CASTLE 07


Miss Parradine was in one of the vaults of the County Record Office, where many of the papers of the Earls of Fortescue  had been kept since the family had donated them in an uncharacteristic (for them) act of benevolence,  some hundred and fifty years ago. It was deep underground and smelt chiefly and displeasingly of mildew and rust. The air conditioning was mediaeval in its antiquity, along with many of the documents. Normally she would have material she wanted to examine brought up to her nice well lit and ventilated office by a porter. This time, though, it was different. She had a bit of very personal and clandestine research in mind.  She took down a box full of papers from one of the highest and dustiest shelves. Even her fear of spiders had been suppressed for the moment, such was her determination and fixity of purpose.

Her time at the magnificent banquet,  when the poor Girl had been confined to the ancient cage,  to the delight of all present, had renewed her interest in the history of Fortescue castle and its long-time former owners.  She chuckled malevolently as she re-lived  the occasion of the Girl’s fresh humiliation and recollected anew the look of shame on that lovely tear-stained face. She had seen the Colonel pinch that naked and tempting backside - still tempting despite its angry redness, the result of yet another chastisement - and knew full well that the poor young creature was totally innocent of any wrong-doing.

“She must be half-witted not to have told us all what really happened and maybe saved herself a lot of grief” muttered the Parradine woman as she drew down an ancient box from one of the dustier shelves. “Only herself to blame for the caging and the mega beating they must have given her later. Stupid Girl!  Pity I couldn‘t have seen the beating, though. That would have been a nice way to round off the evening’s  entertainment!”

And so she callously dismissed from her mind the events of that night, which had culminated in three people taking turns to deliver the worst thrashing that the long suffering Girl had yet received.  Each of the three had been panting and exhausted when they had finished and the Girl’s  fierce spirit had almost been broken.

The box contained papers relating to the Tenth Earl, reputed to have been poisoned by his cousin who succeeded him to the title and estates. Miss Parradine had often wondered about this episode in the family’s long and sometimes scandalous history.  Today she found nothing in these dry as dust records to  help her discover anything new. There was one last register in the box - records of rents received for the year 1837 and inside this was a loose page on which a great deal had been very closely written on both sides. Sadly, though,  it was obviously  in some kind of code. She puzzled over it for some minutes but could not make sense of it.

Some instinct - some intuition - told her that this was an important find, though, and she decided to take the paper home with her and see if she could  make any progress there. It was getting late and she realised she must call it a day. The door to the vault was very stiff - more so, she thought than when she had come in, and it resisted her attempts to open it for some seconds before finally it gave way and she was out in the stairwell. Making a mental note to have the door’s hinges oiled, she went home.

After her supper, she looked again at the encrypted paper. She had little experience of codes and the breaking thereof, but was for some reason reluctant to seek help. If there were any kudos to be gained from some great historical discovery, then she wanted it to be hers and hers alone.

Try as she might, though, she could make no progress and began to despair. Then an idea occurred to her. She would see if there were any books on the subject! This must be an old code and maybe others had used it and the key might be found in some book! She would get onto it the very next day!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“I love you, Amy “ said Fred one day a couple of months after the events just described. He had his face buried in his favourite place - between his secretary’s warm, ample  and enveloping breasts.  She patted his head indulgently and bent down to kiss the bald patch on the crown.

“Darling Freddikins!” she said in a cooing voice,  at the same time suppressing a yawn. She was fond of the old boy, in a way, but was more used to the attentions of younger and more virile men. After her affair with Fred had lasted a few weeks she had almost forgotten what it was like to sweat till the sheets were wringing wet and feel totally exhausted after being shagged almost senseless.

“Can’t I come to your house in Bishop’s Avenue some time, Freddy, darling?” she wheedled.

“Not a chance, dear Amy. The servants would be bound to say something to Dorothy. She keeps in touch, you know. And this is a delightful hotel - our special love-nest!”

Amy sighed resignedly and dropped the topic of visiting Fred’s home - for the time being. She was determined that she would see it one day - and from the inside!

“Are you going down to the castle soon, sweetie pie?” she asked, changing the subject.

“It has been a while. I suppose I can’t put it off for much longer. I had a very nasty experience last time I was there. I really can’t talk about it.”

“I bet you can’t!” thought Amy to herself. “Spineless prat!”

“It must be bad if you can’t even tell ME, you poor dear!” was what she actually said.

It was late by now and Amy went home after the couple left the by now familiar  hotel once again and bid a polite farewell to the discreet manager. Fred had to go back to the office to make a couple of calls. Amy parted from him, kissing him with a passion and hunger that she was far from feeling. She said that she wanted to walk home, declining his offer of a shared taxi ride.

There was a letter waiting for her when she got back to her flat. As soon as she saw who it was from she eagerly tore it open. After reading the contents, she sighed sadly and her face crumpled into a mask of grief. She shook her head miserably and a tear trickled down her face. Then she seemed, with an effort,  to dismiss whatever had upset her from her mind. She turned on the TV and sat back and watched Eastenders.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Fred needed to make a call to a Professor James Granville, concerning a grant his firm was to make to an important research project in the Midlands, which the Professor was masterminding. Anglo Saxon remains had been discovered and a museum to house them had been proposed, as well as the financing of a large archaeological ‘dig’. The Professor was still at his place of work and the two arranged to meet later that evening for dinner.

Reaching the restaurant, he saw the Professor, tall and darkly handsome, waiting for him. “Looks rather young to be a Professor!” thought Fred, who had expected to meet a grey bearded , stooping and myopic gentleman. The two shook hands, with appreciably less warmth on the academic’s side than Fred’s and started making their way inside. The Head Waiter was scurrying across to greet them, when a familiar voice sounded in Fred’s ears.

“Hi, there Mr Bottomley! How are you settling in to the Castle? And HELLO Professor! How’s that pretty lady of yours?”

The two men looked round and saw the genial figure of the rubicund Mr Hanspacker - former owner of Fortescue  Castle.

“I don’t visit the place that often.” replied Fred. “I see you two are acquainted, then?”

It appeared that Hanspacker had also been approached by the University as a likely source of funds - only for some other project, and had seen a way of using the gift to write off a few tax liabilities. He and the Professor were old friends by now according  to the congenial Hanspacker, although, truth to tell,  they had only met a couple of times and the friendship was entirely in Hanspacker‘s imagination.  The Professor was a man who chose his friends very carefully indeed.

In answer to the question about his wife, Granville pulled a face. “Off on some assignment for her employers, I am afraid, Hanspacker. Married to me for a couple of days and then ‘Farewell’ for Heaven knows how long. That’s the modern career woman for you!”

He glanced at Fred and again there was,  to Mr Bottomley’s senses,  something cold - even hostile -  in his glance and manner.  The three agreed to share a table and the details of the support Fred could offer were worked out. At the end of the meal, the Professor shook hands and bid both of the others a polite but distant goodbye.

“You’d think he would be more grateful, since I’ve just agreed to subsidise one of his pet projects!” complained Fred to the American as they made for  Hanspacker’s favourite bar for a few drinks together.

“Oh, I don’t think it is Granville’s project as such” said Hanspacker, “He’s just providing the administrative oversight. His own field’s not archaeology at all. More like dead Slavonic Languages I think. Hell! Who cares, as long as we can buy ourselves a little glory now and again as champions of culture. Sad about that wife of his not being  around, though. She’s a doll - a gem, a honey. They don’t come into the world that lovely any too often.”

“She obviously made quite an impression on you!” said Fred laughing.  He thought of Amy and wondered if the good Professor’s wife was as lovely as she. Somehow, he doubted it! He was a lucky man in finding her, that was for sure!

“Why don’t you come down next weekend and see how Mrs Bottomley is transforming the castle?” asked Fred as the two finally started to make tracks. “I have to pop down to see the  wife - she expects it, you know!”

Hanspacker looked doubtful and then realised that Fred wanted someone to go with him as a kind of moral support. The poor guy hated the darned  place - that was obvious. He had got to like old Bottomley by this time, pitying him for the way his wife had him so firmly under her thumb. And so he agreed to come along. He did not, himself,  much relish visiting the glowering Gothic pile, but, now that he no longer owned it, the feeling of dread that he had always had of it was a tad less powerful.

“Have you seen the Fifteenth Earl at all since you have been installed?” asked Hanspacker.

“No. Neither has Dorothy, although I’m sure she’d like to invite him up and rub his poor old nose in the fact that she is charge of his family’s former home! She has become fond of a good gloat in the last weeks! His cottage has been shuttered and closed ever since we moved in. I’d like to meet him, though, if only out of curiosity. Have you never done so?”

“Never” replied Hanspacker. “He is one elusive guy. Mind you, we’ve most likely passed him in the street in London a thousand times and been none the wiser! That‘s one thing I love about a big city - the blessed anonymity - no neighbours with flapping ears and long noses to know all your goddam business!”

Meanwhile, the Professor had returned to his North London house and was going through his  mail. As with the delightful Amy, one item in particular caused him great anger and distress as soon as he read it. As with Amy earlier, he shrugged his shoulders. Unlike Amy , though he did not switch on the television, but took down a book from the shelf and was soon immersed in it, to the exclusion of all other matters.

Finally Professor  Granville went up to bed. Before going to sleep he patted the empty pillow next to him, leant over and tenderly kissed the spot where his wife had last laid her head before going off on her mission.