by Dean Cole
‘I’d forget my bloody head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ Kat reappeared in the black coat and sunglasses. She gripped the handle of her case. ‘Right, let’s get out of this haunted hole.’
I grabbed my rucksack and threw it over my shoulder. But before I’d even taken a step towards Kat’s Mini, my attention was captured by a procession of vehicles coming up the driveway. Kat and I stopped to watch them approach. There was an expensive silver car, accompanied by a police vehicle and a forensics van. Stan had been cuffed and taken away in the night after the police officers showed up. And now they were back to investigate the grisly leftovers of his wrongdoing.
I glanced at the house and saw Mrs Brown standing in the bay window, a shadow of the woman she was when we arrived, that apple-cheeked woman who had welcomed us in from the stormy weather. She watched the vehicles with a look of sadness, then her head turned and she caught sight of me. We exchanged looks that were filled with regret and sombre gratitude.
The vehicles pulled into the parking area as Will took off on his bike. A very tall balding man with a large stomach peeking out of his brown coat got out of the silver car. He slammed the door and strolled to the front door with the look of a man who was often disappointed with what life had to show him. A handsome policeman, following him, was speaking into a radio on his chest: ‘Stanley Oliver Crouch, that’s right.’
Mrs Brown had appeared at the front door, looking even more wan and exhausted in the daylight. The tall man flashed her ID. ‘Detective Superintendent, Ray Higgins, madam.’
The men disappeared with the housekeeper into the building. Kat and I walked to the Mini. As she opened the boot, I paused near the passenger door, taking a final look at Hilderley Manor. The imposing roof terrace. The vines climbing the stonework. The innumerous mullioned windows. But there were no misty figures looking down at me this time. Not now justices had been righted and ghosts laid to rest.
- CHAPTER TWENTY -
Ten Weeks Later
I’VE ALWAYS LOVED snow, the way it brings people together as time seems to stand still. Living alone you notice those sorts of things. I might not get many visitors knocking when the temperatures hit sub-zero and the blankets of white flakes begin to fall from the sky. But knowing others are wrapped up warm inside their houses with their loved ones brings me a vicarious comfort. Today, though, my focus was not on the wintry weather outside my window.
I’d been renting the attic apartment at the top of a three storey Victorian off my parents for the last three years. It was self-contained, partitioned to create separate living areas; it was quaint, cosy and had a beautiful nighttime view of the commercial part of the town from its dormer window. But recently the period building, despite its modern renovations, had been acting a little too ‘bump in the night’ for my liking. And I wasn’t just talking about the late night banging from the randy couple’s headboard in the apartment below. No, it was time to upgrade to something a little less haunted, and, with me fast approaching thirty, a little less studio, more … homely.
The new place was a sweet little cottage sitting on the edge of a local forest. For some reason the owner, a friend of Dom’s, was in a rush to rent it out. He offered it at a ridiculously reasonable price for immediate tenancy. I fell in love with it on first sight: the aged beams, the wood stove fire, the windows that looked out at the flowery garden and the winding path that led to a wooden gate wearing a plaque of the cottage’s name: Mugwort Cottage. As a bonus it was well away from the bustle and noise of other people. Perfect for an antisocial hermit like me. It was a place to make a fresh start. And, more importantly, now I was being paid for working full-time at The Cricklewood Gazette, I could afford it. I would be in there next week.
Moving was the current task at hand and the snowy Sunday afternoon provided the perfect time to get cracking on it. First on my list was sorting my clothes out. I made cup-a-soup, cranked up the radiators and got to work.
I opened the wardrobe. Shoes. There were few of them. Shirts, jumpers and t-shirts. There were many. And they all looked the same. Kat, forever going on about my dress sense, was right. I needed a new wardrobe. A new style for my fresh start in a new home at the start of a new year. There was a shelf above the clothes rail. I reached up and pulled out moth-eaten blankets, extra bedding … I spotted something else. Tucked in the corner was a dust-covered storage box I’d long forgotten about. I slid it out and carried it over to the bed. I sat down, blew off the dust and pulled off the elastic band that was keeping the lid secure.
Inside I sifted through various documents, keepsakes and mementos I had accumulated over the years: old letters from a penfriend, holiday photographs, my adoption certificate, passport … it caught my eye, between a photo of Belinda, Dom and me in Scotland and a postcard Grandma Ethel had sent from Windermere. It was the poem Elliot’s sister, Amy, had given me at his funeral. I lifted it in front of my bespectacled face and read the calligraphic verses:
When I Die by Elliot Dunne
When I die, don’t visit where I lay
In mud and bones I do not stay
I am the rain, wind and the snow
The robin, the magpie and the crow
I am the full moon that shines at night
A falling feather, so light, so white
Butterflies, their flapping wings
I am all of those beautiful things
I had read the poem numerous times, but it had never made more sense than it did now. If it had been months earlier, the poem would have undoubtedly brought me to tears. I would have pondered its meaning until a well of sadness poured over and the only thing left to do would be to cry myself to sleep. But that wasn’t going to happen today. I stowed the poem back inside its safe place and resealed the lid, smiling. The future lay ahead, not the past. And I would go for a walk later, glimpse a robin redbreast as it landed on a snowy branch to watch me pass, its orange feathers reminding me that we are all warriors, capable of a strength we never imagined we could possess. I would feel the snow kiss me as it alighted on my crimson cheek. And I would glimpse a winter moon as it peeked out of a clear blue sky, a reminder that someone is always watching over me.
My phone beeped inside my pocket. A message. I pulled out the phone and checked the inbox. The message was from Will the Great. I read it:
Our weekend at Hilderley Manor paid off. Already on the second draft of Portent. Head’s flooding with ideas and haven’t been able to stop writing. Fancy going for a celebratory drink when I’m done? Will x
I smiled at the little kiss at the end and replied:
Sure. Give me a call any time. Really happy the writing is coming along. Q x
The phone started to ring immediately after I pressed send. Kat’s name flashed on the screen. I answered.
‘Just showed Josh my final writeup about the Hilderley Manor ghost hunt and guess what?’ she enthused right off the bat. She paused for dramatic effect. ‘He’s over the moon with it!’
I smiled, feeling a genuine happiness for my partner. ‘That’s great,’ I said, rising from the bed.
Kat talked more about the article as I went into the kitchen and poured more hot water into cup-a-soup. I carried it over to the window and looked out. Snow had started to fall, flakes of white dancing down from the powder blue sky. I blew steam as it rose from the cup.
‘Obviously we couldn’t mention the details of the murder case for legal reasons,’ Kat jabbered on, ‘but after the court case is done there’ll be enough material to milk for at least two more articles. And he’s he’s even talking about a possible book about the case. A blimming book!’
It was hard to share Kat’s enthusiasm. Anything to do with Hilderley Manor brought about a shudder and unwelcome memories. And there had been more than just those memories that had followed me home from that godforsaken place. But I will save those stories for another day.
‘I’ve got a feeling about this, Quentin. I think I could be in for the top job after all.’
&n
bsp; ‘Chief reporter. That’s great,’ I said, still staring out of the window.
‘Well, nothing’s real till it’s real. But I really feel things are shifting around here. And in the right direction, finally.’
‘You deserve it,’ I said. ‘You’ve worked hard.’
And I meant it. Kat had worked around the clock over the last few months. Annoying as she might have been at times, showing up at my place uninvited, making me listen to her ideas for hours, her fierce single-mindedness was a force to be reckoned with. She was an incredible reporter. A woman who I was proud to call my sidekick.
‘There’s still a bit a tweaking, then we’re good to go,’ she said. ‘But that’s not the only thing I wanted to talk to you about.’
I took a tentative sip of cup-a-soup. ‘Oh?’
Excitement filled Kat’s voice. ‘You are not going to believe the job Josh has got planned for us in the next few weeks!’
Thanks for reading
The journey has only just begun …
Look out for
Book Two in The Quentin Strange Mysteries
Capturing Magick
magick I. noun archaic spelling of magic.
1. the power of apparently influencing events by using mysterious or supernatural forces
Revenge, black magic, murder. A cautionary tale of what can happen when the human ego misinterprets the forces of our world.
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More books by Dean Cole
Charlie Stone has problems.
He’s just found his boyfriend and his new BFF in bed together, and that’s only because he failed to show up for his fortnightly back, crack and sack wax. Furious, he speeds away from the gates of his luxury home into the unknown. When he finds himself stranded on the side of the road in a remote village, his future looking bleak, his dreams wasted on a fairy tale that turned out to be a nightmare, he doesn’t expect the handsome but shaggy-looking bookshop owner, Nathan Marshall, to come to his rescue. A Divine Intervention if Charlie ever saw one.
But the village is foreign land to glamour puss Charlie, who’s more at home in the bustling city, shopping for the latest trends, getting his hair coiffed and nails buffed by best friends, glamour girls Trinny, Kylie and Sasha than he is trekking through muddy hills in jeans and wellies. And Nathan’s never even seen the inside of a beauty salon, let alone considered having that tumbleweed on his chest waxed. How's a queen expected to survive in such dire circumstances?
Hope seems lost until Charlie discovers that an amateur dramatics group are looking for budding stars to fill in two of their starring roles at the last minute. Could the village offer more than babbling streams, scenic moorland and the smell of horse manure after all? Could it offer a chance for Charlie to claim back the dreams he thought were lost forever? And, more importantly, could an unlikely romance be brewing between this unlikely pairing, even when the dark characters from their pasts come back to make events very difficult for them?
A darkly comic look at love, death, dysfunctional family, emotional trauma and finding yourself. With a huge cast of characters, it's more than a romance. It's a story of self discovery.
Preview
I SIT ON A PATCHWORK QUILT, LISTENING to the tinkling of cups being stirred downstairs. My hero stowed me here while he went to make coffee. I sigh as I stare down at my sodden bunny slippers and scrape one softly through the puddle they’ve created on the wooden boards.
Nathan—that’s my hero’s name—has a surprisingly cosy nest up here. It’s as charming as the rest of the village. The walls are made of some sort of clay, thick beams run along the ceiling; there’s a bookcase, a coffer and a lovely little stove fire. Every surface is bedecked with things that look like they’ve been knitted and sewn by old lady hands, or maybe elves. Across from me, my reflection stares back at me in the fogged panes of a Dickensian-style window, rain still falling in relentless sheets behind it.
‘Take off those wet slippers. You’ll get cold,’ says Nathan, walking into the room with two steaming cups in his hands. He sets one down next to a lamp on the bedside table.
I do as he says and take off the slippers. When he sees my bare feet he pulls a pair of woolen socks from a chest of drawers and hands them to me. He settles into a rocking chair across from me as I pull the socks onto my feet. He’s wearing clothes now. Black jumper, black sweat pants, and the flip flops have been replaced with woolen socks of his own.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he says, nodding at the pillow. So I do, lifting my legs onto the bed and scooting up to the headboard. I take a sip of coffee and the warm creamy liquid soothes my sore throat. I’ve shouted a lot today.
‘Nice place,’ I say.
‘It’s not much, but it’s home.’
‘It’s charming.’
He lets out a small laugh. Beneath all that stubble I catch the glimmer of a dimple.
‘What? It is,’ I say. I take back my initial judgment of the place. It has old things. Things that have history. I don’t have anything like that.
‘To a city boy like you?’ he says.
I frown. ‘How do you know I’m from the city?’
‘The flashy car. The clothes. That tan and haircut. Even your nails are perfect. You don’t find many folks as polished as you around here.’ He lifts a shrewd eyebrow. ‘I suppose you’re used to those penthouses with the glass windows overlooking the city and plasma TVs on the wall.’
I set my cup down and slide my manicured hands between my legs. I don’t like being analysed, neither mentally nor physically.
‘What’s your name?’ he says, taking a sip from his cup.
‘Charlie Stone.’
‘First two rules of surviving out here, Charlie Stone. One, don’t tell strangers your name. Two, don’t ever tell strangers your first and last name.’ His mouth twitches into a smile.
I swallow and rotate my head towards the window. Rain hammers the glass as if demanding to be let in, and the canopies of black trees sway eerily in the distance. Where exactly have I ended up? Nathan coughs, and I jump.
‘So, Charlie,’ he says. ‘Want to tell me how you ended up stranded out here in a pair of slippers?’
I stare into his eyes. I was right. In the soft light of the room there is a touch of hazel in them. As I look deeper, there’s something else. Sincerity. And before I know it, everything comes pouring out.
‘Oh, Nathan, where to begin? I’ve been so stupid! I gave Richard everything. Moved away from my family and friends to live with him. Abandoned my dreams of becoming a star to be a full-time man-wife. He promised me everything. Money, clothes, jet-setting to tropical places around the world. A fabulous life. I thought I was going to be like Gabriella from my favourite soap opera, The Lives of Housewives. You know? Marry a wealthy businessman and live the fairy tale life in a beautiful home. Going for brunch and shopping in the finest stores around the world. But it isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a nightmare.’
I’m aware that I sound a little melodramatic. It’s entirely intentional, and necessary under the circumstances. It’s having the desired effect. Nathan looks intrigued and concerned, his brow fur
rowed.
‘Slow down,’ he says. ‘This Richard, he’s your boyfriend, right? The lying, cheating whore?’
‘Yes,’ I sniff.
‘And you actually caught him cheating on you?’
‘With my friend, Nathan. My friend. And in our bed, too!’ My face contorts as the image of Tyler lying on my silk sheets comes into my mind. My silk sheets! Who has a name like Tyler anyway? So last season!
‘What happened?’ asks Nathan, noticing his coffee is going cold and starting to drink it.
I let out a sigh that seems to carry all the weight of the world with it, a prelude to a long and detailed story.
‘Well, I had an appointment at Powder’n’Puff this morning for my fortnightly back, crack and sack wax …’ I pause when I see Nathan’s brow furrow. ‘What? It’s not my fault I was born with the hairy gene!’
When his expression doesn’t change I realise he has no idea what I’m talking about. Has this man ever seen the inside of a salon? Judging by his hair, the stubble and that tumbleweed I saw on his chest earlier, I’m guessing not.
‘Anyway,’ I continue, a little flustered. ‘I had a dodgy stomach from the moment I woke up, probably those whelks we ate at The Delauney the other night. So I called and told Sasha I wasn’t going to make it. Then I went into the conservatory to read a magazine. Before I knew it I was asleep.
