Purdue thought quickly. It was a difficult decision. He was not sure how well she was to receive visitors. It would be awkward if he sent Pascal away and found that Lydia was mentally incapacitated or sedated. “Don’t go too far,” he smiled, amused at his own answer.
Pascal was a sharp tack. He caught on what his employer’s predicament was and nodded politely, “I’ll be right across the park at the restaurant, having some lunch. Ready to come when you summon, Monsieur Purdue.”
“Good man,” Purdue cheered with a pat on Pascal’s shoulder.
But both men found the yard they drove through very peculiar. As the gate closed behind the Audi they became aware of an electrical charge along the inside of the perimeter wall. The place did not resemble at all the garden or terrace of such a posh mansion. Instead of plush brushes and elegant trees, flower beds and fountains there was only tall grass, gravel and overgrown, un-kept gardening. Reinforced with what looked like steel plating, the entire fence wall ran nine foot high along the circumference of the yard. Rusty nails secured the plates crudely to the stone and mortar under the creepers and wild tree branches. The lawn was dry and brown, because, Purdue guessed, water would upset the charge he could hear vaguely between the plates.
It was very strange, but now he understood why the house had such a reputation of being singled out among the other properties. Even Pascal could tell something was amiss.
“I think I should rather wait here in the car, Monsieur Purdue,” he remarked, gawking at the cracked and chipped statuettes all over the property. “If this is what the outside looks like there is no telling what you might find in the house.”
Purdue gave it some thought.
“No,” he cried finally, keeping to his light demeanor, “you go on, Pascal. Have some lunch. I’ll be fine. Whatever is in that house, I can appreciate.”
Pascal mumbled, “Oui, but can you outrun it?”
Purdue took his leather case and slung it over his shoulder, giving his driver a brief wave as he skipped carelessly up the cracked cement steps to the leave strewn terrace. A chair with a seat stained from months of mud and downpour rocked in the slight breeze at the far right side of the porch.
Purdue ignored the ominous looking surroundings and rang the doorbell. A stocky, abstemious creature opened the door. His eyes were weary, even in their coldness and his clothing painfully neat on every curve of his body. Purdue guessed the butler in his fifties, but his voice sounded ancient.
“Master Purdue,” he said plainly, “welcome to Jenner Manor.”
“You’re British?” Purdue asked without thinking.
“Yes, sir. You expected a French maid?” the rigid man asked dryly.
Purdue had to laugh.
“Pardon me, friend. I meant nothing by it. I just did not expect…” he chuckled, but by the man’s lack of enthusiasm for Purdue’s humor, he swallowed his laughter. “Is Professor Jenner available? I know I am a tad early.”
“That is not a problem, sir. Please, have a seat in the parlor and I will inform the professor of your arrival,” the butler suggested and without sparing a moment for Purdue’s response he disappeared up the stairs.
The inside of the house was not as dilapidated as the exterior, apart from the slightly wilted and dried up bouquets of flowers on the corner tables that gave the place an odd odor of old rot and stagnant water. But the tile floors were spotless, the walls lacking any art or photographs and left utterly bare throughout the hallway. Purdue stood in the dusty, faintly lit drawing room where the slightly separated drapes yielded to a tardy bit of sunray that accentuated the trickling dust particles settling in the room.
The furniture was completely out of place for the design of the classical manor. Purdue had to smile to himself at the sight of the plain couches and coffee tables of the sunken lounge floor that reminded him of a kitsch London apartment from the early seventies. The hearth was built in with bricks and instead of charming paintings adorning the walls as he would have expected, there was yet again nothing hung. Pastel green and cream sections of the walls revealed studded edges that he simply had to scrutinize.
Purdue frowned as his fingertips studied the short nails that ran from the ceiling to the floor where they had fixed yet another collection of sheeting to cover the interior of the room, perhaps all the rooms. He had to know why.
Chapter 3
Sam woke up way too late. He had missed breakfast by hours and he had well a way to go before lunch would be served. And as he always had a solution for such little problems, he made for the mini fridge instead — to keep him occupied, as it were. The party from the night before turned out to be quite the anti-climax. Even though his intention was to gather information there, he ended up hoping for more and ended up being sorely disappointed. Her name was Lily and she would have been the perfect night cap, but she left with someone else before Sam could close the deal.
His cell phone shattered his hung over thoughts.
“Cleave,” he grunted, wondering where his clothes were shed the night before as if the caller could see him.
“Sam Cleave! This is Penny Richards from the Cornwall Institute of the Sciences,” a female voice chimed.
“Cornwall… in Ireland,” Sam stated with distinct uncertainty.
“It’s a surname, Mr. Cleave,” she chuckled. “Bernard Cornwall was the benefactor of our foundation, hence the name.”
“Ah! I see,” Sam replied, looking for his pants. “For a moment I thought I was caught in a science fiction novel, or perhaps a scientific experiment in the Bermuda Triangle.”
He could tell the woman was smiling and did her best to be friendly, but her words were somewhat impatient. “Listen, Mr. Cleave, I was wondering if you have any new information on the imminent sabotage of the CERN LHC site.”
She cleared her throat uncomfortably.
“I spoke to several people last night, Miss Richards,” he reported, “but I’m afraid there was not much I could ascertain from the faculty. As I told your colleague Mr. Somanko yesterday, I don’t think his ex-employee is involved in the sabotage. These threats came from someone more professional, a group of people rather than just one individual.”
“So you are saying it is more serious than we thought?” she asked.
“Aye,” Sam nodded. “I suggest you tighten up on security.”
She paused for a moment, allowing Sam some time to locate his pants and open a tiny bottle of Southern Comfort for breakfast. He could hear her composing herself.
“Mr. Cleave, have you read the morning paper?” she asked in a much more serious tone. “Have you seen the morning news?”
“I have not,” he admitted, although it was a terrible confession to make at this hour of the day.
She sighed hard, “A fire ravaged two kilometers of the CERN tube last night, Mr. Cleave. Were you sleeping on the job?”
“I’m sorry, I was ill during the night and only fell asleep at dawn, Miss Richards,” he lied, swallowing the bourbon to get some hair of the dog. He felt ashamed for being so out of synch, so off kilter in his career. Of all people a Pulitzer winner, a renowned investigative journalist such as himself, should be on top of things. It was a shame that he was fraying at the ends like this to have lost his focus for but a night, yet neglected to know what the rest of the world already knew and looking utterly inept at his job.
“Look,” she said more gently, “I understand that you do not need our support and that you are a celebrity journalist and author, but you accepted this assignment, Mr. Cleave, so please, I implore you to please show more enthusiasm for the case. If anything it would help us avoid another, perhaps bigger, catastrophe.”
“You are correct, Penny. You are absolutely correct,” Sam agreed sincerely. “I have been distracted and overslept this morning which does not reflect well on my reputation, but I assure you I will be following up on this incident.”