Vivian Conroy - Death Plays a Part

The overfull streets of London seemed far away, and even missing her friends was less painful as the beauty of this new world invited her in. There was life everywhere: bees and bumblebees humming about, butterflies landing on the path in front of her resting a moment before taking to their wings again, and even something flashing away into the undergrowth that could be anything from a mouse to a lizard.

Through a closely planted grove Guinevere reached the castle walls, towering over her with their archer slits and holes where canons had poked through in the past. Right in front of her was the large entry gate. In the tall, wooden doors decorated with metalwork was a much smaller door, used in the old days to get in and out without having to open the huge doors. It stood ajar.

As Guinevere didn’t see a bell beside it and guessed that knocking wouldn’t bring somebody out of the huge structure, she pushed the door open and stepped into the yard.

To her surprise it wasn’t an empty, barren affair but a warm, welcoming courtyard full of wooden baskets filled with small orange trees and blossoming plants. Opposite to her position were a few metal chairs around a table that held a large lantern. Braziers full of half-burned wood suggested people sat out here at night. With little artificial light around, you had to have an amazing view of the night skies, all the stars overhead.

As Guinevere walked across to the door into the main building, she caught a flash of reflected sunlight to her left. There between all the natural beauty was a big chunk of metal.

The motorcycle that had passed her on the causeway.

She was sure it was the same one, as the silver helmet the driver had worn lay on the leather saddle.

Guinevere grimaced remembering the noise and exhaust fumes. Could the owner of the castle be fond of motorcycles? It seemed at odds with what she had expected of Lord Bolingbrooke: an older bookish man with a passion for history and plants and the beautiful island he lived on.

But maybe he was eccentric or tried to maintain his youth by blasting around the countryside?

The door into the main building did have a bell, and after she had rung it a couple of times, an old man in a simple pullover and dark trousers opened the door. He held a stack of paper cups in his hand. He looked her over with a hitched brow. ‘I thought it was an early arrival for the rehearsal but I’m sure we’ve never met before.’

‘I would like to speak to the owner of this castle,’ Guinevere said. ‘Lord Bolingbrooke.’

‘Do come in.’

The hallway was formal with lots of wood panelling along the walls. She saw antlers and a mounted pheasant in a corner, a large wooden trunk with metalwork on it at the foot of the stairs, upon which sat an enormous brass pot with a flower arrangement. Probably from the castle gardens. Guinevere recognized the same yellow roses she had seen outside.

A door to her right stood open, and inside that room a long table was covered with a cloth and plates stood ready, cutlery in a basket, sandwiches on a tray covered with plastic wrap. Preparations it seemed to receive guests. For this rehearsal the butler had mentioned?

The butler took her to the foot of stairs. ‘You can leave your suitcase here. His lordship is upstairs in the library. You can’t miss it.’

He was the third person to tell her that she couldn’t miss something, so maybe it was the local way of putting things. But as Guinevere came to the top of the stairs and saw the two corridors leading away from it, she wondered how on earth the man could be certain she wouldn’t pick the wrong door. There were so many, all looking exactly the same. Oak panelling with a metal bar in the middle and a metal doorknob. It seemed to be shaped differently though for each door. She discerned a seal, a beaver – or otter perhaps; a swan in flight, its long neck stretched out; and another bird with a long neck, maybe a stork or a heron?

Then she heard the voices.

Yelling voices it seemed.

Dolly also turned her head in that direction and whined. She never liked a tense atmosphere. The doggy put her ears flat against her head and lowered her rear to the floor, reluctant to push on.

Guinevere hesitated herself, then walked in the direction of the yelling, half curious what it could be.

The door with the swan head door handle flew open, and a man stepped into the corridor, calling into the room, ‘… be happy to see me, but you need not give me this.’

‘You can take your trust and stuff it,’ a voice from inside called and, to accompany the latter words, something flew out of the open door and almost hit the man in the corridor. He managed to jump out of its path at the last instant, and the object shot past him and hit the wall, falling to the floor and spinning in circles.

It seemed to be a …

Metal thing, round, with a hole in it …

Guinevere cringed as another object flew from the room and hit the wall with a deafening clang.

The man had now spotted her and came in her direction. ‘Yes?’ It sounded curt, not surprising when you were caught in the middle of a fierce argument like this.

The man was tall and muscled with a suntanned face, blue eyes, and short blond hair. He wore a grey T-shirt with faded jeans and trainers on his bare feet. He looked her over as if he was trying to remember where he had seen her before.

Guinevere said, ‘I’m here about cataloguing the books.’

‘Aha. Let me announce you before dear Father breaks even more ancient armour.’

‘Armour?’ Now Guinevere realized that the metal object with the hole in it was the helmet of an old knight’s armour. It had been joined by a piece of shin plating.

The man called into the room, ‘Here’s Guinevere Evans to see you about the books. Cataloguing the whole lot, you know, getting it into a computer for posterity?’

Guinevere was surprised that he knew her name without her having told it to him.

The man pressed, ‘Don’t throw anything at her when she comes in, OK?’

There was no reply from inside of the room.

The man nodded at her. ‘Give it a try. But be careful.’

His wry tone didn’t sit well with her, but she didn’t have time to think about it. From the room a voice roared, ‘Show your face to me, girl. Don’t dally.’

Chapter Two

Guinevere pulled Dolly along, who contrary to her usual impetuous nature didn’t want to go in first this time.

They both peeked around the doorframe into the room.

Close to a big fireplace a man stood, in his sixties, his arms spread wide, holding a large map. He had his feet planted apart on a beautiful multicoloured rug. On that rug two dogs lay. They immediately perked up when they spotted the intruder. Not the human one, but the canine one.

They both rose and started barking. They were so tall they would tower over poor Dolly. One was a mastiff, the other a Great Dane.

Guinevere reached down instinctively and gathered the dachshund up in her arms. Dolly glanced down at the dogs and pulled up a lip as if to challenge them from her safe position on high.

Lord Bolingbrooke snapped his fingers at the dogs who sank back on their rears but kept watching her intently. ‘They don’t bite,’ he barked at her. ‘Come closer, girl, so I can see you better.’

He stood tall in the painfully straight way of someone who’d had a nanny who always poked him in the spine with a fingertip to ensure he didn’t slouch.

Keeping her eyes on the map in his hands, Guinevere walked on, clutching Dolly to her chest. ‘Lord Bolingbrooke? Pleased to meet you.’

‘Yes, yes, delighted I’m sure, but don’t make a fuss about titles. The days they meant anything are past. I know because they’re writing me letters most every day trying to wean my property away from me.’ He gestured at a stack of paperwork teetering on a desk in the corner. ‘The insolence.’