‘It’s confidential.’
‘It’s very important.’
‘I will have to get permission from the trustees.’
‘But I have Caspar’s permission and he’s the heir.’
Miss Vincent eyed her disapprovingly. ‘It isn’t all settled yet. The lawyers have the last say.’
She was right of course. Caspar had to agree to the terms of the will in order to inherit the house, the property and a hundred acres of safari park. Who wouldn’t agree?
Honey eyed the piles of paperwork spread over the huge desk in front of Miss Vincent’s diminutive figure. It looked a mess. Finding something must be like one of those games where a card or a dice is hidden beneath one of three cups. The trick was to guess which cup either card or dice was under. Miss Vincent was using piles of paper and she wasn’t winning.
Too impatient to wait for the trustees permission, the only way Honey was going to snoop through the paperwork was to wait until Miss Vincent was out of the room. Only one thing tempted Miss Vincent away from her work: food.
Yesterday lunchtime she’d exited the study to indulge her taste buds in steak and kidney pudding. Today it was liver and onions. All Honey had to do was wait until the drool dripped from her chin and she left to consume yet another homely lunch.
Like an honest to goodness intruder – or rather dishonest intruder seeing as intruders are by definition unlikely to be honest - Honey sneaked – even snaked – through the house. The oak staircase was carved from Jacobean oak; almost black, and the banister smoothed by centuries of sweaty palms. The stair carpet was threadbare in places and on the first landing a huge stained glass window threw a rainbow of colour somehow making it seem plush again. Apart from the carpet, which years ago must have cost a fortune, Torrington Towers was in pretty good shape.
Miss Vincent had mentioned something about a new one being on order and due to be laid in the next two weeks. Honey commented that it must be costing a fortune. She’d smiled and said that his lordship had insisted.
‘No expense spared,’ she’d said resolutely, through misted eyes. ‘His lordship liked everything to be top notch.’ She’d smiled in a secretive way as she said it, as though the same saying applied also to his sex life – a fact Honey did not doubt.
Honey had retorted that she hoped the estate’s income covered the outgoings. Miss Vincent had merely laughed and said that of course they did, as though anything else would be quite absurd.
There was something about Miss Vincent that was both efficient and formidable. Honey decided it had a lot to do with the fact that she’d been here longer than any other member of staff. And she was thin. Like Wallis Simpson, the woman who’d married an ex king, who had abdicated for love of her. Honey also felt that she had an agenda, though didn’t have a clue what it might be. Here she was working for the estate as she had for his lordship, but at one time she had been much more than that. Honey wondered how she felt when his lordship put her aside. Not that she was alone in that of course. It seemed that Tarquin put all of his women aside.
So here she was sneaking along the landing, intent on going through the heaps of filing without Miss Vincent around.
Torrington Towers with its wide landings was ideal for sneaking around in. Oak coffers and court cupboards vied for space with chiffoniers and gargantuan settees with gilded frames and cabriole legs. And there were shadows. Old houses were designed to keep out the cold not let in the light. Hence lots of shadows.
Honey lingered, hovering behind a court cupboard until the smell of liver and onions spirited Miss Vincent away to the cafeteria where no doubt the main course would be followed by prunes and custard. Miss Vincent was a great one for traditional British dishes. Lord knows how she kept so thin. If her secret of skinniness could be bottled and sold, she’d make a fortune.
The moment she’d locked the door and disappeared, Honey was there with the key she’d purloined from the housekeeper’s cupboard
Being a super efficient employee, Miss Vincent always locked the door.
Honey’s footfall was soft on the pure wool carpet which was the colour of milk chocolate and very new. The pile was deep enough to drown in.
The piled-up folders were still in the places Miss Vincent had left them and two more piles had been added.
Honey quickly found the latest list of employees. Ever efficient, Miss Vincent had made one original copy of the employee list plus two extras.
Taking a deep breath she glanced over her shoulder. For a moment she had the feeling of being watched. There was nobody there – well, nobody drawing breath. One set of eyes glared at her from a Victorian portrait. The woman wore a black poke bonnet and her icy glare was enough to turn a saint to stone. The other glassy eyed stare was from the head of a stuffed antelope.
They were both scary in their own way and the sooner she got the job done and was out of here the better. Discretion being far and away the better part of valour she took a copy based on the logic that a copy would not be so missed as an original.
Clasping the list against her bosom, she scarpered to the gallery, a wide affair running the full length of the house, windows on one side and doors on the other. This was the place where in times past ladies in farthingales had taken exercise when the weather outside was less than amenable.
Once she was safely hidden she scrutinised what she had taken. The list was disappointing. She scanned the piece of paper again and again just in case there was something she was missing. Mrs Cromer was there. Meercroft the butler was there and so was the ranger Adrian Sayle along with other people still in service whose names she recognised.
There were three names listed as having terminated their employment. A Miss Isobel White though a ‘c’ marked beside her name listed her as casual. Honey guessed she worked summers at Torrington Towers but was laid off at the end of the season. Another name was Patricia Garner. She too was listed as casual only.
The only other name was that of Keith McCall. A note said, ‘Left without giving notice.’ It also said that he was chief ranger. Adrian Sayle was now chief ranger. Had he been promoted or was he a new replacement. Miss Vincent would know.
Not wishing to be caught, Honey hid herself in a window seat half way along the landing. The window overlooked the rear of the house. From there she had a good view of the paved courtyard, the neat terraces leading from there down onto a crisp green lawn.
The courtyard was bounded on three sides. Below her she could see the door leading into the kitchen. Directly opposite was a row of colour coded bins ranged along one wall. Along the other were stone structures with sloping lids. They looked like some kind of storage units, perhaps for coal.
A continuation of the front driveway ran along between the lower terrace and the grassy lawn. This was, of course, the tradesmen’s entrance, the vehicular access for the butcher, the baker, and whoever else happened to be delivering or here on maintenance business.
Thinking she heard the sound of Miss Vincent coughing into her handkerchief as she pitter-pattered in her low heels along the landing, Honey hid herself behind the thick tapestry curtain and didn’t emerge until the sound of a door being slammed reverberated along the landing.
A sudden light headedness made her realise she’d been holding her breath.
‘Get a grip,’ she muttered to herself.
Her body responded and accordingly she felt her whole self relax, Before leaving her hiding place, she took one more look out of the window to the courtyard below.
Adrian Sayle was down there. He was not alone. The man he was talking to was instantly familiar. It was Dominic Christiansen.
Had Adrian Sayle caught him nosing around? Or were they already acquainted. The warning she’d received nagged at her mind. Be careful. Trust no one.
First things first. Ask Miss Vincent for clarification.
She found Miss Vincent sitting behind the desk patting the little bowl of a tummy where liver now swam around with prunes and custard. She was fr
owning at the paperwork stalagmites in a very disapproving – no – a distrusting manner. It occurred to Honey that she might have x ray vision and could actually tell that something had been disturbed.
In the meantime it would do to impress so Honey adopted her most superior air, the kind his lordship’s ancestors would have regarded as quite the norm for people of their status. In Honey’s case she was doing it purely to boost her confidence.
‘Miss Vincent, there’s something I have to ask you.’
Miss Vincent tilted her pert little chin upwards. Her expression was deadpan.
‘I’ll help if I can, though as I’ve already said, we have the will and the lawyers to consider. They oversee everything we do.’
Her tone was firm. The staccato of her voice reminded Honey of plucked violin strings.
‘Adrian Sayle. Has he been here long?’
It didn’t escape Honey’s notice that her eyelashes fluttered at mention of his name. ‘About six months.’
‘I take it he replaced Mr Keith McCall.’
A fleeting look crossed Miss Vincent’s eyes. She would be careful answering.
‘He did. Mr McCall left without giving notice. Mr Sayle replaced him.’
Honey ran her finger down the list. ‘I can find no record of salary payments on this list or when he started here.’
Miss Vincent shook her head avidly though her bobbed hair stayed close to her head as though it were glued there. ‘I know nothing about the financial arrangements between His Lordship and senior members of staff.’
Honey frowned as she considered what she’d said.
‘There were separate financial arrangements?’
‘Only between Mr Sayle and the estate. Not between him and his lordship personally.’
Again that shaking head. Again her hair stayed in situ.
‘With whom and on what basis were these payments made?’
Miss Vincent shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps Mr Jerwood the solicitor would know? If not you could ask his personal assistant, Miss Belvedere. I believe Miss Belvedere was privy to the matters of the Torrington estate, otherwise might I suggest that you ask Adrian Sayle direct.’
Honey couldn’t help getting the impression she was daring her to try it.
‘Where did he work before coming here?’
‘I would have to find his application to tell you that.’
‘Will you do that for me?’
‘Only when Mr Jerwood, the solicitor, allows it.’
Chapter Twenty
The fourth day. Mary Jane had found the library and its amazing collection of books on the occult.
‘Honey, you’ve got to see this stuff. I could spend all day in here.’ Suddenly remembering that she’d come down to offer her constant company and instead had found the library, she looked up. ‘You don’t mind do you?’
No. Of course she didn’t mind.
‘Read till your eyes fall out. I’m off for a walk. I need to ask Adrian Sayle some questions and I haven’t seen him around this morning.
Mary Jane’s nose went back into the book she was reading.
‘Funny how people seem to disappear when you’re around.’
For a moment Honey held that comment. Did that count people who had died? His lordship, for one. And now Professor Collins. She’d also heard no word from Dominic Christiansen. Was he still in the world of the living?
She felt she was sinking deeper and deeper into this morass of intrigue. It wasn’t like her to feel so out of kilter with a case. She found herself wishing Caspar had come down here to do his own investigations.
Never mind, she said to herself. Go for a walk. Clear your head.
The late autumn sunshine was muted, smothered with the fog of humidity which would inevitably be followed by driving rain. The clouds were already frowning over the fun fair and the animal pens.
Donning a waxed jacket, jeans and a pair of green Hunters, she set off along the narrow path leading towards an area of woodland. Despite being narrow, the path was straight and eventually led to a ravine which in turn led to a railway tunnel and the entrance to the series of caves.
The ravine appeared to run parallel to the old railway tunnel which was locked and barred, the iron railings protecting roughly two thirds of the tunnel’s arched entrance.
She headed to the side, taking the uneven path through the ravine. Occasional gusts of wind brought down the last leaves of autumn. The curled fronds of dying ferns dripped water onto her head and into her face. It was quite refreshing.
The stony ground made swift progress almost impossible. It was also slippery so she was glad she’d donned her boots which had a thick sole. Even so she could still feel the sharper stones cutting through.
Every dozen steps or so she paused to look around and above her. Thick bushes pushed through the alternating layers of rocks and earth all the way up to the top of the ravine some twenty or thirty feet above her.
Stumbling, she reached out, her hands clawing at the slippery stones and soggy vegetation.
There were pillars outside the cave; three of them in fact. Innocuous at first, on closer scrutiny it became obvious that these were not natural phenomenon; they’d been placed there in such a way that the cave’s entrance was hidden. The pillars were the ancient comparative of bi-folding doors – though of course they didn’t close, they merely camouflaged.
She slid through the first two, then through the gap left by pillar number two and pillar number three and switched on her flashlight.
‘What am I doing here,’ she muttered to herself. She’d come out for a walk but also to find Adrian Sayle. She wanted to know where he’d come from, where he had worked before working at Torrington Towers. There was no sign of him. Well there wouldn’t be, considering he was more likely to be with the animals, not here in a secluded and decidedly creepy cave.
Inside smelled of damp earth and there was the sound of trickling water. The cave started off wide; she supposed it looked, from a wider vantage point, as though the entrance would appear like a yawning mouth, the pillars like upward growing canines. But it wasn’t possible to see the wider perspective; the narrow channel through the ravine prevented that.
The cave narrowed, becoming little more than a passage hewn from solid rock by centuries of water ingress. The ground beneath her feet sloped downward, so steep that it was difficult not to stop herself from picking up speed and careering headlong into the darkness.
A wall of rock was picked out by the flashlight. She’d come to a dead end deep beneath the earth. She was now standing in a huge cave. Above her the vaulted ceiling rose like the nave of a cathedral.
The air was freezing and her breath turned to steam, swirling wraithlike in the light from her torch.
A pool of water had gathered at one side and stalactites hung from the ceiling and stalagmites rose like pillars of doughnuts from the floor.
Ahead of her the flashlight picked up a stone lined pit in the floor. She held her breath. This was not just a pit. She was looking down into a grave. It was empty. She breathed a sigh of relief.
She brushed the sweat from her fore head. All this thinking was giving her a headache - though the meagre light probably had a lot to do with it.
She turned to leave, then paused, thinking she heard something. Not human, not animal, but mechanical. Something humming, though not close but far off, perhaps in front of her, perhaps above ground.
She couldn’t work it out, but couldn’t stay to investigate either. Caves were not her favourite place; the smell, the feeling of being enclosed in stone causing panic to set in. Suddenly she needed to get out.
Staggering now, she made her way back along the narrow passage. Was it her imagination, or was that methane she could smell?
Her head was swimming. Her legs were growing weak. Everything was turning black. With a sudden surge of willpower, she forced herself to go on until there it was; a pinpoint of light.
The pinpoint grew in
size and the bigger it grew, the more strength she found to stagger towards it until eventually she was outside and gasping for air.
A sudden movement from the mouth of the old tunnel to her right caught her attention and made her start.
Startled eyes looked at her from between the bars of the gate guarding the railway tunnel before the fox slid through and ran off into the undergrowth, a piece of meat hanging from the side of its mouth.
‘Bloody fox,’ she shouted, purely in relief.
Mary Jane was waiting for her when she got back, an animated expression on her face. ‘Where have you been?’
‘For a walk.’
‘Why?’
‘Do I have to have a reason?’ She instantly regretted her abruptness. ‘Mary Jane, I’m sorry.’
‘I only meant where did you go for a walk. Purely out of interest.’
Honey saw there was no hurt look in her eyes. Mary Jane looked excited.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Honey as she threw off her jacket and pulled off her boots. She eyed her soggy socks where a stone or two had broken through the rubber wellingtons so she took them off too.
‘There are no bones in the garden,’ exclaimed Mary Jane. ‘And no history of ever cremating a member of the family in the garden – or anywhere outside for that matter.’
Honey sat there a moment examining her toes while digesting the information Mary Jane was giving her.
She eyed her with some surprise. ‘You’re a dark horse, Mary Jane. I thought you were immersed in library books.’
‘It’s all part of my plan,’ hissed Mary Jane in conspiratory fashion. ‘I made a promise to your father to look after you and I am. But I have to be cunning. So I’m letting everyone here think that I’m only interested in books on the occult. Actually they’re old hat. Out dated thinking.’
Honey expressed surprise. It had never occurred to her that anything on the occult was actually outdated. She’d thought it was the whole point that it was ancient knowledge and unchanged through the centuries.
‘Leaving the books aside, what is it you’re saying about the cremation?’
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