“I brought my own towels.” I indicated the leather bag hanging over my shoulder. “My hair leaches out a little pigment every time I wash it.”
My aunt kept staring at me. “It’s not too bad,” she said, sounding a little dubious. “With your green eyes and pale skin, you could pass for a redhead. It doesn’t look totally unnatural.”
I smiled. “Aunt Rosemary, you’d fail as a con man. Stick to the truth.”
She giggled. Seven years younger than my father, my aunt was forty-three. I’d always felt we were equals rather than adult and child. Perhaps it came from how she used to take my side against my strict grandparents when I was growing up.
“You can’t have Rose Cottage,” she announced. “I’ve rented it out. You’ll have to stay with me at Mill Cottage.”
I scowled at her. “You’ve rented it out, with my stuff inside? Why didn’t you call me first?”
“Oh, it happened so quickly,” she said breezily. “Some chap asked at the Royal Goat if they rented rooms. They told him to come and see me.”
“Why didn’t you send him to Holly Jameson? She needs the money more than you do.”
“He wanted broadband. Holly doesn’t have an internet connection.”
My spine stiffened. “This isn’t one of your scams?”
Aunt Rosemary looked offended. “I’ve never seen him before, I swear.”
I rolled my eyes, but left it at that. She was always trying to pair me off with the sons of her village cronies. They were statisticians, or civil servants, and had nerdy hobbies, such as bird watching or plane spotting. I didn’t put it past Aunt Rosemary to install one of them in my quarters, if she thought that would do the trick.
“Did you at least clear out my books and clothes?” I asked.
“He only had one duffel bag. He said there was no need to make space.”
I sighed. “All right. I’ll knock on his door later and get my things.”
Aunt Rosemary perked up. “Now that you mention it, he would do you nicely. Mid thirties, dark, well built, sort of rugged. Sounded well spoken, although with Yanks it’s always hard to tell.”
“American?” My brows knotted. “Did he say why he’s staying in the village?”
“No. But I thought it would be a good idea to keep an eye on him.” Suddenly, every trace of the ditsy female was gone. “That’s why I didn’t clear out your things. I thought you’d like an excuse to knock on his door and snoop.”
“Well done,” I said. “Very well done indeed.”
Aunt Rosemary took a small bow before leading me into the house. My anger at having been kept ignorant about my heritage eased, although a thought crossed my mind that she might have exaggerated the intrigue of the visitor on purpose, to draw my attention away from the fact that she’d failed to tell me.
She was clever enough to do just that.
****
The house my aunt had inherited from my grandparents dated from 1853. It was legally a single property, although it was made up of three parts. The central section was three stories high, with tall, narrow windows. That part was called Mill Cottage.
The two wings had at one time been identical. The right side was Rose Cottage, which had a tiny living room and a kitchen downstairs, and two bedrooms above. This was where I used to spend the school holidays with my aunt before my grandparents died and she moved up to Mill Cottage. After I left college, Rose Cottage became my country hideaway, rented out to tourists in the summer.
The other wing had been partly demolished twenty years ago when the road at the side of the house had been widened. What was left had been turned into a big garage-cum-workshop. Aunt Rosemary didn’t own a car, so she’d offered to help out the vicar, who struggled to store things at the church. Over the years, the space had become filled with all kinds of clutter—a manger, a Jesus child, sheep, a collection of urns and vases. If there had ever been a ghost in St Mary’s Church, by now it would have felt more at home in Aunt Rosemary’s garage.
Upstairs in Mill Cottage, I slung my bag down in the guest bedroom. When I passed the mirror, I paused to despair over my purple hair. Then I went to join Aunt Rosemary in the kitchen.
“When did this guy move in?” I asked. “And what’s his name?”
With a sly look, she slid a piece of paper across the pine tabletop.
“That’s him?” I stared at a blurred picture of a man with curly black hair.
“I took it with my mobile phone. I pretended to be retrieving a message,” Aunt Rosemary said smugly.
“You’re spying on him.” I glanced up, unsmiling. “There’s probably a law against that.”
Her eyes gleamed. “He is using my internet connection. I’m trying to find out how to check what websites he’s been looking at.”
“Next, you’ll be trying to intercept his emails.” I frowned at her. “Don’t.”
Aunt Rosemary fluffed up her blond curls “I’m being careful. If he was a little older, I might try to seduce him.”
I huffed. “I’m sure he’s old enough.”
“Look at the fact sheet.”
“Fact sheet!” I slapped the table with my palm. “For heaven’s sake!”
“It’s under DOB.”
“What?”
“DOB. Date of birth,” Aunt Rosemary explained. “He is thirty-four. Leo.”
I studied the piece of paper. “Miles, it says here. Miles Kendrick.”
“The star sign, you idiot. His birthday is in July. Leo. I would never get involved with a Leo.”
I shook my head. Aunt Rosemary was a frightening mix. Her appearance was all spun sugar. Girly figure and an unlined face, with big round eyes and a rosebud mouth. The image was made even sweeter by her fondness for pastel colors. She looked like the fairy on top of a Christmas tree, but her mind was like a steel trap, and she was totally ruthless in applying logic. She disguised it well, though, and the more attractive the man, the better she hid her intellect.
“How did you get his date of birth?” I asked.
“I told him I had to see some ID before I could rent him the cottage. He gave me his passport and I copied down the date.”
I handed back the ‘Fact Sheet’.
“You haven’t asked what I know about the Laytons,” Aunt Rosemary said.
Because we’d always been so close, the sudden change of topic didn’t confuse me. “Would there be any point in asking?”
She shrugged. “Not really. I have little to tell. By the time your father was born, Layton Manor was already in ruins. It didn’t matter about him not being acknowledged, since there was nobody left to do the acknowledging.”
“Why were the twins called Layton? It’s their mother’s last name.”
“It wasn’t unusual in those days for a man marrying into a grand family to take the wife’s last name, if there was no male heir. He wouldn’t be called Lord Layton. The title would go into abeyance until a son was born.”
“How did the place fall down?”
Aunt Rosemary sank deeper into the kitchen chair. “The Layton twins were twenty-five. They dug up the basement, for a reason people can only speculate about, and punctured a gas pipe. The place blew up. Both of them died. Francis was married to an American copper heiress. In those days, it was fashionable for American heiresses to travel out to Europe to marry titles. After the funeral, the young widow packed her bags and infant son and returned home.”
“Why didn’t she stay?”
“I guess it didn’t make economic sense to rebuild the manor.” Aunt Rosemary pulled a sour face. “And the villagers were terrible to her. It seems they stood united in assuming that the sole motivation for her marriage had been mercenary. Nobody was willing to pay any attention to how deeply and bitterly she grieved for her husband.”
I knew what Aunt Rosemary meant. Once the gossips in Layton Village formed an opinion, facts became irrelevant. My mouth tightened as I admitted my pigeonhole in the eyes of the village. I was the girl who couldn’t hold on to
men. Several times, they’d been introduced to someone new, only to see him disappear in a matter of months. My failure had culminated four years ago, when I’d gotten engaged with great fanfare and a champagne reception at the village hall, only to suffer the public humiliation of being jilted three weeks before the wedding.
Dismissing the bitter thoughts, I directed a sharp look at my aunt. “I wish I’d known about the connection. I can recall people making cryptic remarks to me about the Layton family over the years.”
Aunt Rosemary expelled another sigh. “I’m sorry. There has always been speculation around the village, but only the family knew for certain. Your father never expected it would come to this.” She toyed with the Fact Sheet. “Your father was the second in line for a while, you know. Before Cleopatra Layton was born. He expected his cousin Francis to have more children. He never thought you’d one day be contacted by the lawyers.”
“How did anyone know about illegitimate children?” I spread my hands wide, my shoulders rising. “The village could be littered with them, for all we know.”
Aunt Rosemary paused to consider. “Martin Layton must have been aware that your grandmother was expecting his child. He must have notified the lawyers. I believe that’s how it worked. Illegitimate children were listed as potential beneficiaries in the trust. Spares, in case the family ran out of legitimate heirs.”
“And this time they did.”
“Yes.” Aunt Rosemary nodded, looking grave. “This time they did, and that’s where you come in. You’re their spare, if something happens to Cleopatra Layton.”
I leaned back in the seat. “She’s young. It’s unlikely that I’ll ever inherit.”
Aunt Rosemary frowned. “The Laytons are an accident-prone lot. That old ruin might yet become the worry that keeps you awake at night.”
She could not have chosen more prophetic words.
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Chapter Three
It was almost nine o’clock by the time we finished our supper of egg salad sandwiches and chocolate biscuits.
I picked up the last crumb from my plate and licked my fingertip. “I want to go and have a look around Layton Manor.”
“It’s too dark to go exploring,” Aunt Rosemary said.
“We could go and have a drink at the Royal Goat. Give you an outing.”
“Hsssst!” Aunt Rosemary snapped to attention. “He’s back.”
“What?” I leaned across the table and dropped my voice to a whisper.
“The target. He’s back. Listen.”
I strained my ears. After a few seconds of static, I heard a click, and then the droning voice of a newsreader. It was quickly replaced with a burst of classical music, and that in turn changed into gunshots and shouting.
“Channel Five.” Aunt Rosemary looked smug. “He’s watching the Western that started at half past eight. I bet John Wayne is one of his heroes. He’s just the type.”
My brows knotted. “What’s going on?”
Aunt Rosemary pointed at the shelf next to the fridge. “A baby monitor. It’s on top of his TV, in plain view. If he doesn’t like it, all he needs to do is switch it off.”
I almost choked. “A baby monitor! You...you haven’t been...?”
“Calm down.” She dismissed my outburst with a flap of her hand. “I only got it a couple of weeks ago. I saw it in the Cancer Research shop in Salisbury, and I thought it might come in handy.” She pointed at a slip of paper clipped with a Snoopy magnet to the fridge door. “I’ve kept the receipt, so I can prove to you when I bought it. I’ve never spied on you at Rose Cottage. Never. I swear.”
“You’re crazy.” I stole a frantic glance around the room, as if the man next door could see us through the wall. “It’s an invasion of privacy.”
Aunt Rosemary gave a carefree shrug. “I must have left the baby monitor on by mistake. Anyway, the batteries don’t last long. He’ll have his privacy back by Sunday.”
We both fell silent, because another deep voice had broken into a duel with the gruff tones of John Wayne.
“He’s on the phone,” Aunt Rosemary mouthed, making a fist by her ear, the thumb poking up and the little finger pointing down.
I slouched in the seat and groaned in despair. And yet, all my complaining didn’t stop me from listening. Miles Kendrick was a pacer. It was clear from the steady thud of his footsteps, and from the way his voice faded in and out.
“All right, sweetheart…I miss you too…I love you.”
Envy jolted through me. I realized there was a hunger within me that Aunt Rosemary’s sandwiches and chocolate biscuits had done nothing to satisfy.
“Hmm,” Aunt Rosemary said when John Wayne reigned supreme again. “I could do with some of that.”
My voice was dreamy. “What kind of batteries does the baby monitor take?”
****
I rose early the following morning. A note from Aunt Rosemary stood propped up on the kitchen table, warning me that the track to Layton Manor was muddy. If I wanted to go exploring, I should borrow her Wellington boots.
By the time light dawned outside, the baby monitor had stopped broadcasting CNN news—declining dollar and the war in Iraq—and it had grown quiet next door. Despite my frequent peeking through the curtains while I devoured two slices of toast and a cup of coffee, I’d seen nobody leave. A turquoise Renault Clio with an AVIS sticker stood parked outside, a respectful distance behind my black Vauxhall.
I scrawled a few words on Aunt Rosemary’s note to tell her that I’d be back for lunch. Then I wrapped up against the cold and headed up the hill to Layton Manor.
The low winter sun gilded the morning frost, and the crisp air banished the last traces of sleepiness. Walking briskly, I filled my lungs with deep breaths and resolved to spend more time outdoors.
When I got to the barbed wire that had been strung around the ruins, my blood pulsed and my skin tingled. I stopped, pulled off the itchy wool cap and stuffed it into my pocket. I kept my gloves on, not for warmth, but for protection against the bank of nettles that grew up to my waist.
Curling my hands over a fencepost, I surveyed the destruction in front of me.
Layton Manor had been a miniature castle, built of gray stone, with a pair of turrets at the front. Because of the tall and narrow design, the consequences of the cave-in had been particularly severe. In my childhood, we’d been able to invade both towers and climb up and down the spiral stone steps. I didn’t think anyone had risked life and limb by crawling into the rubble that made up the central section of the building.
Big gaps yawned in the barbed wire. I chose a spot and wriggled through. Mud covered the ground, the flagstones slippery with dew. I stumbled along, taking care. A faded wooden sign nailed to a tree claimed that trespassers would be prosecuted. For as long as I could remember, nobody had paid any attention to the warnings.
When I got closer, I realized that everything was in much worse repair than I’d remembered. A pile of stones covered in brambles blocked the main entrance. I tilted my head back. Shafts of daylight shone down through the roof. On my right, the wall only went up to half-height. Although there was a solid upper floor on the left, I saw no means of getting there. I recalled that the turret staircases didn’t connect with the main body of the building.
I eased my way to the East Turret. The arched wooden door that used to swing open in my childhood stood firmly shut. A thick chain and padlock secured the access, the steel loops glinting in the sun.
At the West Turret, the door stood ajar. Sections of the timber had rotted away and lay like matchsticks on the ground. I stuck my head through the opening, peered up into the dark stairwell. Musty air wafted into my face. I could hear no sounds. I couldn’t remember if bats hibernated, but I was certain they were nocturnal, so I would be safe from an attack.
I stepped into the shady interior and began to climb the wedge-shaped stone steps, always making sure my footing was sound before I transferred my weight. When I reached the l
anding, I came across a pile of rectangular stones under a tattered white cloth, next to a dirty plastic bucket with a lid. Behind them, a hole gaped low in the wall. The opening measured about a foot high and two foot wide—just enough for a lean person to squeeze through.
Dropping to my knees, I squinted into the central part of Layton Manor. Faint light shone down from the clear blue sky above, but it was too dark to make a proper assessment of the state of disrepair on the other side.
Inspecting my parka and jeans, I decided they could be sacrificed. Carefully, I lowered down to my belly. Then I poked my head and shoulders through the hole in the wall and started to squirm through.
I almost made it. Only my legs were still sticking out when iron fingers clamped around my ankles. Fear expelled the air from my lungs in a muffled cry. I’d heard nothing, seen nothing to warn me that I wasn’t alone. Now I was pinned down, vulnerable.
I could scream all I wanted. No one would hear.
The stones seemed to close in around me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Even in my panic, I recognized the American accent. The voice hadn’t sounded quite as harsh through the baby monitor, but then again, he wasn’t telling me that he missed me and loved me.
I tried to kick my legs free. At once, the grip tightened, and I was yanked backwards through the hole.
“Stop,” I shouted.
He ignored me and kept pulling me out by the ankles. My parka got caught in the opening and bunched up, until I was wedged in, like an umbrella that someone was trying to pull backwards through a letterbox.
The man kept tugging, and the parka folded over my head.
“Stop,” I screamed. “I’m stuck.”
He gave another determined yank, but my body didn’t budge. The grip around my ankles eased. I heaved a sigh of relief. Behind me, there was a shuffling sound. Next, icy hands closed around my bare waist. I shrieked, tried to squirm away. The tugging resumed, this time with a firm grip around my midriff.
The Layton Prophecy Page 2