The Kings of Eternity

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magazine, even then. Inevitable that that’s what he’d do out here in the real world.”
    “He was a friend at Cambridge?”
    “I’d hesitate to call him a friend. More of an acquaintance. I’ve actually come to know him better over the past two or three years, since he started the Scribe .”
    Vaughan glanced at me. “So, what do you make of him?”
    I thought about it. “He was always the nervous, excitable sort. He always had a dozen literary projects on the go, without quite being able to settle on one and see it through. Since his father passed on and he inherited the Grange, he’s had more time and money to put into the magazine.” I fell silent, having realised, as I spoke, that I really knew very little about the editor of The Monthly Scribe .
    Vaughan was silent for a while, then said, “In your opinion, is Carnegie of sound mind?”
    The question surprised me. “Well... I’ve never had reason to question his sanity, if that’s what you mean.”
    He gripped the apex of the steering wheel and glanced at me. “What did you make of his phone call?”
    “It was somewhat surprising, to say the least.”
    “What did he tell you?”
    “Not a lot, and to be honest I’d had a little too much to drink at the time. He invited me down to the Grange, said something about wanting you and me to help him investigate something.”
    “But he didn’t say what?”
    I shook my head. “No, nothing at all. Just a second - he did mention something about some strange goings on.”
    “He said much the same to me. When I tried to question him, he clammed up. Very odd, if you ask me. And all the more so because he hardly knows me. I’ve met him, what, on three or four occasions, when he’s bought pieces from me for the Scribe . I was the last person I thought he’d summon when he was in need of help.”
    I glanced across at him. “You thought that that’s what he wanted?”
    Vaughan frowned. “He sounded agitated, disturbed. More than once he mentioned an investigation, and odd happenings which he thought might interest me. But as I say, I hardly know the chap.”
    “He always was a loner,” I offered. “He never made friends easily. Apparently he’s become a bit of a recluse at the Grange, only venturing out to oversee the office in London.”
    “Curiouser and curiouser,” Vaughan murmured to himself.
    In due course, as a swollen, ruddy sun was extinguishing itself over the low folds of the horizon, we drove through a snow-bound Aylesbury and followed a signpost to the village of Fairweather Cranley, ten miles to the south.
    Forty minutes later Cranley Grange, to give Carnegie’s ancestral home its full title, appeared as we crested a rise in the lane; it stood between beech woods in the lee of the Chiltern hills, an imposing, foursquare pile with the folly-like addition of gothic towers or belvederes at each corner. Its dour façade appeared all the more eldritch between a roof upholstered in snow and the dazzling white mantle which covered the entirety of the surrounding countryside.
    Vaughan halted the car in the lane, the better to view the Grange as the setting sun, behind us, blazed in the building’s serried windows.
    “He lives there alone?” I enquired.
    “Apparently. He has a brother, but I rather think he’s in India.”
    “Charles. He’s a doctor in Bombay,” I said. “He was in the same year as me at Cambridge. A greater contrast to Jasper you couldn’t meet. Chalk and cheese.”
    Vaughan ground the gears and we skidded down the gentle incline of the hill and turned into the drive-way. The snow had not been cleared, and progress was slow. Eventually we arrived before the rise of steps that gave access to the double doors. I climbed out, retrieved my bag, and accompanied Vaughan towards the house.
    He manhandled the bell-pull, and seconds later we heard its sepulchral tolling deep within the house. We waited for what must have been five minutes, stamping our feet against the chill.
    I

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