‘A most unfortunate accident,’ said Celia.
‘And so I thought for a while,’ replied Dupree. ‘ “A tragedy” Captain Kleist called it and all the others testified to an accident. But I took the body back to camp and washed it myself. I saw what I wasn’t meant to see, Mrs Mayberry. I saw a bullet hole in his chest, hidden among the wounds, which maybe weren’t even the work of a lion’s jaws but of a dagger. Perhaps my brother hadn’t been killed by lions, but by man, and those men were your father’s henchmen. Suddenly I knew who was behind it.’ He narrowed his eyes and glared across the room at Celia, who sat rigidly on the fender, her tea cold in the cup. ‘I told the police and they made their arrest. But it wasn’t Deverill they arrested; it was me.’
‘Why on earth would they think that you had murdered your own brother?’ Celia asked. ‘You weren’t even with him on the hunt.’
‘No, and that’s what I told the police. But Captain Kleist claimed I was with him and McManus, Stone Heart and Spleen all agreed with him. They said it was just me and Tiberius out there so I was the only one who could have killed him. It was a set-up, Mrs Mayberry. Deverill wanted us out of the way and he got what he wanted, as he always did.’
‘But surely there has to be a motive for killing someone?’
‘Oh, don’t you worry, Mrs Mayberry, Deverill went to great lengths to find one. He dug around and discovered that we were both in love with the same girl in our home town of Hove. We both wanted to marry her, it’s true, and it was causing a rift between us, but I’d never have killed my brother for her. Some woman testified to having heard me threatening to murder him if he married her, but if I did it was in the heat of an argument – and that was it. I thought I was done for; I thought the judge would put on the black crêpe and hang me. But there wasn’t enough proof to hang me. I was charged with conspiracy to murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. While I rotted in a South African jail, forgotten, Deverill made many a fortune. But it was built on the blood of my innocent brother.’ Celia put down her teacup. Aurelius Dupree stubbed out his cigarette and he did not light another. ‘Now I’m out, I’ve come for my share,’ he said, looking at her steadily.
‘Or what? You’ll sell your story to some dirty rag and sully my father’s reputation? He’s dead, Mr Dupree.’
‘Dead men still have reputations and families live off them. I only want what is mine and I will have my share,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Your father can’t give me back my life, but he can make my last years as comfortable as possible. He owes me twenty grand, Mrs Mayberry. That’ll see me out. Not greedy, me. Just want some comfort before I’m gone.’
Celia stood up. ‘I think I have heard enough fiction for one day.’ She walked over to the door and opened it. ‘O’Sullivan, please will you show Mr Dupree out.’ Mr O’Sullivan appeared in the hall, much to Celia’s relief. ‘Mr Dupree is just leaving,’ she said in a weak voice. When she turned back into the room Mr Dupree was right beside her. She gave a small jump as he stood so close she could smell the tobacco on his breath.
‘He didn’t pull the trigger, Mrs Mayberry, but he paid the piper. He should have hanged. I will be back,’ he said. ‘I will be back to claim what is mine.’
Chapter 27
Celia left the castle and set off into the hills. The winter winds were cold and brisk, raking icy fingers through the long grasses and heather. The air was damp. A light drizzle began to fall. Celia strode on as fast as she could. With her head down and her gaze lost somewhere above the ground just ahead of her, she marched into the grassy nooks and valleys she had explored as a little girl with Jack O’Leary, his pet hawk and his dog. She remembered how she, Kitty and Bridie had watched the birds and Jack had taught them all the names. Loons, shearwaters, grebes and lapwings – she could recall some of them even now. They had lain in wait for badgers, their bellies flat against the earth, their whispers full of excitement and anticipation. They had played with caterpillars, which Bridie had called hairy mollies, spiders and snails and sometimes, on balmy summer nights, they had rolled onto their backs and gazed at the stars and Celia had felt the gentle stirring of something deep within her which she could not explain. She had been drawn into the velvet blackness, into the bright twinkling of stars, into the eternal vastness of space. The sweet scent of rich soil and heather had risen on the warm air and she had felt giddy with wonder. But those days were gone and innocence had gone with them. Now all she felt was fear.
Whether or not her father was guilty of murder she didn’t know. But what was certain was Aurelius Dupree’s demand for money; money she didn’t have. The scandal of his story, if told in the press, would finish her mother off for sure, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell her sisters, or Harry or Boysie – she couldn’t share her father’s shame with anyone. Celia was left no choice. She had to find the money somehow; and she had to find it alone.
Aurelius Dupree had not only made an impossible demand, he had stripped her father of his humanity and exposed him as a brutal monster whose greed had led him to take an innocent life. A monster Celia did not recognize, or want to.
She marched on, deeper into the hills, desperate to lose herself in the mist now forming in the vales in eerie pools of expanding cloud. Eventually she walked into the trees, to hide among their sturdy trunks and branches. Tears blurred her vision, but the mossy ground was soft beneath her feet and the scent of pine and damp vegetation filled the air and began to soothe her aching spirit. Blinking away her despair and looking about her she saw that the forest was beautiful – and what is beauty if not love? The mystical energy deep within the land seemed to wrap its arms around her, giving her an unexpected feeling of strength – a feeling of not being alone. She stopped thinking about Tiberius Dupree and her father, murder and money, and gazed at the wonder of the living earth she had never really taken the trouble to notice before. There were birds in the trees, creatures in the undergrowth and perhaps hundreds of pairs of eyes watching her from the bushes. As a pale beam of sunlight shone through the thicket, falling onto the path ahead of her, Celia surrendered to the effervescence of nature and let the power of this strange presence, so much bigger than herself, carry her pain away.
When she returned to the castle she felt immeasurably stronger. She went straight to the nursery to see her children. As they fought for her attention and wrapped their small arms around her, she thought of Archie and their dream of filling the castle with a large and boisterous family. That would never happen now. She had two daughters who would forever connect her to their father, but brothers they would never know. Whatever happens, she thought as she kissed their soft faces, I will not let the troubles affecting my life ruin yours. She’d sell the castle if she had to and make a new home somewhere else. Surely it wasn’t the bricks that made the home, but the people inside it, and it was love that held them all together – and they could take that anywhere.
With this renewed sense of determination she travelled to London to meet with Mr Riswold, the solicitor, and Archie’s bank manager and stockbroker, Mr Charters. She explored every option, but when she left for Ireland she realized that selling the castle was the only option. It was time to take her head out of the sand and face up to the truth: she was on the brink of bankruptcy and only selling her beloved castle could save her.
At the beginning of spring O’Sullivan appeared at the sitting-room door where Celia was having tea with the Shrubs. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Mayberry, but there is a gentleman at the door who wishes to see you.’ For a moment her heart plummeted at the thought of Aurelius Dupree returning for his money and she blanched, but O’Sullivan had specifically said ‘gentleman’, which Mr Dupree most certainly was not.
‘Did he give a name?’ she asked.
‘He did, madam, but I’m afraid I cannot repeat it.’ When Celia frowned, the butler wrung his hands. ‘It is a foreign name, madam.’
Celia smiled. ‘Very well. Ask him to wait in the library.’
‘Oh, do
n’t make him wait on account of us,’ said Hazel. ‘We must be leaving.’
‘Yes, we have lots to do, don’t we, Hazel?’ said Laurel.
‘We most certainly do,’ Hazel agreed. ‘We are going to call in on Grace, who has a horrible cold. I’ve made her a tincture.’
‘It’s an old recipe of Adeline’s,’ Laurel told her. ‘It works wonders.’
‘Oh, it does,’ Hazel agreed.
‘Well, if you really don’t mind,’ said Celia, watching the two women get to their feet. In their feathered hats they looked like a pair of geese. They both smiled, for they were extremely happy these days, and as compatible as they had been before the arrival of Lord Hunt.
‘Not at all. Thank you for the tea and cake. Isn’t it lovely that it’s spring at last,’ said Hazel.
‘It’s put a spring in my step,’ laughed Laurel, secretly thinking that spring wasn’t the only thing that was putting a bounce in her step.
‘In mine too,’ Hazel agreed, and neither sister knew that Lord Hunt had put a leap in both.
The Shrubs and the mysterious foreign gentleman passed in the hall. The Shrubs chuckled like chickens as the handsome gentleman gave a low bow and smiled, revealing bright white teeth. Ballinakelly hadn’t ever seen the likes of him, they thought excitedly as they set off for Grace’s. They’d be sure to give her the tincture as well as an enthusiastic description of Celia’s glamorous visitor.
Celia waited for the gentleman with the unpronounceable name to be shown into the room. She straightened the skirt of her blue tea dress and stood with her hands folded, not knowing what to expect. Nothing could have prepared her, however, for the arresting charms of Count Cesare di Marcantonio. The moment he stood in the doorway he filled it with his wide, infectious smile, warm eyes and honey and lime cologne. Celia was stunned, she had not expected a man such as this. He strode up to her, took her extended hand and brought it to his lips, bowing formally. When he said his name, his pale green gaze looked deeply into hers and held it firmly. Celia didn’t think she had ever met a man who exuded such self-confidence.
‘Please, do sit down,’ she said, gesticulating at the sofa. Dressed in an immaculate grey suit with a yellow waistcoat and matching silk tie, he chose the sofa, sat back against the cushions and crossed one leg over the other, revealing stripy socks and very shiny cap-toe shoes. ‘Can I offer you something to drink? A cup of tea perhaps, or something stronger? My husband used to drink whiskey.’
‘Whiskey on the rocks, please,’ he said and O’Sullivan nodded and left the room.
‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ said Celia, but she knew why he had come; there could be no other reason.
‘I am interested in buying your beautiful home,’ he said.
Celia’s cheeks flushed with emotion. She had made the decision to sell in January but a small part of her was still in denial. That small part still hoped that Aurelius Dupree’s demand for money and Archie’s enormous debts would just go away. But here was a wealthy foreign count who had come to realize her fears. ‘I see,’ she said, lowering her eyes.
There was a short pause that felt like minutes, and the Count’s expression softened with sympathy. ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said quietly.
‘Which one?’ Celia replied with a bitter chuckle.
‘It is a terrible thing to lose a father.’
‘And a husband. I lost both,’ she said.
‘And now you are going to lose your home.’ He shook his head and his handsome face creased with compassion. ‘You are a beautiful young woman. If I was not married I would buy the castle and give it to you.’
Celia laughed. If it wasn’t for his alluring foreign accent that would have sounded tasteless. ‘Where is your wife?’ she asked, hoping to curb his flirting.
‘The Countess is in New York. We live there.’
‘Did you, by any chance, make me an offer last summer?’
‘My attorney did on my behalf. Mr Beaumont L. Williams.’
‘Yes, I remember. You must want it very badly.’
‘My wife wants it very badly, Mrs Mayberry. When she heard it was for sale she said she wanted to have it more than anything in the world. So, I will buy it for her, whatever the cost.’ He cast his gaze around the room. ‘Now I know why she wants it so much. It is very beautiful.’
‘Has she seen it?’
The Count frowned. ‘Of course she has seen it,’ he replied, but he didn’t look very certain. ‘It is a famous castle, no?’
‘It’s been in my family since the seventeenth century. It would break my heart to lose it. After the generations of Deverills who have treasured it, I feel I am letting them down. I’m the Deverill who will be remembered as having let it go into the hands of strangers.’
‘We will love it, Mrs Mayberry. You can be sure of that.’
‘I have no doubt that you would,’ she said softly, still reluctant to accept the fact that the castle had to go.
O’Sullivan entered with the Count’s whiskey followed by Mrs Connell with a fresh pot of tea for Celia. The Count waited for the servants to leave, then he swilled the ice in his glass and said, ‘I will make you an offer you cannot refuse. I will pay you more than anyone in Europe would pay. You see, the Countess has set her heart on this place and nowhere else will do. The Countess wants it exactly as it is. She will keep the servants. No one will lose their job because of the sale. Everything will continue seamlessly. She wants it so I shall buy it for her.’
Celia was perplexed. What had inspired the Countess to want it so badly? ‘Has your wife been here before?’ she asked.
He shrugged and, once again, looked unsure. ‘She has always dreamed of an Irish castle and this one is special,’ he told her. ‘It has a charming history and yet it is fully modernized. I don’t think that one could say the same for the vast majority of Irish castles.’ He swept his eyes around the room. ‘Irish castles are not worth much on the whole, but this one is different from the rest. You have made it beautiful, Mrs Mayberry. You see, I am descended from the counts Montblanca and the princes Barberini, the family of Pope Urban VIII, so I know quality when I see it.’
‘Are you going to come and live here?’
‘Eventually, yes. The Countess is expecting our first child.’ He grinned bashfully. ‘I am going to be a father. I am very happy.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Celia. She envied the Countess her vast wealth and her good fortune. There had been a time not long ago when Celia had been blessed with both those attributes, before fate had so cruelly snatched them away. ‘Have you undertaken the long voyage from America just to see the castle for yourself?’ Celia’s curiosity was aroused by this foreign man whose wife wanted the castle so badly, in spite of never having set foot in it. There was something shifty about the whole scenario.
The Count uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and looking up at her from under the glossy hair that had fallen over his forehead. ‘I wanted to talk to you personally, Mrs Mayberry. I also wanted to see the castle for myself, of course. I didn’t want such an important purchase to be done coldly, through my attorney. I sensed that this is a home, a family home, so I felt it was only polite to talk to you face to face. I understand your reluctance to sell, but I can assure you that we will take good care of it.’
Celia wondered whether he had somehow read the British newspapers, which had been full of her father’s financial demise and the possibility that Celia was going to have to sell the castle. But there had been no photographs of the castle itself, so how had the Countess come to set her heart so firmly upon it? ‘Shall I show you around, Count di Marcantonio?’ she asked.
‘If you have the time.’
‘I do,’ she said with a sigh, pushing herself up from the fender. ‘I have all the time in the world.’
Celia took him on a tour of the inside first. She showed him the grand rooms, lovingly restored and rebuilt after the fire, and the furniture and paintings she had bou
ght in Italy, which he particularly loved, being of Italian origin. She told him the history, at least the parts she knew, and he nodded earnestly and listened keenly as if wanting to learn it all by heart. He praised her style, admired the splendour of the architecture and imagined himself living there, Celia thought, as she watched him running his eager eyes over everything. She thought it odd that a foreigner with no connection to Ireland should want to move here. The landscape was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, but it was cold and damp in winter and wouldn’t they miss the glamour of New York? She imagined the Countess to be a flamboyant and spoilt Italian woman with a loud voice and brash taste. She saw her striding down the hall in furs and pearls and shouting at the servants. She had no reason to imagine her so, for the Count was tastefully dressed and had impeccable manners – perhaps her envy was making her mean.
The gardens were bathed in bright spring sunshine. Birds tweeted in the trees whose branches had just begun to turn green with the fresh, phosphorescent brilliance of new leaves. Apple blossom floated on the wind like snow and seagulls wheeled and cried above them beneath fat balls of fluffy white cloud. It could not have been a more propitious day for the Count to see the castle. It shone in all its glory and a lump lodged itself in Celia’s throat, for soon it would no longer be her home. Soon, all the love and pleasure she had poured into it would belong to someone else.
Daughters of Castle Deverill Page 35