Sam's Song

by Hannah Howe

  Chapter Twenty

  I drove to Castle Gwyn. By the time I arrived at the castle the adrenalin had worn off and my ankle was hurting like hell. I limped into the hall where I found Milton reading a book, a biography of Oscar Wilde.

  Milton marked his place with a bookmark, glanced at his wristwatch, then looked up at me, his forehead creasing with concern. “Are you all right, Sam? You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge, backwards.”

  “That’s just about the top and tail of it,” I groaned, slumping into an armchair. I leaned forward and undid the laces on my right running shoe. “Ouch!”

  Milton walked over to me. He stared at my swollen ankle and its colourful bruise. “I’ll fetch you a bucket and some ice.”

  Five minutes later my right foot was resting in a bucket of ice and I was sipping coffee with a shot of sherry, kindly supplied by Milton.

  “Feeling better now?” Milton asked solicitously.

  I nodded. The coffee and sherry warmed me, though my foot felt like a block of ice. I glanced down to the bruise and the swelling on my ankle. In truth, it wasn’t too bad and thanks to Milton’s ministrations, I knew that I’d be all right.

  “Where’s Woody?” I asked, eyeing Milton over the rim of my coffee cup.

  “He’s mixing the album. The music is keeping his mind off the murder investigation.”

  “And Nerd?”

  Milton sighed. He shook his head and offered a world-weary grimace. “Nerd is still wrapped in a tantric embrace.”

  I smiled over the rim of my coffee cup. Then Derwena entered the hall, looking a whiter shade of pale. She was dressed in a pink satin kimono emblazoned with a butterfly motif. As she spread herself across the chaise longue she moaned, “I need some coke.”

  “Be brave,” Milton encouraged. “Be strong. Another day without means another day towards recovery.”

  “But Woody’s still snorting,” Derwena whined.

  “You’re stronger than him.”

  She placed the back of her left hand on to her forehead, closed her eyes and fluttered her eyelashes. “Oh, I think I’m going to faint.”

  “Have a glass of water,” Milton replied, coldly.

  “Can it be a glass of vodka?”

  “Pretend it’s vodka.”

  Derwena opened her eyes. She leaned forward and scowled at Milton. “You’re a right bastard, you are, Milton.”

  “Yes,” Milton agreed while gazing at the stars on the ceiling, “I’m the Devil himself.”

  Clearly, Derwena was not going to obtain any satisfaction from Milton, so she turned her gaze towards me. “What’s she doing here?”

  “She’s working for us, remember,” Milton replied patiently.

  “I know that,” Derwena scowled. “Do you think I’ve got air for brains?”

  Milton and I stared at each other. We managed to keep a straight face. We managed to keep our mouths shut.

  “I mean,” Derwena continued, “what’s she doing here, now.” She peered around the arm of my armchair and frowned at my swollen ankle. “And why’s she got her foot in a bucket?”

  “What did happen to your foot, Sam?” Milton asked. “Did you do that working for us?”

  I nodded. “I’ll add my medical bill to my list of expenses, along with a confiscated camera.” I placed my empty coffee cup on an occasional table and jiggled my ankle in the ice bucket, just to make sure that my foot hadn’t dropped off. “I want to ask you some questions. Maybe I’ve stumbled on to something, maybe not. I’d like your thoughts on a few things.”

  “What have you stumbled on, Sam?” Milton asked while leaning forward.

  “What do you know about Mansetree House?”

  He frowned, then shook his head. “Nothing. We’ve never been invited there.”

  “You haven’t attended any of their parties?”

  “No. Mansetree House is out of our league.”

  I digested that information and concluded that there was no direct connection between Milton and company and Lady Diamond. All these people moved in social circles way out of my league but, even for multimillionaires, there was a hierarchy, and my employers at Castle Gwyn had yet to reach the top table.

  “I saw a few things at Mansetree House; maybe they’re innocent, maybe they’re not.”

  “What things?” Milton asked.

  I explained, in detail, about the sex room, and about Baldy and his shotgun chasing me off the premises.

  “You’ve got to take more care, Sam.” Milton wrung his hands. He stood and paced restlessly around the hall. “You could have been seriously hurt, killed.”

  “Handcuffs?” Derwena was still in the sex room. There was a strange look on her face, a look of fascination mixed with intrigue. “Are there any handcuffs in the castle, Milton?”

  “Not now, Derwena! Tell us more, Sam, what, who do you suspect?”

  “Maybe the house is holding a secret, or maybe my imagination is running wild.”

  I glanced over to Derwena. She was flexing her wrists, contorting her arms, as though they were manacled to the chaise longue. Clearly, her imagination was running wild.

  “T.P. McGill was planning to write an article about Mansetree House. Maybe the owners were not too happy at that prospect. Maybe he stumbled upon their secret.”

  “And they had him murdered?” Milton went as white as a glass of milk. He took his silk handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and placed it to his forehead. Then his nervous fingers adjusted his cravat. “My, oh, my. What have we stumbled into?”

  “There are many maybes in there,” I qualified. “I need more facts, some proof.” Perhaps I was clutching at straws, but I looked over to Derwena, hoping that she could offer some insight into the activities at Mansetree House. “Did Troutbeck mention anything about the house?”

  Derwena shook her head. She was sitting upright now, the handcuffs forgotten. In fact, beads of sweat were trickling down her forehead. She was shivering and not looking at all well. “Troutbeck mentioned nothing, nothing at all.”

  “I’ve heard rumours about the house,” Milton added. “The usual nonsense about outrageous booze and drugs parties. But then, a lot of very wealthy people throw a lot of very outrageous parties.”

  “Milton, dear...” Derwena raised her arms, holding them parallel to the ground. She looked like a character from a 1920s movie, a somnambulist, about to go sleepwalking. “I feel sick.”

  Before Milton could react, Tim appeared, ghostlike, in the hall. He took hold of Derwena’s right arm and escorted her towards the bedchambers.

  I glanced at Milton. “Maybe you should call a doctor; she doesn’t look at all well.”

  Milton nodded. “I’ll call Dr Storey. He’s a good man; he’ll offer sage advice.”

  I could believe that statement about Dr Storey; he was a good man and he would offer sage advice. I guess Derwena was fortunate to have him on her side. Returning to Milton, I asked, “Any idea why Drake Jolley would visit Mansetree House? I saw him there this afternoon.”

  Milton shook his head. He glanced at his pocket watch and the telephone. “Maybe you should ask Mr Jolley.”

  I wiggled my toes. The ice had done the trick. My ankle was feeling much better. I smiled. “I’ll do that now.”