Secret Of The Manor (2 page)

“Why is it so quiet in here?” Warren whispered while looking for other signs of life.

Carl took a deep breath, opened his laughter-lined eyes, and pointed to the raised areas of the field. “Those mounds are believed to be Saxon burials.” He chuckled. “We can’t bring that gelding, Dusty, through here. He tries to lie down before we get to the gate at the other end.” Carl spoke like the scene was as natural as walking around the supermarket. Briefly, Warren imagined Carl around Tesco’s. The man wasn’t fat, but he was by no means thin. He enjoyed the comfort of a belly filled with his favourite foods. He’d hang onto the trolley, grumbling and limping his way around on a leg that had been kicked a few times over the years. Then he’d run his hands through the grey hair of his receding hairline that he covered with his flat cap. Warren smiled to himself before he stopped his musings and continued with his enquiries.

“Why don’t you get the Time Team in to find out for sure?”

Carl turned serious. “No. It’s not good to disturb the bones of the dead. It upsets ’em.”

Before Warren could ask anything further, they rode through a row of willows and out the gate to where birds twittered once again. Over the small road, the men launched into a canter, opting to jump between fields instead of opening the gates.

After the exhilaration of galloping through several fields, Carl readied a handful of pebbles for the valley walk to the stables. Down the valley’s centre ran a series of stone falls. At the bottom, the area opened out to reveal a sizeable pond, which ran into reservoirs throughout Walmsley Hackett and beyond. The bridle path edged the water, and the adjacent land was the winter home of many geese.

Unfortunately, in the spring and summer months, the area was dominated by Salem, an enormous mute swan, who protected his territory with ferocity and frequently attacked those on horseback. He didn’t restrict his ire to equines, either. Carl, who was a couple of birthdays away from sixty, had witnessed dogs, hikers, and even a few sheep get harassed by what he termed “the evil beak of the belligerent bird”.

Fortunately, on that day, Salem was not in his usual place, and the men passed through without difficulty. However, as they turned the corner to the safety of the covered bridle path, they heard the swan’s unmistakable buzzing. It was a weird snoring sound. The noise, coupled with the flap of wings, was the signal to anyone around to move along quicker. Looking back, they saw Salem glide in and land. The men upped their pace and broke into a final smooth canter before walking the last mile to the stable.

Warren loved that the village had plenty for him to learn about. He was sure modern technology and the sciences explained much of what those in ancient times had considered witchcraft. However, his local riding experiences highlighted some stories he was sure the Discovery Channel would be interested to investigate. His excursions had opened his mind to the possibility of other forces. After all, most myths and tales had some foundation in truth.

Warren looked forward to the day when he had a horse of his own to go searching the countryside on. The day when he could be Sherlock on horseback and find the little church; find what it was about the place that enamoured him so much. Until then, his ingrained privacy setting stopped him asking questions that in a small village would probably create more gossip than answers.

Warren knocked back the remains of his cognac and went to bed.

FOR MOST of his adulthood, Warren’s busy, city-focused life precluded buying a horse. But, finally settled into his cottage, he longed to have a four-legged beauty of his own.

Carl frequently visited Ireland and France, as well as stables around the UK, in search of animals for his clients. He promised to look for something suitable for Warren during his travels. Having waited so long for a horse, Warren didn’t want a run-of-the-mill nag. So he’d asked Carl to keep his eyes open for something a bit different. He wanted the horse of his dreams, though he wasn’t exactly sure what that was.

Warren had no idea how long it would take his friend to find an animal right for him. Until then, he had a host of other things to do, including the quarterly accounts to oversee and a company meal to attend. Between the two it was the social event he dreaded more. On such occasions, he became Warren Blake, social man.

Warren had three faces-cum-personalities he displayed: his efficient office persona, the toe-the-company-line party man, and the individual no-one inside A-Genet had ever seen.

Inside company walls, Warren was taciturn and efficient in dealings with his staff. He didn’t get personal, at least not since he’d risen through the ranks. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his peers or wasn’t a team player. If anything, he considered most good, capable people. Warren was polite with his P’s and Q’s and he always did his part for the project in hand. He occasionally smiled and didn’t even mind his office nickname: the human calculator. The badge was in recognition of his ability to run his finger down a long line of numbers and verbalise a total at any time. His stance towards his fellow employees was more to do with the amount of work he had and the time he had to do it. He toiled longer hours than anyone on his team, and he needed their efficiency more than their friendship. It was the price one had to pay for sitting in a big seat.

The person who knew him best inside A-Genet was his secretary, Jean. The reason for that was, he spoke to her more than to anyone else. She was a good lady who filtered his e-mail, like his post, into three boxes: today, before the end of the week, and if you’re bored. She also took care of his diary and was one of the few who knew his personal mobile number.

As for social events, they were a different animal again. He remembered the one earlier in the year.

IT WAS the annual garden party with more than two hundred invitees. Other company gatherings were considerably smaller. Those in attendance wore broad smiles and fashionable clothing, but beneath the facades there were those out for themselves; ambitious individuals playing the game to further their careers.

Miles, CEO of A-Genet, was a good man and a fine leader. Warren got on well with him. But, while Miles played host, Warren looked upon the party with a more cynical eye. It was an occasion where the title CEO took on a whole new meaning. At such times, CEO meant Cock-Enlarging Officer. The epithet worked for Warren on so many levels. Warren was sure Miles knew what happened every time he spoke to an ambitious employee, especially the males. The man’s winning words had an immediate effect, and the person he was talking to always changed his stance, and seemed to have more down his trousers than when he walked in.

The annual garden party was also a time many took advantage of to network, in various guises. One or two carried virtual knives. Warren knew the game rules. It was a necessary evil in a place where, if you didn’t watch your back, others took advantage. It wasn’t pretty, but it was better than the game some played. He’d been bitten by the latter before; it was one reason for his degrees of separation.

Warren had settled into his comfortable cane chair and relaxed with a glass of wine. He completed the “Hello, darling; wonderful dress, are those new shoes?” social niceties expected of him with the wives, and the “This quarter is going well, any news on that contract?” dialogue with his colleagues in high management. He chinked glasses, ate well, smiled, and conversed with the willing. He stayed with his crowd, and was wary of others who approached him—climbers who decided he was one of those worth sucking up to. Maybe he was unfair to some, but he’d seen too many cases of backbiting to embrace an idealistic approach to office shenanigans.

The moment he’d spent an appropriate amount of time at the gathering, Warren made his move to leave. He shook the right hands, kissed the right ladies on the cheek, and offered his best to a few unsuspecting climbers before making his exit. He slid into his baby—his silver Jaguar F-type R coupé, with jet-and-ivory interior—and headed home, where he threw some things together, got his VW camper out of the garage, and headed to Poole Harbour, Dorset. The two-and-a-half-hour drive to the south coast was the best option, given he’d only have a day there.

He arrived late and spent the night in the camper, which, unlike the old “flower power” models, was manoeuvrable, comfortable, practical, and classy. It was perfect for Warren to load his gear and stop off at any beach without having to book accommodation.

When morning arrived he made himself a cup of tea, showered in the close-by facilities, and ate a hearty breakfast in a local cafe. He spent the early hours at Sandbanks beach mulling over who’d said what at the garden party, filtering the bullshit from the genuine. After a while, heat from the rising sun permeated his muscles, and he began to unwind, drifting off for a nap to gain the sleep he intended to miss later.

He enjoyed a small salad for lunch before he joined his fellow surfers, exchanged some banter, and squeezed into his wetsuit. Then he attached his boom to his board and took to the seas.

Out on the water, the serenity of the rippling waves took over, along with the stinging bite of the wind and salt on his face. A few motorboats and jet skis occasionally spoiled the calm, along with the odd dunk in the drink, but Warren was happy.

By late afternoon, more windsurfers had joined him. Some he knew of old. They were people from varying backgrounds who met up at the sea and grew to be friends through their years of constant clashes with the waves. Nothing could have been more different from his day job.

As the sun set, Warren was surrounded by a familiar group of people.

That evening they cleaned up and ventured into Bournemouth, where they ate and hit the nightclubs. None of them was getting any younger, and other than being hit on by a few revellers who had a preference for older men they were left to their fun. The men with Warren were of like mind and, much like their battles with the seas,
encounters
were habitually brief. A few were closer friends than others, and despite it often being weeks, sometimes months, between get-togethers, they conversed as though they were neighbours, ribbing each other over love, life, and work.

His friends were suitably impressed when informed of Warren setting down roots, but still ribbed him: “You know that now you’ve stopped running, someone just might catch up and make an honest man of you,” and, “Did Hell freeze over?” to which Warren replied, “Cheeky bastards.” The teasing continued for a while longer before subsiding.

As the night passed, the men danced together, enjoying the taste of salty skin. Track after track, ass ground into groin while hands roamed, pinching nipples, eliciting moans of pleasure. When pheromones eclipsed the need for foreplay, the action moved to the back room, along with a supply of condoms and lube.

Warren arrived home at around two a.m., tired and sated. He still made it into the office for seven, showered and suited. His staff were none the wiser, unaware of a souvenir or two below the collar and some soreness his shirt reminded him of throughout the day. The only visible indication of his activities was a light sunburned glow to his skin. Then, when Jean arrived, she brought Warren his morning cuppa with a smile and his post. He returned the greeting and refocused on his spreadsheet. Warren held a secret smile in his eyes that didn’t fade while he worked.

WARREN CEASED his reminiscing over previous events and continued with his Friday, which ended with a less-tedious-than-anticipated dinner meeting at a restaurant in Cheltenham.

That night when he walked through his cottage door, there was an answer-phone message waiting for him from Carl. The man had a couple of horses for him to cast his eyes over.

SATURDAY MORNING, Warren dressed for a ride and was through the stable gate the moment Carl successfully encouraged the padlock to release its jaws.

“Togged up and ready for action, I see,” Carl mused.

Warren was too excited to reply. Grinning, he strode towards the yard.

Carl shook his head and followed. “Eager beaver! You don’t know which stable them’s in, ye turnip.”

Warren waited impatiently for Carl to amble over. Carl led him past the old barn, and behind it. There, in the small annex of four stables, were four horses with their noses in their breakfast. One finished before the others, and Warren heard the rattle of a feed bucket being tossed about in play, accompanied by throaty whinnies of satisfaction.

Warren was familiar with two of the animals. They belonged to Carl and his wife, Eileen, meaning the other two were for him to try out.

Sneaking a look over each stable door, Warren took in the horses. The first was a chestnut thoroughbred mare, with a fine-haired mane and tail. She looked up between mouthfuls, and Warren immediately noticed her kind eyes and intelligent face. She was a beauty.

In the other stable Warren couldn’t see much other than a mass of black, which, by the look of it, had been rolling in the shavings. Slivers of wood hung from the horse’s long, scruffy mane and tail. The grunting emanating from the bucket suggested the animal liked its food. Warren’s first thought was that the animal belonged before a cart.

“Come on, let’s go have a cuppa while they finish up; the girls’ll be here in a bit to get them ready.”

Half an hour later, Warren was seated on the mare in the schooling area while the stable girls looked on. She was as beautiful to ride as she was in looks; smooth in her paces and transitions and obedient to a fault. She had a good jump on her, and though Warren wasn’t a dressage expert, they tried out a shoulder in, halt to canter, and flying change. She executed them all perfectly.

Warren smiled with satisfaction as he dismounted. She was an admirable animal, and he was eager to try her on the cross-country course. Everything about her screamed intelligence and quality—she was a natural horse to love.

As the mare was taken out, Warren’s next mount was led through the doors. Carl made his introductions. “Don’t ask what his name is; it’s pathetic. If you like him, I’ll stick thorns under your saddle if you don’t change it.”