Deadly Inheritance

by Janet Laurence

  Ursula murmured something soothing about there possibly being some difficulty with stocks and shares, at which Mrs Parsons had looked so horror-stricken that Ursula gave up any further discussion of the subject.

  She tried subtle approaches to Helen, though the Countess either failed to respond in any meaningful way, or she became waspish: ‘If it’s that my father has failed to supply you with sufficient funds, please ask straight out, Ursula. I hate the mention of money but I suppose occasionally one has to deal with the filthy stuff.’

  Unusually flustered, Ursula told her she had no need of financial assistance. ‘I suppose it’s that I wonder why you have not put in hand any restoration of the house,’ she said, coming right out with it.

  To her surprise, Helen did not at once fly at her. She sat in her boudoir with red patches flaring in her cheeks for several minutes. Then she said, ‘I wonder at you, Ursula. I would have thought you had been here a sufficient time to understand that Mountstanton follows tradition. If I transformed the whole place the way I have done this room, there would be outrage. We Americans cherish the new, the English the old. Now, I would be grateful if you could leave me to finish my correspondence.’

  Ursula retreated. The story of Mountstanton and tradition was patent nonsense. Look at the way the Dowager had transformed her apartment, no doubt with her own funds. So what was Helen doing with hers? She wrote to Mr Seldon the story of her failure but told him she would continue digging.

  Belle had developed an unaccustomed pallor; worried, Ursula persuaded her to come riding, a decision that was rewarded by the girl coming back with pink cheeks and high spirits.

  Ever since the Colonel had left for London, simmering at the back of Ursula’s mind had been the unanswered questions over Polly’s death. Almost three weeks after the girl’s funeral, Ursula sat with her knitting and forced herself to face certain conclusions that her examination of various facts had produced.

  First, following the arguments produced by the Colonel, was the belief that the girl had definitely not committed suicide. Even if Polly had gone against her nature and decided the shame of carrying a bastard child was too much for her to bear, she would have chosen a more certain way to kill herself.

  Second, although accident on the face of it was a possibility, it was surely unlikely. Her personal experience was that no one would tackle that slope without real reason and there was no evidence to suggest that there was anything that could have meant Polly would have voluntarily tackled that climb. All right, she herself had been crazy enough to try it but Polly would have been better acquainted with its dangers.

  If she accepted these conclusions, the only viable possibility left was that someone had killed Polly. But why? The most obvious reason was that the girl insisted that her lover should take her away and either marry her or set her up with a home in which she could bring up their child. He had been unwilling to consider either arrangement and did not want her to name him as the father.

  It was a most unpleasant conclusion and Ursula was sure the reason why it had taken her so long to face it was because the next question had to be: who was the father?

  There were a number of possibilities but no actual evidence against any of them. If she waited, would something emerge that would point to one or another? For a moment she wished passionately that the Colonel was available to discuss the question. In his absence she was horribly aware that she might be living alongside a murderer.

  The one bright spot that Ursula could see at present was that the Countess was at last involving Belle with the arrangements for her coming out ball. There were lunches and dinners, both at Mountstanton and with neighbours, establishing friendships with girls who were also making their debut that season, together with a number of eligible young men.

  Helen had also arranged for a small dance one evening with some sixteen couples, mainly young, who Belle had been introduced to in the surrounding neighbourhood. The drawing room carpet was lifted and the floor polished. Ursula was happy to play for dancing while parents and guardians were offered cards in an adjacent reception room. A buffet supper was served and the evening was a great success, with Belle behaving delightfully. Ursula’s one disappointment was that the charming Mr Russell was not among the guests. She supposed, perhaps, that being a contemporary of the Earl’s, he was a little old for such entertainment.

  The day after Ursula had faced the possibility Mountstanton was harbouring a murderer, news came of the death of Lady Frances. The Earl insisted he would attend the funeral and would cable his brother, asking him to come home so he could also attend. The Colonel, however, did not return.

  Nor had Mr Warburton returned and Belle was prone to sulks and depressions. One evening some four weeks after the inquest, following dinner with just the family, Belle gave up trying to render a simple piece on the piano. ‘It’s no good, I’ll never be able to play properly,’ she said despairingly.

  ‘Practise, that’s what you need, my girl,’ said the Dowager tartly. ‘You’ll never get anywhere in this world without effort. You’re a scatterhead, that’s your trouble.’ She closed her book, rose and clicked her fingers at Honey. ‘I shall say goodnight.’ The Dowager sailed magisterially out of the room and Belle stuck her tongue out at her departing back.

  The Earl had removed himself to his study after dinner and Helen had already retired to her boudoir, so if anyone was to admonish Belle it would have to be Ursula.

  ‘Belle, dear,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, don’t you start.’ The girl abandoned the piano, her face petulant. ‘All anyone ever does these days is scold me. Papa said that everything would be done to entertain me: visits to the races, theatres, and Helen would take me to London, to Paris, to Monte Carlo.’ She gazed disconsolately at Ursula. ‘All I do is meet boring, boring people. There’s far too much talking. Why can’t we have another dance? I love dancing.’

  Belle held up her arms to an invisible partner and swayed gracefully round the room for a moment, then burst out. ‘Oh, Ursula, can’t you talk to Helen? It’s no good me saying anything, she just tells me I’m a spoilt brat, and she’s introducing me to lots of girls and young men who will invite me to all sorts of events once we reach London and I make my debut. But it’s now I want to have fun. And William hasn’t sent me so much as a note. It’s as though he’s vanished down a hole like Alice in Wonderland. How could he desert me like that?’ Belle plumped herself down in a chair beside the gently dying fire and gazed resentfully at Ursula. ‘Why can’t we just go to London and have some fun? No wonder that odd Colonel has gone.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t refer to him in that way.’ Ursula immediately regretted her words.

  ‘Why not? He is odd. Don’t you see how he looks at Helen? Why you all want me to marry him, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘I’ve never said I wanted you and he to marry.’ Ursula put down her knitting and tried to think of a way to send Belle off to bed in a better humour.

  ‘That’s probably because you want to marry him yourself.’ Belle darted a sly look at her. ‘You were always having little chats with him and since he’s gone to London you have quite lost your sparkle.’

  Ursula couldn’t help laughing. ‘Sparkle? Honestly, Belle, what on earth have you been reading?’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t get any hopes up because I think he’s the one who pushed that nursemaid into the river.’

  ‘What a dreadful thing to suggest, Belle,’ Ursula said coldly. Her knitting lay forgotten in her lap. ‘Apart from the fact that you know of no motive for such a thing, the Colonel was not even at Mountstanton when Polly disappeared.’

  ‘How do you know he didn’t come here, push her into the river and then go off again? And how do you know he didn’t have a motive? Sarah told me that Polly was in a delicate condition. And she told me that the Colonel spent a lot of time in Harry’s nursery talking to Polly when he was last here.’

  ‘You should not gossip with servants. Anyway, that was a long time ago,
after he came home injured from the fighting in South Africa.’

  ‘See, you know about it too!’ Belle sounded triumphant. ‘So it must be true. Maybe he met her in secret afterwards?’

  ‘But he went back there.’ Ursula felt hysteria rising; she had to convince Belle she was talking nonsense. The very thought that she might repeat any of this to anyone else was appalling.

  ‘Oh, Ursula, you are so simple! I thought you were intelligent, yet you just accept whatever that man says. Helen is the same.’ Belle leant forward and narrowed her eyes. ‘The war ended last year and nobody knows why he has left the army. If he is such a wonderful soldier, why doesn’t he stay on and become a General? I think he’s done something shifty and he’s been asked to leave. And that’s why they all want me to marry him, because he needs money to make another life. Which is why he can’t be interested in you, because you haven’t got any.’ She stood up and shook the skirt of her pink silk dress into place. ‘Well, they can whistle but I won’t dance to their tune. And Papa won’t expect me to. I’m going to write to him and say what a boring time I’m having and can he please arrange for you to take me to Paris. He’s bound to know someone who can give us a good time there. Loads of Americans spend months and months in Paris and Monte Carlo.’

  Ursula was speechless for several moments.

  ‘Belle, I can’t imagine what sort of rubbishy romantic novels you read,’ she managed finally. ‘It’s been a long time since I heard such a farrago, such a hotchpotch, such a load of nonsense. Please, please do not repeat any of that to anyone else, particularly any of your sister’s staff. She would be mortified.’

  ‘Ho hum, Ursula! No, I won’t repeat any of it. Not until it becomes obvious to you all. But you think about it. And I shall certainly write to Papa about Paris. Goodnight.’

  She flounced out of the room.

  It took a long time that night for Ursula to get to sleep and when she did, her dreams were confused and unhappy.

  * * *

  With the improvement of her sprained ankle, Ursula had developed the habit of an early morning ride. Occasionally she persuaded Belle to join her, but the morning after Belle’s extraordinary words on the Colonel, Ursula went riding on her own. For the moment she felt out of sympathy with the girl.

  She explored a new area of countryside and came upon another river; very different from the one so close to Mountstanton. Narrow, it ran chuckling and busy beneath trees; sun shone through the leaves, dappling both the water and the low banks. So attractive was the prospect, Ursula stopped and enjoyed a few minutes taking in the view.

  After a little, her eyes adjusted to the half-light and she saw that, a little lower down the river, there was a fisherman. There was something familiar about the figure sitting on a small stool, a woven basket at his feet, rod held steady over the water. Approaching, she saw it was Mr Russell.

  She was almost upon him before he realised he was no longer alone and looked up. Immediately he rose to his feet.

  ‘Miss Grandison, what a pleasure to see you. What brings you to these parts?’

  ‘A desire to experience a little more of this beautiful countryside. What do you fish?’

  ‘Trout.’ He looked at the rod still held in his hand. ‘I have not had much luck but it is a pleasant way to pass the time and sort through one’s thoughts.’

  ‘I was so sorry to hear the sad news concerning Lady Frances. Losing a parent is a bitter blow that takes some adjusting to; you have my deepest sympathy.’

  He turned his gaze towards the river. His face was drawn and he looked as though sleep was a stranger to him. ‘I knew she was slipping away and that soon I would be an orphan but, somehow, I still can’t quite believe it. It is not helped, perhaps, by my imminent departure forcing me to sort out possessions. Luckily they are few and I have now almost completed the task.’

  They remained for a few moments without speaking, Ursula on her mount, Mr Russell standing beside her. Then he gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Can I persuade you to join me in contemplating the river for a while? I am afraid I do not have another rod but, if you care to fish, you are welcome to borrow mine.’

  Ursula thought the idea sounded delightful and was interested to hear his plans for the future. Before she could respond though, Mr Russell’s rod almost sprang out of his hand.

  ‘Ah, a bite!’

  ‘Please, do whatever it is fishermen do, Mr Russell. I shall enjoy watching you in action.’

  With a smile he started to play the fish on the end of his line, walking to and fro, reeling in and letting out. Ursula noted the tautness of the line and how its pull bent the slender top of the rod, and realised the trout he had on the end of it must be a big one. It could, she thought, be some considerable time before the fish was exhausted enough to be landed and her horse was getting restive.

  She gave a wave, wished Mr Russell luck with the fish, and moved away from the river. The chat would have to wait.

  Ursula headed back towards Mountstanton. She had not gone far before she saw, across the fields, another rider going towards the river. The grey horse identified him as the Earl.

  Once again the facts as far as she knew them concerning Polly’s death nagged away at Ursula’s mind. All at once she thought of a course of action she could follow.

  Chapter Twenty

  Five o’clock in the morning. The cockerel announced a new day and the dog stirred in his kennel.

  Slumped in his chair beside the cold ashes of last night’s fire, Adam Gray opened bleary eyes and cursed. He flung the empty brandy bottle against the wall; the noise of the shattering glass threatened to break open his aching brain. Wrenching off jacket and shirt, he stumbled out of the house and thrust his head beneath the pump in the backyard, then drank gratefully of the icy water.

  Adam pushed back his wet hair and stood for a moment, taking in the morning. Summer was almost here. Mist softened every outline and promised heat later in the day. All was fresh and new. Beyond the stables, a gentle hill rose, white sheep embroidering the green of the meadows. Over by the river, cattle grazed; rich brown Jerseys, their udders bulging with creamy milk. In the distance, the green shoots of wheat were decorating earthy furrows.

  The futility of last night’s drinking session hit him hard. When did alcohol ever solve problems? He shook his gradually clearing head. What had his life become? Since the day of the inquest, it had slid into a dark hole.

  The day after, the Earl had caught him as he rode back from a meeting with one of the tenant farmers, a matter of some worn-out pig sties on one of the tenant farms and where the money to replace them was to be found.

  ‘What’s this I hear about you and Polly?’ he had demanded.

  Richard Stanhope had never been known for ease of manner. He had inherited none of his father’s famous charm. Instead, there was his mother’s pride and cold authority.

  Adam sat on Barney, his stolid chestnut horse, and gazed unblinking at his employer, resentful of his language, resentful of his authority, resentful of all the Mountstanton family had done to bring down his beloved Polly.

  ‘Gray!’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘I’ve been told Mrs Parsons caught you and the nursemaid in a compromising position.’

  Adam felt a familiar fury build within him. He wanted so much to strike the man. He wanted to bring him down off his horse and trample him into the ground, use his whip to slash that proud face.

  With enormous effort he controlled himself. ‘It was not compromising, my lord. I merely put an arm around the girl. She was very upset.’ He hesitated, then decided that he might as well say everything he was prepared to admit to rather than have it screwed out of him.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Polly had trusted a man who betrayed her. She suspected she was with child. She had no one to turn to but me, her friend. I told her to keep her counsel while I tried to work out what could be done.’

  The Earl sat very still, holding his reins tightly. ‘You mean she r
evealed the identity of the man responsible for her condition?’

  If only she had! ‘No, my lord. She refused to say.’ Adam bared his teeth in an uncontrollable grimace. ‘She feared that I would do the man some damage.’

  A tic twitched in the Earl’s right eyelid. ‘Yes, we know your reputation, Gray.’

  Adam didn’t flinch. He was known as a man not to cross in an alehouse; easy to anger, quick to use his fists and with a strong right arm that could launch a punishing blow. He was, though, judged a fair fighter.

  ‘So you have no idea who Polly was walking out with?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  Was that an infinitesimal relaxation in the Earl’s shoulders? ‘The jury’s verdict was just,’ the Earl said. ‘She could not live with the shame.’

  Another little piece of Adam died at this.

  The Earl lifted his whip in a semblance of farewell, dug his heels into his horse and was gone.

  Since then, Adam had tried to forget the encounter. For once, he was relieved that his employer showed so little interest in his estate.

  The evenings were the worst. When his disabled wife, Deirdre, had been helped to bed and his sister, Adele, had retired, there were too many hours before Adam could bring himself to take to his bed, knowing that sleep was unlikely to come. That was when Adam made alcohol his companion.

  Now he stood in the yard and found a stone to discourage the cockerel’s hoarse claiming of his territory.

  It was too early for their housekeeper to be up, so Adam riddled the stove. When the blaze was going well, he made coffee and fried himself bacon and eggs.