Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) (2 page)

Two

‘The shadow of the linden-trees lay moving on the grass; between them and
the moving boughs, a shadow, thou didst pass.’

– Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow,
A Gleam of Sunshine

My phone vibrated a text
message and loudly pulsated across my desk. Hope teased me with the idea that
Mark had a great excuse for his behaviour and he wanted to make it up to me. I
filled my lungs and checked my phone. It was Stacey. Between praises of ‘
yummy
’
Darren she confirmed her interview for tomorrow morning at eleven – would I
meet her there at ten? My lunch hour had just expired and I was back to
answering the busy switchboard. After directing the next two phone calls to the
right extension numbers, I replied with a smiley face.

I couldn’t wait to visit the old mansion again. It
reminded me to look up my local newspaper online to search for the story on the
missing girl. Finding no updates since its original running, I reread it:

…Police
have confirmed the discovery of some personal items belonging to Tess McQueeney,
18, at Halton Cray where she was last seen on 9
^th
August…

I mused on it as sheets of rain struck the glass
doors across from my desk. The sound was soothing.

It was gone eight by the time I got home. I sat
cross-legged before the gas fire in my living room, towel drying my hair while reading
The Picture of Dorian Gray in paperback. I loved my Kindle, but when reading classics
I wanted to feel the paper on turning a page. Contentment had me before
discouragement struck: I was twenty-one and it was a Friday night. I shook off
the distress. Sadly, I couldn’t so easily conquer wondering what Mark was up to
tonight. His treatment of me felt raw. I soon realised that I wasn’t so much
unhappy with his behaviour towards me as I was with the flaws in my own
character – how could I still like the prat after the way he treated me?

Halton Cray was four miles
away and I was running late. It wouldn’t be a shock to Stacey; she’s known me
since we were twelve. I dawdled in making my coffee, in showering, and in
pulling on a pair of jeans and black sweater. A string of things that would
take anyone else less than an hour took me almost two.

My stepbrother, Adrian, had left his jeep on my
driveway. This meant I could borrow it for the day instead of taking the bus.
He worked at a London theatre, sometimes using the train station opposite my
house to get there. His motive always being to save money – in this instance on
parking fees.

Easing off the accelerator, I let my foot hover
over the brake while descending Bourne Hill, absorbing the spectacular view
over the Weald of Kent: pastel green fields dotted about like small islands in
a sea of green treetops, occasionally broken by a currency of silver road. The
weather was on the turn; a layer of mist settled over the sixteenth century Tudor
mansion. I could make out its White Tower protruding the haze, like a lone jagged
tooth in some ancient beast’s jaws. It flagged the whereabouts of the main courtyard.
The front of the historic house looked more like a castle at this angle with
its grey stonework and turret, as I passed its sixteen-foot black iron gates.

Pulling into Halton Cray car park at twenty past
ten was exactly what I wanted to avoid – by about twenty minutes. I jumped out
of the warm car and shivered as a chilling wind whipped at me. It brought aromas
from the herb garden far west of the estate, conjuring up memories of my teens
I hadn’t held for years.

Stacey text me twice within the last five minutes
to ask where I was, and to say she’d be waiting at the visitors’ main entrance.
This sat to one side of the house, in the north half of the manor, which
predated the south by roughly a century. The redbrick south addition was
two-stories with attic, tiled roof and dormers, extending the original stone house
to twice its size – making something of an H out of a U. The front of the north
half, faced with a chequer pattern of stone and flints, strewn with some
climbing plant to its slate roof, resembled a fortress. Sir Halton Cray,
Baronet, had the house commissioned back in the 1500’s and named after himself.

Stacey leant against the wide oak door, its frame
tracked by ivy. I could barely see her through the increasing fog as I raced up
the path. She didn’t look at all upset with me for my unpunctuality, just waved
excitedly with her plum-coloured hair pulled back into a smart ponytail. She
wore a grey trouser suit and only a thin application of mascara. What a
different person she looked compared with the other night! Not half as ghostly
in the paler colours.

‘Sorry,’ I offered sheepishly, puffing to her
side. ‘I’m terrible, I know.’

‘Yeah, me too. That’s why I’ve only just got
here.’ She smiled. ‘Do I look okay?’

‘Definitely!’ I gave her a firm nod.

‘Thanks! I borrowed this suit from my sister,’ she
said readily, tugging the jacket down a tad. ‘I think it’s a bit dressy for a
shop but I really want this job, so I thought best dress to impress! How foggy
is it today? The weather forecast said nice and clear. If I wasn’t so nervous it’d
really creep me out! I’m starting to get butterflies now.’

‘You’ll be fine. You’re just meeting someone who
will ask you some questions.’

‘Yes!’ she said unconvinced, and somewhat distantly.
‘Questions. Okay. S’pose I’d better go in soon. Mind if I run a few things past
you first, about what I think the woman might ask me?’

‘Course not. But let’s get inside; it’s freezing!’

I chafed my cold hands as we passed the empty
reception desk. Admission to Halton Cray was free of charge. The wide
timber-beamed entrance hall ran the entire width of the house, with Tudor
tables and chairs lining it. Hanging tapestry adorned the walls on either side.
I knew the scent of the place well: a chilly vault-like air, to me so familiar
and welcoming.

We turned into the Great Hall. Not a living soul lingered
in here, and it was almost as cold inside as it was out. Not at all designed
for the modern central heating system, which failed miserably to change the
temperature.

Stacey kept her voice low while rehearsing her
lines, twisting a loose strand of her hair round her fingers as she did. Still
the distant high walls threw back at us the ghost of her voice. As I listened,
I silently marvelled at the splendorous Hall, from its dark wooden floorboards
that creaked under us, to its double-height ceiling that bowed at the centre, from
the weight of the chandelier. Huge oil paintings decorated the walls above the
ten-foot walnut panelling, and the Minstrels’ Gallery with its oak balustrade
overlooking us.

We circled the room as it began to fill with the
admiring voices of other visitors. To one side of the Hall, a huge ornate
fireplace sat empty but for an iron plaque. Its stone hearth so big that you
could lay out straight within it.

‘Alex, do you remember all the dares we used to do
in this place?’

‘Funny, I don’t remember
you
actually doing
any dares!’ I nudged her. ‘Go on then, I dare you to crouch under that flue and
look up.’

‘No way!’ She smiled. ‘If there is a ghost in it,
he probably wants to be left alone.’

‘Good philosophy.’

We strolled past the grand organ that took up most
of the back wall. Although I hadn’t stood here in maybe two or three years, it
never failed to thrill me, as if I was seeing it for the first time.

‘I’d better get round there,’ she said, taking a deep
breath.

The shop was farther down the entrance hall, which
in its heyday was a luxurious parlour.

‘Where shall I meet you when I’m done?’ she asked
nervously.

‘Just stick to this part of the house. I’ll be
wandering about. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Good luck!’

‘Eek! See you soon!’

I watched her down the hallway where she disappeared
into the gift shop. The next corridor I turned down ran alongside the main courtyard,
encompassing it in a full square. The wind was howling up the brickwork wildly
and rattling at the windows like a trapped animal. I stared through the glass,
my eyes tracing up the looming White Tower. An open window near the top allowed
a red curtain to blow in and out. In another corridor across the courtyard, I
saw in my peripheral vision an outer door swing suddenly open, as if someone
had slammed into it. It startled me. I couldn’t see anybody there and for a moment
I thought it must be the strong wind, though it seemed too deliberate. I
scanned that corridor looking for the door-slammer. Nobody appeared. I was well
acquainted with the ghost stories of the Cray.

I mounted the great oak staircase to the first
floor and headed for the North West Wing, into what was once the main bedchamber.
It sat directly above the gift shop and held grandly framed prints of famous
portraits, such as Holbein’s Henry VIII and Gheeraerts’s Elizabeth I.

Passing the odd visitor, I walked to a balcony at
the far end. This overlooked the north courtyard and front gates. It reminded
me of a time when my friends and I had set out to capture a glimpse of the
Cray’s most notorious visitor: Sir Halton’s ghost. The last Cray family only
inherited the estate after the disownment of an elder brother named Halton. The
name was traditionally given to every first son in the male line. After his
father cast him off, Halton returned years later – some say for revenge – but died
en route in the mid-nineteenth century. People often report seeing his ghost
finishing that journey; galloping down Bourne Hill during the witching hour before
passing through the closed iron gates and vanishing altogether. Allegedly, if
anyone encountered his apparition, it was a bad omen for those living at the
Cray. Locals rumoured that the last members of the family saw his ghost themselves
before dying off within a few years of one another. The property was abandoned
for some time after that.

No matter what we’d heard as kids, we planned to
see the ghost for ourselves. It’s not as if we weren’t scared; excitement and
curiosity just took over. None of us were more than fourteen. Stacey had refused
to come, but the rest of us snuck out and met at the village library before
stealing to the Cray after dark. We got on the grounds via a gap in the railing,
taking care not to alert rangers who patrol the land. Wanting a good view of
the rider, we ascended the balcony where I now stood some seven years on. We
faced north with the expanse of Bourne Hill’s fields inclining before us,
deeply shaded by numerous oak and chestnut trees. Those nearer the crest all
grew wind-shaped, their trunks aslant and their branches like harrowing arms,
reaching out sideways and stretching upwards for the sun’s warmth, a victory
for that constant rising wind. We scared one another stupid each time we
fancied seeing movement in the fields–

‘Earth to Alex!’ Stacey’s depleted voice broke me
from my daydream. My eyes instinctively followed the sound. ‘What planet were
you on?’

‘Sorry, Stace. I was miles away. How did it go?’

‘Well…’ She pulled a face. I knew the look. She
wanted something.

‘It turns out the position’s become full time because
the other girl who I was going to job share with has walked out! But–’

‘
Wait
– walked out?’

‘Yeah, like yesterday.’

‘Is her name Tess?’

‘No. Rebecca.’ She frowned impatiently at me. ‘But
anyway, I can’t work the other hours because of my teacher training and drama
classes. So I was saying to the shop manager, Mrs Evans her name is, that you do
shift work and might job share with me. Think about it for a second, Alex! It
will only be two weekday afternoons and a Saturday. I’ll be working the
Saturday as well, just as I would have done with the other girl if she hadn’t
gone and ruined everything! So we can be here together! It’ll be great, and you
can earn a bit extra. Plus you said how nice it would be to work here–’

‘Alright, Stace, calm down. Let me think for a
minute. It’d be great to work here, but I don’t think it’ll be possible to
arrange the hours.’

‘Oh please, please, please?’ she whispered,
arching her body into the begging pose of a dog. ‘She knows you’re here, just
go and speak to her about hours. It can’t hurt!’ She grinned, nodding her head,
convinced she was able to hypnotise me in to compliance.

She was right; it couldn’t hurt to talk to the woman.
Besides, Stacey hadn’t mentioned anything about the missing Tess McQueeney. And
who was Rebecca?

Before I knew it, I was making my way towards the
stairs, deciding to ask this Mrs Evans about the girls myself. Stacey ran ahead
to lead the way and excitedly hopped and bounced down them like a mountain
goat.

Three

‘There is no marvel in a woman learning to speak,
but there would be in teaching her to hold her tongue.’

– Elizabeth I of England

‘Mrs Evans?’ I approached
the counter in the gift shop, sticking out my hand to the middle-aged woman
behind it. She chewed heavily on a piece of gum, had the figure of a Russian
doll, and a face that needed a good iron. ‘I’m Alex Turner.’ – She stopped
chewing at once and stared at me blankly for half a minute. – ‘I believe my
friend, Stacey Lloyd, mentioned me to you about a job-share position?’

Recollection kicked in and changed her expression.

‘Of course.’ She pointed to her head to indicate
forgetfulness.

Immediately she asked if I’d worked on a cash
register before, which I had and so found myself instinctively nodding, and
‘Who is your current employer?’

‘EDIN International,’ I replied. ‘It’s an IT
recruitment agency in New Cromley.’

‘Would your employer allow you to work here, too?’

‘It would depend on the hours.’

‘The situation is,’ Mrs Evans explained, ‘I need
someone to cover the front desk in the afternoons, and occasionally work in the
shop. I cover the desk in the morning, but later I’m too busy. Stacey would
have shared this task with a girl who’s just left, and so last minute I’m now
stuck to fill the position quickly. I could make the job fulltime now,’ she
said a little assertively, as if
I’d
made things difficult, ‘and get
just a Saturday helper. But your friend says you would consider it, and she
gave you a generous character reference.’

She walked around the counter as she spoke and I
didn’t have a chance to interrupt. As she moved, I detected the faint smell of
stale cigarettes wafting from her. It made me hold my breath.

‘The front desk doesn’t need attending all the
time, but I like to have someone there for general enquiries. The shop will
mainly need minding when Susan or I take our breaks.’

She gestured a hand to a woman dusting shelves,
indicating this as Susan.

‘Saturdays will mainly be rotating between the
front desk and shop with Stacey. What hours do you currently work?’

‘My shift pattern rotates monthly,’ I said, now
having to follow her as she moved to and fro the counter. ‘My early shift
finishes at 2 P.M. but aren’t fixed to certain days. I could ask–’

‘Do you think your employer would fix your shifts
so that you can come here on Tuesdays and Thursdays for a start time of 3 P.M.?
You’ll be working until seven, and on Saturdays, it’s ten till six.’

Before I could answer she went straight into my
salary of fourteen thousand pounds
pro rata
. It was clear that Stacey
had promised my services by the way Mrs Evans was setting this out. I barely had
time to think about it.

‘I’ll need you to start next Tuesday, and I’d like
you to be smart as well,’ she added, eyeing my jeans and trainers. I was sure
she didn’t mean any slur by it, but had simply forgotten that I hadn’t come
here to attend an interview.

I nodded as she continued finalising other
details.

‘Before I go,’ I said, once able to get a word in.
‘Is there any news on Tess McQueeney? I read about her in the paper. She did
work here, didn’t she?’

‘That’s correct,’ she replied aloofly. ‘She’s been
found, safe and – well, there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘That’s good–’

‘Then see you on Tuesday.’

‘What happened to her?’ I persisted.

‘All I know is that she’s okay’ – she forced a smile
– ‘and can’t fit working here in with other things. It all got a bit much for
her. The main thing is she’s alive and well. So, I will see you on Tuesday?’

I nodded, acknowledging the avoidance.

Stacey was listening at the door, and she jumped
around like a child as I approached, as if I was about to take her on a
merry-go-round.

‘Eek! This is going to be so much fun!’ she squealed
each word, before glancing over my shoulder. ‘Why were you asking about that
girl?’

‘I was curious, Stace. I had no idea she’d been
found.’

‘Let’s hope she doesn’t want her job back. Fancy
lunch in The Jacobus to celebrate?’ She pointed in the direction of the estates
converted barn, a popular restaurant to one side of the car park.

‘Sure, but after a quick walk through the
gardens,’ I negotiated, following her out the house. She agreed reluctantly and
turned with me round the south side of the mansion.

‘At least the wind’s dying away,’ she sighed, as my
eyes wandered down to the Shockers River. It gurgled loudly, running east, dividing
the house and gardens from the meadows. Its water looked black from here with
an early autumnal mist crawling its way downstream, just inches above the
surface; their speeds unsynchronised so that the mist floated half the rivers
pace. It was the perfect setting for what sat about one hundred yards beyond,
in Spring Meadow. The Cray family mausoleum. Yet more ghost stories surrounded
it.

We turned our backs to the river and took an
uphill path that ran alongside the house. The worn chalky-grey flagstones rose
by four steps ahead before sweeping away to follow the garden wall around the
estate. I loved two gardens in particular: the Sunken Garden, which I couldn’t
see from here, and the Topiary Lawn directly before us. Its trees mainly shaped
into giant chess pieces and mythical beasts, forming a small irregular
labyrinth. We played hide-and-seek amongst these not so long ago; some of the
trees so large you could pull back a branch and climb inside. The Head Gardener
never caught us and I bet he wasn’t pleased at the secreted doorways we left
gaping in his masterpieces.

‘Come on, Alex, I’m getting hungry!’ Stacey whined,
shooing off a bee as it buzzed past her head. Her stomach growled too as we
turned back for the restaurant.

The hostess seated us near an open fire that
crackled with heat. I ordered our drinks while Stacey text her boyfriend the
good news, as if it was all settled.

‘So, did Darren enjoy his birthday?’

‘Yeah, it was great– oh! I forgot to ask you about
that guy. We saw you both leaving Carnelian’s. His name’s Mark, right?’

I was sure I hadn’t mentioned his name. I nodded,
since it was true.

‘I knew I recognised him! He’s a bit–’ She
hesitated and recoiled slightly in her seat.

‘A bit what?’

‘Well, no offence, Alex, but he’s pretty fit. He
used to date a model.’

‘Jees, thanks, Stace!’

‘Sorry, but you know what I mean.’ She looked me
up and down. ‘Mark goes out with a certain type of girl. How did you meet
anyway?’

I wasn’t telling Stacey about the online dating agency
I’d joined for the 30-day free trial.

‘How do
you
know him?’ I countered.

‘Oh, through Ben, my ex.’ She made that nauseated
face again. ‘Darren sort of knows him as well. I always thought Mark was really
nice. How come you didn’t get on?’

‘Stacey, seriously, I haven’t a clue. He seemed
very nice to me too when we dated the first few times. That night however he
was someone else.’ I threw my hands up. ‘I don’t know what changed.’

I was eager to get off this topic.

‘So you’ve not heard anything from him?’

‘Not a word, which is okay with me.’

A waiter appeared with a tray of drinks, selecting
ours from amongst them before memorising our food order. Luckily, this
distraction was enough to get the subject of Mark left behind.

After paying our bill, we headed for the car park.
Stacey was restless to meet Darren the minute he finished work. Noticing that
the mist carried a strange spicy smell, we both turned our noses to the air,
sniffing in vain. It was tantalising, though neither of us could decide what it
was.

‘I’m parked over there.’ She pointed. ‘I’ll see
you next Saturday for our first day together!’

I waved her off as she got into her silver Fiat
Punto. I climbed in the jeep and sat there a moment nonplussed. What had
happened today? Because in one sense I felt like I’d just been duped.

I put the gear lever to reverse while checking my
mirrors and easing off the brake. Being an automatic, it crept back before I
accelerated. In my mirror, I caught a glimpse of a dark figure too close to the
rear. I stomped on the brake, but felt it bump hard against whomever was there.

‘Damn!’ I pulled up the handbrake, opening my
door. ‘I’m sorry!’ I exclaimed, clambering out. ‘Are you alright?’

I approached the rear to find a smartly dressed man
getting up from the ground. He brushed himself down so energetically I couldn’t
imagine he was injured. Still, I asked again –

‘Are you hurt?’

‘I’ll be fine in a moment,’ he replied hoarsely. He
stopped and looked at me. His eyes were large and ebon black, the pupils fully
dilated in the fog, to a point where it was difficult to see the whites of
them.

I took a step forward to see him better.

He stared confoundedly.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ I asked.

‘No thanks to you,’ he said at length.

I half expected this reaction, and determined not
to rise to it.

‘If you’re injured, I can drive you to a hospital
to get checked over.’

‘What! Get in a vehicle with you?’ He raised one
eyebrow. ‘That sounds like a death wish. Are you plotting to finish the job?
You’ll have to run me down again, right here’ – he pointed – ‘in broad daylight!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I insisted. ‘Look, I checked my
mirror but didn’t see–’

‘Too busy doing your lipstick?’ he shot unexpectedly,
before taking a moment to examine my face. ‘Or were you just daydreaming?’

I gazed at him incredulously for the chauvinism,
finding that the mist buried his features whenever I focused. It kept him
blurry in my perception. I could see that his athletic build towered over my
small frame. He was about six-feet tall and considerably broad chested.

Unappeased, I told him, ‘Perhaps you should take
more care walking out in front of cars.’

He smiled mischievously. ‘Perhaps you should
resume driving lessons and begin by learning the structure of a vehicle. That
there is the rear’ – he pointed and was sardonic – ‘at the other end is the
front.’

I refused to let him antagonise me into biting
twice. He was already sauntering off towards the main road, congratulating
himself no doubt.

Pulling away in a vehicle annoyed is never a good idea.
I would have sat in the jeep for five minutes with the radio on to regain my
calm. I would have, if the engine would start. I turned the key repeatedly to
find it mute. In my frustration – after the rudeness of the man – I couldn’t
work out why. Questions drove around my mind while I sat there. What will
Adrian say? Is he covered for breakdowns?

Knuckles rapped hard, twice, on my window – it was
him
! Even the tone of his knock was sarcastic.

I wound down the glass. On closer inspection,
sheltered from the fog, I could see him better. He wasn’t classically handsome,
though his stern features were proportionate: a heavy brow, strong jaw, unremarkable
nose – all of which mocked me, especially his dark eyes! They matched his
cola-black hair. He was certainly above twenty-five, but I dared not look at
him long. At first he said nothing, just looked over me with a silent gloat of
the situation. He rested his hand on the roof of my car and spoke rapidly –

‘Are you a joyrider?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘What is it, hotwired?’

‘Of course not–’

‘You’ve a licence then?’

‘Yes!’

‘You regularly go around trying to kill people?’

‘No, but that was–’

‘You might want to take it out of
Reverse
,’
he said with a straight hard face and quizzing eye, ‘and stick it in
Park
before you attempt to choke the ignition again. You’ve severed the fuel supply
by turning off the engine prematurely.’

I looked down, saw my error, confirmed his wisdom,
and cursed privately. I turned back – he was gone.

Monday morning I checked
with the HR department for any moonlighting policy that might prevent me having
a second job. They concluded that they didn’t recognise a conflict of interest.
After ticking that box, I asked my line manager to fix my shift pattern for two
days of the week, and so it was easier than I thought.

My phone rang at my desk and it surprised me to
see ‘Mark calling…’ flashing on the screen. I couldn’t help feeling happy that
he was calling me.

‘Hey, Alex. How are you?’

‘Not bad, thanks,’ I said, a little confused by
his perky tone. ‘You?’

‘Good, yeah,’ he stammered then for words. ‘Did
you have a nice weekend?’

‘Pretty much–’

‘Listen,’ he jammed in, his voice evened out. ‘I
just wanted to say that I had a nice time the other night, and you’re very nice
and very interesting, but–’ He paused, which provoked me.

‘But?’ I asked inquisitively.

‘It’s just I’m not sure– I’m not
one hundred
percent sure about you, Alex. I mean, I don’t want to lead you on. I’d like it
if we could be friends.’

‘No problem,’ I said, and knowing what he meant I
added inwardly, ‘the kind of friends who never speak.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with you,’ he said,
bizarrely.

‘O-
kay
.’

He fell silent.

‘Well, I appreciate that you’ve called.’

‘And thanks for answering,’ he said. ‘So I’ll see
you when I see you.’

On that short goodbye I hung up with the
confirmation I needed; Mark was officially a weirdo. It began to feel like a
lucky escape. It probably didn’t go for all men, but Adrian had always said
that guys didn’t call girls they weren’t interested in. It would be ridiculous
though to surmise Mark’s reasons.