Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Khaldun pulled his car up at the wrought iron gates. Through the thick, black railings, the yellow gravel of Bramwell Hall’s driveway could be seen like a jaundiced river snaking through well-kept hedges and lawns.

He dropped his window and hit the intercom, a small grilled box with a large white button. There was a burst of static, and then a soft-yet-firm male voice came through the grill.

“Pontefract residence. May I ask who is calling?”

Khaldun introduced himself.

“Very good, sir,” said the voice. “Can you please park at the front of the house.”

There was a clunk, then a click, and Khaldun watched as the huge gates opened inwards, accompanied by a series of rattles and squeaks. It took a minute to drive up to the hall. The building loomed from behind a line of oak trees, its squared corner turrets making the most of its heritage with added pennants. There was a large circle in front of the main entrance, and in the centre of it, a stone fountain shaped in t