Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery (16 page)

It wasn't Arthur who opened the door however. Nor a butler or footman. It was Jason Pryde.

He gave me one of his crooked smiles. ‘Welcome to Nightmare Abbey.'

I
was aware that Jason was waiting for me to say, ‘I thought this house was called Friars Leas?' Tough. He was going to be disappointed. In a trice I was back in my father's study of long, long ago, where amongst other forgotten treasures was a copy of Peacock's early nineteenth novel of gentle mockery,
Nightmare Abbey
. I grinned at Jason, grasping for anything I could remember of this neglected classic which my father – mysteriously to me at the time – thought so screamingly funny. My memory – or Dad – obliged.

I then replied with some confidence as the book reared up in my mind more clearly, ‘Mr Flosky, I presume. Mystery is your mental element. You see ghosts at noontide.'

Jason's eyes narrowed. ‘Who doesn't? Scythrop Glowry in fact,' he added. ‘The son and heir. Come in, do. Arthur's waiting for you.'

That was just as well. I'd reached the limits of my knowledge of Peacock's classic, although I had a vague memory that Scythrop, disappointed in love, had a passion for reforming the world. I'd bear that in mind in case it gave me an understanding of what made Jason tick.

As he led me through the hall and up a dark mahogany staircase – dark because little natural light percolated to this point – I began to feel I was indeed in Nightmare Abbey, although Peacock's idea of it could not have included a huge oil painting of Miranda Pryde belting out one of her famous songs. Nor would his Abbey have included paintings and posters of motor cars driven by a young Mike Nelson and whizzing round a track. My friend the Italian artist Giovanni would have been proud to acknowledge one of the paintings, so surreal was it. Then I looked closer and realized it
was
a Giovanni, with Mike's Porsche portrayed in it.

Nightmare Abbey, however, might well have accommodated, had the technology existed in Peacock's time, the dancing skeleton grinning at me from an alcove, or the ghastly apparitions looming over the staircase in a way I had not been loomed over since I last went on a haunted house trip at a local fair.

‘Do they attack at will?' I asked Jason mildly as one of these dangled perilously near the top of my head.

‘Only if you want them to do so. That's the secret of life. There's a dark lantern of the spirit,' he told me conversationally, ‘that brings them out, but none see by it but those who bear it.'

I suspected we were back to Peacock's novel again, but I struggled to keep up. ‘Do you see it?'

He considered this and stopped his progress along a corridor on the first floor as dark as the stairs. ‘Oh yes. We all do at times.'

‘This must be one of those times for you. A bad one, and I'm sorry.' It was a risky step for I judged this was a man who would only let me approach on his own terms.

‘Yes,' he agreed, and indicated that we should sit down in an alcove halfway along, which was provided with two velvet upholstered chairs, a table and a huge carved angel looking down benignly upon us.

Although his brief reply was hardly encouraging, I continued, ‘It seems to be general knowledge that you weren't on good terms with your father, and that must have made his death worse.'

He looked interested. ‘Do the police think I killed him?'

‘I don't know,' I replied truthfully. ‘That depends on forensic evidence or lack of it.' I'd heard no more from Brandon on that front. ‘On the timescale they might, or if they decide there's a link between the Porsche theft and his death.'

His sharp intelligent eyes flickered. ‘Yes, I see that.' A moment's pause and then he added, ‘But consider. Would I do such a thing to my father, to Miranda Pryde's son? It seems unlikely.'

I agreed, but capricious minds such as Jason Pryde's can jump enormous gaps at will – or worse without knowing it. I was wary of him and even warier now that Arthur was under his roof. How had that come about, and what was Arthur making of Nightmare Abbey?

‘It does,' I replied. ‘And the aftermath of your father's death can't be helping. You must feel strongly about Old Herne's passing out of your hands with Glenn running it. It's been part of the Nelson family story ever since it was founded.' I sensed I'd put a foot wrong – and so did Jason, but he let me off the hook.

‘You're floundering, Jack,' he told me kindly. ‘Do you need a lifebelt?'

I laughed. ‘Yes please.'

‘Then let me show you my tower.'

‘You said Arthur was waiting—'

He brushed this aside. ‘He'll understand.'

I hoped he would, as for all his slightly elfish appearance Jason Pryde was a man of steel. He set off along the corridor, we turned a corner, he opened a door – and I saw the tower. The room was circular and light streamed in from the huge bow window, although the door faced not that but the wall opposite.

At first glance the room looked like another tribute to Miranda Pryde and to his father. There were pictures and photos of her, of Mike, and even a ghost or two, I noticed. There was a reproduction (perhaps an original?) of a Victorian painting, in which I recognized the ghost of Hamlet's father. Next to it was another painting with a similar ghostly figure, this time female. As for the photos, these differed from those of Miranda and Mike that I had glimpsed elsewhere in the house. The majority of them had Old Herne's as a background, although there was also one of Miranda surrounded by RAF personnel. Another striking adornment to the room was the huge number of model aeroplanes and cars. They peeped out between photos and files, adorned work surfaces, some were displayed on the floor, some in a showcase, and their quality varied. I could see a tinplate Schuco sitting next to a plastic London Routemaster.

I assumed at first that this was Jason's office or study, but I could see no computer, not even an old typewriter. At the far side of the room a twisting spiral staircase obviously led to the ground floor level and to another floor above. There was a small desk, a chair and armchair, a large china cat, some books, a Kindle lying on the desk. I took all this in first – and only then turned belatedly to the window itself. Here stood a huge telescope trained out on the Downs, and from the way that Jason was staring at me, I could see he wanted to see my reactions.

‘This is your thinking room?' I asked carefully, feeling my way.

‘It's where I think.'

‘Music?'

‘No. There's a recording studio downstairs and the routine music stuff I do all over the place.'

‘So what then?'

‘Look through this.' He trained the telescope and motioned to me to take his place.

Once the view had settled down from its usual blur of blues and greens, I could see to my amazement an unmistakable shape. ‘Isn't that—?'

He nodded. ‘Old Herne's control tower.'

I could see it so clearly that I could even focus on the empty garage. No Porsche, no Morgan. Then I managed to train the telescope on to the track, where a solitary car was whizzing around. No doubt about that stylish sports car. It was the Morgan of course, with, I presumed, Tim at the wheel, although I couldn't see the driver clearly enough.

‘Fun, isn't it?' Jason said behind me.

‘Yes, but why is it here?' What was it that he wanted me to understand?

‘Castles in the air. It's the Scythrop in me.'

So we were back to
Nightmare Abbey.
I hoped we weren't going much further with this or I would be a sad disappointment to him. ‘Can you explain?' I asked.

‘Scythrop kept a stool to be melancholy on. This room is
my
stool,' Jason told me matter-of-factly.

He was looking so unmelancholy that this was a shock. ‘Do you use it often?'

‘Yes,' he replied. ‘Roots. Mine. No one can sing without roots, even if one doesn't sing
about
them. Mine are Old Herne's. In the recording room I keep just one picture of Old Herne's to keep me going, but usually I come in here, get my dose of roots and then go and sing. Do you think that's why my marriage broke up?' he concluded disconcertingly.

‘Possibly,' I said cautiously. ‘Perhaps you spent too much time here?' I began to see how Old Herne's might be his Scythrop passion for reforming the world.

‘No. I didn't own this place then. My wife walked out during my detox period, taking Hedda with her. She had got used to being on her own, she claimed, and I was too wrapped up in my grandmother Miranda.'

‘Was your wife right?'

‘Who knows? Hedda's my root now. Have you met her?'

‘Yes. She's a great girl.'

‘She can't sing a note, but that's good. Two singers in one family are enough. I went wrong in the nineties after Miranda died, so I don't blame my wife for giving up on me. Couldn't see my way through, so I went to dry out and detox, and landed back at Old Herne's to get back on track. I'm still on it, I hope – aren't I, Arthur?'

Arthur
? I swung round to see that he had joined us. He had come in so silently that I hadn't heard him. It was the first time I'd seen Arthur standing and thought how incredibly upright and spry he was for a man of ninety or more. ‘You are, Jason. The Pride of Old Herne's.' Then he turned to me. ‘What do you think of Friars Leas?'

‘Impressive,' I said. ‘I can see why you wanted to move in here for a while.' I wasn't sure I did understand it, in fact, but my endorsement seemed to please both of them.

‘I always look in on young Jason when I cross the Pond. First Old Herne's and the Cricketers and then Friars Leas. It looks kind of weird, but you know, Jack, it feels like a home.'

‘Young' Jason put his arm round Arthur in affection. ‘This is Miranda's home, too, Arthur. Always will be. And yours.'

Miranda's home? I wondered just why Hedda had wanted me to talk to Arthur
and
Jason. She must have been fond of Mike and as outraged as we all were by his murder. What more could they tell me, either together or singly, that was going to help find his killer?

The Porsche had been returned and so I had put that provisionally to one side as a factor in Mike's death. Nevertheless, it was odd that it didn't seem to figure much in Jason's mind. Was this because it had nothing to do with Mike's death or could it be that the car had only been one incident in a far wider scenario that placed Jason centre stage? And with Jason came Arthur, Nightmare Abbey – and Miranda Pryde.

I couldn't see where this line of thought was taking me, but I sensed it was taking me
somewhere
… in fact, quite a way, perhaps, given how they were both looking at me, with their long thin faces and their mild kindly eyes. Looking at me
expectantly
.

And then I was there. At last, I'd got the steering wheel gripped in my hands. How could I have been so blind? Was I the only person who didn't know? I could not believe that and yet it was so obvious. And it threw a die into the ring that changed everything.
If
I was right. So I took a deep breath. It was time to throw the die myself.

‘Miranda's place,' I repeated. ‘
She
was the heart of Old Herne's and still is.'

Neither of them spoke. They were waiting for me to spell it out. So spell it out I did.

‘Mike was your biological son, wasn't he, Arthur? Jason's your grandson.'

‘I could do with a ride, Jack,' Arthur said almost apologetically, ‘and seeing this Lagonda of yours outside, well, I guess that clinched it. After the Morgan, Miranda and I had a real liking for Lagondas. Anyway, we can talk better away from Jason. He's a weird one at times.'

And how, I thought. I'd expected denials, but instead they had both looked pleased at my deduction. So now that the truth was established, it was time to get answers. This discovery could well change the direction of the case, both for me and for Brandon.

Arthur had strapped himself into the Lagonda with great pleasure. No prizes for guessing where we were heading, he and I, on this jaunt of ours. Old Herne's. Arthur wanted a spin round the track in the Morgan, didn't feel up to taking the wheel himself and had asked me if I would. I'd been longing to have a go at driving it for years. I love Morgans. I love their history, I love their independence – and I love the cars.

Jason had said he would train the telescope on us as we went round the track, and I didn't discourage him in case he came with us instead. I didn't want him perched in the Lagonda's rear seat, while I tried to have a one to one with Arthur.

Arthur opted for tea in Hedda's bar before we took to the track, and we caught her just as she was about to close up for the day. There was great delight when she saw Arthur. ‘Hi, Grandpops!' she shrieked, rushing over to kiss him, and much excited chatter followed.

‘Is Mike's parentage generally known?' I asked Arthur when we were alone again.

‘No. Hedda keeps her mouth shut.'

‘I presume Anna Nelson is in the picture.'

He managed a chuckle. ‘She is now. I told her after Mike's death and she didn't know whether to be furious or pleased as she counted the cash she might get from me. She reckoned I'd chip in because Jason got the car and she seemed to think she was entitled either to that or the insurance for it. I put her right on that score and that made her mighty mad. And before you ask, Ray does know about Mike but grandson Peter does not.'

‘And your family?'

He wasn't pleased at that. ‘I'll tell Glenn in my own good time,' he snapped.

‘I have to ask about Mike though. Did he know?'

I thought I'd get another flea in my ear, but I was wrong. Arthur sighed. ‘Not until Miranda was dying in 1991. I agreed that with Ray – when I found out myself, that is. That wasn't until 1965 when Miranda and I met again. She told me while we were out in that Morgan we're about to drive. That's why it's kind of special to me. I bought the Porsche for Mike then and the Morgan for her. We'd driven in one of the thirties three-wheelers when we first knew each other, but we moved on to the Plus Four. Mike was twenty in 1965 and still hadn't the slightest idea I was his father. It went on that way till Miranda died.'