by S M Hardy
I watched his face and his expression was determined and, as far as I could tell, with not a shred of jealousy or rancour considering a huge fortune was completely bypassing him and going to someone he had never met. True, I had never known him to be particularly materialistic, but then he’d always had everything given to him on a plate. He was a typical rich boy despite the traumas in his life. One of those traumas being the death of his eldest brother. Now this having turned out to be a lie was perhaps more upsetting than the loss of the family home. But all those millions? Perhaps he was resigned to it; he’d had time to get used to the idea: after all, as far as he was concerned William had still been alive.
‘Have you finished, Mr Pomeroy?’ the maid Maddy asked, appearing by his side. The girl certainly was quiet on her feet; I hadn’t even realised she’d returned to the room. He gave an abrupt nod of the head and she began to clear the dishes.
Simon stood. ‘Shall we adjourn to the living room?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
I woke with a start, my heart thumping. I hadn’t been dreaming, but something had caused me to erupt out of sleep. I turned onto my side to read the bedside travel clock. It was a little after two, about an hour and a half after we had retired to bed.
Rolling onto my back, I glanced to the other pillow. Emma was lying facing me, her breathing slow and even. She was dead to the world. I lay there listening for any indication of what might have woken me. It was all quiet – then the distant hoot of an owl, followed by more silence.
I pumped my pillow. I was wide awake and was destined for a few hours of tossing and turning. There was also the matter of the growing pressure on my bladder. It was no good, I’d have to go.
I slid out of bed, hoping I wouldn’t wake Emma, and crept across the room. The bathroom was too dark to do without any light and, as I didn’t want to end up pissing on my feet, I pulled on the light cord, blinding myself for a couple of seconds. I took my time. I was in no hurry to return to my restless sojourn. When I could delay it no more, I skulked back to bed. Sitting on the edge for a moment, I rubbed at my face and yawned; there was nothing worse than feeling knackered and being unable to sleep.
With a sigh I stood to pull back the covers and icy fingers traced their way across the back of my scalp. I stopped stock-still, all my senses screaming danger. I’d had this feeling several times before and I’d never worked out whether they were warnings from some kind of ghostly guardian angel or I had a sixth sense for bad things happening to me or my friends. Whatever the case it had saved us from harm on a number of occasions and I treated it with upmost respect.
I crossed the room to where I knew Emma had left me a dressing gown should a fire really occur. I couldn’t help thinking her fear was more for the sanity of the attending fire crew than my modesty, still it was appreciated now. I could hardly wander about the house stark naked.
Tugging the dressing gown on, I pulled it tight around my waist, still listening. My scalp icy cold, like the feeling you get on the back of your skull when you’ve been swimming in the sea, then – bang – a loud thump came from somewhere along the corridor. I padded to the door and pressed my ear against the wood.
There was another thud and I yanked open the door. There was hardly any light at all, only one of the night lights that usually lined the hallway was burning, which was weird in itself; they’d all been alight when we’d retired for the evening.
‘Who’s there?’ I called and was rewarded by the scrabbling of feet and a shadow appearing out of a room along the corridor. ‘Who’s there?’ I called again and a slight figure clad in black made off along the hallway and disappeared into the darkness, gone except for the diminishing thud of feet on the staircase.
‘Jed?’ Emma called from the bedroom.
‘Lock the door and don’t open it until I come back.’
‘Jed?’
‘Just do as I say,’ I snapped, immediately regretting it, but not having time to apologise. I shut the door behind me and hurried along the hall to an open doorway.
The room was pitch-dark. It was like peering into a black hole of emptiness. I hesitated on the threshold, for all I knew the person who’d run for it could have been a distraction and someone else could be lurking inside waiting to poleaxe me. The aching chill to my cranium was slowly dissipating. I took this as a good sign and reached inside the door groping for the light switch and, with a click, the room was flooded with light.
The bedroom was very similar to the one I was sharing with Emma, cluttered with old, dark antique furniture. It had a masculine feel to it and, even as I glanced around the room taking in the wanton devastation, I wondered whether this could have possibly been where Oliver used to lay his head or perhaps even Edward.
Some unknown person had been through it like a whirlwind. Wardrobe doors hung open, with suits and jackets thrown into a pile upon the bed. Drawers had been pulled out, the contents strewn where they had fallen. A suitcase, lining ripped apart, lay abandoned where it had been dragged from beneath the bed. Clothing and papers were strewn haphazardly across the carpet. A briefcase and jewellery box had been prised open and tossed upon the mattress where broken-spined books also lay scattered. A couple had bounced onto the floor, missing the carpet. Had this been what I’d heard, books hitting the polished floorboards?
Barefooted, I padded inside surveying the mess. Whoever I had seen run from the room had been searching for something, that was for sure, but who? And for what? As much as I didn’t want to wake Simon I had to. The police needed to be called.
I turned to leave and froze. Half-hidden by the open door, Simon lay sprawled on his side, blood trickling from his hairline just above the temple.
I dropped down onto my knees beside him, though I doubted there was much I could do. His complexion had been the colour of candle wax before, now it was the shade of skimmed milk and his lips had taken on the lilac blue tinge of death. I tentatively put two fingers to his throat, expecting it to only confirm what I was thinking. His skin was icy to the touch and I wondered how long he’d been lying here. Had his assailant callously searched the room after assaulting him, leaving him collapsed on the floor while he could have been dying?
There was a faint flicker beneath my fingertips; I’d found a pulse. It was weak and irregular, but it was a pulse. I grabbed a discarded coat from the bed and covered him over before running back down the corridor to our room.
‘Emma, it’s me,’ I called. ‘Open up.’
There was the rattle of a key in the lock and the door swung open, Emma appearing in the doorway. ‘What is it?’
‘Call an ambulance,’ I told her. ‘It’s Simon – he’s been attacked.’
‘Oh my,’ she said, her hand flying to her throat.
Not waiting to see if she was going to do as I said, I hurried back to kneel next to Simon. He looked so terrible I checked his pulse again. It was still there, faint, but there. I heard Emma speaking and then she was crouching down beside me, mobile phone pressed to her ear.
‘Did you move him at all?’ she asked me.
‘No. All I did was check his pulse and then cover him with the coat.’
Emma dutifully repeated this into the phone. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can see blood on his forehead.’ She leant over him getting a little closer. ‘There’s a lot of blood in his hair.’ Then there were more questions.
I tapped Emma’s arm to get her attention. ‘I’d better rouse someone to tell security to let in the ambulance,’ I said.
She gave a small nod and I padded back to our room to ring the extension annotated as night service. A young man answered after three rings. ‘There’s been an accident,’ I said deciding to be a little circumspect with the truth. ‘An ambulance will be coming. Can you make sure security opens the gate when they arrive?’ Assured that this would be arranged I returned to where Emma was still on the phone, crouching beside Simon.
With a final ‘thank you’ she finished the call. ‘They’re on their way,’ sh
e said to me.
‘Good. Should we phone the police?’
‘All done. The operator put a call through to them as soon as she had alerted the paramedics.’ I knelt down beside her. ‘What made you get up?’ she asked.
‘Something woke me. Then I heard some thumps, probably whoever it was throwing books about and opening drawers.’ I realised my hand was on my beard and let it drop to my side. ‘I saw him, Emms. He did a runner when I called out.’
‘Just as well you didn’t chase after him.’
‘I wasn’t exactly dressed for it. Anyway, I didn’t realise how serious it was.’
‘Good job too. It could have ended with you both being taken off to hospital. What do you think they wanted?’
I glanced around the room. ‘I have no idea. It’s yet another of the mysteries of Kingsmead Manor.’
Emma crossed her arms, hugging herself. ‘I fear for Laura coming here as things are.’
‘You and me both,’ I said and, as the chill at the base of my skull hadn’t completely gone, it didn’t fill me with optimism that this was in any way over.
Donald and Sarah Walters appeared about five minutes before the paramedics, apparently alerted by the guy on night duty as soon as he’d come off the phone to me. Donald had dressed in a hurry, in faded jeans and elbow-patched jumper. Mrs Walters, like Emma, was in her nightclothes covered by a full-length, navy dressing gown, making me feel considerably underdressed, my own dressing gown only just reaching my knees and showing off my naked legs.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Mrs Walters said upon seeing Simon lying on the floor. ‘How could this have happened?’ I explained about the unknown assailant while the couple listened stony-faced. ‘This is dreadful,’ Mrs Walters said. ‘We have all this security and yet for the second time we’ve had such a terrible incident.’
I didn’t voice an opinion, though it was something I’d been dwelling on. ‘Whose room is this?’ I asked.
‘Mr Edward’s,’ Mrs Walters replied without any hesitation. ‘Mr Oliver sometimes used it for storage when he was married. You know – for old clothes and books, things his wife might think were surplus to requirements.’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘You didn’t like Mrs Pomeroy?’ I asked.
Her expression said it all, she could have been chewing on a wasp. ‘It’s not my place to like or dislike any member of the family.’ She glanced down at Simon, her face pinched. ‘Is there nothing we can do for him?’ she asked. ‘I hate seeing him lying there like this.’
‘They said not to move him,’ Emma said. ‘We could do more harm than good.’ At this point I excused myself to pull on a pair of trousers and a shirt. I really didn’t want to have to deal with medical staff and the police while half-naked, and Emma’s constant urging for me to wear pyjamas while we were away wasn’t quite so funny any more.
By the time we had finished with the paramedics and then speaking to the police there wasn’t a lot of point going back to bed. The soft flush of dawn was colouring the horizon by the time I saw the police officers out and the nice WPC warned me the detective investigating Oliver’s death would be calling to speak to us later in the morning.
I returned to the living room to join Emma, Donald and Sarah Walters drinking the tea and coffee the housekeeper had very kindly provided, when it looked as though we’d be spending the rest of the night answering questions.
‘Mr Cummings,’ Mrs Walters said, as I flopped back down next to Emma on the couch, ‘I was asking your wife what you both thought we should do about Miss Laura? She’s due to be arriving here sometime later today.’
‘It was something we’d discussed with Simon,’ I said. ‘He was of the opinion he could hardly put her off now this is all hers, but this happening … I don’t know, I guess it should be her decision.’
‘I suppose,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘It’s just we, Mr Walters and I, are a bit concerned, what with all that’s been going on. I mean poor Mr Oliver’s’ – her eyes flickered shut for a moment – ‘murder and now this. We’re both worried for her.’
‘I suppose we could contact her and tell her what’s happened,’ Emma said. ‘What do you think, Jed?’
My heart began to sink. I didn’t sign up for this. Helping an old friend get closure was one thing, but this was beginning to all get out of hand. Then I thought of how the poor girl was coming to Kingsmead, probably all excited at meeting her new-found family and inheriting a fortune, only to find herself walking into a major crime scene.
‘Have you her number?’ I asked.
Both the Walters stood in unison, duty done. ‘I’ll get it for you,’ Mrs Walters said.
It wasn’t exactly an easy phone call. Laura Simmons, as she was now known, came across as a nice young woman. She was horrified by what had happened to Simon, obviously, but saw no real reason why she shouldn’t take residence at the estate as planned. After all, she had to move in by the fast-approaching month’s end. Had I been a cynical old whatnot I would have said it was the vast fortune she was about to inherit or possibly lose that swayed her decision. Had it been me, I couldn’t with hand on heart say I would have been any different. When you’re young you don’t have a real sense of your own mortality. It’s only when you get older and have come face-to-face with death, whether it be natural or malicious, that this begins to change and every moment becomes precious.
I had faced both. I had watched my best friend in the world slowly succumb to cancer and I had killed rather than be killed while doing my job. I didn’t need my sixth sense for danger to tell me there was something evil at work in Kingsmead. I could feel it closing in around us and it made me worry for the blissfully unaware young woman who was soon to arrive.
‘So, she’s still coming,’ Mrs Walters said when she had Maddy bring us mid-morning coffee.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘And what will you be doing, Mr and Mrs Cummings?’
I glanced at Emma and she cocked her head slightly, her expression questioning. ‘Well, obviously we’ll stay until we know Simon’s out of the woods. Then I suppose it’s Miss Simmons’s decision. She doesn’t know us from Adam, and this is her house now.’
‘The hospital said Simon was comfortable and stable,’ Emma added.
‘So, we’ll just have to wait and see how he is this afternoon.’
Mrs Walters managed a smile. ‘You will keep us informed?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then, if that will be all?’
‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ I replied and, with a bob of the head, she left, gesturing to Maddy to follow on behind her.
I sipped on my coffee, waiting until they were out of earshot. ‘Do you mind staying on a bit longer?’
‘I’d rather that than leave this poor young woman alone with only the servants to keep an eye on her. They haven’t exactly been doing a good job of keeping the family safe so far.’
‘I don’t suppose they signed on for bodyguard duties, Emms.’
She gave a sniff. ‘What about the security guards? What are they being paid for?’
She had a point. ‘It does make you wonder how the intruder got into the house. I can understand it must be difficult to keep anyone from getting into the grounds, the boundary must be massive. The house, though …’
‘I thought it was alarmed,’ Emma said.
‘So did I.’
‘So how did this mystery man you saw get in?’
I shook my head and wondered whether perhaps he hadn’t needed to.
CHAPTER NINE
Detective Inspector Brogan turned up with his sidekick after lunch. Despite the seriousness of Simon’s assault, and the news that there was apparently a dangerous psychopath on the loose, they certainly didn’t appear to be in any hurry, and I was already irritated with the bloke before I’d even met him. They both went upstairs to take a look around before talking briefly to Donald and Sarah Walters, then asking to speak to us.
Brogan was a big man, about my size, and had the air
of carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders. His grey suit had a crumpled, worn look, its creases matching those on his face. The rest of his clothing was equally unprepossessing. His once-white shirt was an overwashed grey and his navy tie, although clean, had the evidence of having seen many a hurried meal, eaten behind the steering wheel. Even with my lack of sleep, compared to him I looked as fresh as a daisy. He’d cut himself shaving and judging by the remaining patchy stubble had given up immediately afterwards.
Sergeant Peters was as different as chalk is to cheese. He was young, enthusiastic and, I guessed, newly promoted. His dark grey suit was pressed to perfection as was his light grey shirt and maroon tie. His black shoes were polished to a patent shine and I hate to think what they must have looked like after having to traipse through the woodland to Oliver’s murder scene. Perhaps in rural settings they kept wellingtons in the car boot.
The detective inspector introduced himself and Peters in a gruff, perfunctory manner before telling us they hadn’t been able to question Simon as of yet as, although comfortable, he was presently under sedation and wouldn’t be allowed visitors until the following afternoon. In the circumstances, he continued, any information we could give them would be most helpful.
Their questions were much the same as the officers who had taken our statements in the early hours of the morning.
The detective inspector came to the end of what I thought were his questions and went to stand before changing his mind and sinking back onto his seat. ‘So, you’re an old friend of the family?’
I had an icy tickle at the back of my head. ‘Not really. I’d met Oliver Pomeroy a couple of times, but Simon was my friend.’
