The Golden Maze (5 page)

"She hoped that Robert would leave Paul the castle. Why she should think that I don't know. After all, they'd only been with him ten years. Again Robert was too generous. He paid for a good education for Paul, but look what the boy's like now—a typical

hippy, lazy as they come. Adored by his mother, of course, who sees no fault in him."

Cindy had sighed. "It makes me feel pretty miserable. I didn't want to hurt all these people."

Mrs. Usher had smiled. "Not to worry, dear child. Robert often talked to me of you. He loved your mother, you see. That's why you were asked to stay here. Unfortunately your mother said no and that was that, but he never forgot how you loved the castle. He knew, you see, that both the Stones and David would sell the castle. Only Peter wouldn't .. . nor you."

Now as Cindy hurried to her bedroom to change into another frock, she wondered just how she was going to keep the castle going—always of course allowing for the fact that Peter didn't turn up. How David must hate her, she thought unhappily. Why, oh, why had she to meet a man she liked so much on sight only to find he hated her. ?

CINDY was very quiet as Mrs. Stone served up dinner. Cindy had never felt so uncomfortable before in her life. She had no desire to hurt the Stones or David Baxter; indeed, she herself had nothing to do with it—but perhaps they didn't realise that? What was there she could say ? Unable to answer that question, Cindy decided it might be wiser to keep quiet.

Afterwards the sat alone in the huge cold drawing-room before a log fire that crackled and sparkled. How quiet everything was. If she ever lived there, Cindy decided, she would certainly have a dog, or even several, and some cats. How wonderful to have a real home—not just a box-like bedsitter where you had to ease your way round the furniture that took up what little space there was. Suddenly restless, she got up and wandered down the lofty dark hall, dimly lit by a very old chandelier that looked as if it might fall at any moment.

The click-clack of her heels on the polished floor sounded absurdly loud and echoed and re-echoed as she went from room to room. There was little difference in them, for they were all full of old antiques—each article amazingly clean and polished. Mrs. Stone certainly worked hard, Cindy thought. Poor Mrs. Stone—her dream demolished.

The library was the most interesting, even though it

was so cold. Cindy walked past the crowded bookshelves, looking for something to read.

After she had collected several books that looked interesting—all biographies she
paused
by the huge old desk, and opened it. There were a few papers in it, neatly folded, so obviously whoever had gone through Uncle Robert's papers had taken everything of value. It was a fascinating desk with so many drawers and shelves of different size. She had a job getting one drawer shut, and as she pushed and pulled it, a small door-like board swung open.

"A secret drawer !" she said slowly, her eyes wide with excitement. Of course many of these old desks had secret drawers, she knew. She put in her hand and slowly pulled out a long thin flat book. Opening it, she peered at the incredibly tiny neat writing. It was hard to read.

Suddenly she heard footsteps—angry ones, she I thought, as they went clomp, clomp, clomp, along. I It could only be Mrs. Stone !

Hastily Cindy closed the desk, pushed the flat book under her cardigan and moved to the bookshelves.

"What do you think you're doing now ?" Mrs. Stone demanded. Standing in the doorway, her hands ' on hips, cheeks flushed, hair more wispy than usual, her eyes were angry.

"I was getting something to read," Cindy explained, gathering the books up.

"You've not the right to meddle about with Mr. Baxter's things," Mrs. S
tone said angrily. "The castle
ain't yours yet, nor may it ever be if Mr. Baxter turns I up."

"I'm sure Mr. Baxter wouldn't object to my reading

some of his many books," Cindy said, lifting her head and returning, glare by glare, Mrs. Stone's angry looks. "I was thinking how wonderfully clean you've kept the castle," she added.

Mrs. Stone sniffed. "Someone has to, haven't they? Not easy, mind, nor appreciated. Mr. Baxter never saw if it was clean or t'dirt was around."

Somehow Cindy managed to escape and went back to sit by her fire. She looked through the books, keeping the long flat book under a cushion. She wondered why she had hidden it so quickly—after all, whoever went through Mr. Baxter's things must have known of the secret drawer. Yet something had told her to keep it from Mrs. Stone. Cindy realised with a shock that not only did she dislike Mrs. Stone but she distrusted her—and disliked and distrusted the son, Paul, even more.

The quietness was so oppressively still—the only sound being the occasional crackle of a twig fallen off the log as it was burned through—that Cindy found herself looking constantly over her shoulder. In the end she went to bed, propped up by pillows, and began to read the long flat book she had found.

It was very hard to read the tiny neat writing ! Cindy tried both with and without her glasses. She read enough to realise it was Robert Baxter's diary. Not a very, very old one as she had hoped, perhaps dating back to the eighteenth century would have been much more exciting.

Yet in a way she wanted to know more about the man who had never forgotten her, who had remembered how, as a little girl of seven, she had wept because her mother said the castle wasn't real... As

Cindy read, she realised it was not a diary, but more a collection of notes he had made.

"Sometimes I feel I cannot survive unless I have someone to talk to. This is why I am writing this," Cindy read. "The quiet emptiness is the most devastating experience I have ever known. If only Peter would write ! Just a few words, so that I know he is well. How can I write to him when I have no idea where he is?"

Cindy closed the book with a sigh. As Mrs. Usher had said, how terribly sad. Yet surely Peter Baxter could have written to his father? Or was the quarrel too bitter to allow a proud man to make the first move ?

At breakfast next day, Mrs. Stone told Cindy that Mr. Fairhead wished to speak to her.

"He manages the estate," Mrs. Stone explained. "A mean man if ever there was one."

Cindy wondered what sort of man he was that she went out to meet. He was standing in front of the castle, frowning as he looked down at the lake below. As she joined him she saw she hadn't realised just how high up the castle stood, but now she could see the winding narrow track and two cars were going along it that looked like toy cars scuttling along.

The man turned to look at her, his' eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He was a big burly man with a slight tummy bulge and grey tufty hair. He held out his hand.

"I felt I'd like t'know you, Miss Preston. Seems like you may be my boss." His grin split his weather-beaten face in half. He shook her hand firmly and frowned. "You're younger than I expected."

Cindy's chin tilted. "I'm nearly twenty."

He grinned. "You remind me of my daughter. She's nearly sixteen." Luke Fairhead had a dog beside him. "This is Bessie, a farmer's best friend."

The sheepdog looked up as Cindy stroked her ears. "You're lucky," Luke Fairhead said. "The sun isn't always with us."

"I don't mind if it rains, Mr. Fairhead. I think this is so lovely."

He beamed again. "You like it here ?"

"So much. I never forgot it, you know."

"It's gone to seed badly. You . ." Mr. Fairhead looked embarrassed. "We know nought about you, Miss Preston. If you do inherit the castle, will you be able to . . ."

"Finance it?" Cindy looked at him. "I don't know. There must be some way. Other beautiful old places manage ."

"But, Miss Preston, Claife Castle is different. It isn't really old."

"I know. Mr. Ayres, the solicitor, told me so. Yet there must be a way."

"I'd like you to come to my office and then let me show you around, Miss Preston. I think it's only fair for you to see the bad side as well as the good of your inheritance??

"But Mr. Fairhead . . ." Cindy put out her hand and touched his arm, "I think you're forgetting that I'm not the heiress to the castle. There's still time for the son to turn up."

"No, Miss Preston, that I haven't forgotten. Peter was a strange lad with a habit of turning up unexpectedly. Real sad, that quarrel with his dad. The

old man was always sure he was right and Peter had the same kink, but different-like, if you know what I mean. I'll never forget the day he came back—Peter, I mean. It was some years after he'd walked out and I saw the lad arrive. He knocked on the door and spoke to Mrs. Stone. She closed the door in his face and kept him waiting—then when she came back, she told him something and then slammed the door. I never seen Peter look like that. White as a sheep turning sick, that was what he looked like, as if his face had been slapped. He didn't see me ... he just drove off like a madman."

"I wonder what she said."

Mr. Fairhead shrugged. "I can only guess that the old man refused to see him."

"But he wanted .. ." Cindy began, and stopped, for the front door behind had opened with its usual squeaks and groans. Mrs. Stone stood there.

"Paul'd like to see you now, Mr. Fairhead."

Luke Fairhead frowned. "Tell him I'm busy. I'll see him later. Come on, Miss Preston," he said, and strode away, Cindy following, trying to keep up with his long strides, straightening the glasses that were sliding down her nose.

It didn't make sense somehow, she was thinking as she hurried. Peter coming to see his father—then the old man refusing to see him? Yet in the notebook she was reading ...

"Ah, come inside, Miss Preston." Mr. Fairhead led the way into an immaculately neat office. "Let's get down to business."

Two hours later he shook Cindy warmly by the hand. "Well, you now see the position, Miss Preston.

I'm glad you feel as you do. Maybe if we sold the farm—your uncle would not hear of it, but then he didn't realise that he was running it at a loss. Colin Pritchard is too old to manage it really, but Mr. Baxter won't turn him out. A kind man, Mr. Baxter, for all his tempers. His nephew David takes after him for the last. Now there's a bitter young man what's had too much done for him. His uncle was generous."

"I understand Mr. David Baxter expected to inherit the castle," Cindy said.

Mr. Fairhead grunted. "David may have thought it, but not me. Robert Baxter always meant Peter to have it. David would sell the lot tomorrow, and that was something Robert Baxter didn't want."

"Well . . . well, if I do get .it," Cindy said awkwardly, "I'll do my best to keep it."

"I know you will, Miss Preston, and you can count on me for help. Now where's that young layabout, Paul? Round the back, I've no doubt. Another sign of Robert's generosity" that goes wrong. Young Stone has been given everything and what does he do in return? —nothing. 'Bye for now."

He strode off round the castle, Bessie following him. Cindy knocked on the door. She was startled when after the usual squeaking and groaning Paul Stone opened it.

He held out an envelope. "Letter for you, Miss Preston." He looked down at it, turning it over. "Funny thing—it's got a London postmark, but the address on the back is American."

"So ?" Cindy took it, looking down at the address. "This isn't for me," she said. 'It's addressed to the owner of Claife Castle. I'm not.."

"Yet !" Paul Stone's mouth curled. "But you will be—eh? Open it and see what it says." He leaned against the door, making it impossible for her to go into the hall.

"I've got no right to open it. I'm not the owner," she repeated.

"Don't be square, Miss Preston," Paul Stone laughed scornfully. "I bet you're longing to open it just as much as me. What can an American have to do with Claife Castle ?"

Cindy shook her head. "I have no right to open it. I shall send it at once to the solicitor. Please let me pass."

He shrugged, standing back. "Okay, if you feel stuffy. I'm going down to the village. Want me to bring you up a newspaper ?"

"No, thanks—I'm going down myself." Cindy told him. "By the way, Mr. Fairhead is looking for you."

"Let him look," Paul said with a grin. "He made me wait, now it's my turn." He strode over the gravel towards his bright red car.

Cindy hurried to her bedroom, found an envelope and hastily wrote to Mr. Ayres.

"I've no right to open it, so think it best to send it to you."

Quickly she put o
n her thick coat, tied a green
scarf round her head and looked in the mirror. She had thick dark rims to her glasses. Did they seem to hide her face? she wondered. Mr. Jenkins had said they made her look prettier, but then he was only being kind. Perhaps she'd meet David Baxter in the village and he might be in a
better mood.

CINDY drove down to the village by the lake, parked her car and hurried to the Post Office. It had struck her that the letter might be about the missing heir—whoever it was might not know that Robert Baxter was dead but merely that the heir was being sought. As she opened the shop door and entered, the babble of voices stopped with an abruptness that startled her.