by Amy Myers
Hospitals can be scary places even for the visitor. Step inside, they seem to say, and prepare to leave the everyday world behind. This is our world. I couldn’t have been properly prepared as, the next day, I entered the huge hospital in Ashford to which Boadicea had been brought, and I was taken aback at the sheer scale of it. Taking a deep breath, I plunged in and found my way easily enough through the maze of corridors, everyone intent on his or her own destinations. Boadicea was in a room to herself, of course, but I was alarmed to see no sign of a uniformed guard on any of the doors. Had she died after all?
I hurried back to the reception desk where I found that I was not the only enquirer. Peter was there.
‘After the same bird, are we?’ he greeted me. ‘I gather she’s flown to another hospital.’
‘Which one?’
‘Classified information. Even I can’t be told and I’m family. Aunt Anna is an orphan, poor lady, so we Nelsons are all she has, apart from darling Jason. But here I am, turned from the door, so why don’t we enjoy a coffee and you can tell me what’s going on?’
If only I knew. Personally, I had no inclination to enjoy a coffee or otherwise with Peter Nelson but in Arthur’s interests I had to take the suggestion up, so I prepared to be companionable as we walked to the café.
‘Have you heard how she is, Jack, or are the police keeping mum about that too?’ he asked me. ‘All Ray and I are told is that she’s doing well. I even rang dear Half-Cousin Jason but he claimed to know no more than we do. Any clues, Mr Detective?’
‘Car detective. I only hear what’s relevant to the Porsche. That’s my limit.’
‘Rather more than a car detective, I’m sure of that.’ Peter gave his attention to his coffee as though it were the finest claret.
A sigh seemed in order. ‘Only in that I’m a known face to DCI Brandon. We don’t go drinking together.’
‘You’re close to Arthur too,’ he said dispassionately.
‘Over the Porsche.’ I tried being wearily patient. ‘He asked me to keep an eye on it and the Morgan.’
‘And do you?’
It was time I threw this yapping little terrier off my track, albeit carefully. ‘I don’t sleep outside the control tower at nights, or outside Friars Leas, if that’s what you mean.’
He grinned. ‘Perhaps you should. The horse seems to have bolted from its stable. I saw the Morgan on the A20 this morning.’
I had a momentary alarm, but dispelled it. ‘Must be some other Morgan. Great car, isn’t it?’ I added in the spirit of chumminess.
‘Sure.’ A pause – a calculated one, I thought. ‘Who,’ Peter continued, ‘do you reckon attacked Aunt Anna? One of us, or a thwarted burglar?’
I parried this one. ‘The jury’s out, especially as she seems to make a policy of upsetting people, including Ray, although he’s hardly likely to have nipped outside to attack her.’ I had meant this as an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but it failed.
A raised eyebrow. ‘Why not?’
‘Age, infirmity, and the energy it would require to bat someone from behind with a heavy implement from a wheelchair.’
He regarded me pityingly. ‘Wheelchair? He can get out of it when he wants to. He plays the sympathy card.’
‘Then I feel even more sorry for your aunt.’ Could he be right? I wondered uneasily. I’d seen Ray only when he was in a wheelchair so I’d no means of knowing.
‘Aunt Anna can hold her own, believe me. Probably held it too strongly with the wrong person. She was going around dropping mysterious hints about being in a difficult position and needing money.’
‘She does seem to believe that she has a claim on being the next trustee of Old Herne’s.’
‘She hasn’t,’ Peter said shortly. ‘She just thought she was going to blackmail Arthur into forking out a fortune for her.’
‘It could be a genuine mistake, a misinterpretation of what Arthur told you all about Mike’s wife being the successor trustee. She thought it was her, not the first wife.’
This was instantly dismissed. ‘Don’t you believe it, Mr Car Detective. Dear Half-Cousin Jason would make sure nothing and nobody comes between himself and Arthur.’
I could see why he might eye Jason with great suspicion, but of what? Of being Boadicea’s attacker or of his having a major say in what Peter might see as his own rightful role at Old Herne’s? Peter didn’t strike me as a chap who paid hospital visits out of sheer good-heartedness, especially to half-aunts by marriage, which raised the question of whether his interest in her recovery had altruistic or sinister motivation behind it.
I reached Frogs Hill, to find the Pits humming. On the forecourt was a Vauxhall estate car I didn’t recognize – and then I spotted Tim having an earnest discussion with Len and Zoe in the Pits. It didn’t take a lot of little grey cells to work out what about. They were grouped around a car that looked like Arthur’s Morgan. So Peter really had seen it on the A20.
Len looked almost happy and Zoe was beaming. ‘Tim brought the Morgan in this morning, Jack,’ Len explained. ‘Wanted us to take a look at it and he’s returned for the verdict. Reckons she’s not firing on all four.’
‘And that’s all?’ I asked.
Tim looked surprised. ‘All? It’s a serious matter. Jack.’
Of course it was – in terms of the Pits. ‘Does Arthur know where it is?’
‘Yes. He’s no problem with it.’
Then it wasn’t with me, save for the responsibility of putting this glorious classic to rights. With Len and Zoe cooing over it like turtle doves, who was I to gainsay their pleasure by pointing out there was an Armstrong Siddeley awaiting their urgent attention?
I was still meditating on Morgan Plus Fours long after the Pits closed at six and Tim, Zoe and Len had departed. Until my mobile rang, that is. It was Jason and he sounded upset. I was so used to the laid-back Jason that his voice had sounded unfamiliar at first. It was only when he mentioned Arthur that I clicked into gear.
‘It’s fine,’ I said soothingly. ‘Tell him we’ve got it safely in the Pits.’
‘What?’
‘The Morgan.’
‘It’s not about that,’ Jason said impatiently. ‘Can you come to Friars Leas this evening? Quickly. Now?’
The last thing I wanted. Frogs Hill had never seemed more attractive, and a return to the Downs and their problems was less than appealing.
‘I don’t call it Nightmare Abbey for nothing, Jack,’ he continued. ‘I’ve had an anonymous call.’
Not unusual nowadays, but even so I didn’t like the sound of this.
‘He said to tell Jack Colby that if he wanted to be in at the end of the game he’d have to come to Friars Leas this evening.’
‘Did you tell the police?’ My first thought was that this was a mere frightener, but my second was that it might not be just that – and indeed almost certainly wasn’t.
‘Yes, they said they’d keep an eye on the place. But that’s not the point, Jack. I’ve got my own security guards here, plus extra ones I’ve laid on – enough to challenge every shadow they see or sense.’
Security sounded very much the point to me. ‘Outside and inside?’ I asked.
‘The place has been searched from top to bottom and then the extra guards moved in. I want you to come, Jack.’
It was a clichéd situation: ‘Come unarmed into the dark lonely wood at midnight. Signed: a friend.’ But clichés come from overuse not under. I had to treat it as a serious threat, especially as I had been specifically summoned.
‘Could you get Arthur and yourself to safety elsewhere – the hotel?’
‘No. He won’t budge. Says if it’s serious they will have thought of that and get at us on the way. So I won’t go either.’
They will have thought of that … The indefinable enemy is always ‘they’. The incalculable, the shadowy menace that might be there, that might be illusion. Which was it in this case? Hit men stationed on the roads around Nightmare Abbey? Over-dramatic,
but taking care never killed the cat, so Arthur could be right to remain at Friars Leas. Talking of care – what about me? No one could have my murder as their prime objective, only as an additional extra. Arthur must surely be target number one with Jason number two and me either as witness – or third victim.
I seemed to be back to the Charge of the Light Brigade, whose ethics had seemed the epitome of gallantry to me when I was a youngster: ‘Cannon to right of them … Cannon to left … Forward the Light Brigade … Was there a man dismayed?’ Answer in my current case: Yes, me.
But even so I charged.
‘I’m on my way,’ I told Jason.
I took the Gordon-Keeble. If the Light Brigade was to be massacred, it seemed right to go out in style. The Alfa was for every day, the Lagonda for summer picnics, but the Gordon-Keeble was my rock. A fragile one, I admitted, after having been used literally as a rock once.1 I only hoped Jason’s security guards weren’t so jittery that they’d shoot on sight – and that they didn’t have the caller or his best mate amongst them.
It was almost an anticlimax when I was stopped at the gates to Nightmare Abbey at about eight o’clock, gave my name, showed my ID and was allowed to drive on with both the Gordon-Keeble and myself unharmed.
Perhaps this was a storm in a teacup, I thought hopefully. Jason had said that the Abbey looked its best in the fading light, but how would one define ‘best’? In a lowering storm or heavy snow, those gables and towers might look even more effective. When the Abbey door had closed behind me, however, all seemed normal save that it had been opened by a guard.
Jason, however, did not look normal. He was even paler than usual and distinctly jittery. He couldn’t be feigning this degree of tension.
‘Thanks for coming, Jack.’
‘Part of the service,’ I murmured. ‘How’s Arthur?’
Jason managed a grin. ‘He’s Arthur. It’s me who’s hitting the panic button.’
‘On his account?’
‘On all our accounts.’ He glanced at the portrait of Miranda Pryde. ‘Arthur’s worried for you and for me, not himself. Usually, when I’m wound up, I go into the studio, play or record and lose myself. It’s like stepping into the world of Oz. All tornadoes left outside. It’s not like that today.’
‘Any idea at all who made that call?’ The police would trace it, but it would be handy to know now.
‘No.’
He said it rather too quickly, I thought, but perhaps I was mistaken. ‘A man’s voice?’
‘Yes. Mobile. No answer when I rang back.’
‘Did he use your name?’
‘I don’t think so. No.’
‘Then he knew you. He had to be sure of his target to ask you to pass on a message to me.’
Jason didn’t comment, a useful way to avoid the subject being taken further. I comforted myself that if someone was planning my death, why bother to summon me to Nightmare Abbey where there would be witnesses? He could accomplish the same thing most evenings at Frogs Hill with just the stars watching. Unless, of course, Jason himself had plans to wipe me out? Or the caller wanted to down three in one go? I put these notions firmly behind me.
‘Can I check the house again?’ I asked.
‘Go ahead.’
I opted for having a word with Arthur first. He was already in his bedroom, dressed for the occasion in a magnificent royal-blue dressing gown and the most comfortable furry slippers I’d ever seen. Nothing suggested he was expecting an armed killer. It was a large room and included two armchairs, a table, a TV, a pile of books and several newspapers. Then I froze. Lying on top of one of them was a red poppy. Coincidence? No way. Doubler was definitely back in town, and all my alarm bells were working overtime.
No one had mentioned a poppy. I’d got the message though, even if these two had not.
‘Caught any spies yet, Jack?’ Arthur asked, laying aside his glasses.
‘Not yet. Preparing my Bond armoury. C’s been describing the mission.’
Arthur laughed, but Jason looked at us both severely. ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’
‘Wrong,’ I told him. ‘Very seriously. What’s your choice, Jason? Guard Arthur outside the room and let him go to bed, or all of us sit up together?’ There was already a guard at the door.
‘I’m going to bed,’ Arthur declared before Jason could reply. ‘You two can decide what you want to do.’
‘Is this room vulnerable from outside?’ The curtains were already drawn, but I moved across to check it myself.
‘It’s not,’ Arthur told me firmly. ‘No trees close enough to fire arrows or guns at me. Furthermore, as you two Sherlock Holmeses will observe, my bed’s in the centre of the room, and there are no holes above, below or anywhere else from where snakes can slither down bellropes. It’s just a perfectly ordinary room with windows over a sheer drop.’
I was peering out into the dusk both through his window and the adjoining bathroom. No handy trees or drainpipes and no chimney stacks, and the ground was sufficiently far beneath Arthur’s window to deter the most intrepid cat burglar. Even Doubler’s men.
‘And the door locks,’ Arthur added.
‘And there’s a guard on it,’ Jason pointed out.
‘Who will guard the guard?’ I enquired.
Jason went pale. ‘I’ll pick another at random to join him. You and I can sit in the room opposite this one, Jack. We’ll keep the door open, and there’s an alarm bell to bring the whole army of them running.’
Basic stuff but valuable, even if Doubler’s plan would take this into account. As we left Arthur to establish our temporary domain I realized I was here for the night. I only hoped I’d live through it. Harry Prince might not have to wait that much longer before he could put in his bid for Frogs Hill. Had I been a fool to come here? No way, I told myself. After all, I was leading the Light Brigade.
And then the lights went out.
I rushed to Arthur’s room, which fortunately was not yet locked, colliding with the guard and with Jason cannoning into me from behind.
Jason’s voice came out of the dark. ‘Give it a few seconds, Jack. The emergency generator should kick in. One of the guards is down there.’
I fervently hoped that he wasn’t lying unconscious or dead. Whoever planned this macabre evening would have reckoned on auxiliary power. He’d given Jason full warning after all, and now the show was beginning.
To my relief, Jason was right. The lights came on again, dimmer and flickering, but they held.
‘Where is the generator?’ I asked.
‘In the cellars.’
‘Door to the outside?’
‘Yes, locked and bolted. No way, Jack, without heavy artillery.’
‘I’ll check there isn’t any.’
‘Maybe that’s what they want you to do.’
I tried not to think that way. ‘You and the guards stay with Arthur.’ The second one had appeared by now.
Somehow the enemy – I decided that the less I thought of him as Doubler the better – had to reach Arthur if his plan was to work, so either he was hidden inside the house so cunningly that he had eluded discovery or he had an even longer range weapon trained on Arthur’s window than I’d estimated and was waiting for an opportune moment. The other option was that he was one of the guards.
‘How many guards inside the house altogether, Jason?’
‘Two here, one on the main door, two at the rear doors, two at vulnerable windows, one in the cellars.’
‘Chimneys blocked?’
‘Covered by the outside guards.’
‘I’ll check the cellars again, then the rest of the house. Could you warn the guards?’
Even though the lights were dimmer now, searching the house wouldn’t be as bad as crawling around in the dark or by candlelight. I reflected, however, that it was all very well to say I’d search the whole house but I was one man, Nightmare Abbey was huge and I didn’t want to risk being harpooned by an overzealous guard who saw a dark s
hape creeping along a corridor or coming round a corner and had temporarily forgotten I was on the loose. It was agreed I would yell out ‘Colby’ when turning out of or into a corridor and the guard would yell back ‘Jack’. A simple but I hoped effective plan, stupid though I would feel.
It was a strange ritual. I was straining for the least noise that was out of the ordinary. I duly yelled out ‘Colby’ at every turn, aware that if one of the guards was the assailant he wouldn’t be yelling back and that I’d be walking straight into a bullet. Start at the bottom or the top of the house? Top, I decided. That way I could chase the enemy down rather than up. Or, of course, be chased. I didn’t want to find myself jumping from a parapet into a moat that didn’t exist.
In this antiquated building it was hard enough even with all the lights on, not to imagine a masked enemy round every corner. Turrets, corridors, bedrooms, bathrooms, storage rooms – each one sent a thrill of fear through me. Suppose I found myself looking directly into the enemy’s eyes? The only weapon I had was a torch. The corridors were lined with prints and paintings, few of which I recognized, save for some eighteenth-century cartoons of Nightmare Abbey – Dr Syntax leapt out at me from one such print gloating over my predicament, it seemed. Impassive gentlemen and ladies from the past stared down at me in contempt as I crept by. I checked each room, leaving the door open in case of movement outside. No one came. The atmosphere was heavy but it told me I was alone, save for the guards whose voices dutifully rang out as arranged. Slowly, I worked my way down to the first floor and back to base with Jason.
‘Nothing up there,’ I said, ‘except for the guards.’
He nodded but I could see he wasn’t reassured.
Down to the ground floor. The lights seemed to be growing dimmer all the time, or perhaps that was my imagination. I went into the dark recording room, with the dimmest of lights. Nothing here but knobs to be turned, buttons to be pressed, instruments to be played. No music tonight.
And then I came to the cellars. No wine of ages here, just another workmanlike studio, storage and a generator. Plus its guard, who looked edgy as I called and then approached him. Every one of my muscles tensed up, in case he plunged us into darkness again or, worse, plunged something into me.
