Masters And Lovers 1-4

Michael

We make our way through undergrowth. The rampant rhododendrons have killed off any brambles and nettles, but completely unkempt and uncared for, they find ways to stab the unwary passer-by with the blunt ends of broken boughs, or to snag low-hanging branches, whippy and limp, around ankles. One jabs into Klempner’s calf and he curses, tearing his trousers as he pulls free. Another lashes back across my face with a sting that makes my eyes water.

As we emerge to the edge and thin sunshine, the house hoves into view. It’s a vast place, or was, a memory from the days when wealth meant a country estate, thousands of acres of land and a tribe of servants. Now, neglected and dismal, it’s home for not much more than a colony of starlings which rises and wheels and shrieks into the morning.

The roof we saw from afar is a sham, mainly collapsed inwards, purlins and struts either broken and splintered or gone altogether. The main walls, such as are still standing, are falling inwards, taking whole storeys with them. Trees sprout out through gaping windows and ivy crawls over crumbled mortar.

It would seem an unlikely hideaway, except that by what was once a vast double door to the front, is Ben’s car. But the only sign of life is Scruffy, sitting in the passenger seat.

“That dog likely to start yapping when it sees us?” mutters Baxter.

“I’ll go first,” I say. “He knows me. He’ll be quiet for me.”

“You sure of that?” murmurs Klempner.

“Pretty sure. But if he does make a noise and Ben comes out, he’ll only see me.”

“Is your brother likely to be armed? Does he carry a knife or some such?”

“No, he’s not that kind of man.”

Klempner opens his mouth to speak, but James cuts in. "He’s a big man, built like Michael. In his hands, a lot of things could be a weapon. A branch. A tyre iron…."

Klempner gives me a long look, then jerks his head towards the car. “Off you go then.”

Moving quickly, I leave the shelter of the rhododendrons, quickly crossing the ground to the car. Scruffy sits up as he sees me, ears perking, but doesn’t bark. "Hi there Scruffy. Shhh… Good Boy." His stubby tail beats a frenzied tattoo as I open the door and scratch his ears, but the only sound he makes is his whining as he licks my face.

I can’t see the others, but I gesture towards the shrubbery, waving them into the door. Within seconds, the three emerge, and as they cross to the door, I hold Scruffy’s attention with a search of the glove compartment. It produces a bag of dog chocs and a hide chew. I tip the lot into the footwell. “There you go, Scruffy. You enjoy those.”

The ragtag bombs down to floor level and I leave him happily knocking back enough treats for a Rottweiler. Closing the door quietly behind me, I join the others, waiting just inside the doorway.

*****

We find ourselves in what ought to be the interior of a house but with the general collapse, has become a kind of open courtyard, strewn with rubble, broken tiles and rotted timbers. The space is so large, perhaps it was once a ballroom. I cast my mind back for some memory, but it’s a long time since I was here, and the house was occupied then. Old McAlister didn’t let apple-scrumping boys inside.

“Doesn’t look very promising,” comments Klempner. “When were you last here?”

“Thirty years ago.”

“It seems a lot of damage for thirty years.”

“Probably had the lead stripped from the roof. Once that’s gone, the rest…”

James interrupts. “The cellars. A place like this would have had all the staff activity below ground and as often as not, the basement can be in good condition even when the house itself it in ruins.”

Klempner pulls a face. “You think?”

“Once the roof has gone, outer walls become unstable.” He gestures around to the collapsed grandeur about us. “They fall. Underground vaulted ceilings don’t. The arches remain stable.”

Klempner absorbs this, nodding. “Where would you say the entrance would be to these cellars?”

“Usually at the back, away from the family and the ‘front door’ guests.”

Klempner clucks. ”Sounds reasonable. Want to lead the way, Mr Architect?”

James scans ahead. “Over there, I’d say.” He points towards a heap of fallen masonry where, just beyond, a flight of stone steps rises six feet into the air, then ends in nothing.

His instinct is good. As we make our way across, a patch of mud shows boot prints and…

James halts, his colour rising. “I’m going to have that bastard…” He moves forward again, stepping over what are unmistakably, droplets of blood.

“That’s the spirit,” mutters Klempner.

The stairs rise into nothing but drop into the darkness. The floor gapes, but the steps downward are in good condition.

“I’ll lead,” says Klempner. “Baxter, stay by the door here. Keep your eyes peeled but come down if you hear us with trouble.”

“Sir.”

Weapon at the ready, Klempner descends, at first cautiously, a step at a time, ducking to see into the gloom below. Quickly, James and I follow.

At the bottom, we find ourselves at the end of a long corridor, running the length of the house, doors off to left and right. Dim sunshine slants through some of the doors.

The arches James anticipated stand as thick columns to either side of the corridor, maybe twenty feet apart, rising to meet at a curved apex and blending in to the vaulted stonework of the ceiling. We stand tucked behind the thickness of one column, away from the betraying silhouette of the stairs.

“Spot on so far,” says Klempner. “How are these places usually laid out inside?”

“Typically,” says James, “you would have kitchens at this end near the stairs for service, connected to stores, butchery, buttery and the butler’s pantry at the far end. There’s probably a laundry too. And depending on when anyone last spent any money on it, there could be a boiler room.”

“Connected? So, the rooms are likely to have more than one door?”

“Probably.”

by me. James, watch our back.” He glances at

“No, I can’t say I’m comfortable

right, then almost slides against

across the walls. Standing away from the

in, walking through drifts of leaves and a thin skin of mud, under a slit of a

troughs run down the centre of the space, the broken remains of what might have once been wash-boards scattered inside. A fetid mattress occupies one corner, its cover split and the contents

Klempner gives it

footprint in

Klempner leads, sliding along the wall, eyes in all directions before he reaches the next

have

like something from one of the cheaper 1950s ‘mad scientist’ movies. The same thin sludge of mud

again,” comments

the backside of the chamber we just left, the other standing open on the wall

one, we

all but dark. But the bare skeletons of drying rails

nothing in

A scream…

And a crashing sound…

a series of

Charlotte!

was a male

clamped around the grip of his

halts, muttering, “Stupid bastard.” Another look along the corridor and he heads

the stairs, face-down, motionless. I press

alive?” Klempner’s squats down by the prone figure, frisking

he’s alive. Pulse is strong… You don’t

replies in curt tones, “He’s supposed to be a professional. He’s let himself be taken out by a complete amateur. He doesn’t deserve

back of the body, pulls out a knife from its sheath then shoves it under a trouser leg and into the top of a boot. He checks the pockets of the jacket and extracts a hip flask.

“No, thanks.”

was armed when we came

“He was, yes. But he’s not now, so I think we can

I know

scanning into the gloom. “Come on. Let’s

own footsteps echo and reverberate against hard stone walls and the curve of the vaulting. We start

old kitchens, from the days when servants were ‘below stairs’. Now dim

trolleys, but James drops his eyes to the flags, pointing. A trail of

is

charge in to the room beyond. There’s nothing here but slabs and shelves and ceiling hooks. But frantic Mmmming is coming from the

there we find them; Mitch and Charlotte. They’re sitting on the floor; naked stone that radiates chill through flesh and bone. Their bodies pressing close together, both are bound, their hands

a cheekbone. Charlotte dribbles blood from one nostril. It trickles the length of her body, congealed and black on her clothing, welling fresh at the top as she snuffles and

and run with joy and relief as James and I enter. But then as Klempner appears behind us, Charlotte’s eyes

gurgle

voice low, but the

Both women nod vigorously.

on Mitch, trying to free her mouth so she can speak, the layered tape gripping tightly to itself and tangled into

the raised weapon, his fighting stance, his eyes are soft. Then to

door we entered by, gun in hand, semi-raised, looking back but also watching the two other entrances. Mitch’s

stuff off,” I mutter. “It’s so tightly wound

under his jacket and instead, produces a knife from somewhere at the back of his

appropriated from Baxter. This blade must be eight inches long; jagged-toothed, wicked-looking, coming to a fine

but as I eye-point the knife his eyes widen then soften again. He lowers

the blade in his

blade to the tape binding her hands, then hesitates. “I’m doing this now,” he says, “because I

cups a swollen cheek with his free hand. He holds the position for a second, then squats back, raises the blade again and saws through the layers of tape,

the tape over her face, but she recoils as his hand comes close. He blinks then backs off. “You do it,” he says, passing me the knife, handle first. He rises, takes out the gun again and returns to watching

Klempner, she shakes blood into her

her stand.

needles. It’ll

is still working on Charlotte. Offering the knife, “Here, use this.” But as he reaches to take

but before he completes the movement, there’s a shot. The sound reverberates around the chamber and there’s a

back behind a wall column,

where they’re coming

same for the still-bound and sitting Charlotte, shoving her under a

he

almost paid

three sides. And with Charlotte still bound we

movement; the scrape of leather on stone. Mitch

a yell. And with a shock, I realise it’s my own

Fuck!

It’s Charlotte, screaming. “Oh, God!

I grab at the wound, blood

shot after another, giving chase to the sound of retreating

back.

“Yes.”

And