Cherringham--Scared to Death Page 3

“Isn’t that what you’ve always said?” said Jack, laughing. “Anyway — you think I’d turn down the chance to meet a real movie legend?”

  Sarah laughed and headed for the door herself.

  “Pick me up on your way through the village,” she said, grinning. “I think you’re going to need a chaperone.”

  4. Hill House

  “Next right, Jack,” said Sarah, and Jack slowed the little Sprite and turned off the main Cherringham highway onto a rough track that headed into thick woods, the trees bending in the bitter, strong wind.

  “Often wondered where this went,” said Jack, dropping down a gear on the bumpy road. “No signs.” He turned to Sarah. “Pretty isolated.”

  “I imagine Basil doesn’t want uninvited visitors.”

  He turned a slight bend, and came into a clearing. Ahead, behind heavy iron gates, Jack could at last see the tall red-brick towers of a classic Gothic mansion.

  Right out of the movies, Jack thought.

  “Wow,” he said. “Cherringham’s very own house of horrors.”

  “And so much for keeping the visitors away,” said Sarah looking at what also was ahead.

  Parked along the lane — leaving just enough room for the Sprite to squeeze by — were half-a-dozen cars and a couple of trucks with satellite dishes on top.

  The media had arrived …

  And, by the gates, a knot of people. Even with the top up on the little sports car, he could hear shouting.

  He parked behind a truck marked “Universal News Services” — satellite dish on top — and he and Sarah climbed out.

  “Well, let’s go see what’s up,” said Jack, heading straight for the crowd, checking Sarah was right behind him.

  He pushed through the circle of people at the gate — some of them brandishing cameras — to see two men in suits grappling with each other, pushing and shoving, trying (and mostly failing) to get a punch in.

  Jack had seen plenty of fights in his years back in the NYPD, and it was clear from this exhibition that these two guys probably last had a fight in kindergarten.

  He stepped forward into the fray.

  “Hey, come on, let’s break it up now, take it easy …”

  He prised them apart, and the two men stood panting, feigning an eagerness to go at it again that Jack guessed neither of them really felt.

  The taller one — dark-haired, slick suit and shoes — pulled his tie straight and raised a finger at his opponent:

  “Yeah, right. Back off. You heard what the man said.”

  The other guy — rounder, older and balder — tried to rush him, but Jack stepped in, hand on chest, easily holding the rotund man at bay.

  “Whoa, let it be! Okay?”

  Jack had added a little bite to his voice then.

  A bit of a warning.

  Both men now separated, Jack turned to the crowd. All journalists, he guessed.

  “So, folks, what’s the deal?”

  “Story is Basil Coates has been seeing ghosts!” said a woman.

  “Just want an interview with the great man,” said a man with her. “But this idiot thinks he knows the law and wants us off his land.”

  “Too bloody right,” said the slick guy. (He must be the “idiot”, thought Jack.) “This is private property and they need to go.”

  “Public highway, pal,” said another voice from the crowd. “We’re going nowhere.”

  “Are you from the house?” said Sarah, coming alongside Jack, and talking to the man with slicked back hair.

  “Um, friend of the family,” said the man, as if not expecting the question.

  “That right?” said Jack. “Well, look, we’re expected — 2pm meeting. So, why don’t we go inside, cool down, and you tell us just what’s going down. And if these guys are genuinely not allowed to be here — well, I’ll help you move them. How does that sound?”

  He saw the man size-up the situation — and realise this was the only honourable way out.

  He shrugged: “Sure, yeah. Good idea.”

  And with a final sneer at the bald man, he turned and headed back towards the tall iron gates, pulling one open so Jack and Sarah could slip through.

  Then he clearly couldn’t resist — and turned to the little crowd the other side of the gate: “You might as well all pack up now, because we’ll be back, and you lot can piss off back to Oxford, London or wherever the hell you came from!”

  Jack saw the reporters mutter some pithy comebacks to that bit of bravado.

  Then he waited as “idiot” pulled his suit straight, then slicked back his hair and moved away from the gate. Then he stuck out his hand — the same one that smoothed said slick hair — for Jack and Sarah to shake.

  “Gordon McCloud,” he said. “So, I’m guessing you’re Jack Brennan … and Sarah Edwards, yeah?”

  “That’s right,” said Jack.

  The previously embattled man forced a smile. “Okay — glad you could make it,” said Gordon. “God, the family could certainly do with some help right now. Come on.”

  McCloud headed up the path towards the house, and Jack and Sarah followed, the red-brick mansion glowering over their heads as they approached.

  All those gabled windows, thought Jack, like eyes, watching …

  *

  With what seemed to Sarah like a full-on horror-movie sound effect, the front door creaked wide open and they went in after Gordon.

  She looked around. The hallway felt cold and looked dark and empty. A miserable fire burnt in the massive hearth, sputtering beneath tall paintings and suits of armour.

  Gordon turned. “Come on through,” he said. “The family mostly live in the sitting room at the back — bit warmer there.”

  They followed him out of the hallway and down a long corridor. Doors on either side were closed.

  “Big place,” said Sarah. “Must cost a fortune to heat.”

  “Oh yeah. Most of it’s closed off in the winter,” said Gordon, as they reached the end of the corridor and he pushed open another door. “Here we are.”

  Sarah followed him in to a large, open living room with tall French windows that gave out onto a terrace and a stretch of ragged lawn.

  Beyond, a copse of trees swayed in the gusty wind. And beyond that, Sarah could see open country for miles.

  Might be pretty if it wasn’t such a grim and grey day.

  And this room? Bigger than her whole house.

  At the far end, three sofas were arranged in front of a roaring fire.

  And standing by the fire — posed — the beautiful Alyssia, in a crisp white blouse and blue jeans.

  On one of the sofas by the fire sat a crumpled, white-haired figure that she assumed had to be the great Basil Coates himself.

  At a table to one side, a woman she recognised from the village — Maud Foy, she remembered — was pouring tea from an enormous pot into a line of china teacups.

  And lounging on the sofa opposite Basil, Sarah saw a tall, elegant woman with perfect features, immaculate hair and a simple but elegant dress — a dazzling lemon tailored creation.

  Understated and clearly expensive.

  Alyssia stepped forward to shake Jack’s hand and give him the required kiss on both cheeks.

  “Jack, you have come to help us,” she said, “as I knew you would.”

  “Sarah too,” said Jack, turning to Sarah.

  Guess I’m just invisible in this scenario, Sarah thought.

  She smiled at Alyssia.

  “Sarah, of course, yes,” said Alyssia as if Sarah were some kind of secretary or assistant.

  “Ahem. Aren’t you going to introduce us?” said Basil, using a silver-headed stick to raise himself from the sofa.

  The old guy seems used to his wife flirting, thought Sarah.

  “Jack Brennan,” said Jack, walking over to him. “It’s a privilege to meet you, sir. I’m a big fan. Revenge of the Mummy. Haunted Strangers. Devil Worship. Giant part of my childhood back in Brooklyn.”

  Basil lost
his crumpled grimace in a flash. “And a pleasure to meet you too, Jack,” said Basil. “When we’ve had our tea — I’ll show you the gallery. I keep everything there — all my mementoes.” A quick grin to Jack as if this was the purpose of the meeting. “You’ll love it!”

  “I look forward to that,” said Jack.

  “Being a fan, you’ll appreciate it, I’m sure. Some don’t — of course. Isn’t that right, Karina?” He rolled his eyes. “Young people …”

  Sarah looked across at the vision in yellow.

  “Groan. All that stuff? I can take it or leave it, Daddy. I don’t see why you get so worked up about it. It’s just a bunch of old props.” She delivered the next line like a dart. “I think you should sell it all. The lot!”

  Alyssia moved from Jack to intervene — Sarah now seeing the dynamic of what McCloud referred to as “the family”.

  “My darling daughter Karina,” said Alyssia, walking round the back of the sofa and reaching out to massage the other woman’s shoulders. “Like so many such young people, all she cares about is the future, isn’t that true, sweetie?”

  Karina’s eyes turned into daggers.

  “No — not true at all,” said Karina, brushing her mother’s hands away and rolling her eyes. “I’m just not obsessed by the past, like some people.”

  “Please, Karina, Alyssia — not in front of the guests, hmm?” said Basil, some of his joy at Jack’s fandom fading. And now, looking across at Sarah: “I do hope you will forgive our little family squabbling, my dear?”

  Sarah walked over and shook hands.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Coates.”

  “So you’re the other detective, hmm?” said Basil. “Well, I can see who’s the beauty — but which of you is the brains?”

  “Sarah, without a doubt,” said Jack quickly. “Some of the best detective instincts I’ve ever seen.”

  “I can believe it,” said Basil, smiling at Sarah. “Now, you come here. Sit next to me.”

  Sarah did as she was told and Basil flopped back onto the sofa next to her.

  “Forgive my husband,” said Alyssia. “Eighty-five and still a terrible flirt.”

  “And why not?” said Basil, leaning in and stage-whispering to Sarah. “I won’t be long for this world, at this rate, so I must seize my pleasures where I can.”

  Sarah smiled — the old man’s twinkling eyes somehow excusing his behaviour.

  Those eyes, though: alert, aware, taking it all in.

  “Mrs Foy, do serve our guests,” said Alyssia, sitting on the third sofa and indicating that Jack should join her. Sarah looked over at Gordon, who now joined Karina opposite.

  A brief look between them.

  Hmm, she thought. The seating arrangements. Something going on there?

  “Mr McCloud,” said Sarah, as Maud served the teas. “You said you were a family friend? You were certainly — um — trying to help down at the gate.”

  “Oh, those dreadful people!” said Alyssia. “Reporters! Cameras! I don’t know what we would have done if dear Gordon hadn’t been around to help.”

  “How long have they been here?” said Sarah.

  “Turned up this morning,” said Gordon. “Someone must have tipped them off about what happened last night. Either the police, or …”

  Sarah saw him look daggers at Maud Foy, who frowned and returned to her table to get a plate of biscuits.

  “And you haven’t been troubled by them before?” said Jack, with a look to Basil. “I heard this isn’t the first time you’ve had something strange happen at the house.”

  But it was Gordon who responded. “Once isn’t a story, Mr Brennan,” said Gordon. “And twice? Just a coincidence. But three times — oh yes, that’s definitely a tale you can flog to an editor.”

  “Sounds like you know what you’re talking about, Mr McCloud,” said Sarah.

  “Too right, I do. Worked in Fleet Street for a few years,” said Gordon, “for my sins.”

  “Ha! For which sins I forgive you!” said Basil. “Your penance — to work with me!”

  Sarah laughed along with the others. Though she noticed Karina stayed silent.

  “You live here permanently?” said Jack to Gordon.

  A pause.

  Sarah saw Gordon look over at Basil as if to ask permission to explain. The old man gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “I’ve been here a month or so,” said Gordon. “Researching for Basil’s biography.”

  “Ah, ghostwriter,” said Jack.

  “No, not ghostwriter,” said Gordon. “Writer.”

  Sarah sensed Gordon bristle at Jack’s words.

  Writer, yes. But maybe down on his fame and fortune these days. And prickly too …

  “I said ‘biography’. Not autobiography. There’s a difference.”

  “My mistake,” said Jack, sipping his tea.

  “What about you?” said Gordon, staring at Jack. “How long you been doing the amateur detective shtick?”

  “Oh, a few years now,” said Jack, smiling, and seeming to ignore the barb in Gordon’s question.

  Then Sarah saw him smoothly turn to Alyssia and Basil: “Did thirty years NYPD; thought I’d seen the end of police work. But Sarah and I solved a case together quite a while ago and I guess we just never looked back.”

  Then, as if it might need highlighting, “Turns out that together we’re quite good.”

  “I see. So you think you can solve this ‘case’ Mr Brennan?” said Basil.

  “Not making any promises, but we can try. Catch the person who’s causing you trouble.”

  “And what … if it’s not a person?” said Basil.

  “How do you mean?” said Sarah.

  She felt the room go quiet. Basil looked away, eyes focused on the distance.

  The cold room, suddenly colder.

  The only sounds, the crackling of the small fire in the grate, and the distant repetitive banging of a door or a window somewhere deep in the house.

  After Basil’s dramatic pause, he said: “In the course of my life I made over sixty moving pictures.” He leaned forward, hand gripping the silver-topped cane. “Sixty! Many of them dealt with the occult. The undead. Dark forces. All things I thought pure fantasy. Made up … nonsense.”

  Sarah felt a shiver on the back of her neck.

  If this was a performance, it was a good one — Basil’s voice suddenly a throwback to scary movies she’d seen as a teenager.

  “But after all that time,” he turned, and looked at Jack, then right at Sarah, ”after researching, studying … I do not doubt that I made many powerful enemies in the spirit world,” said Basil. “And now, as I near the threshold of my life, I fear they have come back to taunt me.”

  He took a deep breath, the rib cage of his frail body rising.

  “Even as I am close to joining them — forever — on the other side …”

  And as if on cue, Sarah heard a crash from behind her.

  She turned as the French windows burst open. The heavy curtains flailed and flapped: a lampstand fell over and smashed, and a blast of wind swirled into the room.

  “Oh, Lord!” said Mrs Foy, backing away from the windows, her plate of biscuits flying from her limp hands and shattering on a coffee table. “Told you people … we need new latches!”

  “For God’s sake!” said Karina. “Do something, someone!” She walked to the drinks cart. “And I don’t know about anyone else, but I could use a drink!”

  Gordon and Alyssia stood up and rushed to the windows to close them as Mrs Foy dealt with the smashed plate.

  “Any takers?” Karina said.

  Sarah saw Gordon look over. Doing everything but licking his lips. But he didn’t respond.

  And Karina poured a splash into a small cut-crystal glass.

  Disturbance over, Mrs Foy sank into an armchair, muttering to herself.

  Just the wind, Sarah thought.

  But as Sarah turned back to look at Basil, a whoosh of sparks suddenly explode
d from the fire and blew up into the chimney.

  As if the sparks themselves, the glowing embers, sought to escape the room, this house.

  Basil turned to Sarah and Jack: “As I said. Powerful enemies.”

  5. House of Secrets

  Jack stood in the bathroom, taking in the “crime scene”.

  Alyssia had worried that the visitors were going to make Basil miss his afternoon nap, so Jack and Sarah had split up: he got the bloody tub, and she drew the mystery noose.

  He turned to Basil, who stood at the door, propped up by his stick, swaying slightly.

  “Basil — can you tell me exactly what happened yesterday?”

  The old actor nodded. “Yes, well, I was in the bedroom getting into my dressing gown, while Alyssia set the bathwater running for me, like she always does. Then she went downstairs to get my medication. Dodgy heart, you know? Damned pills every night. Anyway, I waited for a minute or two, then came in here. And there it was … blood.”

  “Okay.” Jack nodded. “So, when she first turned on the tap she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary?” said Jack getting down on his hands and knees by the bath and checking out the plumbing system.

  “No, I mean, I imagine she would have noticed,” said Basil. “When she came back up, she was as horrified as I was.”

  “Guess it cleaned up pretty well,” said Jack, looking around at the pristine white tiles. “Shame you didn’t keep any.”

  “Oh, but I did,” said Basil, going to a cupboard in the corner and taking out a small glass jar of red liquid.

  He handed it to Jack, who sniffed it, then dipped his finger in, smelled it, and tasted.

  Nothing. Odourless, tasteless.

  “Who else was in the house at the time?” he said.

  “Karina.”

  “Where was she?”

  “In her bedroom, I suppose. She doesn’t usually emerge before tea-time. If then.”

  “What about Mr McCloud? Was he here?”

  “Um, no, I think not,” said Basil. “Believe he was in the village. Interviewing my dear friend Val, for the book.”

  “Val?”

  “Val Rayment,” said Basil. “He and I were at RADA together. A fine actor, you know. At one point, both of us were quite the rising stars at Anvil Studios!”