Chapter 53 Roddy
RODDY
NOW, CAMbrIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
Roddy navigates his hire car through the muddy carpark, trying to shrug away his heavy mood. His stop for coffee in the neighbouring village should have been a delightful interlude, except he had made the mistake of flagging his intention to visit Bleddesley House.
‘Do you know the history of the manor house?’ the woman behind the counter had asked as he paid for his coffee and muffin. He nodded.
‘Gruesome, that murder of Lord Fitzhenry was. Still unsolved, fifty years on.’
‘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 and letters. 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 for fancy. 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 gives him 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 it possible Phyllida 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 words Bleddesley House and 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.
He walks up the stairs, poking his head into a tiny room on the first landing with a rope across its entrance.
It appears to be a miniature chapel. Adorned in red and gold, it has velvet pews along the walls facing into the centre.
Next door, tucked around the corner, is a toilet; it looks like a throne carved from dark timber with a decorative blue-and-white porcelain bowl.
As he walks through rooms, magnificent rugs and elaborate chandeliers abound.
Gilt-framed artwork and breathtaking tapestries cover entire walls.
A man is chatting to an American couple ahead of him and Roddy eavesdrops on their conversation, hearing only snatched words about the ‘sad history’ of the house.
He wanders through bedrooms, galleries and parlours until, half an hour later, he finds himself back downstairs, alone, in the kitchen.
He flicks through his brochure and sees that the kitchen was updated in the 1970s.
The huge range sits next to a more modern oven.
A sound startles him. A man dressed in gardening gear has entered through a doorway marked No exit.
‘Hello. Do you work here?’ asks Roddy.
‘Yeah. Been in the gardens for twelve years, I reckon.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve ever met the owner, Lord Fitzhenry?’
‘Francis?’ The man frowns. ‘Yeah, course. Cut him some amaryllis for his kitchen this morning. Likes fresh flowers, does our lordship. Not much about at this time of year, but he’s always grateful for whatever I bring.’
Roddy’s heart gives a patter of excitement. ‘Francis Fitzhenry is here?’
‘Yeah. Lives in the old stables. Well,’ the man laughs, ‘he calls it the “old stables”. Bloody fancy for stables if you ask me.’ He points behind him, across the courtyard and through the grounds.
Roddy follows his finger. His eyes land on a brick building in the distance. ‘That place across the lake?’
‘Yeah. Nice bloke. Only lives here part of the year and mostly keeps to himself. He’s not usually here in winter.’
‘Don’t blame him. It’s cold.’
The man agrees, then turns to leave and Roddy waves as he heads through the kitchen courtyard and a timber gate.
Roddy waits until the man disappears then lets himself out the same gate and pretends to meander aimlessly through the gardens.
Excitement mixes with his jet lag and he begins to feel a little sick.
He pauses intermittently, pretending to be fascinated by garden statues and decorative elements in the walls.
When he reaches a gate marked No Public Entry, he looks about furtively before letting himself through.
He hurries past some huge old deciduous trees bereft of leaves.
He feels exposed as he approaches the old stables. The lovely ancient bricks are streaked with lichen. Stunning timber carriage doors take up one end of the building, which is set behind a picket fence.
He feels a flutter in his stomach, thinking of the magazine articles he’s read on the viscount’s career in fashion and costume design.
Roddy’s phone vibrates with a text message. It is Lottie responding to his earlier text.
I’m feeling much better, thanks. Have you found him yet???? Send info asap.