Richard Storry
The Cryptic Lines
Prologue
Chapter 1
The night it all began there was nothing foreboding to see — at first.
But the damp, clinging atmosphere was thick and heavy.
Had you been standing there trying, in vain, to see through the impenetrable darkness with lashing rain repeatedly stinging your face, the cold combined chills of uncertainty, fear and danger were unmistakable. As your torch light flickered and died you would have wrapped your cloak tightly about you as the wind howled, and peered as deeply as you could into the surrounding gloom and murk hoping that, somehow, you might glimpse a way by which you could leave this place with its unbearable sense of dread.
And, as you resigned yourself to a seemingly interminable wait for the blessed return of the sun's illuminating rays, the thick darkness would have been dispelled suddenly as a tumultuous thunder clap tore the heavens apart and a simultaneous flash of lightning broke through, revealing, for just a fleeting moment, the grey forbidding edifice of Heston Grange.
Through the maelstrom you would have seen, but only for a second, the crumbling edges of what had once been proud and well defined masonry. Gargoyles, almost shapeless now, staring with sightless eyes guarding what had once been a magnificent dwelling. The large, unwelcoming arched oak door, with a rarely used rusty bell-pull to one side, standing defiantly closed.
And, currently at quite some distance behind the house, when the screeching wind momentarily ceased its violent assault, you would have heard the churning and swirling of the huge oceanic waves crashing and tearing into the base of the cliffs, slowly but surely eroding the rock away and bringing Heston Grange inch by resolute inch nearer to the edge.
Had you been there you would have seen all this.
But you were not there that night.
That privilege belonged, instead, to Charles Seymour, solicitor, who cursed as he fumbled with his keys in the rain and wind but eventually managed to lock the door of his Jaguar MK2; and, with upturned collar and his buffeted head bent into the howling storm, moved as quickly as he could across the unlit courtyard, but not without splashing through numerous muddy puddles on his route to the front door.
This sprawling gothic mansion was home to Lord Alfred Willoughby, a recluse of uncertain age. Although he must surely have been well into his eighties he was still physically agile, and in full possession of his mental faculties, though he allowed no visitors. Apart from himself, the only people present in the rambling old manor were his butler and housekeeper. Even the groundsman who, it must be said, did not do a particularly good job, did not live on site.
As His Lordship's solicitor, Charles had visited Heston Grange a number of times over the last few years, usually in response to a brusque summons by telephone which — he had come to recognise the tone of voice now — usually meant that either some person or organisation had committed what he perceived to be some heinous crime; and the inevitable repercussion of this was a decision by the old gentleman to amend his last Will and Testament. Not that Charles was complaining, of course; the old boy never once questioned his fees, even though his services were priced at the more expensive end of the market. Privately, he was fairly certain that part of the reason Lord Willoughby kept him in employment was precisely because his fees were so high; and his reasoning on this matter was quite simple: why spend two days working for two clients when he could work one day for His Lordship and charge twice the fee?
Even so, financial advantages notwithstanding, he did not relish these visits which — and Lord Alfred was adamant about this — always had to take place at night. True, he was always received in suitably hospitable fashion, often with a good meal thrown in — but he was unable to shake the uncanny sensation that all was not well within these dank, decaying walls.
As he staggered forwards across the uneven cobbles the wind made one final attempt to get him to retrace his steps but, with what seemed like a Herculean effort, he managed to reach the door with a gasp and then leant back against it trying to catch his breath. For a moment he stood, staring out from beneath the moribund stonework of the porch into the violent storm, cold rain-water dripping from his every garment.
Reaching inside his sodden jacket he withdrew his comb and quickly ran it through his thinning hair — not that he was expecting it to do much to enhance his bedraggled appearance but it was better than nothing. He was aware that water had begun to seep into his shoes and a slight squelching sound could be heard if he placed too much weight on his right foot. Ah well, he thought to himself, let battle commence. He reached out for the bell-pull and gave it a firm tug. Deep within Heston Grange a bell swung on its spindle, which badly needed oiling, and a dull low-pitched clang announced his presence.
After what seemed an eternity standing in the howling wind Charles heard the faint sounds of movement from within and the sound of heavy bolts being slowly drawn back, along with the jangling of a large bunch of keys as several locks were released. At length, the door swung heavily and reluctantly inward and, although by now the interior of the house should have in no way startled him, Charles felt quite unnerved as he stepped gingerly over the gloomy threshold once again.
The entrance hall was dark; it always was. A large chandelier, which Charles had never seen in use, hung by three chains at points equidistant around its circumference, which disappeared up into the darkness to join the ceiling at some invisible point. The large hallway was flanked by sweeping marble staircases on either side which curved up to the first floor level and joined in the middle to form a balcony. Numerous doors, all of which were closed, led to countless rooms with yet further rooms beyond those, none of which were used now. They simply remained, day after dismal day, echoes of what they had once been, filled with expensive furniture that must have been very fine years ago, but which was now gradually fading as was the very house itself, along with its occupant.
The door had been opened by James, who was the archetypal butler. Now in his seventies he continued to do his job well and was always very polite, and immaculately turned out. Charles had warmed to him the first time they met. More than once, though, he had wondered why someone like James would be content to come and work in a place like this for someone like-
Anyway, he had surmised, everyone has their own path to follow.
"Good evening, sir. Do come in. Looks like this storm will be with us all night."
"I think you may be right, James."
"His Lordship said to tell you that you'd be very welcome to stay the night if you didn't want to travel back in this weather, sir."
"Ah, that's a very kind offer."
"Oh sir, you're soaking! Please follow me; I'll take you to one of the guest rooms and you can have a change of clothes."
He picked up Charles' bag and moved towards the left staircase. Charles squelched after him with rather mixed feelings. Certainly, it was most kind of His Lordship to offer him a bed for the night, and he really didn't fancy the thought of having to venture back out into that holocaust. At the same time, however, neither did he greet the option of staying overnight at Heston Grange with much enthusiasm.