Cherringham--The Secret of Combe Castle (3 page)

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 …

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.

Jack followed her to the front door. Sarah pulled on an old-fashioned bell-pull, and he heard the sound of an enormous bell ringing deep inside the house.

“Never been called a grackle before,” he said. “I’m guessing it’s not a nice thing?”

“It’s grockle,” she said. “And you’re guessing right. Means ‘tourist’ — and not an especially desirable one.”

The door opened and Jack did a genuine double-take.

Facing him was the man who’d just driven away up the drive.

Identical in tweed suit — apart from the jumper. This man’s was dark green.

“Um, Mr. FitzHenry?” said Sarah, sounding to Jack just as surprised as he was.

The man stepped forward, a welcoming grin on his face. He held out his hand for them to shake.

“Miss Edwards,” said FitzHenry. “And you, sir, must be Detective Brennan!”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Jack, shaking hands. “Jack please. But didn’t we just see you … in the Jag?”

“Me? Good Lord no! That wasn’t me. That was Baby. Ha ha! Me? In a Jag? That’ll be the day!”

Jack stared at him.

Sarah was right. Eccentric was exactly the word.

“Welcome to Combe Castle,” said FitzHenry. “Come in and let’s have a drink. Never too early for a drink, yes?”

He turned and disappeared inside.

Jack looked at Sarah and shrugged. She shrugged back.

Let the adventure begin,
he thought.

Then they followed, and Jack shut the door behind them.

*

“Ha ha, very funny, very funny indeed!” said Oswald, raising his glass. “To Baby, the most miserable bugger in all England!”

“To Baby,” said Sarah, confused but not wanting to seem rude.

She raised her very small glass of sherry to Oswald’s toast and took a sip. Crazy to be drinking this early.

But when in Rome — or a crazy castle …

Across the grand but faded sitting room she saw Jack lift his glass to his lips without drinking.

Never on duty
— she knew that was Jack’s unbreakable rule.

She watched as Oswald slung back his large Scotch and slammed his glass down on the side table by the big log fire.

He reached across for the bottle, but Sarah saw Edwina, who sat on the sofa next to it, place a firm hand on his wrist.

“No, dear,” she said. “That will be quite enough.”

“No? Not even a snifter?”

“Not even a snifter.”

“Hmmph,” said Oswald. Then he turned to Jack.

“Wish I’d seen your face old boy. Grockle! Grockle! Where does Baby get them from?”

“It was very amusing, and confusing, Mr. FitzHenry,” said Jack, giving their host what Sarah knew was his most patient and insincere smile.

“Oswald, please — Jack! Do forget the royal connection. All chums here, hmm?”

Royal connection? That seemed improbable.

Something to be checked out later.

“So who is ‘Baby’?” said Sarah.

“Oswald’s always called him that,” said Edwina. “His real name’s Rufus.”

“He’s Baby to me,” said Oswald. “We’re two minutes apart you see.”

“Most costly two minutes in England,” said Edwina.

“I love to needle him. Older brother and all that!”

“I’m still not sure I get it,” said Jack.

“The glorious tradition of
primogeniture
,” said Oswald, reaching for the scotch.

Sarah saw Edwina give Oswald a steely eyed stare and his hand slid back.

“You see, I was born two minutes before Rufus, and Pater — being a stickler for tradition — made sure in his will that I inherited this whole estate—and he inherited nothing.”