‘Her mother is a lunatic,’ said Isabella when her cousin was safely out of earshot. ‘So we must expect that at times of great stress she will become a little bonkers. It is not her fault, the poor creature.’
‘Adele is not unbalanced,’ said Milo, his fingers circling the rim of his empty plate. ‘She is scared of never seeing Aunt Rosemary again. That’s why she won’t stop looking for her. She can’t stop.’ He looked down at his hands and noticed they were trembling. ‘When a person cares like that . . . they are capable of almost anything.’
‘Are you all right, Cousin?’ said Isabella warily. ‘You’re not going to lose your mind as well, are you? Ouch!’ She turned, her eyes blazing at Hannah. ‘You pulled my hair!’
‘Sorry, miss,’ said Hannah nervously. ‘I was just trying to get a knot out.’
‘A knot?’ Isabella stood up and snatched the brush from the maid’s hand. ‘My hair is as fine as silk, there are no knots! Go and dust something, I will do it myself.’
Hannah gave a hasty curtsy before scurrying from the breakfast room.
‘You shouldn’t treat her like that,’ said Milo firmly.
‘Oh, Cousin, do not scold me,’ said Isabella with a sigh. She slumped down on the window seat and looked out at the pretty garden of red and yellow tulips. ‘I am mad with worry about Aunt Rosemary. At night I toss and turn, imagining the most horrid things. Terrible things. You cannot imagine the toll this whole ordeal has taken on my hair. It is drying up, I am certain of it, and Hannah is right, there are knots. Oh, why do these things always happen to me?’
‘I am sure if Aunt Rosemary knew the terrible effect her kidnapping was having on your hair,’ said Milo dryly, ‘she would break free immediately.’
‘Cousin, there is no need to –’ Isabella gasped, leaping up from the window seat.
Milo lifted his head. ‘What is it?’
‘There!’ she whispered tensely, pointing to the garden outside. ‘I just saw someone – a man. He came out from behind the trellis over by the meadow and ran off towards the eastern wing. Oh, Cousin, do you think –’
But she did not have time to finish the question. Milo had rushed past her, out of the French doors and into the garden.
The eastern side of Sommerset House was bordered by a secluded rose garden. A row of wicker chairs in front of the trellis provided views of the wildflower meadows and the yellow summerhouse beyond. Milo moved quickly past the chairs, followed closely by Isabella, who was clutching an eighteenth-century teapot that she had grabbed from the table for protection.
‘Do you see him?’ she whispered feverishly, cowering behind Milo. ‘Oh, Cousin, perhaps we should return to the house and call the police.’
Milo scanned the path between the garden and the house but could see no sign of an intruder. His eyes swept beyond the rose garden to the acres of rolling lawn. He spotted Scully pushing a wheelbarrow laden with topsoil towards a bed of lilies, and not far from him two junior gardeners were tending to a row of daffodils.
‘He must have gone that way,’ he said, turning back towards the wide stone path.
Just then a slick shadow flickered between two blossoming peach trees before disappearing around the eastern tower of the mansion.
‘There!’ shouted Isabella.
Milo broke away and sprinted down the path towards the intruder, twisting lithely around the sharp corner of the tower. At the far end of the path he spotted the prowler, a short stocky figure dressed in black, struggling to open the kitchen door. Sweat broke across Milo’s forehead as he flew by a bank of windows along the eastern tower, his bony legs a blur as he closed the gap between himself and the figure.
The door gave way and the man began to disappear inside. Milo gritted his teeth, pain searing his calves as he willed his legs to go faster. By the time he tore past the kitchen window only the man’s arm was visible from outside. Milo lunged, grabbing the receding hand before the door shut, pulling on it with every ounce of strength he possessed. The darkly clad prowler was caught off guard. His body flew back, crashing to the stone path behind him. He let out a howl and began to roll around, gripping his left arm and groaning loudly.
Milo was not entirely sure what to do next – he certainly had not expected the kidnapper to give up without a fight. In fact, he was rather startled to look down and see at his feet a short man with a deep tan and blindingly white teeth crying like an infant.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded to know. ‘What have you done with my aunt?’
‘Cousin, you were wonderful!’ shouted Isabella as she bounded down the path towards them. ‘Step aside; I want to flog him before the police are called.’ She looked down at the whimpering captive rolling around before her and the smile fell from her face. She gasped, her dark eyes swelling like two inflating balloons. ‘Father?’
THE WAITING GAME
Nathanial Winterbottom clutched a cup of warm ginger tea in his manicured fingers and heaved a sigh as a damp cloth was pressed to his forehead. Every now and again he would groan for good effect and remind everyone sitting around the morning room that they were not to worry about the injuries he had suffered. That in time he would heal, physically at least. ‘The emotional scars, however . . .’ Nathanial shook his head, his plump bottom lip quivering like jelly on a plate. ‘It will take years, I would think, to get over the trauma, the heart-stopping terror, of being thrown to the ground . . . beaten to within an inch of my life.’
‘I’m very sorry for throwing you to the ground, Uncle Nathanial,’ said Milo, his eyes full of regret, ‘but I . . . I didn’t actually beat you.’
Nathanial held up his hand as if he were stopping traffic. ‘You must not blame yourself. You believed I was an intruder and you reacted with extreme violence; it is perfectly understandable. The tragedy is that I must suffer the scars of your bravery.’
For the record, Isabella’s father had a very dull bruise and a single scratch on his left arm. Apart from that, he was perfectly unharmed. In fact, the most remarkable thing about Nathanial’s appearance was not his injuries but rather, his head – it was large, melon-shaped and alarmingly smooth. His thick coal-coloured hair and dark eyes were typical of the Winterbottom clan. However, the combination of a deep tan (which made him look as if he’d been dipped in a vat of caramel) and a set of teeth so white they would blend perfectly into a blizzard, made him look rather ridiculous.
‘Father, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’ said Isabella, lifting the cloth from his forehead.
‘Because I wanted to surprise you, princess,’ he said, beaming at his daughter. ‘The guards at the gate house were very hostile. They refused to let me in until I showed them my driver’s licence and proved I was a Winterbottom.’
‘Oh Father, how thoughtful you are,’ declared Isabella. ‘To go to all that trouble just to surprise me!’
When Thorn ambled into the morning room Nathanial yelped like a barking seal and jumped behind a potted fern. The great beast’s wet eyes regarded the strange-looking man carefully. A low grunt rumbled from deep within his belly and then he turned away, settling by the window, the warm sun sliding over his jagged back.
‘Relax, Father,’ said Isabella reassuringly, ‘Thorn is perfectly harmless. He never eats between meals.’
Shortly before lunch Nathanial met Adele for the first time. (The young girl had been hunched over her desk in the library wading through a stack of old letters and documents looking for any hint of the forgotten room.) She smiled shyly at her uncle, who kissed her on both cheeks and offered his deepest sympathies regarding her freckles and red hair.
‘How brave you are, Adele,’ he said earnestly, ‘to soldier on despite the cruel hand of mother nature. Speaking of red hair, where is my sister? I haven’t seen the old battleaxe in years!’
‘Oh Father, it is terrible!’ cried Isabella. ‘Aunt Rosemary has been –’
‘Gone all week,’ said Adele swiftly. ‘She has a dear friend in Nepal who has taken ill. Aunt
Rosemary has gone over there to nurse her back to health.’
As a general rule Adele hated lying, but given the kidnapper’s brutal warning she had no other choice. She only prayed that her uncle would believe her.
‘What a selfish woman,’ announced Nathanial, reaching for one of Mrs Hammer’s apple dumplings. ‘Always thinking of herself. Imagine leaving three young billionaires all alone in this huge house while she flounces about in Nepal helping a sick friend.’ He huffed. ‘Outrageous.’
‘We are not alone,’ said Milo with a scowl. ‘Mrs Hammer and Levi are here and Whitlam comes to see us every month.’
‘That’s right, uncle,’ added Adele quickly, ‘and Aunt Rosemary would never have gone away if it wasn’t very important.’
‘You are very forgiving,’ said Nathanial, his mouth so full of dumplings he could hardly speak. ‘But your aunt’s absence is a poor reflection on her sense of duty.’
Adele bristled. What a nerve her uncle had! So many words danced on the tip of her tongue – about why Nathanial hadn’t once come to see Isabella in the whole year she had lived at Sommerset. And other words besides, about how he had encouraged Isabella to steal from her wealthy school friends back in London so that he could live like a prince! But Adele did not dare let them out.
‘Where are you off to then?’ said Nathanial suddenly.
Milo was only two steps from the door when he halted. He turned slowly. ‘I was just going . . . out to the garden.’
‘He’s always gardening, Father,’ Isabella said. ‘Well, when he isn’t locked away in Uncle Silas’s study.’ She dropped her voice, though it was still loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. ‘He’s very secretive. Hardly says a word these days. Adele thinks he’s hiding something and I rather agree with her.’
Milo was frowning, his gaze fixed on Adele. ‘Is that true?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Isabella helpfully. ‘She thinks you’ve lost your mind because of that ghastly body swapping business last year.’
Nathanial looked utterly confused. ‘Body swapping?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Adele anxiously. ‘I just said . . .’ She looked at Milo thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been so quiet lately, that’s all. I’m worried about you, Milo.’
‘Well, don’t be,’ said the boy darkly. ‘Just because I want to be on my own doesn’t mean I’m hiding something.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Nathanial, who had the attention span of a carrot. ‘I for one adore my own company! By jove, I just realised who you remind me of, Milo – your Uncle Silas.’ He failed to notice the cold look on Milo’s face. ‘When we were children my brother was always sneaking off to be on his own. He would lock himself away for hours; we never knew what he was up to.’ Through the large window Nathanial gazed out at the tapestry of flowerbeds. ‘Silas was always mad about gardens and that sort of thing.’ He turned back and stared at the boy. ‘Just like you, Milo. Talk about two peas in a pod!’
‘Stop saying that!’ shouted Milo, his green eyes wet and fierce. ‘Uncle Silas was a villain and a madman. We are nothing alike!’
Nathanial’s face was a mask of terror. ‘No, nothing at all! I didn’t mean to offend you, Milo. Just stay calm now, there’s no need for bloodshed. Violence is never the answer.’ He backed away, cocking his head towards Isabella. ‘Princess, calm your cousin before he attacks!’
‘Before I attack?’ A shadow fell over Milo’s face. ‘I would never –’
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ said Adele, seeing the hurt on her cousin’s face. ‘Uncle Nathanial, Milo wouldn’t hurt you. Tell him, Isabella.’
‘I would love to, Cousin . . . but Milo did savagely attack Father just a few hours ago.’ Isabella noticed the approving nods of her father. ‘And even though it pains me to say this, Milo is an orphan and it is a known fact that most orphans are violent by nature.’
‘Very true, princess,’ agreed her father enthusiastically. ‘I read the same thing myself.’
‘That’s not true!’ yelled Milo, unable to quell the frustration and anger erupting inside him. ‘You made that up, Isabella!’
‘I did not!’
‘Please stop shouting,’ pleaded Adele desperately.
‘Yes, you did!’ hollered Milo. ‘Everything you say is a lie!’
‘The truth hurts, Cousin,’ snapped Isabella, her blue eyes as sharp as daggers. ‘Don’t blame me because you’re turning into Uncle Silas!’
The room stopped. A harsh, cold silence bloomed all around. Everyone seemed to be waiting for Milo to explode again, to yell at Isabella for being so cruel. But he didn’t. Instead he looked sorry and broken, thick ribbons of hair falling across his face like a mask. Adele opened her mouth to say something; a kind word perhaps, a show of support . . . but nothing came out.
Not that it mattered. The boy had fled the room and there was nothing left to say.
‘Would you mind telling me who died?’
Whitlam was providing a detailed update on the new children’s library being built by the Winterbottom Trust in Mongolia when he stopped suddenly and posed the question. Whitlam was caretaker of the children’s enormous fortune as well as the many charitable causes they supported. He was also very shrewd and it was clear to him that something was not right at Sommerset House. For one thing, the Winterbottoms had barely uttered a single word between them for the entire meeting.
Milo sat there brooding behind his wavy hair. Isabella pouted and sighed, looking at her diamond-encrusted watch every thirty seconds, while Adele fidgeted nervously and chewed on her bottom lip.
‘Died?’ said Adele, looking slightly alarmed. ‘Who died?’
‘Just what I’d like to know, lass,’ said Whitlam, a cheeky grin creasing his weathered face.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ said Isabella crossly.
‘I mean,’ said Whitlam, pushing the small round spectacles up the ridge of his stubby nose, ‘that you three look like mourners at a funeral. So what’s the matter, then?’
The Winterbottoms held their monthly meetings with Whitlam in a cosy room on the second floor with a lovely view of the orchards. They were gathered around a large table, a tray of baked cakes and biscuits sitting untouched in the middle.
‘Nothing’s the matter,’ snapped Isabella.
‘We’re just missing Aunt Rosemary,’ said Adele.
‘Ah, so that’s why you all look so glum,’ said the lawyer warmly. ‘When is your aunt due back from Nepal?’
‘No idea,’ said Adele quickly. ‘Aunt Rosemary wasn’t certain how long her friend would need her. She said it could be weeks.’
‘That sounds like Rosemary,’ noted Whitlam with a smile. ‘Heart the size of Sommerset, she has.’
‘Yes,’ said Adele quietly.
‘Isabella, I hear your father has come for a visit,’ said Whitlam, catching her eye and not letting go. ‘I’m very pleased for you, lass.’
‘Father has been dying to visit for ages,’ explained Isabella brightly, ‘but of course he is always so busy. His businesses take him all over the world. The poor man barely has a moment to himself.’
Whitlam scratched at his cap of curly white hair. ‘Yes, the poor man.’
Indeed, Nathanial did do an enormous amount of travel. But Whitlam knew very well that the only business involved was spending money – shopping trips to New York, yachting in Monte Carlo, sunbaking in Bermuda . . . the list was endless. And it was all paid for from the generous monthly allowance provided by his daughter. Whitlam oversaw all of the payments to the children’s parents and guardians and he had a lot of experience dealing with the more demanding parents like Isabella’s father.
‘Whitlam, can I ask you something?’ said Adele suddenly.
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ answered Whitlam.
‘This will probably sound strange,’ said Adele, ‘but in all the years you worked for Uncle Silas did he ever mention a forgotten room?’
The question shocked Isabella and Milo but they hel
d their tongues.
Whitlam looked at her curiously. ‘A forgotten room, you say?’
‘I read about it in Captain Bloom’s diary.’ She shrugged, trying to look bored. ‘He claims to have built a secret room somewhere in the house. I don’t believe it, of course, but as nobody knew Sommerset House better than Uncle Silas I thought I would ask.’
‘I’ve heard of this Captain Bloom,’ said Whitlam. ‘His father built this great house. They say the captain stole the Lazarus Rock right out of the jungle. Your uncle believed it was hidden here at Sommerset.’
‘And was it?’ said Adele, leaning forward.
Whitlam laughed gently. ‘Well, if it was, Captain Bloom did one hell of a job hiding it away. As for a forgotten room, I can’t say I ever heard your uncle speak of such a thing. Mind you, Silas kept a great deal to himself.’
‘Oh.’ Adele could hardly keep the disappointment from her face.
‘Now let’s get back to business,’ said the lawyer.
When the final details of the new library in Mongolia were ironed out and the meeting was called to a close, Whitlam asked Milo to stay behind. ‘Could I have a word, lad? It won’t take but a minute.’
The girls had already left and Milo was halfway out the door. ‘Yes . . . of course.’
‘Last Friday,’ said Whitlam, approaching the boy with a file in his hand, ‘you withdrew fifty thousand dollars from your personal account – in cash.’
‘Yes,’ said Milo shortly.
Whitlam laughed. ‘That’s quite a sum of money! Would you mind me asking what you needed it for?’
‘It’s personal.’
‘I see. The thing is, lad, as the trustee of your estate I have to be certain that you are being careful with your money. Do you understand?’
The Vulture of Sommerset Page 6