Chapter 2
James led Charles along endless corridors. Some of them were lit with electric light but some were illumined only by candlelight, while others were in virtual darkness. Almost all were of panelled oak, and numerous paintings hung in huge frames along their lengths. Lord Alfred loved paintings and was not a bad artist himself; but, with the notable exception of the obviously inhabited areas of the house, everywhere you looked was hallmarked by that covering of dust. As he followed the elderly butler, Charles was certain that the very lining of his lungs was being coated with it; and the place felt damp and smelt musty.
At length, he began to recognise some of the rooms and corridors again and, after ascending two more floors via a tight spiral staircase which opened onto another wide corridor, they finally stood outside His Lordship's bed chamber.
James lifted his hand to knock on the door but just as he did so it was opened from within to reveal Mrs Gillcarey, the housekeeper. She let out a small yelp of surprise when she saw Charles standing there, but curtsied politely and went her way, vanishing quickly into the dark catacomb of corridors. James explained that she would have been bringing His Lordship his usual nightcap, before he then stepped quietly into the room while Charles waited to be admitted. He could hear James and Lord Willoughby speaking in low tones, although from his position he could not tell what was being said. A few moments later the door swung fully open and James said "His Lordship will see you now, sir."
On entering the room, Charles needed to take a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the light, or — more precisely — to the darkness, since there was no illumination at all in the bed chamber other than the light which emanated from a small coal fire in the grate. Through the gloom he could just make out the slight, still figure of Lord Willoughby lying outlined beneath a single blanket in his magnificent four-poster bed. James quietly tiptoed from the room and closed the door behind him with a soft click. Charles moved toward the bed, slowly.
"Your Lordship?"
No reply.
"Your Lordship?"
He spoke a little louder this time. There was a slight stirring from the frail figure, as the old man opened his eyes and turned his wizened, wrinkled face towards his visitor. He lifted a gnarled, damp hand and Charles took it.
"I'm glad you've come." His voice rasped in a guttural tone, little more than a whisper.
"It's always a pleasure to see you, Lord Willoughby."
With much wheezing and plenty of effort he managed to raise himself until he was sitting upright. Charles thought he seemed rather tired and quite unwell, noticing what appeared to be a coating of perspiration on the old gentleman's skin. In a careful and courteous manner he repositioned Lord Alfred's satin covered pillows to help make him more comfortable.
"Have you brought the Will?"
"I have."
"I need to change it."
Charles smiled as he pulled up a chair and sat down.
"That doesn't surprise you, does it?"
He shook his head.
"However," he continued, pausing for breath every few words, "I am optimistic… that this… this… will be the last time… I must ask this service… of you."
Suddenly, he was seized by a fit of hoarse coughing and his gaunt figure rocked back and forth uncontrollably. Taking a glass beaker from the bedside table Charles poured some water into it from a jug which stood alongside. Leaning over, he raised the glass to the old man's lips. Lord Willoughby managed to take a few sips and seemed to recover a little. He leaned himself carefully back against the headboard and took several deep breaths.
"Thank you," he said, simply, though with some difficulty.
Charles waited patiently while his client attempted to regain his composure. Lord Alfred was, without doubt, in a poor state of health — this was the first time that Charles had ever seen him like this. Normally, he was on fine form. After a few moments he spoke again although he was noticeably quieter now:
"Now then, where was I?"
"The Will, my Lord."
"Yes, yes. Of course."
Again, Charles waited a moment before speaking.
"How do you wish it to be altered?"
"That son of mine," he hissed, "My son. What did I do to deserve a boy like him? He never ceases to astound me with the deviousness of his schemes and with his dishonesty — the yardstick for every damned thing he sets out to ruin."
"My Lord?"
"He knows I'm wealthy, but… " and here Lord Alfred smiled wickedly, "he doesn't know how wealthy. I've managed to keep most of it secret." He leaned toward Charles with a sense of renewed intensity. "But I tell you this: I will not allow my fortune to be squandered by that no-good crook. He's a crook! That's what he is! Always has been! He's no son of mine!"
Again, Charles listened attentively as any good solicitor would, hoping that he would not take too long to come to the point. The fact was that Lord Alfred had never been able to have children of his own with his second wife and so, seeking to fulfil his paternal instinct, they had adopted two sons. The elder boy, William, had been a model son. If you could have ordered him from a catalogue, he was everything you would have chosen: intelligent, respectful, charming, witty and handsome. Two weeks after reaching his 17th birthday and buying his first motorcycle, he lost control on an icy road and collided with a tree. Lord Alfred had never really recovered from his tragic loss.
The second son, though, Matthew, was a different kettle of fish altogether. Whilst it all began with the best of intentions Lord Alfred and Matthew were like chalk and cheese. There was no love lost between them and as soon as he was old enough Matthew had spread his wings and fled the nest never to be seen again — except, of course, when he needed money. It was shortly after Matthew left home that Lord and Lady Willoughby had moved to Heston Grange. Even then, fate had another cruel card to play and Lady Willoughby, a frail creature who had already lost much of her zest for life following William's death, contracted pneumonia and passed away in her sleep during a particularly violent storm, not unlike the one which was raging outside at this very moment.
"But I've got a scheme of my own. Ha!" Lord Alfred continued his ranting. "My only regret is that I won't be there to see his face when he realises what sport I've made of him. Thieving bugger! Help me stand up."
"Are you sure you're feeling strong enough, my Lord?"
"Damn it, man! Don't you tell me when I can or can't stand in my own house! Here, take my arm."
Charles did as he was asked and supported the old man as he sidled to the edge of the bed, swung his legs over the side and slowly stood to his feet, albeit a little uncertainly.
"Give the Will to me."
Leaving him to stand alone momentarily, Charles picked up the folder from a nearby chaise longue and pulled out the document. As he moved to pass it to him, Lord Alfred all but snatched it from his grasp, placed his hand flat upon the first page and formed a fist, ripping the paper from the binding. Without a word, but with determination etched on his countenance, he cast the crumpled page onto the glowing embers in the hearth where flames leapt instantly to engulf their new fuel. Charles stood and watched as he repeated this exercise until all the pages had suffered the same fate. For about the next thirty seconds or so, the room was lit brightly by the light of the flickering flames and, whilst the two men remained motionless, their shadows danced this way and that across the panelled walls.
As the flames gradually dwindled Charles noticed an exultant, almost fanatical, smile come to Alfred's face. With a grunt of satisfaction he turned and moved carefully back towards the bed.