Cherringham--The Secret of Brimley Manor

by Matthew Costello

  Unseen by the agitated man looking down at the path, Sarah hurried her steps.

  “Mr Brimley?” Then louder, as the man looked up, grimace tightly in place. “Mr Brimley. I—”

  The man stopped, and scrutinised Sarah as if she was some sort of unexpected beast that had traipsed across his path.

  “Hardly,” he said. “Not ‘Brimley’, that’s for sure.” And still, his face stolid, suspicious.

  Gosh, everyone connected with this place is so prickly, Sarah thought.

  “And who are you?”

  And, like Alice faced with the same question from the caterpillar, Sarah wondered how she should answer.

  She forced a small smile, then nodded.

  “Sarah Edwards. I’ve been asked by Mr Jessop, of the Conservation Trust to talk to everyone about the fire.”

  And on the man’s face, it was as if someone flicked a switch on a light.

  The stony grimace faded, replaced by a slightly warm smile.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s been upsetting, I mean dealing with him.” He nodded back to the just-slammed door. “So, er—”

  Then the man caught himself — and with a move that looked well-practised — slid a hand into the pocket of his lightweight sport coat, extracted a thin gold case, flipped it open as he stepped forward, and smoothly handed his card to Sarah.

  The card, a thick stock that by its weight alone spoke of a person of importance.

  At least, that’s what she imagined it was supposed to do.

  She gave it the quickest glance, but the man quickly supplied the key information.

  “Guy Gibbons. I do some work for the Trust myself. Heard the other day that Jessop had been looking for someone, to, well, look into things. And here you are.”

  Sarah kept her smile in place, but said nothing. Best to see how much this man would tell her before she asked a question.

  “I’m, um, a valuer for the estate. Hired-gun, if you will. Working with the cataloguer and also — all hands on deck! — dealing with the lovely people from the insurance company. Suspicious lot that, I can tell you.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Sorry for thinking, I mean, that you were Mr Brimley,” Sarah said, as if making a small joke.

  “Ha. No harm. I must say, it’s actually quite amusing that you mistook him for me.”

  “I’ve not yet met the man, so …”

  Gibbons nodded. “Oh, I see, right! You’re talking to everyone, that it? Probably wondering why I’m here?”

  The man was a veritable fount of willingly offered information.

  So far.

  “Guess so,” Sarah said.

  “I’m also a lawyer. Help out with various Trust things. Had a small matter to deal with in there, with their” — he shook his head — “tenant.”

  “Tenant?”

  “Well, not precisely a tenant. Mr Brimley does legally own this property, as pathetic as it may be. But, you know, issues pop up. Land rents, taxes. Connected to the estate. All that. Rather dull stuff.”

  Sarah noted that Gibbons had seemed pretty upset, after his supposedly “rather dull” chat with Peregrine Brimley.

  “I say,” said Gibbons, screwing his eyes up and peering at her, “you and that chap you work with … learn anything of interest yet?”

  “’Fraid not. But there are still more people we need to talk to.”

  Gibbons nodded.

  Was that relief on his face? Sarah wondered.

  “Right. I imagine Jessop and the Trust just want to cover the bases, you know? Liability and all that. The place is really quite a mess inside. Things, as they say, have been let go.”

  “Mr Gibbons—”

  “Oh, Guy, please.”

  “I was wondering, about that night, if you—”

  Then Sarah saw a flicker in his eyes. Her first probing question, and he clearly didn’t like it.

  Gibbons made a dramatic display of raising his forearm, extending his arm, until a silvery watch band caught the setting sunlight.

  Obviously a pricey timepiece, even viewed at a distance.

  “Oh! So sorry. Have one more important meeting before G&T time rolls around. You’ll have to excuse me? Must dash.”

  Sarah nodded. Now she raised the thick business card. “But I can contact you at these numbers, should I have any relevant questions?”

  A small crack in Gibbons’ smile. “Relevant? Not sure that I can add anything to the official fire-and-safety report but—”

  Change of gears. This man was a well-oiled — and, she thought, a tad oily — machine.

  “Absolutely. You can leave a message. You may get my PA. And, well, I’ll get back to you, pronto.”

  “Thanks,” she said, as Gibbons nodded, and started to move around to the back of the sombre cottage where she imagined his car was parked.

  Seconds later, at the front door of Brimley’s house, she couldn’t see his car, but she heard a throaty rumble.

  That substantial rumble spoke of a car to match the man and his watch and planklike business card.

  As the car engine noise faded away, winding down a path, still unseen by Sarah, she knocked on the cottage door.

  Ready to meet the Brimley heir …

  *

  Jack looked around the small car park attached to the property. He expected Sarah to have finished her questioning of Sophie Scott.

  But maybe she had struck lucky? Jack thought.

  So rather than ping her with a text, wondering where she was, he took a moment to look around.

  The sun now painted the manor house a golden yellow.

  Where it wasn’t covered in ivy, the building’s stone glowed with the subdued, warm light. It looked beautiful, despite the weirdness within. And the plantings that girded the two front lawns also glowed under the warm, fading light; the greens rich, lush, and the orange and yellow flowers taking on a near-Impressionistic hue.

  Must have been hard for Brimley to give this place up — if that’s what happened, Jack thought. Turn it over to a Trust, and just walk away.

  He knew that such things happened to many of the great estates over here. The costs for the owners just too high.

  Still — for a moment — Jack thought … If this was my place, think I’d do everything humanly possible to hold onto it.

  Then he shook his head.

  As if that scenario would ever happen to the son of an Irish immigrant to America. Somehow ending up in a place this grand.

  And while he waited for what he thought would be Sarah’s quick arrival, he caught a movement, out of the corner of his eye, somewhere up on the manor house.

  He turned quickly, looked up at the house, lit by the setting sun.

  Above the first floor were three small windows in the eaves. Attic windows maybe? he thought.

  Was that a face he’d seen?

  He peered up at the middle window.

  After a minute, he again saw the hint of a moving shadow somewhere deep within one of the rooms.

  Somebody definitely there. But who?

  Sarah and Sophie Scott perhaps? Their chat, for some reason, taking them up to the second floor — Sophie’s office maybe?

  If not them — who else could it be?

  Only one other car stood in the car park — a battered old VW Golf that Jack had guessed was Charlie’s. Could Charlie be already doing his first round of the building?

  Bit early. More likely — he was still down in that cellar having a wee dram.

  Jack turned and headed to the back door that he knew led straight to the kitchen.

  Time to do some more exploring.

  *

  When her first knocks brought no answer, Sarah reapplied her fist to the door.

  She knocked louder, insistent — the door flew open in one quick, crazed move that had Sarah staggering backward.

  Before the man opening the door could see, he issued a rapid explosion of words, head tilted down.

  “I told you to stay away from me, f
rom my place, and—”

  And only then did Peregrine Brimley look up.

  If all the people here were prickly, she thought, this man won the prize.

  “Mr Brimley — I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  Brimley turned silent as she explained what brought her to his unwelcoming door. She looked at the man.

  First, the eyes. Wide. Actually, a little, buggy, as if he forced his lids wide open and was completely baffled and startled by what he was seeing.

  His hair next caught her attention. Tufts of greyish-brown shooting up at opposing angles, like clumps of out-of-control marshy grass. The hair of someone who long ago decided that brushing was a waste of valuable time.

  So — just let it go wild.

  Clothes. Well they too seemed unusual. Blue-jean overalls — the sort of thing a farmer would wear.

  A farmer from maybe a hundred years ago.

  And beneath them, a beige T-shirt that — she thought — might not actually be beige, but when you don’t wash anything for a long time, well, the colour does begin to shift.

  “I, er, I’ve been asked to speak with everyone about the fire,” said Sarah. “Everyone who works here, and—”

  “I don’t work here, whoever you are!” Again, the words spilled from the man, rapid fire, with a bit of a gleeful sneer as if Brimley had caught her in some lie or fabrication. “Whatever you are.” The statement accompanied by an eye-roll that was world-class. “This, is my farm, my property. No matter what anyone in a suit …”

  The last words clearly meant to be pejorative.

  Sarah nodded.

  Thinking that if she had any skills in tamping down this human fireball popping off in front of her, she’d better employ them now.

  “I know. But, you see …”

  She gestured back to the path, leading to the manor. “You were so close that night. If I could ask you just a few questions. I mean, since you are a ‘Brimley’—”

  “The only Brimley! You got that?”

  That she did, Sarah reassured the heir with another quick smile.

  “Right. Yes. Of course. And since you grew up in the manor, you might have thoughts, observations. It could be, well, ever so helpful.”

  “Thoughts? Observations?”

  She guessed Brimley didn’t often get asked for those two things.

  But she felt him relax — just a bit.

  Maybe he does have something to say.

  She added, as gently as she could, “Just a few minutes. If I might come in?”

  “In here?” Brimley said.

  Sarah nodded. (And now, she had that first ripple of concern: is entering this wild-eyed man’s lair perhaps … not a good idea?)

  But, as he stepped back, allowing the door open, she had no choice but to enter and see what was going on inside Brimley’s small cottage.

  And, like everything in the past few minutes, the inside of the cottage might be surprising indeed.

  8. The Oddest Room on the Brimley Estate

  Jack paused for a moment outside the door to the kitchen, listening for voices. He didn’t want to barge in if Sarah and Sophie were still talking.

  But no …

  Silence.

  He pushed open the door and looked around.

  Empty.

  On the farmhouse table, two mugs. He crossed the room, picked one up; the dregs of a tea, nearly cold.

  Maybe — as he’d thought earlier — they’ve gone upstairs? Some kind of tour of the house?

  He went back into the corridor.

  He called out. “Sarah?”’

  The sound seemed to dwindle, disappear into the fabric of the house. No echo, no reply.

  He waited for a few seconds, then headed the other way down the corridor, trying to remember the route back to the main stairs that they’d followed earlier with Charlie.

  After a couple of wrong turns into more rooms with bizarre collections — one a staged desert scene with stuffed animals, another filled with Victorian death masks — he turned yet another corner and finally found himself at the foot of the grand staircase.

  He waited again, listening to the house, looking up the stairs. No distant voices or footsteps.

  Just the odd creak from the woodwork.

  Then, louder. A distant door or window banging shut somewhere deep in the house.

  He headed up the stairs, tracing their steps from earlier.

  But when he reached the first floor, instead of following the corridor that led to the exhibit rooms, he turned to a narrow staircase he’d noticed before.

  A rope hung across it, and a notice saying “Private, Staff Only”.

  He unhooked the rope and went up the staircase. Steep, winding. Once upon a time, he guessed, this must have led to the servants’ quarters.

  At the top of the stairs, he paused again and listened. Nothing.

  Were Sarah and Sophie up here? Not answering his call? It seemed unlikely.

  He took in the low-ceilinged corridor that led away along the front of the house.

  Three doors on the right-hand side — the side that must overlook the rear of the house. And two doors on the left — on the front of the house.

  Odd.

  Looking up from the garden he’d seen three windows. He’d expected to see three doors.

  Three doors — for three attic bedrooms. But there were only two.

  He tried the first door on the left.

  And what do you know …

  It opened.

  What madness lies in here? he thought.

  But all he saw were dusty trunks and boxes of papers. Tied bundles of old magazines, stacks of yellowed newspapers, open boxes erupting with bills, receipts, and ancient ledgers in random piles — cobwebs stretching in the evening light from floor to ceiling.

  It was clear that nobody had been in here for months. Or even … years.

  And to even reach the window you’d have to move all the crates and boxes.

  He stepped out of the room and shut the door.

  Crossed the corridor, the floor creaking with every step.

  One by one, he opened the three doors that ran down the right-hand side of the corridor. Each of the rooms — looking out over the back of the house — told the same story: they were being used for storage and probably hadn’t been disturbed for years.

  And each room had just one dusty, cobwebbed window.

  Back up to the middle of the corridor. Just one door still to check — the second of the two rooms that looked down on the lawn.

  Surely the room with the window where he’d seen a movement earlier. That flickering shadow …

  Jack put his hand on the door handle, took a deep breath — then turned the knob …

  But this door was locked.

  Interesting …

  He tried again, pushed hard on the door itself. Nothing.

  Bending down, he looked at the keyhole. He saw tiny scratches on the paint. Recent scratches …

  And when he looked through the keyhole, he could see enough of the room to know that the cobwebs had been cleared — and that this room had definitely been used recently.

  On a small table, a laptop; and near it, a kettle and a jar of coffee were just visible.

  Jack stood up, feeling his knees creak painfully. Still not quite recovered from his accident months ago. Destroyed his Sprite, but he’d survived.

  And caught a killer.

  He had always kept a set of lock-picks in the glove compartment of the old Sprite, but he’d not transferred it to the new car.

  Unless he could find a key to this room, he’d have to go back to the boat, find the picks.

  He turned and looked back down the corridor again.

  Something definitely not right up here.

  Three doors on one side. Two on the other. It didn’t make sense. Maybe the locked room was bigger — had two windows?

  He walked down the corridor to the end. Ran his hands along the wall. Had there once been a do
or here — into another room? A third room overlooking the front garden? A room that was now sealed up?

  But he felt nothing.

  He turned and headed back to the stairs. Half way down the main staircase he stopped and looked out of the dusty latticed window: the lawn out front was empty. In the car park just his MG and the Golf.

  No sign of Sarah walking around — and for the first time he felt a twinge of anxiety.

  He knew she could look after herself. A year or two back — after a suspect had taken a swing at her — he’d got her to do some self-defence courses. Bolstered, of course, by a few tricks he’d picked up over the years back in Brooklyn.

  Dirty tricks maybe — but hey, who’s counting? Girl’s gotta do …

  Nevertheless, he hadn’t expected her to just go off radar like this.

  Through the window he could see that only the smallest sliver of the sun was still visible just above the hills to the west.

  Getting late too.

  He reached down for his phone.

  No message from her. And that made sense. If she was in the middle of something fruitful, she would keep at it.

  Not time to fire off a quick text.

  But Jack felt no such restriction. He hit the message button. Simple question: Where are you?

  *

  Sarah stepped into Peregrine Brimley’s cottage and the feeling was immediately claustrophobic.

  The small sitting room was so dark, with shutters drawn and — so far — no light on. And the smell — stuffy but the air also pungent with a mix of foul smells that she could not place at all.

  As her eyes adjusted to that dark, she could look around at the contents of the cottage.

  And with that sitting room — or what was once a sitting room — so small, all she had to do was slightly turn her head to see everything.

  Peregrine Brimley’s cottage was filled with … things.

  A wing-backed leather chair that had a bear skin hanging from it, the bear head at the top of the back. If Brimley were to sit in it, she’d see the bear head, maw open, just inches above his head.

  Next to it, a Victorian-era bicycle, actually a tricycle, with the large front wheel, and two smaller ones in the rear. Except this artefact of centuries ago was a bike in miniature, looking as if made for a child.

  Or maybe a little person in the circus.