The Murders at Clarion Castle, page 14
Over the past months, an entire wing of the manor house had been converted into a hospital for wounded soldiers. Originally, Lady Hawthorne had planned to live in the other wing, but the noise of the construction and the ambulances coming and going at all hours had made her decide to live in the dower house.
The dower house was a smaller place—although it was easily three times the size of Dorothy’s own cottage— about half a mile from the main manor, that had been built for the original Lord Hawthorne’s mother-in-law. Dorothy had debated on the way here how best to approach. Should she just go up and ring the front door?
But she didn’t know what kind of a nightmare mess she might be walking into. Maybe the stranger was trying to pass himself off as a friend of Diana Lovecraft’s, as he had down at the Cozy Cup, and was politely asking Lady Hawthorne civil questions.
But maybe he was even now threatening Lady Hawthorne at gunpoint, and Dorothy would be heading straight into the line of fire if she just walked in openly.
Like everywhere else around here, Hawthorne Manor had to operate with a far smaller staff than before the war. All the young men were off fighting, and even unmarried women between 20 and 30 were now being drafted into the WRENS or the WAAF or another branch of the service or the civil defence departments.
Dorothy knew that Lady Hawthorne had moved into the dower house with only her own ladies’ maid and the elderly butler. All three of them were getting on in years; it wouldn’t take much for the stranger to overpower them.
Of course, Dorothy could have stopped off at the manor and tried to get help from one of the doctors or staff there. But that would inevitably take time— time to convince whoever she found that she hadn’t lost her marbles, babbling about German spies here in Crofter’s Green. And time was what Dorothy was almost certain that Lady Hawthorne didn’t have.
She stopped now, leaning against the trunk of a thick oak tree so that she could peer out towards the square, brick-built dower house. She could see windows of the sitting-room — which was surely where Lady Hawthorne would have greeted any visitor— but she couldn’t see anything of what might be happening inside. The sunlight was too bright. She couldn’t see anyone else about, either. Just like up at the manor, the back garden was planted with victory plots of potatoes and cabbage, but there was no sign of the gardener.
Dorothy took another painful gulp of air and then before she could change her mind, ran across the garden towards the small paved veranda at the back of the house. Her dad’s service revolver was a heavy weight in her pocket, banging against her leg with every step. But she reached the veranda safely. No shouts, no one rushing out to meet her.
As she pressed herself against the outer wall, though, she did hear voices. She’d fetched up next to the tall French windows that opened out from the sitting room, and the voices were coming from in there.
First a man’s voice, raised and angry— but she recognised it at once as the dark-haired stranger’s.
“Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not lying!” That was Lady Hawthorne’s voice, sounding as though she were near to tears. “I have no idea at all what you’re talking about!”
“You can cut out the innocent act,” the man growled. “Diana Lovecraft stayed here for months, posing as an old school friend of yours. You’re expecting me to believe that you had no idea she was with the SOE?”
“The SOE?” Lady Hawthorne sounded as shocked as Dorothy felt. Although if Mrs Lovecraft had been an agent for the Special Operations Executive, that would explain why the stranger was so interested in her. “No! Diana and I were at school together. I—”
Her voice cut off abruptly, and Dorothy heard the sound of a ringing slap, as though the man had struck Lady Hawthorne across the face.
Dorothy’s own hands curled into fists at her sides. Lady Hawthorne was gentry, born with a silver spoon in her mouth. But she was still a good sort, and she’d been through enough hardship and sorrow lately. Her husband had died less than a year ago.
“Answer me!” the man’s voice was a harsh growl. “Where is Diana Lovecraft now?”
“I don’t know!” Lady Hawthorne was openly weeping now, her words coming between choked sobs. “I’m telling you the truth; I haven’t heard from Diana in months!”
“Stop sniffling, or I’ll shoot you here and now,” the man barked.
Dorothy squeezed her eyes shut. She now knew that the stranger had a gun— and he was probably a lot more skilled with it than she would be with her dad’s old service revolver. Help would be nice, but none seemed to be on hand. If Mum had reached anyone at the police station, they hadn’t made it up to the manor yet—
Something cold and wet touched Dorothy’s ankle. She was so startled she almost let out a shriek, but managed to stop herself and look down. Bonzo, Lady Hawthorne’s little Pomeranian dog, was nudging at her with his nose.
Dorothy blew out a hard breath. “You’re not exactly the help I was hoping for,” she muttered, “but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.”
The fur around Bonzo’s neck was raised and he was growling, teeth bared, at the pane of window glass. Dorothy hadn’t risked looking in yet, but Bonzo could probably see the stranger there, threatening his mistress.
Now, if only the French door was open. Her heart pounding, Dorothy took the revolver gingerly out of her pocket, though she kept the safety catch on. She wasn’t entirely confident she wouldn’t shoot her own toes off in a struggle. Then, with her other hand, she reached out and pressed down on the handle that opened the door. It moved easily. The door swung open, and the stranger must have been too busy threatening Lady Hawthorne to notice, because he went right on, growling another demand to know where Diana Lovecraft was now.
Maybe Bonzo was all the help Dorothy needed after all, because the instant the door opened wide enough, he was off like a shot, rocketing through in a blur of russet-coloured fur. Still gripping the revolver, Dorothy followed and was in time to see the little dog launch himself forward and sink his teeth into the dark-haired man’s leg.
The man let out a bellow of pain and outrage and shook his leg, trying to fling Bonzo off. But Bonzo hung on, still snarling and growling.
Dorothy sprang forward. She’d been terrified up until a second or two ago, but now she felt oddly calm. Every detail of the room seemed unnaturally clear: the big black revolver clutched in the stranger’s right hand; Lady Hawthorne cowering on the sofa, with the red mark of the stranger’s hand livid on her cheek.
Dorothy moved past her and struck the dark-haired man’s gun hand with the grip of her own weapon.
He’d been too distracted by Bonzo to even notice her entrance. He shouted something incoherent again, but the weapon dropped from his grasp and landed with a clatter in the fireplace grate.
Dorothy pointed her own revolver at him. “Don’t move,” she said.
The stranger’s cold, hard gaze flicked from her face to the gun in her hand. Dorothy tried not to let herself tremble as she wondered whether she could actually bring herself to shoot him. But she didn’t get the chance to find out.
The man whirled around and raced for the window, leaping through the French door and out onto the veranda. The movement was so sudden that Bonzo was flung aside, although the little dog wasn’t hurt. In a split second, he picked himself up and tore after the stranger, yapping and snarling and finally vanishing through the window.
Chapter thirty
Blake
Blake Collins settled himself at the small writing desk by the window of his assigned guest room at Clarion Castle. Late morning sunlight slanted across the polished oak surface, illuminating the leather-bound notebook before him—the late Mr Vernon's mysterious journal.
Blake adjusted his position, stretching his right leg carefully to ease the familiar ache. The leg had improved considerably over the past weeks, thanks in no small part to Tom Baker's determined coaching during their rehabilitation sessions, but still, extended periods of sitting inevitably brought back the pain.
He reached for his fountain pen, then paused, checking his watch. Katherine would return from her exploration of the castle library in approximately forty-seven minutes—she was nothing if not punctual, even with her memory still fragmented. The thought brought a mix of emotions: gratitude that she was alive and with him again, mingled with a persistent ache that she couldn't remember their engagement or their life together before the bombing.
"Focus, Collins," he murmured to himself, returning his attention to the notebook.
Vernon's handwriting was meticulous—small, precise characters arranged in columns. Blake recognised the structure immediately. This was a simple substitution cipher.
Blake began with a fresh sheet of paper, tearing off two strips and writing the letters of the alphabet on each one. Then he took another sheet of paper and turned to the notebook. After adjusting the two alphabet strips, he began to write. A knock at the door interrupted his concentration.
"Come in," he called, not looking up from his work.
The door opened to reveal Katherine, her golden hair pinned neatly back, a stack of books in her arms. Blake felt the familiar catch in his breath at the sight of her. How many times during those bleak months had he dreamed of seeing her again?
"I thought you'd be in the library until eleven," he said, checking his watch again.
Katherine smiled—that same smile that had first captivated him four years ago at a mathematics symposium. "Mrs Cartwright arrived to catalogue the first editions. I didn't want to disturb her."
Blake nodded, understanding completely. In their cover roles—he as a journalist researching architectural features, she as a rare books expert—they needed to maintain a certain professional distance from the castle staff.
Katherine set the books down on the small table near the window and peered over his shoulder. "Vernon's notebook?"
"Yes. Harry hopes I'll find something useful."
Blake gestured to his preliminary work. The two strips of paper each contained the letters of the alphabet in order. The second strip, however, contained an additional 'a'. Lining up the two strips with the 'a' of one strip beneath a certain letter in the second—the key letter—would make for an easy conversion. Provided there wasn't some other twist involved.
"So, it's just a straight substitution cipher?" Katherine asked,
"I think so. But I haven't found the key letter."
"How far have you gone?"
"I'm at d." He would have gone further, of course, if he hadn't been daydreaming about Katherine, but he didn't want to tell her that.
"So, only 22 to go, then." She gave a bright smile and continued, "But, after all, the man wasn't a cryptographer. He used a simple code just because he wanted to keep his notes safe from prying eyes as he was writing them. Perhaps we can make an educated guess."
"Then guess away," Blake said, a wave of affection washing over him. This was the Katherine he'd fallen in love with—brilliant and intuitive, but completely grounded in common sense. He didn't add that her presence beside him, the subtle floral scent of her, the warmth of her arm so close to his shoulder, made concentration considerably more difficult.
"May I?" she asked, reaching for the two strips of paper.
"Please."
She lined up the two strips so that the 'a' at the end of the second strip was beneath the 'v' of the first.
Blake quickly applied the substituted letters to the first two words of the notebook text.
He read aloud, "Important visitor."
"Got it in one," Katherine said.
They worked through the journal in companionable silence, Katherine transcribing onto a clean sheet of paper while Blake dictated. This felt achingly familiar—the two of them tackling a puzzle together, minds working in harmony. As he dictated, Blake wondered if something about the process would help Katherine recover her memory.
But Katherine gave no indication of that as she wrote out the words. Finally they were done. Now it was time to see what meaning they could extract from the decoded notes.
Katherine moved the pages she'd written closer to Blake, so that they both could see them. Once again, Blake felt the warmth of her presence alongside him.
"This is odd," Katherine said, pointing to a passage. "Vernon writes about observing 'unusual interactions' but he's frustratingly cryptic about who's involved."
Blake nodded, scanning further. "He refers to them only as 'M' and 'S.C.' throughout. And mentions a third party, designated simply as 'visitor.'"
"He was being cautious," Katherine observed. "Perhaps he wasn't certain who could be trusted. After all, he must have had some reason to use a code.”
“A good reason, it seems." Blake turned the page, finding a new entry. "Listen to this: 'Have discovered messages hidden in loose stone. Copied and replaced originals. Trust no one yet, not even W.'"
"W being Walker?" Katherine asked.
"Most likely." Blake was already dissecting the implications. "Vernon was playing a dangerous game—intercepting messages but leaving them in place to avoid alerting whoever left them."
"Blake," Katherine said softly, pointing to the final entry, dated the day before Vernon's death. "Look at this."
The passage read: "S.C. showed particular interest in main tower again today. Claimed routine maintenance. Must speak with G about wine discrepancies first, then consider whom to trust with this information."
"G could be Graves," Blake murmured. "The second under-butler. He would have been familiar with the wines."
"Vernon was investigating something about the main tower," Katherine said. "But he never got the chance to follow through."
Blake nodded grimly. "We need to tell Harry what we've found.”
They made their way downstairs, Blake moving with efficiency and, he thought, not showing weakness to Katherine. He was glad that the exercises with Tom had strengthened muscles long neglected.
Still, by the time they reached Harry's temporary office on the ground floor, perspiration beaded his forehead.
Harry looked up from his desk as they entered, his expression brightening. "Blake, Katherine—tell me you've found something."
"Vernon had suspicions about the staff," Blake explained, handing over his transcription. "He was tracking their activities, though he's deliberately vague about identities."
Harry's eyes narrowed as he scanned the decoded passages. "M and S.C.—any ideas?"
"Likely initials of the names he had for people," Blake suggested.
"He discovered messages hidden in a loose stone at the keep," Katherine added. "And made several cryptic references to the castle's main tower."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Anything about tomorrow evening?"
"Not directly," Blake said cautiously. "But Vernon's first words in the journal are 'important visitor.' That entry was made two weeks ago. If that was the date he learned about the PM's visit, it could be the reason for his investigations.”
“Can you two work on what he might be hinting at—about the main tower?”
“Of course.” Blake exchanged a glance with Katherine. More time with her—just what he’d been hoping for. He hoped she felt the same.
“Then I’m going to find Nigel,” Harry said. “We’ll take another look at that loose stone.”
Chapter thirty-one
Harry
Harry squinted up at the looming silhouette of the castle keep. What was it hiding?
Its jagged battlements towered above a high stone wall, stark against the sunlit clouds overhead, a grim and ancient sentinel no longer needed to protect the adjacent main 'castle' and elegant Victorian manor house. Today, according to the coded notes Vernon had recorded in his journal before he died, someone was using it for another purpose.
“So, the loose stone?” Nigel asked, noting his uncle's contemplative expression.
"Indeed," Harry replied, taking a glance at the immaculate lawns behind them. No one else was in sight. “Let’s find it,” he said.
They approached the imposing structure, Harry assessing the perimeter. The keep was a square-angled Norman tower, perhaps fifty feet tall and roughly thirty feet on each side, built of local stone that had weathered to a mottled grey-green. Unlike the main house with its ornate embellishments, this building was plain, nearly windowless, designed for practical storage and defence in a simpler age.
“Too bad Fenton wasn't specific about the location,” Nigel said, consulting his notebook.
"That would have been too easy," Harry replied with a slight smile. "We'll need to do some walking."
As they circled the base of the ancient tower, Harry couldn't help noticing how the structure dominated this section of the grounds, offering excellent views in all directions, except where it was blocked by the sprawling bulk of the newer main castle.
"There's the door," Nigel said, pointing to a heavy oak entrance reinforced with iron bands. “But where's the lock? Glenwood and Fenton both said the door was padlocked.”
Harry's eyebrows rose as they drew closer. The padlock that should have secured the entrance was missing, its iron hasp hanging empty.
"It appears we're not the first visitors today," Harry murmured, exchanging a meaningful glance with Nigel.
They continued their circuit of the keep's exterior, examining the stonework with careful attention. On the western face, partially concealed by a climbing rose that had been allowed to grow wild, Harry spotted what they were seeking—a section where one of the stones protruded slightly from the otherwise uniform wall.
"There," he said softly, pointing. "Near the ground."
Nigel knelt beside the area Harry had indicated. The stone in question was roughly the size of a bread loaf, and unlike its neighbours, showed signs of recent disturbance. Fresh scratch marks marred its surface, and the ancient mortar around its edges was nearly all scraped away.
