‘Sawyl Gwilym!’
Part O ne
October
2002
Monday
October 21st
Matthew Silverthorne arrived home from his annual October holiday with his on-off boyfriend, hoping as he did every year that he would never again set eyes on Theo, but knowing that in exactly twelve months they would yet again be sharing their villa in Alicante for a month of hell.
When they had originally spilt up after three years as a couple, they had decided not to sell the time-share they had invested in together, hoping they would remain friends, and as such be able to spend four weeks together each year in the villa. After all, they had been friends since their early schooldays, and for those four weeks, they could always do their own thing separately.
Throughout the past two years, there had been times when Matthew felt as though he and Theo might actually get back together permanently. During those quiet moments in the early hours of a Sunday morning, lying in bed after a heavy night out clubbing, and having failed to pull anything with a pulse at the local dive that masqueraded as a gay club, they would actually converse in a civil manner. Those conversations would lead to kissing, which in turn led to the inevitable.
And the inevitable act of passion invariably ended the same way, with Theo slipping from the bed as Matthew slept, leaving him confused and ashamed, and feeling rather dirty and used.
Every time, Matthew vowed it would not happen again – but it always did. He and Theo seemed destined to self-destruct.
Even as he dumped his suitcase in the hallway and slammed the front door behind him, still seething with ill-disguised rage, Matthew knew nothing had changed. He was furious with Theo, but in a week’s time that rage would diminish to mere anger; within a fortnight, they would be best friends again; within a month, they would most likely spend increasingly frequent nights together, and in a year’s time, they would be back to square one after another disastrous holiday in Spain.
Why do you let Theo get to you? he asked himself. Why has he so deeply entrenched himself in your life?
The answer, of course, was obvious: he was hopelessly in love with him, and no matter how badly Theo mistreated him, that fact would never change.
Making his way to the kitchen, Matthew filled the kettle, and as he waited for it to boil he sat at the small table beneath the picture window that overlooked the small, untidy rear garden, and slowly began perusing the pile of mail which his ever-diligent cleaning lady had placed there each morning whilst he was away.
Joyce Lockridge was a godsend.
The myth that all gay men were uber-trendy and lived an ordered life in a spotless house in no way extended to include Matthew: he was a slob when it came to household chores; cleaning and Matthew Silverthorne were words that just did not go together.
Matthew had known Joyce since he was five, and she had offered her cleaning services when Margaret Silverthorne had complained about the lack of cleanliness at her son’s house after Theo had left. She was like an aunt to him; she was a confidante to whom he frequently entrusted secrets he could never divulge to his mother. In that respect, she was actually more like an older sister. They adored one another in a way that could never be anything other than platonic, but in a manner that was also incredibly intimate – far more intimate than any relationship Matthew could ever hope to have with any man.
Joyce had been devastated when her son had walked out on Matthew. She strongly believed he and Theo were made for each other, if only Theo could be made to see it. She felt he was throwing away the best thing that had ever happened in his life, but he was only twenty-one, almost a decade younger than Matthew was, and although the age gap clearly did not affect either of them, it was obvious that Theo was not yet ready to relinquish his grip on the freedom of his youth. If Joyce had had her way, she would have taken Theo to one side and told him not to be such a selfish sod, but Matthew implored her not to interfere in her son’s life, and so she acquiesced.
When Joyce originally offered her services, Matthew was horrified. Even though he had known her almost his entire life, did he really want the mother of his ex-boyfriend prying through his private things? He knew she would not do so intentionally, but as a cleaner, and as a mother, she would be unable to help herself. He had nightmare visions of Joyce parading before his mother the things he might accidentally leave lying around the house.
He need not have worried. Joyce respected his privacy and promised that nothing she saw or heard would find its way back to Margaret; and so far, she seemed to have kept her word.
Theo himself was naturally uncomfortable with his mother being the cleaner of the house where he still occasionally slept with Matthew, and whilst at times this discomfort amused Matthew, sometimes he shared it.
On numerous occasions, Joyce reiterated her steadfast belief that Matthew and her son belonged together, that Matthew should persevere and stick things out, and that eventually Theo would come to his senses.
Part of Matthew’s heart hoped she was right, but his mind had gradually told him something different. He felt he could take only so much, and Theo’s antics on holiday had been the last straw. Matthew was not naïve enough to believe that Theo was not seeing other guys as well as him, but he did not need to see those guys parading naked through his villa, and he certainly did not appreciate the same guys coming on to him.
Matthew had been humiliated by what had occurred, and had flown home halfway through their holiday. There would be no further humiliation. The relationship was dead.
So why do I still pine for him so?
As he slammed the teabag into his mug and poured in the boiling water, Matthew decided he was worth more than that. His heart still belonged to Theo, but Theo’s behaviour in Spain broke his heart, and he realised it really was well and truly over between them. There would be no reconciliation this time; there would be no forgiveness.
When Theo comes home from Alicante, I’m telling him it’s over: friendship, sex, relationship – everything.
Joyce would be terribly upset, but that was just tough.
After making his tea, Matthew settled down to sift through his mail. A few envelopes had been opened – presumably by Joyce – and the enclosed bills paid using the pre-signed cheques he had left for precisely that reason. His mother had tried to persuade him that he would be better off paying his bills by direct debit, but his job as a freelance journalist meant that some months he had no money coming in, and so he preferred to pay all his bills as and when they came in. Besides, he had always felt a strong sense of loyalty to Theo, who worked in a local Post Office, and so he always paid as many bills as possible through them in a vain effort to keep Theo in a job. The mood that currently afflicted him, however, made him ponder the idea of going over to direct debit with subdued seriousness.
He was also a little dismayed to find his second novel had been returned to him, rejected by the fourth publisher to whom he had submitted it. He felt it was far superior to his first effort, which he wrote two years ago, and which itself was probably still languishing on the slush pile of yet another publisher, having been submitted for what felt to Matthew like the millionth time shortly before he set off on holiday.
Even Theo, who was particularly well read, had told him he thought it was rather good and that he should persevere and not give up. He retooled both books slightly each time they came back, and although each rejection caused a slightly elevated level of dejection within him, Matthew had a degree of self-conviction and motivation that had seen him rise to the challenge of writing a novel in the first place. Having been told by the editor of one of the various magazines he wrote for that he should attempt such a feat after she had accepted a couple of his short stories for publication, he had found the challenge initially taxing, but rewarding and fulfilling, even though he had little success placing the novels with an agent or publisher.
Journalism was his main passion. The short stories had been a diversion to get s
ome of his pent-up feelings of despair out of his system, and Beryl Ridley had liked what he had written so much that she commissioned him to write an ongoing story that was serialised each month in the magazine, and which had proved popular with the readers. This led Matthew to the heartfelt assertion that novel writing was the way forward for him.
Publishers clearly did not agree, since his first book had been rejected by every major publishing house he submitted it to, and now the second full length work had been rejected for the fourth time. Perhaps, he mused, it was time to do what all the books said – try an agent.
Still, it was not the end of the world as far as Matthew was concerned. He had journalistic pieces rejected all the time, and they were all invariably picked up at some point after a degree of rewriting. He saw these minor glitches as failed job applications: one did not get every single job one applied for, after all. The people reading the manuscripts at the publishers were obviously not fans of the pseudo-historical novels he wrote, which was fine. When the time was right, his books would land on the desk of the right editor or agent, and that would be that.
Until then, he had his journalism; he had a third serialised story underway at Beryl’s magazine, and he was also about to start work on his fourth novel, having completed the first draft of his third a couple of weeks before heading out to Spain.
I have plenty to keep me occupied and keep my mind off Theo, he thought as he opened his bank statement to find he was down to his last two hundred pounds – without the recently paid bills. ‘It’s time to transfer some money – and sell another piece!’
He opened another envelope, to find a cheque inside – payment for a two-issue article he had sold to a monthly magazine about the history of homosexuality in American Cinema.
‘Well, that’ll keep the wolves from the door for a while,’ he ruminated quietly as he set the cheque to one side and continued opening the mail.
A rather important looking white envelope, with a letter written on yellow legal paper clearly visible through the window, caught his attention.
His first thought was that someone was suing him for libel, and his brain went into overdrive as he opened the envelope, trying to think of any recently published articles that might possibly have been libellous, but he could think of none.
Instead of trying to second-guess the contents of the letter, why not just read it?
The letter inside was indeed from a firm of solicitors based in Crowborough, requesting his presence for the reading of the last will and testament of a woman named Elaine Oakhurst, who had named him as her main beneficiary.
Matthew set down the letter, frowning. He scrabbled around in the recesses of his mind, trying to recall the woman. He drew a blank, coming to the peculiar conclusion that he neither knew Elaine Oakhurst, nor had he even heard of a woman by that name.
In which case, why am I named as her main beneficiary?
It was most perplexing.
Matthew checked in his diary to find he was free on the day the reading of the will had been set for, and so, in spite of his confusion, he decided the best course of action was to go to the office of the solicitors, discover what exactly had been bequeathed to him, and ask questions later.
Friday
October 25th
Matthew parked his car on the grass verge opposite the gates that led into the grounds of the estate, and just sat and stared up through the rusted ironwork at the house, clearly visible through the trees that wore their autumnal foliage.
He could scarcely believe he was here again, barely a year since his last abortive visit, only this time he was not here to look at Four Oaks with a view to purchasing it.
Elaine Oakhurst, it transpired, was the woman who had made the higher offer on the house last year, and for whatever reason, upon her recent death she had bequeathed half her money to various charities, but had left the house and the remainder of her fortune to him.
Matthew’s meeting with the solicitor, who was executor of Elaine’s will, had been curious and brief. When he said he did not know the woman, he had been told he would know her. When he asked how she knew him, he was told he would have to ask a man named Max Revenant. The name had been oddly familiar to Matthew, though he struggled to remember where he had heard it before, and it was only now, seated in his car in front of the gates, that he remembered: Max Revenant was the name of the estate agent who had turned up to show him the house last time.
Matthew hefted the large bunch of keys in his hands. He counted them: there were thirty-three in total. Perhaps there was one for each room? Somehow, he sensed he would be spending the next half hour trying to find the correct key to unlock the gates, and he wished Max were there: he would know which key fitted which lock.
‘Good morning, Mr Silverthorne.’
The muffled sibilant voice from outside the car made Matthew jump, and when he glanced up, he was somewhat perturbed to see Max Revenant peering down at him. He wound down the window, shivering more with a distinct sense of unease than from the sudden blast of cold air that blew in. His eyes watered slightly, stung by the coldness of the wind, which, he noticed, did not seem to affect the estate agent.
‘Hello,’ he said, hesitantly, not really wanting to engage the man in conversation. Now that Max had magically appeared before him, somehow Matthew wished he were not there.
‘I guess you are probably wondering why I’m here?’ Max said, motioning that Matthew should get out of the car. When Matthew made no move to do so, Max stepped back slightly. ‘I can imagine the sorts of things that are going through your mind, Mr Silverthorne, but I can assure you that you have nothing to fear from me. I am here at the behest of Elaine Oakhurst.’
Matthew looked up sharply. ‘That’s the woman who bought this house last year, the one who recently died.’
Max inclined his head slightly. ‘The very same. She was… an acquaintance of mine. She told me some months ago of her intention to leave Four Oaks to you, and she instructed me to come and try to explain things to you when you received your inheritance.’
Matthew finally climbed from the car, slamming the door behind him. ‘Well then, I suggest you start explaining. Why would a woman I’ve never known leave me a house and a large amount of money in her will?’
Max sighed. ‘This will not be easy to explain, and it will be difficult for you to accept. You see, Four Oaks has direct links to your family. Miss Oakhurst intervened last year because you were not ready then to walk the path of your ancestors and discover the truth.’
Matthew seldom swore, but his patience suddenly snapped. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Max, will you stop talking in riddles and just tell me what the bloody hell is going on!’
‘I cannot do that, Mr Silverthorne. Miss Oakhurst did not tell me any more than I have said. It is up to you to discover for yourself the truth to which she referred. All the answers to all of your questions can be found up at the house, so I am led to believe, and any new questions you might have will also be answered in due course.’
‘By whom?’
Max ignored him. ‘And so now, if you’d care to, you may go on up to the house, and I shall bid you farewell.’
‘Now wait just a damn minute,’ Matthew began, before being interrupted by a loud crashing noise from the bushes on the other side of his car. Startled, he turned his attention away from Max to see what had made the noise, but there was nothing there. He turned back to shout at Max, but he was gone. ‘Mr Revenant?’ he called, walking a little way down the lane in the direction the estate agent had taken. He frowned. There was absolutely nowhere the man could be hiding, in much the same way there was no way he could have just appeared from nowhere right at the moment his name was thought of.
Matthew felt a chill down his spine. There was something distinctly odd going on, and he sensed the answers lay up at the house. However, as much as he wanted to go up to the house, equally he was uncertain he wanted to know what was going on.
‘Oh get a grip, Matt!’ he mu
mbled aloud.
With a final glance down the lane to make absolutely certain Max was indeed gone, and casting a doubtful glance at the bushes on the other side of the car, where he had most definitely heard something moving, he shrugged his shoulders, crossed the road and made his way back up to the gates.
He looked at the padlock, and looked at the keys. Sighing, he selected one at random and was astounded to find he had picked the right key first time.
Pure coincidence, he mused as he pulled the chain from around the gates. They swung open almost noiselessly on their hinges, which almost disappointed Matthew, who had half-expected them to squeal with rust and age.
Feeling slightly more calm and relaxed, he continued up the tree-lined driveway, pulling his collar up around his neck to protect it from the icy blast of wind that seemed to have sprung up from nowhere, making the already chilly morning even colder still.
To Matthew it felt like a wind chill factor of minus two hundred.
Any sense of foreboding he might have felt was replaced with steadily increasing excitement as he drew closer to the house. He stopped at the stone steps that led up to the large oak front door, and dropped the padlock and chain on the bottom step.
The sense of foreboding suddenly returned as he took his first close-up look at the door. ‘I’ve been here before,’ he whispered as recognition washed over him.
It was ridiculous. How could he have been here before? This was his first visit to the house. Naturally, he had seen a couple of photographs in the property guide of his local paper last year, when he had also seen it through the gates from the bottom of the drive. Of course, that had to be why it was so familiar.
He was not convinced by his own explanation.
Selecting a second key at random, he was equally astonished when it fit snugly into the lock of the front door, and was even more surprised when the key actually turned in the lock, and the door swung open beneath his gentle touch.
The Master of Prophecy (The Sawyl Gwilym Chronicles Book 2) Page 3