Charles by Con Riley

29

Charles only meant to stay long enough the next morning to let in the adviser for his brother, and to explain that he wouldn’t be staying, but that took longer than he’d planned for.

A car approached the house as Charles wrestled his case into the back of the Defender beside a rucksack he’d hastily packed. It pulled up beside him, and, for one heart-stopping moment, Charles felt his past life flash before him.

The man who got out of the car next to him wasn’t pretty, as George had suggested as a lure to tempt him. He was devastatingly attractive; lean and rangy, his angular face softened by the kind of generous mouth Charles always found a turn-on. But what surprised Charles into stopping was his look of shock and recognition at Charles.

“Charles,” he said, as if they already knew each other.

“Yes.” Charles closed the Defender’s backdoors and extended a hand. “You must be Devesh?”

“Dev.” He shook hands with Charles, his eyes widening. “Wow,” he said, sounding breathless. “The likeness is uncanny.”

Charles eased his hand from Dev’s hold when previously he wouldn’t have hurried. Eased himself back too, inching towards the Defender until Dev said, “You have to come and see the photos.”

“Of?”

“The other Charles. Earl Heppel, I mean.” He strode towards the front doors, calling back over his shoulder, “Come on,” but not as an order. Excitement had him bounding up the steps, and Charles followed, finding him bent over a box in George’s study, pulling out cloth-wrapped objects and papers. He spread them on the desk. “See?” His demand came with a smile that would have drawn Charles like a moth to a flame once. Would have been more than enough reason to waste time. Time he didn’t have spare today, not if he was going to try to put right what the bright light of a new day made clear.

Backing off had been a mistake.

Getting closer to Hugo was what he wanted.

Needed.

Even if that meant finding out for certain that practice was all Hugo had needed from him.

“Look,” Dev said. He’d unwrapped photos framed in tarnished silver, Charles staring out of each one. Or someone Charles could have passed for, if he’d ever worn a flying corps uniform, or posed next to the same dark-haired man who featured in every old and grainy photo. “And here. See?” An older version of Charles featured this time, clean-shaven instead of sharing his neat beard, his jaw jutting in a way Charles knew there must be a Heppel gene for.

The same dark-haired man sat next to him in this shot, looking away from the camera instead of towards it, his gaze fixed on…. Charles glanced out of the study window, the folly wall as visible from here as it was in this photo.

He lost time without meaning to, swept along by enthusiasm this adviser exuded. Dev unrolled plans next, showing Charles the folly from its foundations upwards. “That’s his handwriting, see?” Dev said, pointing to an annotation that Charles could only make out a few words of. “This is what made me dig deeper. I only wish I had more written by him from the same time period to fill the gaps.”

“Gaps in what?”

“In understanding why he built the folly. I have my own theory, but documentary proof would confirm it. You see, back in the seventeenth and eighteenth century, follies were a show of wealth. But there’s no reason for the earl to have built one during the early 1900s. There’s no record of why he commissioned it, or the building behind it.”

“The one that he ordered locked up?”

“Yes,” Dev said. “Solving puzzles like that is one of the best parts of my job.” He touched the edge of the annotation. “And this was the clue that made me think there had to be more to it than someone frivolous wasting money.”

“What does it say?” Charles asked, interest too piqued to care if Dev thought he should read it himself.

“‘Make the wall higher. Tall enough to shield him’,” he said. “Isn’t that fascinating? Shield who? And from what? And then I found a whole trove of photos. Some drawings too. Want to see them?” He was up and off, gathering more evidence from boxes before Charles could answer. “Look.” He opened a sketchbook with care, as if its pages were fragile.

Charles could have been back in Sol’s art room then, because an injured man stared out at him, a vivid reminder of the first images Sol had shown him—ones that he’d recoiled from. This one had been drawn in the last century, but was somehow current, this man wounded too, but not because there were scars on show, but because his gaze was bruised in a way that Charles found all too familiar.

“Huw,” Dev said.

Charles misheard him. “No. That’s not Hugo.” This man was younger. Thinner. Somehow just as devastating.

“No, I mean his name is Huw.” Dev pointed to a name written in the sketchbook. “I think I’m close to figuring out who he might be. Managed to trace his uniform in some of the earlier photos back to the First World War. He was in one of the Welsh regiments who held the line in the battle of Festubert. He might have been an officer who helped take five hundred yards of trench,” he said, his voice dropping. “Doesn’t sound much, does it, but sixteen thousand men died to do it.” He shrugged. “Imagine waiting for news with those casualty numbers? I’m not even sure if I’ve identified the right person. Huw was a common Welsh name. Without more info, I can’t pinpoint who he was exactly.”

Charles found himself making an offer. “I think I have something that might help with that. Give me a moment.” He jogged down the steps to the Defender and yanked the glove box open. The letters George had given him were still tied by that black ribbon. Charles picked them up, pausing, because he’d already joined dots that gave him an idea of what might be written in them.

Dev must have followed him, because he spoke from behind Charles. “Listen. Like I said, I do have a theory, but I hesitated to share it because—”

“They were together?” Charles passed the letters to him.

Dev nodded, then shrugged again. “Maybe. An unmarried earl? One who built a house behind a wall on his land where no-one could see it, but close enough that only a walk through the woods was between them?” Dev met his eye. “No judgement from me. In my experience, it isn’t always easy being open.”

He flashed Charles a smile that quickly faded.

“Must have been impossible back then.” He glanced back at the house. “Even if I had all of this, I imagine it would feel pointless if I couldn’t be with the one person special to me.” Dev met his gaze again and held it. “Listen, you don’t have to show me those letters. The estate records already show that the building behind the wall was adapted for someone badly wounded. And later, the earl opened it up as a place for more men to recover. Not just after the Great War, but during the Second World War too. Whatever they were to each other, his Huw must have meant a great deal to him.”

Somehow that made handing over the letters easier.

They walked around the lake, taking the same path to the folly Charles had the evening before with his brother, only this time he noticed more, like how the folly wall curved in a semicircle around the building that George had already cleared of ivy and brambles—a shield rather than a waste of money.

That had been its first purpose.

Now, later additions to it were visible, the brambles no longer hiding raised flower beds with stone benches planted in their middle. He sat next to Dev on one, watching as he untied the knot in the ribbon, another knot tightening in his stomach as Dev passed the top letter to him.

“I….”

Heat flashed through him at having to say something he should be used to admitting by now. He stalled by opening the letter and smoothing out its pages. “Oh, is that Latin?” He recognised one of the words at least—had passed under it every time he walked through Casterley’s front doors. “I think that says loyalty. Don’t know about the rest.”

“Can I?” Dev took the letter from him, scanning it. “Only a few lines are in Latin.” He frowned, reading. “The rest is pretty standard. Exchanging news about friends. Asking after his family.” He turned the page. “Then a bit more in Latin. I think this says, ‘I close my eyes and see home but open them to….’” He squinted, trying again. “No. I think it actually reads, ‘I close my eyes to see our home, but open them to Hell.’” He paused, swallowing. “Yes, it must have been hellish. Huw’s battalion were gassed. Shelled. The trenches must have been like hell on earth for all of them.”

He read some more, describing scenes of what sounded like carnage, and added, “I researched this battle. It started with the first British night attack of the war. They sent in Indian troops first.” He let out a soft snort, but there was no humour in it. “As if being harder to spot in the dark was all that men like me were good for.”

“I- I’m sorry.”

“No need,” Dev said. “It’s the other reason why I do this—not just to solve puzzles, but to make sure credit goes where it’s due, not brushed under the carpet. Whether Indian or British, sixteen thousand men lost their lives during that shelling.”

Charles sat in sunshine, but a chill touched him. Hugo had told him what being shelled was like.

I couldn’t see, he’d heard Hugo admit. Had so much blood in my eyes. Then there was smoke. Lost sight of Nathan… I’m not sure I felt any pain until I heard he was alive… I was numb until that moment.

Charles sat still, even as Dev got up.

He couldn’t move, was rooted to the spot like Lot’s wife, only he was pretty sure he should have done more than look back for Hugo that last time in the courtyard.

He should have gone back to share in his joy, not race off and leave him.

Dev didn’t notice that Charles was frozen. He said, “So many of the survivors were blinded, and shellshock was such an unknown back then. A whole generation of men with PTSD who needed peace and rehabilitation.” He faced Charles, his expression pensive. “I’m guessing Huw was one of them, so the earl commissioned this place for him.” He surveyed the low building. “The wall might be high behind it, but the house is all on one level. No stairs to trip up or fall down.” He patted the low brick wall they sat on. “I found the gardening plans for these. Full of lavender and herbs. Something scented for each season.”

“Sensory,” Charles said. Like everything in his classroom.

“Yes, which makes me think Huw’s vision might have been affected, but.…”

“But?”

“But like I mentioned, the estate records show this wasn’t only for his friend. Scores of men used it over the years, Charles. Recovered here where it’s peaceful. Healed where no one judged them. It isn’t only hidden from the house. Staying here must have felt like the rest of the world had stopped existing. The hard parts at least. I can see why your brother doesn’t want to let it crumble.”

His next look at Charles flashed with feeling.

“He said it was right up your alley. Mentioned you had a friend that you’d taken in once too. Said you’d probably do the same again, given a second chance.”

Christ, Charles thought. Imagine if it had been Keir? I’d have done anything to help him, wouldn’t I?

Anything?

He’d have moved heaven and earth. Built Keir a home with his bare hands if that was what he needed. Had done practically that when they were seven. Even as a child he’d known that his friendship was a gift he’d fight for.

So why had he forgotten all of that when it came to Nathan?

Because I was jealous.

It was a hard truth, but one he had to confess before making his next move.

I was shell-shocked myself at feeling so much when I hadn’t meant to.

He heard Hugo then.Heard his lovely gruff voice that could also be soft as velvet. Felt the tip of his finger drawing a cross over his heart, that light touch full of meaning from their first day together.

Give yourself some grace, Charles. We’re already forgiven for not being perfect.

“That’s all I want now.” His exhale came out shaky. “A second chance.” He stood. “I have to go.”

“What will you do with the folly?” Dev asked, retying the ribbon around the letters and passing them back to Charles.

“Do with it?” Until George had confided in him, he would have run from it like he’d run from what he felt for Hugo, but what George had shared reminded Charles that Casterley was only worth as much as the people who filled it.

Who cared for it.

Who did something good with it for others.

“I’m going to find a new way to share it.”