Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama), Carole Williams [ebook reader 8 inch .TXT] 📗

on jeans, a thin sweater, and his black leather jacket and looked back at Delia, whose face was strangely white and her breathing shallow.  But she was alive.  He hadn’t killed her.  He could finish her off now but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to.  It would be foolish.  He would deal with her at some future date because it was a damned sure thing she wasn’t going to get away with this if he could help it.  No, he would leave her to come around and resume her pathetic life and then one day, one day, he would make her regret she had tangled with him.

Her black leather handbag lay on the floor beside the bed.  He opened it.  The cheque book and cards were no good to him but the cash was.  A great wad of it.  Around £500 he surmised.  That would help.  It would give him a decent hotel room for the rest of the night so he could clean himself up and plan his next move with Vicky.  He shoved it into his suitcase, threw around the zipper, grabbed the keys to his Jag and throwing one last look of intense hatred at the inert form of his sister in law, staggered out of the bedroom.  He didn’t notice the blood seeping into the carpet from where a sharp piece of glass had become embedded in Delia’s face, or the smouldering cigarette in the bedclothes.

Barrie weaved unsteadily down the stairs to the entrance hall.  It was dimly lit as Hardy had only left two small lamps switched on.  The front door was locked and there didn’t appear to be a key anywhere in the immediate vicinity.  With sheer frustration, he kicked and pounded the wood with his feet and fists and alerted to the commotion, Hardy, followed by Anderson, his newly appointed young under butler, tore up the stairs from the servant’s quarters to see what was going on.  Hardy flicked a switch on the wall by the door and the sudden burst of light almost blinded Barrie.  He staggered against the door, wielding the suitcase at it.

“Open this bloody door,” he bellowed.  “I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Are you alright, Sir?” asked Hardy, glad young Anderson was by his side.  Barrie was exceedingly drunk and in a terrible rage and would be difficult to handle if he really kicked off.

“No!  I’m not, damn you!  Let me out of this God forsaken house.  Now!” Barrie yelled, leaning against a nearby chair delicate Louis XVIII chair to steady himself.

Hardy gulped.  The chair was worth a lot of money.  He didn’t want to see it damaged.  “But Sir … do you think you should drive?” Hardy enquired politely, seeing the car keys in Barrie’s hand.

“Mind your own bloody business and just do as I say.  Open this bloody door!”

Hardy reluctantly gave in, producing the large silver key from a hiding place behind a statuette.  He opened the door, standing back as Barrie pushed his way passed and out into the wet, cold night, reeling towards his Jaguar standing on the forecourt.

In dismay, Hardy and Anderson watched Barrie scramble into the driving seat and after a couple of abortive attempts made the engine roar into life, shattering the stillness of the night.  In a matter of seconds, the car disappeared out of sight at an almighty speed, careering dangerously down the drive towards the main road.

“I’m going to ring the police,” muttered Hardy, grabbing the telephone on the hall table near to him.  “He’s going to kill someone.”

A loud explosion, followed by a massive ball of fire lighting up the night sky, stopped him in his tracks.

CHAPTER 35 CANLEIGH – APRIL 1974

Yet again, there were members of the press outside the ornate black wrought iron gates of Canleigh, eager for photographs of anyone connected with the house or titbits on the latest crisis in the lives of such a prominent family.  As the Rolls Royce approached, driven by the Duke himself, the Duchess beside him, and their son and nanny in the rear with Lady Victoria, the chattering crowd parted and the cameras flashed but for once the journalists were silent.  There had been another death in the Canleigh family and they showed a modicum of respect.

One of the gardeners, requested to take on security duties until the furore died down, opened the gates and the Rolls entered the estate and moved slowly down the long drive.  On the third bend, they came across a police car and a red fire service van with blue lights on top, standing near to the solid ancient oak tree where the burnt-out shell of Barrie’s Jaguar was embedded.  As Barrie’s remains were still in the wreckage, a huge plastic sheet was shielding the scene from anyone traversing the drive.  Stephen was fast asleep but all the adult occupants of the car gazed at the scene with dismay and sadness.  What a dreadful end it had been for Vicky’s husband, trapped, and burnt alive in his car.  No-one, whatever they did, deserved such a horrific death.

The police officer on guard duty nodded politely at the occupants of the car as they drove slowly passed.  A fire officer emerged from behind the sheeting and doffed his cap.  Vicky burst into tears.

They passed St. Mary’s, where Richard had recently been buried.  Ruth wondered if Charles would stop there first but he didn’t even glance that way, his face set like stone, his eyes fixed firmly on the bend ahead which would bring the Hall into view.  Ruth twisted her hands in her lap nervously, praying all this awful, ugly business wouldn’t be detrimental to Charles’s health.  He had been doing so well but the strain of hearing that Delia and Barrie had been cavorting at Canleigh, ending in Barrie’s death and Delia’s hospitalisation, along with damage to the Hall itself, was already causing severe stress.  She had had