The Ravenscar Dynasty

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Edward cut off the chatter at the next table, and fell down into his own thoughts, reminding himself that he had promised his Little Fish another book by Rudyard Kipling. He must order it tomorrow. And Lily’s birthday was coming up. He wanted to buy her a beautiful piece of jewellery; he wasn’t sure how to do this, unless he borrowed from his mother. Money. He needed it badly—

  All conversation suddenly stopped, the room went totally quiet. Edward glanced at the door and smiled to himself. Neville was standing there, looking for all the world like the reigning monarch of all he surveyed. Elegantly dressed as always, and supremely self-confident, he strode into the room with panache, nodding to the different men who greeted him. He had arrived with a flourish, had caused quite a stir.

  Edward rose and clasped his cousin’s hand as Neville drew to a standstill at the table.

  ‘Where are the others?’ he asked, sitting down.

  Edward, also sitting, explained, ‘They went to have a game of billiards.’

  Neville nodded, motioned to the waiter, ordered the same as Edward, then settled back in the chair. ‘Would you care for a cigar?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Edward replied, and went on, ‘Inspector Laidlaw came to see us at Deravenels today.’ He gave Neville a sharp look.

  ‘I assumed he would. The coroner’s verdict is in all of the afternoon papers,’ Neville answered. ‘Accidental death, so I read.’

  Their eyes locked and there was a moment’s silence.

  Finally, it was Edward who murmured in a low voice, ‘Yes, that’s what Inspector Laidlaw told us. He said no crime had been committed, also pointed out that there was no reason for Aubrey Masters to commit suicide, at least as far as he had been able to ascertain. The inspector characterized the man’s life as humdrum, a plain life.’

  Neville nodded, pursed his lips, looked thoughtful. ‘The money he stole from Deravenels has to be somewhere, Ned. In his bank account, I presume, which is now his wife’s bank account. Unless he had another woman in his life, or made other arrangements. It could well be hidden.’

  ‘Laidlaw made a point of saying there were no other women around—well, to the best of his knowledge. But that doesn’t mean Mildred Masters has it. He might have opened an account with another bank, which she has no inkling of,’ Edward suggested.

  ‘Perhaps. In that case, the money is most probably lost, Ned, unless he left instructions with the bank. Or in his will. Regarding the disposal of his wealth. I doubt Deravenels will ever see a penny. If only we had some documentation about his personal finances—’ Neville broke off, shaking his head. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘I agree, I don’t suppose we’ll ever get our hands on that,’ Ned muttered, irritated at the thought.

  ‘You may well be right,’ Neville agreed. ‘C’est dommage.’

  Neville picked up his whisky and soda, which had arrived a moment or two before. ‘Good health, Ned.’

  Edward lifted his glass, brought it to touch his cousin’s. ‘Good health,’ he repeated.

  ‘Where would you like to dine tonight?’ Neville now asked, wanting to change the subject, not wishing to discuss Masters any further at the moment.

  ‘Wherever you wish,’ Edward answered. ‘The Savoy? Rules?’

  ‘Ah, here come Johnny and Will! Let’s ask them about their preference.’

  Margot Grant stared at John Summers and cried, ‘Accidental death! This verdict is a travesty! Aubrey was murdered. I know he was…in my heart I know it. Oh, mon dieu, it is a travesty.’

  ‘Margot darling, please calm down. Inspector Laidlaw came to see me today and explained everything. Scotland Yard did a very thorough investigation, and they are absolutely certain no crime was committed.’

  ‘Nonsense! I know he was murdered. They did it! They killed him.’

  John leaned back on the sofa, his eyes on hers. She sat behind the desk in the panelled library of her house in Upper Grosvenor Street, and as usual looked impossibly beautiful, sexually inviting. And imperious. Also somewhat outraged at this moment. When she was angry her voice grew shrill and her French accent became more pronounced, and he always wanted to flee for safety.

  Taking a deep breath, John said, ‘There is no evidence that the Deravenels did anything. Laidlaw agrees with the coroner’s verdict that this was an unfortunate accident. You know as well as I do that Aubrey Masters had the weirdest eating habits. I am certain he ingested digitalis by accident.’

  ‘I do not believe this.’

  ‘If it was not an accident then it must have been intentional, suicide,’ John suggested, his voice even and steady, reflecting his unruffled demeanour.

  ‘Suicide. Bah, he wouldn’t do that! Non, non, jamais.’

  John remained silent, thinking of the discrepancies he had recently discovered in the accounts which pertained to the mining division. As yet he couldn’t quite fathom out what Masters had been up to, and who else might be involved. If there was a problem, that is. He decided not to mention this new and troubling development to Margot. She was far too volatile tonight, and he had no intention of inflaming her further.

  Suddenly the door opened and Henry Grant stood on the threshold, wearing an old blue velvet dressing gown and slippers and looking rumpled. There was a vacant expression on his face and in his eyes a lost look.

  ‘Ah, Margot, there you are,’ Henry began and shuffled into the room, a man old beyond his years.

  At once, Margot stood up, went across the floor and took hold of his arm. ‘Come, Henry, sit down, John is here, he came to visit you.’

  Henry turned. A gentle smile spread across his face when he saw his cousin. He shuffled forward, offering his hand.

  Immediately, John was on his feet, shaking Henry’s hand, smiling, affecting a look of pleasure. But inside he was troubled and dismayed. More than ever, the head of Deravenels seemed more like a doddering old fool than a captain of industry. He must be kept out of sight. That was imperative.

  ‘Good evening, Henry,’ John said, and led the other man over to the sofa. They sat down together, and John went on, ‘How’re you feeling this evening? A little better, I hope.’

  ‘Oh yes. I was waiting for Father O’Donovan, but perhaps he is late. Mmmmm. Ah well, never mind. And how is your father? Haven’t seen him lately.’

  Before John could respond, Margot said, ‘Now John, Henry, shall we have a coupe? A little champagne will be good, no? A healthy drink, my grandmother told me.’ Without waiting for an answer she rang the bell on her desk.

  ‘That will be nice,’ John responded at last.

  Henry said nothing, had lapsed into silence on the other end of the sofa, his eyes already closed. He was drifting with his pious dreams.

  The butler appeared in the doorway. ‘Can I be of service, madame?’

  ‘Oui, Turnbull. Champagne please.’

  He inclined his head and left.

  Margot moved towards her husband. ‘Henry, Henry, are you tired? Are you sleeping?’ She bent over him, solicitous.

  Henry Grant roused himself and sat up straighter. ‘Tired, yes, I think I shall go back to my room.’

  ‘I will help you,’ she murmured in a kindly tone.

  ‘No, no, John will accompany me.’ He turned to his cousin in a helpless way, and then smiled faintly. ‘Please.’

  ‘Of course, Henry,’ John replied at once and took hold of the older man’s arm, led him out of the library.

  Margot stood in the middle of the floor, fulminating inside. Men. They were impossible. Henry was a pious, ineffectual idiot; John Summers was a fool. He believed the words of this stupid policeman Laidlaw, believed the coroner’s verdict. She was right. She knew it. The Deravenels had murdered Aubrey Masters, and they were getting away with it.

  At this moment John came back into the room, followed by Turnbull with the silver bucket of champagne on a silver salver, and crystal flutes.

  Within seconds they were both toasting each other with the sparkling wine, and went to sit together on the sofa.
Margot made a tremendous effort to curb her anger, and said more softly, with a light smile, ‘And did Henry have secrets to confide in you, John darling?’

  He shook his head and answered swiftly, frowning. ‘He wanted to talk about Edouard. He says he wants me to take him down to Eton to visit his son.’ John eyed her carefully, through appraising eyes, always curious when he mentioned the boy who might be his father’s bastard, his half-brother. ‘What do you think of that?’

  ‘It’s a splendid idea,’ she answered, not in the least put out. ‘He has not displayed much interest in Edouard lately. Will you do it?’

  ‘Naturally. But you will accompany us, won’t you?’ Not waiting for an answer he leaned into her, kissed her full on the mouth. ‘It will be unbearable if you don’t,’ he added.

  ‘I shall come with you. And my life is unbearable without you. I need to see you alone, chéri, be with you.’ She dropped her voice. ‘I need to be with you in your bed, in your arms. Ah, John, my life is empty, miserable without you…’

  Placing his glass of champagne on a side table, he then did the same with hers. Drawing closer, he pulled her into his arms, began to kiss her passionately. She responded with an ardour that more than matched his, and then suddenly pulled away. Against his cheek, she whispered, ‘It is not safe here. Let’s go out. Now. Take me to your house…please. Please.’

  He did as she begged, longing for her just as much as she longed for him. Within minutes they were in his carriage driving across town.

  THIRTY

  The streets of Whitechapel were dark by the time Amos Finnister arrived there, and after paying off the hansom cab he went in search of his favourite pieman. All afternoon he had dreamed about one of those wonderful meat-filled pies, oozing gravy, and he was now determined to have one, if not indeed two.

  Sometimes the vendor had his cart set up on Commercial Street but tonight there was no sign of him. Amos knew he would be around somewhere in the area and set off to find him. He did so ten minutes later; he spotted the cart and the most fragrant smells wafting towards him announced that it was the same chap he had patronized before.

  Sure enough it was, and the vendor greeted him with a cheery grin, said in his breezy Cockney way, ‘Evenin’, guv, I knew yer’d be back ’ere again. Best pies, that I ’ave.’

  ‘You certainly do, and my compliments to your wife. I’ve never found any more delicious than hers. I’m even tempted to buy two tonight.’

  ‘Go on then, sir,’ ave a splurge.’

  Amos nodded ‘I think I will.’

  The vendor lifted a pie out of the tray with the metal tongs, showed it to Amos and put it in a small white bag, dipped a ladle into a pot, added thick beef gravy on the crust. He followed the same procedure with the second pie, then placed the two white bags into a larger one made of brown paper.

  Reaching into his pocket, Amos brought out fourpence, handed the money over, and took the bag. ‘I’ll be back next week, all being well.’

  ‘See yer, guv,’ the vendor said, and saluted, grinning as he did so.

  Amos walked through the streets until he found the small cul-de-sac where he had eaten his pies in the past. It was a quiet spot, a bit off the beaten track; a gas lamp nearby added illumination to the area. As he put the bag of pies on the wall and sat down, Amos glanced around. Immediately he noticed the old wooden cart, which hadn’t been there before. Somebody had obviously dumped it; without wheels, it was dilapidated and certainly of no use to anyone in its present state.

  Taking a pie out of the bag, his mouth watering, he bit into it at once, savouring that first bite. Like this area, the pie reminded him of his father and the carefree time of his childhood long ago. That was the reason he liked to come to Whitechapel so often these days. For the memories.

  He had only taken a second bite when he heard a strange mewling sound, like a small animal in pain. He looked around his feet, scanning the ground, but there was no stray dog or cat in sight. There it was again, the mewling. Amos glanced toward the cart and was completely taken aback at the sight of a small face peering over the edge. Light-coloured eyes were just visible under a flat cap, were enormous in the dirty face; the mouth was distorted as if the small boy was in some sort of pain.

  Putting the pie down, Amos jumped up, walked across to the cart; instantly, the boy scurried away from the edge, cowering, afraid.

  ‘Now, now, what do we have here?’ Amos asked in a soft voice, smiling, not wishing to frighten the child any further.

  There was total silence.

  He said again, ‘So, what do we have here then?’

  ‘Nuffin’,’ the child answered, ‘nuffin’.’

  ‘Oh, but I think you’re something.’

  ‘Ain’t. I’m nuffin’.’

  ‘My name’s Amos. What’s yours?’

  ‘Liddle Bugger.’

  ‘No, no, come along, lad, it can’t be that. Tell me your name.’

  ‘That’s wot ’e calls me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man,’ im as kicked me out, kilt me muvver,’ e did.’

  Amos felt the hackles rising on the back of his neck, and an involuntary shiver ran through him. He asked in the same gentle voice, ‘Where do you live, lad?’

  ‘’ere.’

  ‘In this neighborhood?’

  ‘Naw,’ ere.’

  ‘Do you mean you live in this cart?’

  The boy nodded, and sniffed, then sniffed again.

  Amos suddenly understood that the child could smell the pie, and he cursed himself under his breath. Why hadn’t he understood that before? The boy had looked out of the cart because of the pie. ‘Hungry, lad? Do you want something to eat?’

  The boy nodded, suddenly came closer to the edge of the cart and looked at the wall where the pies were.

  Amos said nothing more. He reached into the cart and lifted the boy out before he could protest. He was light as a feather, frail, and as Amos put him down on the cobblestones he wobbled slightly, then steadied himself. The child wore an old torn jacket, a pair of ragged pants and broken boots. And he was filthy.

  ‘Come along then, let’s have some of that pie,’ Amos said cheerily.

  Unexpectedly, the boy hung back, all of a sudden wary and cautious, his eyes darting around nervously.

  Amos took hold of his hand in an easy way, said, ‘Let’s tuck in together, shall we, laddie? Get to know each other.’

  The boy was silent but put up no struggle. Once they were at the wall Amos lifted him up onto it, opened the brown bag and took out the other pie, handed it to him. ‘This is for you.’

  The boy hesitated for only a split second, then took it, bit into it, gobbling it ravenously, obviously starving.

  Watching him, Amos was suddenly angry and sickened. What sort of country did he live in when little boys could roam the streets, in dire need of food, clothing and shelter? It made his blood boil. All the wealth in this lush Edwardian era and bairns starving on the streets of London. Appalling, it was.

  The child suddenly stopped eating, and looking across at Amos he offered him the pie. ‘’Ere,’ ave a taste.’

  Shaking his head, Amos picked up his own pie and began to eat, and after a mouthful or two, he explained, ‘One each, you see. I must have known I was going to meet you.’

  ‘’Ow yer know’d that then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, lad. I suppose I just did. Would you like a drink? Water, milk, something like that?’

  The boy nodded, his eyes eager.

  ‘We have to go and get it,’ Amos explained, and took a bite out of his pie. ‘I’m full,’ he murmured, looking at the child. ‘Why don’t you finish it for me?’

  Shaking his head the boy jumped off the wall, stepped backward, looking worried.

  ‘Shame to waste it, really,’ Amos muttered almost to himself, and put the remainder of the pie on the wall.

  After a moment the child started to reach for it, then paused, his big eyes resting on Amos. He wanted the
pie but appeared afraid to touch it.

  ‘It’s all right, you can have it. I told you I’m full to bursting,’ Amos remarked.

  Once the piece had been demolished by the child, Amos stood up, stretched out his hand and said, ‘Come on, let’s go and find that glass of milk, shall we?’

  ‘Naw, can’t go.’

  ‘Why not? It isn’t very far.’

  ‘Can’t leave me cart.’

  ‘It’ll be quite safe, I’m sure of that,’ Amos assured him.

  ‘’Ow long?’

  ‘You mean how long to get there? How far it is?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Ten, fifteen minutes, that’s all.’

  Instantly the boy shrank back, shaking his head vehemently. ‘Naw, naw, stayin’ ’ere. It’s safe ’ere.’

  Crouching down, looking into the child’s scared face, Amos said in the warmest voice he could muster, ‘Tell you what, I know you’re tired, how about I carry you there? We’ll have a glass of milk and then I’ll bring you back to the cart. Or take you wherever you want to go. I promise.’

  The child stared back at him, his eyes appearing even larger, and he suddenly smiled. ‘Cross yer ’eart an’ ’ope ter die?’ he said, staring hard at Amos.

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  Darting to the cart, the boy scrambled inside, and reappeared a moment later clutching a dirty cloth bag tied at the top with string. He clambered out of the cart and stood looking up at Amos.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ Amos asked, reaching for it.

  The boy clutched it to his body, shaking his head harder than ever, fearful again. ‘Naw, naw, it’s me fings! Yer can’t ’ave it.’

  ‘It’s all right, laddie, I don’t want it. I thought you might like me to carry it, that’s all. Anyway, I’ll carry you, and you can carry your bag, and that’ll be fine.’

  There was only a moment’s hesitation, and then the boy confided, ‘Me mam says that…cross me ’eart an’ ’ope ter die.’

  ‘So she’s not dead?’

  ‘Yeah, she is…she’s in Potters Field.’

  Cursing himself once more for his thoughtlessness, Amos bent down and picked the boy up in his arms, carried him out of the cul-de-sac and up towards Commercial Street, singing, ‘Onward Christian soldiers, going off to war, with the Cross of Jesus going on before.’