“The yacht had traversed nearly the whole bay when my brother shouted to stop. He said there were ruins and dove into the sea. My father smiled at Hugh to stop, an indulgence to his son. We were done travelling for the day. It didn’t bother them. And whatever my brother wanted I wanted too.
“For hours my brother kept going down, again and again, trying to find those ruins. But the water was either too cloudy or he said that we had anchored too far away. I jumped into the sea to help him, as though my puny dives could be of any help. We stopped for lunch and went straight back in again. The adults drank and enjoyed the view, with one or the other keeping watch over us.
“It must have been about six o’clock, just as the light was beginning to wane, that I suddenly became tired. My limbs were heavy and I could feel my calves cramping. I climbed up the rope ladder and called to my brother. I told him that I was taking a rest. He knew I was giving up. I went below deck and slid into bed. My brother wouldn’t give up. He knew that if he couldn’t find the ruins then we would sail away the next morning and they would be lost forever.
“I was woken at half eight by the sounds of shouting. I stumbled out of bed and crept to the stairs leading to the deck. By the time I stood at the bottom of the stairs I knew, from the screams, from the calls, from the terror in my mother’s voice, what had happened. I could not face it. I just couldn’t face it. It was better to pretend not to know.
“I ran to my cabin. I buried my face in my pillow and wept.
“In the morning Hugh woke me with a hug. He didn’t say what had happened, nor did anybody. They just assumed, rightly, that I knew. We sailed to port without Gregory, pretending that he had never existed.”
Edith wept as she heard Sam’s story. She knew what it meant, or what it meant now in the light of the investigation. But she had to push Sam to make the conclusion explicit, to assure herself this is what he had been keeping from him since the restaurant, “And...?”
“Yes. Gregory too. It must be,” Sam smiled and let out a short laugh, “which makes me glad.”
Edith frowned and tilted her head. Again his response was unexpected.
“You see, I thought Gregory had died because he had made a mistake. That he was responsible for his own death. All these years I thought he died because he was stupid and reckless. I couldn’t bear it, as I still idolised him. It was impossible.
“Now I see—well, I guess—that somehow he was murdered. I don’t know how, or by whom, but they caught him at a vulnerable moment and took his life. My brother’s only flaw was being a Faircote. No crime in that.
“It heals a great deal of pain. I cannot thank you enough.”
Day 13: Monday 13 November
The car climbed steadily into the hills which rose over Glossop. The grey stone town gave way to green pastures draped over the hills. A row of honey–coloured cottages passed by on the right, their gables rising like little steps to the top of the world. After a wide bend along a brow it seemed as though Edith could be in the deepest countryside, far away from the world. After the last two days it felt like a holiday from the stresses of the case.
Edith had arranged the meeting with genealogist the week before. Gervase Hemlyn, who formerly worked at the College of Arms, had retired to a cottage in the Peak some years ago. On the phone he had sounded only too happy to meet her. She said only that she was researching the family history of an ancient barony. He invited her to visit him as soon as possible. He didn’t ask for details and she hadn’t offered any. Gervase spent most of the time vaguely but earnestly describing how to get to his farmhouse as though satnavs had never been invented.
‘It’s near Chunal,’ Gervase had said, and as Edith passed the village’s welcome sign she was relieved. Not far now.
Yet within a moment the village had passed and the road threaded into an even sparser moor.
‘Go by the Grouse Inn, then take a right, then the second left. If you go down the dip on the main road then you’ve gone too far.’ The description had meant little to Edith while taking the directions on the phone. Suddenly it became clear.
Edith noted the Grouse Inn to her left and saw the road dip some way ahead. She took the turn before the dip, then the next but one, and pulled onto a long unmetalled lane. She had followed the instructions perfectly, and it hardly seemed possible that this was the correct turn. Edith trusted that, as Gervase described, ‘it really is delightfully isolated.’
The lane led downward between two open fields. Drywalled paddocks closed in on the left and right after a few hundred meters. Another quarter of a mile further a grove of poplars, out of place on the moor and in unnaturally straight lines, signalled the obvious hiding place of Gervase’s farmhouse.
The lane became a gravel drive and snuck through the trees into a wide yard dominated by an old building which had been extensively renovated. The farmhouse stood tall and square, cleaned and pointed in a fashion which it had never been accustomed to. The attached barn, with large stone arches originally for livestock and carts to access, had been glazed and made fit for dwelling. Through the windows Edith could make out a well–appointed lounge, warm and inviting, a haven from the winter outside.
A single 4x4 parked outside was bafflingly well–polished. Though it must have been handy for the lane leading to the farmhouse, it hardly looked as though it saw much work besides an occasional shopping trip to Glossop. It couldn’t have even travelled the lane since its last clean and polish.
As Edith pulled her car alongside she spotted the front door open and, before she was even out of the car, a voice called out to her, “Welcome!”
The man at the door was short with a full head of immaculately combed and styled white hair. Edith guessed his age at seventy. The expression on his face was so grandfatherly that she thought he was about to produce a bag of sweets. She took a few crunching steps over the gravel before drawing near enough to exchange a smile.
“I assume I am in the right place for Gervase Hemlyn?”
“Indeed you are,” Gervase bent his head in a slight bow and smiled, “and you must be Sarah?”
Edith had worked out her plan in advance. The murders wouldn’t be mentioned. There was no need to drag him into it and cause unnecessary worry. She would present herself as a bride–to–be, suitably interested in her husband’s family but innocently ignorant.
Gervase guided Edith into the lounge she had admired from the drive.
“Can I offer you a cup of tea? Or coffee?”
“Just water, if you have it.” Edith rehearsed her favourite joke.
“Ha!”
Left alone, Edith took in her surroundings. The room was three or four times the size of a normal lounge. Despite this, and the oncoming winter, it was as warm as it had looked from the outside. A real fire burnt in the fireplace, and the wood had been recently refreshed.
The walls of the former barn were either bare stone or else simple white plaster, but hung copiously with art. Edith tried to name the artists in her mind but could only manage Pissarro and maybe Manet. Prints, obviously, but the furniture which filled the room was the real thing. The styles and ages escaped her totally, but the mix was diverse. A smattering of statues, pottery, glass, and silverware stood artistically on the furniture. Never overwhelming nor crowding each other. They were sufficient to fill the space and no more. The whole impression was of a man who could not only afford to indulge his aesthetic sense, but could also do it confidently. Sunny would struggle to do better, though we know the price of it all.
Edith noticed one curious thing: there were no photographs. None whatsoever, either of Gervase or of his family, or even anybody else. Maybe there was another, more informal, room in which photographs were displayed. But here they were absent. Nothing on display was personal in any obvious way.
She moved nearer to a painting that had caught her eye. Mary knelt in prayer and an angel with multicoloured wings hovered before here. The angel pointed and Mary cast down her eyes in humility. There w
as an inscription emanating from the angel’s mouth. Too small to read.
Edith stepped nearer.
A cat shot out from beneath a dresser and sprinted for the door and out into the hallway.
“Chekhov!” Gervase’s voice came from out of sight. He appeared a moment later bearing a tray of tea and glass of water.
“That blasted cat!” Gervase set his tray down on the table between two chairs and invited Edith to sit.
“You have wonderful taste, Mr Hemlyn. Though I’m sure you must get that compliment a lot.”
“Oh, no, you’re the first, I assure you!” Gervase laughed gently, “Though I admit that I’ve had help from friends who are far more sensitive to such concerns than myself.”
“Well, then, your friends have excellent taste.”
Gervase smiled and poured himself a cup of tea.
“So, Sarah, you said you are researching ancient baronies? It is such a delight to meet somebody with the same interest as oneself, especially when it is so...obscure.”
“I...,” Edith paused, “I admit that I’m not a general researcher.”
“Oh?” Gervase looked over his teacup.
“I’m only researching one particular family.”
“Is that so? May I ask the source of your interest?”
“Well,” Edith smiled coyly, “they’re about to be my family. I’m to be wed in a few months, and I wanted to know more about them.”
“Oh, congratulations!” Gervase leant toward Edith, “But, may I be frank in suggesting, you just wanted to know if he has seduced you by false means?”
Edith fought an inadvertent shudder and overcompensated with a fixed grin. The insinuation was obvious, and more shocking he was so forthright. She reassured herself that Gervase was of a generation where such things might have been more freely thought. It was best to act dumb.
“How do you mean?”
“A man has won your heart by saying he’s from a noble family, and you want to make sure he does not have alternative intentions? Or rather, that his intentions, like his origins, are base.”
“I see.”
“It’s natural for a woman to feel this way, of course I understand. You’re giving to him the most valuable thing you own, your loyalty, and you don’t want to be lumbered with somebody who isn’t what he says.”
Edith pursed her lips. She stopped as soon as she realized what she was doing. Gervase was more than a little old–fashioned. His knowledge of modern relationships was anthropological at best, something he might have read about or seen at a distance. It would be rude for a guest to point this out. And arguing with him would get her no nearer to the information she sought.
“I suppose it is a bit like that, yes.” Edith nodded quickly and shallowly.
“So, how did you learn of my research?”
“I went to the College of Arms, in London, to find the genealogy of my fiancé. The staff were wonderfully kind and helpful, but it seems as though the pedigree has gone missing.”
Gervase pushed back in his chair and gasped. “Missing? How can that be?”
“They said it simply wasn’t there.”
“But pedigrees are the key documents of noble genealogy. They’re a unique record. If they are allowed to go missing then there may be no other copies anywhere in the world.” Gervase leant in and spoke slowly and quietly, as though to a child, “Are you sure they weren’t elsewhere, or mislaid?”
“They couldn’t find them, that’s all I know.”
“I shall have to take up this issue when I next visit, for it is simply incredible. I worked at the college for many decades, intensively on those very documents. They’re my children, almost. It shocks me to hear that they might be gone forever. It simply isn’t believable.” Gervase tutted dramatically. “But they gave you my name in the belief I could help?”
“Yes,” Edith pulled her body smaller and pressed her knees together, nervous about repeating her lie too many times, “my husband’s—future husband’s—title is an ancient barony, and I was told that you are the foremost researcher. I still don’t quite know what an ancient barony is, but I understand that you may have copies of many of their pedigrees.”
Gervase relaxed in his seat and launched into a long explanation of the origins of the English nobility. Barons were the lowest order of fully noble titles in medieval England, instituted by William of Normandy after he invaded, to reward his followers. Over the next few centuries kings added more and more families to their ranks for motley reasons, just as most ranks of title were slowly expanded.
What set ancient baronies apart from other baronies is that there exists no records of their creation. The families often appear haphazardly in history bearing their titles, but without any explanation. Later kings would always issue charters to new nobles and sometimes this was done retrospectively for ancient barons, though they had existed long before their official grant. There remains a good many titles which are borne simply because they always have been.
“There’s some romance to it, wouldn’t you say?” Gervase concluded his lesson to Edith, “That your forebears emerge from the mists of time having achieved great deeds at which one can only guess.”
“Indeed,” Edith wasn’t keen on history at the best of times, but even she could see his point, “it is somehow more beautiful as a mystery.”
Gervase stood, hands on his hips, affecting a pose which was both ridiculous and charming. “Now, let me of service to you. Tell me the name of your betrothed and I will do my best to furnish you with the information you seek!”
“His name is Samuel Faircote. He says he is the twenty–second Baron...,” Edith paused deliberately, a pretence that she was more ignorant than knowledgeable, “...erm, Sisel?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. Quite right. Baron Sisel is an ancient barony. I can’t, of course, remember ex tempore the names of the holders, but I expect I will have a copy of the genealogy you seek. Wait here and I will consult the files in my study. It may take a few minutes.”
“Thank you.”
Edith listened to the muffled sounds of boxes being shifted and distant sighs of a seventy–year–old engaged in a fruitless search. She wondered if she might help in some way. Gervase was likely to be a rather particular person. Whatever filing system he had it was best left to him to find the document.
At length the sounds ceased and, a few moments later, Gervase entered the living room bearing a sheaf of papers.
“Here it is!” He cried happily, “And it’s a good one! Aren’t you a lucky girl?”
The papers were laid out on the table. Gervase, absorbed in putting them in some kind of order, invited Edith not to touch them. “Hmm...Ah...I see.” He moved a paper here and shifted a paper there.
“Do you not have it on the computer?” Edith unhelpfully suggested as she watched his inexplicable work.
“My darling child, I do not have a computer.” Gervase did not look up.
After another few seconds’ thought he turned his head slightly and smiled. He jabbed a finger into the air. “No, tell a lie, I have a phone. A smart phone. That’s a computer. It’s quite wonderful really. Though otherwise I’m quite happy without one.”
Edith suppressed a giggle. Gervase was ridiculously out of time. There was a certain charm about him, at least with regards to technology. Yet his opinions on women were best left unexamined. The more she revisited his words the creepier they sounded. There was doubtless more where they came from.
Gervase interrupted her thoughts suddenly.
“This is the best place to begin,” he held forth a single sheet of paper, “when the genealogy was lodged with the College of Arms in the 1950s—rather recent, all things considered—this was the final part of the pedigree.”
Edith took the sheet and inspected it. There at the bottom was a single name, ‘Isaac Faircote, born 1902, 19th Baron Sisel.’
“That’s Sam’s great–grandfather, I’m sure of it. He must have been the one who made the ped
igree, right?”
“That is correct,” Gervase nodded, “so that answers your question?”
“It does...well...,” Edith looked at the names above Isaac’s: there were aunts and uncles, great aunts and great uncles, dozens upon dozens of people who must have living descendants, any of whom could be jealous of the title, “what about all these people?”
“What about them?”
Edith moved her fingers over their names. “None of their descendants are listed. Did they have no children?”
“A pedigree is not a family tree. It only shows ancestry, not all relations.”
“So they are likely to have descendants?”
“I wouldn’t know. That’s a question for your family–to–be to answer.”
Edith stared once more at the sheet. Even the 19th Baron Sisel might have too many living descendants to rule out conclusively. Every step back would double or triple that number. If somebody was killing their way through the family to get to the title, it was an impossible task. And this was only the last sheet.
“How many sheets are there for this pedigree?” She could see plenty of paper strewn over the table. She was ready to flinch at the answer.
“There are ten sheets, eight of which take you back to the first Baron Sisel.”
“And...what are the other two for?”
“Well, now, that’s the wonderful thing,” Gervase grinned at having been asked that question, “many pedigrees have what you might call a ‘legendary’ section. The earliest generations often contain illustrious ancestors which the family have vainly sought to link themselves to.”
“So Isaac added in a few famous people before he lodged this in the 1950s?” Edith only half understood his explanation.
“Not quite. Isaac would not have added these people. It certainly would have been rejected had he done that himself. They were present in medieval times. It would seem that the Baron Sisel has claimed these ancestors since at least the 1300s. As ancient as the records of the barony itself.”
“You said these ancestors are famous people. Anybody I might have heard of?”
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