1: A Meeting At Corland Castle
WESTWICK HEIGHTS: JUNE
Sometime around noon, Mr Bertram Atherton opened his well-worn copy of Virgil’sAeneidand began to read.
‘Ast ego, quae divom incedo regina, Iovisque et soror et coniunx, una cum gente tot annos bella gero! Et quisquam numen Iunonis adoret praeterea, aut supplex aris imponet honorem?'
The clock struck four. Bertram emerged, blinking, from Carthage, and laid aside his book. It was time for his glass of Canary. He rose and crossed to the sideboard where resided the decanters, poured himself a modest amount, then took his customary tour of the library.Hislibrary, as he liked to think of it. Not literally, not yet, but one day all of Westwick Heights would be his, and since no one else in the family was in the least bookish, the library had become his particular domain. There was something peculiarly satisfying about the shelves filled withvolumes, the unique smell of musty paper and ancient leather bindings, and the exhilarating possibilities to be found within them. If ever he became crotchety or unsettled in any way, the library could always restore his equanimity.
With a sigh of pure pleasure, he settled back into his chair and set his glass down on a side table. Adjusting his spectacles more firmly on his nose, he picked up his book.
‘Talia flammato secum dea corde volutans nimborum in patriam, loca feta furentibus austris, Aeoliam venit. Hic vasto rex Aeolus antro luctantes ventos …’
And he was gone, lost in a world of long ago, the prosaic nineteenth century vanished in a burst of poetic Latin. There was nothing like Virgil to weave a magical tale. For an unknown length of time he was immersed, quite unaware of his surroundings.
A loud cough drew Bertram back into the modern world. “Oh… what is it, Carter?”
“Beg pardon for disturbing you, sir, but this has just arrived from Corland… from his lordship.”
Bertram glanced at the letter on the salver. “It is addressed to my father.”
“Yes, sir, but the master is not in his study, not in the house at all, and the groom who brought this insisted it was very urgent. ”
“Is an answer expected?”
“No, sir. The groom has already left, but it is very important, he was quite clear about that.”
Bertram frowned, considering. “I think my father might be in the stables. Greatheart was heated in one fetlock yesterday, and Whyte was going to apply a poultice. Let me see if I can find him.”
“Thank you, sir. I should be most grateful, sir. The groom was most insistent.”
Bertram carefully marked his place inThe Aeneid, took the letter and set off for the stables. It was just like his father to disappear there merely because one of the horses had a minor injury. To Bertram’s mind, that was the purpose of grooms, to see to such matters, but to his father, every horse was treated as if it were a precious child, to be cosseted and fussed over. No, that was not even an appropriate comparison, for he had always been relaxed about his children’s well-being. Bertram and his brother Lucas had had the freedom to do very much as they pleased, and although Mother flew into a panic at the least sniffle or sign of fever, no one minded their scrapes and tumbles and the mischief that all boys get into. Mother’s health and Father’s horses — these were the real causes of alarm at Westwick Heights.
As he had expected, his father was in the stables, together with Morton, the head groom, and Whyte, the youngest of the grooms. Whyte had grown up in the village smithy and farriery, so he had lived his whole life with horses and had a great skill, even though Morton still distrusted anyone so young. The three of them were leaning over the rail of Greatheart’s stall, deep in discussion, looking up only when Bertram was almost within touching distance.
“Ah, Bertram,” his father said, his expression vaguely puzzled, as if seeing his eldest son and heir was a surprising event. “Going somewhere?”
“Shall I saddle Catullus, sir?” Whyte said.
“No, I came in search of you, Father, not a horse. There is an urgent note for you from the castle.”
“Urgent?” The frown deepened as he took the letter, turning it over and over in his hands, but he nodded, gave his final instructions to the grooms and followed Bertram out of the stables.
“Any idea what this is about?” he said as they walked back to the house.
“None, sir. The groom who brought it was most insistent that it is a matter of great importance.”
“We had better know the worst at once, then.”
They were close to the small summer house, so they went inside and sat. While his father broke the seal and read the letter, Bertram admired, as he always did, the fine view of the house. Westwick Heights was not a large building, but it was elegantly constructed from the local honey-coloured stone, and looked as if it had grown naturally on the small eminence which gave it its name. From where he sat, he could see down the hill to the village of Birchall, and the chimneys of the estate on the far side, half hidden by sheltering trees. If he craned his neck, he could see the road meandering down to the town of Helmsley. Bertram spent most of his life mentally travelling the Ancient World in Latin, or occasionally Greek, but if he had to be in the modern world, this was where he would always choose.
“What do you make of that?” his father said, passing him the letter.
‘To Mr George Atherton, Westwick Heights, North Riding. George, A family matter has arisen which must be addressed. Pray be at the castle tomorrow at noon, and bring Jane and Bertram with you. This is very important, so do not fail me and do not be late! Rennington.’
“A family matter? Involving us?”
“Yes, it is odd, is it not? Yet my brother would not write in such terms unless it were so. He is not in the least fanciful. What do you think it can be about?”
