Читати книгу - "Secrets of the Ancient Estate, Kyuriym"

Chapter 1: The Arrival

Detective Sam McAlister gazed out the foggy window of the train as it chugged along through the rolling English countryside. He had seen landscapes like this before in postcards and movies, but being here in person gave everything an unfamiliar, eerie quality. The deep green fields, dotted with grazing sheep, seemed peaceful on the surface, but there was an undercurrent of something darker—a feeling that had settled deep in his gut since he received the case. The soft tap-tap of rain against the window only deepened his unease.

Sam wasn’t a stranger to tough cases. Growing up in New York City and cutting his teeth in the police force there, he had seen the worst of humanity. But this—being summoned across the Atlantic to investigate the sudden disappearance of an English lord—felt different. It wasn’t just the miles that separated him from his home; it was the palpable sense of isolation that hung in the air. He hadn’t even arrived at the estate yet, but the village, barely a speck on the map, already felt a world away from everything he knew.

The train began to slow as it approached the station, a solitary building surrounded by mist and shadow. Sam adjusted the collar of his coat, feeling the chill seep through despite the relative warmth inside the train. He grabbed his suitcase from the overhead rack, its weight grounding him in the task ahead. With one last glance at the fog outside, he made his way to the exit.

As the train doors hissed open, a gust of cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet earth and something else—something musty, like old wood and forgotten memories. Sam stepped onto the platform, the soles of his shoes making a dull thud on the weathered planks. The station was deserted, save for a lone stationmaster in a tattered cap who barely glanced at him before retreating into the warmth of his small office.

“Not much of a welcome,” Sam muttered to himself as he scanned the area.

The village of Brackenmoor, nestled in the heart of this rural expanse, was as remote as it was enigmatic. Little more than a handful of cottages, a pub, and a small general store, it was the kind of place people didn’t leave. They stayed, generation after generation, living in the same stone houses their ancestors had built centuries ago. The Colton Estate, however, stood apart from it all, both in physical distance and in reputation. From the station, Sam could just make out the silhouette of the grand manor on the hill, looming over the village like a sentinel, keeping watch over its secrets.

“Detective McAlister?” a voice interrupted his thoughts.

Sam turned to see a middle-aged man in a worn tweed coat and flat cap approaching him. He had the look of someone who had lived his entire life in this village—the weathered face, the slow, deliberate movements of someone accustomed to the rhythm of the countryside.

“That’s me,” Sam replied, extending his hand. “You must be Mr. Doyle.”

The man shook his hand with a firm grip, though his expression was guarded. “Aye. I’m the groundskeeper at Colton Estate. Been with the family for decades now. I was told to meet you here and take you up to the manor.”

Sam nodded, following Doyle to a battered old Land Rover parked just outside the station. The vehicle looked as though it had seen better days, but Sam wasn’t here for comfort. As they drove through the narrow lanes of Brackenmoor, the village’s few inhabitants turned to stare at the unfamiliar outsider. Their faces were as grey and worn as the stone walls of the houses, and their eyes followed the Land Rover with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

Doyle remained silent for most of the drive, the only sound being the rattle of the vehicle and the steady beat of rain on the roof. Sam didn’t push him for conversation; he had learned long ago that people often revealed more when you didn’t force them to talk. As they left the village behind, the road wound upward, and the trees thickened, their branches twisted like skeletal fingers reaching toward the sky.

After what felt like an eternity, the estate finally came into full view. The Colton Manor was a sprawling, Gothic structure, its dark stone walls rising like a fortress from the mist. Ivy clung to the façade, and the tall, narrow windows gave it a foreboding, almost sinister appearance. The estate grounds were vast, bordered by a dense forest that seemed to close in from all sides, swallowing the manor in a shroud of green.

“We’re here,” Doyle said quietly as he pulled up to the entrance.

Sam stepped out of the Land Rover and stared up at the mansion. Even in the daylight, it looked imposing, as though it had been abandoned for centuries. The overgrown gardens and crumbling statues only added to the sense of decay. There was something about the place—something that made Sam’s skin prickle, as if the air itself was thick with the weight of forgotten secrets.

He glanced at Doyle, who was unloading Sam’s suitcase from the back of the vehicle. The groundskeeper’s face was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line as though he was reluctant to be here, even though this was his job.

“How long has Lord Andrew been missing?” Sam asked, breaking the silence.

Doyle hesitated, then replied, “Almost three weeks now. He was a private man, kept to himself mostly. When he didn’t show up for his usual meetings in the village, people started to talk. But it wasn’t until we found his study door locked from the inside that we knew something was wrong.”