Silent as the Grave (3 page)

Yours with fondest wishes and memories,

Harriet.

There was a long postscript to the letter in which Harriet described the problem she and her husband needed my help with, and it was the postscript that decided me. The letter itself had gone a fair way to persuading me; I had no plans and I would love to see Harriet again. Let me be honest: I defy any man
not
to feel as I did when he has had a relationship with a woman such as I had with Harriet. But it was the story she told that hooked me in the end. I knew it would take too long for me to write back in time; I would have to phone my acceptance.

‘Mulgrave Castle,' the voice was male; well spoken.

‘May I speak to Lady Harriet please?'

‘I'm afraid she's not here today. Who's calling?'

‘It's Adam Bailey; to whom I speaking, please?'

‘Hello, Adam. Tony Rowe here, I take it you've got Harriet's letter?'

‘Yes, it arrived a few minutes ago.'

‘Good God, the post gets worse! We posted that nearly a fortnight ago; we'd almost given up on you. Did Harriet get the address wrong?'

‘No, it was right, even down to the postcode. It made me wonder where she got it from.'

‘Ah, that was Harriet being clever. Pulled a few strings, got it from your publishers, you know, from the book you did about the Ethiopian war.'

‘Smart of her,' I agreed. ‘Well, if the invitation's still open, I'd be glad to accept.'

‘That's great news. I'll tell Harriet the minute she gets back. She's gone off Christmas shopping. I can't stand it myself.'

‘I know exactly how you feel.' A bond was in the process of forming.

‘Right, so we can expect you Christmas Eve; I'll look forward to meeting you.'

‘Likewise, it will be a treat for me too. I was thinking it might be a solitary Christmas this year.'

‘Can't have that.' I was warming to Rowe with every word. ‘Nobody should be alone at Christmas. It doesn't seem right.'

Chapter Three

Snow was falling heavily throughout the county as I headed north. Big flakes were reflected in the headlights of the car as they drifted lazily down, aimless with the lack of wind to drive them. Conditions were good on the main roads, but as I considered the remote location of Mulgrave Castle and the potential dangers of untreated minor country lanes I was thankful for the four-wheel drive capabilities of my Range Rover. As soon as I turned off the main road I noticed the deterioration. Where seconds earlier I'd been travelling on black tarmac, glistening where the grit had melted the falling snow, I was now on a white surface, the snow crunching under the tyres as the big engine thrust the vehicle forward. The weather was deteriorating, the snow whirling ever thicker and faster in the headlights. I added the spotlights and increased the tempo of the wipers. Soon every passing landmark was shrouded in snow; trees were coated, their lighter limbs already bending as the snow accumulated on them. I still had over thirty miles to travel on these minor roads before I reached the village of Mulgrave, then a further five to the castle itself. With the steady obscuring of signposts and any other identification I was glad of the map I'd thought to put in the car. Without it, I'd have been well and truly lost.

The snow had reached blizzard conditions, and my pace had dropped to a crawl when I eventually entered a village my map had informed me was Mulgrave. I realized with some surprise that I hadn't seen another vehicle since leaving the main road. If the snow continued much longer the roads would be impassable, and Mulgrave Castle would be cut off from the outside world. I chuckled aloud at my thoughts. The weather was turning the scenario into one reminiscent of a country house mystery. Eat your heart out, Agatha Christie.

It was with some relief that I saw the solid stone lodge picked out in the beams of my lights. I knew from Harriet's letter that this was occupied by their resident cook and her husband, who also worked at the castle, and that the gates would be opened ready for my arrival. I swung past the lodge and headed between an avenue of trees down a long drive over half-a-mile long, which opened into a wide gravel sweep. In spite of the ever-thickening snow I could hear the gravel crunching on my tyres. The sound was muted by the snow, however, and my arrival would have gone unnoticed. I sat for a moment after switching the ignition off; admiring the front façade of the house. I was mildly surprised when the massive front door swung open and a figure came hurrying out towards me. I climbed out of the car.

‘Adam,' the figure hailed me. ‘Hi, I'm Tony Rowe; let me give you a hand in with your bags.' We reached the sanctuary of the building. ‘It's a pleasure to meet you, Adam, I'm sorry you must have had such a rotten journey getting here.' Tony put down the case he had carried in for me and as we shook hands I glanced up at the sound of her voice.

‘You haven't told him it isn't over with yet, then?' Harriet was standing on the half landing, where the broad staircase turned at right-angles midway to the first floor. She walked gracefully down the shallow flight and I could see the years had been kind to her. The beautiful girl had become a lovely woman. ‘Hello, Adam,' she smiled warmly.

I shook her hand and kissed her with due formality on one cheek. ‘Harriet, you look lovelier than ever,' I greeted her. ‘It's wonderful to see you again. Thank you so much for inviting me. What was it you meant about it not being over with?'

Rowe cleared his throat nervously. ‘I was about to ask you a favour when Harriet interrupted. We have a bit of a crisis over the transport, you see. My BMW has decided to malfunction, I can't get a spark out of it, and my estate manager's borrowed the Land Rover to go off to Scotland for Christmas and the Hogmanay holiday. To be honest we haven't another vehicle capable of tackling these roads in the snow,' he paused and Harriet took over.

‘My sister Eve and Tony's business partner Edgar Beaumont are at Netherdale railway station. They both caught the morning train up from London and got as far as Netherdale and they can't get any further. Eve rang me just before you got here. I tried to tell her we couldn't guarantee to be able to collect her, but without much success to be honest. Eve told me they couldn't find a taxi driver prepared to venture out of town and demanded we send someone to pick them up. Eve can be a bit like that, I'm afraid. Then we saw you arrive in your Range Rover and it seemed like an answer to our prayers.'

‘Eve's a bloody bad tempered, spoilt idiot, that's what she is.'

‘Tony's right,' she confessed reluctantly. ‘Eve can be difficult.' (I heard a muttered aside of, ‘Impossible more like,' from Tony.) ‘So if you don't feel up to tackling those roads again, Adam, just say so. Don't feel obligated; Eve and Edgar can book into The Golden Bear or somewhere in Netherdale and keep each other company until the weather clears. They're well enough matched in some ways.'

‘Don't worry; I don't mind going to pick them up. The Range Rover should be able to cope if I take it steady.'

I declined their offer that one of them should accompany me. ‘No, it's fine, you're far too busy. I'll manage on my own.'

Harriet insisted I had a coffee before I left, so it was twenty minutes later when I set off. Despite my bold words to Tony and Harriet, I had serious reservations about the journey ahead. There was no sign of the snow abating and road conditions were worsening all the time.

I had almost reached the junction with the Netherdale ring road when a bumping vibration told me the Range Rover had picked up a puncture. I slowed gingerly to a halt and put on my hazard lights. The action was a reflex one; I had little expectation of their being any traffic as I hadn't seen another vehicle since leaving Mulgrave Castle. I swore a bit – no, to be fair, I swore a lot – then got out to inspect the damage. The rear wheel on the driver's side was the culprit. The snow, driven by a strong north-easterly wind, was driving almost horizontally into my face. I cursed Bing Crosby and Irving Berlin for wishing a ‘White Christmas' upon the world and started to rectify the problem.

I unloaded the jack and the spare wheel. Changing a wheel is not my idea of fun at the best of times. This certainly was
not
the best of times. The operation must have taken in excess of half an hour, during which I got cold and wet, then colder and wetter. The biggest problem I faced was that when I had put the car in for servicing a few weeks earlier, the mechanic had used an air-powered wheel-brace to tighten the wheel nuts. This is a far more efficient device than a hand-operated one; the problem is it makes the nuts virtually impossible to remove by hand. I was forced to undo them one at a time, removing the jack and edging the car forward between each removal to get the next nut in a position where I could bring my full weight to bear by standing on the brace. When my foot slipped from the brace and the tool scratched my shin, I almost gave up.

But eventually, and with considerably more swearing, I completed the repair, replaced the punctured wheel in the boot, and let down the jack. When I had secured everything I climbed back into the car and started the engine. Although I was now sheltered from the weather I was cold, wet, dirty, and weary. My temper was not at its best either. I thought briefly about the couple waiting at the station. No doubt they'd have the refuge of a warm, well-lit coffee bar. I sat for five minutes or so, allowing the car heater to alleviate the numbness in my hands and feet. The heater did its best, but the difference it made was negligible.

The station yard was almost in darkness when I arrived some twenty-five minutes later. Obviously I had miscalculated. There would be no more trains stopping there before Boxing Day and the station staff had been ordered to save on electricity.

The car headlights picked out two figures huddled against the meagre protection offered by the wall of the building. Through the myriad of snowflakes dancing across the beam I could just make out that they were a man and a woman. Obviously these were my passengers. I pulled to a halt alongside them and climbed stiffly out. I was about to greet them when the woman spoke, ‘Where the bloody hell do you think you've been? Do you realize how long we've been waiting here freezing to death? Put the cases in the boot and get us to the Castle, pronto. Just you wait until my sister hears about this.' She swept past me and climbed into the back of the car.

I turned to her companion; half hoping for a warmer reception. ‘You should have been here an hour ago. You'll be lucky if you've still got a job once I speak to Sir Anthony, you're a bloody disgrace.'

With that he joined the woman in the back of the car; my car. I walked angrily across to where they'd left their baggage. There were two suitcases and a hold-all. I examined these; then returned and opened the back of the Range Rover. The wind was driving the snow directly towards the back of the vehicle. I carried each case to the car individually, taking my time and being careful not to slip on the treacherous surface; then dumped them unceremoniously into the boot. I dragged the process out as long as I could justify and felt better for it. It was mean and petty, true enough; but I enjoyed it. When I had finished, I slammed the boot viciously; then the driver's door with equal venom; apologising silently to the car as I did so; then set off back towards the castle.

Whether the two of them had run out of conversation during their long wait or not I wasn't sure; and to be honest I didn't care much. They neither spoke to me nor to each other and that suited me fine. My attention was concentrated wholly on the road conditions which had deteriorated from appalling to ghastly since my previous journey. In parts the road was virtually impassable. For any other vehicle it would have been, but it is those conditions that a Range Rover is built for. Not for the first time did I say a silent prayer of thanks to the manufacturers and applaud the wisdom of my choice.

It took more than an hour before I saw the welcoming light of the lodge ahead. The snow; that had started as fine pellets was now a mass of large flakes falling in whirling, gyrating confusion. As I pulled to a halt outside the main entrance to the castle the woman broke the silence. If I had hoped that the warmth of the car would have mellowed her mood or even that I might get a word of thanks for my efforts on their behalf I was in for a rude shock. ‘Take the car round to the courtyard; unload our bags, and bring them to our rooms,' she ordered me in an abrupt tone. ‘Your slackness has already made us late for dinner. By the time we've changed, the rest of the party will probably be onto the dessert course.'

She waited for her companion to get out then slammed the door in a bad-tempered manner behind them and stalked across towards the steps in front of the entrance. I watched her and the man trudging behind her. ‘And a Merry fucking Christmas to you as well,' I muttered. I took considerable pleasure in seeing the man slip off the bottom step and deposit his fat arse in a snowdrift. It was the nearest to a bit of fun I'd had all day. My faith in natural justice restored, I drove round the end of the building and found my way to the courtyard at the rear. I parked as close to the door as I could and lifted their cases out of the boot before depositing them inside the nearby entrance. I locked the car and entered the castle, following the long corridor towards the sound of voices and the smell of cooking. I entered the kitchen; a huge room that at first glance seemed to be constructed purely from stainless steel.

To my surprise, Harriet was there, chatting with a slim, good-looking woman who I guessed to be in her late thirties; and who by her clothing seemed to be the cook. Harriet glanced across when I opened the door, ‘Adam, thank goodness you're back safely. We were beginning to worry that you might have had an accident or got stuck in the snow.' She examined me closely and exclaimed, ‘Your hands are filthy, what happened?'

‘I had a puncture on the way there,' I told her ruefully. ‘That's what delayed me.'

‘But where are Eve and Edgar?'

I grinned. ‘They've gone off to their rooms and are probably waiting for your chauffeur to deliver their luggage so they can change for dinner.'

‘Our chauffeur … but we haven't got a chauffeur,' Harriet said in astonishment. ‘He left us last month to go and work in America.'

‘I think they were under the impression I was the replacement.'

‘Oh dear.' Harriet began to giggle. ‘But didn't you explain; didn't you tell them who you are?'

‘I wasn't really given very much of an opportunity,' I confessed.

‘Oh, I see. Don't tell me, let me guess; Eve was in one of her moods? Was she very unpleasant?'

‘At the station she was extremely unpleasant; after that neither of them spoke a word to me until they got here.'

‘Just wait until I have a word with her, she'll feel the rough edge of my tongue. I love my sister dearly but she can be a real bitch sometimes. Politeness forbids me to tell you what Tony reckons she needs but you can guess. Something you could give her but I couldn't.'

A stifled chuckle reminded us we weren't alone. ‘I'm sorry, Polly,' Harriet said. ‘I should have introduced you. Adam, meet Polly Jardine: a maestro in the kitchen and my closest friend and confidante. Polly, this is Adam Bailey; he used to be famous.'

As we shook hands, Harriet leaned over to Polly and told her confidentially, ‘Adam was a TV reporter but I knew him long before that. We were at university together. I seduced him and he's never looked back since.'

‘Harriet,' I told her sternly, ‘stop trying to embarrass me in front of your friends. It didn't work years ago and it won't work now. Shouldn't I make a move to get those cases up to the rooms?'

 ‘No you jolly well shouldn't. If Eve and Edgar want them they can come down and get them. I can't wait to give Eve a piece of my mind.'