"And now," he said, "I must tell you about my new Will."
Charles could not deny that following this passionate performance his professional curiosity had been most definitely aroused. His Lordship had always been a fairly enigmatic figure and watching him incinerate his Will in front of his eyes, when a simple written statement revoking it would have been sufficient, was high drama indeed. He picked up the folder and took out his legal pad but, as he did so, Lord Willoughby gave a sudden gasp and staggered uncertainly. Dropping the pad, Charles rushed to his side and took his arm.
"Are you quite well, Lord Alfred?"
"Yes… yes… let me be."
His breathing was laboured but he seemed to be recovering.
Releasing the grip on his arm, Charles moved back across the room to pick up the pad again. Without warning, Lord Alfred suddenly gave a cry of searing pain and fell heavily to his knees. The legal pad again fell to the floor, forgotten, as Charles raced over to his client a second time. He was clearly in distress. His face had turned deathly pale and his eyes were screwed shut in an expression of sheer agony.
"Lord Alfred, what’s wrong? What should I do?" Charles screamed. "What do you need? Medicine? Tablets? Tell me!"
Lord Alfred was struggling to form words. He began to speak in a thin harsh tone, scarcely audible.
"…too… late… no time… please… the cryptic… lines… cryptic… "
“Your Lordship? Your Lordship? No!"
As thunder rolled and lightning flashed outside, a final strangulated breath was hoarsely exhaled and Lord Alfred’s ancient body slumped against Charles. He lowered him gently to the floor before racing across the room to the servant bell, where he pushed the button frantically several times. With no way of knowing whether or not his distress call had been received he started to panic. Rushing to the large wooden door he grabbed the handle, flung it open and raced out into the dimly lit corridor beyond.
"James! James!" he yelled, "JAMES!”
Chapter 3
In the daylight, Heston Grange appeared far less threatening — in fact, some of its rustic features gave it a certain character which was almost inviting. In the early light of the fresh morning with a gentle breeze coming in from the sea Charles walked around the entire perimeter of the house. Notwithstanding the fact that he had lost all sense of direction the night that Lord Willoughby had died, running frantically up and down numerous passageways screaming for help, from the outside the sprawling mansion was even larger than he had realised. Although he had been here many times over the years it only now occurred to him that this was the first time he had seen it during the daytime.
So, now that he had the benefit of being able to actually see the place properly, and having been left to himself to wander around for a while, the thing that arrested his attention most immediately was the extraordinary shape of the house; it was utterly irregular. The main central body of the building was, it appeared, of a slightly rhomboid structure having four storeys, inclusive of rooms under the eaves, and four turrets of different sizes spaced at apparently random intervals. The west wing, which housed Charles' bedroom, was more like a dog's tail incorporating several twists and turns before eventually opening out onto a yard bordered by a variety of outbuildings. At the east end of the house, but separate from it, stood a tower some fifty feet high and topped with battlements and a flagpole. Strangely, there was no apparent access to it other than by a rickety-looking wooden walkway that linked it to the main building at second floor level. Gazing up at it, Charles doubted whether it would take his weight; it looked almost rotten. Still, he made a mental note to ask James whether he might have a look inside this mysterious tower once all matters of business had been settled.
Lord Alfred had been taken away the same night. Rather than wait for an ambulance, James had driven him the 40 miles to the nearest hospital but he was pronounced dead on arrival. Both he and Mrs Gillcarey were obviously shocked, although they surely must have known that the old boy didn't have much longer for this world. However, since it was a sudden death, there would need to be a post mortem, meaning it would be a while until the funeral could be arranged. In the meantime, as His Lordship's solicitor, it fell to Charles to attend to matters concerning his estate; and so it was that he had come to Heston Grange for one night but would, in fact, have to remain for quite some time.
Whilst the number of administrative duties to be attended to were legion, his principal area of concern lay with the fact that His Lordship had, in his presence, rendered himself intestate. It was clear that he was just about to inform him of his new wishes but then-
Well, death has a way of thwarting the best laid plans.
Having waited for what he felt was a respectful period of time after his client's death he set to work sorting through all His Lordship's papers and effects. What a hoarder he had been! He appeared to have kept every utility bill, every invoice, every shopping list and carrier bag, every paper clip and every piece of string, bubble wrap and wrapping paper, and the operating instructions to just about every appliance he had ever owned since his first electricity generator had been installed. Every nook and cranny, every cupboard, every draw and receptacle seemed to house limitless quantities of the stuff. Most of it was pointless rubbish, yet it all had to be sorted through meticulously, just in case — by Charles.
It was as he was on his hands and knees, groping around inside the bottom of a large Welsh dresser and trying to extract yet another stack of probably worthless correspondence, that he discovered an old black box made from papier maché. Despite its age, it had the appearance of not having been used very often, yet it had obviously been opened recently as there were clear finger marks in its coating of dust. Sitting himself cross-legged on the floor Charles eased the catch aside and slowly opened the lid. The box was lined with a thin black fabric and contained just one item: a large brass key. Lifting it out, he turned it over and over in his hand, wondering.
Later, when James brought him his dinner in the dining room, Charles produced the key and asked him whether he knew which lock it was intended for.
"Oh, sir," he exclaimed, "Lord Alfred was desperately searching for this key just a few days ago. Wherever did you find it?"
Charles described the place to him although, for some reason that he could not quite pinpoint, he deliberately omitted to tell him about the finger marks on the box.
"It's the key to His Lordship's secret chamber," he said, "not that it was really a secret — that was just his name for it. Really, it was more just a place for him to keep his private papers really private. No one else was ever allowed to go inside."
"How could it be," Charles asked him, "that he could lose a key that was so important to him when he was the only person ever to use it?"
"I really have no idea, sir, but he was enraged when he found it was missing. He had me turning the house upside down searching for it, but without success. Luckily for Mrs Gillcarey it was her day off or she'd have been drafted in as well."
“Didn’t he have a spare?”
“Not that I knew of, sir.”
Charles insisted that James take him at once to this secret chamber and he followed him out of the room with the key clutched firmly in his hand, leaving his meal untouched — which was a pity, since it was a beautifully glazed gammon steak with perfectly sliced julienne vegetables, a delicious honey and mustard sauce and a crystal carafe of chilled moscato d’asti.
Back in the maze of twisting corridors, Charles followed James’ lead and eventually found himself at a point where the wall was lined with many paintings. Lord Alfred had been an avid art collector, as well as being a keen amateur artist himself, and Heston Grange contained many fine pieces within its labyrinthine structure. James paused by a portrait depicting a finely dressed 19th century nobleman standing outside a shop in a busy street and, directing Charles' attention towards it, asked if he noticed anything unusual about it. At first glance there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary — that is, nothing until he examined the shop door in the painting and realised, to his astonishment, that the keyhole in the door was actually a real keyhole! This felt like something straight out of a Boy's Own adventure story and, even though all he was doing was simply unlocking a door, the fact that it was disguised like this couldn't stop Charles from feeling just a little excited as he inserted the key and turned it. The painting or, rather, the door swung inwards on squeaky hinges and Charles found himself looking out onto the rickety bridge he had seen earlier which led to the mysterious octagonal tower. He was about to step onto it, but then he hesitated.