A Grave Inheritance

by Renshaw, Anne

  ‘It’s a marvellous idea and I accept. Anything to save me from getting on a motorbike again gets my vote,’ Gwyneth said, still flushed. ‘Shall we make a move now Joe and let these young people get their beauty sleep?’

  Still a bit miffed, and on principle, Jake decided to go home. He finished a second cup of strong black coffee then put on his biker’s jacket and fixed his helmet. After a short goodbye to the sisters he rode off for Llangollen.

  ‘I think you upset him,’ Amelia said, watching him go.

  ‘Whatever,’ Grace replied with a shrug, secretly disappointed.

  Chapter 15

  The day after the barbecue, it was lunchtime before Grace ventured out of her bedroom. She took a shower and then went downstairs for breakfast. Tucking into her cornflakes she heard the sound of doors opening and closing upstairs. Amelia was on the move. Quickly, Grace put the handwritten notes she’d made at the newspaper office on the coffee table in the living room. Returning to the kitchen she noticed the polo mints on the worktop and slipped them into her pocket for later. The scrap of paper was still underneath and Grace was scrutinising it when Amelia finally made an appearance.

  ‘What’s this?’ Grace held up the piece of paper.

  ‘I found that in your trouser pocket when sorting your clothes for washing. I was going to ask you the same thing.’

  ‘I’ve never seen it before. I wonder what these oblong squares mean and the initials JF?’

  ‘When was the last time you wore your beige chinos?’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember now. I visited the cemetery again the other day. The storm had played havoc with the flowers, they were scattered everywhere. I just picked this up to help tidy the place.’

  ‘Let me have another look.’ Amelia took the piece of paper out of Grace’s hand and studied it. ‘These oblong squares could be grave sites then.’

  ‘Actually, I was outside the cemetery wall when I picked this up. There were four graves there, so yes, you’re right. The initials JF could stand for John Farrell. I think it’s time we made another visit to see your vicar.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Amelia answered half-heartedly. ‘You’re jumping to conclusions again.’

  Amelia finished breakfast and began tidying up. She started in the living room first, as Grace had predicted. Mugs with dregs of coffee dotted the carpet and crumb-spotted plates covered the coffee table. Amelia plumped up the cushions on the sofas and then carried the crockery into the kitchen and piled it onto the draining board. Armed with a duster and spray polish she returned to dust.

  Grace left her to it, giving Amelia a chance to discover her notes, and it didn’t take long. She stood at the door, studying Amelia’s face, trying to fathom what was going through her mind.

  Amelia, sensing Grace watching her, looked up. ‘So this is what you found out at the newspaper office.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Grace asked, taking her notes from Amelia. ‘This section of newspaper is dated July 1911,’and without waiting for a reply, she began to read out loud.

  ‘John Farrell, Head Woodsman and Gamekeeper for the Deverell family, was taken in for questioning in connection with the death of Laurence Deverell. Farrell, who has worked for Sir Deverell for over ten years, did not resist arrest. Detective Chief Inspector Lambourne is asking anyone who has information which may help him with his enquiries, to contact him at the Chester Police Station, as soon as possible.’

  Unwillingly Amelia listened. ‘Okay, I agree it is logical to assume he is related to us because of the name. But we don’t know that for certain, do we? There could have been any number of Farrells living in this area around that time. For instance, if John Farrell lived in Primrose Cottage on Sir Edmund Deverell’s estate, we can assume it was a tied cottage that went with his job. So how could Lillian have owned it?’

  ‘Good point.’ Grace nodded in agreement. ‘Did you read this too?’ She held up her notes taken from the February 1912 article.

  Amelia reached out and took it from her. ‘Oh,’ she said, frowning, and then read the article again. ‘It states that John Farrell committed suicide, and according to this the police viewed it as confirmation of his guilt for the murder of Laurence Deverell.’ Amelia looked up with a shocked expression. ‘If what you think is true, we’re related to a murderer.’

  ‘It looks like it, yes.’ Grace was beginning to understand Mrs Brownlow’s position on the Farrells.

  ‘The initials JF on the piece of paper, written on the oblong that we presume is a grave, probably mean that’s where he’s buried.’ Amelia thought for a moment. ‘Do you remember all the stuff we had to sort out when we moved in, paperwork and such?’

  ‘Yes, most of it was rubbish,’ Grace muttered, still thinking about the newspaper article.

  ‘Most of it was, yes, except for some legal looking papers in one of the dresser cupboards, which I kept in case they happened to be important. Also, there were a few old books. It crossed my mind that they could have belonged to granddad, so I didn’t have the heart to throw them away,’ Amelia explained.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention them before?’ Grace couldn’t believe her sister had just forgotten.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been so busy fulfilling my curtain orders; I haven’t had time to think of anything else.’

  Grace was exasperated. She turned to Amelia with a forced smile. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Up in the attic,’ Amelia grimaced.

  ***

  Neither of them liked spiders so they argued about who would go up. In the end Grace was nominated; after all she’d found the headstone and claimed to have seen ghosts. While Amelia held onto a rickety ladder Grace shone the torch into the attic and wafted away cobwebs, trying to avoid getting them in her hair.

  ‘I see it, I won’t have to go all the way in,’ Grace called out, stretching into the opening. Her feet left the ladder, leaving her lower half suspended in mid-air, and with just her head and shoulders above the trap door she managed to reach the box. ‘Okay! Okay! I’m coming down.’ Grace pulled the box up to the opening.

  Amelia grabbed Grace’s feet and guided them onto the top rung, then teetering on top of the ladder Grace handed down the box. Amelia carried the box downstairs and into the living room, amused by her sister’s antics.

  Grace ran her fingers through her hair and brushed away imaginary cobwebs from her jumper and jeans. ‘Yuk, I’ll have to go and change my clothes now,’ she squirmed. ‘Don’t start without me.’ Grace dashed in to the bathroom and fifteen minutes later she came downstairs. ‘I think we’re in for another storm; it’s black outside,’ she said and went over to the windows to draw the curtains. ‘As much as I hate creepy crawlies, I’m going to have to go and have another look in the attic. Not today though,’ Grace uttered, giving her sister a look of disgust.

  ‘Why?’ Amelia enquired, surprised.

  ‘It’s jam-packed full of stuff. I saw a stack of paintings against the eaves. There’s also an old trunk, a dolls’ house and a few wooden crates. You never know, there could be something of value hiding up there.’

  ‘Don’t expect me to come up with you.’ Amelia patted the sofa cushion beside her and Grace picked up one of the musty books. It was filled with recipes and she thumbed through it with little interest.

  ‘Wait a minute, what’s this?’ Grace stuck her finger in between two pages that were almost stuck together. It turned out to be a recipe for suet pudding, with some of the pudding still on the page. Amelia sensed her sister’s disappointment.

  ‘John Farrell was Lillian and Harry’s father, I’m sure of it,’ Grace insisted.

  ‘There does seem to be a connection,’ Amelia admitted reluctantly. The probability of being related to a murderer wasn’t something she could enthuse about. She glanced through the rest of the stuff in the box and lifted out a tattered brown envelope, emptying the contents onto the coffee table. ‘Here’s the answer to one of our questions,’ she said, opening out a legal document. It was a copy
of the Title Deeds transferring ownership of Primrose Cottage from Mr Leo Deverell to Lillian Farrell.’

  ‘I think we should find out what’s underneath the gravestone, sis,’ Grace said quietly.

  Amelia sighed audibly in response and dumped the books and papers back into the box. ‘Oh Grace, do you really think that’s necessary?’ she said tersely.

  ‘Yes, and it’s the logical thing to do. It’s the only way we are ever going to find out exactly what is buried there.’ Grace stood her ground.

  ‘You won’t be satisfied until you find a coffin, will you? Well, I’m not going grave robbing today, and if and when I do I’d prefer not to do it in the rain.’ Angrily Amelia carried the box into the conservatory and shoved it in a corner behind a large potted fern. Grace’s prediction had been correct. Amelia looked out of the conservatory windows and watched the rain pelting down, the noise on the glass roof deafening. The view outside of the garden was like a Monet painting, a smudged landscape. The gloom outside made mirrors of the glass and reflected the odd array of furniture and plants in the conservatory, and Amelia. Looking beyond her reflection, the dark mass of trees encroaching from the wood created an impenetrable screen. ‘They’re just ordinary trees,’ she muttered, holding a cool palm up to her forehead, a headache looming. Amelia peered at their menacing presence through the rain-washed windows. They’re challenging us, she thought irrationally, waiting for us to uncover their secret and pay the consequences, while they stand in judgement unmoved and unaffected. Amelia frowned pensively at her reflection in the window, and resting her hands on the small of her back she stretched her elbows back, releasing the tension across her chest. She hoped Grace would decide that digging up the gravestone would be too macabre to undertake. But, knowing Grace, she’ll probably want to do it on the stroke of midnight, Amelia thought miserably.

  Chapter 16

  After lunch the following day, resigned to the inevitable and armed with a spade and trowel, Amelia followed Grace down the garden towards the group of trees. Grace revelled in the prospect and as soon as they reached the gravestone she began heaving it over onto its side, where it rested at their feet. Grace grabbed the spade out of Amelia’s hand and began to dig, piling soil in a heap to her left. Amelia watched uneasily, but having promised to help she took over as soon as Grace tired. Grace, her palms sore, knelt at Amelia’s feet and used the trowel.

  ‘We could do with another spade. We’ll be here all day at this rate.’ Grace dug the trowel in deeper and added a small contribution to the pile of earth.

  Amelia stopped and wiped perspiration away from her brow. ‘We’re wasting our time anyway, there’s nothing here,’ she said.

  ‘We can’t give up yet, we’ve only just started. Take a break if you want to.’ Grace reached for the spade again and flung it into the soil with force.

  Amelia leaned against a tree and watched her sister acting like a girl possessed, shovelling soil as if her life depended on it. ‘I think I’ll go in and make some coffee. Do you want one?’ she asked, fed up with all the drama. Making coffee inside the cottage was a nicer prospect than shovelling soil.

  Grace puffed a ‘Yes please’ and dug out another clump of earth.

  At this deeper level the soil came away more easily and Grace began to make headway. As the hole deepened she stepped down into the hollow, and completely absorbed in her task she lost track of time. She looked towards the path occasionally, wondering what was keeping Amelia.

  An icy cold draught unexpectedly sliced through the air and instinctively Grace stiffened. The intense cold air seeped into her clothes and Grace crouched down into the hole for protection. Shivering, her skin and face chilled, she glanced above her at the trees. They stood tall and still, their motionless leaves on hold. From her disadvantaged position the complete silence unnerved her and gradually Grace shifted position and peeked over the top of the hole.

  Grace’s heart skipped a beat. A shadow moved from behind the headstone and edged its way towards Grace, gradually drawing closer. Grace pushed her hair away from her eyes and blinked. She had an urge to jump out of the hole and run, and even though feeling on the verge of a panic attack, her common sense reassured her.

  The girl Grace had seen in the garden when they’d first moved into the cottage stood a few feet away. Her dress, probably a deep rose when new, had faded to a dull puce. The hem at her ankles was torn and grimy and showed a glimpse of small bare feet. Her fingers, thin strips of white bone barely covered in flesh, clutched the crocheted shawl draped over her shoulders and around a tiny baby. Bronze curls peeped out from beneath a mop cap that framed her pale elfin face, and her lips, tinged blue, trembled. Two large hollows held Grace as if they were magnetic, and in their depths her eyes conveyed such a sadness they made Grace feel like weeping.

  Slowly Grace stood and stepped out of the hole. ‘Hello,’ she said in an attempt to communicate and find out what the girl wanted. In answer the girl whispered a name, soft and light, the sound hovering on the icy breeze.

  ‘Grace … Grace …’

  Not able to take her eyes away from the girl’s face, Grace backed up against a tree and slid down and hugged her knees. ‘How do you know my name?’ she said, her voice a whisper, matching that of the girl’s. The sound came again. It reverberated around the clearing, filling Grace’s head.

  The girl smiled and with outstretched arms she began to drift towards Grace. ‘Grace … Grace …’

  ‘Grace, Grace.’ Amelia stumbled along the path, carrying a tray holding two steaming mugs of coffee. ‘Here I am at last. Sorry I took such a long time,’ she said. Amelia hadn’t rushed, and she wasn’t really sorry. In fact she’d made herself a couple of rounds of toast and sat and ate them in the comfort of the kitchen before venturing down the garden again.

  When Amelia appeared the girl stopped her approach and began to move backwards towards the trees. Grace noticed the obscure figure of the scarred woman, waiting once again. Gradually, girl and woman faded into the shadows.

  As she set the tray down Amelia noticed the drop in the temperature. ‘It’s gone cold all of a sudden. Do you think we should call it a day?’ Grace remained sitting at the foot of the tree so Amelia moved closer and squatted down beside her. ‘You look frozen love; here, drink this.’ Amelia passed Grace a mug of coffee, noticing the tremor in her sister’s hands.

  Grace took the steaming mug and sipped slowly and after a few minutes the hot liquid began to take effect and she relaxed a little. ‘I’m glad you came back when you did,’ Grace said quietly.

  Amelia shrugged and couldn’t resist making a point. ‘You were the one insisting we do this.’

  Grace’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I saw the girl again, Amelia, and she said my name. I think this is her grave.’

  Amelia looked at the deep hole and discarded spade and trowel with a sinking heart. ‘Why would she be buried in the garden and not with the rest of her family?’ Amelia didn’t know what to make of it. She took the empty cup out of Grace’s hand and placed it on the tray. In an attempt to bring some warmth back into Grace’s icy fingers she began to massage them between her own.

  ‘How could she know my name?’ Grace slipped her hands out of Amelia’s. She blew her nose noisily then stuffed her handkerchief back into her jacket pocket, then stood and walked over to the hole and looked into it. ‘I think she’s asking for our help.’

  ‘I called you a few times as I came along the path, perhaps it was me you heard.’ Amelia went and stood by Grace’s side and after a few minutes Grace turned to her and said sadly,

  ‘Don’t believe me if you don’t want to, I don’t care! I know what I saw and heard. If you won’t help me, then I’ll do it on my own.’

  ‘I will help, I said I would.’ To prove the point Amelia bent and picked up the spade. ‘We’ll dig for another half an hour and if we still haven’t found anything I suggest we start fresh again tomorrow.’ To Amelia’s relief Grace nodded in agreement. ‘You’ve done wel
l,’ Amelia praised, before stepping into the dark hole, and with more than a few misgivings she began to dig.

  Then it was Grace’s turn again. After twenty minutes, just as Amelia was about to insist they give up, the spade clunked down on a hard surface. Grace bent down and scraped away loose soil and debris. The spade had hit an almost disintegrated wooden box.

  Grace climbed out of the hole and together they looked down on a narrow coffin. Instinctively Amelia crossed herself and Grace followed suit. Then without another word, leaving behind tools, mugs and tray, they fled back along the path to Primrose Cottage.

  1911

  Ellen’s grip was like steel on the reins. She had no need to guide the horse along the straight road, but she held onto the reins as though they were her life line, knuckles waxen in the pale light. The first few miles passed by in a daze, with Ellen’s good eye fixed on the back of the horse’s head. Again and again she re-lived what had happened the previous day and what she had done. Like pages in a picture book the events turned over in her mind, every detail etched clearly. She tried to dismiss it, tried instead to focus on Belle and the road. A watery mist hung over the meadows that stretched away on either side of the road and Ellen was glad she’d put on an extra woollen jumper underneath her coat. The haze drained away all colour, encompassing the trees and hedges in a grey hue. A barn owl flew overhead, hooting into the still sky. Ellen didn’t know how far they’d travelled, or indeed where they were, so she began to look out for a signpost. In the half-light she recognised the Old Water Mill in Rossett and realised they’d already passed over the border into North Wales.

  Amy had fallen into a fitful sleep, lulled by the continual rattle and motion of the cart as it trundled along. A sudden stillness woke her and she lay listening to her mother attending to the horse. Straw poking out of the blanket irritated her cuts and bruises, so she shifted her position slightly to alleviate the pain. The silence outside deepened and aware she could no longer hear her mother, Amy rose up on one elbow and called softly to her. ‘Mum.’ The still crisp air carried the sound, and Ellen climbed into the back of the cart. ‘Are we there?’ Amy asked.