The Thornthwaite Betrayal

by Gareth P. Jones

  Lorelli was dressed in her jet-black riding gear, while Felicia was sporting a pair of blood-red jodhpurs and an immaculate riding jacket.

  ‘I take it you’ll be riding Joy, Miss Lorelli.’ Tom handed a sugar lump to the piebald mare.

  ‘I will,’ said Lorelli. ‘Felicia will be on Pride. She’s easier to control.’

  ‘Aye. With Miss Lorelli on Joy, Pride will follow placidly enough,’ Tom said, patting the chocolate-brown gelding.

  ‘Oh, riding with my Lori-chicken on such a glorious day,’ said Felicia. ‘It’s such a dream come true.’

  ‘Actually, looks to me like rain’s heading over,’ said Tom.

  ‘We don’t mind getting wet, do we, Lori-chicken?’

  ‘It’s not you I’m worried about,’ said Tom. ‘Joy can get a little skittish in a storm.’

  ‘Do you think it will be that bad?’ asked Lorelli.

  ‘I’m no weatherman,’ replied Tom, ‘but it’s best to be prepared. As I recall, it was a clap of thunder that caused her to throw Master Ovid all those years ago.’

  ‘Does Ovid ride too?’ asked Felicia.

  ‘Not since the fall,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘He blames the horse,’ said Tom, ‘but truth is, the master is always the one to blame. It’s him giving the orders. The horse just does what he’s told.’

  ‘That’s not entirely fair,’ said Lorelli. ‘A horse like Joy is always going to be a little unpredictable.’

  ‘A good rider, like yourself, knows how much slack a horse can be given,’ said Tom.

  ‘You should not argue with your superiors,’ said Felicia. ‘These are Lori-chicken’s horses. Everything here belongs to her. You’re only a gardener.’

  ‘And a day don’t go by that I’m not grateful for that,’ said Tom. ‘But this estate is under our guardianship till the young masters come of age.’

  ‘So you’re a caretaker as well as a gardener,’ said Felicia. ‘Big fat deal.’

  ‘Felicia, please don’t be so rude,’ said Lorelli, a little taken aback.

  ‘Surely the whole point of serving staff is that you can treat them however you want,’ she replied.

  ‘That’s not how it is here,’ said Lorelli. ‘Our staff are … well, they’re more like family to us.’

  ‘Yes, but family who can’t answer back because you pay them.’

  ‘It’s not like that …’ protested Lorelli.

  ‘It makes no matter to me,’ said Tom. ‘Enjoy yourselves out there.’ He handed the reins to Lorelli.

  ‘Thank you, Tom,’ she said.

  Tom went into the stable and Lorelli helped Felicia onto Pride’s back before lifting herself up into Joy’s saddle.

  ‘It is a shame Millicent couldn’t have joined us,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘We haven’t enough horses for her,’ said Felicia. ‘Besides, her father won’t let her leave that horrible smelly butcher’s. Since her mother disappeared, her dad has been really intense. He’s probably worried that she’ll run off too.’

  ‘Do you know why she left?’ Lorelli turned Joy off the path, across the lawn towards Orwell Hill. Pride followed. ‘Father Whelan made a terrible accusation yesterday.’

  ‘You mean that Mr Hartwell killed his wife, then chopped her up and sold her as prime cuts of meat?’ said Felicia. ‘Yes, he’s been saying that to anyone who will listen.’

  ‘It’s not true, is it?’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Felicia. ‘Father Whelan is as mad as a barrel of cheese.’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t just go around accusing people of stuff like that. Why doesn’t Mr Hartwell tell the police about Whelan and make him stop?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably doesn’t want to cause a fuss. No one listens to that mad priest.’

  Lorelli dropped the reins a little and gave Joy a little tap with her heel so that she sped up. Father Whelan’s wild accusations were by no means reliable, but there was, in her experience, often some truth in them.

  Lorelli and Felicia had ridden halfway up the hill when they felt large droplets land on their heads. It wasn’t long before the rain was bouncing off their riding hats and the view was lost in a thick cloud of drizzle.

  ‘Maybe we should head back,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a passing –’ Pride lost his footing, producing a small terrified squeal from Felicia.

  ‘We’ll take shelter just over the next ridge,’ said Lorelli. ‘There’s a hut by the old mine.’

  ‘A mine. How divine. I say, that rhymes!’ She giggled. ‘What kind of mine is it, Lori-chicken?’

  ‘It was supposed to be a gold mine.’

  ‘Gold!’ cried Felicia. ‘How wonderful.’

  ‘It’s not wonderful. Our grandfather, Lord Silas, was a greedy man. Somehow he got it into his head that there was gold under the estate, but none was ever found. Only gas.’

  The rickety hut and winch tower stood in a clearing. With its rotten wooden beams and broken roof it wasn’t exactly cosy, but it did offer welcome shelter from the storm. Lorelli dismounted and tethered Joy to one of the posts, then helped Felicia off Pride.

  ‘A gold mine. How adorably romantic,’ said Felicia, following her under cover.

  ‘My grandfather’s first wife died down there. So did my grandfather when he threw himself in.’ Lorelli peered into the lift. ‘It’s not romantic.’

  ‘Oh, but death can be very romantic. You know, like in Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra. In the old days, people were always dying romantically.’ Felicia took off her riding hat and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘So, what do you say? Shall we go down?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘I’ll bet it’s really spooky down there. Go on, let’s see.’

  ‘As I say, I’m not that keen on—’

  ‘Lori-chicken, I hope you’re not telling me that you are scared of a silly old thing like the dark.’

  Lorelli knew it was ridiculous to harbour any irrational fears when she had grown up with so many real threats, but it was true. She had been scared of the dark since the time she was trapped in a cupboard with a pipe feeding poisonous gas inside. Lorelli had blocked it up with her stockings, but what Ovid had not known was that she had been using the same cupboard to store a deadly snake. Thirty-seven minutes in a confined space with a deadly snake had been enough to give Lorelli a lasting fear of the dark.

  ‘I do hope Lori-chicken isn’t a bit of a chicken,’ Felicia tittered. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a meany. We don’t have to go down there.’

  ‘I’m not a chicken,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘No, I know. I was only teasing.’

  ‘I’m not scared of the dark. And I’ll prove it. Yes, let’s go down.’

  Memorial Picture House

  Ovid chained his bike to a railing outside Little Fledgling Memorial Hall, then read the black-and-white poster on the noticeboard outside:

  THE HEXFORD FILM SOCIETY

  Proudly Presents:

  The Hexford Cinema Season

  A comprehensive history of cinema filmed in and around the Hexford area.

  Films shown every day this week at 11 a.m.

  Please see the President of the Society, Dean Griffiths, for further information.

  Ovid pushed the heavy wooden door and stepped into the echoey atrium. A young man stood behind a counter. His hair was combed into a middle parting and he wore a T-shirt of an old horror film poster, oddly distorted by his portly belly.

  ‘Could I have two tickets for today’s film?’ said Ovid.

  ‘Really?’ replied the man. ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you a member of the society?’

  ‘Do I have to be?’

  ‘No, but tickets are half price for members.’

  ‘How much is it to join?’

  ‘It’s free … Actually, no, it’s fifty pounds. That sounds like a lot, doesn’t it? Twenty pounds? How about twenty-five p
ounds and you get a free pencil?’

  ‘I think I’ll just take the tickets,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Are you sure? We have a lot of fun. I’m Dean, the president.’ He puffed out his chest and held up a leaflet. ‘We meet here once a week and discuss films.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about films, so I’d only spoil it for the others.’ Ovid was eager to extract himself from the conversation.

  ‘At the present time we have a shortage of members in the society. None except yours truly.’

  ‘So you meet with yourself once a week and discuss films.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘I’ll pay full price for the tickets, thank you. What’s the film about?’

  Dean opened a pamphlet and read from it. ‘Hotel Nowhere is a self-indulgent, sloppily directed and ill-conceived film, quite rightly panned by critics and ignored by audiences when it first came out. Now, finally, the Hexford Film Society is proud to give it the screening it so richly deserves.’ He grinned. ‘I wrote that.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound very good.’

  ‘The review or the film?’

  ‘The film.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s terrible.’

  ‘So why are you showing it?’

  ‘It turns out there aren’t actually that many films made in Hexford. So, two tickets, was it?’ He pulled out two rolls of raffle tickets, one pink, one yellow. ‘Standard or deluxe?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘A pound.’

  ‘I mean, what’s the difference in what you get?’

  ‘You get a cushion with the deluxe.’

  ‘Two deluxe tickets, please.’

  Dean Griffiths tore off two yellow tickets. He was handing them to Ovid when Millicent stepped into the atrium. She shook her umbrella. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got the tickets.’ Ovid held them up to show her, but Dean snatched them from his hand and tore them in half.

  ‘Enjoy the film,’ he said.

  Keen to get away from the odd man, Ovid led Millicent into the empty hall.

  ‘What are we watching?’ asked Millicent.

  ‘It’s called Hotel Nowhere. Where do you want to sit?’

  Millicent looked at the rows of vacant seats. ‘I don’t mind.’

  Ovid chose a seat in the middle of a middle row. They sat down and Millicent handed him a cold plastic bag with something inside.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Meat.’

  ‘Why did you bring a bag of meat?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘It’s for your uncle. He ordered it yesterday. It’s gazelle meat.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ Ovid placed the package under his chair. He had a strong suspicion that most dates did not involve a bag of smelly meat, but since this was his first, he couldn’t be entirely sure.

  Beaufort’s Secret

  Hazel was returning with a handful of fresh mint from the garden when she heard voices from inside the kitchen. She stopped to listen.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a delay.’

  It was Uncle Harry’s voice.

  ‘Delay?’ replied Beaufort. ‘What delay?’

  ‘Our project will have to be postponed.’

  ‘Postponed?’ proclaimed Beaufort. ‘No. It cannot be postponed.’

  ‘Don’t worry. The restaurant will still go ahead.’

  ‘Restaurant?’ Beaufort spat the word. ‘This is no mere restaurant. We are creating a shrine to the genius that is my food.’

  ‘I knew you’d be like this,’ said Harry.

  Hazel could see the shadows of the two men. Beaufort was brandishing a large knife. Uncle Harry was keeping his distance.

  ‘People will gather at this shrine as they once gathered around a manger in a Bethlehem stable.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Are you comparing yourself to Jesus?’ said Uncle Harry, clearly amused by the idea.

  ‘Not myself. It is my food that is divine. This will be an experience like no other.’

  ‘Yes, but there will be waiters and cooks and food … and hopefully big fat bills at the end,’ said Uncle Harry with a chuckle. ‘Besides, it will only be postponed for a short time.’

  ‘I will tolerate no delay.’

  ‘It’s unavoidable, I’m afraid, but if you want to put your impatience to good use, you could help move things along.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A story,’ said Uncle Harry.

  ‘On what subject?’

  ‘Isolation. A life of fear, loneliness, paranoia and an inescapable fate.’

  ‘A tragedy then,’ said Beaufort.

  ‘No. There is hope in this story. There is a way out. But the message must be clear. The only way to escape fear is to start afresh. Our heroes must find a way out of their prison.’

  ‘I see. It is a complex message you wish me to convey.’

  ‘Yes, but can you do it?’

  There was a long pause before Beaufort finally spoke.

  ‘If I create this narrative, you will remove the obstacles that delay our project?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Then vacate my kitchen at once. I must prepare.’

  Uncle Harry’s shadow grew larger. He was walking towards the door. Hazel ducked behind the door in time to avoid being seen. He paused in the doorway. Hazel could see his face as he turned back and smiled at Beaufort.

  ‘I look forward to tonight’s meal.’

  ‘Yes, you should,’ said the chef. ‘It will be magnifique.’

  Silas’s Mine

  The only time Lorelli had ever ventured down the mine she had been ten years old. Things had been especially tense between her and Ovid at the time. It had been early November and Ovid had messed with Old Tom’s fireworks so that they fired directly at her. Bent on revenge, Lorelli had looked into the possibility of laying a trap and luring Ovid down the mine, before plumping for the simpler idea of a game of French cricket and an exploding bat.

  The lift had been bad enough back then. It was worse now. Lorelli glanced at Felicia as the rickety cage rattled its way down the shaft.

  ‘To think we might find a nugget of gold and then I’d be as rich as you.’ Felicia giggled. ‘Imagine that. If I was just like you. Can you imagine it?’

  The shifting circle of soft yellow light from the gas lantern lit up Felicia’s eyes, causing Lorelli to wonder if there could be more to Felicia than met the eye. After all, the statue had been her idea. She had been the one who moved it to the east windowsill. The lamp swung away and threw her face into darkness. Had this whole riding expedition been a trap to lure Lorelli down this mine?

  ‘If I was as rich as you, I’d go riding every day and we would have such marvellous adventures,’ chirruped Felicia.

  No, thought Lorelli. Felicia was a lot of things – annoying, silly, ridiculous – but she was no killer.

  ‘There isn’t any gold down here,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘I know, but it‘s fun to pretend. I love pretending things. I’m always imagining how things would be if I were rich.’

  The lift shuddered and the mechanism creaked as they hit the bottom. Felicia stumbled. Lorelli grabbed her hand to keep her from falling.

  ‘Here we are then,’ said Lorelli. ‘There’s really not much else to see.’

  ‘We can go back up if you’re scared, Lori-chicken,’ said Felicia.

  ‘I am not scared,’ replied Lorelli.

  ‘Then why are you gripping my hand so tightly?’

  Lorelli released her hand. She turned the lamp up to full beam, but it still only nibbled pathetically at the endless supply of darkness on the other side of the cage door.

  ‘There’s nothing down here,’ said Lorelli.

  Felicia opened the grate and stepped into the tunnel. She felt the damp wooden beams and craggy rock walls. Lorelli swung the lantern to highlight a row of pick axes. A pile of buckets threw strange shadows at the walls.

  ‘How far does it go?’ asked Felicia.

>   ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s find out.’

  Felicia bowed her head as she took a few more steps along the tunnel. Lorelli was desperately trying to think of a reason not to follow when she heard a low growl.

  ‘What was that?’ Felicia said.

  For a moment they both listened. The second growl was louder than the first.

  ‘It sounds like a good reason to leave,’ said Lorelli. She turned to go but Felicia gripped her hands and held up the lantern. The good reason to leave stepped into the dim light. It had a large muscular body covered in spotted fur, whiskers and two green eyes that stared unblinkingly at Felicia.

  ‘Lo— Lori-chicken?’ Fear crept into Felicia’s voice.

  ‘Don’t panic. Just make your way back to the lift, but slowly. No sudden movements.’

  ‘Why … What is it?’

  The good reason to leave showed its teeth and growled.

  ‘It’s a leopard,’ said Lorelli. ‘No sudden—’

  ‘A leopard!’ Felicia screamed. Lorelli jumped back into the lift. She dragged Felicia behind her. As her arm swung, the lantern went out. The leopard roared and jumped. Lorelli slammed the gate shut and scrambled to find the control. The leopard crashed into the metal gate. Lorelli’s finger found the UP button. Felicia whimpered. Lorelli pressed the control so hard her finger hurt.

  ‘Lori-chicken,’ whispered Felicia, ‘why is there a leopard in your mine?’

  ‘That is a very good question,’ said Lorelli.

  Hotel Nowhere

  The non-fiction books in Thornthwaite Manor had yielded disappointing results on the subject of dates, so Ovid had been forced to delve into the less familiar fiction section. His research provided him with several accounts of dates, which he had studied for common themes and repeating patterns. After writing up his results he had concluded that a successful date required at least two of the following: