Moving On (A Polvellan Cornish Mystery Book 6)

by Rachel Ennis

  ‘What about Helen?’

  ‘She’ll stay with me, of course. Fiona never wanted her. I do. Shelley will continue caring for her. She loves Helen, which is more than Fiona ever did. I can almost feel sorry for her. She has no idea what she’s missing. I’m seeing my solicitor next week.’

  ‘It’s none of my business, Rob, but isn’t that a bit quick?’

  ‘Why should I wait? Do you honestly think I’d have Fiona back after this? Not that she’d want to come. She made that clear. Besides, I need to know where I stand legally.’

  ‘How is Helen?’

  ‘She’s fine. God knows what that virus was, but looking at her now you’d never know there’d been anything wrong.’

  ‘What about Shelley?’

  ‘What about her? Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m a bit punch-drunk.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Even though things weren’t all that good between you, Fiona leaving must have come as a hell of a shock.’

  ‘You can say that again. Shelley’s been brilliant. Look, I know what’s bothering you. You’re thinking of what Dad did, having a wife and a mistress. But it’s not like that. I would never – Shelley and me –’ he cleared his throat and Jess heard him take a breath. ‘I love her, Ma. She’s kind and caring. She doesn’t panic or get moody and complain about my hours. But we aren’t – we’ve never – bloody hell, I can’t believe I’m discussing this with my mother.’

  ‘Who better?’ Jess was surprised to feel a smile lift the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll always listen and I’ll never tell. Nor will I offer advice. This is your life. I’ve got enough to do managing my own. I might ask if you’ve thought about this or that. It goes with being a mother. No matter how old you are, or how capable, you are still my child. You can always tell me to mind my own business. I won’t be offended. All I’ve ever wanted for you and your brother is that you do what makes you happy.’

  ‘Thanks, Ma. I appreciate it. Sorry, I must go. But I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Mind you do. And look after yourself. ’Bye, love.’ Jess put the phone down. Rob and Shelley not being lovers would count in their favour. But would Fiona try and win a bigger settlement by challenging their claim?

  Rob would have to sell the house, repay the mortgage, then split the proceeds in whatever proportion the court decided. If he gained custody of Helen – and for Helen’s sake Jess hoped he did – he’d need to find another house, take on another mortgage and manage all this while doing a demanding job.

  She took a deep breath. He was a grown man ending an unhappy situation to make way for a better future. It wouldn’t be easy, but he would deal with it. Facing the aftermath of Alex’s death, she had been alone. At least Rob had Shelley’s love and support.

  Jess looked at the portrait. The events she was researching had happened two hundred years ago. But Roxanne had become more than an image in a painting. She was a real person, her loyalties torn between her stepfather and her husband.

  Pausing on a site describing the fierce rivalry between the Duchess of Sagan and Princess Bagration, Jess felt her eyes widen. At the end of 1814, Wilhelmina, Duchess of Sagan, abandoned her lover and host for the Congress, Austrian Chancellor Metternich, and returned to army officer Alfred von Windischgraetz, with whom she had enjoyed a passionate affair before coming to Vienna.

  Princess Bagration had been Metternich’s mistress before he fell for Wilhelmina. During the Congress she captivated Tsar Alexander, who reports claimed was a gauche and clumsy suitor, by mocking Metternich’s prowess as a lover. Then she began an affair with Lord Stewart only for that to end when she fell headlong in love with the Crown Prince of Wurttemberg who was supposed to be courting the tsar’s sister, the Grand Duchess Catherine.

  By late spring in 1815, Wilhelmina was selling off her jewellery, desperate for money. She was having an affair with Lord Stewart who spent most nights at her apartment in the Palm Palace. Meanwhile – according to another informer – Stewart’s embassy had become a brothel, pot-house and gambling den.

  Jess sat back, shaking her head. These were the people deciding the fate of Europe? She navigated to Baron Hager’s reports, wanting to know what von Dannenberg had done after calling on Roxanne. Looking up his name in the index, she opened a file and soon found out.

  A spy described the Prussian as ‘not a man to be crossed.’ The informer, a servant in the apartments von Dannenberg was sharing with others in the delegation, had managed to retrieve a partly burned draft of a letter from the ashes in the grate which he quickly copied before putting it back.

  The letter was addressed to Major Carveth, ADC to The Lord Stewart. In it, von Dannenberg wrote of his profound regret for the need to impart information that could not help but hurt a man to whom he bore no ill-will. His reason for breaking his silence was the imminent birth of Carveth’s child, and the possible risk to this child from its mother.

  ‘What?’ Jess gasped aloud. Her gaze raced on across the page, her mouth falling open in shock at his statement that though his stepdaughter would deny it to her last breath he had good reason to believe she contrived her mother’s murder. No.

  When as her closest kin he had offered her comfort, she used tears and other feminine wiles to seduce him. To his everlasting shame he was taken in. Though their liaison was brief – he quickly came to his senses – it resulted in the birth of a daughter. But motherhood held no interest for Roxanne. Indeed she willingly abandoned her child with his relatives, so anxious was she to rejoin society and enjoy the high life.

  It was her suggestion to target Major Carveth because of his closeness to British ambassador Lord Stewart. Marriage to Carveth would, she claimed, offer an ideal opportunity to mix with the wives of British politicians and diplomats and learn details of the negotiations which she could then relay to him.

  Prussia’s situation was so perilous due to Tsar Alexander’s unwillingness to restore any of her annexed territories, that necessity had required him to put aside his personal dislike of the scheme and do what was best for his country.

  Horrified, Jess looked across at the portrait. She wanted to believe in Roxanne. Yet she kept seeing the Jean-Baptiste Isabey portrait of Princess Bagration – the alabaster skin, huge blue eyes and a sweet smile that gave no indication of the vain, sexually voracious, politically manipulative woman behind the image.

  She returned to the index and clicked on Roxanne’s name then scrolled through until she came to April 1815 and the maid’s report of a letter arriving for Major Carveth. An hour later she and the nurse heard the couple in their bedroom. He was furious and Frau Carveth was sobbing, pleading with her husband to let her explain.

  All he wanted to know was if her stepfather’s claims were true. Did she have a child with him?

  Jess could picture the maid and nurse, ears pressed to the door, desperate not to miss a word.

  Again Frau Carveth tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen, saying she had lied to him, tricked him.

  Now the lady fought back. Did he really think so ill of her? She was but sixteen years old. Her mother had just died a most horrible death. His claim that she had been involved was both a lie and unspeakably cruel. She had nursed her mother through days of horrific pain and sickness. Yes, she had prayed that her mother might be spared further agony. But she would swear on the bible that she had had no part in her passing.

  Her mother’s death left her alone in the world but for her stepfather. He had been kind, protective, and his affection had made her feel safe. She had trusted him. He had not forced himself on her. He was too clever for that. He had led and soothed, then seduced her.

  It had been his idea to leave their daughter with his family, promising Gabrielle would be well-cared-for. With the war finally over society would celebrate. He persuaded her that her youth and fluency in three languages would ensure she was a welcome guest at balls and dinners. All he asked was that she kept her ears open and told him what she heard.

  It had seemed such
a small thing to do when he had been so kind and generous, and he convinced her she would be performing a great service for Prussia.

  Jess found herself willing Carveth to believe her.

  The maid’s report continued. Major Carveth wouldn’t give an inch. He felt foolish and betrayed. He loved her and had believed she loved him.

  She did love him, with all her heart.

  But she had not trusted him, had not confided in him.

  He would never know how deeply she regretted not doing so. But she had been afraid; afraid he wouldn’t believe her, afraid he would turn away.

  By not trusting him she had brought about what she most feared. By not trusting his love, she had destroyed his belief in her.

  She begged him for another chance. He refused, telling her to call the maid to pack her things. He would send her by coach to her stepfather. She would not go. A man who would lie as von Dannenberg had done, who could deliberately destroy her in her husband’s eyes, was no family of hers.

  Carveth had responded that a woman who could do what she had done was no wife of his. She should return to her daughter. His son would remain with him.

  She pleaded, implored. But he would not be moved. He told her she need have no fear for the child’s wellbeing if that was her worry. He would hire a wet nurse for the boy.

  She could not believe he would be so cruel as to separate her from her son. He turned on her then in a voice harsh and raw with pain, reminding her she had needed little persuasion to abandon her daughter to go in pursuit of entertainment and a man fool enough to be taken in by her.

  Jess remembered then that he had lost a stillborn daughter and a few days later his first wife had died of fever.

  He had rung the bell and, when the maid went in, told her to pack her mistress’s clothes and possessions as she was returning to Berlin. The report ended there.

  A short handwritten note dated two days later stated that Frau Carveth’s body had been found on the riverbank in the largest of Vienna’s parks.

  The screen blurred as tears filled Jess’s eyes. She thought of those hours at the hospital with Helen; recalled her twins as babies growing into toddlers then teenagers and finally men. Roxanne had been denied all that. What anguish she must have suffered. To save her marriage she had been willing to relinquish her daughter, only to be banished by her husband and forbidden any contact with her son.

  Wiping her eyes and nose, Jess had to know. Was her death an accident or suicide? There would have been an inquest.

  She closed the records site, started another search, and found the entry for Rosalie’s death in the European Genealogy Records in Liege of BMDs between 1806 and 1815. A footnote explained that the Parish registers from which the information was taken were destroyed when the City Hall burnt down during the Paris Commune uprising in 1871.

  Locating the entry in the Register of Deaths she ordered a copy of the certificate. Then the phone rang.

  ‘H –’ Her voice thick, she cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. Hello?’

  ‘It’s Harry. Are you all right?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve – Sorry, ignore me.’

  ‘Not possible. How’s the research going?’

  ‘I managed to access records made by the secret police during the Congress and –’

  ‘You what? Good lord. I don’t know why I’m surprised. You strike me as an extremely resourceful woman.’

  The unexpected compliment lifted Jess’s spirits. ‘I enjoy a challenge.’

  ‘You know you mentioned taking the canvas out of the frame to see if the artist did sign it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I didn’t mean me. Though I suppose it would cost an arm and a leg to take it to an expert, that’s assuming we could find one.’

  ‘You want me to do it?’

  ‘It is your painting.’

  ‘True. And I could do with a break.’

  ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Nearly finished. It’s been hard graft though. It made me realise how much stuff we hang on to. It’s a miracle the weight in Mother’s attic didn’t bring down the ceilings. As soon as I get home I plan to do a massive clear-out.’ In the brief silence Jess faced the realisation that he would soon be gone. They barely knew each other and now it was unlikely they ever would. ‘Do you have any tools?’

  ‘I do, but I don’t think a set of screwdrivers, a carpet knife, an axe for chopping kindling and a saw will be much help.’

  ‘I’ll bring my own.’

  ‘I was just about to put the kettle on. Would you prefer quiche or cake?’

  ‘You’d make a starving man choose? I’m on my way.’ The line went dead.

  Jess replaced the receiver. She was still smiling as she laid a thick wedge of quiche on one plate, put two slices from her apple and cinnamon cake on another then spooned coffee granules into two mugs. Upstairs, she bathed her eyes, dusted on blusher to hide her pallor then pulled a comb through her curls, telling herself she would have done the same for any client.

  Back in the living room she folded the cotton sheet and spread it over the table then laid the painting face down. For the first time she studied the wooden frame onto which the canvas was stretched and tacked. In the inner angle of each corner were two triangular wedges. But one from the lower right-hand corner had worked loose and slipped down between the canvas and the stretcher. Rather than risk any damage she would leave it for Harry.

  She heard footsteps on her path and opened the door just as he raised his hand to knock. ‘Hi, come in. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ He put a small tool box on the table by the painting. ‘You mentioned food? I’ve been up since six and can’t even remember breakfast.’ There were streaks of dust on his jeans and navy sweater, but he had shaved that morning and as he passed her she smelled fresh soap.

  ‘Help yourself.’ She indicated the plates and crossed to the kettle.

  Picking up the plate he took a large bite of quiche and crossed to the sofa. ‘This is tasty.’ Putting the last piece in his mouth, he set down the plate, took the mug she offered and glanced at the sofa. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What did you find out from the secret police reports?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather wait and read –?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘And upsetting?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Tell me.’

  Leaning against the worktop, she crossed one foot over the other, holding her mug against her chest. ‘Was Roxanne a naïve girl manipulated by a monster – her stepfather – or a selfish scheming murderess? I did tell you it was complicated.’

  ‘You didn’t exaggerate. Go on.’ He raised the mug and took a mouthful of coffee.

  ‘What I don’t understand … once Roxanne was married, if von Dannenberg was putting her under pressure or causing her grief then surely all she had to do was tell her husband? Carveth could have asked Lord Stewart – who was after all the British Ambassador – to warn the Prussian off, using the threat of having him removed from the delegation.’

  ‘So why didn’t she tell him?’

  ‘The only reason I can think of is her daughter.’

  ‘Just a minute … they had a son, my great-great-grandfather.’

  ‘I’m talking about Roxanne’s daughter, fathered by von Dannenberg soon after her mother’s death from poisoning.’

  His brows climbed. ‘Are you suggesting Roxanne had anything to do with – ?’

  ‘No! No, I don’t think that at all. I’m just telling you the facts I’ve discovered. Lucille Montclare married Bruno von Dannenberg. Within two years she was dead. Her death certificate gave the cause as poison. It could have been accidental. I haven’t been able to find any reason she would want to kill herself.’

  ‘You’ve just told me Lucille’s daughter gave birth to a child fathered by Lucille’s husband.’

  ‘She did. But the dat
es prove Roxanne wasn’t pregnant when her mother died. The child was the result of von Dannenberg’s comforting of his stepdaughter in her grief.’

  His brows climbed. ‘That’s some comforting.’

  Jess nodded. ‘I can’t decide if he deliberately got her pregnant, or he turned an accident to his advantage.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will when you read the file I’ll give you. Anyway, going back to –’

  ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted. May I?’ He pointed to the plate of cake.

  Jess handed it to him. ‘If Carveth didn’t know about the child, von Dannenberg had leverage for blackmailing Roxanne. But if Roxanne and Carveth truly loved each other, would she not have told him?’

  Harry chewed and swallowed. ‘Then why didn’t she tell him before their marriage? Surely that would have been the honourable thing to do.’

  Jess lifted a shoulder. ‘Perhaps she was ashamed, or afraid of losing him. Perhaps von Dannenberg persuaded her not to, for his sake as well as her own, telling her it was all in the past. The child was safe and well-cared-for. Roxanne loved Carveth and he loved her so why complicate matters?’ A thought struck her. ‘But what if the marriage hadn’t been a love match at all? What if von Dannenberg pressured Roxanne into it?’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘For the same reason he blackmailed her afterwards: to find out the British delegation’s plans regarding negotiations. Carveth was Stewart’s aide which meant he would be aware of secret meetings and deals behind the scenes.’ Jess shook her head. ‘No, I can’t see it. That portrait,’ she gestured, ‘shows a woman in love and in turmoil. Viv, Claire, Gill and Annie all saw the same thing I did.

  ‘In any case, Carveth wasn’t naïve. He was a seasoned soldier who had been married before. As aide to a man as volatile as Stewart he would have learned to handle potentially difficult situations with tact and diplomacy. Besides, von Dannenberg had no leverage with him. No, I believe Roxanne loved her husband and was manipulated by her stepfather.’

  ‘Sounds like good reasoning to me.’ He drained his mug, put it on the empty plate and carried both to the draining board. ‘So if you’re not interested in the potential value of the portrait, why do you want to know who the artist was?’