Ridiculous thing.
And the witches’ cell!
Why would anyone these days want to see that?
Today it was all about vampires, and those zombie things. But would Oswald even think about updating this place with some modern stuff that the kids liked?
No.
“I’m a traditionalist,” he’d say.
Or talk of how everything here was based on history.
She’d just laugh at that.
“Oswald,” she shouted now. “What in God’s name are you doing—”
A bright flash flickered from the room ahead. The glow sent shafts of brilliant light into the hall, and she guessed her husband must still be there.
Curious. Why was everything he was supposed to shut down still in full operation?
What was he doing? Knocking back the Famous Grouse while watching the pretty lights electrocute the hapless mannequin?
She reached the room, her breathing deep, a sigh because Oswald was there.
All looked okay.
(And she had to admit … she had been a little worried. He might be stubborn and pretty obtuse, but he was — nonetheless — her husband …)
But Oswald turned and his doughy face was tight, with an expression of …
What? Fear? Confusion?
Utter rabbit in the headlights.
“Oswald, what in the world are you doing down here, with all this—”
But before she finished, he had raised his arm and pointed to the display which — save for Edwina noting the sparks and flashbulb-like popping of lights — she hadn’t looked at.
Now she saw what had made Oswald stop, stand here.
And all Edwina could say was … “Gawd Almighty …”
*
Edwina couldn’t believe what she saw. Nor, she guessed, could Oswald.
The lighting effects and sparks of the electric chair all worked fine.
But the dummy in the chair with his bulging eyes now wore a placard around his neck that read: ‘Oswald FitzHenry — R.I.P.’
And the chap hanging like a sausage from the gallows held a sign in his previously empty clenched fists … ‘Leave this castle now!’
It got worse. Blood red paint on the walls screamed in giant block letters, ‘Go! Get Out!’
Then another painted message, (though in truth this one said something that Edwina actually agreed with) … ‘Combe Castle is cursed!’
Finally she spoke since all Oswald seemed able to do was look at her.
“Oswald. What’s happened here?”
He shook his head.
Of course.
“I — I don’t know, Edwina. I walked in, and this was all here. Th-they even splashed blood, over there, on the floor …”
Now it was Edwina’s turn to shake her head.
Blood?
Unlikely … just more red paint.
But when she walked over to an open space separating the hanged man and the dummy strapped to the chair, she could see … from how shiny and slippery it looked … then—
The smell.
“Oh God,” she said again. “It is blood. Pig’s blood or something!”
And when she looked at Oswald again, his eyes looking as crazed as any of the characters in the diorama.
She thought then of saying — strongly, firmly, no discussion this time — that they had to sell this place. No matter who wanted them gone.
After all, it’s just one big money drain, despite the legendary FitzHenry family royal connections.
But she knew her husband and she wondered, even after all this, whether he would budge.
She walked over to him. “Someone must have broken in here,” she said. “After we closed.”
That made Oswald look around, his torch still on.
He nodded.
Then: “We have to get help. We can’t deal with this by ourselves …” Edwina said.
“Right.”
“First thing tomorrow. This is bad.”
A nod.
Then, because for now there was nothing else to do, she said:
“Turn it all off, Oswald. And come to bed.”
“Should I get … my shotgun?”
She rolled her eyes.
The idea of Oswald in bed with her, shotgun within his reach, was even scarier than the vandalism and threats inside this room.
“No.”
He nodded. Then she watched as Oswald found the set of switches that shut off the screams, the lights, the sparks … and stopped the endless execution.
And, hands clasped tightly, they made their way up the curving steps, to their chilly bedroom.
3. A Consultation with the Detective
Sarah grabbed some vegetables — tired carrots, beans that looked barely fresh, a head of romaine, and a little box of Brussels sprouts that she was sure the kids wouldn’t be too pleased with no matter how she prepared them.
Then down to the meat aisle, to sweeten the deal with some juicy burgers, sautéed in onions.
She stood there, searching for the pack of mince with the lowest fat content.
Things had been slow at her design business. Holidays coming soon and most of the flyers and brochures announcing the festive events to come — including this year’s Christmas pantomime — were already done.
The Drama Society’s pantomime flyer had been great fun to work on with Grace, as they created a garish and colourful array of grinning local ‘stars’ weirdly dressed as everything from Robin Hood, to Aladdin, to what appeared to be an outlandish version of the Prime Minister with bright pink hair and rhinestone glasses.
This panto, she thought, is one not to be missed.
She found a pack of meat that fitted the bill. And then turned around.
When she saw two people standing in front of her.
*
For a moment Sarah thought they might just want to get past her to the meat counter.
But no — they had their eyes trained on her, and were — in fact — blocking Sarah’s way.
Then they turned and looked at each other like some married version of Tweedledum and Tweedledee … and finally the man spoke.
“Excuse me, you’re Sarah Edwards, yes?”
Sarah nodded as she put the mince into her basket.
“The one who solves mysteries, correct?”
At this point another shopper, a burly woman picking through the chicken breasts, looked up, all ears for a conversation that wasn’t hers.
Sarah thought … maybe this detective business is bringing me a little too much notoriety.
At least for the small village of Cherringham.
“Yes, I’ve managed to solve one or two things, with my friend—”
The man raised a finger like a schoolboy with the right answer.
“The American.”
“That’s right, um … look — I was just picking up a few things for dinner. Do you … have a question?”
The man nodded and took a breath.
Sarah stepped into a side aisle to get out of the way of the burly woman passing through, and stood by the row of breakfast cereal boxes.
The pair pivoted, following her.
“Come on, Oswald,” the woman said. “Spit it out, man.”
The two of them looked familiar but Sarah couldn’t quite place them: they weren’t people she saw every day walking around the village.
“Yes, right, of course,” the man said, taking a deep breath. “I’m Oswald FitzHenry, and this is my wife Edwina, and we live over at—”
Then it came to Sarah. Of course …
“Combe Castle,” she finished.
The man beamed with the recognition.
“Jolly good. Now, here’s the thing. We wanted to have a chat with you, watched you come in here because you see—”
“Do get on with it, Oswald!”
“Someone has been making threats. Against us. And last night, I’m afraid they broke in and vandalised some of our most … er, valuable … exhibits.”
“Left some horrible signs, the threats in red paint. Like blood all over,” the wife added.
“Oh, dear,” Sarah said.
By now the three of them had become a star attraction for shoppers walking down this aisle.
“That sounds terrible. How about—”
Sarah wasn’t sure she could do anything for these two — or should do anything. But she realised talking about it in Cherringham’s little supermarket was probably not a good idea.
“How about I pay for these things, and we pop over to my office, across the street? Then you can tell me all about.”
“Capital,” the man said.
And they followed Sarah to the front, and waited by the side of the Costco checkout for Sarah to pay for her half-dozen items, until she was ready to lead them to her office.
*
Grace had already gone home; no sense working late with the workload way down.
“Have a seat,” Sarah said to the FitzHenrys, and they pulled two chairs close to Sarah’s desk.
And then she listened as they described the anonymous notes they had received, all saying that the castle should be shut down, that they should leave the place.
Then what had happened to the displays the previous night. The pig’s blood.
“You called the police I assume? I mean, that sounds pretty serious.”
“Cherringham’s finest?” Edwina said. “Fat lot of good that did. They sent some child over, can’t have been more than a teenager.”
“Alan Rivers?” said Sarah. Alan was Cherringham’s local cop, and had been at school with Sarah.
“We’re hardly on first-name terms — but I believe that’s the fellow,” said Edwina. “He suggested that Combe Castle was the type of place kids liked to break in, mess about …”
“That’s what he said,” Oswald reiterated. “Then he said he’d be sure to put the place on his regular patrol route. If it happens again, perhaps he’ll be able to do more.”
“And the notes? You showed Alan those?”
“Yes,” Oswald said. “But he said it’d be impossible to trace them. All posted from a different village. No return address, of course. He said a place like ours sometimes gets that kind of … attention.”
“Totally useless!” Edwina said, sniffing.
These two were something, Sarah thought.
She also couldn’t see that there was much she could do to help them.
But then again, things in the office had turned quiet, and she and Jack hadn’t done any work together in a while.
What was the expression?
Might be good for a laugh?
“Okay. To be honest, I’m not sure that my, er … colleague, Jack Brennan, will think there’s much we can do. But how about this …”
On cue, the FitzHenrys leaned forward together, eager for the plan.
“Why don’t I give him a ring — after I feed my kids …”
Sarah nodded to the shopping bag filled with the ingredients for cheeseburgers and a healthy green salad.
“…maybe he and I can come over, see the place, and you can tell us what happened. No promises, but I trust his instincts.”
The man clapped.
“Excellent! We’ll keep all the lights on. Give you two a proper tour of the whole place.”
Sarah wasn’t too sure that was required.
But still — a threatening note was a threatening note. Someone wanted Combe Castle and its occupants gone.
Why on earth?
That, she thought, might be just enough mystery to engage Jack.
Sarah stood up, and grabbed her shopping bag. “I’ll ring you to confirm, make sure Jack is on board. And if it all works out … we’ll see you later.”
Oswald FitzHenry seemed so pleased that Sarah thought she was about to get an unwelcome hug.
His wife looked less so.
And she led them both out of her office, down the stairs to the street, thinking:
This could be fun …
4. The House on the River
Jack spun the wheel of his little Austin Healey Sprite, braked hard and just avoided another pothole.
“Next time — if there is a next time — we’re coming in your SUV,” he said, dropping down a gear. “Some of these holes are so big we might never get out.”
“The castle’s on the river — maybe we should have come by boat,” said Sarah.
“It sure is the day for it.”
He nodded to the clear blue sky — sunny enough all morning to have persuaded him to take the top down on the sports car.
“Like a perfect fall in New England, and—” He stopped, hearing a sound that he did not like at all. “Hold on—”
Sounding just like the underside of the car scraping on the rough gravel of the Combe Castle drive.
“Damn.”
But then the racket of stones hitting the car’s underside stopped as the gravel became tarmac and Jack drove on, hoping that there’d been no damage to his beloved car.
“We doing this for free?” he said. “I may … have expenses. That did not sound good.”
“I don’t think there’s much cash to be had here. Think of it as a public service for the good people of Cherringham.”
He laughed at that.
They rounded a bend in the drive and Combe Castle itself now appeared through trees ahead of them.
“Hmm. From the look of that palace they can afford to pay.”
“Don’t you believe it, Jack — from what I’ve heard the ivy’s the only thing keeping it from falling down.”
As they coasted down the hill towards the house, Jack found that hard to believe. Combe Castle looked to him like a classic romantic ruin — a movie producer’s idea of the perfect quaint English castle.
He could now see the building clearly: nestled into a bend on the river, and set among wide lawns and meadows, a blend of Norman ruin and eighteenth-century mansion.
“How come you never told me about this?” he said. “It’s amazing.”
“We came past it on the boat last year, on the way back from Oxford — don’t you remember?”
“You kidding? I was way too busy doing my impression of a Texas millionaire to notice the scenery,” he said. “Which reminds me — those sneaky English professors were something else, no?”
Sarah laughed: “You wait till you meet the FitzHenrys, Jack.”
“Typical English upper classes huh?”
“Hmm … no. Typical isn’t the word. Eccentric perhaps. Maybe bizarre.” She laughed. “You’re in for a treat.”
Jack looked across at her. She smiled innocently back at him.
“Oh I get it,” he said. “Connecticut Yankee time, huh? Slice of English life and it’s people that I have not yet experienced?”
“Exactly!”
He pulled the car in a wide arc across the gravel forecourt of the house and parked next to an old red Jaguar.
Jack couldn’t resist going over to the car and walking around it.
“Wow. Mark Two,” he said. “Three point four litre. Classic.”
“Really?”
“‘Course, these Jaguars were tough to keep in good operating condition even when new. Temperamental engine. But this one looks really well-maintained.”
Sarah turned to the steps leading to the large castle doors.
“What do you think of the place now?” said Sarah.
Jack pulled himself away from the car and looked up at the ivy-clad house. Strange.
It seemed to be in two halves: this side, a mansion like many others he’d seen in the area. Classical lines. A front door with pillars and a portico. Above, Jack saw eight windows set in ivy and wisteria. And then grafted onto the house was the real deal — a castle like in all the Robin Hood films he’d seen.
Though much of this castle was clearly just ruins.
Closer now to the ‘newer’ building, Jack could see — as Sarah had suggested, that it was ‘on its uppers.’ Behind the ivy, the window
frames were patched and peeling. He could see so many tiles missing on the roof and the lead flashing around the multiple chimneys was peeling back like an old tin can.
Looking higher, some of the upper windows had the shutters drawn: he guessed parts of the big house had been completely closed off to save on heating and maintenance. The stonework looked pitted and the flowerbeds which ran the length of the building had been turned into drab displays of weeds and unkempt shrubs.
“I see what you mean. Not big on renovation and upkeep here,” he said. “Is this the part that’s open to the public?”
“I think that this section is where the FitzHenrys live. The tourist part’s at the back where it joins onto the old Norman castle. From memory, I think there are rooms in the house that serve as some kind of museum.”
“What kind?”
She laughed. “Why not wait for the tour?”
“You have my attention.”
Then, as they were still examining the decrepit castle and mansion, the front doors to the house flew open and a tall, grey-haired man in a tweed suit and yellow jumper strode out towards them.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he said, approaching Jack. “Castle visitors enter from the rear. It’s clearly marked and—”
Jack could see the man’s face was flushed, his eyes sharp.
“Mr. FitzHenry—” said Sarah. “Don’t you remember, you asked me to—”
But the man ignored her and stood in Jack’s face.
“Bloody grockles! Just stay away from the car — all right?”
Before Jack could say anything in reply, the man had climbed into the Jag and turned the engine on. Started right up.
The driver reversed sharply — Jack stepped out of the way and drew Sarah with him.
Jack watched as the Jaguar roared away up the drive towards the main road.
“Well,” said Sarah.
“I’m confused. I thought you said we’d been invited?”
“We were. I don’t understand. He was so pleasant yesterday.”
“Shame. That’s totally changed my opinion of Jag owners.”
“Let’s go and see if Mrs. FitzHenry is in.”
“And let’s hope she doesn’t do a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde either, huh?” said Jack.
Cherringham--The Secret of Combe Castle Page 2