Cherringham--The Secret of Brimley Manor Read online

  The sounds seemed to have stopped.

  Slowly she moved along the dark hallway, ears straining.

  Past the grand staircase that led down to the entrance, where she saw the glow of the entryway light that was kept on all evening.

  Warm, yellow, reassuring.

  Down the hallway, until she came to the row of bedrooms that would house all her guests in just a few days.

  She stopped. There was nothing but quiet.

  Clearly time to go back to bed, she thought. She turned.

  There was a crack.

  The sharp, brittle sound of something snapping in the room directly to her right.

  Door shut. Secure — as it should be. These rooms were cleaned and prepared days ago.

  Lavinia grabbed the doorknob — cold to the touch.

  A twist, an audible click, the door opened — and she slowly entered the dark room.

  With her eyes already adjusted to the dark, she didn’t need light to see that all was in order here.

  The door that led into the dressing room stood half open. She felt — the barest sense of it — a cold draught coming from the room. A chill that shouldn’t be there.

  Taking a deep breath, she grasped the door handle, pulled the door wide — and entered the room, to see … the window wide open.

  She hurried over, ready to slam it shut, and end this late-night adventure. As she started to pull the window closed, her eyes were drawn for a second to the lawn as the moon momentarily found a gap in the clouds.

  And she stopped. Frozen.

  A figure was walking slowly away from the house towards the woods.

  As she watched, the figure stopped. Turned.

  Looked up at her …

  Lavinia’s heart, at peace only seconds ago, now pounded. She backed away from the window, thoughts racing, searching for explanations that did not come.

  She took a deep breath — and then stepped back to the window again, eyes straining.

  But the figure had gone. As if it had never been there.

  And now, as she peered into the darkness, a feeling of foreboding came over her.

  A feeling that this weekend wasn’t going to bring fun at all …

  1. An English Homecoming

  Kat Reilly watched her husband Harry shield his eyes from the morning sun as he studied the unloading process of the cross-channel ferry at Newhaven dock.

  She knew him well enough to see that he was concerned.

  The Pride of Sussex had berthed an hour late, and, in the frenzied hurry to turn the ship around, Kat had already seen one precious cargo slip from its net and smash on the quayside.

  While the steamer belched smoke into the sky, hordes of trucks, horses and carts, and hand-barrows swarmed around the dock-side, as passengers called instructions, and customs men tried to intervene.

  So much for all the English politeness and decorum she’d been expecting to see on this, her first trip to Britain!

  Though, in truth, Sir Harry Mortimer seemed as ever to typify the calm, unruffled English gentleman.

  Tall, slim, his black hair longer than she’d ever known it, jacket slung nonchalantly over one shoulder, white cotton shirt sporting a dashing red tie.

  All he needed was a tennis racquet to complete the look.

  Or should that be — a cricket bat?

  He turned back to her. “Hmm … just going to have a quick word with those chaps over there. Make sure they, er …”

  She grinned at that. “And how will that go?”

  Harry — with one of his great smiles — nodded.

  “You think they won’t welcome my advice?”

  “With open arms, I’m sure. That or clenched fists.”

  “Hmm. That is my car they’re about to drop on the quay.”

  “Your car?”

  “Ah, right. Sorry — old habits. I mean our car. Thing is, she may not be a Bugatti, but that Alvis is damned precious to me.”

  “Good luck. Back in New York nobody argues with the longshoremen.”

  “Well, I fancy we’re a tad more civilised over here, hmm?”

  “Civilised? Nine o’clock and I’m still waiting for that coffee you promised.”

  “How about we stop in at a local hostelry en route and celebrate my return to the motherland, and your first visit, with a slap-up breakfast?”

  “Slap-up?”

  “Forgot you don’t quite speak the lingo yet. Means ‘large’. The works!”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  He grinned, and she watched him walk over to a man on the dock who was dressed in blue overalls, cap on his head. From his stance, hands on hips, the man looked as if he might be the foreman — or whatever they called the guy in charge over here.

  She saw Harry gesture to where, only now, their car — that beautiful and so-sleek example of English hardware — was starting to rise out of the ship’s hold, swinging perilously on ropes and chains.

  The man in the cap nodded. No smiles there. But she guessed Harry was doing something she had seen him do so often. A few words here and there, and suddenly people wanted to help him.

  Doubtful he introduced himself as ‘Sir’, though Kat wondered whether, with the dock workers, any of that ‘Lord and Lady’ stuff would carry much weight.

  Harry walked back.

  “All tickety-boo. Er, I mean, sorted. Just explained to him what was hiding under those tarps. Asked if they had ever handled a car like that.”

  “And?”

  “Seems he rather prefers a Bentley. Rolls Royce at a push. Though he did say if I was offering him a drive, he’d happily take it for a spin.”

  “Funny guy, hmm?”

  “Salt of the earth.”

  “Well, me — I’d just slip him some money.”

  “Oh, see, there you go! That would never work here. An upstanding professional like that? He’d take it as a proper insult.”

  Kat doubted that. Ten years posted to American embassies from Istanbul to Tokyo had taught her one thing — a handful of dollars never failed to make the world run more smoothly.

  She turned to see the Alvis roadster steadily being lowered. Slowly, she was glad to note. And — now — nothing to be alarmed about.

  She turned back to Harry, watching their steamer trunks being off-loaded, to be transported to Mydworth by truck.

  Lorry — not truck, she thought.

  And then they would drive to their new home. “New”, at least for Kat, but not to Harry. Mydworth: the small town where he grew up; a world he knew — but had been away from for so long.

  Suddenly Harry wasn’t checking the unloading.

  “Hmm,” he grunted.

  “What?” she said, as he turned to look over to where the cars and taxis pulled up to pick up passengers.

  Sitting there, a sleek sedan. Not a cab, but a very serious looking vehicle. And stepping out of it, now looking this way, a man crisply dressed in what looked like a chauffeur’s uniform.

  “Something wrong?” she said to Harry.

  “Don’t know. But I think we’re about to find out.”

  The driver held a white envelope in his hands. He walked over directly — even urgently — to where she and Harry stood.

  *

  Harry always prided himself on having extremely good instincts. They’d served him well back in ’18 in the skies over Belgium. Also, in his various postings abroad for the Foreign Office. A few times they’d helped him avoid getting hurt.

  Once even killed.

  His every instinct told him that the envelope the man carried was unlikely to be good news.

  “Sir Harry Mortimer?”

  Less a question than a confirmation.

  Harry gave a quick nod back. He felt Kat looking at this scene as well.

  He guessed she had to be thinking: Well, what is this about?

  The chauffeur presented the envelope to Harry. “Urgent from Whitehall, sir. I’m to wait.”

  Harry took the envelope, giving Kat a half g
rin.

  “Wait, hmm? Wait for what?”

  He opened the tucked but unsealed envelope and removed a single piece of paper.

  He recognised the crest on the paper, the address.

  The message pithily brief, but also direct.

  “Harry … what is it?”

  A bit of alarm in her voice there, he noted. As they had grown closer to docking at Newhaven, Harry had reassured her about their new life in his homeland.

  “No more running around for me,” he’d said. “Nice quiet office job in town, driving a desk a couple of days a week, lunch at the club, home by five, no harum-scarum, hmm?”

  To which she had said: “Doubt that.”

  He took a deep breath, even as he started to wonder if there was any getting around what this letter wanted him to do.

  No solution appeared as he turned to face Kat directly.

  *

  Kat could see from Harry’s eyes that he wasn’t happy. Took only seconds to read the words in the letter, but — whatever the message — her husband … not pleased.

  “Urgent meeting. Bit of a flap on, and it seems they want me to attend.”

  “Really? When?” she asked. Though — with the chauffeur and limo standing by — she could figure out the answer to that one.

  “Right now, apparently,” he waved the offending letter. “Uses the word ‘crisis’ here. Chaps in the office usually show some restraint when referring to such things, so …”

  “Now?”

  She glanced back just as their Alvis touched down on the dock. Two men began removing the heavy tarps that had been used to protect it during its journey. A hint of the car’s racing green colour caught the sunlight.

  “We’re supposed to drive to our new house together, yes? Trucks bringing everything else right behind us.”

  “I am still technically, um — you know — a servant of His Majesty’s Government.”

  “Yes, and due to report in a few weeks, and even then, not a full-time position.”

  Harry’s eyes shifted right. His beleaguered look made Kat almost withdraw her protest.

  Almost.

  “Tell this charming man here that you and I have things to do. You can see them tomorrow.”

  And then Harry did something that always cut through the slightest disagreement they had.

  He took a step towards her. Bit of a smile back, not full on, but so warm — just like the night they met at that New Year’s Eve reception in the British Embassy in Cairo.

  He put a hand on her shoulder.

  And for that moment, there was just the two of them on that dock alone.

  “I know. But if it was you? Back in New York? Some chap from the State Department?” He paused, hand still on her shoulder — and Kat knew how this had to play out. “What would you do? What could you do?”

  And so slowly — only now rewarding him with a smile of her own — she patted his hand on her shoulder.

  “Harry. It’s okay. I understand. Duty calls.”

  “Exactly. King and country. Ours not to reason why. And don’t worry, we’ll take this fellow’s car into town, and I’ll get Archy to drive us back here as soon as the meeting is done with.”

  Archy — someone else from Harry’s life she hadn’t met yet. His — what did they call them? — “batman” during the war.

  Someone who, Harry said, was fiercely loyal, and would do absolutely anything for him, even arranging things for what was going to be their London pied-à-terre.

  “Few hours at the most, then straight back here. Pick up our car, and off we go, crisis over with a bit of luck.”

  That was the plan offered by Harry. But Kat knew it never was her style to sit around waiting, killing time.

  Not when there were things to be done.

  “No,” she said, warm smile still on her face. “I have another idea.”

  Harry’s turn to look surprised.

  “You do?”

  And Kat nodded.

  2. The Sussex Downs

  Harry knew Kat well enough to know that she definitely could have ideas.

  Nothing shy about her there.

  “You get in that car there, go to London, have the meeting,” she said. “Solve the crisis.”

  He laughed at that. “We tend to take our time solving crises around here.”

  He looked across — driver waiting. The lorry, loaded with their trunks, started to pull away.

  “And,” she said slowly, “I’ll drive to our new home.”

  I should have seen that coming, thought Harry. The Alvis …

  “Ah, right. Yes, but you see, Kat—”

  He felt her bluer-than-blue eyes locked on him.

  “The roads here, deuced tricky,” he said. “Narrow as hell, hmm? And every now and then we have these fiendish tunnels — railway bridges, you see? Only one lane, cars coming right at each other. Take your life in your hands—”

  Kat put a hand on his arm. With that touch he felt as if he had already lost the argument.

  “Harry. I’ve driven the back streets of Cairo, Istanbul, Rome. I think I can deal with whatever you have here. Road atlas in the glove compartment, right?”

  He nodded. Still, he thought, worth one last attempt.

  “We also drive on the left. Have you ever driven on the left?”

  “Left, right — same thing, hmm? I’ll get to the house. Make sure our things are properly unloaded and put away, maybe meet this housekeeper you keep telling me about.”

  “Dear Maggie. You will like her.”

  “I’m sure. So … it’s decided.”

  For a moment, he stood there. Harry had on occasion seen the odd stray American dealing with roads here. Terrifying sight.

  “B-but then out in the country, there’s the hedges, and, well, a protocol for letting cars pass, and—”

  “Protocol? I know all about protocols.”

  Then she took a step closer to him, her voice low. A voice that again reminded him of when he first met her.

  Fell for her.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Harry nodded, the issue settled. “All right then, well, I’d better get going, hmm? Be safe. I’ll get the first train to Mydworth that I can. Pick up a cab at the station. Hopefully home not too long after the cocktail hour.”

  “You’d better be. First night, new home. Been looking forward to this.”

  “Me too. Well—”

  He fired a look at the Alvis. Then back to Kat.

  A kiss — not caring who on the dock looked.

  “All right. Gotta dash.”

  And at that, he turned and hurried to the official car — door open, ready to go.

  As he took a seat in the back, he could see Kat standing there, a smile on her face.

  Then, with a last wave to her, the car pulled away from the dock, off to London.

  *

  Somewhere between Newhaven and Mydworth, Kat pulled off to the side of the road for a breather — acutely aware that she’d taken Harry’s warnings much too lightly.

  At first, as usual, it had been thrilling to be at the controls of the big car, the roads wide enough, the sun high, the sky blue, the sea sparkling as she drove west along the coast road towards Brighton.

  Hardly any traffic, apart from sensible sedans chugging along, local delivery trucks, buses, horses and carts.

  All of which she passed with graceful ease and a quick toot on the horn.

  Then Brighton — the promenade road passing lines of elegant hotels and villas — and heads turning at the throaty roar of the Alvis’s sporty engine.

  She loved that. This car makes an impression.

  This was England. The England she’d read about as a child and seen in so many movies. And she, Kat Reilly — daughter of a Bronx bar owner no less — was now driving through its famous towns in a shiny green sports car like a movie star, sunglasses on, hair flying in the warm air.

  Kat Reilly, she thought.

  Now there’s a question. Am I still
Kat Reilly? Or will I answer to the name — Lady Mortimer?

  In this day and age? Hmm.

  That was a discussion for later. Maybe after cocktails.

  But then — barrelling through one stone tunnel a little faster than was appropriate — she’d nearly sent the front end of the roadster crashing into the grille of an oncoming local bus, the driver firing an angry glance as tyres screeched and he barely slid past, the precious Alvis inches away from the stone wall.

  Heart pounding from the near-miss, Kat had stuck tight to the left side of the road as the bus rumbled on, spewing smoke from the rear, passengers gawking out of the back windows at the unfamiliar sight of a speeding sports car.

  And perhaps the even more unfamiliar sight of a woman driving it?

  Well, she thought, staring out across fields of wheat in the late afternoon sun. That’s one lesson learned.

  Railway bridges in England can be tricky.

  Then she released the handbrake, hit the gas, spun the wheel and gunned the Alvis back onto the road, a glimpse of dust clouds from the back wheels in the mirror.

  *

  Harry stared at the Houses of Parliament, as the car glided across Westminster Bridge.

  Big Ben was just striking five o’clock. As Kat would say, “helluva time to have a meeting.” Already the pavements thronged with office workers, clerks, businessmen, all heading home, the weekend ahead.

  He’d not been back in London for a couple of years — the posting in Cairo, a constant series of six-month extensions.

  And now, watching the open-top buses jostling for space with cabs, cars, lorries, motorbikes, horses and carts as they all negotiated Parliament Square, he felt that old familiar thrill at being part of the hustle and bustle again.

  There were a lot of great cities in the world, but none (so far!) as exciting as London. Newspaper boys calling out the evening edition of The Post. An old soldier, with a cap on the pavement, playing gypsy violin. A messenger boy leaping onto the rear platform of a bus as it flew by. A gaggle of laughing girls buying ice-cream from a street barrow.

  How he loved this city!

  He couldn’t wait to share it with his new wife — the frantic fun of the place — the bars, clubs, restaurants, theatres, tea rooms, Royal Opera House, dances …