The Shadow of Langley Hall Read online

  THE SHADOW OF LANGLEY HALL

  DILYS XAVIER

  © Dilys Xavier 2007

  Dilys Xavier has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Wings ePress 2007

  This edition published 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  I am indebted to my husband, Francis Xavier, for his contribution to this story. He also writes under the name of Donnie Hughes.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘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 caught in a line of traffic,’ Richard said, without any preamble. ‘I’m supposed to see Harris at eleven, but I don’t think I’m going to make it.’

  ‘Shall I give him a ring and see if we can arrange another time?’ As she spoke he heard a phone ringing in background. 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; the man’s expectant wife had to be rushed to hospital and he wanted to arrange another appointment fairly soon.

  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. He assumed that to attract so many mourners it must be for someone of importance. When a break suddenly occurred in the line, Richard swung the Saab convertible into the free space and followed them down the road.

  ‘I’ve pencilled 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 began to brake he realised that 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 other road, Richard unwittingly continued to follow the funeral cortege and in seconds found himself driving through the cemetery gates. Deciding to wait a few minutes before making his exit, 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.

  He was surprised at the number of local dignitaries in attendance. Only now did he recall an article in the newspaper concerning the death of a 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. The president and 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. On another sudden impulse, Richard followed the undertaker’s vehicles out of the cemetery as they headed in the direction of Langley Hall.

  He had driven past the property many times, but because it was set well off the road and surrounded by trees, he had never seen the house itself. Now, as he drove inside the massive iron gates, he was impressed with the line of mature oaks and copper beeches that enclosed well-laid out gardens full of summer annuals and shrubs in bloom. Behind the trees, he glimpsed more gardens, and beyond them, rolling fields that 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 up the gravel towards the front door, but before he had reached the portico he heard someone call his name. He turned around to find a man striding towards him with an outstretched hand.

  ‘Ritchie, 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 recognised 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.’

  ‘And it suits you?’

  ‘Yes, I just walked into the 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.

  ‘She’s 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 her father disapproved of, 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; 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 fu
rniture in the thirty-foot 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 caught his eye. Richard 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 quite unnerving; the artist had even captured the man’s lazy eyelid, one just like his own. The brass plaque at the bottom identified it as a portrait of Sir Hugh Bernard Williams.

  At that moment he became aware of someone by his side. He 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, 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.

  ‘Carlisle Enterprises?’ Catherine read the card and then looked him in the eye.

  ‘I, er ... yes, I’m here because I had business dealings with the deceased.’

  ‘Oh, I see. And with whom did you come back to the house?’

  Richard fiddled with his two-tone grey silk tie as he tried to think how he could justify having gone back 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 intrigued by his own likeness to the picture, and now the painting seemed to accentuate their common attributes – the dark good looks and square jaw line. Or was it mere coincidence? He shrugged. Yes, that’s exactly what it had to be.

  The muted chimes of a gong announced that food was being served. Richard followed the others into the main hall and accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter. After helping himself from the selection of cold cuts and salads, 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.

  He studied her cautiously. Her long hair was the colour of pale corn, and although her light blue eyes showed 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 became aware of 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?’

  ‘Electronics.’

  ‘Yes, your card states that quite clearly, but exactly what does that entail?’

  ‘I’m a manufacturing wholesaler of electronic equipment.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She laughed, a hard, bitter laugh. ‘I can’t imagine why Cousin John would have any dealings with your company, unless it’s listed on the stock exchange. Is it?’

  ‘Er, no. I’m the sole proprietor.’ But even as he spoke, he wondered yet again why on earth he had followed the funeral cortege to the cemetery, let alone come back to this house uninvited. It was unlike him to be so bold and impulsive. Normally he would have overridden those inclinations with good common sense, but today that fundamental principle seemed to be lacking. While she waited for him to continue, a pleasant looking plump woman walked towards them. She adjusted her glasses as she reached Catherine’s side and looked pointedly at Richard with a smile. It was obvious that she wanted to be introduced.

  ‘Louise, this is Mr. Richard Carlisle of Carlisle Enterprises.’ Catherine paused. ‘Louise Finnigan is my cousin. She lives in Eire - southern Ireland,’ she added, by way of explanation. After he had shaken the woman’s hand, Catherine fixed her gaze on his face but addressed her words to her cousin. ‘Mr Carlisle was just about to clarify his business connection with Cousin John.’

  ‘I thought John had divested himself of all his holdings when he became ill,’ Louise said, with a little laugh. ‘Did he retain an interest in your company?’ Louise’s delightful Irish brogue softened the question and gave him a bit of breathing space, but he still could not think of a plausible answer. As if on cue, a maid approached and spoke quietly to Catherine, who turned aside to listen to the woman. Then she excused herself and followed the servant out of the room. Saved by the bell, again, Richard thought, turning his attention back to Louise.

  ‘In what part of Ireland do you live, Mrs Finnegan?’

  ‘Oh, my husband and I live in County Kerry, to be sure; in a little village midway between Trallee and Dingle. And what about yourself now?’ She looked at Richard quizzically. ‘I’ve never heard Catherine or Cousin John mention your name before.’

  ‘Oh, my connection is, er was, purely commercial, I’m afraid.’ Richard coughed into his hand self-consciously. ‘This is the first time I’ve met Catherine.’ He was about to continue when Louise interrupted him.

  ‘Oh dear, and that’s a shame, to be sure. For a moment I hoped you might have been more than just an acquaintance.’ Louise sighed. ‘You see, I so love Catherine and I do wish she would find a more suitable companion than Peter.’ She gestured at the stocky man standing on the other side of the room; the one he had noticed in the cemetery. ‘You see, I don’t feel that man is the right one for her, and for the life of me, I just can’t understand why she agreed to marry him in the first place.’

  Richard watched her closely as she continued in a conspiratorial tone of voice.

  ‘They’re second cousins, you know. He probably thinks that marrying Catherine will give him more, what’s the word – kudos. Although, I don’t think a fancy title or address would impress the type of people he does business with. Catherine agreed to the proposal because she doesn’t want to be bothered by other men, but it would be a big mistake, mark my words. Loveless marriages like that soon flounder. And anyway, I don’t completely trust the man.’

  ‘What does he do for a living?’

  ‘Oh, importing - things from Europe,’ Louise replied, testily. ‘I don’t know what exactly; but he hasn’t been doing too well, so I’m told. Of course he’ll probably step into Cousin John’s shoes now and manage the estate. Unless the court disapproves.’

  ‘And is Miss Lowestoffe happy with that arrangement?’

  ‘Oh yes. Catherine enjoys the prestige as mistress of Langley Hall, and she will do almost anything to ensure that she can maintain her current lifestyle. So she’s prepared to overlook his obvious shortcomings.’ Louise sighed again. ‘She was such a warm and loving person before that wretched man, Adrian, came into her life. But now ... now, she’s become rather cold and calculating, and somewhat withdrawn as well. It’s such a pity. This place seems to have cast a shadow over her, too.’

  ‘Where does this Adrian fit into things?’

  ‘He was just a go-getter. Typical Australian, full of bullsh ...’ She coloured slightly. ‘Sorry, but he wormed his way into her life and then dumped her. I heard that when he found out that Catherine would have to reach thirty years of age before she’d be legally eligible as the heiress to the estate, he just walked out; wasn’t prepared to wait – or take the risk. She was devastated, and she’s never trusted any man since then.’

  ‘But, she evidently trusts Peter Hamblyn?’

  ‘Oh, Peter can be quite charming, and because he’s so inoffensive Catherine doesn’t feel threatened. Apparently, she believes he’s quite capable of runn
ing the estate. I dare say she thinks that by marrying him she can have the best of both worlds – that he’ll manage the place, help her entertain, and of course, as her husband, he’ll deter other suitors chasing after her wealth.’

  ‘What did you mean when you said this place seems to have cast a shadow over her?’

  ‘It hasn’t been a happy place, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But your cousin seems to be in full control of things.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but she’s not as tough as she pretends. Underneath that polished façade is a rather soft and vulnerable woman.’ Louise sighed noisily. ‘I’ve tried to get her interested in our neighbour, Liam Kelly. Now there’s a lovely man to be sure, and quite a gentleman I can tell you.’

  Richard was about to ask her more about Liam Kelly when he saw Catherine return to the room. I can’t hope she’ll be called away again, he mused, as she walked towards him, So I’ll get out while I can.

  ‘Ah, Miss Lowestoffe,’ he greeted her, ‘I was just about to say to your cousin that it’s time I checked with my office.’ He inclined his head. ‘So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave. Thank you for your hospitality.’

  Catherine stared at him in silence for a few moments, then held out her hand.

  ‘As you wish, Mr Carlisle. However, you have indeed aroused my curiosity. You haven’t really explained what connection you had with John Sinclair, so maybe you’ll enlighten me at some future date?’

  Richard forced a smile on his face and then said goodbye to Louise. He paused before unlocking his car and as he looked back at the house he wondered exactly what had occurred to cast a shadow across the place.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Catherine had ignored Louise’s pointed remarks about Richard Carlisle’s good looks and charm as she watched him nod pleasantly to a couple of people before walking out of the room. She reasoned that she had never herd Carlisle’s name mentioned before, so for some reason or other she was convinced that his unexpected appearance at the funeral had been more than a coincidence. However his likeness to her stepfather was unusual to say the least; so was there something she didn’t know about? She tried to picture the old man when he was Richard’s age; in the prime of life, lean, muscular and full of vitality. He would have cut a handsome figure.