Captive in the Millionaire’s Castle

by Lee Wilkinson

  Martha gave a cackle of laughter. ‘And so I do.’

  When Michael had supplied the old lady with a generous measure of cognac, he went to sit on the settee beside Jenny and explained, ‘There’s something I’d like you to hear, and, though Martha doesn’t get out much these days, she offered to come and tell you first hand.’

  As Jenny looked at him, puzzled and expectant, he took her hand and, twisting the heavy gold ring on her finger, went on, ‘I’ll start from when I first noticed the seal on your signet ring and recognized it as part of the old family crest. It was then I began to get an inkling of what might have happened.

  ‘This morning, before I went up on the battlements, I had a quick look in the castle archives for some photographs I could vaguely recall seeing, and these are what I found. Martha recognized them both immediately.’

  Reaching for the manilla envelope that he’d dropped on the coffee table, he opened it and passed her an old-fashioned, unframed, sepia photograph.

  She found herself staring at a studio portrait of a young man sitting rather self-consciously beside a potted palm, his hands spread on his thighs.

  Michael.

  Only of course it couldn’t be Michael.

  Though the lean, strong face, the handsome eyes, and the well-shaped head of thick dark hair were identical, the moustache and the high, winged collar looked as if they belonged in the nineteen-twenties.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘My great-grandfather, Michael. I was named after him. Now take a good look at his right hand. See the signet ring on his little finger? Well, with a magnifying glass I was able to make out that the seal is a phoenix.’

  Jenny was still puzzling over it when he handed her another photograph. Sitting in the same chair, by the same potted palm, was a young woman with dark eyes and dark hair, wearing a high-necked blouse and a long string of pearls.

  Herself.

  But again it couldn’t be.

  So who was it?

  Almost immediately light dawned.

  Watching her expressive face, he said, ‘You’ve guessed it. Your great-grandmother, Jenny. The photographs must have been taken before she and Michael got engaged.’

  ‘Engaged! So it was your great-grandfather who was the love of her life…’

  Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she asked, ‘What makes you think the photographs were taken before they got engaged?’

  ‘Because he was still wearing the signet ring. When she agreed to marry him, he gave her the ring. However, before they could make any kind of formal announcement, he went down with flu. It turned to pneumonia, and within three days he was dead.

  ‘As you know, he was a widower with a young son. He had married his own cousin when they were both very young, and after a brief and not particularly happy marriage his wife died in childbirth.

  ‘When Michael became ill so suddenly and unexpectedly, his parents were away. They’d taken the child to Scotland to visit his maternal grandparents, and when they were summoned back it was to find that their only son was dead.

  ‘Perhaps you can’t blame them for being insular in their grief, but Jenny, who was heartbroken, found herself shut out, almost ignored.

  ‘The only person who was sorry for her, and went out of her way to be kind to her, was Martha, who at that time was a young maid, about the same age as Jenny herself.

  ‘Utterly devastated, as soon as Michael had been interred in the family vault your great-grandmother left, apparently for good.

  ‘Martha told me all this before we set off for Slinterwood.’

  There was silence for a time, then Jenny said slowly, ‘I’ve often wondered if Gran had any connection with the island, and why I always felt it drew me. And now I know everything—’

  ‘Not quite everything.’

  She looked at him, her beautiful brown eyes fixed on his face.

  ‘Remember the first time you came to Slinterwood, how familiar it was?’

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed.

  ‘Well, of course your great-grandmother knew it well, and had Michael lived to marry her she would have gone there as a bride…’

  ‘You’re not saying her spirit…?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Something altogether more mundane. But Martha will tell you the rest.’

  While Michael replenished the old lady’s glass, Martha took up the tale. ‘One day, when you were a small child and living with your great-grandmother, she took you with her when she went shopping in Kelsay. After the shopping was finished, she put it in her car and took you into The Tudor Rose café, to buy you some lunch.’

  The old lady’s voice was a little croaky, as if she wasn’t used to speaking so much these days.

  She took a sip of her cognac before going on, ‘Quite by chance, I was there with my daughter, Hannah. Though quite a lot of years had passed, your great-grandmother hadn’t changed all that much, and she and I recognized one another, and got talking.

  ‘While we chatted, your great-grandmother happened to mention that it had been her dream to see Mirren and Slinterwood again before she died.

  ‘As luck would have it, the family were away, Slinterwood was standing empty, and Hannah and I were looking after things.

  ‘So I suggested to your great-grandmother that she should follow us back across the causeway, and take this chance to see both the castle and the house. She was only too delighted, and when we took her into the castle just briefly, and then over to Slinterwood, you came as well. You couldn’t have been more than about three and a half, but you were a beautiful, intelligent little girl, who took notice of everything.

  ‘I remember you were fascinated by the castle, and you loved Slinterwood. One thing that particularly took your fancy was the old pump in the larder, so Hannah primed it and pumped it to show you how it worked…’

  Jenny smiled mistily. ‘Though I’ve no recollection of actually going, that’s obviously why everything was so familiar to me, why the house seemed to welcome me back…’

  Getting to her feet, she went over to the old lady and, taking her hand, said sincerely, ‘Thank you for coming specially to tell me. And thank you for being kind to Gran when she needed a friend. I was very fond of her.’

  ‘Bless you, but you don’t need to thank me,’ Martha said. ‘Your great-grandmother was a very nice lady. I only wish the young master had lived to marry her.

  ‘Well, I’d best be getting back, otherwise I’ll be catching it off Hannah for keeping lunch waiting.’

  ‘We mustn’t have that.’ Michael rose and helped her into her coat.

  Then, having put more logs on the fire, he turned to Jenny, and said, ‘I’ll be back as soon as I’ve seen Martha safely home. In the meantime I suggest you stretch out on the settee and put your feet up.’

  As the pair reached the door Martha turned and said, ‘You’re very much like your great-grandmother, but I feel in my bones that you’ll be a great deal luckier in love than she was.’

  With that pronouncement, the old lady allowed herself to be escorted out.

  The fire was blazing cheerfully, and, leaning back against the cushions, Jenny put her feet up as she had been bidden, and sighed contentedly.

  It had been a strange and eventful morning, but it couldn’t have been a more wonderful one, she decided as she went over in her mind all that Michael and the old lady had told her.

  Now she knew why the ring had meant so much to her great-grandmother, and why the island had always seemed to draw her…

  Perhaps her destiny lay here with Michael. Perhaps they had been fated to meet, fated to carry on the love story that their great-grandparents had begun… Sighing, she stretched like a sleek and contented cat. She had never in her wildest dreams imagined being this happy…

  Her thoughts grew scrappy as the warmth of the fire made her feel soporific, and, cocooned in a golden haze of euphoria, her eyelids drooped and she drifted into a doze…

  CHAPTER TEN

  JENNY awoke
with a start to find she wasn’t alone in the room. A woman was standing looking at her, a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, wearing sheer silk stockings and a designer suit.

  Jenny knew that face. She had seen it on the covers of glossy magazines.

  But it couldn’t be, she thought in confusion. Claire was in London.

  Still her eyes continued to confirm what her brain was refusing to take in, that, far from being in London, Claire was right here.

  And looking startlingly beautiful.

  Jenny stared at her numbly, conscious of only one thing: Michael had lied to her. He’d told her that the relationship was over, but Claire’s presence at Slinterwood went to prove the opposite.

  ‘Who are you?’ the newcomer asked sharply. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Pride insisting that she mustn’t give herself away, Jenny found her voice and managed, ‘I’m Mr Denver’s new PA.’

  ‘Then why are you lying down?’

  ‘I’ve twisted my ankle, and Mr Denver told me to rest it.’

  Clearly dismissing Jenny as any kind of competition, Claire relaxed and said, ‘Oh, I see. What a nuisance for you.’

  She sounded quite human. Almost pleasant.

  As Jenny sat up and swung her feet to the floor, Claire queried, ‘Incidentally, where is Michael? He doesn’t seem to be around.’

  ‘He’s taking Martha home.’

  The blonde grimaced. ‘Any idea when he’ll be back?’

  ‘He said he wouldn’t be very long.’

  ‘He will be if Hannah gets talking to him. That woman could talk the hind leg off a donkey.’

  ‘If he knows you’re coming—’

  ‘He doesn’t know. I just made up my mind to come on the spur of the moment. It never occurred to me that he might not be here.’

  Dropping into one of the armchairs, she put her handbag down, crossed her shapely legs, and, her voice not unfriendly, went on, ‘I’ve an overnight bag with me if I don’t manage to catch the tide, but I was hoping to be back in London by tonight.’

  Then, her tone confiding, ‘To tell you the truth, island life bores the hell out of me. Though I may need to be here a lot more after Michael and I are married again. Still,’ she added reflectively, ‘it should be worth it.’

  Feeling hollow inside, Jenny made no comment, and after a moment or two Claire asked, ‘How long have you been on the island?’

  ‘Just over a week.’

  ‘Do you find it boring?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how is the new book going?’

  ‘It’s beginning to take shape.’

  ‘But he’s not settled down to any actual writing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s good. He hates to be disturbed once he’s started. Has he taken you to see the castle yet?’

  ‘Yes. We went yesterday.’ To Jenny’s eternal credit, her voice was steady.

  ‘A cold, draughty hole, isn’t it?’

  ‘I thought it was beautiful,’ Jenny said quietly.

  ‘Oh, well, everyone to their taste.’

  Then, discarding the jacket of her elegant suit, ‘I stopped on the way for an early lunch, but I didn’t have a drink so I’m gasping for a cup of tea.’

  Heading for the kitchen, she added over her shoulder, ‘Want one?’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

  As the door closed behind the other woman, in a mad scramble to get away, Jenny pulled on her shoes, found her shoulder bag and mac, and, her only thought to escape before Michael came back, let herself out.

  A red sports car was standing outside.

  Following a sudden impulse, she tried the door.

  It opened.

  However, her hopes of using it to escape were dashed when the ignition keys proved to be missing.

  Recalling the handbag Claire had left by the chair, she hesitated.

  But going back into the house was too much of a risk. Michael might turn up at any moment and try to stop her leaving.

  Paying no heed to her ankle, she hurried up the drive and along the road, glancing anxiously behind her from time to time.

  When she reached the little copse that Michael had pointed out that morning, she veered off the road and took the cross-country path.

  Only when she was hidden amongst the trees did she start to feel somewhat safer.

  Where the sun hadn’t penetrated, everywhere was still dripping, and the ground, thickly carpeted with brown pine needles, was wet and spongy beneath her feet and littered with storm debris, which made it slow going.

  Her earlier numbness was still with her, the pain of Michael’s treachery yet to come. As if she were slowly bleeding to death inside, all she could feel was a strange weakness, a lethargy. She longed to lie down on the saturated ground and find the blessed oblivion of sleep.

  But she couldn’t sleep until she was safely across the causeway.

  Put to the test by the unstable ground, her ankle was throbbing badly now, but she almost welcomed the pain as an antidote to that terrible numbness.

  After what seemed an age, she reached a point where a path went off to the right, and, looking through the trees, she could see the bulk of the castle on its rocky promontory.

  Ahead she could make out the crescent of sea divided by the causeway, while in the far distance the mainland basked in the pale sunshine.

  It looked a long way, and she admitted to herself that starting out on foot had been madness.

  But she had had no choice.

  Coming across a fallen tree, she sat down for a moment or two to rest her ankle.

  Even that proved to be a mistake.

  As though she had lost the will to battle further, she was overcome by a leaden sense of hopelessness and despair.

  Only the thought of possibly having to face Michael again provided the necessary stimulus to bring her to her feet, settle her bag on her shoulder, and make herself go on.

  She was descending the gentle slope that ran down to the road and the causeway when, on her right, a red sports car came into view.

  Claire. The other woman was clearly on her way back to London.

  Raising her hand, Jenny waved frantically, and, ignoring the pain, began to run. She had only gone a short distance when her ankle gave way and she went sprawling on the wet, uneven ground.

  As she struggled to her feet the car flashed past, the driver looking straight ahead. By the time she’d picked up her bag and hobbled to the road, the vehicle was the size of a red toy car in the distance.

  But that disappointment was almost instantly superseded by an even worse realization.

  The tide was coming in. And fast. The sandy areas were almost covered. But she couldn’t turn back now.

  Picking up a length of old broken branch to use as a stick, she covered the last few hundred yards in record time.

  Once she had set foot on the causeway, clearing her mind of everything but the necessity to get over as quickly as possible, she made what speed she could.

  In what seemed to be an impossibly short space of time the tide, which had been rising stealthily, was starting to lap at the raised edges of the causeway.

  She was still only about halfway across when the water began to swirl and eddy over the surface of the road, washing around her feet and wetting the bottoms of her trousers.

  Looking at the far shore, she knew that at this rate she would be lucky to make it. But as both shores appeared to be almost equidistant, there was no point in turning back.

  Her heart racing, she told herself firmly that she had to make it. There was no choice.

  By the time she’d gone another couple of hundred yards, the water was starting to swirl around her ankles, dropping back a little between each assault, but returning with an inevitability that brought a surge of fear.

  She tried to push herself into a splashing run, but at the added strain the stick proved to be brittle and snapped, making it too short to be of any use.

  Dropping th
e useless piece into the swirling water, and trying not to give way to the panic that filled her, she stumbled on as best she could.

  When Michael returned to Slinterwood, his contented mood was blighted by the sight of Claire’s sports car standing near the front door.

  That she should come to Slinterwood at this time was the last thing he had wanted or expected.

  Wondering just how long she had been here, and what she might have said to Jenny, he drew up alongside the red sports car, switched off his ignition, and jumped out.

  The house seemed quiet and there was no sound of voices as he let himself into the hall. He hurried through to the living-room to find that the couch was empty and there was no sign of either of the women, but an expensive suit jacket was tossed over a chair.

  He was about to go upstairs to look for Jenny when Claire came in from the kitchen carrying a round tray of tea. Putting it down on the low table, she said, ‘So you’re back.’

  Without preamble, Michael demanded sharply, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘I thought I’d made it clear that as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing left to say.’

  ‘Darling, don’t be horrid.’

  Ignoring that, he asked, ‘Have you seen Jenny?’

  ‘Your PA? She was here a little while ago. I asked her if she wanted some tea, but she said no thanks. I brought an extra cup in case she’d changed her mind.’

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘How should I know? Probably in her room.’

  ‘What exactly did you say to her?’

  Frowning, Claire answered, ‘Not a great deal. I asked her how the book was going, and if she’d been over to the castle.

  ‘She said yes she had, and she thought it was beautiful.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Only that I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I told her that I wasn’t planning to stay, and if possible I wanted to be back in London tonight.’

  ‘And that’s all?’