‘Wonderful things, aeroplanes. They’re going to be the future of travel.’
‘Do you really think so? Grandmother says they are terribly dangerous, that they can fall out of the sky. And usually she’s very much into modern inventions.’
‘My money’s on air travel,’ Amos said.
The two of them walked on, heading for the steps cut into the cliff wall, silent for a while. Suddenly, Amos said, ‘Didn’t you have a dog called Macbeth? The same as the boat?’
‘Yes, a West Highland terrier. Little Macbeth died last year, and Young Edward was so upset he said he couldn’t bear to have another dog for a while. And my father named the boat after Mac, as we called him.’
‘I understand.’ Amos and Bess headed up the steps, climbing up in single file. It was Amos who stopped, at one moment, and took hold of Bess’s arm. ‘When are you going to tell your mother that the boys went missing yesterday?’
‘Today, I think, after Uncle Richard arrives, and we’ve all had a chance to talk about the situation.’
Richard Deravenel and Mark Ledbetter arrived at twelve-thirty, and joined Cecily Deravenel, Bess and Amos in the library. It was a worried and subdued little group gathered there.
Richard Deravenel opened the discussion about the boys, when he turned to his mother and said, ‘I’m making the assumption there are no new employees at the house or in the grounds, Mama? You haven’t hired anyone without mentioning it, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t, Richard. Oh, there is Polly the new kitchen maid, but her mother worked here for years. She’s from the village.’
‘No new work people on the estate?’
Cecily Deravenel shook her head, giving him a rather disapproving look. ‘Anyway, I would never engage dubious or questionable people.’
Richard noticed her edgy tone at once, and said, ‘I had to ask, Mother.’
‘I know.’
Mark Ledbetter now joined the conversation, explaining, ‘I talked to the two detectives who were here yesterday, and they are utterly baffled. As indeed we all are.’
‘I do have some information, for what it’s worth,’ Amos announced quietly and told them about the fisherman, Tom Roebottom, who had appeared at the back door earlier that morning.
Richard’s face changed slightly as he listened, and when Amos had finished he asked swiftly, in an urgent tone, ‘Do you think this chap who landed on the beach took the boys?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Amos admitted, his tone regretful.
‘Why?’ Mark asked. He had known Amos for years and trusted him, and his skills as a former policeman. But he felt compelled to pose this question on behalf of the family. He wanted them to hear Amos give a reason for his conclusion.
‘Because there’s no other explanation,’ Amos answered immediately. ‘Unless they took a boat out into the North Sea. Bess told me that the boat the Lady Bess is missing, in fact.’
‘So what you’re saying is that they could have rowed into the North Sea, hit a squall, had an accident and been drowned? Or they could have been taken,’ Mark asserted. ‘Taken by force.’
‘Why would anyone want to take my brothers?’ Bess asked shakily, on the verge of tears again and filled with anxiety.
Richard threw her a warm, sympathetic look and said gently, ‘There are ruthless people in this world, Bess dear. People who … well, trade in human beings … steal children … for ransom, for those who want a child and can’t have one, or for … prostitution.’
‘Oh, God, no, don’t say that!’ Cecily exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘Not that, Richard.’ She stared at her youngest son, appalled.
‘There are a lot of wicked people out there, Mrs Deravenel,’ Amos interjected. ‘Ruthless, heartless, money-grubbing people who are less than human, in my opinion.’
Cecily nodded. ‘What do you think, Mark?’
‘I would have opted for an accident at sea, Mrs Deravenel, if it were not for the local fisherman seeing a man landing on the beach. Now … well, I’m a bit ambivalent, I must admit. The boys are very beautiful children, and –’ He broke off when he saw Bess and Cecily gaping at him, horror flooding their eyes.
‘Oh, God, no, not that. I can’t bear it,’ Cecily whispered, and closed her eyes. Bess went to her grandmother and put an arm around her, endeavoured to calm her.
Richard said, in a concerned voice, ‘Mark, can you think of anything we can do? And what about you, Amos?’
Amos shook his head. ‘I’ve covered the beach, found no clues at all, except for deep ridges in the shingle that go from the shoreline to the outcropping of rocks, ridges made when the boat was probably dragged up there. Nothing else. I’ve talked at length to Jessup this morning, and I’ve questioned most of the estate workers, the gardeners, the stable lads. Nobody has seen any strangers hanging around the estate, and apparently, there have been no strangers in the village. I’ve hit a brick wall. As did the police yesterday. The place was teeming with them and they came up with nothing.’
Richard looked across at Mark and asked, ‘If somebody had kidnapped the boys for ransom, would we have heard from the kidnappers by now?’
‘Absolutely! They don’t lose much time contacting the family of the victim, or in this case, victims. They want things to move fast, hoping to get the child off their hands and their hands on the money. And talking of the police, Inspector Wallis from Scarborough, and Chief Inspector Allison from York both tend to think the boys were grabbed.’
‘What has made them come to that conclusion?’ Richard asked.
‘Gut instinct, that’s what they said last night. A shared gut instinct.’
‘We’re helpless, Mark,’ Richard pointed out. ‘What in God’s name can we do?’
‘I have a suggestion.’ Amos looked from Richard to Mark. ‘Why don’t we go to the people? The people of England. What I mean is this – why don’t we call in the press? Have a … well, a press conference, tell the story, ask them to run photographs of the two boys. Ask for their help in solving this crime?’
‘Brilliant!’ Mark exclaimed. ‘And you must offer a reward, Richard. A handsome reward for the return of the boys, and smaller rewards for information which might lead us in the right direction, lead us to Young Edward and Little Ritchie.’
‘Yes, let’s do it!’ Richard said enthusiastically, feeling a surge of relief. ‘I think it is the only thing we can do. Whoever took the boys can’t keep them in hiding forever, now can they? Somebody, somewhere, will spot them, of that I feel certain, and bring them back to us.’
But he was wrong. And not too much later he would be blamed for the disappearance of his nephews, and castigated for the deed.
FIFTY-ONE
London
Elizabeth Deravenel stood at the window of her bedroom in the Berkeley Square house. It was snowing outside and had been for several hours on this icy December afternoon.
The public garden in the middle of the square was already covered in a coating of snow, and flakes had settled on the bare branches of the trees … the bereft trees.
Bereft. That was how she herself felt. Bereft and heartbroken. Almost five months ago now her boys had gone missing, had vanished into thin air was the way Bess put it.
They had never been found.
She leaned her head against the window, staring out at the snowflakes falling … falling like her tears. She had wept every day since August. At one moment, she had thought there were no tears left in her, but there were; she still cried herself to sleep at night.
During the day she tried to be strong and brave for her girls, her five daughters – Bess, Cecily, Anne, Katharine and Bridget. They were a family of women now, without Ned, and with the boys gone – God knows where.
She closed her eyes, seeing them in her mind’s eye. Where were her sons? She dreaded to think that they were alive and living in some kind of terrible hell … somewhere in the world, wondering why she had never come to rescue them. But wasn’t believing them to be dead
so much worse?
Her little boys … Edward and Ritchie … such beautiful children, and so sweet and endearing … innocents who had never harmed anyone. Her heart had broken months ago when she had first heard from Bess, on Wednesday the eighteenth of August, a date she would never forget. She had rushed home immediately, had arrived in Yorkshire on Friday, two days later, to face bleakness, pain and a terrible despair that was never ending. It was a sorrow she could not endure.
Her darling, darling boys … Tears filled her eyes. Elizabeth brushed them away, taking deep breaths. She must try not to give in, to be more stoic, but it was hard.
1926. A year engraved on her heart. On April the ninth Ned had died. In June Will Hasling had passed away. She and he had never been friends, but within herself she knew that Will would always have been there for her, if she needed him. For Ned’s sake, and for her brother’s. He had been a good friend to Anthony.
Her heart tightened. Her brother had dropped dead in September, felled by a stroke. She no longer had anyone to turn to really. Well, that was not actually true. Amos Finnister was at the ready if she needed him, and Alfredo Oliveri. They were loyal to her because of their enduring love for Ned, and the many years they had worked with him. And then there was Grace Rose, of course. She had proved to be a kind and loving young woman, who had come to her after the boys had disappeared, and told her she was willing to help her any way she could. This gesture, she knew, had been prompted by Grace Rose’s love for Ned and for Bess, but she was also a sincere and caring person. Elizabeth had always recognized this.
There was a knock on the bedroom door, and as Elizabeth called ‘Come in,’ Mallet’s face appeared around the door.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Deravenel, but Mrs Turner has arrived. She is in the drawing room, waiting for you.’
‘Thank you, Mallet. I’ll be down in a moment.’
‘Yes, madam.’
Elizabeth looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was exactly four o’clock on the dot. Well, at least she’s prompt, Elizabeth thought, and went to powder her nose, wondering exactly why Margaret Beauchard Turner had made this appointment to see her.
Although Margaret Beauchard Turner was an aristocratic woman of great breeding, who enjoyed a prominent social standing in London, Elizabeth Deravenel had never met her. And so when she walked into her drawing room a few minutes after four she was surprised to see how petite Mrs Turner was; she was also good looking and extremely chic, dressed in the height of fashion.
Her black-and-white suit was by Coco Chanel, and she wore Chanel’s signature jewellery – several strands of long pearls, a Maltese cross on a gold chain, and pearl earrings.
Elizabeth decided, as she walked towards her, that she must be in her mid-forties, probably about forty-five years old.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Turner,’ Elizabeth said, extending her hand.
Margaret Turner had risen when Elizabeth entered the room, and she stepped forward, took her hand, said in a distinctive voice, ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs Deravenel. Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
Elizabeth inclined her head, motioned to the sofa, and said, ‘Please do sit down, won’t you.’
The two women were facing each other, weighing each other up; Elizabeth was still wondering what this was all about; Margaret Beauchard Turner was wondering how to begin.
Clearing her throat, smiling, Margaret finally took the initiative when she said, ‘I know you must be curious why I wrote to you, asking to see you, and I will come to that in a moment. I would just like to say first how much I sympathize with you. As a mother myself I can well imagine how you must be feeling. I was once separated from my only child for many years, through no fault of my own, and it was extremely painful. You must suffer agonies of mind and heart every day.’
Elizabeth was touched by this woman’s sympathetic words and kind voice, and she said, ‘I do, Mrs Turner. I feel sometimes as if I’ve no tears left, but I do, I’m afraid. We are all suffering in the family, especially my daughters. Thank you for your kindness. I appreciate your sentiments.’
‘I followed the press stories most carefully, and I must say, I have to praise the English newspapers, the way they tried to help you. They certainly devoted a great deal of space to your plight, all those banner headlines, the continuous ongoing stories, the photographs of your sons. The campaign went on for several months, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, it did, and the newspapers were very helpful to us, as was the BBC. There was a great deal of radio coverage.’ Elizabeth shook her head, and a sorrowful shadow crossed her face. ‘The reward is still sitting there …’ Her words trailed off helplessly, and she sat, pushing back tears.
At this moment Mallet knocked on the door, opened it and came into the drawing room pushing the tea trolley.
‘Thank you, Mallet,’ Elizabeth said, regaining her composure. ‘Just leave it here near my chair. I will serve tea later.’
‘Yes, madam.’ He nodded and disappeared.
Deciding to get the ritual of afternoon tea over swiftly, Elizabeth stood up, walked over to the trolley and, looking at Margaret Turner, asked, ‘Do you like milk? Or perhaps you would prefer lemon, Mrs Turner?’
‘Lemon, thank you,’ Margaret answered, regarding Elizabeth intently, thinking what a beautiful woman she truly was. A little on the thin side at the moment perhaps, and her face was drawn, but then she was truly suffering because of her missing boys. How sad she is, Margaret thought, her heart going out to her. This woman’s life has been ruined.
Elizabeth brought the cup of tea to her guest, then carried her own to her chair and sat down. ‘I didn’t offer you anything to eat, Mrs Turner. Do you care for something?’
‘No, no, thank you very much.’
They sat in silence for a moment or two, sipping their tea. Elizabeth was trying to keep herself calm, while Margaret was still thinking about her hostess.
Margaret Beauchard Turner was a wise, understanding, and experienced woman, and now she sat back, drinking her tea, saying nothing, giving Elizabeth Deravenel a chance to steady herself. She couldn’t help wondering how much of the gossip Elizabeth had heard, and especially the gossip about her brother-in-law, Richard Deravenel. At this moment, Margaret had no way of knowing if anyone had told her how disliked he was at Deravenels, and how so many people believed he had had a hand in the disappearance of his nephews.
After a while, Elizabeth put down the teacup, and murmured, ‘I appreciate your kind words, Mrs Turner, as I said before. However, in your letter to me you indicated you had something important to discuss with me.’ Elizabeth looked at her pointedly.
‘I do.’ Margaret put her cup on a side table, and said, ‘May I ask you one question first, Mrs Deravenel?’
Elizabeth nodded.
‘After almost six months without a word about your sons, what are your conclusions? And those of your family?’
Taken aback, Elizabeth gaped at her, amazed that a woman of breeding like Margaret Turner would ask such a personal question. She did not answer, sat clasping her hands together to stop them trembling.
In her soft, cultured voice, Margaret went on slowly, ‘I realize you think this is an impertinent question, from a woman whom you don’t know at all, a stranger who has, in a sense, invaded your privacy. But I do have a reason for asking. It will be painful for you to face. But I must proceed … if your sons are not found in the next few months, I think you can make an assumption that they will never be found. As unpalatable as that is, I do believe that to be the truth, Mrs Deravenel. At that point your eldest daughter, Bess, will be your husband’s heir. Am I not correct?’
‘Yes, that is true,’ Elizabeth answered, her voice almost inaudible.
‘There is a great deal of gossip in London about your plight, and about your family. And I am sure you know that.’
‘Chinese whispers,’ Elizabeth muttered, relaxing, suddenly liking this woman’s total honesty and directness. She was obviously not one to dissemb
le.
‘To continue, your eldest daughter is the rightful heir to your husband’s legacy, and she can become managing director of Deravenels. This I know to be true. You see, everyone at Deravenels knows that Edward Deravenel changed the centuries-old rules in 1919. My son Henry works at Deravenels in Paris. In fact, he has lately become head of the Paris operation. That is how I know about the rules being changed: my son told me. It was your husband who gave my son his present job, took him into the company. He has done very well there.’
‘I knew, of course, that my husband had changed the rules, but I didn’t know that your son worked at Deravenels in Paris.’
‘He is well liked, and well thought of at the Paris office. Henry is a brilliant businessman and a very nice young man. He will certainly make some woman a good husband one day.’
Elizabeth stared at her, and suddenly everything clicked into place. And she understood why Margaret Turner was sitting here in her drawing room. Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth said, ‘You are thinking of a marriage between my daughter and your son. That is the reason you came to see me, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed it is. Let me explain about his credentials. He is not a Deravenel through his father, the late Edmund Turner, but he does have Deravenel blood in him through me. I am sure you know that I am a Beauchard, and that I am directly descended from John Grant Deravenel, the fourth son of Guy de Ravenel, the founding father of the Deravenel dynasty. Also, my son is the late Henry Grant’s heir, and he inherited all of Grant’s shares in the company.’
‘So are you saying your son has a claim to the company?’
‘No, I’m not saying that exactly … but I will tell you this, he might well succeed in claiming the company if he were married to Edward Deravenel’s heiress.’ Margaret leaned forward urgently, pinning her dark eyes on Elizabeth. ‘Just imagine this, Mrs Deravenel … your daughter and my son could create a new dynasty – the Turners. And their children would have Deravenel blood in them as well as Turner blood. Worth contemplating, isn’t it?’
The Heir Page 40