Free A Good Year for the Roses (1988) by Mark Timlin

me. The drive stretched ahead, then turned and vanished into a grove of trees. I motored slowly down the roadway. Through the trees I caught sight of a brooding mansion, dark and forbidding like the house of Usher. Once through the trees, the drive opened up into a circular parking area in front of the house.
    Close up the building seemed even more sinister. It was a Gothic monstrosity which had orginally been built in the middle of a wood, and trees surrounded it still on all sides. It reminded me of the hospital in which I had spent too many months. It stood three storeys high, and was topped with turrets and curlicues making it appear even taller. It was built from dark red brick, which years of weather had turned almost black. I could almost feel the decades wound tight like watch-springs in the stone-work, ready at a moment's notice to break free and tell their secrets with the smug wisdom of the old. The roof was dark grey slate with a greenish tinge. The windows stared down at me blindly. Two lions made of pale stone flanked the three steps that led up to the massive front door. In front stood a shiny navy blue Mercedes saloon. I parked the Jaguar behind it and got out.
    The front of the house was screened by thick banks of rose bushes. I recognised most of the varieties. The flowers were waxy in the late afternoon light, and their fragrance filled my nostrils. I touched first one bloom and then another, disturbing some loose petals that drifted to the ground by my feet.
    There seemed to be no sign of life in the house at all. It was almost as if Patsy's leaving had drained all humanity from the building and left a vacuum in it's place. I climbed the stairs and wrestled with the old fashioned bell pull. I heard a faint ringing from within and waited. I half expected Vincent Price to answer the door, but when it creaked open it was only George who appeared, dressed in a black sweatsuit. Naturally it fitted like a glove.
    ‘Good afternoon George,’ I said. ‘Nice pile you've got here.’
    ‘Hello,’ he said vaguely, ignoring my comment.
    I stood on the marble step by the front door and scuffed my feet.
    I felt uncomfortable being there.
    I turned and faced the driveway.
    ‘You've got some healthy looking bushes there,’ I said, gesturing at the garden.
    ‘You know about roses?’ he asked, almost animated for a moment.
    ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘At least I used to.’
    ‘It's been a good year,’ he said. ‘A good year for the roses.’
    But nothing much else, I thought.
    ‘Why don't you come in?’ George invited at last. ‘That's what you're here for.’
    I mumbled something in the back of my throat and crossed the threshold at his bidding to find myself standing in a massive, shadowy hallway panelled in dark wood.
    In front of me, a staircase carpeted in rich brown wool stretched up to the first floor. George took my arm and led me through double doors into what he referred to as his library. It must have contained at least four books. A full sized snooker table dominated the room and down one wall stretched a professional wet bar with five padded captain's chairs arranged in front of it.
    Very ritzy, I thought.
    In front of one of the chairs, on top of the bar was a bottle of Remy Martin and a half filled glass of amber liquid.
    A massive colour TV with video attachments showed cartoons with the volume turned down.
    ‘A drink?’ asked George.
    ‘Maybe later,’ I replied. ‘Can I see Patsy's room first?’
    George cast a sorrowful eye in the direction of his glass and gestured me to leave the room. I allowed him to lead me up the wide staircase. We turned left when the steps reached the first floor and walked down a dark corridor, hung with dark paintings of dark old men in huge dark frames.
    I wasn't surprised that Patsy had wanted to leave. I did already and I'd only been there for two minutes.

Chapter 10
    At the end of the gloomy corridor, George stopped in front of a door, hesitated, then opened it