A Dangerous Legacy

by Elizabeth Camden

  “Thank you for hosting me,” Colin said as he stepped inside. “Whenever I mention my desire to renovate my estate back home, people recommend a visit to Oakmonte as a chance to see the finest New York has to offer.”

  Margaret Drake beamed at the compliment, and Colin took the chance to admire the foyer, which was framed by a dramatic double staircase curving down from the second story, almost like a pair of welcoming arms. The foyer had elegant crown molding, gold-leaf wall sconces, and a series of arched windows stretching the length of the front hall. Mrs. Drake offered to take him on a tour as soon as he’d been settled into a room and had a chance to refresh himself.

  A servant escorted him to a guest bedroom on the second floor. Colin had been invited to stay the night, since he didn’t need to catch his train back to the city until the following afternoon. The guest room had a high ceiling and large windows framed with swaths of royal blue draperies held open by silken cords. It was a spacious and elegantly appointed room, but most impressive was the attached washroom with white tile, well-designed fixtures, and a narrow window of its own. Two ivory spigots on the pedestal sink brought a healthy stream of either cool or piping hot water pouring from the tap. Everything about this washroom was a miracle of modern plumbing.

  Mr. and Mrs. Drake took him on a tour of the house. They were cordial and generous with information as they discussed building materials, how the house had been situated on the lawn to take advantage of the views, even the equipment in the kitchen. Mrs. Drake had plenty of questions about Whitefriars and what it was like to grow up in a house with so many centuries of history.

  “I’d trade you a few of those generations of history for the engineering in one of your washrooms,” he quipped.

  Both Drakes laughed, but he was only partially jesting. Everything about this house was impressive. The mahogany floors were perfectly flush and gleamed with a high shine. The plaster moldings were carved by artisans and sported no cracks in the glossy paint. Not a hint of mustiness, sagging floorboards, or moldering tapestries anywhere in sight.

  As they walked down the corridor to a conservatory, Mrs. Drake drew up alongside him and held his arm in genteel fashion. “I’d like to show you my animal tableau,” she said. “I understand creative taxidermy is becoming quite popular in England.”

  It was true. Walter Potter had created a trend by stuffing small animals like rabbits and kittens, then dressing them in miniature costumes. The animals were posed in charming domestic settings such as a tea party, a classroom, or playing croquet. Colin found them mildly repugnant, but there was no accounting for taste, and he obligingly followed Mrs. Drake to the conservatory. The room was flooded with sunshine from banks of windows on three sides. Potted palms towered in the corners, and the green scents of moss and verbena filled the air.

  The tableau was on display in the far corner of the room, with small animals gathered around a miniature tea table. The chintz-covered table sported tiny plates with remarkably lifelike cakes and bowls of fruit. It was a charming display, if one could look past the bunnies and the kittens propped up in the chairs, teacups glued to their paws.

  “Our taxidermist is a true artist,” she murmured, gesturing to a kitten whose paws had been wired to hold a cracker to its mouth. A squirrel dressed as a butler stood to the side, a tray with creamer and sugar balanced between his outstretched limbs.

  “Very impressive,” Colin said. He’d seen a number of similar animal tableaux in England and never failed to marvel at their popularity. Over the centuries, Whitefriars had collected its share of mounted stag heads on its walls, so he was in no position to pass judgment on Mrs. Drake’s taste.

  “I understand there is a museum in Sussex featuring these animal displays,” Thomas said. “One of them portrays a group of cats playing poker in a cardroom. Have you seen it?”

  “I’ve never had the pleasure,” Colin said. “But your taxidermist is to be commended. I’ve never seen dead creatures appear so delighted to be dead.”

  Both Drakes laughed, and they moved on to the next room. None of this was getting him any closer to meeting old Jacob Drake, but he decided to wait a little longer to see if his hosts brought up the topic on their own.

  Besides, he had a genuine interest in the construction of the house. Its roof rivaled the size of Whitefriars’, and he was brimming with curiosity to know how they prevented water damage on so huge a surface. Mr. and Mrs. Drake obligingly accompanied him to the attic, where the air was warm and dusty but without a hint of mold. The attics at Whitefriars were encrusted with centuries of mineral stains and corroded wood, and he had to admire this clean, well-ventilated space. After descending a flight of stairs from the attic, his hosts led him back toward the double staircase and its impressive foyer.

  He paused at the top of the stairs. “What is down this hallway?” They’d gone into each of the bedrooms on the western side of the house, but the hallway on the other side of the staircase was closed off by a set of doors only a few yards away.

  “We don’t use the east wing much,” Thomas said. “It’s easier to simply keep it closed up.”

  Interesting. Among the numerous rooms on the two floors he’d been shown, none looked suitable for housing an elderly man, nor had any mention of Jacob been made all morning.

  Colin would have enjoyed the chance to wander the grounds and learn how they managed their runoff drainage from the roof, but Mrs. Drake had planned a formal high tea, so it had to be delayed.

  A neighboring couple, the McNallys, joined them for tea, along with their two daughters. Tom Jr. tried to flirt with the oldest and prettiest daughter, but Mrs. Drake engineered for the girl to have a seat immediately to Colin’s left. Julia McNally carried on a lively conversation about life at Bryn Mawr College, where she’d been enrolled for the past two years. Despite attending university, her conversation seemed limited to the weather and horses. It made him long for Lucy’s natural curiosity.

  “Will your father be joining us for tea?” he asked Thomas. “I was looking forward to meeting Jacob Drake.”

  A hush settled over the gathering. Mrs. Drake coughed a little as she set her teacup down, but her husband recovered quickly.

  “I was not aware you knew of my father,” he said in a polite voice.

  “I’ve heard of his invention. I understand the Drake valve has brought major improvements to the infrastructure of cities.”

  Thomas gave a small nod. “Indeed. We are all very proud of my father’s work.”

  “Does he live here at the estate?”

  “He is a private man and rarely has the energy for visits, but yes, my father does indeed live with us.”

  Julia set down her teacup. “I’ve never met him, but one of my college professors said the buildings of New York City would never have been built so high but for the inventions of reinforced steel and the Drake plumbing valve.”

  “It’s just a piece of equipment,” Tom Jr. mumbled. “And he didn’t exactly invent it, now, did he? That was his brother, but Grandfather gets all the glory, doesn’t he?”

  Thomas sent a smoldering glare at his son. “That’s enough,” he said darkly. Tom Jr. looked as if he wanted to say more but managed to swallow it back, then put on a cheerful tone.

  “Do you like shooting, Sir Beckwith?” he asked. “I’m training for next summer’s Olympics and wouldn’t mind a little sport tomorrow morning. How about it?”

  Colin’s mouth went dry. The prospect of gunfire prompted the beginning of a headache, but so long as he was prepared for the blasts, he ought to be able to handle the attack on his nerves. Both of the elder Drakes had immediately shut down the discussion of Jacob Drake, but perhaps the son would be more forthcoming.

  “I’d like nothing better,” he said with an artificially bright smile.

  It was a cool morning, and the grounds were shrouded by a wispy layer of fog. Colin and Tom Jr. walked a fair distance from the house in deference to those who liked to sleep late in the mornings. A s
ervant named Hastings accompanied them and would be responsible for launching clay discs into the air.

  “Let’s play doubles,” Tom said as they chambered their shotguns, and Colin silently groaned. Even as a younger man, he had never enjoyed shooting, nor did he possess much skill. Trap shooting used an automated thrower to hurl a clay disc in a high arc over the field. It made for a challenging target. In doubles, the machine launched two discs simultaneously, requiring rapid-fire shooting to land both targets.

  “You first,” he said tensely. Shotgun blasts were deafening, and he braced himself for the assault. Perhaps this morning was a blessing in disguise, as it would help train him to maintain calm despite the explosive noise.

  The machine hurled two discs into the air, and Tom fired off his shots, smashing one target, but the other fell to the ground intact.

  “You spoiled my shot!” Tom accused.

  It was true. After the first shotgun blast, Colin had flinched and reared back, startling Tom and making the second shot go wild.

  “Sorry,” Colin muttered as he clenched his shotgun. He had braced himself for the noise but forgot about the stench of gunpowder. It filled his nose and throat, gagging him. The reek of sulfur and saltpeter made him want to vomit. For the life of him, it felt like he smelled African dirt and sweaty bodies; heard the buzz of flies swarming above corpses.

  He swallowed back his distaste, determined to get through this morning. Tom still muttered curses, swearing that Hastings had used a sloppy angle to eject the discs, but Colin ignored him as he stepped up to the line. The shotgun was heavy as he tucked it against his shoulder.

  “Doubles it is,” he said with a nod to Hastings. The machine let out a whoosh as the two discs hurled into the air. He squeezed off a shot, flinching at the blast, and tried to fire a second round but couldn’t. His hand shook too badly. He missed both targets, and it delighted Tom.

  “Better luck next time.” Tom smirked as he gamely stepped back up for his round. He got both targets, and Colin hit only one on his next turn, but at least the match would not be a complete washout.

  He hated every second of the morning punctuated with deafening shotgun blasts and the acrid stink of gunpowder. Tom fixated on shooting and had no interest in casual conversation, which was fine with Colin. He focused more on hanging on to his queasy stomach than trying to hit the target.

  The match came to a merciful end after an hour, and Tom Jr. was delighted with the outcome, as he won 43 to 6. Frankly, Colin was lucky to have hit that many, given how badly his hand trembled most of the morning.

  It was over, and they had a twenty-minute walk back to the house. Twenty minutes to learn as much as he could about Jacob Drake and the real story of what happened all those years ago.

  “Your family must be very proud of your abilities,” he said.

  “Oh, they are,” Tom agreed. “Everyone knows that I’m probably going to the Olympics next summer.”

  Wasn’t it nice how Tom Jr. managed to squeeze that reference into almost every sentence? “It will be in St. Louis, correct?”

  Tom’s expression was sour as he kicked at a clump of overly long grass. “Yeah. It would have been better if it were in Paris like the last time, but what can a fellow do?”

  “Will your family attend?”

  “Of course. It’s as close as they’ll ever come to something like that.”

  “Your grandfather as well?”

  Tom snorted. “He’s too old. He’s practically a hundred and completely out of his mind.”

  “Oh, really . . .” That would be a reasonable explanation for the family to keep him away from visitors.

  “No, not really,” Tom Jr. admitted. “He’s just a royal pain in the neck and always has been. A complete zealot. He’s impossible to be around, and frankly, I wouldn’t want him to see me in the Olympics. Crazy old duffer; nobody can stand him. That’s why my father keeps him tucked away behind closed doors in the east wing. Let the servants deal with him. Nobody else wants to.”

  Colin kept walking at a measured pace. “That seems a little cold, doesn’t it?”

  “Look, you don’t know him like we do. I’m grateful that he made all that money and everything, but that doesn’t give him the right to force his views down our throats.”

  They rounded a copse of willow trees, and the house came into view. Even the rear of the house was attractive, with a terraced patio overlooking a rose garden. Mrs. Drake was ensconced on a bench, wrapped in an angora throw and looking every inch the grand lady. Her husband sat a few feet away, smoking a morning cheroot.

  She rose as they drew near and gestured to an impressive spread of breakfast pastries and pot of tea. “You must be hungry after a morning of shooting,” she said with a welcoming smile.

  “I won 43 to 6,” Tom said as he scooped up a large wedge of blueberry bread.

  Mrs. Drake winced and sent Colin a sympathetic smile. “Oh, dear. Then you must be even more eager for something to cleanse the palate.”

  “Actually, I’m eager to get the smell of gunpowder off me. Can I join you after a bath?” It was an unusual request, but people tended to grant ridiculous leeway to men with titles, and he was fully prepared to take advantage of it.

  “Certainly.” Mrs. Drake smiled, the teapot suspended over an empty cup she had been preparing to pour for him.

  He wanted to dunk into a tub full of hot soapy water but was even more eager to take the opportunity to explore the east wing of the house while the family was outdoors on the patio.

  He vaulted up the staircase two steps at a time. A quick glance down both sides of the hallway revealed he was alone, and he headed straight toward the closed double doors blocking the east wing of the second floor. The brass knob was cold in his palm as he gently twisted.

  Locked.

  He scanned the hallway and saw no obvious hiding places for a key, so he ran his fingers along the casement ledge above the door. It was coated with a fine layer of dust, and a key fell and clattered against the floor.

  He held his breath, waiting for someone to investigate the noise. When no one appeared, he inserted the key, covering the mechanism with his hand to muffle the metallic clicks. The door twisted open easily, and he stepped through, closing it gently behind him.

  The hallway mirrored the floorplan of the opposite wing. All the doors were open, and he’d be easily spotted if anyone was in those rooms. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. He strode forward with the entitlement he’d learned from decades of mingling with the British aristocracy. He strolled casually, looking from side to side as he passed each open door. There were six bedrooms, three on each side. All of them spacious, with neatly made beds and small sitting areas.

  Only one looked different, for it had a wheelchair in the corner. Colin gently rapped on the open door. “Hello?”

  There was no answer. He tipped his head inside, scanning the room quickly. It was the room of an older person, with extra coverlets mounded on the bed and a cane propped beside the wheelchair. In a house filled with well-appointed furniture and decorations, everything in this room seemed to come from another era. The furniture was old. A chipped mug advertising Brooklyn Tea rested on the bureau, filled with wrapped throat lozenges. Beside the bed was a bookshelf brimming with tattered novels. Colin pulled out a book by Victor Hugo and opened it. The nameplate on the inside cover said it came from the library of Jacob Drake.

  A door led to a washroom identical to the one attached to Colin’s own guest room. The washroom was spotless, the white tile gleaming in the sunlight from the narrow window. There was no sign of water droplets on the tub or basin. He ran a fingertip along the bottom of the sink and came away with a coating of dust.

  There was only one possible conclusion. No one had used this room in months, and there was no sign of Jacob Drake.

  After breakfast there were still a few hours before Colin needed to set off for the train station. Mrs. Drake had disappeared into the kitchen to scold the staff about so
mething, leaving him alone with Thomas, who surprised him by suggesting a walk.

  “I’d like to show you the fish pond,” he said. “It’s freshly stocked, and perhaps someday you can return for a morning of trout fishing.”

  “I’d like nothing better,” Colin said, not only because he genuinely enjoyed fishing, but also because perhaps he’d find another opportunity to probe for information on the missing patriarch of the family.

  To his surprise, Thomas was eager to initiate a business discussion the moment they set off on a gravel path toward the north end of the grounds.

  “You are aware of the Drake valve,” he said.

  “I’ve heard something about it, yes.”

  “Do you have any connections with the Crown Building Agency in England?”

  All it would take was a letter of interest, and Colin could establish whatever ties he wanted. Working for a newspaper opened doors like that, as did a title. “I do,” he said.

  “We’ve been running into a bit of a fuss lately,” Thomas said. “At first our valves were selling quite well throughout the United Kingdom, but a British company has developed a competing product, and now the government is throwing obstacles in our way. If you have any influence, perhaps we can come to a mutually agreeable arrangement.”

  “I’m listening,” Colin said. It was unusual for anyone to approach him with a business proposition. The aristocratic abhorrence of dabbling in trade was well known, but apparently Thomas Drake knew nothing of those unwritten rules, for which Colin was grateful. The entire roof at Whitefriars needed to be replaced, which would require a fortune and take years to accomplish, but in the short term, the roof over the music room needed immediate repair.

  Thomas’s offer was a generous four-percent commission on each Drake valve sold in the United Kingdom if Colin could lift the embargo. He smiled. He was close family friends with the current Chancellor of the Exchequer, and that friendship could help slice through red tape with ease. Colin might not even need to return to England to get the wheels moving.