The
Cryptic Lines
Richard Storry
By the same author:
Order of Merit
The Cryptic Lines
First published 2015 by Cryptic Publications.
Second edition published 2015.
Cover design by Gergö Pocsai
©Richard Storry 2015. All rights reserved. The right of Richard Storry to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him, in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
The
Cryptic Lines
PROLOGUE
I've paid for your sickest fancies;
I've humoured your crackdest whim-
Dick, it's your daddy, dying;
You've got to listen to him!
Good for a fortnight, am I?
The doctor told you? He lied.
I shall go under by morning, and -
Put that nurse outside.
Never seen death yet, Dickie?
Well, now is your time to learn,
And you'll wish you held my record
Before it comes to your turn.
- Rudyard Kipling
CHAPTER 1
1960 – A remote coastal location, somewhere in the British Isles
The night it all began there was nothing foreboding to see - at first.
But the damp, clinging atmosphere was thick and heavy.
Had you been standing there trying, in vain, to see through the impenetrable darkness with lashing rain repeatedly stinging your face, the cold combined chills of uncertainty, fear and danger were unmistakable. As your torch light flickered and died you would have wrapped your cloak tightly about you as the wind howled, and peered as deeply as you could into the surrounding gloom and murk hoping that, somehow, you might glimpse a way by which you could leave this place with its unbearable sense of dread.
And, as you resigned yourself to a seemingly interminable wait for the blessed return of the sun's illuminating rays, the thick darkness would have been dispelled suddenly as a tumultuous thunder clap tore the heavens apart and a simultaneous flash of lightning broke through, revealing, for just a fleeting moment, the grey forbidding edifice of Heston Grange.
Through the maelstrom you would have seen, but only for a second, the crumbling edges of what had once been proud and well defined masonry. Gargoyles, almost shapeless now, staring with sightless eyes guarding what had once been a magnificent dwelling. The large, unwelcoming arched oak door, with a rarely used rusty bell-pull to one side, standing defiantly closed.
And, currently at quite some distance behind the house, when the screeching wind momentarily ceased its violent assault, you would have heard the churning and swirling of the huge oceanic waves crashing and tearing into the base of the cliffs, slowly but surely eroding the rock away and bringing Heston Grange inch by resolute inch nearer to the edge.
Had you been there you would have seen all this.
But you were not there that night.
That privilege belonged, instead, to Charles Seymour, solicitor, who cursed as he fumbled with his keys in the rain and wind but eventually managed to lock the door of his Jaguar MK2; and, with upturned collar and his buffeted head bent into the howling storm, moved as quickly as he could across the unlit courtyard, but not without splashing through numerous muddy puddles on his route to the front door.
This sprawling gothic mansion was home to Lord Alfred Willoughby, a recluse of uncertain age. Although he must surely have been well into his eighties he was still physically agile, and in full possession of his mental faculties, though he allowed no visitors. Apart from himself, the only people present in the rambling old manor were his butler and housekeeper. Even the groundsman who, it must be said, did not do a particularly good job, did not live on site.
As His Lordship's solicitor, Charles had visited Heston Grange a number of times over the last few years, usually in response to a brusque summons by telephone which - he had come to recognise the tone of voice now - usually meant that either some person or organisation had committed what he perceived to be some heinous crime; and the inevitable repercussion of this was a decision by the old gentleman to amend his last Will and Testament. Not that Charles was complaining, of course; the old boy never once questioned his fees, even though his services were priced at the more expensive end of the market. Privately, he was fairly certain that part of the reason Lord Willoughby kept him in employment was precisely because his fees were so high; and his reasoning on this matter was quite simple: why spend two days working for two clients when he could work one day for His Lordship and charge twice the fee?
Even so, financial advantages notwithstanding, he did not relish these visits which - and Lord Alfred was adamant about this - always had to take place at night. True, he was always received in suitably hospitable fashion, often with a good meal thrown in - but he was unable to shake the uncanny sensation that all was not well within these dank, decaying walls.
As he staggered forwards across the uneven cobbles the wind made one final attempt to get him to retrace his steps but, with what seemed like a Herculean effort, he managed to reach the door with a gasp and then leant back against it trying to catch his breath. For a moment he stood, staring out from beneath the moribund stonework of the porch into the violent storm, cold rain-water dripping from his every garment.
Reaching inside his sodden jacket he withdrew his comb and quickly ran it through his thinning hair - not that he was expecting it to do much to enhance his bedraggled appearance but it was better than nothing. He was aware that water had begun to seep into his shoes and a slight squelching sound could be heard if he placed too much weight on his right foot. Ah well, he thought to himself, let battle commence. He reached out for the bell-pull and gave it a firm tug. Deep within Heston Grange a bell swung on its spindle, which badly needed oiling, and a dull low-pitched clang announced his presence.
After what seemed an eternity standing in the howling wind Charles heard the faint sounds of movement from within and the sound of heavy bolts being slowly drawn back, along with the jangling of a large bunch of keys as several locks were released. At length, the door swung heavily and reluctantly inward and, although by now the interior of the house should have in no way startled him, Charles felt quite unnerved as he stepped gingerly over the gloomy threshold once again.
The entrance hall was dark; it always was. A large chandelier, which Charles had never seen in use, hung by three chains at points equidistant around its circumference, which disappeared up into the darkness to join the ceiling at some invisible point. The large hallway was flanked by sweeping marble staircases on either side which curved up to the first floor level and joined in the middle to form a balcony. Numerous doors, all of which were closed, led to countless rooms with yet further rooms beyond those, none of which were used now. They simply remained, day after dismal day, echoes of what they had once been, filled with expensive furniture that must have been very fine years ago, but which was now gradually fading as was the very house itself, along with its occupant.
The door had been opened by James, who was the archetypal butler. Now in his seventies he continued to do his job well and was always very polite, and immaculately turned out. Charles had warmed to him the first time they met. More than once, though, he had wondered why someone like James would be content to come and work in a place like this for someone like-
Anyway, he had surmised, everyone has their own path to follow.
"Good evening, sir. Do come in. Looks like this storm will be with us all night."
"I think you may be right, James."
"His Lordship said to tell you that you'd be very welcome to stay the night if you didn't want to travel back i
n this weather, sir."
"Ah, that's a very kind offer."
"Oh sir, you're soaking! Please follow me; I'll take you to one of the guest rooms and you can have a change of clothes."
He picked up Charles' bag and moved towards the left staircase. Charles squelched after him with rather mixed feelings. Certainly, it was most kind of His Lordship to offer him a bed for the night, and he really didn't fancy the thought of having to venture back out into that holocaust. At the same time, however, neither did he greet the option of staying overnight at Heston Grange with much enthusiasm.
They made their way up the grand staircase and walked along the balcony, then up another flight of creaking wooden stairs to the second floor before turning left and right several times, through a veritable labyrinth of corridors until they were in a part of the house which Charles had not seen before. Lifeless ancient animal trophies stared vacantly from wooden shields, and antique suits of armour rattled slightly in response to their footfalls as they passed.
And everywhere there was dust. The place was thick with it. Charles felt that he didn't want to breathe too deeply in case he took in a lungful of the stuff.
"We're in the west wing now, sir; not used much these days. Still, it means there's plenty of room for you! Well, here we are."
He grinned as he pushed open the door then stood back to allow Charles to step inside. To his surprise, the room was quite welcoming. The room was of a modest size, but it was well lit, and a fire blazed in the hearth - and there was none of that wretched dust anywhere to be seen.
"You'll find the bathroom through the door in the corner, sir, and there's a selection of clothes in the wardrobe. I'm sure you'll find something to fit you." He grinned again.
"Thank you, James. This is all most welcome."
"A pleasure, sir. When you're ready, use the bell to call me and I'll bring you to Lord Willoughby."
With a slight bow, he left and closed the door behind him. Charles took a moment to take in his surroundings. The room was decorated with the kind of oak panelling he liked so much, and one of the walls was adorned with a large tapestry, very ornate and clearly handmade. It must have taken many months to complete, he thought. The carpet had a deep pile that shifted under his feet as he moved and the heavy velvet curtains across the bay window were of a comfortable deep theatrical red. But the centrepiece of the room was, without doubt, the elegant four-poster bed. The carvings which covered it were exquisite and the canopy was a mural depicting some ancient battle or other in fine detail. Well, he thought, I'm impressed. It was certainly a step up from what he was used to.
Being pleased to find that the unfamiliar shower controls could be operated without the user needing to possess a certificate from MENSA, Charles luxuriated in the jets of hot water, which were most refreshing, after which he found some much needed and suitably sized fresh clothing in the wardrobe, just as James had told him. He put on some grey slacks, a shirt and sleeveless sweater and a comfortable pair of black shoes; and then unceremoniously dumped the sodden garments in which he had arrived into the bathtub.
Before ringing for James to return, Charles thought it wise to have a final quick glance over His Lordship's Will, on the assumption that the whole point of the visit was for them to discuss some aspect of it. He pulled the twenty-page document from his bag, being relieved that he had seen fit to put it in a plastic wrapper before leaving the office; he was quite sure it would not have survived the downpour had he neglected to do so.
To put it mildly, Lord Alfred Willoughby was absolutely loaded. Of course, you wouldn't think so, to judge by the general state of repair of Heston Grange, but he had always been a shrewd old codger and, for safety’s sake, was keen to portray an image that was not in keeping with his means. The fact of the matter was that this very private man owned one of the world's largest gold mines and held a significant share in a second. He also owned a string of oil refineries and had recently added another fortune to his pile through sharp operating on the stock market. All of this was in addition to the regular, and not insubstantial, income derived from property rentals on his two estates in Berkshire and Galloway. Not surprising, then, that as he was nearing the end of his life he was anxious to ensure that, after his departure, all these assets would be taken care of according to his wishes and in a responsible manner.
But the irony was that he had been nearing the end of his life for the last twenty years and showed no signs of checking out just yet. Consequently, his Will had been written and re-written, with each new set of amendments being based upon whichever of his acquaintances were in favour at any given time.
As he skimmed through the lengthy document Charles felt a pang of sympathy for his long-suffering secretary who, he knew, would be just thrilled at the prospect of having to type out the wretched thing yet again. Also, he wondered, who would be the lucky individuals this time who were about to get a boost to their future nest-eggs, and who would be the ones to lose out? Having slipped the pages back into the folder, Charles crossed the room and pushed the button to summon James. He heard nothing but knew that the butler would be on his way.
Having nothing to do now but wait for James to arrive, Charles idly stepped through the thick curtains into the bay window and stared out into the blackness. For the first time he realised that he was at the rear of the house since, away in the distance, he could see the moonlight reflecting off the restless sea, an inky black void that stretched far away in front of him. The rain was, if anything, heavier now and seeing such an untamed scene from the vantage point of a snug, warm room caused him to feel rather less tense than had been the case a short time ago.
His mind began to wander and he wondered, once again, about what he had done that caused his fiancé such offence that she had left him - was it really only four weeks ago? Whatever had provoked her to do such a thing? One bright, sunny morning, without giving any warning, she had suddenly announced she was leaving and, right then, simply walked out without so much as one word of explanation or even a backward glance. He told himself that there must have been another man, that it couldn't have been his fault; he had always looked after her and taken great care of her. He had.
Hadn't he?
As the now familiar morose feelings began to descend on him once again, he began to wonder for the tenth time in as many days whether he should perhaps be considering some sort of career change.
With a sigh, he was just about to turn away from the window when something caught his attention. Just over there...to the left...a torch light. Who would be out walking in the grounds on a night like this?... Gone again...no, there it is...
A knock at the door distracted him. He stepped back through the curtains.
"Come in."
"Feeling better now, sir?"
"Yes thank you, James. Er...James?"
"Yes sir?"
"I do believe I just spotted the light from someone's torch outside. Who on earth would be wandering about outside in this kind of weather?"
He gave a little laugh. "Oh, no one with any sense sir."
"Well, I'm pretty certain I wasn't imagining it."
A slight frown crossed James' face and he went to the window.
"Well, I can't see anything now, sir. It could have been a trick of the light, perhaps; happens all the time round these parts, what with the bad weather, the close proximity of the sea, and not to mention the moonlight and all."
"I suppose you must be right, but I’m sure I saw something."
"You know yourself, sir, how isolated we are out here. There's no-one else for miles around. Trick of the light, sir - that's what it'll have been. Shall I take you to His Lordship now? He's waiting for you."
"Oh, yes of course."
Charles picked up his briefcase and followed James from the room, not entirely convinced by his explanation. Still, he was here to see a client - nothing more. He'd deal with the business at hand, however eccentric it was, then leave as soon as was practical afterwards and that
would be that.
CHAPTER 2
James led Charles along endless corridors. Some of them were lit with electric light but some were illumined only by candlelight, while others were in virtual darkness. Almost all were of panelled oak, and numerous paintings hung in huge frames along their lengths. Lord Alfred loved paintings and was not a bad artist himself; but, with the notable exception of the obviously inhabited areas of the house, everywhere you looked was hallmarked by that covering of dust. As he followed the elderly butler, Charles was certain that the very lining of his lungs was being coated with it; and the place felt damp and smelt musty.
At length, he began to recognise some of the rooms and corridors again and, after ascending two more floors via a tight spiral staircase which opened onto another wide corridor, they finally stood outside His Lordship's bed chamber.
James lifted his hand to knock on the door but just as he did so it was opened from within to reveal Mrs Gillcarey, the housekeeper. She let out a small yelp of surprise when she saw Charles standing there, but curtsied politely and went her way, vanishing quickly into the dark catacomb of corridors. James explained that she would have been bringing His Lordship his usual nightcap, before he then stepped quietly into the room while Charles waited to be admitted. He could hear James and Lord Willoughby speaking in low tones, although from his position he could not tell what was being said. A few moments later the door swung fully open and James said "His Lordship will see you now, sir."
On entering the room, Charles needed to take a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the light, or - more precisely - to the darkness, since there was no illumination at all in the bed chamber other than the light which emanated from a small coal fire in the grate. Through the gloom he could just make out the slight, still figure of Lord Willoughby lying outlined beneath a single blanket in his magnificent four-poster bed. James quietly tiptoed from the room and closed the door behind him with a soft click. Charles moved toward the bed, slowly.
The Cryptic Lines Page 1
