Quo Vadis

The cortege climbed a long incline past meadows brimming with cowslip and fields where soggy sheep grazed in the lush grass. The line of cars slowed to a crawl as it passed through a pair of tall iron gates and followed along a semicircular driveway bisecting the grass parkland. Standing sentry at regular intervals, life-size white statues of graceful limbed women draped in stolas gazed blindly from blank stone eyes at the procession. Two men in anoraks directed the vehicles to parking spaces at the apex of the gravel driveway.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Reggie said before Rex had time to formulate his own astonishment at the structure looming before him, the central part of which comprised a red brick fort six stories high, each level punctured by a lancet window set directly above the front door, culminating in a gray crenellated parapet, reminiscent of All Saints’ Church in Aston.

Flanking the narrow fort, symmetrical extensions presented a lower wall of stone and a projecting upper story of white plaster
façade interlaced with black timber and inset with recessed diamond pane windows. What should, thematically, have been a thatch roof instead continued the turret design of the tower. Climbing rose, clematis, and white honeysuckle lent a certain cottage charm, but failed to soften the austere aspect of the central fort whose brick wall rose to three times the height of the mock Tudor wings.

The pink Mercedes pulled up in front of an iron-studded oak door, pierced with a portcullis window. The door opened to reveal a woman in a white blouse, black skirt, and low heels, who stood aside as the wedding party mounted the shallow flight of steps draped in rain-saturated red carpet.

“It can’t decide whether it wants to be a fortress or a manor house,” Rex said, examining the building with curiosity through the windshield while Helen parked the car behind a white van.

“I know,” Meredith said with a sigh. “It’s hideous. I used to stay here weekends and pretend I was on a set for the shooting of a film about Henry VIII.”

“What is its history?” Rex asked.

“The fort was built in the mid 1800s by Mrs. Newcombe’s husband’s great-great-grandfather or something. The wall surrounding the four acres of property was Mr. Newcombe’s grandfather’s doing after he sold off some of the land, and he converted the carriage house into a garage. The wings were added in the 1980s by Mr. Newcombe’s parents, who passed away before he married Victoria.”

“What happened to Mr. Newcombe?” Rex asked Meredith, recalling the conversation between Bobby Carter and Mrs. Newcombe.

“Nobody knows.”

The four occupants of the Renault got out and made their way to the front steps of the fort. A date-stone embedded in the brickwork above the door was inscribed with 1855 and two Latin words: Quo Vadis, which Rex translated poetically as “Whither goest thou?” for the benefit of his companions. He explained that Latin had no interrogation point, the question being implied in the “quo.”

“Is it a motto?” Meredith’s boyfriend asked.

“I suppose it could be a philosophical one. Do you know where you’re going in life, Reggie?”

“Haven’t a clue. What about you?”

“It’s taken me long enough to get where I am.”

“Where’s that then?”

“Queen’s Counsel at the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh.”

“Sounds impressive,” Reggie said with a respectful nod. “So’s this place in a fakey sort of way.”

Red carpet squelched underfoot as they mounted the steps. The woman at the door took Meredith’s coat and beret. Rex made sure to dry his shoes carefully on the mat before entering the great hall, which extended the breadth of the fort.

A massive stone fireplace at either side created an illusion of warmth and welcome, mitigating the starkness of the brick walls that cried out for gleaming suits of armor and a pair of crossed halberds to complete the effect of a medieval castle. Instead, tapestries of pastoral scenes, looking suspiciously like replicas to Rex’s critical eye, adorned the four soaring walls, while floral rugs, on which gathered tight knots of people, covered the flagstone floor.

The guests had not yet availed themselves of the groupings of faux antique sofas, as they waited for the rest of the invitees to arrive. Amber, the sourpuss maid of honor, chatted with Polly, but her eyes were fixed on Dudley Thorpe as on an irresistible pair of shoes she could never afford. Rex sensed drama afoot.

In the back right-hand corner of the hall, a cylindrical tower built of curved blocks of stone signaled a spiral stairway. A centered archway led into its murky depths, gaping dark and sinister as a grotto and secretive as a shell. Rex fancifully imagined a dung-eon lurking beneath the flagstone floor, with rusty implements of torture attached to dank walls impregnated with ghostly cries.

In the opposite corner, a DJ station stood empty, two mammoth speakers facing into the hall. A girl in a short black dress, black stockings, and white apron, offered guests flutes of champagne from a silver tray. Reggie and Meredith took theirs and eagerly went off to explore.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Rex thanked the server, whisking a glass off the tray and clinking it with Helen’s. “No doubt there’ll be plenty of toasts later on, but, for now, Slàinte.” He downed half the contents. “That’s better,” he said. “Though a beer would have done just as well.”

“The bar and buffet are through here,” announced the woman who had opened the front door to them, making Rex wonder whether she had overheard his comment.

He followed into an adjoining room. Spacious, yet with a low beamed ceiling, the reception area was decked out in silky chintz fabric and rococo furniture. A tri-panel Chinese lacquer screen, depicting stylized peacocks, stood in front of the far door to deter guests from venturing beyond that point. Pink and white floral arrangements graced the marble-top tables, while soft romantic hits played in the background. Against the French doors across the salon, a long table draped in white linen held the wedding gifts. Remembering the box under his arm, Rex added the fruit bowl to the collection.

To his relief, he was able to procure a pint of Guinness from the full-service bar.

“I never saw anyone so indecently pregnant!” hissed a snarky female voice. “Isn’t Polly a bit far along to be flying to Majorca for her honeymoon?”

Rex pretended not to hear. “Shotgun wedding” was the next indignant phrase to assail his ears. He was about to turn and upbraid the gossipers with a sharp look of rebuke when an authoritative voice interrupted him.

“Helen!” Victoria Newcombe air-kissed his fiancée on the cheek. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Mrs. Newcombe had removed her hat, and Rex found she stood up commendably to close scrutiny. A blonder and slimmer version of her daughter, her flawless makeup accentuated well-modeled bones, her body, as youthful as her face, evidently no stranger to a regular workout routine. “Sorry I didn’t get around to greeting you at the church,” she told them both, “but I was so busy. Honestly, once I’m through with this, I won’t know what to do with myself !”

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” Helen dutifully replied. “Everything is perfect. This is my fiancé, Rex Graves.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Graves. I am so happy for Helen. Just goes to show—one should never give up! Ah, the vicar has arrived.” The elderly man, divested of surplice, hesitated in the doorway. “Catch up with you later, darling,” Victoria Newcombe promised Helen as she breezed off in the clergyman’s direction.

“Never give up!” Helen mimicked in good humor when their hostess was far enough away not to hear. “She’s one to talk! I suspect Bobby Carter has been keeping her company in her husband’s long absence.”

“He’s somewhat older than Victoria, isn’t he?”

“Somewhat,” Helen said enigmatically.

Rex wrapped an arm around her waist and watched the guests congregate at the bar. Helen’s ex-boyfriend, taller and more athletic than Rex had anticipated, stood with the bride and groom. His date, glimpsed from the back in church, now faced them, clad in a slinky silver sequined dress, one hand possessively encircling Clive’s arm. Hmm, Rex thought; Clive has great taste in women. “Aye, verra nice,” he let slip.

“Rex, are you looking for a kick in the shins?” Helen inquired.

“I prefer blondes. And if you were a redhead, I’d prefer redheads.”

“Watch it, or I’ll pour this champagne all over your red head.”

Clive guided his companion toward them with what Rex took to be a smile of triumph. The teacher blinked as he announced, “Helen, I’d like to present Jasmina,” as though he were presenting a trophy.

The two women clasped hands, Jasmina emitting a nervous little giggle. The silver hoops on her ears offset the smooth honey matte of her skin. Adeptly applied black liquid liner underscored almond-shaped eyes of shiny licorice. By and by, Rex became aware of Helen’s insistent gaze on his own face and slid his eyes to Clive’s more pedestrian features. Stepping forward and introducing himself, he shook the teacher’s hand. As predicted—a wimpy grip.

“Down for the weekend?” Clive asked.

“That’s right. Hope to go hiking in the Peak District tomorrow.”

“Helen told me you were an avid walker,” Clive said, making Rex wonder what else she had told him in his regard. Her ex launched into a rapturous soliloquy about the District’s rugged charm and recommended which trails to take, blinking all the while and leading Rex to suppose he was trying contact lenses, or else his current pair was drying up on him. It made Rex feel a compulsion to blink too. Soon bored by Clive’s hyper enthusiasm, he listened with one ear to the women’s conversation.

“I love Polly’s gown,” Jasmina said. “Antique lace. Must have cost a fortune.”

“And your dress is simply gorgeous,” Helen complimented.

“Oh, thanks.” Jasmina giggled and sipped her champagne.

“Are you a designer?”

“Oh, no. I’m in media. Clothes are just a hobby.” Another giggly squeal. “And you?”

“Student advisor at Clive’s school.” Helen glanced at her ex as though surprised he had not mentioned this fact to Jasmina.

“Oh—right,” Jasmina said. “And that’s how you know Polly …,” she ventured.

“Yes, I got to know Polly during her teenage years. And, to some extent, Timmy. Timmy was Clive’s pupil.”

Jasmina gazed adoringly at Clive as though mathematics was the sexiest subject ever, and gave his arm a playful tweak. “Thanks to you, he became an accountant.”

A pleased flush crept over Clive’s bland face. “Oh, I don’t know that I can take all the credit,” he said, obviously ready to do just that.

“Funny to see them both grown up and married,” Helen remarked, waggling her fingers at the newlyweds across the room. “Timmy has perked up. Probably glad to get the wedding ceremony out of the way.”

“I know!” Jasmina said. “He was so nervous, he kept asking the vicar to repeat the prompts.”

Rex asked Clive if he would like another beer and when Clive declined, went off to get one for himself, hoping to find an interesting guest to talk to. Preferably someone who knew something about Tom Newcombe, their hostess’s conspicuously absent husband. He decided the sister, the garrulous aunt from Wales, might be a good start.