The Mister

by James, E L

  Why didn’t the alarm go off?

  Did I set it? Shit! I left in such a rush. I don’t know.

  “Maxim.” He’s surprised to hear from me. “Everything okay?”

  “Good morning. My neighbor’s just called me. She says I’ve been burgled.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I’ll get around there right away. Shouldn’t take me more than fifteen minutes at this time.”

  “Great. I’ll ring you back in about twenty.”

  I hang up. My mood has nosedived, and I start to think about what I’d really miss if it was taken. My cameras. My decks. My computer…

  Shit! My father’s cameras!

  What a fucking pain in the arse this is—some fucking lowlife addict or maybe some feral teenage kids wrecking my place.

  Fuck. A. Duck.

  I had plans to spend the day with Alessia, maybe go down to the Eden Project. Well, I might still be able to do so, but I need to assess the damage—and I don’t want to do it from my phone. If I FaceTime Oliver from the iMac up at the great house, I’ll get a better view; he can show me via his phone what’s happened.

  Feeling fucked off and with a heavy heart, I head back into the bedroom, where Alessia is still in bed.

  “What is wrong?” she asks, sitting up, her hair falling over her breasts. She looks rumpled and sexy and eminently fuckable. The sight of her is a balm that immediately makes me feel better. But, sadly, I’ll have to leave her for a short while. I don’t want to burden her with this news. She’s had enough to deal with over the last few weeks.

  “I’ve got to pop out and take care of something. We may even have to go back to London. But you stay in bed. Sleep. I know you’re tired. I’ll be back soon.” She pulls the quilt up, her brow furrowed in concern. I give her a swift kiss and go grab a shower.

  When I come out of the bathroom, she’s gone. I dress quickly in jeans and a white shirt. I find her downstairs in the kitchen, wearing only my pajama top and clearing up our dishes from the night before. She hands me a cup of espresso. “To wake you up,” she says with an adoring smile, though her eyes are wide, wary. She’s anxious.

  I swallow it down. It’s hot, strong, and delicious. A little like Alessia.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.” I kiss her once more, grab my coat, and I’m out the door, dodging the raindrops and bolting up the steps. I climb into the car and speed off along the lane.

  * * *

  Alessia watches Maxim vault up the steps and close the gate behind him. He looks worried, and she wonders where he’s going. Something bad has happened. A frisson skitters up her spine, but she’s not sure why. She sighs. There’s so much she doesn’t know about him.

  And he said they might have to return to London. She will have to face the reality of her situation.

  Homelessness.

  Zot.

  She’s pushed it all aside for the last few days, but so much is unresolved in her life. Where will she live? Will Dante have given up looking for her? How does Maxim feel about her? She sucks in a breath as she tries to shake off her concerns and hopes that he can deal with whatever the problem is quickly and return. Even now the house feels empty without him. The last few days have been blissful, and she hopes they don’t have to go back to London. She’s not ready to return to reality yet. She’s never been happier than she is here, with him. In the meantime she’ll finish loading the dishwasher. Then she’ll shower.

  * * *

  I take a shortcut along the back roads to the great house that is Tresyllian Hall because it’s faster than going up the main drive. The rain is growing heavier, drumming on the car windscreen and roof as I slice through the narrow lanes. Passing the gatehouse at the southern entrance to the estate, I slow as the car rattles over the cattle grid, then accelerate up the driveway through the south pasture. In this winter rain, the landscape is dreary and damp and dotted with the occasional sheep. Come spring, the cattle will be out to graze again. Through the leafless trees, I catch sight of the house. Nestled in the wide dale, slate gray and Gothic, it dominates the landscape as if plucked from a novel by one of the Brontë sisters. The original house was built on the site of an old Benedictine priory. But the land and the abbey were seized by Henry VIII during the dissolution of the monasteries. Over a century later, in 1661, following the restoration of the monarchy, the estate was bestowed, along with the title Earl of Trevethick, to Edward Trevelyan for his services to Charles II. The great house he built was all but destroyed by fire in 1862, and this neo-Gothic monstrosity, with all its finials and fake molded battlements, was built in its place. It’s the seat of the earls of Trevethick, a huge rambling pile, and I’ve always loved it.

  And now it’s mine.

  I am the custodian.

  The car rocks over a second cattle grid as I drive around the back of the great house and pull up outside the old stables where Kit’s car collection is housed. Abandoning the Jag, I dash up to the kitchen door, and I’m pleased to find it open.

  Jessie is in the kitchen cooking breakfast, with Kit’s dogs at her feet. “Good morning, Jessie,” I call as I dash through. Jensen and Healey both jump up and scramble after me.

  Jessie’s voice follows me out into the corridor. “Maxim! I mean, my lord!”

  I ignore her and head into Kit’s study. Fuck. My study. The room feels and smells as if my big brother is still in residence, and I halt as an intense pang of grief bubbles up from nowhere.

  Damn you, Kit. I miss you.

  The truth is, the office looks as though my father is still in residence. Kit had not changed a thing apart from installing an iMac. This was my father’s refuge. The walls are painted blood-red and covered with his photographs, landscapes and portraits, even a couple of my mother. The furniture dates back to before the war, the 1930s, I think. With canine enthusiasm—tails wagging and tongues licking—the dogs jump up at me while I make my way to the desk.

  “Hello, boys. Hi. There. Hi. There. Steady.” I pet them both.

  “Sir, it’s great to see you, but is everything okay?” Jessie asks as she enters behind me.

  “The Chelsea flat has been burgled. I’m going to sort it out from here.”

  “Oh, no!” Jessie’s hand flies to her mouth.

  “No one’s hurt,” I reassure her. “Oliver’s there and assessing the damage.”

  “That’s terrible.” She wrings her hands.

  “It’s a pain in the arse, is what it is.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’d love some coffee.”

  “I’ll fetch some straightaway.” She bustles out of the room, and Jensen and Healey, with mournful looks at me, follow her out. I sit down at Kit’s—no, my desk.

  Firing up the iMac, I log in and open FaceTime, then click on Oliver’s contact link.

  * * *

  Alessia stands under the powerful shower enjoying the hot water streaming over her. She will miss this when they leave to go back to London. As she washes her hair, the thought depresses her. She’s loved this magical time in Cornwall, just the two of them. She will always treasure the memory of her stay in this extraordinary house with him.

  Maxim.

  As she soaps her hair, she opens one eye, unable to shake her anxiety. Even though she’s locked the bathroom door, she’s nervous. She’s not used to being alone, and she’s missing him. She’s become accustomed to his presence. Everywhere. She blushes and smiles.

  Yes. Everywhere.

  Now, if she could just work up the courage to touch him…everywhere.

  * * *

  Much of my flat is unaffected by the burglary. The darkroom is undisturbed, so my camera gear is intact, and more important from a sentimental point of view, I still have my father’s cameras. And I’m lucky the thieves didn’t find t
he safe. They’ve stolen some of my shoes and some jackets from my wardrobe, though it’s difficult to tell, as there are clothes thrown around my bedroom.

  The drawing room, on the other hand, is a mess. All my photography has been ripped off the walls. My iMac is smashed on the floor. My laptop and mixing consoles are gone, and my vinyl is all over the floor. Fortunately, the piano is untouched.

  “That appears to be the extent of it,” Oliver says. He’s holding up his phone and using the camera so I can inspect the damage on my computer screen.

  “Fuckers. Any idea when they broke in?” I ask.

  “No. Your neighbor didn’t see anything. But it could have been anytime over the weekend.”

  “It could have been after I left on Friday. How did they get in?”

  “You saw the state of the front door.”

  “Yeah. They must have forced it with something heavy. The fuckers. I must have forgotten to set the alarm in my haste to leave.”

  “It didn’t go off. I think you probably did forget. But I don’t think that would have deterred them.”

  “Hello…?” A disembodied voice from somewhere else in the flat interrupts us.

  “That will be the police,” Oliver says.

  “You called them? That was quick. Good. Let me know what they say. Call me back.”

  “Will do, sir.” He rings off.

  I stare despondently at the screen. I don’t want to go back to London. I want to stay here, with Alessia.

  There’s a knock on the door, and Danny appears in the doorway. “Good morning, sir. I hear you’ve been robbed.”

  “Morning, Danny. Yes. Though it doesn’t look like I’ve lost anything irreplaceable. It’s just a mess.”

  “Mrs. Blake will be able to tidy up any mess. What a nuisance this is.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Where would you like your breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?”

  “Sir, Jessie’s made you breakfast. French toast. Your favorite.”

  Oh. I wanted to get back to Alessia.

  Danny, sensing my hesitancy, gives me The Look over her glasses. The Look that made me, Kit, and Maryanne quail as young kids.

  You settle down now, children, and eat your supper. Or I will tell your mother.

  She always played the Mothership card.

  “I’ll take it in the kitchen with you and the rest of the staff, but I have to be quick.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  * * *

  Alessia’s wrapped in towels to dry off after her shower. In the walk-in closet, she rummages through the clothes that Maxim bought her a few days ago. She cannot seem to shake her apprehension. She jumps at every strange noise she hears. It’s rare for her to be on her own. At home in Kukës, her mother was always around, and in the evenings her father, too. Even in the Brentford house, when she lived with Magda, Alessia was seldom alone; either Magda or Michal was there.

  She wills herself to concentrate on the task at hand. After all, she has her new clothes. She decides on the black jeans with a gray top and a pretty pink cardigan. She hopes that Maxim will like what she’s chosen.

  Finally dressed, she picks up the hair dryer and switches it on, its high-pitched whir filling the silence.

  * * *

  When I enter the kitchen, it’s crowded and humming with the early-morning banter of some of the staff, Jenkins among them. Seeing me, they all stand as one, a frankly feudal display of deference, which I find irritating. But I let it go. “Good morning, all. Please. Sit. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  There are various pleasant mutterings of “my lord.”

  During its heyday, Tresyllian Hall would have employed well over three hundred and fifty staff, but now we manage with twelve full-time and about twenty part-time employees. We also have eight tenant farmers, whom I met on my recent trip. They raise livestock and various arable crops across ten thousand acres. All organic. Thanks to my father.

  By Trevethick tradition the outdoor and household staff eat at separate sittings. At this moment the assistant estate managers, the gamekeeper, assistant gamekeeper, and the gardeners are enjoying Jessie’s cooked breakfast. I note that mine is the only plate with French toast.

  “I hear you’ve had a break-in, sir,” Jenkins says.

  “Sadly, yes. It’s a massive pain in the arse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, milord.”

  “Michael about?”

  “Dentist this morning. He says he’ll be in around eleven.”

  I bite into my breakfast. The melt-in-the-mouth goodness of Jessie’s French toast takes me back to my childhood. Kit and I talking cricket scores or bickering about who was kicking who under the table, Maryanne’s nose in a book…and Jessie’s French toast served up with stewed fruits. Today it’s apple with cinnamon.

  “It’s nice to have you here, my lord,” Danny says. “I hope you don’t have to rush back to London.”

  “Police just arrived. I’ll find out a bit later.”

  “I’ve let Mrs. Blake know about the burglary. She and Alice can pop round from the house to your flat and clear up.”

  “Thanks. I’ll ask Oliver to liaise with her.”

  “Are you enjoying the Hideout?”

  I give her a swift grin. “Very much. Thank you. It’s very comfortable.”

  “I hear you had a successful day yesterday.”

  “It was fun. Thank you again, Jenkins.”

  He gives me a nod, and Danny smiles. “That reminds me,” she says. “There were two very unsavory characters who came calling for you yesterday.”

  “What?” She has my immediate attention, and everyone else’s in the room. She pales.

  “They were asking after you. I told them to bugger off, sir.”

  “Unsavory?”

  “Rough-looking, sir. Aggressive. From Eastern Europe, I think. Anyway—”

  “Fuck!” Alessia!

  * * *

  Alessia pulls the brush through her hair. It’s finally dry enough. She switches off the hair dryer, feeling ill at ease and wondering if she heard something. But it’s only the sound of the crashing waves in the cove below. She stands staring out the window down at the sea.

  Mister Maxim gave her the sea.

  She smiles remembering her antics on the beach. The rain is easing off. Perhaps they could go for another walk on the shore today. And back to that pub for lunch. That was a good day. Every day here with him has been a good day.

  From downstairs she hears the scrape of furniture on the wooden floor and hushed male voices.

  What?

  Has Maxim brought someone back to the house?

  “Urtë!” someone grates in a strangled whisper. It’s her mother tongue! Fear and adrenaline sweep through her body as she stands frozen in the bedroom.

  It’s Dante and Ylli.

  They’ve found her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I tear down the lane, clattering over the cattle grid and pushing the Jag to go faster. I have to get back to the house. I’m finding it hard to breathe. My anxiety is a weight pressing on my chest.

  Alessia.

  Why did I leave her at the house? If something has happened to her…I will never forgive myself.

  My brain works feverishly.

  Is it them? The bastards who trafficked her? I feel sick to my stomach. How the hell did they find us? How? Maybe they were the fuckers who burgled my flat. They found information on the Trevethick estate and Tresyllian Hall. And now they’re here. Asking questions. The fucking nerve of them, coming to my house. I grip the steering wheel.

  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

  If they locate her at the Hideout…I’ll never see her again.

  My panic mushrooms.

  She’ll be dragged into a horrific underworld,
and I’ll never be able to find her.

  No. Fuck. No.

  I swerve down the lane toward the Hideout, spraying gravel into the hedgerows.

  * * *

  Alessia’s heart is pounding, her pulse thumping in her ears even as the blood drains from her head. The room spins once, twice, and her legs start to shake.

  She’s in her worst nightmare.

  The bedroom door is open, and she hears their whispers downstairs. How did they get in? A creak on the stair galvanizes her into action. She sprints into the bathroom and quietly shuts the door. With shaking, clammy hands, she locks it behind her while she gasps for air.

  How did they find her?

  How?

  She’s dizzy with fear. Feeling powerless, she quickly scans the room looking for something to use to defend herself. Anything. His razor? Her toothbrush? She picks up both and slips them into her back pocket.

  But the drawers are empty…there’s nothing there.

  All she can do is hide. She can only hope that the door will hold until Maxim returns.

  No. Maxim!

  He is no match for them. He is one man—and they are two. They will harm him. Tears well in her eyes, and she sinks to the floor as her legs give out under her. She leans against the door as human ballast in case they try to break it down.

  “I heard something.” It’s Ylli. He’s in the bedroom. When did her own language become so terrifying? “Check that door.”

  “You in here, you fucking bitch?” Dante calls out, and rattles the bathroom door, testing the handle. Alessia puts her fist in her mouth to stop from screaming, and tears trickle down her cheeks. Her body starts shaking. Her terror is overwhelming. And she pants, taking in shallow breaths. She’s never felt so frightened. Not even in the truck that brought her to England. She’s completely impotent. She doesn’t know how to fight, and there’s no escape from this room. And, she has no way to warn Maxim.