Lisette Rivers & the Crumbling Mansion Affair

By Brian Sands

The Ragged Cot by Toddland, in the Cotswalds, Flickr.com, haunted house pages

Chapter Two: Visitors

The gleaming grey coupé made a u-turn and drew up facing Lisette's hire car almost bumper to bumper. The door opened and the driver stepped out. He was a large man who on closer inspection Lisette saw was running to fat. He wore a dark pinstriped suit, the jacket double-breasted, and a broad red necktie that spilled out almost like a scarf, its fold held in an open loop by a glittering pearl tiepin. The man's hair was dark and stringy, brushed straight back over his head, Lisette guessed to hide a balding patch. Everything about him was redolent of wealth. He raised two pudgy hands in greeting as he approached Lisette, who was now standing at the other side of the low front gate.

"Well, well," the man exclaimed jovially, "I saw you drive past and, as we don't usually have many visitors in this out-of-the-way place I thought I'd follow and make your acquaintance. Such a pretty neighbour too. I'm Spencer Fforbes. You may have heard of me. 'With two effs. Forbes by name and Forbes by nature.' That's my company motto."

Lisette introduced herself as Lisa Rivers and asked what company it was that Mr Forbes represented.

"Antique restoration," Fforbes replied chirpily. "Oh no, not your old stuff. Everything is new, of the current era, but sanded, stained and polished so that each item rivals anything you'll find in Christies … But who do I have the greatest pleasure of conversing with?"

For the sake of her privacy, Lisette decided not to identify herself as actively working in the crime investigation business. She thought of Sophie Brush's position and made her decision.

"I'm an administrative assistant with a small legal firm, a legal secretary in the old terminology."

"Term-, term-, so you are. Long words, yes, yes. Capital."

Spencer Fforbes clapped his pudgy hands moistly. He retreated to his car, opened the driver's door then turned back to Lisette: "You will come to dinner tomorrow night won't you? It's an invitation we extend to every newcomer no matter how brief their stay with us. In Weatherstone Hall. There's a small coterie of artists and writers of one kind or another. They all live around these parts. Some are guests at the Hall. Do say you'll come, Miss Rivers? Tomorrow evening at seven?"

Lisette accepted the invitation and watched as the Granada Ghia retreated back up the lane, narrowly missing the Peugeot, and disappeared into Cliff Road.

It was after three when Lisette received her second unwelcome visitor. She was reclining half curled in one of the living-room armchairs, beginning to doze off. One of several books brought for catch-up reading lay open in her lap, book marked by chance with the red silk scarf that Lisette had untied from her throat in the warm room. Other books made a random heap on the coffee table. Rasputin sat contentedly on the broad armrest next to her shoulder purring softly to no one in particular.

This time there was no intrusive sound of a car or a blare of horns but a sharp double rap on the door. When she obeyed the summons Lisette found herself face to face with a woman whose getup made her look as though she had just stepped out of the pages of a horse and country magazine. The woman was tall with long hair so dark that it glistened with a faint purple tinge, caught up in a neat braided ponytail that fell straight down her back. She wore riding boots, jodhpurs, a brilliantly white silk shirt beneath a short black bolero jacket, a wide cravat held by a pearl tiepin at her throat. The horse she had been riding - a black mare - stood quietly tethered at the front gate. The equestrienne held a short whip in one hand which she absently swished against a riding boot so polished that it gave off reflections onto the ground, and in the other hand she carried a black helmet that looked so small that it could be little more than a cloche in effect. Lisette thought that it would give no practical protection to its wearer if she were to fall.

"Aha," said the woman without preamble. "I wondered whether there was a new tenant or just one of those worthless estate agents come to assess the property yet again!"

Lisette was so taken aback that at first she did not know what to say. She realised a few minutes later that her stammered denial fitted neatly with the innocent cover story of an office secretary.

"Of course," continued the woman abruptly, seeming to ignore Lisette's faint demurral, "it changes matters considerably if you are a new tenant."

"Well I …"

"Have you come to stay more or less permanently, like some of the others in this district, or are you on holiday?"

"I'm on holiday for two weeks," Lisette replied.

"Aha. I see. To renew artistic inspiration perhaps?"

"Not really … I'm a secretary."

"I see." A flicker of disdain showed itself so briefly on the woman's face that Lisette almost missed it. "A working girl. Still, can't be helped. Umm, have you any artistic abilities that you might wish to hone during your visit?"

"I do a little editing for a publishing house," replied Lisette cautiously, constructing her cover story as she went along.

"Oho! Good for you! There are some personages in these parts who may appreciate getting to know you my dear Miss - ?"

"Poole. Lizzy Poole," Lisette invented. "And you are - ?" Lisette let her question hang in the same way as that of her interlocutor.

"Regina. Regina Ecuestre. But you may call me Regina," replied the woman grandly.

Regina Ecuestre turned and began to walk back towards her pony, which appeared to be in deep conversation with Rasputin sitting atop a battered sundial close to the fence.

The woman paused with her foot in the left stirrup and looked back over her shoulder towards Lisette. "I daresay we'll meet again, Miss Poole. I am to be found at Greenmoor Farm. They will tell you at the village where it is."

Regina Ecuestre swung herself expertly into the saddle and looked back one last time. "Nice pussy-cat," she remarked as she kicked her heels into the horse's flank and set the animal at a canter towards Cliff Road.

Lisette closed her front door firmly. What a perfectly hideous woman!

Lisette's third visitor arrived soon after four o'clock. When she opened the front door in response to a bright rat-a-tat, Lisette found herself facing a pretty longhaired blonde wearing a smile and a light satin trench coat. She could not be more than twenty-three or twenty-four years old. Lisette, now in her early thirties, felt a momentary pang for lost youth.

"Hullo," said the girl cheerfully, "Are you one of Jeremy's guests too?"

Lisette shook her head in bemusement. "No Dear. I'm sorry but I don't know the person. I'm …" Lisette paused a moment as she retrieved her new alias from memory. "I'm Elizabeth Poole. I'm renting this cottage for two weeks. Are you sure you've come to the right place?"

"Well," said the girl with a pretty frown, "I'm almost sure …" She consulted a folded road map. "Oh dear. What a silly thing to do! I'm holding this upside down! When I followed the directions I thought this cottage was a little too far from the road … Oh. It's way up the other end. What a nuisance! And how silly of me!" The girl looked up brightly at Lisette and grinned. "I hope you don't mind the disturbance."

"No, I don't mind at all," replied Lisette with an answering smile. It was difficult not to smile in the presence of this young woman with such a likeable disposition.

The young woman in question held out her hand. "I'm Sunny," she announced, "Sunny Virtue."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Ms Virtue," said Lisette as she returned the handshake. "Stop a few minutes and have a cup of tea? You look as though you've been walking pretty hard."

Sunny Virtue was flushed with her exertions.

"There's Chinese green tea as well, and coffee of course," said Lisette conversationally as she led the way through the hallway to the kitchen.

In the kitchen Lisette switched on the electric kettle and proceeded to work the coffee grinder as Sunny divested herself of her coat and hung it carefully over the back of a chair. The girl wore a narrow suede skirt that just reached to her knees and light but sturdy boots to mid calf. An opaque white satin slip over a matching bra could be seen from beneath a transparent over-blouse of white lace. They gave necessary modesty to Sunny's costume. The filmy material rippled over the girl's arms and shoulders with every movement.

Soon they were sitting face to face across the kitchen table, small cups of hot green tea at their fingertips. Rasputin had entered, given Sunny his approval, and was sitting on the edge of the table in front of her, almost falling into her lap, the teacup in constant danger of being swept aside by his tail.

Lisette asked the obvious question: "Who's the gentleman you're visiting?"

Sunny sipped her drink and replied earnestly: "It's Jeremy Buddington. You may have heard of him. He writes detective thrillers."

"Oh, of course."

Lisette remembered that Bryce la Plage had once delivered a lengthy disquisition on Buddington's detective fiction in between bouts of lovemaking in her apartment; something about tenuous plot devices and scarcely believable coincidences almost as breathtaking as those delivered by the pop writer Armistead Maupin, but not as well written. Although the sex was great, Lisette had actually fallen asleep from boredom. Sunny Virtue however had the glow in her eyes of a genuine fan. Lisette reminded herself not to become over critical about a writer she had never met and whose works she had never read.

"He's a septuagenarian you know," Sunny was saying. "But he has loads of energy. He's going to critique an article I've drafted for Le Temps Littéraire et Supplémentaire."

Lisette already liked the girl but she looked at her new acquaintance with increased respect. To have a review published in such a prominent journal meant that one had to be a pretty good writer oneself, of literary-cum-academic style.

They had finished drinking and Sunny Virtue was shrugging back into her trench coat when she turned to Lisette and exclaimed. "Hey, why don't you come with me? The old fellow will be tickled pink talking to two women instead of one!"

Lisette was on holiday with time at her disposal. What was more, she needed to be able to find her way about the district and a walk in the direction of Buddington's cottage was a good way to start. She tied a thirty-inch silk square at her throat and put on a wool-lined coat, settled Rasputin by the rear cat flap with his water and favourite biscuits, and set off with Sunny pacing smartly side by side.

Their route led them past the double wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the neighbouring property.

"That's a fascinating old place," observed Lisette. "Weatherstone hall. Some sort of old mansion house I think. Funny that it's so close to my cottage. It's almost as though the cottage was once a summerhouse attached to the larger place then sold and walled off from it. The estate agents couldn't tell me much about it. I think the owner is a man named Fforbes, with two effs."

"As a matter of fact," responded Sunny with a pretty frown, "I'm the owner. That is, I inherited the old place from my aunt. I'm waiting for probate to go through and then I'll give it an inspection and decide what has to be done about it. Until then I'm keeping away. It seems the best thing to do. There's a comfortable little public house in the village."

"I didn't realise. I thought Spencer Fforbes was the owner but, now that I think about it, he didn't actually say that he was," said Lisette.

"I believe he's the caretaker/manager. It's being run as a guest house at the moment."

"I see." Liette became thoughtful. Is there more to this than Sunny's telling me? "Fforbes invited me to a dinner party there tomorrow night. The paying guests are writers and other artistic people, I'm told. You might find it interesting."

"Well … I don't know …"

"Is there anyone there, do you think, who might recognise you, by face or by name?"

Sunny laughed lightly. "I should think not. Except for Mr Buddington of course. We met in London. I've only been in the village for twelve hours and I've never been here before."

"Well then, assume an alias and come," said Lisette teasingly, thinking of her own subterfuge. "It might be fun."

"All right," said Sunny cheerfully, "I'll think up a good one."

It was growing dark and cold by the time they reached the cottage. A welcoming glow lit the front window from within. Sunny Virtue knocked jauntily at the door which was opened almost immediately. Lisette felt for a moment that she was a character from Wind in the Willows, for the thickset elderly man with grizzled countenance and velvet smoking jacket would have been well cast as Mr Badger, although the beaming smile that he bestowed on Sunny and on Lisette in turn chased away any thoughts of irascibility in his nature.

"Come in, come in my dears," announced Jeremy Buddington happily. "Miss Virtue, you're more lovely every time I clap my eyes on you. And your friend too is a perfect gem of womanhood! Most auspicious. Most fortuitous. Allow me to supply you both with my best mulled wine."

Introductions were completed in the front room around the fire blazing merrily in the living room grate where the two young women found themselves in deep armchairs on either side of their affable host. The warm drink chased away the evening chill.

Lisette allowed herself to slip into a soft wine-induced daze as Sunny and her mentor in low voices discussed the printout of the young woman's article. She caught from time to time the general drift of their conversation. At one point Buddington warned about excessive use of commas, which made Lisette chuckle to herself. Perhaps Bryce la Plage had played a greater part in the man's life, as a reviewer, than he had told Lisette during their moments of passion. Three typos and the transposition of a paragraph later and the sheaf of papers was replaced in its buff envelope and put away into the depths of Sunny's shoulder bag.

Liqueurs came next, Crème de Menthe for Lisette and Tia Maria for Sunny. Jeremy Buddington drank a double brandy from an appropriately large brandy balloon.

"Mr Buddington," said Lisette lazily, "what did you mean when you said that our coming here was fortuitous and auspicious?"

"Most fortuitous," corrected Sunny sleepily, "most auspicious."

Jeremy Buddington stroked his beard and coughed nervously. "It's like this my dears. You have arrived at the precise moment when I need a damsel in distress, or two as it happens."

"I don't understand."

"Please don't take this the wrong way, dear Miss Poole," the man continued, "but I'm at a critical stage of my latest novel, in which the heroine is held captive by an embezzler she has uncovered. Now … one of the criticisms of my last book is that it is weak in verisimilitude. That is, it does not reflect real-life situations convincingly. I want to make this new story more accurate to human emotions and feelings, naturally enough, and I wondered whether you would be willing to enter into a little experiment."

"Well, if there is any way that we can help," said Lisette slowly, wondering where this was leading, "to repay you for your hospitality …"

"What is it you want us to do?" asked Sunny with interest, breaking out of her sleepy state. "Do you want to lock us up so we can pretend to call for help or make a resourceful escape - unscrew the hinges of the door …?"

"That's a very good idea," replied Buddington, "Yes, yes. Something like that. But I had something different in mind."

"This is exciting," exclaimed Sunny. "I've never been tied up before."

Lisette and Sunny were lying face down on the floor of the living room in the space made by moving the armchairs. Their hands had been tied behind their backs and their ankles bound together.

Lisette tested her wrist bonds and was beginning to doubt whether the whole thing was a good idea. Soft cotton rope had been used, but it was very tight and there was a lot of it, crisscrossed in a figure eight that allowed no twisting or turning of the captives' hands where nimble fingers might find the knots. Their ankles were also tied together strictly, again with a lot of rope and cinched in between a little like wide ankle cuffs. More rope lay on one of the armchairs and Lisette wondered whether Jeremy Buddington intended to put it to he same use.

The man had been enthusiastic. "The idea, you see, is to bind you both hand and foot and see how long it will take before you can get free. Afterwards I want your thoughts on how it felt, in as much detail as possible. I'll take notes. That way I'll know about capture direct from the woman herself."

So Lisette and Sunny could hardly complain. They had agreed to it. They were bound. They would have to make the best of it. After all, it was only an experiment.

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