Cherringham--The Secret of Combe Castle (8 page)

“Okay. I can see why you don’t want to help them,” said Jack. “And I guess you know nothing about the vandalism at the castle?”

“If you find out who did it, let me know,” said Pelham. “I’ll buy ’em a drink.” The man laughed. “Maybe a full on dinner!” More laughs … then:

“But no. Haven’t a clue, as they say.”

“You know the castle and the estate might be up for sale?”

“I’ve heard rumours.”

“You’d be in the market to buy?”

“Oh yes. In a heartbeat.”

“But you wouldn’t try and force them out if they didn’t sell?”

“Don’t believe that’s legal, Brennan …”

“So you haven’t tried to?”

Another laugh. “You have ears, don’t you? No! And if I had, would I tell you?”

“Guess you wouldn’t.”

Jack watched him carefully. He doubted that this straight-forward farmer would resort to anything like notes and painted warnings. But on the other hand … you wouldn’t want Pelham as your enemy. There was a coldness about him. Steel.

“I need to get back to the milking,” said the farmer. “Can’t waste my time yakking out here.”

Jack followed him back to the pickup and they both climbed in.

Pelham fired up the engine, then turned it around in a big arc across the muddy field, and they headed back to the farm.

By the time Pelham dropped Jack off, the sun had set.

Jack climbed into his Sprite and drove back through the dark roads to Cherringham thinking about history, and the long shadow it could sometimes cast.

Sarah was knee-deep in learning all she could about the FitzHenrys’ past and present.

When she’d got back to the office, things were still quiet, with Grace handling the job of creating the over-sized one-sheets for the upcoming pantomime.

“Sarah — what do you think?”

Sarah turned to see Grace holding an A4-sized version of what would be a giant poster — for the event.

“Let me see …”

Grace handed the sheet over. She had deftly taken all the elements of the original flyer and turned it into an even more garish explosion of colour, and added additional characters from the pantomime.

Sarah laughed. “They really have
that
lot playing the seven dwarves?”

“Indeed they do,” Grace said, “Found them online.”

“They look like they’ve been caught in a police line-up. And that Maid Marian. Isn’t she … or is it he …?”

“Yes! Burt Freelove!”

“Didn’t even know he was still alive.”

“Alive — and apparently kicking.”

“He makes a rather fetching maid, I must say, though the five o’clock shadow could use some attention.”

And that made Grace laugh. Grace had gone from being her young assistant in the small web and design business, to what Sarah knew she was now … a full creative partner.

She made a note that she would — at the right moment — tell Grace exactly that. And also give her a raise — at least as much as current cash flow would allow for.

I’d hate to lose her,
she thought.

“We good to go?” Grace asked. “Shall I fire it off to the printers?”

“Absolutely! Brilliant work. The theatre will love it.”

Grace beamed — pleased both with her work and with Sarah’s reaction.

Grace was canny, and knew when Sarah was digging into something. This morning she had, as usual, asked no questions. Grace was used to Sarah’s part-time detecting — and knew not to get involved unless invited.

And Grace had helped on plenty of occasions — but right now, Sarah felt she should run this one alone.

And she definitely wasn’t going to hack into the Cauldwells’ database until Grace had left the office!

For now Sarah turned back to her screen, and returned to hunting for anything and everything that had to do with the odd FitzHenry dynasty and the even odder Combe Castle.

*

The first thing she found was the historical record of Basil FitzHenry’s duel, which, amazingly, matched the wobbly diorama that Oswald had created.

But then — interestingly enough — there was actually a mention of some kind of royal connection. Each heir apparently carried the story forward, much to the disbelief of the locals.

For hundreds of years FitzHenrys had claimed royal blood, and for the same amount of time the locals thought the claim ludicrous.

And then — it ended in a duel!

Suddenly, she became more interested in this odd family.

She read about an early lord of the castle, a Ralph FitzHenry who, it turned out, was a privateer. Rewarded by the King with property, someone who captured Spanish ships … a genuine buccaneer.

And famed for returning to England from the East Indies with a prize ship loaded to the gunwales with gold doubloons.A far cry from the goofy — and broke — Oswald!

Interesting
.
There had indeed been money then.

And the fortunes of the family seemed to remain good right up until the end of the nineteenth century. She read about garden parties held at the mansion; the well-to-do family being a strong part of village life.

That is, until along came Basil FitzHenry.

The local paper at the time, The
Cherringham Gazette
, regularly reported on Basil and the festive goings-on at the castle.

But not all that reporting was favourable.

Accounts of one party included the news that a young man from Mayfair had ‘accidentally’ stepped into the chilly river and drowned.

Other than that soggy event, the ‘Venetian Masque’ held at the manor was apparently, the story reported, a great success. The list of provisions — from a score of ducks, to roast lamb and sides of beef, not to mention enough bubbly to float a battleship — was massive.

But there were also reports of anonymous protests lodged at village meetings over the traffic and noise created by the parties that seemed a regular feature of castle Combe life in the last decades of Victoria’s reign.

Week after week, there seemed to be a story detailing someone complaining about Combe Castle.

And throughout it all — there was money. Trips abroad on great steamships, summer-long stays ‘on the Continent’, massive donations to various Good Causes of the time, guaranteeing that anyone complaining at a town meeting would be quickly
shushed
.

Then — treated as a major front page story — the sudden death of Basil FitzHenry.

Reported as heart failure, presumably to avoid any scandal, his death at the relatively young age of fifty had sent shocks waves through the village.

And now the story shifted …

His son Bentley FitzHenry took over running the place. And for the first time, there was a hint of financial problems, not to mention a strain of dimness in the family lineage.

A punitive demand for back taxes.

A law suit by the contractor responsible for renovations to the actual castle went unpaid, with Bentley claiming that the ‘work wasn’t up to proper standards.’

While the contractor, one Joseph Gammon, said that FitzHenry had simply refused to pay … ‘because the scoundrel
can’t
pay!’

Sarah sat back.

The money vanished … or was lost, as Oswald said?

This wasn’t just a downturn. It was a dramatic reversal of fortune. One day Combe Castle seemed to be a well-kept, well-funded estate. The next, it had to scramble to cover everyday bills.

Soon, it would be turned into a tourist attraction, a further sign of its rapid decline.

And here was the thing …

So clear …

There
had
been money, all those doubloons fuelling an extravagant, wealthy life style …

Then, overnight, seemingly all gone.

It seemed impossible.

What had happened to it? The doubloons, a treasure that should have kept the estate going for centuries … vanishing at a stroke, with the death of Basil FitzHenry?

*

Sarah made herself a cup of tea then returned to her desk. She didn’t want to hack into Cauldwells while Grace was still around.

But where to look now?

She scrolled through a quick search of the current local newspaper database, looking for anything to do with the castle.

But aside from a few meagre articles about ‘stunning new exhibitions’ being revealed over the last few years, there was nothing.

And then …

An article and a picture from just a few months ago that made Sarah stop in her tracks.

The picture showed an angry Oswald in front of Combe Castle, raising a fist at the camera. And the article explained why …

Oswald had been taken to court and fined for excavating an area next to the house with a mechanical digger.

He’d claimed he was just ‘following my passion for history and specifically the royal connections of my noble family.’

But the judge had called it ‘an ill-judged and amateurish attempt at treasure hunting, which risked damaging the fabric of one of England’s most fascinating — and protected — Norman ruins.’

Treasure hunting …

Sarah sat back from the screen. Those two words —
‘treasure hunting’ —
were not ones you’d want to have linked to your home in a newspaper article.

Oswald’s explanation to the court was a joke. He’d clearly been trying to find the doubloons, and given the continued financial mess he was in, he’d obviously failed.

But who knew what hornets’ nest he’d dug up in the process?

Sarah knew of quite a few locals who would see a report like that as a challenge.

Treasure? Spanish doubloons? Bring it on!

And what if the story had spread wider than Cherringham? There were plenty of people out there who would follow up a treasure story and stop at nothing to get access to the house to search for themselves …

Sarah quickly searched some of the national papers.

And yes, just as she’d thought — one or two had picked up on the court case, running their own jokey features about the ‘wacko aristos’ and their ‘pirate gold’ …

That would make sense of the notes, the threats.

And then another thought occurred to Sarah:

What if the treasure’s really there? And someone else knows?

That would be a powerful motivation for causing upset at the castle, for trying to drive the FitzHenrys from their home.

Sarah needed to find out more, so she leaned back and turned to Grace.

“If you’re done with the poster, Grace, why don’t you call it a day? It’s nearly five anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Go on, it’ll be busy enough in the New Year, might as well take advantage of the quiet.”

“Brill!”

She watched Grace turn her computer off and put on her coat.

“Don’t work too late yourself though, will you?”

“Just tidying stuff up, won’t be long,” said Sarah.

“Byee!”

*

She waited until Grace had gone, then picked up her phone and called Jack.

“Sarah. How you getting on?”

“I think I’m onto something, Jack. Fancy a bite later — catch up?”

“Sure.”

“Let me get the kids sorted first — how about the Ploughman’s?”

“Absolutely — food’s not bad there in the evenings. See you at seven?”

“Grab a table by the fire.”

Sarah said goodbye and put down her phone. She had an hour now in the empty office to dig into Cauldwells’ database.

The estate agent usually shut at five o’clock, so with luck Anjii had logged off and Sarah would be able to get into the system without anybody noticing.

She grabbed the log-in password from her iPad.

Then her hands tracked across the keyboard, accessing the site.

Thinking: if I’m right, I’ve just discovered something major.

A lost treasure that just might still be there.

And a very good reason to force out the FitzHenrys and take over the million pound liability that was Combe Castle …

Jack walked up the main road from Cherringham Bridge, his coat wrapped tight against the bitter wind. If he hadn’t made a date with Sarah to go through what she’d found, he’d have been happy to stay home on the boat.

Wood-burner roaring, a good book, Riley tucked up next to him on the sofa. Maybe a small single malt too.

Perfect combination for a dark winter’s night.

But the Ploughman’s was always a pretty cheerful place.

He cut across the dark pub car park towards the pub, then spotted a light go on in one of the parked cars.

Normally it would have been no big deal.

But in that instant he thought he had recognised two of the occupants of the car — and suddenly he was curious.

He stepped back into the shadows of the big hedge that lined the road, and watched.

The car was a beaten-up old Ford. In the front passenger seat, huddled over, sat Odysseus FitzHenry. Jack could see he was fiddling with something — looking at it intently.

Next to him in the driver’s seat, also intent on something in his lap, Jack recognised Terry Hamblyn, one of Cherringham’s more interesting characters and least successful part-time petty criminals.

What a pair!

If Terry gave up drink and weed he’d probably be a darn sight better criminal.

Though that was never going to happen!

Jack edged closer so he could see into the car. The light was on — he knew they wouldn’t be able to see him.

And Jack could see Terry … counting cash.

Back in NYC, Jack would have tapped on the window to see exactly what was up.

But right now he was just your average citizen.

None of my business,
he thought.
Unless it connects with business up at the castle …

He slipped round the back of the car and headed into the pub. It was too cold to be hanging around out here playing cops.

The pub was so warm and busy. He looked around, but there was no sign of Sarah. At the bar he reserved a table by the fire and ordered a pint.

While Billy the barman stood at the far end pulling the beer from the pump, Jack spotted the side door open and Odysseus came in. He headed straight for the bar and stood next to Jack without looking at him.