Secret Of The Manor (7 page)

“Course it is, ye barnacle. Is that you, Warren?”

“Yes. Sorry to disturb you so early.”

Warren’s distress was evident in his cracked voice, and Carl’s next words sounded much more awake. “What’s up, lad? Is Argo okay?”

“Yes, yes, he’s okay. Look, any chance you can come over? I’ve taken a bit of a tumble.”

Warren had to hold the phone away from his ear to shield it from Carl yelling, “Eileen, the lad’s taken a tumble. The yard’s all yours.” Then he returned to a more amiable tone. “On my way, my boy.” The line went dead.

Warren discarded the thawed peas onto the hearth, dealt with the door, and settled into his chair to rest his eyes, secure in the knowledge help was on its way.

He was jolted awake by a knock. “It’s open,” he shouted.

Carl hurried into the lounge. “What’s up, my cocker? You look like shit. Why didn’t you call for an ambulance?”

“How do you think it would look if I called in saying I went for a night ride and came off my horse?”

“Argo didn’t toss you, did he? Hang on.... A night ride? What the bloody hell were you doing?” Carl sounded confused, like a man who had too many facts to process at once. “Anyhow, I’m sure the nurses have heard wilder stories. And it’s a darned sight better than sitting and suffering. They might have tested you for alcohol or drugs, but you’d have been seen to. You didn’t have a drink or drugs, did ye?”

Warren couldn’t help chuckling at Carl’s wording. “No to the substances, and no, Argo didn’t throw me. Saying I came off doesn’t seem too bad now, but earlier the prospect made it sound like I was off my rocker. Besides, there aren’t any aches and pains I haven’t had previously.”

Before Warren knew what was happening, Carl was giving him a once-over. He checked Warren’s eyes with a small torch attached to his keys and manipulated his limbs. Warren groaned and grumbled, and flinched when his shoulder was touched. So Carl took an even closer look at that. Carl had tended to enough falls in his lifetime to know when someone needed professional medical help and when not. “Mmmm. I’m no doctor, but you don’t look as though you’ve got a concussion. How long ago did this happen?”

“A few hours.”

“And you’ve stayed awake?”

“Other than the few minutes before you arrived, I haven’t slept since I woke from the fall. Too much going on in my head, helped by some strong coffee.”

Carl nodded. “Promise me you’ll go to the hospital, though, if you feel off.”

“Yes, Dad,” Warren promised with a cheeky grin, which Carl returned.

Up to that moment, Carl had stayed close, using the fireplace for support. Now he retrieved a chair from the table, plonked it down next to Warren’s chair, and straddled it like he was in an old western. “Now then, are you going to explain to me what you were doing out at night on a bloody horse? You sure you weren’t pissed?”

“Nope, not pissed. But in hindsight I wish I had been.... It would make what I have to tell you sound much saner.”

“I’ve heard some pretty barking things in my time. Try me.”

“Okay.”

With a deep breath and a minute of silence to organise his thoughts, Warren launched into his story. He started from the point of being drawn to the church, the dreams of eyes, and the experience he had while seated next to the unmarked grave. He included how connected and at peace he felt when talking through his thoughts at the graveside. He finished with the exhilaration of riding at night, and the details of the ghostly joust—he left nothing out.

Carl stayed silent throughout the explanation. He opened his mouth a couple of times as if to ask questions, but nothing came out. Other than that, Carl’s expressions came via the size of his eyes, which ranged from squinting to wide, and the position of his eyebrows in relation to his receding hairline.

When finished, Warren sat, exhausted. “Am I going mad, Carl?”

“Gimme a minute.” Carl made his way to the kitchen and made tea for two. On his return, he grabbed a bottle of Bruadar and added it to the tray. He balanced the platter on the arm of the chair and sat, then added a glug to both mugs, along with a dose of honey.

Warren looked at the brew suspiciously before taking a sip. Alcohol wasn’t his breakfast tipple, but given the circumstances he didn’t question it. The liqueur, made with honey and sloes, made the tea sweeter and smoother than he expected it to be; fruity, with a bite that hit the back of his throat. It was nice, and something he’d try again, but he still preferred his tea straight in the morning.

Warren waited in silence as Carl mulled his words. The heat of the tea and alcohol warmed his stomach, making him sleepy. He settled his mug on the floor and rested his eyes while he waited for Carl’s verdict.

He drifted off.

Warren woke to the sound of voices and the smell of bacon, eggs, and toast. As alluring as the aroma was, he felt snug and warm and didn’t want to move. He cracked open a sleep-crusted eye to see pillows and a comforter tucked around him.

His loud yawn alerted the company to his state of awareness.

“Morning, pumpkin. That’s good timing. Want a cuppa tea and some breakfast?”

Warren looked up to see Carl’s wife looking at him with a smile. Eileen, like Carl, was no youngster. Years of working the stables and the outdoor life kept her trim, and her long, greying hair was bundled like hay in a net at the base of her neck. Her lips were thin from age, but her brown eyes were framed with laughter lines. She was the one people preferred to talk to at the stables. “Breakfast sounds great; thank you. But I’ll have a straight cuppa this time, please.”

Eileen looked away. “Carl!” she admonished. “You didn’t. On an empty stomach, too.”

Warren was too comfortable to see Carl’s reaction, although he suspected it was one of embarrassed admission or a pulled face.

“Anyway, you get yourself changed, and breakfast, with regular tea,” Eileen shot Carl another dirty look, “will be ready in a jiffy.”

The moment Warren moved he realised how stiff he’d become. The full effects of his fall racked his body. Every muscle ached, and he felt as though he’d run a marathon without prior training. He forced himself up and to the bathroom, where he took care of the essentials.

He returned, dressed for day, and sat at his table, where Eileen took care of him. “Tuck in, luv, and take your time. Don’t you worry none about Argo. He’s been fed, had his stable cleaned, and is turned out in the paddock. He’s happy enough.”

Warren reached over, snagged Eileen’s hand, and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “Thank you. You’re an angel.”

Eileen beamed. “Any time, luv.”

Everything seemed so homely and surreal. The family feeling had been creeping up on them for a while, and Warren took the time to wallow in the sense of belonging. It made him feel warmer inside than the earlier laced tea—which Eileen still shot a scowl at Carl for.

Carl ignored his wife and stuffed a bacon-and-egg-filled corner of fried bread in his mouth. “How you feeling?” he mumbled.

Warren heartily tucked into his food. He swallowed a few mouthfuls before answering, “Stiff, but functional, thanks. Shoulder’s still sore, though. The tingling’s gone, and I can move it well enough from the elbow. Above that, we’ll see as the day goes on.”

The hairs on the back of Warren’s neck raised as he sensed a change in the atmosphere. He looked at Carl and Eileen, who only glanced at each other, not him. Warren knew that Carl and Eileen had no secrets between them. At least no secrets that remained as such for any length of time. It was a fact they were proud of, and one they promoted as the reason they’d been married for forty years. That, the looks, and the fact that Eileen was at his cottage strongly suggested Carl had told her everything about his jousting adventure.

Warren knew the time for ignoring the events of last night was at an end. He reached into his pocket, retrieved the piece of silk, and placed it in the middle of the table. “Milady’s favour,” was all he said before returning to his breakfast.

Everyone finished their meals in uncomfortable silence.

With the dishes cleared away and hands washed, Eileen took a closer look at the large-handkerchief-sized piece of material and showed something on it to Carl.

Carl seemed to understand what Eileen was getting at and spoke up. “I think we need to go see the lord of the manor.”

“Why?”

“Because that joust happened on manor land.”

“So?”

“For years, the manor has sold off parts of the estate, and that field at the top of the hill is the farthest point of the property. I know of several who have wanted it—bloody good offers, too, if the rumours are true. But all approaches have been flat-out refused. It could be nothing, but I think you stumbled on something that only they can answer.”

Warren let out a sigh of relief. “You believe me, then?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Several reasons. You’ve heard my ramblings. I love this kind of stuff. There’s been stories flying about these parts for years—nowt concrete-like, so I haven’t paid much mind to them. On the other hand, I think you’ve got yourself tangled up in a mystery; one kept secret by the manor, if your visits to Little Walmsley are anything to do with it. I don’t think it’s going to go away unless you can solve the mystery. And if that sodding bird’s involved, then something funny is definitely happening.”

Carl mentioning Salem in such a way piqued Warren’s curiosity even more. He already felt that it was halfway up Mount Everest. But Warren saw the look of apprehension on Carl and Eileen’s faces. “That’s not all, though, is it?”

Carl took a breath and raised his eyebrows. “No. That piece of silk does it for me.”

“Why?”

Eileen folded the silk and placed it on the table before Warren. Uppermost in the neatly edged corner was an embroidered gold feather. “That’s the ancient family crest of the manor, part of their coat of arms. It was updated about thirty years ago. Nothing much was thought of it at the time, just a little rumble or two at the post office on a rainy day.”

Warren remembered seeing feathers in the Walmsley coat of arms. The sight wasn’t unusual. “What did they change it to?”

“A swan.”

WARREN SAT at his table recalling the Walmsley coat of arms. He’d encountered it during his research and heading letters dealing with the purchase of the land for his cottage. It mainly comprised a shield flanked by a stag and a swan. Feathers and antlers sprouted out of the top of the shield, while the shield itself was decorated with a tree whose roots continued out of the bottom of the shield to form a footer to the picture as a whole. It was a beautiful coat of arms from which several family emblems could have been taken. What had Warren pondering was why the feather and swan were chosen. Was there more to the family crest than met the eye?

Meanwhile, Carl had the phone to his ear, only to shut it off with an expletive. After trying several times to reach the manor, a frustrated Carl and Eileen returned to the yard with Argo. The only information to come out of the historical household was that no one was available. Disappointed, Warren did the only thing he could. He fired up his spa and sank into its massaging bubbles to get some much-needed heat into his aching muscles.

He hurt from tip to toe, and the last thing he wanted was to walk into the office in the morning moving like he was weeks away from needing a coffin. As bubbles rippled up his back, the tension eased and he found it easier to breathe. Long fingers of heat reached deep into each tender sinew and cradled it like a mother soothes a fevered brow. The relief allowed him to think about what happened overnight and what to do about it.

Sadly, no matter how he processed the events, answers didn’t come to the fore. He agreed with Carl. The people with the key to the mystery had to be at the manor. Therefore, with no one available by phone, he concluded a letter was best.

Relaxed by the fire, Warren composed his request to the lord of the manor. He decided to write it by hand, in ink, to make it more personal. Several attempts later he was happy with the result.

Dear Lord Walmsley

I write with a respectful request for an audience with you.

Recently, I had a rather adventurous night ride on my horse, Argo. My intention was to ride to a high spot to witness the night sky without the distortion of lights. However, we ended up in the midst of something completely different—an event I will only speak of, and present evidence of, face to face. The hill I refer to was on the edge of your lands.

I hope you are able to shed some light on my experience, as I have the feeling it will not be my last encounter with the unusual.

Please. My contact details are overleaf.

Kind regards

Warren Blake

Warren posted the letter first class from Cheltenham during his short walk from the station to the office. The stroll between the two allowed his limbs to loosen sufficiently not to attract attention from A-Genet staff.

When he arrived for his usual Monday meeting with the directors, part of the agenda was the subject of his tenure. The years were moving along fast, so the topic was no surprise to Warren. He knew there’d be a review at some point. During his brief career at A-Genet, there’d been no financial or personal scandals. Everything had balanced and the contractors were happy. Therefore, the directors were content to comply with their original offer of retirement with a seat on the board and to abide by whatever his decision was. They gave him a month to inform them of his intentions.

By the time the meeting was adjourned a good two hours had passed. Warren rose stiffly from his seat, and one of the directors asked if he was okay. He replied, “Overdid the exercise.” The accompanying grimace had the others laughing and patting him on the back in sympathy, and Warren returned to his office unhindered.

What with his acquisition of Argo and the subsequent changes to his routine, outside the office Warren hadn’t thought much about work. He was satisfied with his accomplishments, though, and was happy to continue to be connected with the company. If he stayed beyond the five years, his contract would only be extended for another two. Either way he would still receive an income, but he questioned whether he could cope with the transition from a lifetime of work to one of horses and windsurfing.