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Authors: Aphrodite Hunt
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those.
Finally, we draw up to a pair of stone pillars, which look frankly ancient – like they are out of the period of Norman the Conqueror. A carved plaque on one of the pillars says: GLENWAVERLY. There is no fence. The entire acreage of the place blends into the meadows and forests, which are shrouded in mist. It’s also a lot colder here than in England, where Gabriel lives.
It is a mystical place. One which I can readily believe would give rise to legends of faeries and dire wolves.
The wrought iron gates are open as well, and the car purrs its way through the pillars and on to the manor in the distance. A large brown barn and some stables complete the country ensemble.
We arrive at the manor’s front doors, which are also flung open. Does anyone live in this place?
“ This is it, luv. You want to get off?”
“ Yes.” I grab my purse and wrench open the car door.
“ Doesn’t look like anyone’s around.”
“ I’ll be the judge of that.”
I pay the driver and stand in front of the doors with my Louis Vuitton suitcase, feeling out of place. I peer into the bowels of the house as the car goes off, leaving me here.
“ Hello?” I call out.
No one answers.
I grab my suitcase and wheel it in. OK, it’s not as though they are expecting me. I am barging in here after all.
I remember the phone conversation I had three days ago with the owner of this house:
“ Hello, Mr. McArthur?”
“ Who the hell are you? How did you get this number?” The voice was gruff
“ From Lord Gabriel Wolfe. My name is Alice Devlin.”
“ Devlin? As in Russell Devlin?”
“ Yes, he’s my father.”
A pause.
“ Pity for you. I have a beef to pick with Russell.”
My ears pricked. “Oh? What about?”
“ Why should I discuss it with you?”
“ Because . . . I have a proposition that might be beneficial for us both.”
Click.
“ Hello? Mr. McArthur? Hello?”
When I tried calling the number again, it went right to Voicemail.
So there you are. They are not exactly expecting me. But I have a will of iron. I am one of those people who believe I can change things by sheer willpower alone.
But maybe he’s truly not home. For a billionaire, he certainly doesn’t live it up. The manor looks more dilapidated than glamorous.
I step into the house. Am I out of my depth here?
Inside, the furniture is dark and very old. They are all antiques, possibly dating back to the Stone Age. The walls are decked with a coat of arms as well as various hunting trophies – several fox heads, a wolf head, a magnificent stag head with a pair of antlers which would be the envy of stags in America everywhere.
A large oil painting of a hunting scene with men in kilts mounted on horses dominates the wall above the stone fireplace. They are hunting a bloodied fox with a terrified, haunted expression. The heath is filled with ashes but it is not lighted now.
“ Mr. McArthur?” I called.
No answer. Maybe no one is home. But there has to be a maid or someone. I read Gabriel’s report on Christopher McArthur: he’s old money. His family goes all the way back to . . . I don’t know, the Saxons? They probably speak Gaelic or something. Anyway, he has a very large family. The guy is virile if he is a day.
I wander into the large stone kitchen, calling out as I go along. There’s no one in there either. The house is in a bit of a mess, if you ask me. Dirty dishes are piled high in the sinks. They don’t seem to have a dishwasher of either the mechanical or human variety.
After a bit, I decide that no one is home.
Maybe they are all out hunting.
I turn back towards the entrance hall. And freeze as I stare in the barrel of a gun pointing at me.
3
The man pointing the gun at me is in his fifties, with a full head of brown hair and a thick, unkempt beard. He is dressed in a red and black tartan kilt.
“ Who are you?” he growls. He has a pointed Scottish burr.
I am guessing this must be the owner of the manor. I
Finally, we draw up to a pair of stone pillars, which look frankly ancient – like they are out of the period of Norman the Conqueror. A carved plaque on one of the pillars says: GLENWAVERLY. There is no fence. The entire acreage of the place blends into the meadows and forests, which are shrouded in mist. It’s also a lot colder here than in England, where Gabriel lives.
It is a mystical place. One which I can readily believe would give rise to legends of faeries and dire wolves.
The wrought iron gates are open as well, and the car purrs its way through the pillars and on to the manor in the distance. A large brown barn and some stables complete the country ensemble.
We arrive at the manor’s front doors, which are also flung open. Does anyone live in this place?
“ This is it, luv. You want to get off?”
“ Yes.” I grab my purse and wrench open the car door.
“ Doesn’t look like anyone’s around.”
“ I’ll be the judge of that.”
I pay the driver and stand in front of the doors with my Louis Vuitton suitcase, feeling out of place. I peer into the bowels of the house as the car goes off, leaving me here.
“ Hello?” I call out.
No one answers.
I grab my suitcase and wheel it in. OK, it’s not as though they are expecting me. I am barging in here after all.
I remember the phone conversation I had three days ago with the owner of this house:
“ Hello, Mr. McArthur?”
“ Who the hell are you? How did you get this number?” The voice was gruff
“ From Lord Gabriel Wolfe. My name is Alice Devlin.”
“ Devlin? As in Russell Devlin?”
“ Yes, he’s my father.”
A pause.
“ Pity for you. I have a beef to pick with Russell.”
My ears pricked. “Oh? What about?”
“ Why should I discuss it with you?”
“ Because . . . I have a proposition that might be beneficial for us both.”
Click.
“ Hello? Mr. McArthur? Hello?”
When I tried calling the number again, it went right to Voicemail.
So there you are. They are not exactly expecting me. But I have a will of iron. I am one of those people who believe I can change things by sheer willpower alone.
But maybe he’s truly not home. For a billionaire, he certainly doesn’t live it up. The manor looks more dilapidated than glamorous.
I step into the house. Am I out of my depth here?
Inside, the furniture is dark and very old. They are all antiques, possibly dating back to the Stone Age. The walls are decked with a coat of arms as well as various hunting trophies – several fox heads, a wolf head, a magnificent stag head with a pair of antlers which would be the envy of stags in America everywhere.
A large oil painting of a hunting scene with men in kilts mounted on horses dominates the wall above the stone fireplace. They are hunting a bloodied fox with a terrified, haunted expression. The heath is filled with ashes but it is not lighted now.
“ Mr. McArthur?” I called.
No answer. Maybe no one is home. But there has to be a maid or someone. I read Gabriel’s report on Christopher McArthur: he’s old money. His family goes all the way back to . . . I don’t know, the Saxons? They probably speak Gaelic or something. Anyway, he has a very large family. The guy is virile if he is a day.
I wander into the large stone kitchen, calling out as I go along. There’s no one in there either. The house is in a bit of a mess, if you ask me. Dirty dishes are piled high in the sinks. They don’t seem to have a dishwasher of either the mechanical or human variety.
After a bit, I decide that no one is home.
Maybe they are all out hunting.
I turn back towards the entrance hall. And freeze as I stare in the barrel of a gun pointing at me.
3
The man pointing the gun at me is in his fifties, with a full head of brown hair and a thick, unkempt beard. He is dressed in a red and black tartan kilt.
“ Who are you?” he growls. He has a pointed Scottish burr.
I am guessing this must be the owner of the manor. I
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