by S M Hardy
‘It’s lovely to meet you, Simon,’ Emma said, ‘and I’m only sorry it’s not under better circumstances.’
He grimaced, deep lines etching his forehead and, with his sallow and waxy complexion, I could have been looking at the death mask of a man decades older. ‘Yes, it hasn’t been easy.’ Then he snapped into host mode. ‘Come, I’ll show you to your room. It’ll give you the chance to settle in before dinner.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we meet for pre-dinner drinks at say, seven? Jed, you remember where the sitting room is?’
Our bedroom was on the first floor and at the back of the house, giving us a panoramic view of the gardens, fields and the forest of trees behind them. As soon as we were alone, Emma made straight for the French windows and the balcony outside.
‘This is beautiful.’
I stood in the centre of the room taking it all in. ‘I prefer The Grange.’
She glanced back at me over her shoulder and laughed. ‘Only because there’s less lawn to mow.’
‘Hmm.’ I slowly turned full circle. There was a large fireplace with a pile of logs stacked decoratively to one side and I could imagine, with a fire roaring away in the winter months, it would make the room warm and cosy. On a bright, spring day the room was dreary and a bit like the master bedrooms on show to the public in the many stately homes scattered around the countryside. I was surprised there wasn’t a protective plastic sheet over the Persian carpet.
Vellum yellow wallpaper, decorated with blue and green birds interspersed with twisted vines, no doubt created by one of the masters of design in the Arts and Crafts period, covered the walls. All credit to whoever put it up, it must have been a bugger to hang and get the pattern aligned. Antique furnishings littered the room and I made a mental note of where anything vaguely breakable was located, so when I stumbled around half-asleep in the morning I knew where to avoid.
The bed was a four-poster and very nice too – if you were five foot five or so. The frame was beautifully carved and swathed with colourful tapestries. Some might find it romantic – to me it was just an impractical dust trap. But if anyone had ever died in this room they had moved on – and for this reason alone I’d put up with a cramped night’s sleep.
‘A four-poster bed,’ Emma said, coming over to link her arm through mine. ‘How lovely.’ Then she began to laugh. I made a humphing sound, which made her laugh even more. ‘It’s only for a few nights.’
‘Just as well.’
‘We’ll have to snuggle,’ she said, with a naughty grin.
I sucked in air through my teeth and followed it with a dramatic sigh. ‘I guess it’ll be a sacrifice, but to help an old friend …’ She thumped me on the shoulder and then she was in my arms and the cramped bed instantly became a lot more inviting.
Dinner was excellent and surprisingly the conversation flowed. So much so it could have been only a few months since Simon and I last broke bread together. It was as it had been before and I wished we hadn’t left it so long, mainly because I was pretty sure Simon was dying. It wasn’t only how he looked. There was what I can only describe as an aura around him: a dark grey, writhing mist gradually deepening to black at the extremities. If nothing else this made me determined to help him if I could. A man shouldn’t die without knowing who had killed a loved one and why.
It wasn’t until we had finished dinner and retired to the living room for after-dinner drinks that he got to the point of our visit.
‘I am really grateful to you for coming,’ he said, handing me a glass of good whisky.
I settled into the corner of the leather Chesterfield settee, slightly at an angle so my knee was practically touching Emma’s. ‘What happened?’ I asked him. ‘You said Oliver had been murdered, but not much else.’
He slumped back in his matching high-backed chair, his expression pained, his eyes wet and rheumy. I hadn’t noticed before, I’d been so shocked by his fragility, but his once-cornflower-blue eyes had faded to a clouded opaque.
‘It was nearly a month ago and, as I said in my letter, the police are getting nowhere and … I just need to know. I need to understand why.’ His voice broke and he turned his head away for a moment while he fought to control his emotions.
Emma gave me a helpless glance. I wasn’t much better; I didn’t know what to do either.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ Emma replied, her voice gentle and tinged with sympathy. ‘It’s quite understandable. His death is still raw.’
He nodded, raising the crystal tumbler to his lips. His hand was trembling.
‘Where did it happen?’ I asked.
Simon swallowed and, cradling the glass on his knee, sagged into his chair. ‘Here. Here on the estate.’
‘Not in the house,’ I said, and it wasn’t a question. Many things had happened in Kingsmead, I sensed terrible things, but not this.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Not in the house. In the woodland at the back.’ He pushed himself out of his chair. ‘I’ll only be a moment.’
Emma leant forward. ‘Can you feel anything?’ she whispered.
‘No, not anything connected to Oliver’s death, anyhow.’
‘This house has its own vibe,’ she said and shivered.
‘You feel it?’ I asked. Emma was by no means as psychic as I am, but she did sometimes sense things, sometimes things I didn’t.
She took a sip of her drink and gave an abrupt bob of the head.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked.
She gave me a shaky smile. ‘I think so. It’s just …’ She didn’t get to finish what she was about to say as Simon returned, bringing with him a Manila file.
‘Here,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘Don’t read it now; it’ll give you nightmares. The morning will be soon enough.’
I held the file on my lap for a moment and rested my hand on the cover. The unease I’d felt as we approached the house swept over me. I was sure he was right; the contents of the file were the stuff of bad dreams and night chills. I dropped it on the settee between Emma and me. I would read it by the light of day.
‘Why did you fall out?’ Emma asked as she took off her earrings and dropped them into a small crystal dish on the bedside table.
I pulled off my shirt and padded towards the bathroom. ‘Water under the bridge, Emms. It was such a long time ago.’
‘It must have been serious.’
I grunted in reply and shut the bathroom door, hoping she’d take the hint. It was something I didn’t want to talk about. I was here now, when he needed me. It’d have to be enough.
She was sitting in bed, a pillow plumped behind her, when I came back out, glasses perched on the end of her nose as she pored over her latest read. I stripped off and slipped beneath the sheets beside her.
‘I packed pyjamas,’ she said, not looking away from the page.
‘I can see,’ I said, running a finger down the sleeve of the silky, lilac pyjama jacket she was wearing and I had never seen before.
‘What if there’s a fire?’
‘I would do the same as I would back at home – run from the house stark bollock naked.’
She gave me a sideways look. ‘I really believe you would.’
I grinned at her. ‘It would give the fire brigade a laugh if nothing else.’
She dumped the book on the bedside table and folded her glasses, dropping them on top. ‘You are the limit,’ she said with a laugh and flicked off her light. ‘Goodnight, Jed.’
I clicked off mine and snuggled down under the covers to give her a kiss on the forehead. ‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ I whispered and wrapped my arms around her.
CHAPTER THREE
We had agreed to meet with Simon for breakfast at eight-thirty. We made it by a whisker, having overslept. I felt a bit guilty, as I hadn’t had a chance to look at the file he’d given me, but was let off the hook when during breakfast he received a phone call, which had him apologising and saying he had an unexpected meeting with his solicitor.
‘Swimming pool?’ I said. ‘I don’t remember a swimming pool.’
He dropped the napkin on the table. ‘Of course not – I was forgetting. Oliver had it put in about fifteen years ago. It’s in a conservatory off the west wing.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll see you later. If not before, lunch is at one.’
‘Great,’ I said and, with a smile, he was gone.
‘A swimming pool,’ Emma said. ‘I wish I’d brought a costume.’
‘I’m sure your underwear will do.’
‘Hmm. I don’t s’pose there’ll be anyone else around.’
‘We could always skinny-dip.’
She raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Typical man.’
‘Just a suggestion.’
‘Come on, shall we take a look?’ she said.
I threw down my napkin. ‘Why not? Maybe there’s somewhere local where we can go and get you a costume if you fancy a dip.’
We found the poolroom without too much trouble. You could hardly miss it, it was bloody enormous. When Simon had said a conservatory, I was expecting a glass and white UPVC lean-to tucked on the corner of the building. In reality, it stretched across the whole end of the wing and was a glass and dark green wrought iron, decorative structure, which wouldn’t have been out of place in Kew Gardens.
The inside, I imagined, would hold its own against the mightiest of hotel poolrooms. It had somehow been integrated into the back of the original building rather than being added on. Consequently the grey-and-black-veined white marble flooring, covering the whole ground floor of the house, continued into the room to surround the pool and the line of changing rooms stretched along the inner back wall, together with an open showering area for a quick washdown before and after your dip. There was even a fully stocked bar.
Several white wrought iron tables and chairs were scattered around the pool area together with white-painted wicker sunloungers and matching drinks tables.
‘My goodness,’ Emma said when we reached the edge of the pool. ‘This is stunning.’
It wasn’t the expression I would have used; once again a feeling of disquiet flowed over me. The interior of the pool had been tiled completely in a very dark blue, which gave no perspective at all of its depth and, for anyone brave enough to try diving into it, would give the impression of throwing oneself into a bottomless void. I shivered. Nothing on earth would get me into the pool.
‘A very unusual choice of colour,’ Emma said.
‘Hmm. Shall we take a walk around the gardens?’ I said, wanting to get away from the place as soon as possible. There was something unwholesome about the room and it had set my nerves a-jangling. And when I looked into the pool, a growing sense of dread rose from the pit of my stomach. I could sense something was there – just below the surface – watching me.
Emma linked her arm through mine as we left and it was on the tip of my tongue to say something about the pool but, as she hadn’t a costume with her, I thought why bother? I did make a mental note to scupper any mention of the possibility of a visit to town to get her one. I didn’t want her going anywhere near the pool, especially on her own.
About three-quarters of an hour before lunch we went back to our bedroom to freshen up. I also wanted to spend some time looking at the file Simon had given me − after all, its contents included details of Oliver’s death and this was the reason we were here.
While Emma washed and changed and did all those time-consuming things women do, I sat out on the balcony in the sunshine with the file. With a dyspeptic feeling in my gut I flicked it open. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find inside, but it certainly wasn’t a copy of the police report. I quickly riffled through the pages and yes, it was a copy of an official police file.
‘Typical bloody Simon,’ I muttered under my breath.
By the time I’d worked my way through and reached the end, the disquiet I’d been feeling, from almost as soon as we’d arrived, had grown into full-blown anxiety. I should never have brought Emma here.
She appeared through the door on a waft of Chanel to sit beside me. ‘Interesting?’ she asked.
‘Horrifying, more like,’ I muttered.
She put her hand on my wrist. ‘What’s the matter?’
Shutting the file, I tapped the front cover. ‘This is a copy of the official police report, forensics, photos, witness statements, the lot.’
She frowned at me. ‘Is it usual for the victim’s family to have a copy?’
‘Nooo. It could cause all sorts of problems should someone be charged and it go to court.’
‘How do you think Simon got hold of it?’
I stared down at the file. ‘I have no idea,’ I said. I was lying – I had a very good idea how Simon had got his hands on it and I could feel all the old resentment creeping back. He hadn’t changed. I’d been a fool to believe he had.
‘Can I take a look?’
‘Better you don’t,’ I said with a grimace. ‘There’re some very gruesome pictures. In fact, it’s all pretty grisly stuff.’
‘Then tell me.’
I slumped back in my chair and she took hold of my hand. ‘Oliver was quite literally slaughtered. There’s no other word for it.’ I needed a drink and I really hoped there’d be some with lunch. ‘He was so badly disfigured by his wounds he was identified by his signet ring and a tattoo he had on his left shoulder.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘The pathologist said he had never before in all his years seen such a vicious and sustained attack.’ I squeezed her hand. ‘I’m beginning to think maybe I should do what Simon wants and then we should get ourselves away from here.’
She put her palm against my cheek. ‘Jed, you never run away from anything. Never have and never will.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. If I’m putting us in danger by being here, I will run as far away as it takes to make us safe again.’
‘No, darling. You’re not thinking about “us”, you’re worrying about me.’
I gave a sort of half-shrug. The woman could read me like a book. ‘If something happened to you …’
She stroked my cheek. ‘Nothing is going to happen to me.’
‘You don’t know that. Who would have thought—?’ I stopped mid sentence, I didn’t need to go on, she knew exactly what I was talking about.
‘That is all in the past and I know I’m perfectly safe if you have anything to do with it. Now, let’s go down and have a nice lunch with Simon and see if we can help him with his problem,’ she said, getting to her feet.
I grabbed her as she went to go inside and wrapped my arms around her. ‘I love you,’ I murmured against her hair. It was funny, she meant so much to me, but I still had trouble spitting out the words.
‘I know,’ she whispered.
Simon wasn’t alone in the sitting room. ‘Jed, Emma,’ he said upon seeing us come in, ‘let me introduce you to Brandon Fredericks, my old friend and the family legal advisor.’
The solicitor must have been well past retirement age. A big, rotund man who, judging by his ruddy cheeks and bulbous nose, clearly enjoyed the better things in life. He was dressed for business, in navy suit and waistcoat, white shirt and navy tie; he even had a gold fob watch and chain stretched across his ample belly. For all that, he had a genuinely friendly smile and a twinkle in his eye, making it easy to take an instant liking to him.
‘How nice to meet you at last,’ he said, pumping my hand. ‘Simon has told me so much about you.’
‘Jed and I go back a long way,’ Simon chirped in. ‘Can I get you both a drink?’
While Simon sorted out a VAT for Emma and a whisky for me, we made small talk for a few minutes; about the usual sort of thing, where are you from, how long have you lived there?
‘Simon told me you’re some sort
of clairvoyant,’ Brandon said.
Emma cast me a worried look. I didn’t take offence, Brandon’s expression was interested, not disparaging.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I went to a spiritualist once,’ he said. ‘What she said … Well, in retrospect, it was probably what she told all bereaved clients.’
I smiled sympathetically; there were a lot of frauds out there preying upon the vulnerable and I despised them. What they did was mercenary and cruel. ‘Sadly, that’s most likely true. Unfortunately, it’s not always easy to know who’s the real deal or who’s a fake. I tell people true psychics shouldn’t charge, other than for expenses if, say, they have to travel to see a client and so forth. If they ask for money – well, I’d avoid them like the plague.’
‘You don’t charge a fee?’ he was surprised.
‘Nope. It would be immoral. What I have is a gift. Whether it comes from a higher being or not’ – I shrugged – ‘I couldn’t tell you, but I don’t believe I should profit from it.’
Simon handed us our drinks. ‘Did you have a good morning?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Emma said. ‘We took a walk around your lovely gardens and had a look at the swimming pool; it’s beautiful.’
‘It is rather spectacular,’ he said, ‘though not for the faint-hearted. There’s no shallow end and it’s over six feet deep all the way across.’
‘That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?’ she asked.
Simon laughed. ‘That was Oliver for you. He never did things the way other people did.’ He paused, his smile all but disappearing. ‘Maybe it’s what got him killed.’
‘It was most strange,’ Brandon said. ‘It was almost as though he knew his time was limited.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘A week before he died he changed his will, and was adamant it was done immediately.’
‘A coincidence, surely?’ Simon said. ‘He must have been meaning to do it for ages. He’d been split from that dreadful woman for at least five years.’ He glanced my way. ‘Oliver married a totally unsuitable young woman about ten years or so ago,’ he explained. ‘It didn’t last very long and they eventually separated. Of course, he never got around to divorcing her or changing his will. You know what it’s like, we all think we’re going to live for ever.’
