The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “So what are we going to do?” he said.

  “Braxton Hall is the only lead we have,” Hugo said. “And because we’re not officially welcome, our options are limited.”

  “Are you, by any chance, suggesting a stealth visit?”

  “Not if you’ve got a better idea.”

  “No, old boy, I don’t. But I don’t think we want our weaselly friend with us when we go, do you?”

  “You think he’ll insist on coming?”

  “Let’s not find out.”

  They grabbed their jackets from their rooms, Pendrith again locking his with a wry smile at Hugo, and met back in the sitting room. Hugo closed the door to his room, too, then went into the bathroom, turned on the cold tap, and left it running as he closed the door behind him. He nodded to Pendrith and the two men trotted quietly down the stairs. At the second floor landing, Hugo spotted a bathroom that, he assumed, belonged to the owner and his wife. The door stood open and he couldn’t see movement elsewhere in the apartment, so he beckoned for Pendrith to follow him. They stepped into the little room and closed the door most of the way, Hugo watching for Walton through a small opening. He knew they wouldn’t have much time, maybe a minute or two before Walton figured out they were gone.

  The journalist trudged by a few seconds later, carrying a bottle of Bell’s whisky and three glass tumblers. Behind Hugo, Pendrith sighed at the quality of the booze Walton had procured and Hugo silenced him with a nudge. As Walton’s feet disappeared up the final flight to their rooms, Hugo stepped into the hallway and the two men moved quickly down the stairs to the bar.

  The pub had filled since they’d gone upstairs, a group of rowdy young men eyeing a larger group of even more rowdy young women, slightly older and dressed for a bachelorette night, Hugo thought. They waved at the harried publican on the way past, but he was too busy to care what they were doing. Hugo glanced back as they went out the front door and saw no sign of Walton, just the red-faced landlord balancing a bottle of white wine and too many glasses on a small tray.

  Hugo winced at the beep of the Cadillac when he unlocked it, and they climbed quickly inside. The doors closed with a gentle whump, and in three seconds they were out of the parking lot.

  “He might guess where we’re going and follow,” Pendrith said.

  “He might. But he also knows he might get an ass full of buckshot if he goes back down that lane. Assuming his Mini will even make it down there.”

  “Any particular reason that we won’t be in for some lead shot ourselves?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Care to share?” Pendrith said.

  “Let’s assume you are right about Braxton Hall being fairly new. How did the builders get in there? It wasn’t down that Roman road, I’m pretty sure of that.”

  “Another entrance,” Pendrith nodded. “But how do we find it?”

  “Easy,” Hugo said, patting his GPS monitor. “This thing.”

  “Well, it didn’t find it before.”

  “That’s because it figures out the most direct route, depending on where you are coming from. So from London, that lane was the most direct route. All we have to do is circle around the village and come in from the opposite direction. Then this lovely lady will bring us in.”

  “I say,” Pendrith said. “How clever.”

  “Yep,” said Hugo. “But first we have to go low-tech. There should be a map in the glove compartment—can you steer us to the back side of Weston?”

  “No need for a map, old boy. We just need to head for the best pheasant shoot in the Home Counties, and you can bet your last, grubby American dollar I can get us that far, at least.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  They came at the place from the north this time. As Hugo had predicted, once they were on Baldock Road the GPS system locked onto the postal code and guided them in, the softness of the woman’s voice contrasting with the urgency felt by her lost subjects, as if the narration for a nature film had somehow been dubbed onto a Hitchcock thriller.

  The last turn she had them make was onto an obviously new road, signposted as Braxton Lane.

  “Should have guessed that,” said Pendrith.

  The road ran straight like the Roman road but low between two fields, bursts of occasional hedgerow on either side. It was wide, certainly wide enough for construction vehicles, though Hugo noticed that grassy banks had started to grow into the road, which told him it wasn’t overly used or maintained. They saw no sign of houses or other connecting roads, as if Braxton Lane was really an extended driveway to the hall. After a mile, the road rose to become level with the land around and then curved gently to the left before ending in front of a high, barred gate that was the only break that they could see in a fifteen-foot brick wall apparently circling the property. Hugo turned the car parallel to the gate and doused the headlights.

  “Secure,” said Pendrith. “Lot of bricks.”

  “Surprised?” Hugo scanned the darkness for a way into the place but from the car saw none.

  “Hardly. Don’t see men with guns, though, so that’s an improvement.” Pendrith opened his door. “Shall we?”

  They stood at the front gate and Hugo inspected a metal panel containing a keypad and a screen. He bent down and scooped up a handful of mud, then smeared it over the top of the screen where he suspected a camera would be. He looked at Pendrith and shrugged. “Just in case. See any other cameras?”

  “Nope, but out here they’re more likely to have dogs. Though if they did, we should be hearing them by now.”

  “True. They wouldn’t be the first people to rely on a big gate and a brick wall.”

  They stood at the gate and looked toward the house, a hulking silhouette at the top of a low rise directly in front of them, maybe a hundred yards from the gate. It was an Edwardian-style mansion of at least a dozen bedrooms, judging by the long line of windows on the top floor.

  “So, how do we get in?” Pendrith asked.

  Hugo glanced over at him. “You’re the James Bond—I figured you’d know.”

  “He was MI6—I’m MI5.”

  “The branch that needs keys.”

  “Apparently. FBI got any tricks?”

  “No, that’d be CIA. The only thing I can think of . . .” Hugo rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the business card they’d found in Harper’s suitcase.

  “You’re going to call them and ask for the code?” Pendrith asked, incredulous.

  “Hopefully won’t have to.” He held the card so he could see it in the moonlight, then tapped the last four digits of the phone number on the keypad. For a second, nothing happened, then the gates jerked once and began to sweep inward toward the house.

  “Nicely done,” Pendrith said, as they climbed back into the Cadillac.

  “Well, it seemed like they were taking half-assed security measures, with no guards, cameras, or dogs, and look at the size of the place.”

  “Meaning?”

  Hugo left the headlights off but turned the running lights on as he steered between the brick pillars and started slowly up the driveway. “Meaning they probably have a lot of people coming and going, so they need a code that’s easy to remember or easy to distribute. Which is why it came back as not a real phone number.”

  “Right, because it isn’t one. And no dogs because they don’t need wild beasts attacking their guests,” Pendrith said. “I get it.”

  “Right. On the other hand, chances are the opening of the gate has alerted someone to our arrival.” He hit the brakes and turned off the running lights. “Out, quick.”

  “What the . . . ?”

  But Hugo was at his door, pulling him out. “You’re driving.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to hide behind you, or in a bush somewhere, then check the place out. When you find someone to talk to, be up front about what we’re doing here, but if you get turned away, just head back down Braxton Lane half a mile and wait. I’ll call or just show up. And if I’m not
out by morning, call the cops.”

  “Wait, we haven’t discussed—”

  “No time for planning. And I have to be the one to do this—wouldn’t be good for an MP to be caught sneaking about in the dark. Now get going.”

  Hugo trotted behind the car as Pendrith drove slowly up the gravel driveway to the front door. Forty yards out, a waist-high privet hedge popped up on his right and he angled off behind it, following it away from the drive but parallel to the house.

  The hedge went on for thirty yards and ended at a pagoda, giving Hugo an opening to get to the front of the house. He walked through the structure, running his fingers across several beams. New wood.

  He started across the lawn, wrapped in darkness now but exposed should security lights come on. Within seconds he was close enough to see inside some of the lower windows and, directly ahead of him, he was able to look in on a library. Beside it, to his left, looked to be a long hallway, and to the right was a dining room. He stopped to take in that room, and it told him something about how the house was being used: it contained one long table rather than a bunch of them, so it wasn’t a hotel or commercial property.

  He looked up before moving on but couldn’t see into any of the upstairs rooms, the windows were opaque rectangles that glowed yellow behind pulled curtains.

  Still hidden in the dark, Hugo checked to his left and saw Pendrith in front of the main entrance talking to a portly and uncommonly short man who, even though he stood on the third or fourth step, was still eye level with the MP.

  Hugo dropped to one knee and watched for a moment. The men’s faces were in shadow and their voices too low for him to make out any words, but from the short man’s gestures it seemed clear he wasn’t going to let the stranger in. The only question was whether Pendrith was getting any useful information, which Hugo also doubted.

  Hugo had seen no other entrance to the house, so he moved to his right, glancing over his shoulder to measure Pendrith’s progress. As Hugo reached the corner of the house, he looked back and saw the MP climbing back into the Cadillac. I thought not. Hugo looked along the side of the house and saw a patio, empty of people and furniture. He moved on, staying close to the house, passing several windows that had curtains pulled, blocking his view. He assumed they looked into the dining room, and, when he reached the patio, he saw light spilling through two closed French doors. He stepped away from the wall and peered into the room. He was right, the dining room. Two people in white jackets moved about the long table, setting out plates and silverware. Servants? Hugo wondered. In this day and age?

  He skirted the patio, staying out of the weak light that fell out of the dining room. At the far corner of the house, he stopped and looked along the backside of the house. The grass made way for gravel, and a dozen cars were parked in a tidy line. A stone outbuilding sat on the other side of the parking area, but Hugo couldn’t see a door or a window to the place.

  He took out his cell phone, waited for a moment, and when he saw no movement, he dialed Pendrith.

  “It’s Hugo. No luck?”

  “None. Rude bugger, too, wouldn’t say who he was or give me any information at all.”

  “He has his rights, Pendrith.”

  “You Americans and your rights. Come to think of it, he has the right to shoot you, too.”

  Hugo couldn’t help but smile. “Good point. What can you tell me?”

  “Not much. He’s short, fat, and smokes good cigars. But he’d not been drinking, which is odd.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course. This time of night, to be smoking cigars without a glass of something, very odd. Also, he’s from the north. Yorkshire or Lancashire, I can never tell the difference.”

  “OK, that it?”

  “’Fraid so, old boy. Where are you?”

  “Coming to the back of the house. Looking at a gravel parking lot and a barn of some sort.”

  “And your plan?”

  “I was hoping to find a way in.”

  “And then?”

  “Not too sure,” Hugo had to admit.

  “Sounds like a great plan.”

  “Thanks, I’ll call you if I find anything. Where are you?”

  “In a lay-by about fifty yards from the gate. I’ll stay here as long as I can.”

  Hugo closed his phone and watched for another moment before starting across the gravel. He made it ten yards before, from the far side of the house, a growing pool of light signaled an arriving car. He looked around for a place to hide and, seeing none, darted into the shadows, pressing himself against the wall of the house. A few seconds later, a small car crunched into the parking area. A city car, one of those two-seaters that he’d only ever seen in London. A Smart Car, he thought it was called. He moved slowly back the way he’d come, back pressed to the stone, and as he reached the corner he saw the driver get out of the little car and walk toward the house. A security light flicked on, momentarily blinding him and causing the driver, a woman, to shield her eyes. Hugo squinted but couldn’t make out her face, and seconds later she was gone.

  This was his chance. He trotted toward the entrance she’d used, no longer worried about triggering the security lights, which stayed on as he moved. He got to the door a split second before it closed, and he saw that it would have self-locked. Whoever she was, she had a key.

  Inside, he found himself in a small foyer. The floor was marble and the walls painted a rich red. Ahead, one of a pair of glazed double doors stood open, giving Hugo a view of a dimly lit hallway that led to and past the dining room. To his right, a wide staircase led upward, the lower steps watched over by a wooden owl perched on, and carved into, the end of the banister.

  Hugo hesitated. He didn’t want to bump into the woman, and, while he couldn’t tell which way she had gone, he assumed a new arrival wouldn’t head straight upstairs; she’d be more likely to announce her arrival to whomever lived there. Or ran the place. Or whatever.

  Hugo started up the stairs. He crossed a landing, eyes trained on the next flight, listening for any sound. He took the steps two at a time, and at the top of the next set he stopped and looked around. He was in a small seating area, furnished with a plush velvet sofa and two ornate bergère chairs. Behind the sofa was a bookcase, and even a cursory glance told Hugo, an amateur book collector, that it contained some expensive volumes. Ahead, a long and wide hallway opened up in front of him, and he could see on both sides high double doors, as if he’d reached the finest suites at a top hotel. An Oriental-style rug ran down the middle of the wooden-floored hallway, and delicate tables filled the spaces between the doors.

  Hugo stood there, deciding on his next move. There was something amiss, he thought, something odd that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. And then he realized how quiet it was. For all the cars in the parking lot, the woman who’d just come in, the servants downstairs preparing for a meal, there was no sound up here at all. The only thing he could think to do was listen at a few doors, though the idea made him feel more like a voyeur than a cop. That’s what happens when you don’t have a plan, he thought.

  He started forward, his feet silent on the rug, his ears pricked for sound, and just as he reached the first set of double doors to his left, one flew open and a figure stepped out. They stood face-to-face for several seconds before Hugo was able to speak.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

  The diminutive figure shrugged. “I’m guessing the same thing as you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  She had let her hair down and changed clothes, putting on jeans and a cashmere sweater—which seemed odd because she must have hurried up here.

  “Let’s sit over there,” she said, indicating the velvet sofa at the top of the stairs. She turned to make sure the door to her room was closed properly, and Hugo tried not to notice how well her jeans fit. He’d been wrong about her being rail thin.

  They headed to the seating area at the top of the stairs, walking in silence, and when they s
at Hugo was surprised to see anger on her face.

  “Did you find him?” she asked.

  “Not yet. From your question, I’m guessing you didn’t either.”

  She didn’t answer, just looked at him with her watchful green eyes.

  Hugo took a breath to ease his frustration. “Merlyn, I need to know what’s going on. I need to find him before he gets himself in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Plenty, I’m afraid. And I’m not understanding what you think you are protecting him from.”

  “You, I suppose.”

  Hugo sat back. “OK, let’s do some information sharing. I’ll start. I want to find Dayton Harper because I’m supposed to be looking after him until his criminal charges here are resolved. I’m worried because his wife is dead, and he’s in a fragile state of mind. And because I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. Your turn.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “You said you don’t know where he is, and I believe you. But I want to know about your relationship with Ferro and Dayton, how well you knew them.”

  She nodded. “That all?”

  “No. I want to know what this place is.”

  “OK.” She chewed her lip for a second. “You remember what I said about the Cork Hotel? The word I used?”

  Hugo thought for a second. “Yes, you said it was ‘discreet.’”

  “Right. Same goes here, but more so. This is a private residence that is used for certain . . . groups to enjoy. To rent out.”

  “Groups?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry but I can’t be much more specific than that.” She watched him for a moment. “Have you heard of the Viles, or the Society of Janus?”

  “No, can’t say I have,” said Hugo.

  “Didn’t think so.” She shrugged. “Google them, you’ll see what kind of people I’m talking about. Good people who share particular interests. All sorts.”