The Golden Maze Read online

  "It's not your fault, Cindy, you're just not with it," she said sympathetically, which had made it worse. But today . . . why, a castle was better than all the Olivers in the world put together !

  As soon as Cindy had hung up her winter coat and little hat, carefully looked at her face and wondered why she looked so different, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, she hurried to her boss's office, her notebook in hand, half a dozen pencils ready.

  "Well?" Patrick Jenkins looked up. A tall, lean

  man with reddish hair and green eyes, he was a hardworking boss whom most of the girls disliked but whom Cindy enjoyed working for.

  "I told you it was a castle !"

  Patrick Jenkins grinned. "You know, I was half asleep when you phoned this morning, and you should know by now that I can't think properly until twelve o'clock, so please tell me slowly and in detail what happened."

  She obeyed, sitting opposite him, her hair swinging as she kept nodding her head and her voice rose excitedly. When she had finished, he frowned.

  "Oh dear, just as I've bullied you into being the perfect secretary ! I suppose I must let you go . . . will you postpone it for a week and train one of those idiots in the pool ? Last time you were ill, I nearly went mad. The girl I had couldn't even spell, and as for the filing cabinet . .."

  The phone bell shrilled loudly. It was a long-distance call and Cindy waited while he talked. Her thoughts were racing round in circles like a little trapped mouse. A mixture of beautiful lakes, mountains topped with snow, and a castle ... a real castle .. .

  When Patrick Jenkins replaced the receiver he looked at Cindy. He sighed dramatically, but she saw the twinkle in his green eyes.

  "When will you grow up ?" he asked sadly. "You've forgotten your glasses again and you walk around, your head stuck forward like an ostrich's, your eyes screwed up."

  Cindy's cheeks burned. "I know . . . I forgot them because I was so excited."

  "You're always forgetting them. A subconscious refusal to wear them, I imagine. Now why ?"

  "Well . . ." Cindy wriggled about on the seat uncomfortably. Put into words it sounded so stupid. "My cousins used to tease me a lot. I was called Gobblyeyed Cindy and they said.. . they said I looked pretty awful in them as I was so ugly in the beginning. I.. well . . ." Her voice tailed away weakly.

  He looked grave. "What utter tripe ! I find you extremely pretty and I think you're even prettier when you're wearing glasses."

  "You do ?" Cindy looked so startled Patrick Jenkins found it hard not to laugh.

  "I do. Now . . ." he glanced at his watch, "maybe we'd better get some work done. You can go next week, but come back quickly." He smiled. "I shall miss you," he said so pathetically that they both laughed. "Now, this Drinkwater firm, for instance. Ready ?"

  Cindy nodded, pencil poised, as she tried to concentrate on the job in hand.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE week crawled by for Cindy, impatient as she was to get to the castle that might be hers. She had phoned Mr. Ayres and he had sent her a letter of instructions and had repeated, his fears that she would find it too expensive to run if the real heir didn't materialise.

  Now on the cold wintry day with the sun trying to peep out from behind the clouds, Cindy started on her journey and tried to think of how she could find the money required. Whatever happened, she wouldn't sell it. She was used to London traffic and her little grey car slipped in and out until the slow-moving crowded roads of London were left behind and she was on the highways. Her she could settle in the lane she had chosen and let the speed-crazy race by, for she was in no hurry, looking at the countryside with interested eyes. The first part of the journey she found dull, for she loathed flat country. Mountains and lakes and forests, she thought. happily, were what she loved. Castle Claife would be so different from this flat uninteresting land. Mr. Ayres had told her the word Claife meant steep hillside with path, so there must be a special path. Her boss, Mr. Jenkins, had chuckled and said there'd been a lot of smuggling in that part of the world in days gone by—maybe this special path led to a hideaway, as he called it.

  Would she ever marry? she wondered. According

  to her cousins, no man would look twice at her, but Mr. Jenkins had said . . . Suddenly she was laughing happily. He really was a pet, so kind and understanding. Of course he had said that to boost her morale, and it certainly had.

  The scenery began to change, the roads to curve, the hills to appear, and she sang gaily as she drove along. She had a feeling that everything was going to be all right.

  Then the fog came down without warning. A frightening moment as the cars vanished in the swirling mist. It grew worse and while still in the fast lane cars whizzed by, Cindy crawled along, nose to tail in the long line of cautious drivers as they felt their way. The sight of a motel loomed up through the mist, so Cindy turned off and decided to spend the night there if the fog didn't lift. She tried to phone Claife Castle, but was told the line was out of order. Probably the fog had reached them so Mrs. Stone would understand, she thought as she sat, pretending to read a magazine and finding her thoughts going back again and again to that morning when she had heard from the solicitors and stood in the hall, trying to read the names that she couldn't see—and then that stranger had spoken to her. That was the amazing thing. She didn't know him, but he kept coming into her thoughts. If only she had not forgotten her glasses and had seen him properly. Somehow she couldn't forget him. He seemed to haunt her. Had it been his voice? Deep and—what was the word? Oh yes, authoritative, a favourite word used frequently by her boss ! It was amazing how easy she had found it to talk to the stranger and—she had to smile—how cross he had

  made her by teasing her about her age and height, as well as her glasses. Yet he had done it nicely, not rudely.

  She walked round the room restlessly. Why must she keep thinking of this man she would never see again? Had she bored him terribly? she wondered. Yet if she had, surely he could easily have ended the conversation and walked away?

  The fog was still thick, so she must definitely spend the night there at the motel. She dinned early to go to bed and sleep, for she was tired. But whether it was excitement about the castle or fear lest the fog persist for days and so shorten her stay in Claife Castle, for she must remember the real heir might turn up, Cindy didn't know, but she could not sleep that night. Lying awake, tossing and turning, plumping up the pillows, her mind returned time and again to the stranger she could not forget.

  Why had he made such an impression on her? she wondered. It was absurd, because she hadn't even seen his face properly nor knew the colour of his eyes.

  The fog had gone in the morning. Relieved and with the excitement flooding her veins, she ate a hasty breakfast and then, with Mr. Ayres' painstakingly careful descriptions of how to find the castle by her side, Cindy set off. Now the mountains she loved appeared as the roads wove round the lakes and through the sleepy stone-house villages. It was absurd, she knew, but she felt that she was going home. Yet how could it be home simply because when she was seven, she had spent a few weeks there?

  The beauty seemed to grow the further she drove. The mountains with their golden-brown bracken and

  the clumps of trees reflected in the quiet stillness of the water seemed to be welcoming her. This was the life she loved, Cindy thought happily. Quietness, serenity . . . that was a good word. She felt serene here, free from troubles, far from the humiliation Oliver had caused her, far from the loneliness of life in big cities, far from the squabbles at the office, the pettiness she hated. Maybe she was what is called a loner, Cindy thought as she drove carefully along the twisting roads, enjoying the glimpses of blue water or a quick look at a square-towered church tucked away in a small village.

  At last she was getting near Claife Castle. She knew because a large beautiful lake was Windermere. Of course the quiet roads would be very different in the summer months, but then, tucked up in the castle, she needn't see them.

  If t
he castle is yours, she told herself quickly. After all, the real heir might suddenly turn up at any moment.

  Ambleside ! She recognised the name on the signpost and knew that she could not be far. Slowing up by the side of the road, she read the directions.

  "After Ambleside, you'll see a crossroads, take the sharp turn to the left ... after about ten miles, you'll see a white signpost on the right. This leads to the castle."

  She drove on slowly. Mr. Ayres was right. Thu crossroads, then further on the white post with the words Claife Castle painted on it.

  It was only a track with deep corrugations, so she drove slowly up the side of the hill and round it, until she found herself on a plateau. Far below was a lake,

  a strange-looking one absurdly the shape of a heart. Grassy slopes went down to the water's edge while clumps of trees, their bare branches like animated fingers of a ballet dancer, were silhouetted against the bright sky. Then she saw the entrance to the castle. This she had not remembered, and it took her breath away. An old stone lodge with small windows, while on one side were two castellated towers with heavy wrought-iron gates between them that were closed.

  Cindy hooted and a short fat man with a cap pulled over his eyes, wearing a thick pullover and corduroy breeches and wellingtons, came hobbling out and gave her a quick look.

  "I'm Miss Preston," Cindy called. "Mrs. Stone is expecting me."

  He came close to the car, his weather beaten face sour, his eyes suspicious. "Has ta been afore ?"

  "No, this is my first visit," Cindy told him, and smiled.

  He pursed his mouth and nodded slowly. "I'll be seeing you now," he told her, and moved off to open the gates.

  "Thanks," Cindy called, but he had turned his back as if glad to see the last of her. She wondered why.

  Feeling a little shattered at his unfriendly welcome, she drove on more slowly down a curving narrow drive, hemmed in by tall bushes she thought might be rhododendrons. Down below, through gaps in the bushes she could see a small village, the houses huddled together near the lake, but then as she drove round a corner she had eyes only for what lay ahead.

  The castle ! It was even more fabulous than she had remembered. She slowed down to look at it—a huge

  square collection of castellated towers, joined together by grey stone blocks with narrow slits of windows and heavy wooden doors. Further round the building the windows were larger. There was a narrow moat and a drawbridge down.

  She just could not believe it. They called it a mock castle ! It was exactly the kind of castle you thought of for fairy stories where the princess is rescued by the handsome prince. Beautiful, time-kissed grey stone and far below, the blue of the lake. What more could you want ?

  A car was parked on the gravel square before the castle, so Cindy parked alongside, took out her suitcase and walked over the drawbridge to the front door. She had to keep turning to look at the lake below or up at the trees that made a pretence of protecting the castle from the winds that must blow fiercely at times.

  A huge carved brass lion's head was on the door, so Cindy knocked. Silence. It seemed endless, so she knocked, again. The door groaned and squeaked but slowly opened. Cindy caught her breath as she and the woman facing her stared at one another. Cindy found it hard to believe her eyes, wondering if this was some kind of joke, for the Woman looked like a tall scarecrow, her grey hair drawn tightly back from her forehead and neck with wisps of hair that had escaped. Her high cheekbones made her face almost like a skull, the skin taut and grey, her month drooping at the corners, her chin spotty, and her eyes— ! Her eyes were a strange grey and cold with hatred.

  "Mrs. Stone," Cindy said politely, smiling a little nervously. "I'm Miss Freston."

  "You were to come yesterday," the shrill impatient voice accused.

  "I know, Mrs. Stone, but there was a bad fog and I had to spend the night on the way."

  "You could have let me know."

  "I tried to, but I was told the phone at Claife Castle was out of order."

  Mrs. Stone frowned. "Is it ?" she said accusingly, almost as if it was Cindy's fault. "I'll get Paul to go down to the village and complain." She turned away, putting her hands to her mouth and bellowing : "Paul . . . Paul !"

  Cindy fidgeted a little and put down her case, for what else could she do ? Short of pushing her way past the housekeeper, she had to wait.

  In a moment, a long-legged man in blue jeans and a pullover came running. His fair hair curled on his shoulders, his eyes as he looked at Cindy were angry.

  "So she's here now," he said.

  "Paul, the phone isn't working. Go down to the village," Mrs. Stone told him.

  Paul looked Cindy up and down, his eyes narrowed.

  "I'll go now."

  He bounded off to the car Cindy had seen parked and with a great roar and strange hooting, went off down the drive. Mrs. Stone looked at Cindy.

  "The phone was working in the morning."

  "Well, it wasn't in the late afternoon," Cindy said, trying not to be annoyed, though Mrs. Stone's voice had almost implied that she was a liar. "At least that's what the exchange said."

  Mrs. Stone didn't answer and then turned away.

  "You'd better come in," she said reluctantly, almost as if she wished she could think of an alternative.

  Cindy followed, carrying her suitcase. In the hall, she paused, looking up at the lofty rafters, the stationary soldiers in armour that stood about, the wide curved staircase.

  Mrs. Stone paused on the stairs, looking round. "Are you coming now ?" she said crossly.

  "Of course." Cindy followed the older woman up the uncarpeted stairs, looking round curiously. Everything was old but also very shabby, she noticed, as if no money had been spent on the castle in years. Perhaps it hadn't been, for according to Keith Ayres, Uncle Robert had had financial troubles.

  Mrs. Stone opened a door, stood back dramatically to let Cindy in, staring at her as if wondering what Cindy's reaction would be.

  Cindy gasped, because it was like going into a museum—a huge four-poster bed with a torn but clean apricot-coloured silk bedspread, a dark brown' carpet, heavy dark green curtains hanging either side of a big window. Cindy acted impulsively. Dropping her suitcase, she ran across the room. It was indeed a beautiful view, for they 'were above the trees and she could see the whole steep slope down to the lake with the gentle mountains on the other side. It was so beautiful.

  "The bathroom is down the passage. The door is open," Mrs. Stone said, but Cindy only heard her as from a long distance. "Lunch will be served at one o'clock," then a pause and Mrs. Stone's voice rose so shrilly that Cindy was jerked back to the present and turned round to meet the cold suspicious eyes that

  glared at her. "And how long will you be staying now?" Mrs. Stone demanded.

  "A week, Mr. Ayres suggested," Cindy told her, wondering at the animosity she saw.

  "Ugh !" Mrs. Stone grunted, turned away and left the room, closing the door with a gentle bang that was far more expressive of her temper than a loud slam might have been.

  "But why is she so mad at me?" Cindy wondered as she hastily unpacked. Glancing at her watch, she saw she had an hour to spend before lunch. She decided to stroll around, hoping to keep out of Mrs. Stone's way.

  The castle was every bit as fascinating as Cindy had remembered, and yet it was different, not less beautiful or exciting, but sadly shabby as if no one had bothered about it for years. It was clean, the beautiful antique furniture well polished, so Mrs. Stone was not to be blamed. It was as if the owner of the castle had either ceased to care—or had given it up as hopeless, knowing he had not the money needed to revive it. Another favourite expression of Mr. Jenkins', Cindy thought with a smile, wondering how he and Maggie, who was relieving for her, were getting on.

  Wandering round the castle, it was difficult for Cindy not to feel some dismay. She now understood what Keith Ayres had meant when he talked of money. It would need thousands of pounds to bring the castle b
ack to what it once was. And where could she find thousands of pounds? Perhaps the antiques could be sold and the money raised could be spent

  on new curtains and carpets, as well as repairs to the cracks in some of the walls.

  Coming to an open door, Cindy stepped outside. The crisp cold air stung her cheeks, but she stood still, breathing deeply. There must be a way ... there had to be. But where was she to find it?

  Walking round the garden, she decided that Paul Stone was not the hard worker his mother was, nor as conscientious. Cindy knew little about gardening, but it seemed to her that this garden was in a shocking state. Long tough grass, weeds everywhere, trees and bushes that needed pruning. Surely Uncle Robert must have noticed.

  Glancing at her watch, Cindy had to hurry, for she didn't want to give Mrs. Stone more reason for her hostility.

  The lunch was delicious, well cooked and served. Cindy congratulated Mrs. Stone and was repaid with an angry glare.

  "So I ought to be—a good cook, I mean. The years I've cooked should have taught me. Ever since Paul's father died I've cooked for others, I have," Mrs. Stone said angrily, almost as if she blamed Cindy for it.

  "I'm sure Mr. Baxter appreciated your cooking," Cindy told her.

  "I don't think he ever noticed anything much. A sad man brokenhearted by his wicked son," Mrs. Stone said as she whipped off the plates.

  "Was he wicked?" Cindy ventured to ask.

  Mrs. Stone scowled. "Of course he was wicked—ungrateful, cruel. Lets his father give him a good education and then walks out—just when his father needed help because he wasn't well. This was before

  I came, of course. Never came back—the son, I mean. Just walked out. Proper broke the old man's heart. He could never forgive the boy. And quite right, too ! Well, I must be getting on with my work now. Dinner at seven. Will you be wanting tea now?"