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My name is Simon Golthauer. I was born in 1982 in Frankfurt am Main, in beautiful Hessen. Since my childhood I have been writing stories of all kinds. And the older I got, the more I was drawn to thrillers, detective stories and erotic literature. " Whitehurst Castle" is a short thriller. The focus is on the owner of an old castle, Adam Sterling. The family of Adam Sterling has been plagued by a curse for several centuries. Together with his 3 most loyal friends, Mr. Sterling tries to escape the fate of his ancestors. Although I am said to have a "good English", I am not sure of all words, phrases and idioms. Please understand that there may be minor errors in my translation. Your Simon
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Seitenzahl: 51
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Whitehurst Castle
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Original Copyright © 2024, von Simon Golthauer
Impressum
© 2024 Simon Golthauer
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tredition GmbH, Abteilung "Impressumservice", Heinz-Beusen-Stieg 5, 22926 Ahrensburg, Deutschland.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
Whitehurst Castle
Whitehurst Castle
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
Whitehurst Castle
Whitehurst Castle
Cover
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Foreword
My name is Simon Golthauer. I was born in 1982 in Frankfurt am Main, in beautiful Hessen. Since my childhood I have been writing stories of all kinds. And the older I got, the more I was drawn to thrillers, detective stories and erotic literature.
" Whitehurst Castle" is a short thriller. The focus is on the owner of an old castle, Adam Sterling. The family of Adam Sterling has been plagued by a curse for several centuries. Together with his 3 most loyal friends, Mr. Sterling tries to escape the fate of his ancestors.
Although I am said to have a "good English", I am not sure of all words, phrases and idioms. Please understand that there may be minor errors in my translation.
Your Simon
Whitehurst Castle
The long, dark shadows of the night gradually descended over the ancient walls of Whitehurst Castle on the north-east coast of England. Like ghostly, scrawny fingers, they stretched out towards the old gables and crawled disastrously down the slope to the neighbouring village. The whistling wind pulled and crushed on the beams of the old walls.
The clouds passed by the sky, driven by a stormy northeasterly wind, which brought the smell of whipping rain from the east across the North Sea to the coast. A thunderstorm came up. One heard it in the howling of the wind and the bursting of the branches. It had come so close that one had the feeling that one only had to stretch out one's hand to touch it physically.
Although it had been unbearably humid the whole sunny day, a contemplative fire burned in the old fireplace in Adam Sterling's library. Lost in thought he stood in front of it and stared motionless into the dancing flames. A discreet cough ripped him from his sunken mind. Charles stood in the doorway with his cross pressed through and impeccable work clothes.
"The honorable Judge Moore and Mr. Roebeck have just arrived, sir. They are awaited by the gentlemen in the hall." Sterling turned around and nodded to his faithful butler. "Show the noble gentlemen in, Charles. You can prepare the tea then." Charles indicated a bow and left the room as he was called. He left the door open.
Only a few moments later the announced guests appeared. Lawrence Roebeck, retired chief inspector of Scotland Yard, a sympathetic man in his sixties, and former judge Robert Moore, a respectful personality with a striking chin and tightly combed back silver-grey hair. Moore was known as a strict but just man.
In his active time he had been feared for his razor-sharp questions. Questions that were directed only at one goal: To find out the truth and nothing but the truth! Many a defendant, who under other circumstances would have been about to be acquitted, had collapsed under his severe pressure and had confessed.
Lawrence Roebeck was a rather inconspicuous person compared to Judge Moore, but it was this very quality that had helped him to his greatest professional successes. His modest nature slightly underestimated him.
The two men approached their host and greeted him. "Didn't you bring Lyndon with you?" Roebeck shook his head. "A house call came in his way," he replied briefly and objectively. "He will surely follow him in a moment.
They sat down on the black leather armchairs that stood at every corner of a knee-high table. For a while they stared at the still empty seat until the last guest entered the room, albeit a little out of breath.
Doctor Lyndon was a small, stocky man with sparse hair, the only one among them who had not quite reached retirement age with his 60 years. Panting, he put his bag down and then got rid of his wet jacket.
"I was surprised by this damn rain," he said, curtly and angry, as he dropped into the last free chair. At that moment lightning flashed across the gloomy sky and dazzled the men through the large panorama window, which revealed a view of the spacious garden. Adam Sterling, the master of the house, was visibly frightened by this natural spectacle. He looked pale when he looked at his guests one after the other and then raised his voice.
"Gentlemen, thank you for making every effort to come up to Whitehurst Castle despite the storm. We have known and cherished each other for over thirty years and all of us have a quality that has become rare today: a sense of justice.
