by K Leitch
‘We’re thinking male then I assume…any idea how he died yet?’ Frank said, crouching down to get a better look.
‘Um well I would say that the fact that he’s got a bloody great hole in the back of his skull is a bit of a clue,’ Dorothy said giving him a look, ‘although having said that, that could well have been caused by the digger. I won’t know for sure until I examine him, and yes I’m pretty sure it’s a man. Luckily we’ve got a few wisps of hair left, so we should be able to get a pretty accurate fix on when he died and how old he was… but I can’t tell you much more until we get him on the table. We’ll be excavating the earth around him as well just in case that turns up anything, so you’ll know as soon as I do,’ she finished, dismissing Carla with a wave of her hand.
‘Thanks love,’ Carla said, straightening up. ‘What was here before it was a car park Frank, can you remember?’
‘Nothing…I’m not sure but I think it was just waste ground for years until the council decided to make a bit of money from it and turned it into a car park.’
‘Can you check that out for me, Frank?’ Carla said, as they started precariously making their way back to their cars. ‘Also, can you find out who the land belonged to before the council got hold of it? I mean we don’t know how long that poor chap's been down there do we, but I’m assuming it must have been before it was concreted over by the council, so if you could find out when that happened?’
‘Sure,’ Frank said slithering up to his car, ‘I might have to pop home and change my shoes first though,’ he said ruefully, looking down at his once shiny leather loafers, which were now about three times their normal size because of the mud caked round them.
Carla laughed as he took them off carefully and dropped them into the boot of his car. ‘That’ll teach you not to be prepared…and you a boy scout as well, shame on you Frank.’
CHAPTER 5
Set in forty acres of beautiful Surrey countryside, Brampton Hall stood midway between the villages of Kenley and Godstone. A beautiful pale stoned, ivy clad, Regency style building with a long tree lined drive that led up to a grand entrance set between two huge Palladian pillars. The house and its fabulous grounds had been in the Brampton family since the eighteen century.
Reginald Brampton had made his fortune in India and the Far East during the reign of mad king George III, exporting exotic spices and luxurious silks to the increasingly avaricious societies of London and Paris. By the time he turned thirty he was a very wealthy man and he decided to return to England and find himself a wife suited to his new affluent station in life. He met and married Lady Edwina Myrtle, daughter of an impoverished Earl and began to look around for an estate appropriately splendid for himself and his illustrious bride. Nothing he saw satisfied his grand expectations, so he bought a large piece of land fifteen miles outside London, in the rolling green hills of Surrey and set about building a home worthy of himself and future generations of Brampton’s.
No expense was spared; the floors were tiled with the finest marble, the grand mahogany staircase was carved and finished by craftsmen of the highest quality, there were even gold plated fittings in all the bathrooms. Even down below stairs in the kitchens, instead of a great open fire, the latest closed ovens were installed, at huge expense and much to the delight and pride of the lucky cook that presided there.
The gardens were designed by Capability Brown himself and included a rather charming faux gothic outdoor theatre, complete with grassy seated areas. Players would regularly come and perform at Brampton Hall, and Reginald and Lady Brampton would open their gardens to the surrounding villagers who would come and enjoy the entertainments and refreshments on offer.
Edwina presented Reginald with two sons and the dynasty was set to continue and so it did. For many years to come the Brampton family reigned supreme in their little corner of England. Until many generations later in 1987 when the house and the now rather depleted fortune went to the only surviving son of Fredrick Brampton, Reginald’s great, great, great, great, great grandson, who died at the age of seventy one. His son, who had been a constant disappointment to his father and was still unmarried at the age of forty five, was called George.
Over indulged as a child, George Brampton was spoilt and fussy; he was not a lady’s man and he was not a very sensible man either. Obsessively fond of fine clothes, jewellery and good food and wines, he ran through his inheritance in no time and by 1992 was in serious financial trouble. Brampton Hall was in a bad state of repair, the gardens were overgrown and neglected and George was advised by his solicitors to sell to anyone that could be persuaded to buy.
Rescue came in 1994, in the form of a wealthy American couple, Albie and Imogen Wiseman. They bought the estate for a knock down price and immediately began bringing it back to its former glory.
Albie Wiseman was a successful businessman, with his fingers in all sorts of pies. Mostly legitimate, but he would be the first to admit that he had sailed pretty close to the wind a few times and some of the people that he had dealt with were definitely not the sort that you could introduce to your wife. In his time he had imported and exported goods all over the world, he had tried his hand at the hotel business and the entertainment management game. Some of his ventures had brought him a load of grief but the majority had made him a fortune. Now in his fifties he was trying to slow down a bit and enjoy the fruits of his labours, but he still spent at least thirty percent of his time travelling about to oversee his investments which suited his wife, Imogen, perfectly. Imogen Wiseman had married well, the daughter of an impoverished shopkeeper, she had soon realised that if she was going to get anywhere in her life she would have to make the most of her assets, namely long natural red hair, matched with a killer body and beautiful blue eyes. She could have had her pick of men, but in Albie Wiseman she could see a man who was as hungry for money and power as she was, so she set about to seduce him and sure enough within six months they’d set up home together. A few years later the couple moved to London, England where Albie had just invested in a couple of small prestigious hotels. They only stayed in England for a few years though eventually returning home to the states where Albie’s business ventures grew from strength to strength. Imogen and Albie were eventually married, after Imogen had given birth to twin boys, the couple then decided that they needed to find a permanent home for their family and their thoughts turned to England once more. Which was when they spotted Brampton Hall up for sale at a bargain price and snapped it up.
Having taken part in a couple of amateur dramatics as a young girl, Imogen was keen to re-establish the annual tradition started by lady Edwina Brampton, and so the Brampton Hall Festival became an important date on the calendars of all the residence of the local villages. Every year a committee chaired by Imogen herself would decide on a play to be performed in the open air theatre and along with the W.I. and the local Am Dram group ‘The Redbank Players’, they would audition and produce the evening’s entertainment. As well as the play Albie and Imogen would open their gardens for the day and provide good food and drink for all their neighbours.
This year the committee had voted to try something very new and exciting. Mrs Helen Drover who represented the W.I at the meeting had recently found a script for a play which had been written by a young boy that had lived in the area many years earlier. A ‘whodunit’, it was called ‘Murder at Mildew Manor’ and, after a few adjustments, looked to be just right for their annual production.
‘This is perfect my dear Helen, simply perfect,’ Imogen gushed enthusiastically as the meeting, which was being held today in the spectacular summer room of the Hall, broke up. ‘I am always keen to support and promote new talent as you know…and did you say that you knew this young man…um Mark Stevens…’
‘Oh no,’ said Helen hastily, ‘not me but a friend of mine who has lived in Kenley Village most of her life remembers the family, they used to own The Bull, you know, the pub in the village.’
‘Oh sure, I’ve been there
a couple of times,’ Imogen said thoughtfully. ‘But hang on I thought that place was owned by some awful woman that turned out to be a murderer, killed her own husband didn’t she, and her sister…’
‘Oh yes the infamous Vanessa, well she did own it for a while, with her husband Giles. The Stevens were the people that owned it before her, and my friend Tracy remembers Mark, although he was a bit older than her…’ she broke off mid-sentence as Imogen held her hand up as a thought occurred to her.
‘Would be great if we could track him down, don’t you think?’ she said nodding to herself. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard should it?’ she turned back to Helen, ‘Didn’t you say you had a friend in the police force?’
‘Well yes I do but I don’t think…’ Helen began awkwardly.
Completely ignoring Helen’s hesitation, Imogen threw her hands in the air triumphantly. ‘There you go then,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘get your friend to trace him for us, they do that all the time don’t they, the police… oh sure they do… should be a piece of cake for them,’ Imogen went on, happily imagining herself introducing the long lost author onto the stage to rapturous applause.
‘I…I don’t know if…’ stuttered Helen.
‘Oh sure they can,’ said Imogen airily and waving aside Helen’s objections. ‘I’ll leave that with you then Helen…brilliant… fantastic.’ And with that she walked away to speak with Andrea Channel, from the Redbank Players, who had been hovering about nervously waiting for a chance to speak to her hero, and could now be seen almost curtsying before her. Helen was left with a sinking feeling that she should have stood up for herself a little bit more, but despite being well into her seventies, Imogen Wiseman was a formidable woman and had a way of simply ignoring anything she didn’t want to hear.
‘Bugger… bugger… bugger… bloody, flaming, flipping, marvellous,’ she muttered under her breath all the way to her car.
CHAPTER 6 – 1969 Exerts from a diary found in the belongings of Una Flannery
…I can remember the exact day it started. I had been working at the hotel for about two weeks. The work was hard but I shared a sweet little room with just one other girl called Missy, and all my meals were provided so I wasn’t complaining like. Mrs Cray the cook wasn’t much fun mind; she kept you on your toes sure enough. I looked after the rooms on the second floor, they weren’t as flash as the first floor rooms but they were still pretty grand. I changed the sheets each day and cleaned the bathrooms and then I would turn down the beds of an evening when the guests were having their evening meal.
I answered to Mrs Cray, she was my boss like, she was OK as long as you just put your head down and got on with your work. I didn’t have much to do with Mr Silco at first. He was the hotel manager and a nasty piece of work by all accounts, so I kept well away.
Then one day when I was taking the soiled sheets down to the laundry I ran into the fella on the stairs, I nodded at him and went to go past, when he stopped me.
‘You’re new…what’s your name then?’ he asked, looking me over, really snobby like with his nose in the air.
‘I’m Una sir…Una Flannery, I just started last week,’ I answered nervously and began to go on my way, when he grabbed me by my arm, turning me back towards him.
‘And do you know who I am Una?’ he asked staring at me with evil eyes, I know this may sound as though I’m being a bit dramatic, but believe me he really did have evil eyes, cold and dead like.
‘Yes sir…you’re Mr Silco,’ I said trying to pull away; he tightened his grip, hurting my arm he was squeezing so tightly.
‘That’s right Una,’ he said with a sneer. ‘And I run this hotel… so I can make your life really hard or I can make it easy, what do you say to that?’
I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t say anything; I just wanted to be on my way, he was scaring me.
‘You be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you…understand?’ he said still holding my arm whilst looking me up and down, well by now I sure had a good idea of what he was talking about.
‘Please sir, let go of my arm you’re hurting me,’ I said as firmly as I could, although I have to admit that my knees were trembling.
He smiled, a nasty cold smile, he had horrible big yellow teeth and his breath smelt rotten. Anyway at last he let go of my arm, ‘Oh sorry I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said. I could tell he wasn’t sorry at all. ‘I’m going to be watching you Una, don’t forget what I said will you…nasty or nice, it’s up to you.’ And with that the nasty bastard knocked against me so hard, that I almost lost my balance on the stairs and the pile of washing I was carrying went flying all over the place, I could hear his spiteful laugh as I set about collecting it all up again….
CHAPTER 7 - CAULDRON MEETING
At The Bull Public House
The so called ‘Witches of Glory Woods’, Carla, Maggie, Helen and Tracy, were at their usual table. As always the table was loaded up with wine bottles, some empty, some well on the way, a variety of glasses and several empty cheesy wotsits packs, although these were all situated in front of Tracy. The problems of the world had been sorted, the latest gossip had been aired and discussed and as the evening wore on one by one the girls shoulders, which had been up around their ears when they had arrived, had visibly dropped to a more manageable position. They had been dubbed ‘The Witches of Glory Woods’ by Maggie’s ex-husband Greg, who had likened them to the witches in Shakespeare’s Macbeth what with all their plotting and gossiping. Each of the girls however recognised how important these weekly gatherings were to them, they all fed on the strength that spending time with their friends gave them, and they went home from them nourished and refreshed for the week ahead.
‘…Oh God yes I did watch that, we’ve watched every one so far, it’s sooo good. Although I think it’s obvious that it’s the headmistress that’s done it…’ Tracy was saying.
‘No…can’t be,’ interrupted Maggie, ‘don’t you remember she was at it with that gormless looking bloke…what’s his name, used to be in Casualty. Oh you know, he’s married to that woman that presents that show…you know blond hair, wonky eyes,’ Maggie sighed in frustration. ‘Oh what’s his name… the horse trainer? She was at it with the horse trainer at the time of the murder, so it can’t be her,’ she finished triumphantly.
‘Oh bugger,’ said Tracy, ‘I’d forgotten that…well you can’t deny that she is up to something. Why else would she be leaving messages all over the place, and she said she didn’t know Gregory when it was obvious she did. No I don’t care what you say she’s involved somehow…what do you think Helen?’
Helen looked up from her phone at the sound of her name, ‘What? Oh sorry Trace I was miles away, what are we talking about?’
‘That brilliant new crime drama ‘The missing shoe’, it’s on BBC2 Monday evenings. I was just saying that I’m sure that the headmistress is well dodgy…’
‘Sorry love I haven’t seen it,’ said Helen shaking her head, ‘in fact I have hardly watched any TV for the past week or so. Bloody milady, bloody Wiseman has had me running around like a blue arsed fly! I wish I’d never found that flaming script now. Look she’s just sent me a text, will I be so good as to remember to ask my police lady friend to find our dear author.’ Helen held up her phone showing the text message, ‘I mean as if Carla doesn’t have anything better to do, I’m telling you she is getting right on my tits…’ she broke off smiling despite herself as Tracy and Maggie fell about laughing.
‘Ha, ha that is so funny, you really are a scream when you get all riled up,’ laughed Maggie. ‘Just ignore the old bag darling, I mean what’s she going to do…put you in the stocks or something?’
‘Oh I know I shouldn’t let her get to me,’ Helen said putting her phone away. ‘It’s just that I feel a bit responsible for getting this production right, you know, and it would be great if we could track down this Mark Stevens, even if it’s just to let him know that his play is going to be performed at last…’
&nbs
p; ‘Well why not ask Carla then?’ Tracy said. ‘You never know she might be able to pass on his name and details to someone who could get hold of him. Look she’s coming back, ask her now, or I could if you like.’
Sure enough Carla was edging her way back from the bar with a tray of drinks precariously held aloft over her head; she set it down on the table in front of the girls.
‘Right, diet Coke for you Helen, that’s your vodka tonic Maggs, Duncan says he’s run out of diet tonics because someone,’ she gave Maggie a look, ‘was meant to send an order to the suppliers yesterday.’ Duncan was Maggie’s business partner and the love of her life.
‘Oops,’ said Maggie with a guilty look, ‘I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Yes, well he said to tell you that you don’t need to diet anyway, you are totally gorgeous as you are…talk about pussy whipped. I told him he needs to take a firmer hand with you or he will live to regret it,’ Carla said laughing at Maggie’s smug expression and handing Tracy her glass of white wine and yet another bag of cheesy wotsits.
‘Thanks love,’ said Tracy and then before Helen could stop her she said, ‘Helen has something she wants to ask you…don’t you Helen?’
‘Oh yes?’ said Carla looking at Helen.
Helen glared at Tracy. ‘Oh it’s nothing love, I expect you are far too busy anyway so…’ she began.
‘Oh you are such a wuss Helen,’ interrupted Tracy. ‘Helen wants to know if you know anyone who could trace someone for her,’ she said completely ignoring Helen’s indignant stare. ‘She is being hassled by the lady of the manor to ask you, but you know what she’s like Carla…’
