The Statue of Hera
The black rolls drove into the grounds of Green Stag House. They passed through the rust ridden cast iron gates, a toothless gate keeper shot them a grin and shut the gates behind them. They drove slow along an avenue of lime, to their left an old pleasure maze, to their right, acres of gardens, all over grown and forgotten. They swerved a boating lake with fountain statue of Poseidon and his water nymphs in the centre. Cynthia peered into the moonlit gardens. She glimpsed a lone silver figure. Her skin prickled. ‘Who’s that woman?’ Cynthia said to her new husband, Lord Sotherbill. ‘Nothing dear, just an old statue of Hera.’ ‘I thought I saw It move.’ ‘It’s just a trick of the moonlight.’ Cynthia went quiet. The car drove on through the last of sheep nibbled estate. Green Stag house rose from the distance, high lit windows popped out of the blanket of night. The rolls hit the gravel, and they all got out. They were greeted by the staff, m