‘Right,’ Roddy had murmured.
‘Plenty of interest still,’ she assured him, as if the brutal slaying had been for tourist entertainment.
The gravity of his task had hit Roddy. It was no longer a theoretical pursuit to unearth secrets alluded to in old diaries andletters. It was the real and abiding pain of living people, and there were plenty happy to profit from it.
On a positive note, the same woman had confirmed Lord Francis Fitzhenry was certainly alive and sometimes spotted in the little village bookshop down the street. This unexpected news had made Roddy nervous. If Francis did live around here, was Roddy about to up-end his quiet life? He sighed, mulling over his reservations. He would visit the bookshop later and see what he could find out.
For now, the Bleddesley House carpark is challenging his parking skills. Normally, at this time, he would be snoring in his little backyard flat with the new air conditioner blaring, but instead he has been navigating through ice on unfamiliar roads, listening to Christmas carol lyrics about snowmen and sleighs that—he’s pleased to discover—feel appropriate for the very first time in his life. The blinking coloured lights strung across the fence ahead of him lift his spirits.
He parks, struggles into his puffer jacket and gets out of the car. To his right, an enormous white horse is tethered to a fence and, in the middle of a sand arena, an imperious-looking woman in an ankle-length overcoat and hat is holding a riding crop. She is giving instructions to a man who is trotting around her in a circle, his horse tossing its head with regal indifference. A sign reads:Plenham Polo Club, Pony School and Academy Arena. Please enquire about polo lessons.A QR code is helpfully located below.Perhaps next time, he thinks; horses make him nervous.
He walks past an oak tree and beneath it a tiny grey squirrel sits like a fluffy toy, nibbling at an acorn, delicate paws to mouth,jaw a blur of flickering motion. He watches, mesmerised, until it streaks away.
Ahead, through two colossal stone pillars, sits the most spectacular house. Well, a grand manor, really. Or mansion, although the word feels a little overblown. Australians don’t go in forfancy. It feels anti-egalitarian, although in this case, Roddy thinks he might even stretch to ‘mini castle’.
It is set back, perhaps a hundred metres, and surrounded by a circular driveway and edged with grand twelve-foot brick walls. Two huge Christmas trees, lights twinkling, stand either side of the entry steps framing its glorious, three-storey symmetry.
Just inside the brick walls, a van has been converted to an office, and a long window is open along its side. A woman is selling entry tickets. On the side of the van is a transfer of an ink sketch of the house and the words:Welcome to Bleddesley House. Tickets Here. He pays his seventeen pounds.
‘Coffee shop, gift shop and the loos are at the rear of the property. It’s signposted,’ says the woman.
‘Don’t suppose you know the family who owns the house?’ Roddy ventures.
‘Sorry, love. Only worked here a week. It’s all in this, though.’ She hands him a shiny booklet, charges him an extra six pounds then throws in some free advice. ‘Talk to the guides inside. They know the whole story.’
He sets off across the lawns. The regal arched front doorway is adorned with a coat of arms containing intricate plasterwork of flowers and vines. He admires its detail before stepping into a grand entrance foyer lined with a checkerboard of black-and-white marble tiles. A large fireplace burns brightly, which giveshim a Christmassy thrill, until he registers with some disappointment that the flame is fake.
In one corner, a towering Christmas tree swathed in tasteful decorations is throwing yellow light onto portraits of aristocrats in elaborate ruffles and opulent gowns. They are po-faced in front of blackened backgrounds. To his left is a sweeping curved staircase rising to an open atrium with an ornate plaster ceiling on the floor above. Intricate carved timber railings circle the open space. Grey daylight peeps through leadlight-patterned windows along one side of the room. The house feels sombre, but beautiful. As he looks up to the balcony above, Roddy experiences a momentary sense of unease. Is itpossiblePhyllida once lived here?
A group stands in front of a tour guide and Roddy listens to some of the history of the Fitzhenry ancestors. Another guide stands alone across the room at the base of the stairs next to a sign:This way only.
‘Hello,’ says Roddy. ‘This place is lovely.’
‘Isn’t it?’ the woman says in a plummy accent. She’s wearing a fleece jumper with the wordsBleddesley Houseand the ink sketch from the van embroidered on the pocket. ‘Have you visited us before?’
‘No. First time.’
‘Oh, you’re in for a treat, then.’ She smiles, her yellowing, crooked teeth giving him an odd surge of confidence.
‘Is this place privately owned?’
‘Yes. It’s been in the Fitzhenry family since the 1700s. It was built for Lord Blaney in 1654 and when his son died without heirs, it was bought by Lord Samuel Fitzhenry, the third Viscount of Bleddesley.’
‘Oh, right,’ says Roddy. ‘It’s still owned by a Fitzhenry, then?’
‘Lord Francis Fitzhenry,’ she says, smiling. ‘Lovely chap. But his cousin runs it. The house is a tourist operation now. Lord Fitzhenry no longer lives in it.’
‘Do he and his family live close by?’
She hesitates. ‘He doesn’t have a family.’
‘Right.’ Roddy nods, looks around, wonders how to proceed. ‘So, who’ll inherit it?’
‘I couldn’t tell you,’ she says. ‘But it’s wonderful to walk through, and if you’d like to take one of those audio guides, they’re very detailed about the history.’ She points to a table holding headsets.
‘Where does Lord Fitzhenry live now, then. If not here?’
She pauses for a beat. ‘Mostly abroad, I believe.’ She gives a tight smile and his heart sinks. He is being dismissed.
