Secret Of The Manor (8 page)

He could understand the directors requiring early notice of his plans, as the search for a successor would not be restricted to the UK. There were lists to compile, initial interviews to conduct, background checks and security clearances to complete, all before shortlists and in-depth interviews.

For the rest of the week Warren holed up in his office, thinking over long-term plans with A-Genet while dealing with day-to-day details. But always lurking in the background was the joust, the young man, and the absurdity of the whole thing. How in heaven’s name could a man at the pinnacle of his career end up in the middle of an ancient arena? It was the stuff of late-night campfires, plenty of alcohol, and exaggerated ghost stories. As the hours and days passed, the only things Warren was sure about were the aches in his bones and the bruised lines on his hips where the edges of his armour seemed to have ended. He was slowly convincing himself that he’d fallen on something else that created the marks... though he didn’t know what. All the same, he received nightly calls from Carl checking up on him.

Friday arrived with no word from the manor. Frustrated and confused, Warren contacted the office in charge of the Worcester lake and booked some windsurfing time. He would have gone to the coast again, but he wasn’t sure how his shoulder would hold up on the sea. The lake offered a safer environment to try it out.

Come Saturday morning, Warren avoided going to the grave. Instead he loaded his van, did some schooling work with Argo, had a cuppa with Carl, and disappeared to Worcester.

His shoulder twinged as he set up, and he had to use his other arm to zip up his wetsuit. Out on the water there was enough of a breeze to catch his sail, but nothing to put too much strain on his shoulder.

Even so, he only managed an hour on the water before he was in so much pain he had to call it a day. Disappointed by his performance, he made it back to shore and gingerly released his shoulder from his wetsuit, followed by his other arm. He dried off his upper body and applied some Tiger Balm to the painful area while manipulating the muscles before returning the menthol-smelling salve to his kit bag. He was carefully dismantling his equipment when he heard an excited, “Mr. Blake. Mr. Blake.”

Warren looked around and groaned. He recognised the chap from A-Genet.

The enthusiastic man, who Warren guessed was in his late twenties, jogged over. “I thought it was you, Mr. Blake.”

“Yes, well. You weren’t wrong.” At work, Warren always kept conversations polite and to the point. However, this fellow had caught him at the wrong time. Warren was mithered, annoyed with himself, and a host of questions about the mystery continued to run through his head. He’d taken to the water for some time out, and even that hadn’t gone to plan.

“Derek. Derek Chambers—IT.” Derek held out his hand to Warren, who shook it briefly. The man had a strong grip.

“Yes, I remember. You’ve fixed my PC before.”

“Yes, that’s right. Good memory.” Derek was like a puppy looking for a bone.

Warren shot him a short smile and a nod. From the way Derek was fidgeting, Warren assumed their encounter was a spur-of-the-moment thing the man hadn’t thought out.

The young man pointed to Warren’s shoulder. “Nasty bruise you’ve got there.”

Warren shrugged it off with a clipped, “Downside of sports.”

Derek bounced from his heels to his toes a few times. “Anyway. You certainly seem to know what you’re doing out on the water.”

Warren knelt back down and continued unbolting his boom. “Been doing it a long time.”

“Wow, I’ve just started.”

“That’s nice.”

“Any tips, or chance at a lesson?”

“Aren’t you having lessons from the centre?”

“Well, yes, a group of us were towards the end of our lesson when the lady teaching us pointed out a couple of things about your technique that we should aim to copy. That’s when I realised it was you. I fell in the water after that. I was....”

Warren stood and interrupted him. “Then my tip to you is to listen to her. The people here will be able to teach you much better than I ever could. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Derek’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. Okay. Well, erm,” he pointed his thumb over his shoulder, “I’d better be getting back, then.”

“Okay. Good luck with the lessons.” Warren held his hand out to the ponytailed Derek, not only to shake the other man’s hand, but also to make it clear the conversation was over.

Warren felt a smidge sorry for Derek. Had Warren not had so much swimming around his brain, he’d have been more polite and maybe even chatted a little. Still, Warren disliked being recognized outside the office. Logically, he understood he would eventually bump into someone who knew him. It was something he would have to get used to.

In three trips, Warren lifted his equipment into his van and changed. Soon after, he was headed home for another dip in his hot tub, followed by a shower. As the water cascaded down his body, he took his cock in hand and relieved his frustration to memories of his last trip to Bournemouth.

On Sunday morning, he felt pretty good and was tempted to retrace the route he’d ridden in the dark seven days earlier. Except when thought turned to possible action, his insides started shaking. In the end, he took Argo over one of Carl’s cross-country courses.

After an exhilarating blast over the well-constructed hazards, Warren made his way back. En route down the field, Warren noticed he had an audience. The people quickly dispersed when they saw he was headed in their direction. Warren thought back to his tête-à-tête with Carl over his sexuality and groaned. He’d hoped Carl was pulling his chain over the grapevine gossip at the yard.

He spied Carl as he walked Argo to his stable. The man shot him a cheeky grin with a “told you” expression. Warren shook his head and groaned again. Setting down roots was turning out to be a messy affair.

He spent the afternoon around the stable helping Carl and Eileen, returning to his cottage in the early evening. When he walked in the door he noticed there were several missed calls on his answer machine, but no message and nothing on his mobile. He hated it when that happened, and his stubborn side refused to use the last-number recall. Instead, he opted for a shower and food. Partway through his lasagne the landline rang again.

Quickly swallowing his mouthful of hot heaven, he answered with a gruff, “Hello.”

“Warren Blake.”

“Speaking.”

“Oliver Walmsley; you sent me a letter.”

For a moment or three Warren panicked. He swallowed again to ensure he didn’t choke on the lasagne that threatened to come back for a second round. With a quick sip of water, he composed himself. “Yes, sir, I did. I’d prefer not to talk over the phone, though. If you don’t mind?”

The aristocratic voice on the other end of the line spoke again, with a wary tinge to his tone. “What makes you believe I have any information that could help you?”

Contact from the manor suggested several things to Warren, all of them scary. Warren took a deep breath to calm himself and continued. “You may not, sir. But something strange happened to me, which I need to know more about. And the fact you called me back suggests you’re at the very least intrigued. If we could just talk for a short while, sir, I’d truly appreciate it.”

“Very well. Be here in half an hour.” And the line went dead.

LOSING HIS appetite, Warren downed his water and threw the rest of his meal in the bin. When he made a quick call to Carl, all he got was the stable answer phone. He suspected Carl and Eileen were checking on the horses to ensure they were okay before they shut up the yard. Warren left a message and headed out.

He drove down the lengthy entrance to the manor, continued around the circular stone driveway, and stopped at the main door. It was almost dark out. The lights over the entrance highlighted the old oak doors and cast a shadow over the area. Smooth, mustard-coloured brickwork comprised the main gate tower and the immediate area to the sides. Farther away, though the colour seemed to be the same, the style of brickwork changed. Beyond that, there were trees.

Before Warren had a chance to knock on the door, it creaked open to reveal an aged man in a tailored black suit. “Good evening, sir. Mr. Blake, I presume?”

“It is.”

“His Lordship is expecting you in the library.”

As Warren followed the butler down the long hallway, he found the architecture familiar. Some of it had been modernised, but the outline was unmistakable. The scene was the same as his daydream at the graveside.

The thud of the latch opening the library echoed down the hall. Surprisingly, the doors parted without further sound, the large iron hinges obviously well maintained. The straight-backed butler entered with his head held high and spoke directly to the older of the two men waiting for him. “Mr. Blake, sir.”

“Thank you, Kenneth. That will be all,” the man Warren assumed to be Oliver Walmsley replied.

“Very good, sir.” With a bow of his head, the butler turned and left, closing the doors behind him.

Warren had visited many places of historical interest over the years. But he’d never been in one that was being actively lived in. The library wasn’t outsized and stately, nor was it the dimensions of a lounge. It was a comfortable size to hear someone on the other side of the room, and the ceiling was sufficiently high to hold an ornate, modern chandelier on a long chain and cable. Two of the walls were covered with rows of books, with an available ladder for those volumes out of reach. From a quick scan, many of the items on the higher shelves were leather bound in maroon and black. Lower down the colours and textures of the bindings changed to reflect more modern reading.

Another wall featured mighty, elongated windows, which looked to have secondary glazing on the inside. The remaining wall contained a huge stone fireplace in the same colour as the outer walls of the manor. Only, instead of a log fire ablaze, there was a more modern electric heater in place, powerful enough to take the chill off the room.

Underfoot was lush and soft, suggesting the carpet had some impressive underlay. It wasn’t until Warren looked down that he noticed the dark red base had a golden feather design woven into it.

Warren was taken from his reverie by the headmaster-style voice of the man who’d spoken earlier. “Mr. Blake.”

The man who addressed him looked to be in his sixties, with thinning grey hair and a moustache of the same colour. His outline suggested he was active, despite him walking with a limp and aided by a stick. He wore light trousers and a dark-blue buttoned blazer.

“Er, yes, sir,” Warren replied with a start.

“Please, come in and sit.”

“Thank you.” Somehow, Warren felt he should bow before taking his seat. So he followed the butler’s example. He noticed the amused look between the men in the room. He shook both of their hands before settling into the chesterfield opposite them.

The older of the two spoke first. “Mr. Blake. As you may have gathered, I am Oliver Walmsley, lord of the manor, and this is my son, James.”

Warren was aware of the names and rank of the manor’s current inhabitants. Oliver Walmsley was head of the family. He and his wife Sophie, since deceased, had two sons and a daughter. First born was James, then Philippa, and lastly Alexander. Warren had done a brief Internet scan before sending the letter to remind himself of details he’d discovered during his initial research. He’d found an old family photo taken at Alexander’s christening. Upon closer study of the men in his company, the shape of their eyes was the same as those he’d seen before. Evidence for the manor being connected to his predicament was growing.

Warren shuddered.

James was a more youthful version of his father, with a head of thick, well-cut brown hair and sharp, but not pointed, features. His outline suggested he, too, kept active, maybe even visited a gym. He had long legs covered in quality trousers, and a shirt overlaid with a cashmere jumper. His long arms stretched over the back of the settee.

“Good evening.” Warren fidgeted, uncomfortable at the scowl being sent his way by James.

Oliver Walmsley leaned forward and balanced his forearms on his knees. “The only reason you are here, Mr. Blake, is because I’ve had your background checked and have found nothing to suggest you aren’t an honest man. From the miniscule information you have offered thus far, although intrigued, I am far from convinced you know anything my family can help you with.”

As the lord of the manor returned to a more restful position, Warren didn’t miss the brief glance towards his son.

Warren didn’t expect Oliver Walmsley to welcome him with open arms and volumes of information. Hell, Warren had doubts over what he’d experienced. Nevertheless, he’d requested an audience, and that’s what he’d got. If he was ever to get to the bottom of things he had to open his mouth, take a chance, and start talking.

“If you’ve done a background check, then you know where I work and that my reputation suggests I’m not one to dally in flights of fancy.”

Oliver Walmsley gave a puff of a laugh. “True, but your social life suggests you have a flair for the adventurous.”

“Excuse me?” Warren looked at the man with saucer eyes. Was he implying what Warren thought he was implying?

The lord of the manor brushed Warren’s comment aside with a wave of the hand. “Never mind about that for now. I’d like to know what you think you’ve experienced.”

Warren’s nervousness, coupled with surprise, turned to anger. “You can’t throw a statement like that at me and expect me to ignore it... sir.”

His ire was brushing off on Sir Walmsley. “Enough. Tell me your story or leave.”

Looking between the two men, James stepped in. “Father. Mr. Blake. Please settle and keep to the reason we’re here. Anything else can be dealt with later. I assure you, Mr. Blake, we mean you no disrespect. However, please understand, you cannot expect us to have anyone into our home without taking precautions. So, do go on with your story.”

Warren took a deep breath, steadied his shaking hands, and continued. “Like I said, if you’ve checked my background, then you know I’m a well-reasoned man. Quite frankly what happened to me recently has had me looking hard for alternative explanations... and I’ve found none.”