Masters And Lovers 1-4 novel Chapter 36

Michael

We make our way through undergrowth. The rampant rhododendrons have killed off any brambles and nettles, but completely unkempt and uncared for, they find ways to stab the unwary passer-by with the blunt ends of broken boughs, or to snag low-hanging branches, whippy and limp, around ankles. One jabs into Klempner’s calf and he curses, tearing his trousers as he pulls free. Another lashes back across my face with a sting that makes my eyes water.

As we emerge to the edge and thin sunshine, the house hoves into view. It’s a vast place, or was, a memory from the days when wealth meant a country estate, thousands of acres of land and a tribe of servants. Now, neglected and dismal, it’s home for not much more than a colony of starlings which rises and wheels and shrieks into the morning.

The roof we saw from afar is a sham, mainly collapsed inwards, purlins and struts either broken and splintered or gone altogether. The main walls, such as are still standing, are falling inwards, taking whole storeys with them. Trees sprout out through gaping windows and ivy crawls over crumbled mortar.

It would seem an unlikely hideaway, except that by what was once a vast double door to the front, is Ben’s car. But the only sign of life is Scruffy, sitting in the passenger seat.

“That dog likely to start yapping when it sees us?” mutters Baxter.

“I’ll go first,” I say. “He knows me. He’ll be quiet for me.”

“You sure of that?” murmurs Klempner.

“Pretty sure. But if he does make a noise and Ben comes out, he’ll only see me.”

“Is your brother likely to be armed? Does he carry a knife or some such?”

“No, he’s not that kind of man.”

Klempner opens his mouth to speak, but James cuts in. "He’s a big man, built like Michael. In his hands, a lot of things could be a weapon. A branch. A tyre iron…."

Klempner gives me a long look, then jerks his head towards the car. “Off you go then.”

Moving quickly, I leave the shelter of the rhododendrons, quickly crossing the ground to the car. Scruffy sits up as he sees me, ears perking, but doesn’t bark. "Hi there Scruffy. Shhh… Good Boy." His stubby tail beats a frenzied tattoo as I open the door and scratch his ears, but the only sound he makes is his whining as he licks my face.

I can’t see the others, but I gesture towards the shrubbery, waving them into the door. Within seconds, the three emerge, and as they cross to the door, I hold Scruffy’s attention with a search of the glove compartment. It produces a bag of dog chocs and a hide chew. I tip the lot into the footwell. “There you go, Scruffy. You enjoy those.”

The ragtag bombs down to floor level and I leave him happily knocking back enough treats for a Rottweiler. Closing the door quietly behind me, I join the others, waiting just inside the doorway.

*****

We find ourselves in what ought to be the interior of a house but with the general collapse, has become a kind of open courtyard, strewn with rubble, broken tiles and rotted timbers. The space is so large, perhaps it was once a ballroom. I cast my mind back for some memory, but it’s a long time since I was here, and the house was occupied then. Old McAlister didn’t let apple-scrumping boys inside.

“Doesn’t look very promising,” comments Klempner. “When were you last here?”

“Thirty years ago.”

“It seems a lot of damage for thirty years.”

“Probably had the lead stripped from the roof. Once that’s gone, the rest…”

James interrupts. “The cellars. A place like this would have had all the staff activity below ground and as often as not, the basement can be in good condition even when the house itself it in ruins.”

Klempner pulls a face. “You think?”

“Once the roof has gone, outer walls become unstable.” He gestures around to the collapsed grandeur about us. “They fall. Underground vaulted ceilings don’t. The arches remain stable.”

Klempner absorbs this, nodding. “Where would you say the entrance would be to these cellars?”

“Usually at the back, away from the family and the ‘front door’ guests.”

Klempner clucks. ”Sounds reasonable. Want to lead the way, Mr Architect?”

James scans ahead. “Over there, I’d say.” He points towards a heap of fallen masonry where, just beyond, a flight of stone steps rises six feet into the air, then ends in nothing.

His instinct is good. As we make our way across, a patch of mud shows boot prints and…

James halts, his colour rising. “I’m going to have that bastard…” He moves forward again, stepping over what are unmistakably, droplets of blood.

“That’s the spirit,” mutters Klempner.

The stairs rise into nothing but drop into the darkness. The floor gapes, but the steps downward are in good condition.

“I’ll lead,” says Klempner. “Baxter, stay by the door here. Keep your eyes peeled but come down if you hear us with trouble.”

“Sir.”

Weapon at the ready, Klempner descends, at first cautiously, a step at a time, ducking to see into the gloom below. Quickly, James and I follow.

At the bottom, we find ourselves at the end of a long corridor, running the length of the house, doors off to left and right. Dim sunshine slants through some of the doors.

The arches James anticipated stand as thick columns to either side of the corridor, maybe twenty feet apart, rising to meet at a curved apex and blending in to the vaulted stonework of the ceiling. We stand tucked behind the thickness of one column, away from the betraying silhouette of the stairs.

“Spot on so far,” says Klempner. “How are these places usually laid out inside?”

“Typically,” says James, “you would have kitchens at this end near the stairs for service, connected to stores, butchery, buttery and the butler’s pantry at the far end. There’s probably a laundry too. And depending on when anyone last spent any money on it, there could be a boiler room.”

“Connected? So, the rooms are likely to have more than one door?”

“Probably.”

Klempner sniffs. “Michael, stay by me. James, watch our back.” He glances at the gun in James’ hand. “You okay with that?”

He purses his lips. “No, I can’t say I’m comfortable with it.”

“Learn to live with it.” Klempner glances left and right, then almost slides against the wall to the first door.

It’s standing ajar; admitting a little light which flickers and sways across the walls. Standing away from the entrance, he pushes it back, peers around then steps through.

I stand by the door as James follows him in, walking through drifts of leaves and a thin skin of mud, under a slit of a window at ceiling level. Any glass is long gone, but sunshine and fresh air filter through.

A series of vast troughs run down the centre of the space, the broken remains of what might have once been wash-boards scattered inside. A fetid mattress occupies one corner, its cover split and the contents spilling over the flag floor, next to ancient beer cans and waxed cartons, decayed and chewed.

A door on one wall is closed, the bolt drawn. Klempner gives it a cursory glance. “Rusted closed by the look of it.”

“And not a footprint in sight but ours,” says James.

“Come on. Next one.” Again, Klempner leads, sliding along the wall, eyes in all directions before he reaches the next door. This one’s closed, but there is no resistance as he turns the handle. Once more, we follow him through.

“I think we have your boiler room.”

A vast rusted confusion of pipes, chambers, dials, levers and tanks rambles the space, looking like something from one of the cheaper 1950s ‘mad scientist’ movies. The same thin sludge of mud gathers in slight hollows over the flags.

“No footprints again,” comments James.

Doors lead from both ends of the room; one apparently the backside of the chamber we just left, the other standing open on the wall opposite.

As one, we head through.

The vault-light in here is covered over by something, fallen masonry perhaps, and it’s all but dark. But the bare skeletons of drying rails dangle from the ceiling, their cords rotted and fraying.

“There’s nothing in here…” begins James…

A scream…

And a crashing sound…

… and a series of yells…

Charlotte!

But the scream was a male voice.

Sprinting back out, Klempner halts at the door to the corridor, two hands clamped around the grip of his weapon, arms outstretched, swinging one way, then the other, up and down the passage.

He halts, muttering, “Stupid bastard.” Another look along the corridor and he heads back the way we came.

Baxter lies at the bottom of the stairs, face-down, motionless. I press two fingers to his neck.

“Is he alive?” Klempner’s squats down by the prone figure, frisking the body, patting down legs and around the torso.

“Yup, he’s alive. Pulse is strong… You don’t seem very sympathetic.”

Still searching the body, Klempner replies in curt tones, “He’s supposed to be a professional. He’s let himself be taken out by a complete amateur. He doesn’t deserve sympathy.”

He feels at the back of the body, pulls out a knife from its sheath then shoves it under a trouser leg and into the top of a boot. He checks the pockets of the jacket and extracts a hip flask. Unscrewing it, he takes a gulp then offers up it to me, brows raised.

“No, thanks.”

James speaks. “He was armed when we came down…”

Klempner stands, pocketing the flask. “He was, yes. But he’s not now, so I think we can assume brother Ben is.” He turns to me. “Does he know how to use a gun?”

“Not that I know of.”

He nods, scanning into the gloom. “Come on. Let’s find the women.”

There’s no sign of Ben. Our own footsteps echo and reverberate against hard stone walls and the curve of the vaulting. We start with the first door on the opposite side of the corridor.

As James predicted, it’s the old kitchens, from the days when servants were ‘below stairs’. Now dim and gloomy, in their day, food for a host could have come from here.

At the far end there is, not a door but an opening, wide enough to allow the passage of huge trays or trolleys, but James drops his eyes to the flags, pointing. A trail of droplets, black in the poor light, leads across the flags to the opening and beyond. There’s a sound, a cough perhaps, but not quite; more of a cough muffled.

“Careful!” hisses Klempner, but James is striding forward and I’m with him.

We charge in to the room beyond. There’s nothing here but slabs and shelves and ceiling hooks. But frantic Mmmming is coming from the door beyond.

And there we find them; Mitch and Charlotte. They’re sitting on the floor; naked stone that radiates chill through flesh and bone. Their bodies pressing close together, both are bound, their hands behind them, taped tight, digging into flesh. Their ankles, the same, and their mouths too; great wreaths of tape wrapping around face and head over skin and hair.

Mitch has a swelling eye which merges with the bruising to a cheekbone. Charlotte dribbles blood from one nostril. It trickles the length of her body, congealed and black on her clothing, welling fresh at the top as she snuffles and coughs.

Two pairs of green eyes blink and run with joy and relief as James and I enter. But then as Klempner appears behind us, Charlotte’s eyes widen.