It certainly was.
We finished our drinks and then I made my way up the cold stone spiral staircase to my bedroom high in one of the towers that had made up the main defences of the castle.
The original thirteenth-century structure had been rectangular with a round tower at each corner and another midway down each side, the towers joined by curtain walls between them. It had not been built for comfort but simply to house a garrison of troops to defend itself and to dominate the surrounding countryside.
It had been Sir Thomas Humberly who had converted the interior of the towers from damp fetid dungeons into proper living accommodation, including the installation of square windows set high into the stonework, not an easy task considering the four-feet-thick fortified walls that sloped gradually inwards from ground level.
This bedroom was not where I’d spent my early childhood nights, that had been in the part now occupied by Edward and Stella, but this had been my space since I’d been a teenager when my father had inherited. The only difference since that time being the swapping of the single bed for a double after my marriage — something that, in itself, had been quite a task as it had had to be dismantled, carried up the narrow stairway in pieces, and then reconstructed in situ.
I sat down on the side of that bed and felt very alone. Amelia had loved this place, although more so in the warmth of the summer rather than now, as winter approached, with the bitter cold already seeping into my every joint. Central heating remained one of the modern-day comforts that the castle was still lacking although, thankfully, electricity, running water and sanitation had been installed in the first quarter of the twentieth century.
I undressed quickly and put on my warm pyjamas together with some bedsocks and my sweater. While folding my trousers, I came across the three envelopes that I had stuffed into a pocket at the Old Forge.
As I’d assumed, one of them contained a bill that could wait, but the other two did not. They were both letters and I read each of them through several times, absorbing the bad news.
The first was from the chairman of the BHA telling me that my services as an honorary racecourse steward were no longer ‘in the best interests of British racing’ and therefore my name had been struck from their list; all my future appointments as a steward had been cancelled.
But it was the second letter that was the real worry.
It was from my bank, informing me that there had been an insufficient balance in my account to cover the recent direct-debit demand for my monthly mortgage payment. It further reminded me that, unless I placed more funds in the account as a matter of urgency to cover the debt, they could commence proceedings to recover the loan by foreclosing on the property.
That was all I needed.
Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you?
I’d lost my wife, my job, my hobby and my reputation, and now I was in danger of losing my home as well.
No wonder I didn’t sleep well.
I woke early from a combination of cold and anxiety and I lay for a long while as darkness gave way to daylight, wrapped tight in the duvet, wondering if my father was right.
Perhaps I should start fighting back.
Did people only believe Joe Bradbury because there was no one telling them that he was lying through his teeth? Maybe I should conduct my own interviews with the newspapers, accusing him of being the murderer.
But would they listen?
Simon Bassett had claimed they would only distort what I’d say to match their own agendas. But could that really make things worse for me than they already were?
I had to be joking. Of course it could.
Still wrapped in the duvet, I lay prone on the deep window seat with my phone pressed up close to the glass — it was the only spot in the room with any signal — and downloaded my emails. There was wireless internet access in my father’s study but, with such thick walls in the castle, the waves didn’t make it into the next room let alone all the way up here.
There were only six emails in total, far fewer than I would have normally expected, and not one of them to do with any work, either past, present or future. It was as if I had fallen off the actuarial planet.
Indeed, five of the six were spam or unwanted advertising and the remaining one was from the local Hanwell village round-robin email service informing me of the dates and times of upcoming services in the parish church.
At least I hadn’t been struck off that list, not yet anyway.
I sighed. At the very time I needed the support of a loving wife, she was not here to provide it.
Even in our darkest hours, when Amelia had been hospitalised with mental health problems, she had still been there for me, understanding what I was going through as her husband, and helping me believe that she would soon be well and home again.
Now, there was no possibility of that.
I would simply have to cope on my own, one way or another.
My bedroom window faced slightly south of east and I looked out into England, across the flatness of the Cheshire and Shropshire plain, towards the Wrekin, the hill faintly visible in the far distance. Much closer, I could just make out Bangor-on-Dee Racecourse where I had once ridden two winners in a single afternoon and had been presented with a trophy for the second victory by my own father, with Amelia looking on in admiration.
Happy days.
As I watched, two cars made their way up the long driveway towards the castle and, to my dismay, one of them was a marked police car.
What the hell did they want?
My dismay deepened considerably when, having pulled up on the gravel outside the main entrance, I saw that DS Dowdeswell was one of the four men that climbed out of the vehicles. And I was sure he wasn’t here for his health or the view.
The maxim is often quoted that an Englishman’s home is his castle. Although technically a Welshman, my father’s home was indeed a castle and, if it had been down to me, I would have raised the drawbridge — that’s if we’d had one — and let the sergeant stew outside. I might even have been tempted, like that medieval garrison, to pour boiling liquids down on the invaders through the ‘murder holes’ constructed for the purpose above the entrance.
My father, however, must have let them bypass the castle fortifications and walk straight into the building as, presently, I heard him at the bottom of the stone staircase.
‘William,’ he shouted up. ‘There are some men down here to see you. They’re police.’
I felt cornered.
My heart was beating fast, with adrenalin coursing through my body. Part of me wanted to kick out the window and use knotted bedsheets as a rope to make my escape, like some swashbuckling hero of a 1950s B movie.
Instead, I dressed quickly and went down to face the music.
‘William Gordon-Russell,’ said the detective sergeant immediately I arrived at ground level, ‘I arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Amelia Gordon-Russell.’
13
‘You must be mistaken,’ my father said loudly, just as soon as the DS had finished telling me that I had the right to remain silent but anything I did say might be used in evidence.
‘No, sir,’ the detective said firmly. ‘I am not mistaken. I have driven here from Oxfordshire this morning to arrest your son. He will come with us. I also need his belongings, and his car.’
‘But it’s preposterous,’ my father exclaimed, going a little puce in the face.
‘It’s all right, Pa,’ I said. ‘Please keep calm. And do something for me. Call Simon Bassett and ask him to meet me at Banbury Police Station.’ I turned to DS Dowdeswell. ‘I assume we are going there.’