Simon Green - The Dark Side of the Road

I reached the niche in the gatepost, brushed away some of the blown-in snow, and then hit the call button and yelled into the intercom. I said my name loudly, several times, and added a few shouted Hellos! for good measure. There was a long pause, while snow accumulated on my head and shoulders, and then a far-off voice emerged from the grille. It sounded frankly astonished that there was anyone there.

‘Hello?’ it said. ‘Who is this?’

‘Ishmael Jones!’ I shouted back, fighting to be heard over the roar of the wind. ‘I’m expected!’

‘Yes! Yes you are!’ said the voice. ‘Of course you are! We just didn’t expect anyone to … I’ll open the gates!’

I refrained from saying a great many things and went back to the car. Getting the door open from the outside proved even more difficult, but I wasn’t taking any nonsense from the car now I was so close to warmth and shelter. I put one foot up against the rear door, hauled the driver’s door open and dived back inside. I had to clear the inside of the windscreen with my coat sleeve before I could see out again. I revved the engine a few times, and then edged the car forward as the gates swung slowly open. I urged the car on. The engine was making sounds I didn’t like, and I wasn’t sure how much longer the thing would last.

I’d barely got the car through the gates before they started swinging shut again. Someone at the Manor really wasn’t keen on letting in unexpected visitors. I made a mental note to learn the correct numbers for the entrance keypad, first chance I got. I hate feeling trapped. Though the stone wall that surrounded the estate was barely ten feet high; I could jump that, if I had to.

I drove on, following the gently curving drive. An old-fashioned manor house loomed out of the falling snow ahead of me, along with several smaller outbuildings. I skidded to a halt before the main house. Belcourt Manor was a huge structure, squat and square, centuries old. Only four stories high, but with a dozen windows along every floor. All of them currently concealed behind closed wooden shutters. Glints of light showed through cracks in the ground floor shutters. No lights on anywhere else. No gargoyles on the roof, and no arched gables; just basic functional guttering with icicles hanging off, and a sloping slate roof.

A medieval tithe barn stood to one side of the main house, all rough stone walls and an arching roof, while a long terrace of Victorian cottages huddled together on the far side. No lights on there, either.

Something caught my eye, and I looked quickly up at the top floor of the Manor. Had there just been a flash of light up there, as though someone had opened a shutter to look down at me? Someone interested in my arrival? I thought so. I watched for a while, but all the shutters seemed securely closed.

I looked around for a garage, or at least somewhere sheltered I could park my car, out of the storm, but there didn’t seem to be anything. Half a dozen large white objects set out before the Manor were quite clearly parked cars buried under quite a lot of snow. So I just manoeuvred my car carefully between the still white shapes and parked as close to the front door as I could get. And then I sat there a little longer, peering out at the falling snow. What was I doing here? This didn’t feel like the kind of job the Colonel usually needed me for. Something about this whole set-up didn’t feel right … There had been something in the Colonel’s voice, something I wasn’t used to hearing from him. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said he was scared …

So; the sooner I got inside, got the Colonel alone, and got some answers out of him, the better. I grabbed my battered suitcase from the passenger seat, forced the car door open again, and ventured out into the snow one last time. The wind had dropped away to nothing, not even murmuring; the falling snow just drifted down, casually, almost listlessly. It was like standing in the eye of the storm. I looked past the long row of cottages and could just make out acres of grounds, with cultivated flower beds, trees and hedges, and a whole bunch of sculpted topiary shapes already losing the details of their identity under piled up snow. It probably all looked very impressive, when the weather was behaving itself.

I trudged through the thick snow to the front door, my shoes sinking in deep with every step, making loud crunching sounds. It was really very cold, but I’d faced worse, in my time. And then, when I finally stood before the front door, I discovered there was no bell button. Not even an old-fashioned pull-chain. Just a single great black iron knocker, in the shape of a snarling lion’s head with a ring in its jaws. I took a firm hold of the ring and banged it hard. I don’t feel the cold like most people, but this was a serious storm. Winter with attitude. Enough to affect even me, maybe, if I stayed out in it long enough. So I banged the knocker again, putting some power into it. The people inside had to have heard. They could probably hear it on the moon. The huge door swung suddenly open, and I barged on in without waiting for an invitation.

A blast of warmth embraced me like a favourite aunt, and I stopped dead in the hallway to let out a long contented sigh. I dropped my suitcase on the heavily-carpeted floor and stretched slowly, getting the kinks out. Clumps of snow fell off my coat, to melt and soak into the expensive carpet. Like I cared. The door slammed shut behind me, and a huge overbearing gentleman in a formal butler’s outfit came forward to tower over me. He was exceedingly tall, with a muscular build, and he was also quite indisputably black, with a gleaming shaven head. He held himself sternly erect, the better to look down his nose at me. I let him look as I beat the rest of the snow from my clothes and stamped hard to shake the ice off my shoes. It felt good to be out of the storm and inside somewhere civilized. I shook myself, hard; and just like that the cold was gone from my bones, and I was toasty warm and entirely comfortable. The butler watched me dripping snow all over everything, clearly considering whether he should just throw me back out. I smiled at him brightly, and he nodded briefly.

I could see he had a great many things he wanted to ask, so I let him wait. Never show weakness; they take advantage. Instead, I took my time looking around the long entrance hall of Belcourt Manor. It was huge, and determinedly old-fashioned, with no expense spared. The walls were covered with portraits of grim-faced people, presumably family ancestors, along with traditional country scenes in a variety of undemanding and unadventurous styles. The furniture was large and sturdy, undoubtedly antique, and all of it dusted and polished to within an inch of its life. The hall was also just a bit gloomy, despite everything modern electric lighting could do. Doors led off on both sides, the entire length of the hall — which stretched away into the distance before ending reluctantly in a great sweeping stairway, with stout wooden banisters. I must have seen a larger entrance hall somewhere, but I was damned if I could think where. I’d lived in hotel suites that were smaller. So of course I made a point of appearing entirely unimpressed, as though this was all business as usual, to me. I nodded back to the butler.

‘I am Ishmael Jones,’ I said. ‘I’m expected.’

‘Of course you are, sir,’ said the butler, in a rich cultured voice. ‘I am Jeeves; butler to Walter Belcourt, master of Belcourt Manor.’

‘Of course you are,’ I said.

‘The most recent weather reports would seem to indicate you are very lucky to have reached us at all,’ said Jeeves. ‘The storm is growing worse by the moment, covering all of Cornwall and Devon, and most of South-West England. It seems likely that in a few hours the blizzard will have sealed the manor house off completely from the rest of the world.’