The Cryptic Lines

by Richard Storry

  "Your Lordship?"

  No reply.

  "Your Lordship?"

  He spoke a little louder this time. There was a slight stirring from the frail figure, as the old man opened his eyes and turned his wizened, wrinkled face towards his visitor. He lifted a gnarled, damp hand and Charles took it.

  "I'm glad you've come." His voice rasped in a guttural tone, little more than a whisper.

  "It's always a pleasure to see you, Lord Willoughby."

  With much wheezing and plenty of effort he managed to raise himself until he was sitting upright. Charles thought he seemed rather tired and quite unwell, noticing what appeared to be a coating of perspiration on the old gentleman's skin. In a careful and courteous manner he repositioned Lord Alfred's satin covered pillows to help make him more comfortable.

  "Have you brought the Will?"

  "I have."

  "I need to change it."

  Charles smiled as he pulled up a chair and sat down.

  "That doesn't surprise you, does it?"

  He shook his head.

  "However," he continued, pausing for breath every few words, "I am optimistic...that this...this...will be the last time...I must ask this service...of you."

  Suddenly, he was seized by a fit of hoarse coughing and his gaunt figure rocked back and forth uncontrollably. Taking a glass beaker from the bedside table Charles poured some water into it from a jug which stood alongside. Leaning over, he raised the glass to the old man's lips. Lord Willoughby managed to take a few sips and seemed to recover a little. He leaned himself carefully back against the headboard and took several deep breaths.

  "Thank you," he said, simply, though with some difficulty.

  Charles waited patiently while his client attempted to regain his composure. Lord Alfred was, without doubt, in a poor state of health - this was the first time that Charles had ever seen him like this. Normally, he was on fine form. After a few moments he spoke again although he was noticeably quieter now:

  "Now then, where was I?"

  "The Will, my Lord."

  "Yes, yes. Of course."

  Again, Charles waited a moment before speaking.

  "How do you wish it to be altered?"

  "That son of mine," he hissed, "My son. What did I do to deserve a boy like him? He never ceases to astound me with the deviousness of his schemes and with his dishonesty - the yardstick for every damned thing he sets out to ruin."

  "My Lord?"

  "He knows I'm wealthy, but..." and here Lord Alfred smiled wickedly, "he doesn't know how wealthy. I've managed to keep most of it secret." He leaned toward Charles with a sense of renewed intensity. "But I tell you this: I will not allow my fortune to be squandered by that no-good crook. He's a crook! That's what he is! Always has been! He's no son of mine!"

  Again, Charles listened attentively as any good solicitor would, hoping that he would not take too long to come to the point. The fact was that Lord Alfred had never been able to have children of his own with his second wife and so, seeking to fulfil his paternal instinct, they had adopted two sons. The elder boy, William, had been a model son. If you could have ordered him from a catalogue, he was everything you would have chosen: intelligent, respectful, charming, witty and handsome. Two weeks after reaching his 17th birthday and buying his first motorcycle, he lost control on an icy road and collided with a tree. Lord Alfred had never really recovered from his tragic loss.

  The second son, though, Matthew, was a different kettle of fish altogether. Whilst it all began with the best of intentions Lord Alfred and Matthew were like chalk and cheese. There was no love lost between them and as soon as he was old enough Matthew had spread his wings and fled the nest never to be seen again – except, of course, when he needed money. It was shortly after Matthew left home that Lord and Lady Willoughby had moved to Heston Grange. Even then, fate had another cruel card to play and Lady Willoughby, a frail creature who had already lost much of her zest for life following William's death, contracted pneumonia and passed away in her sleep during a particularly violent storm, not unlike the one which was raging outside at this very moment.

  "But I've got a scheme of my own. Ha!" Lord Alfred continued his ranting. "My only regret is that I won't be there to see his face when he realises what sport I've made of him. Thieving bugger! Help me stand up."

  "Are you sure you're feeling strong enough, my Lord?"

  "Damn it, man! Don't you tell me when I can or can't stand in my own house! Here, take my arm."

  Charles did as he was asked and supported the old man as he sidled to the edge of the bed, swung his legs over the side and slowly stood to his feet, albeit a little uncertainly.

  "Give the Will to me."

  Leaving him to stand alone momentarily, Charles picked up the folder from a nearby chaise longue and pulled out the document. As he moved to pass it to him, Lord Alfred all but snatched it from his grasp, placed his hand flat upon the first page and formed a fist, ripping the paper from the binding. Without a word, but with determination etched on his countenance, he cast the crumpled page onto the glowing embers in the hearth where flames leapt instantly to engulf their new fuel. Charles stood and watched as he repeated this exercise until all the pages had suffered the same fate. For about the next thirty seconds or so, the room was lit brightly by the light of the flickering flames and, whilst the two men remained motionless, their shadows danced this way and that across the panelled walls.

  As the flames gradually dwindled Charles noticed an exultant, almost fanatical, smile come to Alfred's face. With a grunt of satisfaction he turned and moved carefully back towards the bed.

  "And now," he said, "I must tell you about my new Will."

  Charles could not deny that following this passionate performance his professional curiosity had been most definitely aroused. His Lordship had always been a fairly enigmatic figure and watching him incinerate his Will in front of his eyes, when a simple written statement revoking it would have been sufficient, was high drama indeed. He picked up the folder and took out his legal pad but, as he did so, Lord Willoughby gave a sudden gasp and staggered uncertainly. Dropping the pad, Charles rushed to his side and took his arm.

  "Are you quite well, Lord Alfred?"

  "Yes...yes...let me be."

  His breathing was laboured but he seemed to be recovering.

  Releasing the grip on his arm, Charles moved back across the room to pick up the pad again. Without warning, Lord Alfred suddenly gave a cry of searing pain and fell heavily to his knees. The legal pad again fell to the floor, forgotten, as Charles raced over to his client a second time. He was clearly in distress. His face had turned deathly pale and his eyes were screwed shut in an expression of sheer agony.

  "Lord Alfred, what’s wrong? What should I do?" Charles screamed. "What do you need? Medicine? Tablets? Tell me!"

  Lord Alfred was struggling to form words. He began to speak in a thin harsh tone, scarcely audible.

  "...too...late...no time...please...the cryptic...lines...cryptic..."

  “Your Lordship? Your Lordship? No!"

  As thunder rolled and lightning flashed outside, a final strangulated breath was hoarsely exhaled and Lord Alfred’s ancient body slumped against Charles. He lowered him gently to the floor before racing across the room to the servant bell, where he pushed the button frantically several times. With no way of knowing whether or not his distress call had been received he started to panic. Rushing to the large wooden door he grabbed the handle, flung it open and raced out into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

  "James! James!" he yelled, "JAMES!”

  CHAPTER 3

  In the daylight, Heston Grange appeared far less threatening - in fact, some of its rustic features gave it a certain character which was almost inviting. In the early light of the fresh morning with a gentle breeze coming in from the sea Charles walked around the entire perimeter of the house. Notwithstanding the fact that he had lost all sense of direction the night that Lord Willoughby had d
ied, running frantically up and down numerous passageways screaming for help, from the outside the sprawling mansion was even larger than he had realised. Although he had been here many times over the years it only now occurred to him that this was the first time he had seen it during the daytime.

  So, now that he had the benefit of being able to actually see the place properly, and having been left to himself to wander around for a while, the thing that arrested his attention most immediately was the extraordinary shape of the house; it was utterly irregular. The main central body of the building was, it appeared, of a slightly rhomboid structure having four storeys, inclusive of rooms under the eaves, and four turrets of different sizes spaced at apparently random intervals. The west wing, which housed Charles' bedroom, was more like a dog's tail incorporating several twists and turns before eventually opening out onto a yard bordered by a variety of outbuildings. At the east end of the house, but separate from it, stood a tower some fifty feet high and topped with battlements and a flagpole. Strangely, there was no apparent access to it other than by a rickety-looking wooden walkway that linked it to the main building at second floor level. Gazing up at it, Charles doubted whether it would take his weight; it looked almost rotten. Still, he made a mental note to ask James whether he might have a look inside this mysterious tower once all matters of business had been settled.

  Lord Alfred had been taken away the same night. Rather than wait for an ambulance, James had driven him the 40 miles to the nearest hospital but he was pronounced dead on arrival. Both he and Mrs Gillcarey were obviously shocked, although they surely must have known that the old boy didn't have much longer for this world. However, since it was a sudden death, there would need to be a post mortem, meaning it would be a while until the funeral could be arranged. In the meantime, as His Lordship's solicitor, it fell to Charles to attend to matters concerning his estate; and so it was that he had come to Heston Grange for one night but would, in fact, have to remain for quite some time.

  Whilst the number of administrative duties to be attended to were legion, his principal area of concern lay with the fact that His Lordship had, in his presence, rendered himself intestate. It was clear that he was just about to inform him of his new wishes but then-

  Well, death has a way of thwarting the best laid plans.

  Having waited for what he felt was a respectful period of time after his client's death he set to work sorting through all His Lordship's papers and effects. What a hoarder he had been! He appeared to have kept every utility bill, every invoice, every shopping list and carrier bag, every paper clip and every piece of string, bubble wrap and wrapping paper, and the operating instructions to just about every appliance he had ever owned since his first electricity generator had been installed. Every nook and cranny, every cupboard, every draw and receptacle seemed to house limitless quantities of the stuff. Most of it was pointless rubbish, yet it all had to be sorted through meticulously, just in case - by Charles.

  It was as he was on his hands and knees, groping around inside the bottom of a large Welsh dresser and trying to extract yet another stack of probably worthless correspondence, that he discovered an old black box made from papier maché. Despite its age, it had the appearance of not having been used very often, yet it had obviously been opened recently as there were clear finger marks in its coating of dust. Sitting himself cross-legged on the floor Charles eased the catch aside and slowly opened the lid. The box was lined with a thin black fabric and contained just one item: a large brass key. Lifting it out, he turned it over and over in his hand, wondering.

  Later, when James brought him his dinner in the dining room, Charles produced the key and asked him whether he knew which lock it was intended for.

  "Oh, sir," he exclaimed, "Lord Alfred was desperately searching for this key just a few days ago. Wherever did you find it?"

  Charles described the place to him although, for some reason that he could not quite pinpoint, he deliberately omitted to tell him about the finger marks on the box.

  "It's the key to His Lordship's secret chamber," he said, "not that it was really a secret - that was just his name for it. Really, it was more just a place for him to keep his private papers really private. No one else was ever allowed to go inside."

  "How could it be," Charles asked him, "that he could lose a key that was so important to him when he was the only person ever to use it?"

  "I really have no idea, sir, but he was enraged when he found it was missing. He had me turning the house upside down searching for it, but without success. Luckily for Mrs Gillcarey it was her day off or she'd have been drafted in as well."

  “Didn’t he have a spare?”

  “Not that I knew of, sir.”

  Charles insisted that James take him at once to this secret chamber and he followed him out of the room with the key clutched firmly in his hand, leaving his meal untouched – which was a pity, since it was a beautifully glazed gammon steak with perfectly sliced julienne vegetables, a delicious honey and mustard sauce and a crystal carafe of chilled moscato d’asti.

  Back in the maze of twisting corridors, Charles followed James’ lead and eventually found himself at a point where the wall was lined with many paintings. Lord Alfred had been an avid art collector, as well as being a keen amateur artist himself, and Heston Grange contained many fine pieces within its labyrinthine structure. James paused by a portrait depicting a finely dressed 19th century nobleman standing outside a shop in a busy street and, directing Charles' attention towards it, asked if he noticed anything unusual about it. At first glance there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary - that is, nothing until he examined the shop door in the painting and realised, to his astonishment, that the keyhole in the door was actually a real keyhole! This felt like something straight out of a Boy's Own adventure story and, even though all he was doing was simply unlocking a door, the fact that it was disguised like this couldn't stop Charles from feeling just a little excited as he inserted the key and turned it. The painting or, rather, the door swung inwards on squeaky hinges and Charles found himself looking out onto the rickety bridge he had seen earlier which led to the mysterious octagonal tower. He was about to step onto it, but then he hesitated.

  "Is it safe?" he asked, eyeing its apparently flimsy state of disrepair.

  "Oh yes, sir, quite safe. It will certainly take your weight, if that's not too impertinent of me, sir."

  The sun had almost set, its fading light glinting off the bobbing surface of the ocean, and the red sky on the horizon casting a beautiful hue over the landscape. With the evening beginning to draw in, just for a moment Charles wondered whether he should leave the exploration of this extraordinary room until the morning, but, as he looked at the closed door at the other end of the bridge, his curiosity now got the better of him. Somewhat gingerly, he placed a foot on the bridge and, grasping the rope handrails firmly, slowly began to make the crossing. The bridge creaked and swayed a little but, as James had predicted, it did take his weight and a few moments later he had reached the far side. While James was still following across the bridge, Charles tried the door. It was locked.

  "I believe," said James as he approached, that you will find the same key will open this door too."

  He was correct. The key turned and the door opened to reveal a darkened room with no natural light. They entered, slowly and carefully, just being able to make out the shapes of various objects semi-hidden by the gloom. James lit an oil lamp which stood on a reading desk in the centre and its glow revealed that the octagonal room was almost completely lined with filing cabinets. Against the one area of free wall space stood a drinks cabinet which was surmounted by a number of framed photographs.

  "Lord Alfred handled all his business correspondence from here," explained James.

  "It would have been useful," Charles replied, controlling himself with an effort, "to have known about this just a little earlier, rather than spending all my time sorting through old utility bills."

&nbs
p; James looked a little sheepish.

  "I am sorry, sir. Once you got started on all your sorting I thought it best to leave you to it; I assumed you knew what needed to be done - what with you being a solicitor and all - so I just kept out of the way. In any case, sir, you couldn't have gained access to this room without the key."

  "Well, I think that the contents of these filing cabinets are more likely to furnish me with what I need to know than most of the other documents I've seen so far. I expect that I shall be working in here for quite a while and I may as well get started right away. Would you be so kind as to bring me some tea?"

  While he waited for James to return Charles familiarised himself with the room. Taking a closer look at the display of photographs he was surprised to see that Lord Alfred appeared to have been good friends with a number of notable celebrities of years gone by. There he was smiling with Ava Gardner; over here was one taken with James Stewart. He could hardly believe his eyes - Lord Alfred attending the Oscars and being photographed with Clark Gable and Judy Garland. Well, the old boy had been quite a raver after all, thought Charles.

  After this brief voyage of discovery he braced himself for a late night and, by the time James returned with a pot of rich assam tea and some homemade crumbly butter shortbread, he had already opened every drawer of each filing cabinet and gained a quick overview of the likely contents. Certainly, this was what he had been searching for, but it was plain that he was in for a long haul.

  Finally, he turned his attention to the desk in the centre of the room. This had only one drawer, a shallow one which ran the full length of the desk just below the writing surface. Charles sat himself in the soft leather swivel chair in front of the desk and pulled the drawer open. Inside was a large padded envelope. He lifted it out and read the spidery handwriting on the front: The Last Will and Testament of Lord Alfred Willoughby. To be opened in the event of my death.