“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Littleword. My uncle is ill. He is suffering from dementia these days.” Brickstone turned his attention up to the rafters. “This room has given me so much pleasure. Let me show you the manuscript I’ve brought you such a long distance to see.”
He put on a pair of white cotton gloves and motioned for Helen and Martha to join him at a long table where many books, documents and trinkets lay. Helen reached inside her jacket pocket and put on her own white gloves. Brickstone stepped aside to allow the two women to see what lay before them. Several clearly old manuscripts were presented for them to inspect.
“I think this is beyond rare, ladies. I want it authenticated and valued. You come highly recommended by my dear friend Bishop Wellerton.”
Helen didn’t speak. Martha stood back to give her space to breathe. When Helen was focused, a sonic boom wouldn’t stir her. Initially, the room was heavy with the lack of sound, and a feeling of timelessness permeated the space. Her hearing adjusted to the tomb-like silence and she begin to make out the barely audible, yet rhythmic, ticking of an ancient grandfather clock sitting at one end of the long room. Nothing and no one moved.
Finally, Helen was done with her appraisal. She stood up from her bent position over the table and reached for a handkerchief in her pocket. Her eyes were glassy.
“Mrs. Ryes, can I get you anything?” Mr. Brickstone asked, his tone solicitous.
“No,” she said throatily. She cleared her throat. “I’m a bit overwhelmed by what is before us on this table. It’s priceless and should be kept in a fireproof vault. It needs to be looked at by at least two other experts, but I do believe you may have an original foul copy, or original working copy, of one of Shakespeare’s plays. My suggestion is to contact your insurance company and ask how they secure items of national, excuse me, global value.”
“Will you arrange it for me,” Brickstone asked quietly.
Martha immediately noticed that Helen wasn’t expecting this response from him. To her credit, she didn’t stumble, and instead, said, “I can arrange to have it collected by an armored car and transported to a vault at your bank.”
Mr. Brickstone shook his head. “Ultimately, I want it evaluated and sent to auction. I don’t want any attention drawn to myself or this estate. My uncle isn’t well. I trust you, and I want someone from Sotheby’s or Christie’s to value it for auction. You make the arrangements. I want this handled with discretion and the auction catalogue to state the seller as private. My uncle’s attorney is available for you to speak with regarding the possible sale of any items of the estate. We are trying to raise money to repair so many neglected aspects of the house and lands. I’ve been given full authority to handle my uncle’s affairs.”
Helen looked out of her depth. She turned to Martha and said, “Martha, I left my phone in the car. Would you please get it for me? I’ll put this manuscript into a Mylar bag while you’re gone.”
“Sure, Helen. Mr. Brickstone, I’ll need help finding my way back. Is there someone who could show me?”
He smiled brightly and walking over to another desk, picked up what appeared to be a walkie-talkie.
“Denise? Denise, please come to the library. I need you to show our guest to her car. Thank you.” He put the hand-held device back into its charging station and laughed. “It’ll take her some time to walk here.”
Both Helen and Martha smiled, but Martha sensed Helen’s discomfort with the situation. Soon the meek girl who had greeted them at the front door arrived. Martha followed her out of the library, feeling uncomfortable with leaving Helen behind.
The long paneled and carpeted hallway had windows shuttered along one side. Martha thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask Denise if there was a reason for the murky, lightless house.
“Do you keep the curtains drawn to protect the fragile items in the house?” she asked.
“Yes, I guess so, but it’s been this way since I came to service here about six months ago,” the girl replied.
Martha noted the time frame. “It’s such a massive place. Do you ever get a twinge of fright walking around by yourself?”
Denise smiled. Her face lit up at Martha’s question. “It can be a bit nervy at times. There’s only myself, Mrs. Norton who does the cooking and a nurse named Miss Sutherland. Nellie, I mean Mrs. Norton, and I don’t run into Miss Sutherland much, but it can come as a shock when you’re alone in one of these passages and someone else is knocking about in another wing.”
Martha shivered. “You’re a brave young woman, Denise. My imagination would get the better of me in a place like this.”
As if on cue, a man’s cry came echoing down the passageway. Both women stopped in mid-stride.
“What is that?” Martha whispered.
Denise waited a moment. She appeared to be listening intently. Another burst of moaning, louder this time, rang along the dusty corridor.
“That’s Lord Percy. He suffers from dementia and Miss Sutherland, his nurse, is probably helping him with something he doesn’t want to do or understand.”
Denise didn’t appear to be bothered by the moaning. She kept on with her errand of showing Martha to the front of the house. Martha stayed mute until they reached the entryway.
“I think I can find my way back, Denise. Thank you for showing me to the entrance.”
The maid left the door ajar and disappeared back into the house’s gloom. Martha retrieved the phone and hurried through the empty, lonely maze of halls. Too late, she realized she was lost. A coolness enveloped her and a sudden unease took hold in her mind.
Recognizing her predilection for over indulging her imagination, she told herself to stay calm. Up ahead, she made out the end of the hallway. A draft or a fluttering of the curtains over a long window at the hall’s end enabled a thin shaft of light to peek through from the outside. Martha watched transfixed as the movement of the air caused the beam of light to grow. As the curtain parted further, she could finally see where she was.
She had made only a small misstep in her journey to the library, so with a quick turnaround, she walked in the correct direction. A feeling of gratitude for the thoughtful assistance shown her by either nature or something else made Martha say quietly, “Thank you.”
Hurrying on, she soon found herself opening the door to the library once again. Helen and Mr. Brickstone were laughing, but Helen’s laugh sounded hollow and insincere. Brickstone was extremely close, too close, his hand pawed her back.
“Here’s Martha,” Helen said, and with a look of relief and gratitude, she moved hurriedly toward Martha with her hand out to accept the phone. “Thank you for getting the phone. We were talking about Piers and the tennis tournaments he has each year at Healy House. Mr. Brickstone isn’t sure if Lord Percy has met him.”
Martha handed Helen the phone and said to Brickstone, “Do you play? It looks like you are the type to keep your hand in.”
He smirked. “No, I suffer of late from a sensitivity to light. When I go out, I wear special glasses. The intensity of the malady has increased over the years so I stay indoors during the day.”
Martha inwardly cringed. She could tell he was lying. He had a tan, but even so, the man exuded a ghoulish quality. She wished they could leave. Helen excused herself to make a call. Martha heard part of her conversation about times and a bank manager. Something again needled her memory.
“Have you lived in England long, Mrs. Littleword?” he asked.
She came back quickly from her mental digging. “Yes, I met my husband here when I was young. We married and my daughter attends Oxford.”
“Are you new to working with Mrs. Ryes?”
“Yes, our working arrangement is about six months old. I worked for years as a paralegal.”
The man’s expression became still and his gaze hung briefly on Martha’s face. He turned his attention to the manuscripts and other items lying on his desk. Martha stayed quiet after their brief interchange of personal information. She turned her attenti
on to Helen’s phone conversation, as it was coming to an end.
Helen, with perfect professionalism, explained the next steps of their arrangement to Brickstone.
“We have the use of Hisox Insurers and your contact is a dear friend of mine, Sinead Peters. She’ll answer any questions you may have about your manuscript’s location. I’ll wait until we have a firm idea of when the scholars and auction appraisers can make their evaluations before I contact you and meet with your solicitor.”
Helen handed Brickstone a piece of paper with the names and numbers.
“An armored transport will be here at ten o’clock in the morning. You may give them the manuscript and they’ll deliver it to Sinead at Hisox Insurers. Do you have any questions for me?” Helen asked Brickstone.
“No, this is perfect. Allow me to show you ladies out and I hope you have a wonderful time at The Brentmore Hotel. It has a well-stocked wine cellar and I recommend the steak tartare.”
With their business concluded, everyone journeyed back to the front of the house. Helen chatted about when she might expect to connect with one of the most noted Shakespearean scholars, Sir Barstow, and that she hoped to let Mr. Brickstone know something soon.
Martha quietly followed in the back trying to shake off the suggestion of eating raw beef for dinner that evening. She wondered for the last time, as they reemerged into the natural world of blessed light and fresh air, if maybe Brickstone wasn’t actually Count Dracula operating under a new alias and using fake tan from a can.
“Thank you, Mr. Brickstone,” Helen said at the door before exiting. “We’ll talk soon.”
When the doors to Greenwood shut behind them, all that was left to do was to settle themselves in Helen’s Mercedes and find their way to the Brentmore Hotel.
“Was that weird or what?” Martha stated more than asked.
“That was so weird, I’m not sure if I’m even comfortable being involved in the whole undertaking. He’s odd.”
“He’s a freaking Count Dracula from Looneyville,” Martha exclaimed.
“Something was off in there, Martha.”
“Here’s the creepy thing, while you were in the library tomb with Vlad, I was listening to the moans and screams from his elderly uncle being ministered to by some Nurse Ratched who’s the keeper of the undead.”
“What?” Helen blurted, turning her head briefly. It was always good to get a visual to estimate the exaggeration level of Martha’s stories.
“Yeah. Supposedly, Uncle, the Lord Farthingay, or whatever his name is, has dementia and doesn’t like his bath or wearing clothes. It made me want to bolt the minute I heard his moaning. The maid, Denise, acted like it was a regular day at the mad house.”
Helen stared at the gravel road the car was traveling on, not saying a word. She gave the gas pedal a firm press making the car increase its speed.
“Why do I get the feeling we’re in another mess?” she asked, her tone annoyed.
Martha flipped the vent blowing warm air from the heater up away from her face. “Hot flash, Helen. Lately, these things kick in if I’m even remotely emotional.”
“I know. I hate those things.”
They were quiet for a minute, watching the landscape begin to change from desolate and sinister to pastures covered in snow and houses nestled into hills and vales.
“We’ll be fine, Helen. It’s Christmas, our kids will be with us soon, and Piers and Johns have our backs. No more bad thoughts. Let’s go get something yummy to eat.” Martha thought about Brickstone’s steak tartare recommendation. “Something warm and cooked all the way through.”
Chapter 10
THE BRENTMORE HOTEL WAS FABULOUSLY posh. Helen’s Mercedes was whisked away to its own stable and the girls were shown to their rooms. Martha’s featured a pretty canopy bed with Colefax and Fowler’s Briar Rose fabric which she loved and Helen’s employed a Louis Fifteenth French-style upholstered bed done in a blue toile.
“How do you like it?” Helen asked, obviously pleased with herself at picking the perfect room for Martha.
“I love it!” Martha exclaimed. She was using a wooden step stool to get into the tall bed. “I don’t want to leave.”
“We don’t have to for two whole days, so take a nap, get a massage or order that cheese plate you so wanted. I’m off to take a long, hot soak. Have you seen the baths yet? They’re so deep. Don’t bother me for a least two hours. Ta!”
Helen was gone. Since their rooms connected, she simply popped out and closed the adjoining doors. Martha lay staring up into the exquisitely formed fabric sunburst on the ceiling of the canopy.
“How do they do that?” she muttered. Shutting her eyes, she soon drifted off to sleep only to be awakened by a knocking at her door.
Martha’s eyes focused in the dimly lit room. She realized she’d been asleep for a while.
“Martha,” Helen’s voice called from the other side of the door. “You still asleep?”
“Hang on, Helen. I’m almost there.”
Feeling her way off the pedestal for the bed, she groped for the doorknob and opened the door. “I guess I fell asleep. What time is it?”
“Your cheeks are rosy. That sleep did you good.” Helen was dressed in a simple black dress with pearls at her neck. Her short auburn hair was tucked behind her ears giving her a sophisticated look. There was a certain sparkle animating her face. “Piers is here. Will you join us for dinner in about an hour? I’m going down for cocktails.”
Martha reached up with both hands to inspect the condition of her hair.
“It’s going to take some time, kid. Give me an hour for sure. I’ll be down for dinner, but not for cocktails. I’ll text you.”
Helen gave Martha a hug and reached up to give her mussed-up red hair an additional roughing.
“What’s that for?” Martha asked still groggy from her wonderful nap.
“I just love you. You’re the sister I never had. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Martha stood in her doorway smiling sappily as her new best buddy walked down the corridor. She shut the door and toddled off to the bath wishing Helen would make her kids come to England for Christmas.
“I’VE MISSED YOU,” PIERS SAID. His eyes sparkled with warmth in the candlelight. The cozy, wainscoted cocktail area was dimly lit by electric brass sconces with gold trimmed black shades. Soft laughter tinkled through the room as other guests talked, laughed and enjoyed their drinks and appetizers. The wait staff moved noiselessly and didn’t hover. Helen and Piers were sitting in a snug niche by the dark oak-mantled inglenook fireplace, which was perfectly stoked to a crackling blaze.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Helen said smiling brightly. She couldn’t help herself from feeling warm, happy and excited to see him again. He was, as always, delicious to look at, tall and dark-haired, with a light sprinkling of grey at the temples making him, if possible, even more handsome. For better or worse, Piers Cousins always attracted women’s attention.
“You look beautiful tonight. I have something I…” the waitress appeared bringing their second serving of wine and interrupting Piers’ sentence.
“Will you be needing anything else before we seat you in the dining room?” she asked sweetly.
Helen noted his slight annoyance. He didn’t use his usual charm with the woman when he answered.
“This will be all. We’re waiting on our friend to arrive.”
Helen waited for the waitress to leave and gave him a smile, “You were saying?”
“Yes,” he continued. His demeanor was stiffer than usual, as if he was trying to work out the right approach for something. “I want you to know that I’ve been thinking about…”
“Hi!” Martha said arriving at their table with a cheery grin. “Sorry I took so long. You were right, Helen, that tub is to kill for.” Piers gave one last nervous glance at Helen and rose from his seat.
“Hello, Martha.” He rose and gave her a hug pulling out her seat for her to sit. “Helen tells me you’v
e been mucking about at Lord Percy Farthingay’s massive old house.”
“Yes, what a weirdo, the nephew, I mean,” Martha said causing Piers to choke on his wine laughing out loud.
“You do have a way with words, Martha,” he finally said wiping his chin with a napkin. “Why do you think he’s a weirdo?”
“He reminds me of a nut job back in my hometown in Arkansas, except Brickstone is a lot more handsy.”
She held her hands up and wiggled her fingers before putting a napkin daintily on her lap.
Piers studied Martha for a moment. “How old was he?”
“Well,” Martha said slowly, “he wasn’t a day over forty. Plenty old enough for acting like a wolf around Helen.”
“Forty?” Piers said snippily.
Helen shook her head. “Oh, really, Martha. He didn’t makeup to me. You’re imagining things.”
“He had that look in his eyes like you were a lamb chop and a dinner bell was being rung somewhere.”
Martha signaled to the waitress.
Piers leaned back in his chair with an annoyed tightness to his expression.
“He was a bit odd, though,” she continued. “The place was kept dark. He said he suffered from a sensitivity to natural light, though he had a tan and the moaning from Lord Percy kept under lock and key somewhere in that pile still gives me the shivers.”
“What?” Piers exclaimed a trifle too loudly. People in the cocktail bar turned to look at the three of them.
“That’s what he said, and the maid, Denise, told me it was Lord Percy who moaned because he didn’t want to eat his gruel or something like that,” Martha said sipping her fruity drink, her eyes darting surreptitiously back and forth between Helen and Piers.
“Helen, something is not right about this situation,” Piers said firmly. “I don’t think you should go back there again.”
“Oh, not to worry, Piers,” she answered. “The manuscript is being removed by armored vehicle and safely housed at an insurer in London. I’ll be working with a slew of other experts in a clean, modern office building, with lots of regular people, not old, dark and damp manor houses with lascivious lords.”
Pudding, Poison & Pie (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 6