~ The Shadow Of Langley Hall ~

by

Dilys Francis

“Come on, come on… answer the phone.” Richard drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for a reply. After what seemed an age, the voice of his secretary broke the silence.

“Good morning, Carlisle Enterprises, can I help you?”

“Nicole, I was held up at Waterford’s and now I’m stuck in a line of traffic,” Richard said, without any preamble. “I’m supposed to see Harris at eleven, but I’m not going to make it.”

“Shall I ring him and see if we can arrange another time?” As she spoke he heard a phone ringing in background, and rather than hang on he called out, “Come back to me when you’re clear.”

The car in front inched towards the road junction and then suddenly swung into the line of traffic. His mobile rang as he reached the intersection. It was Nicole again. She had spoken to Evan Harris and discovered that the man’s expectant wife had been rushed to hospital and he needed to arrange another appointment.

While he listened, Richard gazed absentmindedly at the line of cars crossing in front of him. It seemed to be an excessively long funeral cortege. Maybe someone of importance to attract so many mourners, he thought. A break suddenly occurred in the line, and Richard swung the Saab convertible into the free space and followed them down the road.

“I’ve penciled in next Thursday at ten, is that all right?”

“Yes. Thanks, Nicole.”

Richard dropped the mobile phone onto the passenger seat and drummed the steering wheel again. When the cars in front braked, he realized they had reached the next major crossroad that led to the cemetery. Now he could get clear of the traffic. But instead of taking the correct road, Richard unwittingly continued to follow the funeral cortege and in seconds found himself driving through the cemetery gates. He decided to wait a few minutes before making his exit, so he parked the car, slid out from behind the wheel and looked around.

Curious, but without really knowing why, he joined the other mourners as they made their way to the graveside. The number of local dignitaries in attendance surprised him, and only then did he recall an article in the newspaper concerning the death of one John Sinclair, who had some connection to the estate of Sir Hugh Williams of Langley Hall.

Richard gazed around at the assembled group, and nodded a greeting to a couple of men he vaguely knew through his dealings with the council. James Watts, the treasurer of the local golf club acknowledged his presence before turning back to the ceremony as the chaplain cleared his throat.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” the clergyman began, in a sonorous voice, mindless of anything but his opportunity to be seen as the body’s last link to this world. As the minister droned on, Richard found his attention drawn to an elegant blonde in black, standing in the front row. Their eyes caught and held for a brief moment before she lowered her head in response to the call for prayer.

As the mourners drifted away from the graveside, a thickset man with curly hair steered the woman towards a waiting limousine and then climbed in beside her. Richard returned to his car, and then, on another impulse, he followed the undertaker’s vehicles out of the cemetery.

They turned into the entrance of Langley Hall and although he had driven past the property many times, it was so completely hidden by trees that Richard had never seen the house before. Now, as he drove through the massive iron gates and up the long driveway, ahead of him loomed the most magnificent building he had seen in years.

He was impressed with the perimeter of mature oaks and copper beeches that enclosed well-laid out gardens full of summer shrubs and annuals that fronted the mansion. Behind the trees he glimpsed more gardens, and beyond those, rolling fields stretched into the distance. It was an ideal setting for such a magnificent residence.

After parking his car at the end of the drive, Richard followed a group of people towards the front door, but before he reached the portico someone called his name. He turned around to find a man striding towards him with an outstretched hand.

“Ritchie, well, well, if it isn’t Ritchie Carlisle,” the slightly overweight man boomed. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same to you, Al,” Richard said, when he recognized his old college friend, Albert Finchley. “So--are you related, or a family friend?”

“Neither. I’m here to represent Braithwaite and Hutchinson, the solicitors handling the estate.” Then in answer to Richard’s unspoken question, he said, “I moved up here last year after my wife’s father died.” He spread his hands wide. “You know how it is with women; she was worried about her mother being on her own.”

“And it suits you?”

“Yes, just fine. I walked into this job two weeks later.”

They entered the house together, Richard busily plying Albert with questions. He soon learnt that the late John Sinclair had been appointed to manage the Langley Estate some years earlier and that the property was under the control of the court until Elizabeth, Sir Hugh’s daughter and rightful heir, could be located. The chief claimant in her absence was Catherine Lowestoffe.

“Catherine is the daughter of Sir Hugh’s second wife, Annabel,” Albert explained. “He remarried many years after his first wife died, but didn’t father any more children. At this stage no one knows if his only daughter, Elizabeth, is still alive or not.” When Richard questioned him further, Albert replied, “She eloped with someone against her father’s wishes, and they subsequently disappeared.”

“And what about Sinclair?”

“He was a distant relation, with no other family. Catherine Lowestoffe will probably be the main beneficiary of his will,” Albert replied. “She’ll have to make some other arrangements regarding the management of the estate now that Sinclair is dead, but I’d dare say Peter Hamblyn will take over that role. He’s family too; a cousin to Miss Lowestoffe, I believe.” He shook Richard’s hand once more. “Well, it was nice bumping into you again. Now I must say hello to the principals.”

Richard wandered into the large reception hall and gazed around. Huge, ornately framed oil paintings hung on the walls and up the side of the sweeping staircase that divided on the landing above. Exquisitely fashioned crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while every piece of furniture in the vast square hall gave witness to the wealth of a once proud owner.

As he admired the magnificent period fireplace in the hall, a large painting hanging above it caught his eye, and he stepped back in surprise as he stared at it. He could almost have been looking at a picture of himself at an older age. It was unnerving. The artist had even captured the man’s half-closed lazy eyelid, one just like his own. The brass plaque at the bottom identified it as a portrait of Baronet, Sir Hugh Bernard Williams. At that moment he became aware of someone by his side, and turned to look straight into the face of the blonde woman he had seen by the graveside.

“You seem to be taking an inordinate interest in my father’s portrait,” she said, brusquely. “I’m Catherine Lowestoffe.” When Richard did not respond immediately to her observation, she added. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” The sharpness of her tone quite plainly demanded, Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?

“Carlisle, Richard Carlisle.” He fumbled for a business card and handed it to her. “I, er… I’m here because I had business dealings with the deceased.”

“Carlisle Enterprises?” Catherine read the card and then looked him boldly in the eye.

“I see. And with whom have you come today?”

Richard fiddled with his two-tone gray silk tie as he tried to think how he could justify having gone to the house uninvited, but then someone called to her. He gave a sigh of relief as she acknowledged the person and excused herself. As she walked away he turned his attention to the painting once again, and recalled seeing a photograph of the late Sir Hugh alongside the report of John Sinclair’s death in the local newspaper.

At the time, Richard had been a little intrigued by his own likeness to the photograph, but now this large painting of the man at an earlier age seemed to accentuate their common attributes--the dark hair, the square jaw line, and the lazy eyelid. Or was it mere coincidence? He shrugged. Yes, that’s what it was.

The muted chimes of a gong announced that food was being served, and Richard followed the others into the main hall and accepted a glass of wine from a waiter. After helping himself from the selection of cold cuts and salads set out on the large dining table, he made his way across the room and joined an elderly couple in an effort to make himself less conspicuous.

While they talked, he watched Catherine Lowestoffe conversing with a group of men on the other side of the room. Still conscious he was out of place, and still wondering what he was doing there, he planned to leave, but before going he wanted to find out a little more about her.

He studied her cautiously. Her long hair was the color of pale corn, and although her light blue eyes showed faint signs of weeping they were incredibly clear; tears had not detracted from their beauty. But there was a hardness about her face as if she had raised a wall between herself and the world. He was no good at estimating a person’s age. Must be somewhere in her late twenties, he speculated.

As Richard continued to appraise her, Catherine seemed to sense his attention. She waited until the people he was talking to were joined by a third person and then approached him.

“You have aroused my curiosity, Mr. Carlisle,” she said, as he smiled wanly. This time the tone of her voice was marginally less hostile. “I don’t recall Cousin John ever mentioning your name though. What exactly is your line of business at Carlisle Enterprises?”