D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

The name Gattenby House was misleading; it was more a mansion or a stately home than a house. Working in real estate Gareth would have drooled over selling something like this. It was mostly Georgian in origin, partly Victorian in its later additions, and a smattering of other styles in between, yet they all worked very well together, he thought, unlike some he’d seen which had their fair share of bits taken away and bits added leaving muddled architectural monstrosities.

The gravel drive swept up to a set of magnificent stone steps, as expected, and the car came to a halt beneath these. The driver came round and held open the door for Gareth and as he emerged from the Bentley a man headed down the stone steps to greet him.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Davies. Good to meet you,’ he said, holding out a hand to shake. ‘We spoke on the phone. I’m Randall Tremain.’ Something that might have been a smile twitched briefly on his lips.

He was much older than he’d envisaged, but tall, well built, his hair cropped short. Must be in his sixties, Gareth thought, but he looked good for his age, and his grip was hard and decisive; together it suggested a man who looked after himself, worked out maybe. He signalled for the driver to collect the bag.

‘It’s a pleasure,’ said Gareth, glancing up at the towering stone edifice that was Gattenby House; it was even more impressive up close.

‘I’m so glad you agreed to come,’ said Tremain. ‘I know this must seem a little unusual, but Sir Lambert-Chide is not your usual kind of man. He is thrilled you are here and can’t wait to meet the man who reunited him with a most sentimental piece of jewellery.’

‘I can’t take too much credit,’ Gareth said, but Tremain cut him off.

‘First we shall show you to your room so you can freshen up after your journey. Then I will introduce you to Sir Lambert-Chide.

Two monolithic pillars in Bath stone flanked and dwarfed them. The place was awe-inspiring. ‘How the other half live,’ said Gareth as the walked up the stone steps.

‘Quite,’ said Tremain, guiding Gareth through the open doors into an impressively spacious entrance hallway laid out with shining black and white marble tiles, marble pillars shooting up to ornately painted ceilings from which dripped fabulous crystal chandeliers. The marble walls were lined with formal portraits and a number of finely carved Romanesque statues looked down on them from their lofty plinths.

This wasn’t how the other half lived, Gareth thought; this was how the other half of the other half lived. Gattenby House positively screamed enormous wealth, power and privilege.

‘As I mentioned on the phone, you will be able to avail yourself of the many facilities we have here during your stay with us,’ said Tremain, his hand indicating for Gareth to take a staircase that seemed to have come straight from a movie set. ‘We have three swimming pools, two gymnasiums, a number of tennis courts and two state-of-the-art digital cinemas. Sir Lambert-Chide has made them all available to you.’ He turned to his rather dumbstruck guest. ‘This is a special honour, Mr Davies. This is not a hotel,’ he said, driving the fact home. ‘Few people get to see inside Gattenby House.’

‘I’m sure I shall be eternally grateful,’ said Gareth. ‘I do so dislike hotels.’ He found he had taken an instant dislike to the man. There was something in Tremain’s eyes that said the feeling was mutual.

Gareth’s room was equally elegant. Oak-lined walls, antique furniture smelling sweetly of beeswax, ultra-thick carpets that muffled the sound of his footsteps, landscape paintings on the walls, and a slab of a bed that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Palace of Versailles. The view from the large window was a fabulous sweeping vista of ornate gardens held together by finely trimmed hedges, a large circular stone fountain with a statue in its centre, and beyond these the manicured curves, rises and gentle valleys of a vast estate disappearing into the winter fug of distance as night began to pull its blanket over the landscape.

He felt he could have stepped out of a time machine and into another era altogether. It felt totally removed from the modern world, unnerving and fascinating at the same time.

His overnight bag was already on a chair by the bed. How it had gotten there before him he never worked out. Perhaps he had deliberately been taken the longer, more scenic route to hammer home Lambert-Chide’s importance.

‘Dinner will be seven o’clock prompt,’ said Tremain as he stood at the door. ‘Sir Lambert-Chide expects punctuality, but don’t worry, I will arrange for someone to come and collect you. Don’t want you getting lost, do we?’ he added.

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Gareth.

He took a shower and sat down to watch TV — one of two concessions to modern technology, the other being a telephone. The six o’clock news was on and he instantly recognised DCI Stafford and turned up the volume. He was still asking for witnesses and a photo flashed up on screen, the same he’d shown Gareth of the Polish woman. They named her this time. He noticed there were details of the murder deliberately being kept back. No mention again of the strange symbol. Mention again of the dismemberment but no mention of the arrangement of the body parts. It was shocking enough, even for six o’clock.

He dressed for dinner and was standing ready when there was a knock at the door. What he wasn’t expecting to see was a beautiful young woman, long blonde hair reaching down to settle on her upper chest, a great deal of it revealed by the low-cut neckline of a stunning blue dress. She smiled sweetly at him. A kid really, he thought, no more than twenty-four, twenty-five max; even the heavy makeup couldn’t hide her youth.

‘Mr Davies,’ she said, her voice chiming with culture and confidence, ‘I have been sent to collect you.’ She gave a light chuckle. ‘That rather makes you sound like a parcel, I do apologise!’

‘Please call me Gareth,’ he said. Her perfume wasn’t your off-the-shelf Boots brands, he thought idly, and he guessed the bangle studded through with shining white stones was not costume jewellery.

‘Gareth,’ she echoed. ‘Gareth it is. Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am Helen Lambert-Chide.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you. Daughter? Granddaughter?’

‘Neither. I am David Lambert-Chide’s wife,’ she said, smiling at his discomfort.

He was guided by Helen Lambert-Chide down the staircase and eventually taken into a spacious though comfortable-looking room. It had its fair share of opulence — antiques, wood panels, crazily long brocaded curtains closed against the dark outside; a mammoth stone fireplace with logs crackling and spitting in a black iron grate. It had all these things and yet somehow did not feel in the least threatening. There was, surprisingly, plenty of contemporary works on display, from bronzes to paintings, ceramics to stone carving. The room was far less starchy or intimidating than the grand entrance hallway, he thought.

As they entered the room a man rose slowly from his chair. Gareth’s first impressions of David Lambert-Chide were mixed. At first glance he looked every bit as old as his ninety-odd years said he should; his frame was thin, bent and frail, supported by an ebony walking stick topped off with a silver knob; he had a waxen face heavily carved by lines and creased into folds by the years from which pale watery eyes peered; he had no hair save a prickling of white at the top of his ears, and no discernable lips to speak of. When he held his hand out to shake Gareth’s he noticed how skeletal it was, with veins standing out like thin threads of blue wire.