Shelter, page 9
He took his penknife from his pocket and slit one of the polythene sheets, peeled it back, and climbed up onto the sill. From there it was only a two-foot drop down to the floor of the sitting room.
He moved the torch, taking in the bare brick walls and the stripped pine doors. He was impressed. The room was bigger than the outside of the house led him to expect, and the renovation work was progressing quickly. He knew what an excellent site manager Shaun Egan was. He’d never taken to the man, and was sure the feeling was mutual, but he couldn’t fault his expertise.
He moved through the house slowly, taking each room in turn, climbing the stairs and having a good look round up there too. There were three bedrooms, all of a reasonable size, and another room that looked as if it was going to be a bathroom judging from the freestanding rolled-topped bath—still in its wrappings—that was occupying much of the space. He approved of the specification, but then Laura prided herself on always fitting the best.
He wasn’t actually sure what he expected to achieve by coming here. Satisfying his curiosity, certainly, but there was also a need to see how Laura was coping. He was mildly irritated that she seemed to be coping very well without him. Except for the accident the other day everything seemed to be progressing smoothly.
Thinking of the accident reminded him that he wanted to see for himself the hole Dean McMillan had so conveniently fallen into. That really was satisfying. Simon Lawson was a terrier when it came to claims like this; worrying away at them until he got a result. He’d seen the man’s home, a large Georgian house in the Cotswolds, paid for by the commissions from his successful cases. If anyone could throw a spanner in Laura Craig’s well-organized works it was Lawson.
He climbed back out the way he’d come and swung the torch beam around until he found what he was looking for. He shone it down at the danger sign and smiled to himself. He slid the sign out of the way and shone his torch down into the gloom, but could see nothing of any interest. The light from the torch was reflected back at him from several puddles of water on the floor, and as he raised the beam he saw the fungus-lined walls.
There was an evil smell emanating from the hole. He remembered smelling something like it before when he’d found a moldering lettuce in the bottom of the fridge. The lettuce had turned to a blackish slime and stank—a smell very much like this. He wrinkled his nose and drew back, pushing the signboard back across the opening. He was about to turn and head back to his car when a noise stopped him. It was a soft, whispery sound like paper being torn into tiny pieces. He cocked his head to listen and the sound came again.
It was coming from below him, from the hole. For a moment he was going to ignore it; then curiosity got the better of him and he slid the board back again, switching on the torch and shining it down.
There was nothing to see, but then he hadn’t expected anything else. He swung the beam around the walls again, and was about to switch off the torch when it slipped from his grasp and tumbled into the blackness below.
He swore. He couldn’t leave it there. It would show that someone had been nosing about, and he didn’t really want to put Laura on her guard just yet. He liked to think he would be able to come back here from time to time, to check things over and, if circumstances dictated, indulge in a little sabotage.
With a sigh he put his foot on the first rung of the ladder and climbed down into the cellar.
The rungs were slippery with the black fungus and halfway down his foot slipped and he fell the rest of the way, his ankle twisting as he landed.
He winced with pain and reached out, trying to find the torch. His fingers closed around the cold metal cylinder and he fumbled with the switch. A pale light spilled from the torch, much weaker than it was before, but strong enough for him to get an impression of his surroundings. The floor was wet, the walls slimy, and the place stank. He listened for the sound of approaching footsteps, but all he could hear was the soft whispering sound he’d heard when he was standing at the edge of the hole.
The sound was down here with him. He swung the torch in an arc. He noticed the circular wellhead and limped across to it, shining the torch down the hole, but there was nothing to see.
The sound seemed to be increasing in volume, more urgent now, hissing and rustling. He aimed the torch at the wall and at last saw where the sound was coming from. The black, fungal growth covering the walls was alive with movement, the fine, hairlike filaments waving and rippling, as if caught in a breeze. But there was no breeze. The air was still and fetid, but the growth continued to move, giving the impression that the entire wall was breathing.
He hobbled back to the ladder, not wishing to spend another second down here. He gripped the ladder with both hands and started to haul himself up. He put his foot on the bottom rung and pushed, almost crying out as a lance of white-hot pain roared up his leg from his injured ankle. Quickly he changed to his good foot, supporting his weight with his hands. He reached up to grab another rung and something cold and damp wrapped itself tightly around his waist and he was pulled bodily from the ladder.
He fell to the floor, the impact forcing the air from his lungs, the torch flying from his grip. It bounced once, then rolled across the floor, dropping over the edge of the well and down into the blackness.
He was struggling to get his breath, his hands reaching down and clawing at the thing gripping him around the middle. His fingers found something wet and slimly, almost rubbery to the touch, and it was squeezing tighter and tighter, making it hard to breathe.
And then it started to pull him across the floor toward the well.
He was gasping for breath, trying to draw air into his lungs. He wanted to cry out, to scream, but all he could manage was a strangled moan. A second later something wrapped itself around his neck. He scrabbled with his fingers but couldn’t get a purchase on the wet, fleshy band that was slowly closing his windpipe. Lights were flashing in front of his eyes, blue and silver, like swirling illuminated dust motes, and the precious air he had sucked in was now threatening to burst his lungs as it sought a passage out of his body.
He was aware of the rough flagstones scraping the skin from his hands as he tried to halt the inexorable journey toward the well, and he flapped and twisted, trying to break free. Slowly the lights in front of his eyes popped out, one by one as his body used up its oxygen, and he sank into unconsciousness.
Slowly and methodically, without ceremony, he was dragged down into the well.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As Laura drove up the sweeping gravel drive to Dunbar Court she could see the house was alive with light. Through the line of poplars that edged the drive she glimpsed row after row of parked cars. She gave a low whistle. If this was Richard’s idea of a few friends, she’d hate to see what he called a full-scale party.
Secretly she was delighted. She’d found the thought of a small, exclusive cocktail party intimidating. This was going to be much easier than she’d imagined. Her skin was covered in a light coating of goose bumps, partly from the cooling night air, but also from excitement. After all the problems of the recent year, and the past few days, she was ready for some unadulterated enjoyment.
It took a while to find a parking space, finally squeezing her Peugeot into a tiny gap between a Bentley and a Jaguar. At the door she was greeted by a middle-aged man in butler’s livery who took her coat and deposited it in the cloakroom. Laura stood in the huge hallway waiting for the butler to return, admiring the paintings on the wall and the small sculptures set in small recesses along its length. From the depths of the house a dog barked, and a second later Socrates was bounding down the stairs toward her. She sank to a crouch and spread her arms out toward the approaching dog.
The butler rushed forward to intercept the dog as Socrates reached her in a flurry of wagging tail and sweeping tongue. “Don’t worry. Socrates and I are old friends, aren’t we, boy?” she said, grabbing the dog’s ruff and tickling him behind the ears. The dog panted happily, allowing Laura to pet him.
The butler ignored her and called the dog to heel. “I apologize,” he said formally. “Someone must have left a door open.” Gripping Socrates firmly by the collar, he half led, half dragged the dog to an adjacent room and shut him inside, then returned to Laura. “This way, miss,” he said stiffly.
He led her toward the doorway of a huge room heaving with partygoers. Smiling unctuously he ushered her inside. A few people glanced at her as she entered, but her presence didn’t seem to generate much interest. The great and the good, she thought. In the room she spotted several politicians, a couple of actors, and half a dozen other faces she recognized vaguely but had no idea who they were.
A few waiters in white shirts and black waistcoats circulated, bearing silver trays of drinks, and at a long table at the end of the room was a buffet of welllaid-out and colorful food. To the left of the buffet, on a raised dais, a jazz quartet was playing its way through an eclectic mixture of Brubeck, Gershwin, and Biederbecke.
Laura helped herself to a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and peered through the crowd, hoping to catch sight of Richard, or anyone else she knew. She eased her way through the throng toward the buffet. She hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and hunger pangs were beginning to gnaw at her stomach. Halfway across the room she saw Richard. He was standing in the far corner engaged in conversation with a man she recognized as a local councillor. Hanging on the wall above his head was an oil painting, a portrait of Richard, standing with Dunbar Court in the background, at his side a dog—not Socrates, but a black Labrador. As Laura stared across at him Richard glanced round and smiled at her. A minute later he’d disengaged himself from the councillor and was crossing the floor toward her.
“Laura,” he said as he reached her. “So glad you could come.” He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her cheek. It was if he were greeting an old friend rather than someone he had only just met. The breeding always shows through, Laura thought to herself, determined to keep her feet on the ground and not be overly impressed by her surroundings or her host.
“I was admiring the portrait,” Laura said. “The artist captured your likeness very well.”
Richard looked puzzled for a moment, and then glanced behind him. “That’s not me. That’s my grandfather. I must admit, though, there is a family resemblance.”
Laura stared hard at the portrait. “The likeness is remarkable.”
Richard grimaced, as though it was not a compliment. “It’s been said before. So, how’s the house coming along?”
“Slowly, but it’s getting there.”
“No more accidents, I hope.”
Laura shook her head. She didn’t want to think about things like that tonight. “I hadn’t expected so many people,” she said, changing the subject smoothly.
“Mother’s friends,” Richard said. “I must admit the size of the guest list surprised me. Speaking of Mother, I’ll have to introduce you.” He took Laura by the arm and led her through the partygoers to the corner of the room where Lady Catherine Charteris was holding court.
Laura wasn’t sure now what she’d been expecting, but she wasn’t prepared for the reality. Elegantly dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a crisp white shirt, secured at the neck by a sapphire and diamond platinum clip, Lady Catherine Charteris was a stunningly beautiful woman. She looked barely a handful of years older than her son. Her skin was lightly tanned and flawless. A few faint laughter lines radiated out from her hazel eyes, and there was just a hint of silver in the blond hair tied neatly back in a ponytail. The hand that brought the ivory cigarette holder to her beautifully formed mouth was slim, adorned by a simple diamond solitaire ring.
“Mother,” Richard said, butting into the conversation the woman was having with an elderly dowager. “I’d like you to meet Laura Craig. Remember I told you about her? Laura’s renovating the old Hooper place.”
Laura stuck out her hand. “Lady Catherine,” she said.
The older woman looked her up and down, then smiled and took her hand. “Oh, Catherine, please. I haven’t got a lot of time for titles. Delighted to meet you, Laura,” the woman said in a voice as thick as honey. “Richard tells me you plan to let the old Tom’s house to holidaymakers. Is that true?”
“That’s the idea,” Laura said, trying to gauge whether the woman approved of the plan or not, but Catherine’s face was inscrutable.
“Richard, Laura’s glass is almost empty. Fetch her another, would you?”
Laura started to protest, but Catherine stopped her. “Richard doesn’t mind.”
Richard smiled. “No problem.”
Once they were alone—the dowager having moved on to a fresh conversation—Catherine said, “I’m so pleased something’s happening with the old house again. Richard might have told you but Tom Hooper was the head gardener here at Dunbar Court, and I was very fond of him. I was devastated when he died, and every time I drive past his house I’m reminded of him. Watching it stand empty for so long has been very hard. I must come along to see how things are progressing. How about tomorrow? Or do your builders work at weekends?”
Laura was slightly taken aback. Catherine was nothing if not direct. “No,” she said. “I mean, no, they don’t work at weekends, and yes, please come.”
Richard returned with the drinks and handed one to Laura.
“I’ve just invited myself over to see how Laura’s renovation work is progressing,” Catherine said.
“Have you indeed?” Richard said with a wry smile. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I spent so much of my childhood with Tom Hooper,” Catherine said. “He seemed like an old man even then, but what he didn’t know about plants and gardening wasn’t worth knowing. He certainly taught me everything I know. It’s a shame it’s a bit too dark now to appreciate the borders, otherwise you could see for yourself just what he achieved.
“Daddy and Tom Hooper were in the army together. Tom was my father’s batman, and when Daddy was decommissioned, just after the war, Tom left the service too and they traveled back to England together. Daddy had just inherited Dunbar Court from his father and the place had deteriorated a little. My father was determined to restore the place to its former glory, especially the gardens, which were quite renowned in Victorian times. He wanted to reward Tom for his loyalty during the countless campaigns together but wasn’t sure which position to offer him. I think he had it in mind to give Tom the job of estate manager, but once Tom saw the garden he was besotted and persuaded my father that the position of head gardener would be better suited to his talents.
“Then, of course, the estate was much larger. In fact my father owned the house and grounds you’re restoring. I think the Charteris family chapel once stood on the site where the house is now, but I couldn’t swear to it. Anyway, he installed Tom there as tenant. But by the early fifties he was so impressed with what he’d achieved that he made a gift of the house to him, getting his lawyers to draw up fresh deeds, annexing off the land and putting it in Tom Hooper’s name.”
The woman’s flow was interrupted by the butler, who bowed slightly before whispering in her ear.
“Thank you, Payne,” she said to him, then turned to Laura. “You’ll have to excuse me but a friend’s calling from America to wish me happy birthday. I’d better go and speak to him or I’ll never hear the last of it. Don’t go without seeing me first and we’ll discuss a time for tomorrow.”
She swept away from them, stopping now and then to exchange pleasantries with the assembled guests.
“Sorry about that,” Richard said, frowning. “I can’t believe she’s got the cheek to just invite herself. I’m afraid she’s never been one to stand on ceremony.”
“I don’t mind,” Laura said. “Weekends alone on-site can be incredibly boring. Having a visitor will make a pleasant change. And it will be great to give her a guided tour and show her what I intend to do with the place.”
The band launched into a jazzy rendition of “Autumn Leaves.” “This is going to sound awfully trite, but would you care to dance?” Richard said.
Laura looked around the crowded room. “Is there space enough for that?”
Richard smiled. “Not in here, but there’s the terrace.” He gestured across to the open french doors. “And it’s a lovely night. Seems a pity to waste it. Before we know it winter will be here and we’ll all be huddled up in our greatcoats.”
Laura smiled back at him. “Put that way it would be churlish to refuse.”
The dance finished and Laura moved across to the balustrade. Parts of the garden were floodlit. The lake, the maze. “You’re so lucky,” she said to him. “Living in a place like this. It looks beautiful.”
He stared out at the rolling expanse of lawn to the high-clipped yew hedges of the maze. “I suppose I am,” he said. “Sometimes you have to distance yourself from it to really appreciate it. It helps seeing it through another’s eyes. Come on.” He took her arm. “Let’s walk.”
“Won’t your guests miss you? I feel I’m monopolizing your time.”
“They’re Mother’s guests, not mine. And I hate making small talk. Some of these people are so boring.”
He led her down the stone steps to the garden. She felt a small thrill as his fingers closed around hers. “I’m glad you came tonight,” he said as they walked the gravel path to the lake.
“So am I,” she said.
They stopped at the edge of the lake. The effect of the lights bouncing off the surface of the water was nothing short of breathtaking. She remembered a holiday with her parents to St. Wolfgang in Austria where they’d spent an evening watching virile young men parasailing across the black water of the Wolfgangsee accompanied by soft piano music drifting out from speakers set around the lake. To her tenyear-old mind the effect was nothing short of magical. The effect here was similar. There were no brightly colored parachutes gliding through the air, but the combination of lights, water, and the distant echo of music from the party transported her back to that time in Austria. She smiled at the memory. Happy, innocent times, secure in her parents’ love.
