by S M Hardy
‘Why did he kill Edward?’ I asked while I had her talking.
She breathed in and out. ‘It was Edward who started it. Everything that’s happened, every person who’s been hurt was all down to him. When they said he was dead, I thought it’d be over. I thought we’d all be free. Instead it got worse.’ Her eyes filled with tears and she brushed them away with a swipe of her hand. ‘Then Mr Oliver brought him back here and the real nightmare began.’ She pulled her shoulders back, standing tall. ‘I have to go,’ and she turned to leave.
‘Mrs Walters, one more thing.’
She stopped and turned back to me, a resigned expression on her face.
‘Simon … He was part of it?’ I hesitated, not knowing how to say what I wanted to.
She managed a small smile and slowly shook her head. ‘He broke away. He knew it was wrong. When he was young, when he was inducted, he thought it was exciting. But it didn’t take long before he started to pull away. Then he left and joined the forces and when he came back, he’d broken away from his brother’s influence. He had made new friends – good friends,’ she said and from the look she gave me I knew she meant me and Reggie, ‘and Mr Oliver told him it was over. It was easier that way. Despite everything, he loved his little brother.’
‘Then why did Oliver have him killed?’ She stared at me, raising her eyebrow, her expression saying ‘Work it out for yourself’. ‘Tanith?’ I asked. ‘Tanith wanted him dead?’
‘She convinced Mr Oliver. He’s not the same as he once was, she’s manipulated and twisted him until he’s become as mad as his brother. When he turned against Edward and said he wanted him dead, I really thought it would be the end of it, at last.’ She shook her head. ‘His death was meant to free him. He was going to leave the country, assume a new identity. She couldn’t bear the idea of someone else getting the millions he hadn’t siphoned abroad.’
‘But if everyone thinks he’s dead …?’
She shrugged. ‘Brandon Fredericks knew, or he guessed. Years ago, as a young man, he’d once been part of the Order. Before it became tainted, before Tanith Bloxborough. He went away to university, and when he returned he didn’t want to be part of it any more. He was more use to Oliver as his legal advisor, so he told him it was over, like he had Mr Simon. He lied. It never stopped, it never even faltered. To Oliver the power he had over us all was like a drug.’
I remembered Brandon’s last phone call to me. He’d been a scared and worried man. Had he realised what was going on? Had he realised Oliver was still alive and calling the shots? Oliver said Brandon was going to betray the Order – was Brandon’s intention to talk to me that betrayal?
‘If that’s all?’ Mrs Walters interrupting my pondering.
‘Thank you.’
She went to leave and once again hesitated. ‘There’s a hidden chapel beneath the west wing. You might find what you’re looking for there,’ she whispered and somewhere out in the hallway a door closed, making her flinch, and before I could ask her any more she slipped from the room.
The complicated legalities and implications of the Pomeroys’ deaths were completely overshadowed by this latest piece of information. Had she been hinting Emma was being held in a secret room beneath Kingsmead? I pushed back the chair. I was going to find Emma if it was the last thing I ever did.
As I walked out into the hall DI Brogan was coming in through the front door. I could do without him now, even so I doubted I could do a body swerve around a conversation whether I wanted to or not.
‘Mr Cummings, a moment of your time, if you don’t mind?’
‘And if I do?’
He cracked what could have been a smile. ‘I’m hoping you won’t.’
I gestured towards the living room. If we were going to talk, we might as well do it in comfort. I slumped down in an armchair and he chose the one opposite me.
‘Have you found Peters?’ I asked.
He leant back in the chair studying my face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The strange thing is his car is still here.’
My surprise must have shown. ‘You mean he never left the estate?’
His eyes stayed on mine. ‘If he did, it wasn’t in his vehicle.’
My fingers were stroking my beard before I realised I was doing it. I dropped my hand to my knee. ‘So, what do you think? Is he one of the bad guys or is he tied up somewhere with my wife?’
‘I wish I knew. That he’s disappeared makes me fear the worst. If he was a mole, why would they break his cover? Surely he would be more useful to them on the inside?’
He was right. He had no reason to believe we were suspicious of him and, even if he did, he could have brazened it out. Brogan hadn’t even thought about him being dirty until I raised it, and who was I to say? – I didn’t trust anyone – including Brogan.
But why would they kidnap a policeman?
‘Have you heard anything from Pomeroy?’
I hesitated. If he was in Tanith Bloxborough’s pocket he would know anyway, and if he wasn’t then maybe he could help me.
‘The staff are back and Mrs Walters gave me a message from him. I am to be here tonight with Laura otherwise he will sacrifice Emma in her place.’
‘I think I’d better have a word with Mrs Walters.’
I didn’t say anything. Mrs Walters had tried to help me, Oliver could never know. If he did, I doubted her long-term well-being would be good or lengthy.
‘Have you heard anything from the hospital about Dan Crouchley?’ I said, changing the subject to something slightly safer.
‘I went over there before coming here. He’s conscious and charming all the nurses.’
‘Really? I’d have thought Laura would have something to say about that.’
He stood. ‘I doubt she’ll ever change him.’
It was probably for the best she didn’t try, and I wondered what she would make of him being one of Simon’s spies. I doubted it would go down too well. Especially if she thought his interest in her wasn’t necessarily for the reasons she thought. It wasn’t my problem and, while she was at the hospital mopping his fevered brow, neither was she.
Brogan went off and was heading towards the kitchen when I last saw him. As soon as he was out of sight I made towards the west wing, hoping the secret passageway down to the hidden chapel wasn’t impossible to find. I suppose knowing there was an entrance somewhere would help, at least I hoped it would.
I was wrong. It was of no help whatsoever. I did find a cellar, which had my hopes going through the roof, but it was full of crap and after the first few steps was so cluttered I could hardly move without climbing over discarded boxes, old bikes and various other paraphernalia. If the chapel was a regular meeting place, I couldn’t see a steady stream of people in flowing robes negotiating their way through it to get to their destination.
With dust in my nose and hair and grimy hands I trudged back upstairs and tried looking elsewhere. It did occur to me that Mrs Walters might have sent me on a wild goose chase to keep me occupied, but if she had she should be nominated for an Oscar.
I was checking out some wood panelling in a corridor beneath a flight of stairs when I heard someone clear their throat behind me. I spun around. Brogan was peering at me with a puzzled expression.
‘What are you doing?’
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and tried not to look guilty. ‘Nothing.’
He gave a snort, with a kind of ‘who do you think you’re kidding?’ expression.
‘You wanted something?’
His shoulders slumped. ‘Miss Simmons has gone missing.’
‘What? How can that be? She was at the hospital.’
‘Well, she isn’t now, and I can only hope she’s on her way back here and hasn’t been snatched.’
This was not good. Not good at all. If Oliver had her, he didn’t need Emma any more. Or me, for that matter.
‘Did you speak to Mrs Walters?’
He shook his head. ‘She’s disappeared as well. The only person d
own in the kitchen was young Maddy.’
‘The cunning old …’ She had been feeding me a line. How could I have been so stupid?
I stomped past Brogan and made straight for the kitchen. Too late, Maddy had gone too. I glanced around. While I was here, I might as well find myself a couple of weapons to replace the ones I’d lost. I opened a few drawers until I came across where the cook kept her best knives. I’d lost my throwing blades, but top-quality, sharp kitchen knives could make just as good weapons if you chose wisely. I found a mid-sized stainless steel knife and laid it across my fingers. It was all about balance and weight and it would do me quite well. I laid it on the worktop and started sifting through the others. When I glanced up, Brogan was watching me with interest.
‘What are you proposing to do with those?’
‘Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answers to,’ I said, laying a second knife next to the first one I’d chosen.
He leant back against the kitchen table still watching me. ‘When I looked into your background it said you were an officer in Military Intelligence, but when I tried to dig deeper I couldn’t really find out anything about you at all.’
I gave a noncommittal grunt and wrapped the two knives I had chosen plus one other in a tea towel to take to my room. ‘These days I’m a retired gardener.’
‘Hmm, all I will say is if you have to kill someone make sure it’s in self-defence. I wouldn’t want you to be the one in handcuffs at the end of all this.’
I tucked the purloined knives under my arm and, with a flip of my hand in farewell, left him to go to my room. I thought he might follow after me to try and dissuade me from doing something he might consider stupid. He didn’t. I guessed he knew when he was fighting a losing battle.
Upstairs in my bedroom I took off my jacket and replaced my knife holster. The larger of the three kitchen knives fitted quite well and the slightly smaller one slid into the sheath around my ankle as if it was made for it. The third knife went into my jacket pocket. All three blades were lethally sharp and would cut through flesh like butter. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use them; I wasn’t holding my breath.
As I slipped on my jacket, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I could have been looking at a stranger. I turned away feeling – slightly strange. I’d lost weight since I’d married Emma. I was eating better and drinking less, though not necessarily by choice. For sure I wasn’t the same man I’d been in the military. I was older, not particularly wiser, but over the past few months I’d lost the middle-aged flab I’d gained over the years and I didn’t look like a wild man with my trimmed beard and hair, though now they were more salt than pepper and my chest hair was turning to snow.
Being with Emma had made me a better man and I wasn’t about to lose her now, not after waiting so long. I took another quick glance in the mirror. I was looking … I was looking good and like the man Emma deserved. Now I had to do more than look like him, I had to be him. The man in the mirror smiled and the new-old me smiled back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Apart from Mrs Walters, I hadn’t seen any of the servants since breakfast and I’d taken it upon myself to feed the horses as I couldn’t bear to think of them going without. They had been pleased to see me, but uneasy, eyes a little wild, the whites showing as they shook their heads and puffed steam from their nostrils. They knew something was wrong, the disruption to their routine was probably enough to spook them. I soothed them as best as I could, though it was hard to walk away. Hurrying back to the house I could still hear the rattle of wood as they pawed at the doors to their stalls and the clatter of their hooves as they stomped their feet in agitation.
Laura hadn’t returned by seven and it became more than apparent she wouldn’t be coming, not under her own steam anyway. They had her, I was sure of it, and time was running out.
I’d resorted to making my own dinner. It consisted only of cheese, home-made bread and chutney. As good as it was, I hardly tasted it, but it had filled a hole and would keep me going as I continued my exploration of the house.
The sun was going down and I was running out of time and daylight. If they were going to make a move it would be after dark. I needed a torch and I had one in my car boot.
Outside, long shadows were creeping across the lawns and there wasn’t a soul in sight. I wondered where the police presence had gone to. I hoped they were somewhere about and ready to pounce on Oliver and his motley crew should they reappear. I doubted it was going to happen. Oliver might be insane, but he had proven to be far from stupid, and this knowledge had my spirits sinking to an all-time low.
I had a moment of worry as the boot lid sprung open and I couldn’t see the torch. It was too big to miss, surely to God. I shoved aside Emma’s multicoloured golfing umbrella and there it was. It was a bit battered and scarred, but it still worked. I clicked it on and off to make sure the battery was good and the resultant shaft of light was bright and would cut through the dark with no trouble. I hefted the weight in my hand. It would also double as another weapon for my arsenal if need be.
I decided to finish searching the west wing. Despite my reservations about the housekeeper, a small part of me couldn’t help but think she had been sincere.
Finally, I came to the poolroom. I hesitated outside. Did I really want to go back in there? As soon as I stepped through the doorway the back of my neck chilled and after a few paces a soft breeze caressed my cheek. The surface of the pool rippled and, as the breeze grew, waves began to appear and the water churned. I breathed in deep. I had a feeling things were about to get a bit weird.
I walked to the water’s edge, closer than I’d rather be when I was here alone, but I could hear them calling to me. Suzie Foley hadn’t been the only young woman to have died here. I could hear two voices, no three, at least three women crying out my name. I peered down into the inky depths of the pool and shivered. It was as dark as any grave. At the centre of the pool the water began to swirl, slowly at first, in lazy circles, then gradually gaining speed forming a foaming funnel and all the time the voices grew louder and louder until they were like the howl of the wind on a stormy night. I had to fight against lifting my hands to my ears it was so loud. Then with one final shriek it stopped.
I slowly opened my fists, relieving my aching knuckles from where they’d been clenched so hard, and breathed out. It was too soon to relax. The wailing might have stopped, but the whirlpool continued to funnel downwards in a frothing tube.
Jed!
Jed!
Jed!
One at a time they whispered, every call of my name reverberating in my head until it was all I could hear. Even so I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the pool. Something was about to happen. I could feel it in the unnatural frigidity of the air that pulsed around me like the throb of a heartbeat. The swirling of the water began to subside, slowing until the funnel at its centre was more like a fine stream being sucked down a plughole and still they called to me.
‘What do you want of me?’ I said and something moved beneath the surface of the pool.
I took a step closer. Crazy I know, but I wanted—no, I needed to see. And see I did, pale flashes of something beneath the water’s surface gradually gaining substance as they circled the pool. Alabaster limbs and white faces surrounded by long hair that clung to them in dark strands as they rose from the water.
The three women closed in together coming towards me and they appeared as solid as I did. They were dead, I could see they were dead, there was no doubt about it, but they could have been freshly pulled from a watery grave.
I took one step back and another. I had always maintained the dead couldn’t hurt you, now I knew differently. One had almost drowned Emma.
They hovered above the water at the edge of the pool, probably not much more than a yard away and to my way of thinking it was too close, much too close. I took one more step back and sucked in my fear. If they wanted my help, I’d give it, but I wasn’t about to die just yet. Em
ma was my priority and Laura too, if I could save her.
They stopped, all three gazing at me with opaque dead eyes, their lips tinged blue and skin like greying porcelain. The woman in the middle I recognised: Suzie, Dan Foley’s sister. The woman to her left looked about the same age, though it was hard to tell − death had leeched the character from her face. Whereas Suzie’s once-pretty frock had been right for the ill-fated party this young woman was wearing a uniform. She had been a maid, a maid here at the house. The last of the three women was older, possibly by ten or fifteen years. My throat went dry, she had been the woman who had clung onto Emma’s ankles so tightly. She was attired for a day by the pool, though she was wearing some sort of flimsy translucent kaftan that clung wetly to her body, showing the brightly coloured bikini she wore underneath and more suitable for the poolside of a posh hotel somewhere in the South of France.
I remembered Oliver had a penchant for the region and it made me wonder – was the reason he had never divorced his last wife that he had no need to? And was this why she had wanted my own wife dead? If she couldn’t have Oliver neither could any other woman? From what she had screamed at Emma as she had tried to drown her it would make a sick kind of sense.
I took a deep breath. ‘What is it you want from me?’
Justice, justice, justice. The whisper echoed through my mind.
‘I don’t—’
The maid lifted her arm and pointed towards the bar area. I frowned at her, uncomprehending. What was she trying to tell me?
They had said all they were going to. All three bowed their heads, losing substance, their bodies turning to mist, which swirled around and around as it was sucked back down into the pool until they were gone and the water’s surface stilled, leaving me alone. I stood there for a second or two allowing my heart to calm a little. I was getting far too old for this kind of shit.
Turning my back on the pool I crossed to the bar, for no other reason than it was where the three spirits appeared to want me to be. I slowly swung the torch back and forth; bottles, glasses, optics, and a cocktail shaker glinting as its beam swept over their shiny surfaces and reflected right back at me, but no clue as to what I was searching for. Frustrated, I leant over the counter pointing the flashlight downwards, looking for I don’t know what, and there, behind the bar, spread out across the floor and totally out of place in the opulent surroundings, was a large coconut fibre mat. Had I seen it before I would have imagined it was to prevent slipping on the slick marble flooring while handling potentially lethal glasses and bottles. Now I wasn’t so sure.
