Chapter 7 – Finding Mabel [Raymond arrives]

True to his word, Raymond knocked on the door at precisely 11:45.

Joyce was ready, now in a new uniform bearing the badges of the Admiralty Constabulary. It fitted perfectly, better than her old one, as though it had been made with her in mind. She chose not to question how. For now, she would take things as they came.

As she opened the door, Raymond smiled.

“That’s more like it. Very smart.”

Joyce dipped into a playful curtsy, lifting the edges of her skirt like a courtier.

“Sir, you will make me blush.”

“Do you remember how to?” he asked, a laugh threatening at the edges.

“The cheek of the man,” she returned, smiling.

Raymond beckoned to the vehicle.

“Madam, your carriage awaits.”

Raymond stepped aside and gestured towards a navy-blue Land Rover waiting at the kerb.

Joyce’s face lit with unreserved enthusiasm.

“Well,” she said, “that will do me nicely.”

──✿──

Hazel Grove House stood a little over a mile inland from the town, a handsome Georgian country house set back from the coast behind ancient trees.

Raymond fired up the Land Rover and they set off at a leisurely pace, winding through the narrow streets, across the market square, and onto the coastal road.

Once again, Joyce found herself recognising the landscape before she ought to have done. Every bend in the road, every hedgerow and distant field stirred a quiet familiarity that she could neither explain nor dismiss.

Halfway there they passed the ruins of an old abbey standing alone on the cliffs above the sea. Its weathered stone caught the morning light, yet somehow seemed to absorb it rather than reflect it. Though abandoned, it carried a weight that reached beyond neglect. For the briefest moment, Joyce felt certain that something terrible had happened there. The feeling passed as quickly as it had come, leaving only an uneasy curiosity.

She glanced across at Raymond.

“Lady Hazelgrove, what should I expect when I meet her?”

Raymond smiled without taking his eyes from the road.

“Mabel,” he corrected gently. “She doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Never has.”

Joyce smiled to herself.

“But if she decides you’re one of the good ones,” he continued, “there’s nobody you’d rather have standing beside you. She’ll defend those she cares about until her dying breath.”

He eased the Land Rover around a gentle bend before continuing.

“Growing up behind the counter of her family’s greengrocer’s taught her more about people than most policemen ever learn. Every sort came through that shop. She learned who was frightened, who was lying, and who simply needed someone to listen. It’s a gift that’s served her well.”

Joyce looked out across the fields rolling towards the sea. Somehow, hearing Raymond speak of Mabel made her seem less like the mysterious woman from the papers and more like someone she had always been meant to meet.

──✿──

The further they drove into the countryside, the more the landscape changed. Open fields and low hedgerows gradually gave way to mature oaks and beeches, their branches arching over the road until sunlight fell in broken patches across the Land Rover. It felt less like entering an estate and more like passing into an ancient woodland that had quietly reclaimed the land around Hazel Grove House.

Raymond eased off the accelerator as they approached the entrance. Tall stone gateposts supported ornate wrought-iron gates, while a small porter’s lodge stood discreetly to one side, almost hidden among the trees.

Outside, a lone Royal Navy rating stood guard, his rifle slung comfortably over one shoulder. His manner was relaxed but unmistakably professional, a quiet reminder that this was far more than a country residence.

The Land Rover rolled to a halt beside him, and Raymond wound down the window.

“Morning, Collins,” he said with easy familiarity.

“Morning, Sergeant.”

“Quiet so far?”

“For the moment.”

Raymond glanced towards Joyce.

“May I introduce Sergeant Turner? She’ll be taking over from me in a few weeks’ time.”

Collins looked across at her with renewed interest and gave a welcoming nod.

“Sergeant Turner.”

“Collins,” Joyce replied.

A few more words passed between the two men, followed by an easy laugh. Collins then stepped back from the vehicle and waved them through.

Something about Raymonds chat with the guard puzzled her?

“You asked Collins if it had been quiet so far. This place hardly seems likely to attract trouble. Every inch of it is guarded.”

“From physical attacks, yes,” Raymond replied. “Psychic ones… routinely.”

Joyce turned to him.

“This is the world you’re inheriting, Joyce. Everything you’ve experienced so far has barely scratched the surface. Best not to try and take it all in at once.”

For once, she had no reply. She simply watched the estate unfold beyond the windscreen.

Their journey continued beneath a dense canopy of ancient oaks and beeches. Branches arched overhead until the sunlight fell in broken patches across the Land Rover. Far ahead, a fleeting glimpse of Hazel Grove House appeared between the trees, its pale stone catching the morning sun before disappearing once more behind the woodland.

Something about the lane felt wrong. Somewhere deep inside, Joyce expected to hear the uneven rattle of tyres over old cobbles. Instead, the road was smooth tarmac, edged with neatly laid kerbstones and modern drainage channels. Military in its precision, the kerbs bore stencilled markings indicating hydrants, electrical runs and buried services.

Stranger still were the squat stone markers set just beyond the kerb, half buried in the earth like forgotten gravestones. Each carried strange runic carvings, softened by age yet still somehow purposeful.

From the branches above hung bundles of herbs and feathers, bound together with bone and stone charms that clicked softly in the breeze. The sound was barely audible, yet strangely unsettling, like whispered voices carried on the wind.

Raymond drove on without giving them a second glance. He had grown up with the warding stones, the hanging charms and the old protections woven into the estate. To him they were no stranger than the gateposts or the road itself, simply another part of the journey to Hazelgrove.

──✿──

The Land Rover’s off-road tyres rumbled across the tarmac, a dry, rhythmic drum carrying them steadily towards the house.

Through the windscreen, the landscape opened into a vast sweep of pale greens and faded golds beneath a low, silver-grey sky. Fallow deer, gathered in small herds beneath ancient oaks, raised their heads in silent unison as the vehicle approached, watched it pass, then quietly returned to grazing. There were no hedgerows here, no humble field boundaries, only the measured grandeur of an estate where nature itself had been shaped to a singular vision.

Then, as the trees finally gave way, Hazel Grove Hall revealed itself.

It lacked the sprawling ostentation of many great country houses. Instead, its power lay in absolute symmetry. Built from pale handmade brick that echoed the weathered stone of antiquity, four immense wings anchored the central block with quiet authority. It resembled less an English country house than a Roman monument set improbably upon the windswept coast, standing resolute against the salt-laden air.

The Land Rover drew to a halt before the main façade.

Waiting outside was a member of the household staff, an elderly gentleman dressed in a black morning coat with matching striped trousers. As Joyce stepped from the vehicle, he opened the door and offered his hand. She hesitated for a moment, slightly embarrassed by the formality, before accepting it with a grateful smile.

The sea air carried a faint tang of salt. Joyce paused, quietly overwhelmed by the scale and dignity of the place.

“Good afternoon, Wilkins,” said Raymond. “Mabel is expecting us.”

“Indeed, Sergeant. Her Ladyship is waiting in the garden. If you would be so kind as to follow me.”

As they walked towards the house, Raymond leaned closer to Joyce.

“He absolutely refuses to call her Mabel,” he whispered with an amused smile. “Drives her to distraction. Mind you, she wouldn’t dream of correcting him. She’s very fond of the old fuddy-duddy.”

Wilkins led them to an understated side entrance. It seemed almost deliberately modest for a house of such scale. Yet the moment he opened the door and they stepped across the threshold, the world outside seemed to fall away.

The entrance opened directly into the Marble Hall.

Joyce stopped instinctively.

The space before her was breathtaking.

The warmth of the house replaced the cool sea air. High above, a magnificent coffered ceiling, inspired by the Pantheon in Rome, rose some fifty feet overhead. Around the hall stood a grand colonnade of English alabaster, its pale surfaces glowing softly in the filtered daylight that poured through the tall windows. Every footstep echoed gently across the polished stone floor before drifting upwards towards the sweeping curved staircase leading to the Piano Nobile.

Beyond the hall, a pair of tall double doors stood open. Through them, and beyond the great windows, the English Channel shimmered beneath the afternoon light.

Joyce and Raymond followed Wilkins across the Marble Hall towards the pair of tall oak doors standing open on the far side.

Beyond lay the Saloon, a long, elegant room overlooking the gardens. Sunlight poured through its towering French windows, glinting from polished furniture and gilded mirrors, while portraits of long-forgotten members of the Hazelgrove family watched silently from panelled walls. Despite its grandeur, the room felt lived in rather than preserved, as though guests had only just stepped outside.

Wilkins moved with an effortless grace that only long habit could produce. There was nothing hurried about him, nor anything wasted. Every step seemed instinctive, every turn precisely judged. Joyce found herself wondering whether he had walked these same polished floors thousands of times, until the house itself had become an extension of the man.

Without breaking stride, he crossed the Saloon and opened one of the great French doors onto the south terrace.

Warm sunlight flooded into the room, carrying with it the scent of roses, lavender and the distant sea. Beyond, broad stone steps descended into an immaculate formal garden where clipped yews, herbaceous borders and sweeping lawns stretched towards the shimmering English Channel.

“Please, take a seat,” said Wilkins, gesturing towards a wrought-iron table laid for luncheon. “Her Ladyship will be with you shortly.”

They took their places, and Wilkins signalled to a maid waiting discreetly by the door. She came forward and began to pour the tea.

Wilkins gave a small cough.

“If you will excuse me, I must see to the staff.”

“Thank you, Wilkins,” Raymond replied.

With the butler gone, some of the formality seemed to leave with him.

Joyce took a sip of tea and looked out across the garden, still marvelling at how the other half lived. More than anything, though, she wondered what Mabel Shirley would really be like.

“There she is.”

Raymond nodded towards a solitary figure making her way across the immaculate lawn.

Joyce turned.

The woman wore a broad straw hat that kept her face hidden beneath its brim. Her clothes were not at all what Joyce had expected of the mistress of Hazelgrove. They were practical rather than fashionable, and the boots beneath them looked sturdy enough to shame a navvy. A trug basket hung in the crook of one arm as she made her steady way towards them.

Without thinking, Joyce began doing what years of police work had taught her to do. Height. Build. Age. The woman moved with the easy stride of someone much younger, perhaps thirty, yet the hand curled around the basket handle suggested otherwise.

Joyce watched her approach.

There was something about her.

Something familiar.

The woman reached the final step of the south terrace and stopped.

Then she raised her head.

For the first time, Joyce saw her face.

Mabel Shirley broke into a broad smile.

“Welcome home, Joyce.”