But then I think of Patrick’s sad eyes when he told me that he was leaving me for Claire.We never do anything spontaneous, Win. You’ve organised all the fun out of our lives. When I’m with Claire, I have the freedom to be myself.
I think of my old landlord doing his final inspection of my perfect Crouch End flat.You’re very neat, aren’t you?
I think of my mother’s texts blowing up my phone, and her neighbours begging me to go back and help. I think about my three boxes of stuff sitting in her living room, being slowly buried by the detritus of her disease.
I think about all the reasons I don’t want to go back to London.
I’m curious, too. What kind of toff lives in this medieval villain’s lair?
If Dracula visited Black Crag, the infamous vampire would step back in disgust and tell the owner:Cool it with the gargoyles, dude. No one’sthatgoth.
I slide from the car, seeking purchase for my trembling legs. I square my shoulders and follow Reginald to the front doors. He shoves open one of the imposing wooden slabs and wheels my suitcase inside. “Follow me, Ms Preston.”
“Coming.” I tear my gaze from the turrets. “I was just admiring the next cover ofArchitectural Digest. Why are you bringing my suitcase in?”
He squints at me oddly. “Black Cragisremarkable, but you’ll have plenty of time to explore her secrets. I don’t want to keep my lord waiting.”
As I step inside, I’m greeted by two warring sensations – the sound of Louis Armstrong’s gravelly voice blasting at top volume from somewhere deep within the castle, and the scratch of dust getting up my nose.
My client must be an older man – a quirky lord who has allowed his estate to go to rot and now needs a professional organiser to help him get on top of things. I suck in a breath as the familiar sinking sensation washes over me.
Don’t be intimidated by the ramparts and gargoyles, Winnie. You’ve dealt with this type before. The Winnie Wins System can work for anyone (except your mother).
It’s never as bad as you fear. You can do this.
It takes my eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom. The entrance hall is decorated in what I’ll now forever refer to as “Medieval Stabby Chic”. Several dusty suits of armour glare at me from around the perimeter of the room. Weapons cover the walls and ceiling – swords fanned out like peacock feathers, knives and spiky things arranged like works of art. Everything is covered in dust and cobwebs. The only light comes from candles flickering in dirty sconces.
Two things are out of place – an empty, dust-free plinth and square on the wall where some items have been removed recently, and a small shelf under the grand staircase. It’s stuffed with teddy bears of various sizes and states of fluffiness, each one dressed in handmade clothes – a chef, a firefighter, a plague doctor. There are more bears than space to hold them, so several are piled on the floor beneath the shelf, giving the impression of a teddy bear army storming the castle doors in a bid for freedom.
Curious.
Reginald leaves my suitcase at the foot of the stairs. “Lord Valerian would like to meet you before I take youto your lodgings.”
From his tone, I get the distinct impression he thinks that once I meet Lord Valerian, I won’t want to stay.
I follow Reginald to the left and along a grand corridor. At least, the corridorwouldbe grand if it weren’t crowded with stacks of newspapers, piles of boxes, lumpy, misshapen candles sticking out of ornate iron candelabras, and display cases jammed full of what look suspiciously like model trains. There are several more square gaps on the walls where paintings once hung.
My breathing grows shallow as a familiar dread twists in my gut. The haphazard stacks of things, the disorder, the smell of dust and decay …
Please, don’t let this be what I think it is …
Reginald picks his way through the mess, showing me a path through the detritus. Beneath the piles of stuff, I see the antique furniture and gilt objects I’d expect from such a grand home, all of it hidden and neglected beneath Lord Valerian’s junk.
“My lord?” Reginald calls out.
“I’m in the green drawing room,” a faint voice calls back.
The music swells. Louis’ trumpet soars through the vaulted ceilings.
Reginald leads me down another snaking hallway. Oddly enough, this hallway has electricity. Modern lamps on either side illuminate stacks of oil paintings and more strange gaps where objects and artwork have been moved. I peer into room after ornate room, each one stuffed to the brim with … stuff.
What I’ve seen so far isn’t as bad as Mum’s house. At least … not yet, but only because the castle is solarge. As I inspect the piles, I sense an internal order to the chaos, the same connections between disparate things that my mother can see and I never can.
If Faye had known what waited for me at Black Crag, she’d never have accepted the job.
That’s not true,a voice niggles in my head.Faye doesn’t care what you have to do on a job if it means more money for her designer handbags and celebritybrunches.
But maybe …
