’
‘Neither. I am David Lambert-Chide’s wife,’ she said, smiling at his discomfort.
* * * *
25
The King of Terrors
He was guided by Helen Lambert-Chide down the staircase and eventually taken into a spacious though comfortable-looking room. It had its fair share of opulence – antiques, wood panels, crazily long brocaded curtains closed against the dark outside; a mammoth stone fireplace with logs crackling and spitting in a black iron grate. It had all these things and yet somehow did not feel in the least threatening. There was, surprisingly, plenty of contemporary works on display, from bronzes to paintings, ceramics to stone carving. The room was far less starchy or intimidating than the grand entrance hallway, he thought.
As they entered the room a man rose slowly from his chair. Gareth’s first impressions of David Lambert-Chide were mixed. At first glance he looked every bit as old as his ninety-odd years said he should; his frame was thin, bent and frail, supported by an ebony walking stick topped off with a silver knob; he had a waxen face heavily carved by lines and creased into folds by the years from which pale watery eyes peered; he had no hair save a prickling of white at the top of his ears, and no discernable lips to speak of. When he held his hand out to shake Gareth’s he noticed how skeletal it was, with veins standing out like thin threads of blue wire.
But his grip was unexpectedly firm and he pumped Gareth’s hand up and down with energy.
‘Good evening, Mr Davies,’ he said, the voice not that of a frail old man at all. His eyes also lit up when he smiled and his face took on an altogether more youthful, timeless look. ‘I’m so glad you could come to Gattenby House. You have met my wife, of course,’ he said as she came to his side. He snaked a spindly arm around her slender waist. ‘Take a seat, Mr Davies,’ he said. ‘We must talk. I find it builds an appetite.’
‘I will leave you to it then,’ said Helen, once more passing Gareth a luscious smile before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
‘Please call me Gareth,’ he said, taking a seat opposite him. He watched as the old man lowered himself gently into his own chair. It seemed there was pain in his knees; he gave a glimmer of a grimace. It soon passed.
‘And please call me David,’ he insisted. He offered Gareth a drink from a range of spirits laid out on a table by his side. ‘I can recommend the Highland malt,’ he said, pouring out two glasses without waiting for a response. He handed over the glass. Gareth didn’t argue.
‘Firstly, I’d like to thank you for finding the brooch.’ He sat back, the hand holding the glass shaking a little.
‘I can’t really take any credit for it. It sort of fell into my possession, so to speak. You obviously value it very much.’
‘I value it more than you appreciate. ‘Did you think my wife attractive?’ he asked out of the blue.
The question took him very much by surprise. ‘Why yes, she’s a very attractive woman.’
‘My fourth,’ he said, his face dropping serious for a moment. ‘Possibly my last. But who knows?’ He drained his glass. ‘You’re not married, Gareth?’
‘Is it that obvious? You’re right, I live on my own.’
‘Escaping a wife or escaping marriage altogether?’
‘Not given it much thought,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, marriage is an almost outdated institution these days, according to some. It doesn’t guarantee you love.’
‘Or trust,’ he said. ‘A word of advice, Gareth; never trust a woman. Take it from a man with long experience of them.’ The fac
e was deadpan. Gareth couldn’t make out what was going on behind those pale eyes. Then he smiled, largely Gareth guessed, at his bemused reaction to the bald statement. ‘Do you think my wife too young for me?’ he asked. Again the question came from left of field.
‘That’s not for me to say,’ he returned guardedly. ‘It’s no business of mine.’
‘But you think it nevertheless. I am well over ninety years of age, and Helen is barely into her twenties. You must have formed an opinion, surely.’
‘I am your guest,’ he reminded. ‘It would be rude of me to express any opinion, especially as you have been so welcoming to me. And I’m certain that even if I had an opinion it would hardly matter to a man of your success and standing. What do you care what I think? I rather fancy you don’t care what the entire world thinks.’
He studied Gareth carefully; Gareth could almost hear his mind ticking over. ‘You’re correct, of course,’ he said at length. ‘In time you will – hopefully you will – grow old, as I have grown old. And though you will look at yourself in the mirror and see an old man staring back at you, there will be this other person inside you who thinks, who is this strange old man? You see, I don’t feel old; I don’t feel old at all. In my heart, in my head, I am a little older than Helen. One day you will understand this.’
Gareth could see that his presence was almost irrelevant. Lambert-Chide had sunk into a dark world of his own. When his eyes rested on his guest, it appeared as if he didn’t see him, his mind working over something else, some distant memory. ‘Do you think about death, Gareth?’ he said eventually.
‘I don’t give it much thought,’ he said, which was not quite the truth. Since Fitzroy’s death he had given it plenty of consideration. ‘I suppose every now and again it springs to mind. It’s unavoidable.’
‘Unavoidable,’ he repeated, nodding. ‘When you look at me, do you see someone past their prime, one foot in the grave?’
He thought about his response carefully. ‘You look very good for your age,’ he observed, ‘and your mind is obviously as sharp as a razor.’
‘Lord Byron called death the King of Terrors, did you know that?’ Gareth admitted he did not. ‘Above all else death strikes fear into all of us,’ Lambert-Chide continued. ‘We spend our lives ignoring it, trying to put it off, trying to extend our pathetically short lives. But the King of Terrors gets us all in the end.’ His clawed hand squeezed the silver top of his cane. ‘But take me, for instance, I am poised close to the cliff-edge of death. I may keel over as we speak; I may go to bed tonight and my eyes may never open in the morning. I live with death as my close companion, hidden but waiting to spring at any time.’
‘But you’ve had a long and successful life,’ Gareth pointed out.
‘How easy to say when you are still so young with the rest of your days stretching ahead of you. Yet I am not ready to die,’ he said firmly, as if merely saying so could help stave it off. ‘The shell of my body is admittedly weak, but up here in my head I am brimming with life and promise. Death comes when I am at my prime. That cannot be right and I will fight it. I will fight to stay alive. I for one refuse to give in to the King of Terrors.’
Gareth didn’t know how he should respond to any of this. He simply hadn’t expected it. Nor could he work out what purpose it served except to make Lambert-Chide feel a whole lot better about things. It certainly put a bit of a dampener on his mood and the evening had barely begun. Perhaps he read the unease in Gareth’s face, for he smiled disarmingly and became at once the affable host. ‘Forgive me,’ he said brightly, you must think me most odd.’ He didn’t expect a reply. He bent to a small device resting by the whiskey glass and pressed a button. ‘Randall, can you come in, please?’ He turned again to Gareth. ‘I am most pleased that you found my family’s lost piece of jewellery. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions about its discovery? We are naturally intrigued.’
‘There’s not a lot to say, actually,’ Gareth admitted.
Randall Tremain entered and padded silently across the room to stand between the two men. He stared at Gareth – the sort of stare a security guard or a bouncer might give you, he thought. The atmosphere in the room fell decidedly chillier.
‘We understand the brooch was in the possession of a young woman,’ Tremain said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you describe her?’ he asked.
‘Why? For all we know she came into possession of the brooch quite legitimately.’
‘Of course,’ said Lambert-Chide, ‘a great deal of time has passed since my father had the jewellery stolen. But how can we make up for the poor woman’s loss? Humour me, Gareth. What did she look like? Her height, hair colour, her age? Perhaps we can trace her.’
Under their dual intense stare Gareth grew increasingly uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ he said. ‘I think we’d best leave it to the police, eh?’
‘It is important,’ said Tremain stiffly and Gareth caught Lambert-Chide throw him a warning glance. He put his hands behind his back and softened his expression but his eyes remained marble-cold.
‘Evidently it is,’ said Gareth. ‘Like I said, medium build, medium height. It’s all a little hazy now. I didn’t pay her much attention,’ he lied.
‘You spent a good deal of time with her,’ said Tremain. ‘You visited her in hospital.’
‘You seem to know a lot about my movements,’ said Gareth.
‘Did she say where she was headed, the merest mention of a destination?’ asked Lambert-Chide. ‘Please think back; as Tremain says, it is important to me.’
‘Sorry, nothing doing. Why would a complete stranger tell me those kinds of things? This does feel a little like an interrogation,’ he said, ‘and I’ve already told the police all I need to. Do you question all your guests in this manner?’
Lambert-Chide regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Why you, Gareth? Why did she come to you?’
‘Why do you suppose she was coming to me? It was an accident. These things happen.’
Tremain’s face gave away the fact he didn’t believe a word of it. ‘It’s almost as if she knew you,’ he said. ‘Searching you out.’
‘Is this about the brooch or the woman?’ he returned.
‘Both,’ said Lambert-Chide evenly. ‘Then he smiled. ‘Forgive me again, I forget my manners. There’s the reason you’re here.’ He signalled for Tremain to fetch him something. He returned from a cabinet with a chequebook and pen. ‘Your reward: shall we say two thousand pounds?’
‘I don’t want the money,’ said Gareth. ‘I’m not here for that.’
‘So what are you here for, Gareth?’ he asked.
‘Curiosity, I guess.’
Lambert-Chide’s fingers drummed on the arm of the chair. ‘Let me make you an offer: if you are able to tell me anything of her whereabouts, anything at all that would give us the tiniest of leads, I will up my reward to ten thousand pounds.’
Gareth whistled. ‘Ten thousand pounds? That sounds like desperation, David. Why would anyone pay that much?’
‘I have my reasons, Gareth,’ he said. All warmth had vanished. ‘There are still many outstanding items of jewellery that amounts to quite a haul. It’s still missing. I want to find it. The woman may be able to help trace other items, that’s why she’s important to me.’ He coughed lightly. ‘Anyhow, I’ve kept you long enough. Dinner will be ready. Please, go ahead; I’ll join you presently. Randall will show you the way.’
As if on cue Tremain went to Gareth’s side and he rose from his seat. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he said. ‘Sorry I couldn’t have been more help.’
Lambert-Chide was looking away and acknowledged him with a peremptory flick of the hand. ‘If you should remember anything…’ he said.
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ he said.
Tremain led Gareth swiftly away, down a maze of corridors and finally to a small but reasonably furnished dining room. A large mahogany table sat in its centre laid out for three peop
le. Helen Lambert-Chide was already there and greeted him warmly.
‘So, now you’ve met David what do you think?’ she asked as someone flashed out of nowhere to pull back a chair for Gareth.
‘He’s interesting,’ he replied.
Someone offered to pour wine out for her but she took the bottle and waved him away. She slopped it into her glass, filling it and then offered the bottle to Gareth. He declined. Behind the makeup, the pretty mask, she looked quite a sad young woman, he thought. She chatted aimlessly for a while, already looking the worse for wear; she’d already been at the bottle it seemed. Gareth turned the conversation round to the brooch.
‘Why the big interest?’ he asked. ‘I mean, he can afford to buy God knows how many more brooches and pieces of jewellery. It has been over seventy years now. Maybe time to let the thing rest.’
‘You’ll never work out what David is thinking, I’m afraid,’ she replied. ‘The jewellery does seem to mean a lot to him, and especially the brooch. He’s been searching for it long enough.’ She lifted her glass to her lips, the wine wetting them seductively. ‘The story goes David’s father met a young woman called Evelyn Carter shortly after the death of his wife. He falls head over heels for her and they plan to get married. Two days before the wedding day she does a runner taking quite a few thousands of pounds of his property along with her. Quite a haul, they say. It was known as the Gattenby Hoard at the time.’
‘So what happened to Evelyn exactly? Did they ever find her?’
‘Apparently not. The brooch is the only piece ever to turn up in eighty years or so. A mystery to this day. David’s old man never recovered. They say he died of a broken heart and all that old baloney.’ She swigged down the wine and poured another glass. Her alcohol-induced happiness was close to slipping into the morose. ‘It caused one hell of a stink at the time, as you can imagine. It happened just before war broke out; they were hot on the family pride-thing at that time. The shame of it rang for years afterwards – all those society tongues wagging away. I suppose that’s why he never let the matter drop. He’s been searching for the jewellery’s return ever since, maybe to put the affair to bed. Who knows what’s in his sly old head.’