‘A staged event, is that what you mean?’
‘Yes,’ Will said, ‘and women are so predictable, you know. Most would want to drive through Hyde Park on a beautiful day, and a true lady, with manners bred in the bone, would always take her best friend home. If someone did cause the accident, they were relying on predictable behaviour.’
In the still of the night, when the din of the evening had passed, Edward lay in his bed unable to sleep. He was fully aware that as long as Lily was in danger sleep would elude him.
The shocking accident had driven everything else out of his mind; all he could think of was his darling Lily, her condition, and the loss of the child she was carrying.
He felt the pain of this most acutely, and he knew only too well how stricken she would be. Not long ago she had explained how much she wanted to have the baby. ‘I know that I can’t have you, Ned, at least not forever. One day you will leave me, to go and start a whole new life…and that’s one of the reasons I want our child…so that I can have a part of you with me for as long as I live.’ He had realized that night how much she truly loved him; tonight he had understood, finally, how much he loved her.
His mind ran on, filled with disturbing thoughts and worries. Would she come out of the coma? If she did, would her mind be impaired in any way? Would her physical injuries leave her damaged? On and on…he tossed and turned, restless, full of anxieties.
New demons began to creep into his head as he suddenly focused on Vicky’s injuries, and her wellbeing. And he began to struggle with her suspicions about the accident, weighed the possibility that she could be right.
Edward trusted Vicky’s judgement, had always respected her, admired her, considered her to be rock solid, just like her brother, Will. If she suspected foul play and evil hands at work, then so did he. How to find out, how to ascertain whether the Grant faction at Deravenels had been behind this ghastly occurrence?
By the time the clock in the corridor outside his room began to strike four, Edward finally flung back the bedclothes and got up. He went into his adjoining bathroom, shaved and bathed; in the bedroom, he dressed in his travelling clothes, then he went downstairs. He had packed a few things last night, and his small suitcase was in the vestibule, just off the Long Hall; next to it stood Will’s luggage.
He walked along the corridor to the kitchen and went into Mrs Latham’s private domain. But of course she was not there, not at four-thirty in the morning. He ran the tap at the sink, filled a glass with cold water and carried it back to his father’s office.
Once seated at the desk, he took a piece of writing paper and began a letter to his mother. Mostly he thanked her for her concern of the night before, and her kindness to him, her heartfelt sympathy. She was a great lady, Cecily Deravenel; she had shown him nothing but compassion, love and understanding in his grief, and when he had confided that Lily had miscarried his child in the accident his mother had wept.
When he came to the end of the letter he told her he would remain in London until Lily was out of danger and well on the way to recovery. Only then would he contemplate returning to Ravenscar, most probably in July or August, to spend time with the family.
He had just sealed the letter when the telephone on the desk began to ring, and he picked it up at once. ‘Ravenscar,’ he said, ‘Edward Deravenel here.’
‘Oh, Ned, it’s you…er…er…actually I expected Jessup to answer, it’s Stephen.’
‘Good morning, Stephen. Do you wish to speak to Will? Or is it me you’re looking for?’
There was a hesitation, a painful silence, and somehow, deep in his soul, Edward Deravenel knew what Stephen Forth was about to say to him. Instinctively, he braced himself.
‘I’m so sorry to call at this hour…However, Will said you would be leaving at dawn for London, I didn’t want to miss you. Ned…I have the worst news…’ His voice took on a quavery tone and he could not continue.
Edward said, ‘Is it about…Lily?’ ‘Yes,’ Stephen whispered.
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry, Ned.’
‘Thank you for calling,’ he answered, his voice husky. He hung up, unable to speak another word.
He sat staring out into the room, a room he had always loved but which now seemed so alien to him. Blinded by tears, he pushed himself to his feet and rushed out, knocking over a small occasional table in his haste, not even bothering to stand it up. Unlocking the French windows he went down the steps cut through the hanging gardens, moving at breakneck speed and he did not stop until he came to the ancient stronghold on the promontory overlooking the North Sea.
As he went into the circular ruin which had once been a watchtower the light changed, and dawn suddenly broke. A pure crystalline light silvered the edge of the horizon, spread upward to illuminate the skies with radiance.
‘Lily! Lily!’ he cried out loud, lifting his eyes to the sky. Then leaning against the stone wall, he wept for her and for their baby until there were no tears left in him.
As he straightened and wiped his face with his hands an icy coldness settled over him, and his heart turned to steel. He stood there looking out to sea, and cursed the Grants. Those bloody bastards…they had killed his father and his brother, his uncle and his cousin, and now his woman and his child.
‘I swear to God I shall not rest until I have destroyed the Grants of Lancaster,’ he screamed into the wind. Then he turned and strode towards the chapel…To say a prayer for Lily and the child he had never known.
THIRTY-EIGHT
London
‘I’m all right, really I am,’ Vicky said, looking up at Fenella. ‘I’m perfectly comfortable.’
‘I just want to put another pillow behind your back,’ Fenella Fayne answered, and did so swiftly. ‘I had a broken rib myself once, and I felt much better sitting up rather than lying down.’
‘It’s true,’ Vicky replied. ‘I didn’t realize you were something of a Florence Nightingale! And thank you for the flowers, they’re lovely. You’re spoiling me, Fenella.’
Her friend merely smiled, seated herself in the chair next to the large sofa in Vicky’s downstairs parlour, where Vicky was spending most of her time. Her leg, because of a break in the shin bone, was in a plaster-of-paris cast, and she found it difficult to climb the steep stairs to the upper floors in the house.
Before she could stop herself, Fenella now leaned forward and straightened the colourful, crocheted wool afghan which covered Vicky’s legs. Leaning back in the chair, she asked, ‘How is Edward Deravenel? Have you seen him again?’
‘Yes, he came for tea yesterday, with Will. He’s taking it hard. Not that you would know it, actually. He’s very self-controlled, holds himself in check, but I know how much he feels it inside. He loved Lily. The accident, the loss of their child and her death…well, all I can say is that he is utterly devastated.’
‘I’m not surprised, Vicky, I’ve known him for years and I’ve always liked him. So many people dismiss him as an empty-headed, amiable young man who spends his time chasing the ladies but I’m acquainted with a different Edward. Also, my father has a lot of time for him, thinks he’s quite brilliant. Much brighter and more focused and ambitious than his father Richard ever was, according to Papa.’
‘Will would only agree with you,’ Vicky murmured, and fell silent. After a few seconds, she continued in a worried voice, ‘I’m afraid Will is rather angry with me. He said I shouldn’t have told you about my suspicions regarding the accident, and that you shouldn’t have told Mark Ledbetter.’
Fenella frowned. ‘But why on earth shouldn’t you tell me? We’re old friends, close friends! I mentioned it in passing to Mark because he’s with Scotland Yard. It occurred to me that he might be able to find that incompetent rider, who wasn’t all that incompetent after all, was he? If he did set out to cause an accident. Surely you want some sort of justice, don’t you, Vicky?’
‘That’s just it, the Scotland Yard part. Wi
ll says Edward doesn’t want Scotland Yard poking around in Deravenel business.’
‘I see,’ Fenella replied. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve caused problems, Vicky, but I’m afraid it’s too late. Mark said he would come this morning, around eleven o’clock to have coffee with us. He wanted to ask you a few questions.’
Vicky sighed and bit her lip. ‘Then I shall answer them, Fenella, there’s nothing else I can do. But I do hope Mark’s investigation dies a natural death…that’s what Will and Edward hope, too.’
No sooner had these words left her mouth than the doorbell rang, and she glanced through the open door of the parlour, saw the housekeeper, Mrs Dixon, hurrying to answer it. Glancing at the clock on the white marble mantlepiece, she said, ‘If this is Mark, he’s a little early.’
As Chief Inspector Mark Ledbetter came into the parlour, Fenella quickly stood up, and went to greet him. ‘You are so very prompt. Always,’ Fenella said, as he bent to kiss her on the cheek.
Mark smiled. ‘Only by a few minutes,’ he murmured and went across the room, leaned over and took Vicky’s hand, kissed it with a small show of old-fashioned gallantry. ‘Good morning, Vicky, I do hope you’re feeling a trifle more comfortable.’
‘Yes, I am, thank you, Mark. And good morning.’ Vicky looked up at him, and added, ‘Why don’t you sit in the chair near the fireplace, it’s very comfortable.’
‘Of course,’ he agreed, and did as she asked.
Fenella said, ‘Mrs Dixon will be bringing coffee in a few minutes, Mark, unless you would prefer tea.’
‘Coffee’s fine, thank you very much,’ he answered, leaning back in the armchair. Glancing over at Vicky, he sounded sympathetic as he said, ‘It was quite an ordeal you had on Monday. I was saddened to hear of Mrs Overton’s death. Such a terrible tragedy. I’m so sorry.’
Vicky nodded, and her eyes filled with tears. This happened a lot at the moment; she blinked them away.
Fenella, deciding to jump right in, and possibly diffuse the situation, said, ‘Mark, I’m afraid Vicky is now beginning to think she might have been overly-imaginative in her theories about the incident in Hyde Park. Not that Vicky is given to flights of fancy, mind you, she’s really very down to earth. Nevertheless, she’s rather sorry I troubled you.’
‘I’ve always been a firm believer in women’s intuition, Fenella, you should know that by now. And you, Vicky, were an eye-witness to an unusual occurrence, one that does leave me wondering a little. It sounds quite bizarre.’
‘It does, and it was,’ Vicky responded. ‘Everything happened so suddenly, so quickly…I’m sure there’s never ever been an accident quite like that before, especially in Hyde Park.’
Mark nodded his agreement, went on in a conversational tone, ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened on Monday morning, from the moment you left this house and went to Fenella’s in Curzon Street, to later, when the landau entered the park.’
‘All right,’ Vicky agreed, and did so, carefully taking him through her activities that day.
Mark listened attentively, and when she had finished he said, ‘Could you please describe the man again, the rider?’
‘He was dark-haired, had dark eyes. I thought they were hard, knowing, perhaps even cruel. There was a …malevolence about him, the way he looked at me and at Lily. And he had the appearance of a foreigner.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Mark asked curiously, his eyes not leaving her face.
‘I’m not sure, but it did strike me that he wasn’t English.’ Vicky stared off into the distance, narrowing her eyes, trying to remember, and then turning back to Mark, she said, ‘His skin was a little…swarthy, I think that’s the best word to use. Then the long scar down one cheek gave him a devilish look, piratical. He just wasn’t…normal in his appearance, not the kind of rider one would expect to see in Hyde Park on a spring afternoon.’
‘What about his clothes?’ Mark probed. ‘Were they the sort of togs an Englishman would wear for riding?’
‘No…’ Vicky paused, sounding hesitant. ‘I remember thinking how English and properly dressed Horace Bainbridge was—he’s the man who knows Stephen and came to speak to me after the carriage overturned. I remember thinking that he was wearing proper riding clothes…I may have been making a comparison. The dark-haired man wore a burgundy jacket…the cut and the tailoring were off.’ She nodded her head. ‘Yes, now that I really am thinking, I realize the jacket was more European in style, and he had on strange trousers, not riding breeches. Actually, Mark, I do believe they were the trousers of a suit…yes, they matched the jacket. He must have pushed them into his riding boots.’
Mark reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, brought out a folded piece of paper, walked across to Vicky and handed it to her. ‘Is this the man, do you think?’
Opening the piece of paper, Vicky stared down at the sketch on it, and immediately caught her breath. ‘Why yes, Mark, it is! That’s him. How did you get this?’
At this moment Mrs Dixon and Elsie, the parlour maid, came into the room, each carrying a silver tray. ‘Excuse me, madame,’ the housekeeper said to Vicky with a small smile, and hurried to a console table under the window. She placed the tray holding the coffee pot and cups and saucers on one end of the table, and made room for the tray Elsie was carrying. Coffee was poured, cream and sugar offered, and Elsie then took the plate of biscuits around to everyone. Within seconds the two women had departed.
Mark took a sip of his coffee, then began to explain. ‘Last night a dead body was found in the East End, down near the docks in Limehouse. The man had a gunshot wound to his head, and it certainly looks as if he was murdered. From the angle of the wound it could not have been self-inflicted. When this murder was brought to my attention early this morning, it struck me that the description fitted the one Fenella had passed on to me. I had one of my men make the sketch, and I later went to the morgue myself to view the victim and look at his clothes. Although all the labels had been cut out, the clothing did appear to be European-made.’ Mark nodded and pursing his lips, he added, ‘And as you’ve probably guessed, the jacket and trousers were both cut from burgundy coloured cloth. But even without taking the clothes into consideration, the long scar on one cheek was enough to identify him as the rider who caused the accident. At least to me.’
‘There’s no question in my mind either,’ Vicky said in a firm tone. ‘This is the man. Most definitely.’
Mark finished his coffee, stood up, walked across to the console table, put the cup and saucer on the tray. Returning to the fireplace, he stood with his back to it, his expression reflective. Finally, he said, ‘Maybe this foreign-looking fellow was merely a poor rider, an incompetent, unable to handle his steed well, and he therefore got into trouble with an overly skittish, disturbed horse, and panicked. Perhaps it was, pure and simple, a terrible accident that led to an enormous tragedy.’ He looked from Fenella to Vicky, focused on the latter. ‘That could be true, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘On the other hand, what if it wasn’t? Let’s just suppose it was all staged. Why would anyone target you and Lily Overton, Vicky? Who would want to do either of you harm? And real harm at that?’
Vicky swallowed, steadying herself, and remembered the written words which had been given to her last night by Edward. Words she had memorized, following Will’s most explicit instructions. Slowly, she began, ‘I don’t think anyone wished to harm me, no, not at all. If there was a target it was Lily.’ Now she paused, as Will had instructed her to do, and waited for Mark to ask his next question.
‘Why would someone wish to harm Lily?’ Mark asked.
Edward had predicted he would focus on Lily now, and she was ready with her answer. ‘My brother, Will Hasling, has felt for a long time that Edward Deravenel has an enemy, or indeed enemies, who wish to cause him harm. Some months ago, Edward was himself attacked one night, and badly beaten up. So much so he was in hospital. I know from Will that it was an Inspector La
idlaw who looked into the attack. No culprit was ever found, nor do my brother, or Edward, know why anyone would wish to hurt him, or who those enemies might be. It’s all a bit of a mystery.’
‘So Lily Overton was a target because of her friendship with Edward Deravenel, that is what you’re saying, isn’t it?’ Mark sounded momentarily puzzled.
‘I am,’ Vicky answered. ‘Unless, of course, I’m being a little imaginative about the rider of the horse that went berserk. It could have been accidental, as we agreed a moment ago.’
‘I understand what you mean. On the other hand, perhaps you’re not imagining anything. After all, the rider is now a murder victim. If he was hired they certainly got rid of him awfully quickly. The accident was Monday, he died last night, which was Wednesday. The disposal of the only genuine witness to a staged killing, the killer himself, has been rendered ineffectual, and most rapidly, wouldn’t you say? All very convenient.’
Vicky simply nodded, since she had been instructed to say nothing more than she had already said.
Fenella glanced at Mark, and asked, ‘So what’s the next step? What are you going to do?’
‘We will endeavour to put a name to the body, and obviously we must attempt to find the person who shot the man. Hopefully we’ll be lucky, and come up with something.’ Mark shrugged, ‘However, some of these cases are hard to crack.’
‘It all sounds like a wild-goose chase to me,’ Vicky pronounced in a strong tone, silently praying Mark Ledbetter would drop the case, sooner rather than later. She hated the idea that she might have caused more heartache for Edward. Better the whole thing remained a mystery rather than have Mark digging into things which did not concern Scotland Yard.
The Ravenscar Dynasty Page 36