Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World by Mike A Vickers Page A

‘Very healthy.’
    â€˜You can wear your five a day,’ observed Sandra. The lane twisted past the last few straggling cottages and just beyond the edge of the village they turned into the grounds of Temple Hall, gliding between stone pillars topped with statuesque stag heads, their age-old foreheads pocked and stained. A single-track gravel driveway meandered around several stately beeches before nuzzling up to the front of the old house. The car scrunched to a halt and they got out.
    Temple Hall was, quite simply, breathtaking. The beautiful Cotswold limestone, once fresh and golden, had mellowed into a soft misty grey. The Hall sprawled comfortably like a corpulent elderly aunt after a heavy lunch. Its gables were tall, its roof a lichen-spotted expanse of stone slates sweeping up to the gently undulating ridge. Mullioned windows peppered the walls, peeping out from behind a rampant honeysuckle that looped and trailed around and over the central entrance porch. Inquisitive green shoots fingered upwards on a leisurely exploration towards the first floor bedrooms, laden with scented clusters of cream and yellow flowers, while ‘S’ braces of black iron corseted the old building, firming it up, countering the spreading forces of gravity which had tugged steadily at it for half a millennium.
    The Hall stood in extensive grounds with formal gardens wrapping around the building like a colourful petticoat of shrubs and flowers. Neat, undulating, tree-dotted parkland radiated out beyond, seeping into the surrounding countryside. To one side, behind a high wall dripping in red and yellow climbing roses, the vegetable garden had provided generations of Sisters with carrots and onions, cauliflower and sprouts, potatoes and cabbages, broccoli, beetroot and beans of broad, runner, kidney and French extraction. This sumptuous produce was renowned locally and had been a staple at the village fete WI stall for as long as could be remembered. Doreen was looking forward to her lunch. She turned away to gaze down the shallow valley towards the village nearby. Temple Guiting was little more than a hamlet nestling in a fold of soft green hills, the fields jigsawed by dry stone walls. The tower of St Mary’s could be seen rising above a stand of beech off to the left. Sunlight glinted on the ponds.
    An aura of peace enveloped them all. There was no sound but that of sparrows arguing noisily on the roof and the muted buzz of bees busily visiting the honeysuckle, labouring from flower to flower in a determined quest for nectar, their legs clad in oversized pollen jodhpurs. The windless morning was warm and sunny, with just a few fluffy white clouds floating serenely overhead like cotton buds scattered carelessly on a blue table. All was tranquil and timeless on this lazy early summer’s morning, the quintessential English landscape, forever calm, forever dreaming.
    It was, truly, lovely beyond description.
    Maggie closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. ‘I adore the smell of this place,’ she said softly. Doreen nodded in agreement. The Hall had been the home of the Sisterhood for centuries. There was something very special about the house and the astonishing secret it concealed. She looked up to where the land rose behind the roof in a low hill, a gentle dome covered in short grass, its rounded summit just visible between the ornate Elizabethan chimneys. A few unfeasibly woolly sheep grazed with the lethargic indifference for which their species was noted. As always, she smiled. Such secrets indeed!
    â€˜Come on, girls, let’s have a cup of tea with Jenny before we get going,’ she said, entering the porch in a scented swirl of sweet honeysuckle. Maggie was right, the place smelt divine, a mixture of heady perfumes, waxed wood and distant cooking. The entrance hall was impressive, as befitted such a grand residence, with a galleried balcony leading off to the first floor bedrooms. Light streamed in