Sam's Song

by Hannah Howe

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I slept, from five p.m. through to five p.m. the next day. Twenty-four hours. I needed every minute. I’d be lying if I said that I woke up refreshed, but my head was clearer. I knew what I had to do. I had to break into Mansetree House, gather evidence of whatever was going on there and present it to Sweets. I had to crack this case. I had to regain some self-respect.

  I drove to Mansetree House. The street lights were on, the sky was overcast and dark, but we had no rain. After my experience with Baldy in the woods, I had no wish to return there. So I drove around the perimeter of the building, searching for a weak spot.

  Sections of the high, red-bricked perimeter wall were covered in razor wire and broken bottles. Clearly, Lady Diamond was keen to keep out ne'er-do-wells like me. However, I did spot a gap in the defences, a section of wall lined with trees.

  I parked my Mini under the trees, on the pavement. Then I climbed on to the roof of my car and hooked an arm over a tree branch. I dangled there for some time, my legs kicking thin air as I tried to generate some momentum, some impetus to enable me to climb the tree. Eventually, I pulled myself up and placed my feet on to one of the branches. I was above the level of the wall now and, after a few scratches and scrapes, I climbed through the tree and over the wall. Then, with arms extended, I dropped on to the soft grass of Mansetree House.

  I was dressed in dark jeans, dark running shoes and a dark, hooded top. I pulled the hood over my head and tucked my hair into my top. My face and hands were visible, but apart from that, I was anonymous. Dark clouds hid the moon and the only illumination came from the distant lights of Mansetree House. Crouching, I made my way through the grounds, pausing to hide behind trees and outbuildings as I gained my bearings.

  I was within shouting distance of the house and I could see numerous people, mainly men, as they strolled up to the building. All were well dressed and well presented, the crème de la crème of society. It was too dark and I was too far away to recognise individual faces, but I’m pretty sure that some of those men held prominent positions in public life.

  At the rear of the building, I noticed a servants’ entrance. A number of commodities, mostly of the food and drink variety, were delivered to that entrance and after the delivery van had pulled away, the entrance door remained open.

  From my position, pressed against an outhouse, I kept an eye on that door for half an hour. No one entered or exited, except for a young woman dressed in a maid’s outfit. She was using the door as a bolt-hole to sneak out for a quick cigarette. And, because she was a chain smoker, she was in and out like someone doing the hokey-cokey. That door was my entry to Mansetree House. I had to get rid of the maid, somehow.

  I put my hand to the glass window of the outhouse and peered inside. The outhouse contained a number of discarded items including, for my purposes, an old wooden chair and a length of rope. I put my hand on the handle of the outhouse door. The door opened and I stepped inside.

  From my position inside the outhouse, I kept watch on the servants’ entrance. True to form, the maid appeared, a cigarette between her lips. The tip of the cigarette glowed as she inhaled deeply, then a plume of smoke clouded her face as she exhaled with a sigh.

  I put two fingers to my lips and whistled softly. It was a trick that I’d learned in junior school, a trick that made me the envy of my classmates, for a time. Perplexed, the maid walked towards the outhouse. I whistled again and she frowned. She had short, blonde hair, I noticed, and a multitude of rings on her fingers, along with a number of piercings in her ears. I whistled for a third time, a wolf whistle this time, and she walked up to the outhouse door and opened it. Her jaw dropped as she saw my smiling face and pointed gun.

  “One false move and I’ll add another set of piercings to your ears.”

  Maybe it was the gun, or my look, or my tone, or a combination of all three that persuaded the maid to acquiesce. She stepped into the outhouse and, following the direction of my gun, she sat on the old wooden chair.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, but I’m going to tie you; do you understand?”

  She nodded while staring vacantly at the cobwebs that festooned the outhouse. I hoped that she didn’t have a fear of spiders because, clearly, they had made this building their home.

  Setting my gun to one side, I ground her cigarette out under my heel, grabbed her wrists and bound them. Then I tied her securely to the chair. While I was busying myself with my handiwork, I noticed that the maid was smiling, and a horrifying thought went through my mind.

  “Don’t tell me you’re enjoying this?”

  Her smile widened and, suggestively, she licked her lips and parted her legs. Inwardly, I groaned; trust me to select someone who was into lesbian bondage. I shook my head as though to clear it; I certainly know how to pick ‘em.

  I placed a gag around the maid’s mouth, in case she felt the urge to scream, or suck on another cigarette. Then I left the outhouse behind and made my way, stealthily, towards the main building. At some point during the night, I felt sure that someone would free the maid from her bondage. And when she was free how she would laugh and dine out on the story for the rest of her days. Maybe. For now, I had other things to worry about – I had to get into the building, gather evidence and somehow make my escape.

  Cautiously, I poked my nose into the servants’ entrance. I looked around and saw no one. I listened hard and heard no one. The way was clear, so I entered the building.

  I was standing in a store room, piled high with potatoes, carrots, parsnips and many other vegetables, fresh food no doubt for the guests of Mansetree House.

  I made my way to the inner door of the storeroom and opened it. Immediately, I felt the heat of the house. As I stepped into the hallway, I could hear the distant murmur of numerous voices, all talking at once.

  I skipped up a flight of stairs and wandered along a passageway. Thankfully, no one saw me or even suspected my presence. In one sense, this came as no surprise because all the activity was centred on the main hall and kitchen. All the same, it did come as a relief because my cover story for being in the house – if cornered by a member of staff, I was a maid’s relative with an urgent message for her – was a thin one, to say the least.

  My aim was to get a view of the main hall and I achieved this by squatting behind the elegant screen of the minstrels’ gallery. The wooden screen, with its tracery of dragons spewing forth ubiquitous vines, offered an excellent view of the hall. I peered between the vines, looking down on the gilded barley-sugar columns, the fat cherubs laden with fruit, the walnut panelling, the Regency paintings and the velvet armchairs. I spied a number of distinguished guests – over twenty males and five females, mostly middle-aged, some younger, some older. Lady Diamond was there, wearing enough baubles to cover the national debt, while Baldy was dressed in a tuxedo, frilly shirt and bow tie. Lady Diamond was clearly in her element as she chatted with her guests, while Baldy shuffled from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable and decidedly out of place. Despite her baubles, her mohair trouser suit and her tiara, Lady Diamond still looked ugly; ‘you can’t polish a turd’, as my mother used to say. When sober, my mother had a very colourful turn of phrase. Come to think of it, she had a very colourful turn of phrase when drunk, as well.

  To all intents and purposes, I was witnessing a lavish country house party, one of many, no doubt, occurring at this very moment in time. Smartly dressed waiters and maids served food and drink on silver trays while Drake Jolley, looking very dapper in his tuxedo, played repetitive drum ‘n’ bass.

  I was getting cramp in my right leg, so I shifted position. I removed my mobile phone from my jeans pocket and took some pictures. As the evening wore on the caterers started to leave and by 11 p.m., the hall was filled with guests only.

  The music stopped and for the best part of half an hour, a nervous, expectant lull fell over the hall. The guests still drank their champagne and chat
ted quietly but, clearly, they were waiting for something, the main event of the evening.

  Then Drake Jolley pumped up the volume and the thud of drum ‘n’ bass filled the air. Then the door to the main hall opened and a dozen scantily clad ladies sauntered in. The guests offered the ladies a round of applause and they kept their hands together as the ladies were joined by men and women slapping riding crops across their palms, wearing hip-high leather boots and little else. Then the hall filled with people wearing burlesque masks and fancy costumes, and others dressed in bondage gear – metal-studded leather underwear, dog collars and heavy chains. Using my mobile phone, I took some photographs, though the scene was little more than risqué.

  Then a mini carousel spun into the room – the main hall was big enough to host a full-sized carousel. On the carousel, I could see juveniles of both sexes along with a group of people who were clearly suffering from physical and psychological disabilities. My stomach did a backward flip as I focused my camera. I felt bile rise in the back of my throat, but I forced myself to concentrate on the scene and click away.

  The guests wandered among the ‘attractions’ and made their selections. Then they ambled towards the private rooms in the house, as couples, in threesomes, foursomes and moresomes. I suppose I could have followed to capture decisive evidence, but my stomach was churning at the thought and, anyway, I’d pushed my luck getting this far.

  I returned my mobile phone to my jeans pocket then scurried away from the minstrels’ gallery. The hallways and passageways were busier now and, in my hooded top and jeans, I was overdressed to blend into the milieu. So, I inched my way along the walls, peeping around every corner, creeping towards the servants’ entrance.

  Then Baldy blocked my path. He was flexing his right hand, staring at his knuckles and I knew from experience that he’d punched someone. Baldy had emerged from the cellar. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure that he’d closed the trapdoor leading to the cellar, then he wandered towards the main hall. I was curious – who had he assaulted? Who was in the cellar? When the coast was clear, I made my way over to the trapdoor.

  I entered the cellar via a short flight of stairs. The room was dimly lit with electric light and occasionally I stumbled. I reached out an arm to steady myself, then brushed a spider from my hand as I touched a veil of cobwebs.

  I turned a corner, then opened my mouth wide in surprise. Dan was tied to a chair. His face was badly beaten, his eyes bruised and half-closed, his lips swollen. I squatted beside him and whispered, “What are you doing here?”

  He turned his head, tried to focus his eyes then gave me a pallid grin. “I gave you the clue, I wanted the story. I knew you wouldn’t come across for me, so I decided to investigate for myself.”

  I ran my hand over his swollen face, caressing it, trying to make sense of what had happened. “Who did this to you?”

  “The lady of the manor and her bruiser friend. She wanted to know where you were, what you knew about this place. I didn’t tell them anything, Sam, honest.”

  I nodded. For once in my life, I believed him. I busied my fingers on the rope, untying his bonds. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  With the rope falling to the floor, I helped Dan to his feet. He was unsteady at first, but then he nodded, indicating that he was fit enough to walk.

  We made our way to the trapdoor and inched it open. The passageway was quiet, so we sprang from the cellar and ran towards the servants’ entrance. Once again, Baldy blocked my path. He was standing at the entrance, gazing at the outhouse, rubbing his square chin. He sensed that something was amiss and with plodding tread, he made his lugubrious way towards the outhouse. As he entered the outbuilding, I grabbed Dan’s hand and we ran across the lush green lawns, towards the perimeter wall.

  I reasoned that it would take Baldy a couple of minutes to untie the maid and make sense of her story. That gave us two minutes to make our escape, barely enough time to reach the perimeter wall.

  Dan was struggling with his injuries and so I reached the wall first. I located the tree, jumped and swung on to a branch before wrapping my legs around the trunk. I shinned up the tree, then turned and offered my hand to Dan. His fingers were touching my outstretched hand when Baldy fired his shotgun. With a compulsive groan, Dan dropped his arm, placed his good hand on his wounded shoulder and grimaced in pain.

  I suppose I could have jumped over the wall and made my escape. But I couldn’t leave Dan, not in that condition. So I reached out and grabbed hold of his hand and despite his cry of pain, I pulled him on to the tree. I sensed that Baldy was reloading his shotgun and that we had seconds to make our escape. Dan was clinging on to a branch, I had my hands under his armpits and we were close to salvation, when the shotgun boomed again. The branch we were resting on cracked and splintered, and tumbling through the darkness we fell from the tree, into the grounds of Mansetree House.