Pengarron Dynasty

by Pengarron Dynasty (retail) (epub)

  ‘I’ve come with some news for you, Trenchard. News you’re going to hate.’

  Clem met the haughty gaze with one of equal contempt. ‘Get back to where you came from. You’ve got nothing to say I want to hear.’

  ‘I know that, Trenchard. You skulked about my aunt to try to get her to turn against my uncle, but it didn’t work. You might have won a battle or two but you didn’t win the war. They’ve made up their differences and are happier than ever. She wouldn’t have looked at you if not for Kane’s accident.’

  Bartholomew jumped down off the rock and leaned forward, mockingly. ‘Do you really think she’d prefer you in the end? Why do you think she married Sir Oliver in the first place? Because she liked what she saw, and she’s liked what she’s been getting from him all these years. She’s over her moments of foolishness. There won’t be a repetition. And my uncle is a changed man. If you had been in Pengarron Manor last night you would have seen exactly by how much. He’s lost the pride my aunt found so offensive. Face it, Trenchard, you lose again.’

  With painful resignation Clem accepted he was being told the truth. He couldn’t offer Kerensa anything more than clandestine meetings, and even though she had been wonderfully happy to be with him, making love to him with joy and tenderness, it was so much less than what Pengarron could give her.

  As long as Kerensa was happy it was all that mattered to him. ‘You’re enjoying this, Drannock. You always were a detestable wretch.’ Clem spat on the ground. ‘I curse the day you were born and the air you breathe.’

  ‘I’ve been cursed before, Trenchard, it doesn’t work.’ The sardonic amusement in Bartholomew was replaced by malevolent intent.

  Clem saw it and weighed the razor-sharp scythe in his hand.

  ‘That’s right, dirt-farmer. I haven’t come here to order you to stay away from my aunt but to make sure you do. I won’t let you remain a bother to my uncle a moment longer.’

  Clem braced himself for attack. Bartholomew drew out the pistol from his belt.

  Clem was shocked. ‘You’re going to kill me? Are you capable of cold-blooded murder?’

  A cold, chilling laugh. ‘In a word, yes.’

  Gracie heard Clem’s gasp of horror and leapt towards her master’s enemy. Bartholomew fired and Gracie was dead before she hit the ground.

  Letting out a cry of rage, Clem hurled himself forward, ready to cut the man down like a crop of brambles.

  Bartholomew coolly stepped back and produced a second pistol. ‘You’re next, Trenchard. Oh, don’t look so taken aback. You don’t really mind dying, do you? You’ve said a thousand times since my uncle stole away your bride that you’ve nothing left to live for. So, I’d be doing you a favour really, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Drannock, I—’

  ‘You don’t want to die? You’ve changed your mind? Too bad. Too late. You shouldn’t have stayed on in Mount’s Bay and seduced my aunt, bedevilled my uncle, the man I admire above all others.’

  Clem wasn’t afraid to die. Without first place in Kerensa’s heart it was back to the old soul-leaching loneliness, but suddenly the most important thing to him was to see his twins and Harry grow up – and he had Catherine and his grown-up children to live for too. ‘Please, wait, listen to me.’

  Bartholomew was concerned that the sound of the shot would have carried to the farm and someone would come hurrying to investigate its source. ‘Throw down the scythe and order your dogs to run off, but not home. We’ll talk.’

  Clem did this, keeping his eyes on Bartholomew’s hard face.

  Bartholomew came to within arm’s length of him and pointed the gun at his forehead.

  ‘You lied!’

  ‘You’re such a fool, Trenchard, I was merely making things easy for myself.’

  Clem ducked and threw himself at the other man’s body. Bartholomew lost his grip on the gun but smashed both hands across the back of Clem’s neck. Clem dropped to the spongy-wet ground. He felt an agonizing pain in his side as Bartholomew thrust his boot there, rolling him over to face the sky. Clem groaned, reaching round to his neck. His vision cleared and he saw Bartholomew now had a long-bladed knife in his hand.

  ‘See this, Trenchard? The natives in the islands of the South Seas use knives just like this one in ceremonial slayings. It’s capable of gutting a man in ten seconds. A quick slash across the throat will do for you.’ Bartholomew put the blade to Clem’s throat. ‘Say goodbye to whatever god you believe in.’

  In desperation Clem used all his strength to yell out and rear up. The knife thrust missed his throat and seared a deep path across his collar bone. Bartholomew grabbed him by the hair and smashed his head against the ground. Clem tried to fight him off, knowing it was useless. Drannock would pin him down and use his knife on him. He’d never see those he loved again. His last thought was that he was glad that Kerensa was happy.

  Of a sudden, his attacker was sent flying away from him, and Bartholomew sprawled among the bulrushes. He looked up and saw Philip Trenchard looming over him. Spying his gun, he reached out for it.

  ‘You all right, Tas?’ Philip glanced at Clem before looking down at Drannock, now splattered in black mud, his billycock hat knocked off. ‘Bartholomew Drannock? What in God’s name are you doing here? And why attack my father?’

  ‘Be careful, Philip,’ Clem managed to gasp. ‘He’s got a pistol.’

  Bartholomew had reclaimed the gun and was scrambling to get up off the waterlogged ground. Philip acted quickly, using a wrestler’s lunge to launch his brawny body through the air. Bartholomew fired, blasting a hole in Philip’s chest. Philip’s full weight hit Bartholomew in the head and shoulders, sending them both careering backwards. He landed heavily on top of Bartholomew. Philip stayed motionless.

  Bartholomew felt wetness underneath his top half and knew he had hit the edge of the bog. He pushed Philip off him, and in control now, leapt agilely upright.

  Clem was halfway up, shouting to his son.

  ‘Looks like I’ll have to dispatch two Trenchards in one day,’ Bartholomew gloated. He looked about for his knife and saw it glinting where it had landed, on the edge of a low mass of granite. Clem saw it too but wasn’t close enough to reach it first.

  Bartholomew swept his foot forward to move off, but something was gripping his other leg, making him unsteady. Philip had grabbed him and was unbalancing him. Bartholomew swung his free foot round to kick at Philip’s hand and free himself.

  It was Bartholomew’s undoing. He swayed precariously for an instant, then plunged backwards into the swamp. He felt with his feet to find the bottom, but there wasn’t one. The thick cloying mud would not allow him any movement. He was shoulder deep and sinking.

  Clem staggered over to Philip, who was lying with a hand on his bleeding, heaving chest. Falling to his knees, he lifted Philip’s head up and cradled him. ‘It’s all right, son. I’ll get help. Why did you come here?’

  ‘The post came with a letter for ’ee, Tas. I brought it out to ’ee.’

  ‘Trenchard, help me,’ Bartholomew cried out. ‘I’m sinking.’

  Clem looked at the man who had tried to kill him with no pity. He had shot his son close to the heart, and there was no point in him leaving Philip to go for help. Philip was dying. Because of this murderous brute, he was going to lose his son. Clem fought back the tears, he didn’t want Philip to die afraid.

  ‘I feel strange, Tas. All sort of sleepy.’

  ‘You just settle yourself, Phil. Think about your next wrestling match.’

  ‘Long time since you held me like this.’

  ‘Yes, a long time.’ And the last time.

  ‘That someone shouting?’

  ‘It’s just the wind, son. You close your eyes now.’

  Clem watched with tears coursing down his face as Philip’s eyelids shut. ‘I can see Mother.’

  The oozing black mud was covering Bartholomew’s shoulders. He was revoltingly, fearfully aware he couldn’t get out of the stinking slime. ‘For p
ity’s sake, Trenchard. I have a daughter! Please, please!’

  ‘Go to your mother, Philip,’ Clem said softly, stroking his son’s fair hair, made wet and dirty from the muddy water. ‘She’s waiting for you.’

  Philip’s face fell closer against Clem’s chest and he died. Clem bent his head over him and wept like he never had before.

  ‘Clem!’

  Bartholomew realized that Clem would not help him if he could. He was going to die! He was being sucked down into a thick, wet darkness. The peat would seep into his nostrils and down into his lungs, choking him, suffocating him.

  ‘Oh, God, help me!’ he cried as the mud closed over his mouth.

  Clem looked into Bartholomew’s eyes, they were filled with abject terror.

  Bartholomew twisted his neck vainly in an attempt to gain a little height, a little more time. Then he was drawn under millions of years of rotting vegetation, to a deserving death.

  Forty-Four

  Luke lifted his head off the plump, silk-covered pillows and stared up at the canopy over the bed. Extravagant, lustrous drapes, gold and orange and red in colour, flowed down out of sight.

  Where was he? With a struggle, he sat up. He was groggy, his head ached, his throat felt like parchment. Then he remembered where he had gone with Bartholomew last night, but after arriving here in the brothel he remembered nothing else.

  He groaned. He had not meant to get so drunk. He had a host of goodbyes to get through this morning before he went home and spent one more day and night at Polgissey, and he wanted to start his long, important journey to London with a clear head. He was thankful, at least, to be alone in the plushly furnished room.

  Once dressed, he tossed some coins on a table to join a profusion of spirit bottles and glasses.

  ‘My dear Mr Pengarron. My dear Luke. There’s no need for that. Your cousin has paid most handsomely for both of you.’

  ‘Eh? Oh, Mrs Nansmere. Frances. Good morning. Forgive me, I’m having a little trouble coming round.’

  The proprietor of the establishment, wearing a flimsy negligee, floated across the thick carpet of her own bedchamber towards him. Graceful, beautiful in an unrefined way, and once well-connected to one of the county’s foremost families, Frances Nansmere curtseyed to him, then fluttered her fingers up to expertly bind his necktie.

  ‘It’s long past morning, Luke.’

  ‘Damn! Not that I don’t enjoy lingering here.’ Luke massaged his muzzy brow, but could not help grinning manfully. ‘My cousin and I had a riot last night?’

  ‘Indeed, you did. I should say, your cousin knows a thing or two, he slipped a little something into your wine to make your night … a little more interesting. And you know I’m honoured to have you here, sir, at any time.’

  Frances gazed blatantly into his dark eyes. She took his hands in hers and moved them about in the feathery sweeps that was a custom of hers, reacquainting him with her delicate perfume. ‘Even though you’re, not unsurprisingly, feeling a little jaded right now, I’ve never seen you looking so well. Encouraged and positive at last, if you don’t mind me saying so. The girls and I missed you greatly while you were away in London, and then on your own estate. I beg you not to leave it too long to come and see us again when next you return.’

  The madame kept her personal favours for a select few of her clientele. Luke was one them and he felt privileged, although he regretted having no exciting memories to take away with him.

  Ignoring the thickness of his head, he raised her hands and kissed them sensuously. ‘I promise you, Frances, you’ll be one of the first of my friends I call on. Tell me, is my cousin astir?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’ Frances smiled gaily, while fetching Luke’s frockcoat. ‘Mr Drannock did not spend the night here.’

  ‘He did not take any of his own stuff?’

  ‘No, sir. He said he wanted to keep a clear head. He left Ellie after an hour, saying he had some business to attend to for Sir Oliver.’

  ‘How curious. My father said nothing of the kind to me. What could he want done at such a late hour? And why ask Bartholomew?’

  Luke rubbed his brow, recalling Bartholomew’s words of the previous evening: his thinly disguised threat towards Morgan Kinver if he failed Cordelia, and his remarks concerning Clem Trenchard. Is that where he could have gone, to warn Trenchard off? He remembered Bartholomew’s violence towards Alicia, his murderous intent towards Hal Kinver, and Alexander Longbourne’s blood-soaked corpse. His cousin was a cold-blooded killer. If he had ridden to the moor to confront Trenchard, perhaps his intention was more than to give a warning.

  ‘Frances, this is very important, can you tell me anything else?’

  Frances’s curling eyelashes flickered rapidly, the only sign of her curiosity at his urgency. ‘He seemed to be in a hurry.’

  ‘Perhaps he had a long journey to make,’ Luke muttered to himself. Then to Frances he said, ‘Order my horse to be made ready. I must go home to the manor without delay.’

  * * *

  Luke found his parents in the gardens with Samuel and Tamara, taking the fresh air.

  ‘There you are. We’ve all been ready and waiting for you and Bartholomew for ages,’ Kerensa said brightly, while noting uneasily his tense strides and that he was wearing yesterday’s clothes. ‘The others are inside.’

  ‘Is Bartholomew here?’ Luke called out, while still at a distance.

  ‘No.’ Oliver lifted Samuel up in his arms and advanced towards him. ‘Like your bed, his hasn’t been slept in. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Leave the children with the nursemaids. I need to talk to you both urgently. I fear something dreadful has happened.’

  Forty-Five

  ‘What do you mean, Luke, that you fear Bartholomew has gone off to murder Clem Trenchard?’ Oliver demanded incredulously, moments later in his study. ‘You’re not making any sense!’

  Luke was watching his mother with concern. She might take this news very hard.

  ‘Why should he do such a thing?’ she said, angry that Luke should come up with this ludicrous idea over Clem’s safety. It wasn’t true. How could it be?

  His fingertips together, Luke pointed out the facts as he knew them. ‘Bartholomew blames Trenchard for your recent troubles. He mentioned last evening that he’d go to any lengths to remove anything detrimental to the well-being of your marriage. I’m telling you, Father, Mama, that he is fully capable of such a crime. You don’t know what he’s become. It was he who murdered Lord Alexander Longbourne. He came down to Cornwall to ask you if he could leave his child here while he makes himself scarce and free again, but he was also sent by Sir Decimus Soames, to ascertain if I or Jack knew certain details in connection with Longbourne’s death. He’s lied to Soames to protect the family, or at least, because he sets such great store by you, Father. Otherwise, I don’t think he’d have spared Alicia Rosevear, he’s lied about her survival too.’

  Icy darts of fear for Clem rode up Kerensa’s spine. ‘Apart from gossip over this Lord Longbourne’s death I don’t know what you’re talking about, and full explanations can wait till later. If you really believe Bartholomew has gone to kill Clem, we have to do something!’ She looked steadily at Oliver. ‘I’m sorry, I have to know.’

  Oliver nodded and said gravely, ‘What we’ll say to the Trenchards if Luke’s fears prove unfounded, I’ve no idea, but that’s not important. The three of us will set out at once for Greystone’s.’

  At the beginning of the ride to Greystone’s Farm, Kerensa, Oliver and Luke prayed they would come across Bartholomew innocently making his way back to the manor. Later, as their mounts kicked up the dust and avoided the ruts and holes in the narrow, straggling lanes of the moor, they prayed not to find him returning from the violent deed that Luke feared he had slipped away to perform.

  ‘Why did you not tell me the truth about Bartholomew? Do you suppose I’d have continued to welcome even kin of mine under my roof after such a change of personality?’ Oliver a
sked Luke bluntly at one point.

  ‘I was going to tell you once I’d made sure he’d left Cornwall. He was all set to return to London immediately after Beatrice’s birthday party, but then Cordelia ran away.’

  When they closed in on the placid, solemn village of St Cleer, they halted at a small inn to water the horses. Kerensa paced up and down over the small square of dirty cobbled yard, desperate to continue.

  ‘Stay with your mother, Luke,’ Oliver said at the pump and animal trough. ‘I’ll go inside and ask directions to the farm.’

  The landlord, a short, fuzzy-haired man with black teeth, hurried out to meet him, bowing and touching his forelock. He listened avidly to Oliver’s request, then gave him brief directions. ‘’Tedn’t far, sur. Could see the farm from ’ere, ’cept for the ’ills. Someone t’ do with Mrs Trenchard, are ’ee? She’m a fine lady, been some good t’ the village, she ’ave. Even more so since we’ve bin buryin’ our dead from the fevers, one laid t’rest only this mornin’. Dreadful bizness though, she’ll take it ’ard.’

  ‘What are you saying? Is Trenchard dead?’ Oliver lowered his voice, slipping a few pennies into the landlord’s grimy hand.

  ‘Ais, dead an’ laid out. Constable’s been there. Bound to ’appen some day. Serve un right, I say.’

  Oliver thanked the landlord and stalked away, lest Kerensa overhear, so he missed the man’s last remark. ‘Should never ’ave done what ’e did t’ that little maid.’

  ‘What was he saying?’ Kerensa asked anxiously.

  Oliver lifted her quickly on to her pony’s sidesaddle. The landlord was heading their way to indulge in more gossip.

  ‘We’ll be there shortly, my dear. Try not to worry.’

  How was she going to take it when she learned Clem was dead? Oliver didn’t know how he felt about it, he would think about it later. Right now he had to be sensitive to Kerensa’s needs. He was committed to giving her as much of whatever sort of strength and consideration she asked of him. He hoped Trenchard’s death had not been too gruesome.