It was Ovid’s third time spying and he had never seen either Millicent or her father smile. Mr Hartwell was a large man with a bald head and a bulldoggish face. He had a habit of wiping his hands on his white overalls, so there were diagonal red stains around his large belly. Millicent wore matching overalls but hers were spotless. Ovid had seen Mrs Hartwell on his first visit, but since then it was always Millicent who dealt with the customers. Mr Hartwell spent most of his time in the back room, cutting, chopping, dicing and mincing. Millicent was standing as still as a statue in the empty shop when Uncle Harry entered. Ovid shifted to get a better position but a bus stopped in front of him, blocking his view. Its brakes hissed and the doors slid open.
‘Master Thornthwaite,’ said the driver. ‘Hop on then.’
‘I’m not here for the bus, thank you,’ replied Ovid.
‘Why are you waiting at a bus stop then?’
‘You can stand at a bus stop without waiting for a bus.’
‘You can indeed. But why would you?’
‘That’s not really any of your business.’
The driver chuckled. ‘I’m not scheduled to leave for another two minutes, so if you’re staying here, you’re staying here with me.’
‘Can’t you leave early?’
‘Could do.’ The driver pulled out a rolled-up newspaper from beside his seat. ‘But when you leave early, people who know the timetable, which most people do around here, get awful irate with old Dickie here because they like to leave things to the last minute. No, it’s not worth the hassle to leave early.’
‘That’s fascinating …’
‘Yes, everyone knows everyone around here. You’re the third generation of Thornthwaites I’ve known. I remember your grandfather, Silas. He was a mean old soul. He used to come round the village himself on rent day. Didn’t trust his servants not to pocket the payments, you see.’
‘Yes, I’d heard that …’ said Ovid.
‘I even went to your parents’ wedding. That was quite a day. Your father certainly didn’t inherit old Silas’s meanness. I’ve never seen such a do.’
‘You knew my parents?’
‘Not especially, but, see, your old man didn’t have many friends so he hired a bunch of us from the village to sit on his side of the church.’
Ovid understood how pathetic it sounded that his father had to hire guests for his own wedding, but he was hardly swimming in friends himself.
‘I actually got picked to be an usher,’ continued the bus driver. ‘I would have said no but he paid extra for ushers and I was saving up to impress a girl.’
‘Are girls impressed by money then?’
‘Some are. This one wasn’t, as it happened. She went off with a fella by the name of Artie Newly who didn’t have a penny to his name.’ Ovid was unsure why the bus driver had decided to give him his life story, but he was showing no signs of stopping. ‘You know her, I believe. Eileen Griddle. She works up the manor now.’
‘Nurse Griddle?’ said Ovid.
He nodded. ‘Only Artie died when …’
‘He drowned in the lake,’ said Ovid. ‘Yes, I know this story. He got drunk and bet his friend he could swim across the lake fastest.’
‘And have a guess who that other man was.’ The bus driver pointed at himself. ‘Yours truly.’
‘You?’
‘Yes. I won the bet, Eileen lost her fiancé and I lost any chance of winning her over. She upped and left on the day he died, you see. I met my wife shortly after that and moved on. That’s the thing, you see – young hearts break easily enough, but they do mend in time. Oh, talking of time …’
The bus doors shut and the bus noisily drove away. Before Ovid could dive for cover, Millicent looked up and spotted him. He stared back, unsure what to do. She raised a hand in a kind of half-wave. Ovid fought the urge to turn tail and run. He forced himself to cross the road. Millicent was alone in the shop, but when Ovid opened the door he could hear Mr Hartwell out the back, hacking away at a piece of meat.
‘Hello, Ovid,’ said Millicent quietly.
‘I was waiting for the bus,’ Ovid said.
‘I think you missed it.’
‘Yes.’ Ovid wished he could walk out and come back in again.
‘Your uncle was just here.’
‘Right.’
The silence between them felt like a brick wall. The longer he went without speaking, the higher it grew. Ovid needed to say something. Anything.
‘Thank you for my present,’ he said at the same time that Millicent was saying, ‘Did you have a nice birthday?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Ovid over Millicent saying, ‘You’re welcome.’ The silence returned until Millicent broke it with, ‘Your uncle told me about the fire. He said it was Felicia’s statue.’
‘Yes. Stupid accident really.’
A brief but unmistakable look of fear flashed in Millicent’s eyes. ‘Was it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. You’re right. It was an accident.’
As strange and awkward a conversation as it was, it had broken the ice. In the back, Mr Hartwell switched on the mincing machine.
‘I was wondering if you would like to go to see a film with me,’ said Ovid. ‘There’s one on at eleven at the Memorial Hall tomorrow.’
The mincing machine stopped chugging halfway through Ovid’s question and he realised he was shouting.
‘Yes,’ whispered Millicent.
‘Really?’ Ovid had been unprepared for the possibility of Millicent saying yes.
‘You can buy the tickets,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you there. You’d better go now.’
Ovid’s face was not naturally given over to expressions of joy, but he couldn’t help himself as he walked away. Not only had he just asked Millicent Hartwell out. She had said yes.
Martha Thornthwaite’s Headstone
When Lorelli met Ovid on the bridge she was unnerved by the smile on his face. Her brother had a number of smiles, all with different meanings. There was his devilish grin, his sly smirk and his determined grimace. This was new. If she wasn’t mistaken, Ovid was happy.
‘I told Uncle Harry we’d meet him by the church,’ he said.
‘So, what do you think? Is he genuine?’ replied Lorelli.
‘Of course. Tom recognised him from our parents’ wedding and Nurse Griddle has seen his picture in the paper,’ said Ovid.
‘That isn’t what I mean,’ said Lorelli. ‘Don’t you get the feeling he’s hiding something?’
‘Everyone hides things,’ said Ovid.
They walked along the side of the river to Little Fledgling’s crumbling old parish church. Uncle Harry’s car was parked outside.
‘What a lovely day for a walk in a cemetery,’ said Ovid, with unusual lightness of tone.
‘Right, that’s it. What are you so happy about?’ asked Lorelli.
‘Being happy isn’t a sin.’
A voice from behind said: ‘The Thornthwaite twins should know a thing or two about sin.’
The twins turned to see Father Whelan’s bald head poking around the side of the heavy wooden door.
‘Sin attracts sin. I saw you.’ He pointed a crooked finger at Ovid. ‘I saw you at the butcher’s shop.’
‘Butcher’s shop?’ said Lorelli.
‘I went to pick up an order for the kitchen,’ said Ovid hastily. ‘What’s so sinful about a butcher’s shop?’
‘Mrs Hartwell mysteriously vanishes,’ said the wild-eyed priest. ‘Her husband specialises in rare meat. Where, pray, do you think that meat comes from?’ He lowered his voice and hissed, ‘He’s serving his wife up as steak.’
‘We don’t want to hear your stories,’ said Lorelli.
Father Whelan was well known for concocting conspiracies and spreading outrageous accusations about his parishioners.
‘That’s right. Leave us alone,’ said Ovid.
‘Reject your sinful ways!’ he
cried. ‘Wash yourselves clean of your lies. You are not beyond redemption, but you must repent.’
Father Whelan slammed the door shut and the twins continued towards Uncle Harry’s car.
‘Crazy old fool,’ muttered Ovid.
‘So where is this meat you picked up?’ asked Lorelli.
‘It wasn’t in yet,’ he replied. ‘Listen, Uncle Harry’s on the phone.’
They drew level with the car. Uncle Harry was inside talking.
‘So I’ll action the sale today. It will be mine by the morning … Yes, I mean yours … Yes, I am buying it for you but it will be in my name … I promise I won’t interfere. You know your side of the business. I know my place … I’ve told you. It will be clearly stated that when I am gone the whole place is yours. In the meantime, I will be the most silent of partners. No interference. Yes, I’ll see you later on.’
Uncle Harry opened the car door and stepped out. ‘Oh, hello, you two,’ he said. ‘I didn’t hear you.’ He dropped his phone into his jacket pocket.
‘Business call?’ said Ovid.
‘Yes, property acquisition as usual,’ replied Uncle Harry. ‘So shall we go then?’
Lorelli led the way. Little Fledgling cemetery was a bleak place during the winter months, but at this time of year the trees and plants were blooming and budding. The elaborate Thornthwaite gravestones were tucked away in the far corner.
‘It must feel like a terrible burden,’ said Uncle Harry as they made their way along the winding path.
‘What must?’ asked Lorelli.
‘This heritage. All these lords and ladies that went before you, the expectations people have for you … your legacy. When your mother and I were children no one expected us to become anything. We were poor but we were free. I can’t imagine how weighed down you must feel.’
Neither twin knew what to say, so they said nothing at all.
‘I say, isn’t that your builder?’ said Uncle Harry.
There was no one else in the cemetery so the broad-shouldered figure in the yellow hard hat stood out. Dragos was kneeling down in the middle of the Thornthwaite plot. Spotting them approach, he got to his feet.
‘Young masters,’ he said, ‘it is good to see you.’
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Lorelli.
‘Come to pay your respects, I dare say,’ said Uncle Harry.
Dragos turned to face him. He placed his right hand on a gravestone in the shape of Thornthwaite Manor. ‘This is Lord Christof’s headstone,’ he said. ‘I use this for reference for restoration.’
‘You are using a gravestone as a blueprint,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘A rather apt metaphor.’
‘It is not metaphor. It is gravestone.’ Dragos pulled the visor on his cap down, to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. ‘Lord Christof built this gravestone as model. All other designs burnt in the great fire. There is no more meaning than that.’
‘Lord Christof, 1832 to 1867.’ Uncle Harry read the words etched into the stone. ‘Such short lives, always such short lives.’
‘Is he the one who added the sloping towers?’ asked Ovid.
‘Yes, though they were supposed to be straight,’ said Lorelli. ‘Christof wasn’t a very good architect. Every other building he designed fell down. He threw himself off one of the towers in the end.’
‘Irony and tragedy,’ muttered Uncle Harry as he crouched down in front of a plain black stone with three names carved out.
Lord Silas Thornthwaite
1908–1959
Lady Mabel Thornthwaite
1918–1953
Lady Agnes Thornthwaite
1926–1971
‘Looks like this one had two wives,’ Uncle Harry said.
‘I have no interest in this history beyond that of the old lady,’ said Dragos. ‘I will go now. Young masters, good day.’
Dragos walked briskly away and Lorelli turned to Uncle Harry.
‘Lord Silas Thornthwaite was our grandfather,’ explained Lorelli. ‘His first wife died in a gas explosion, so he married again.’
‘These are such dark stories for children,’ said Uncle Harry, shaking his head. ‘How do you even know all this?’
‘Our old head butler wrote a history of the family,’ said Lorelli. ‘According to that, Lord Silas died in the same place a few years later.’
‘So they both perished in the same mine?’ said Uncle Harry.
‘Did I mention a mine?’ asked Lorelli.
Uncle Harry stood up. ‘No, you said gas explosion. I assumed mine. So where is Martha’s headstone?’
Lorelli looked at her brother to see if he had registered Uncle Harry’s sudden change of subject, but he had stopped in front of their parents’ gravestone. ‘This is the one.’
Uncle Harry’s naturally casual manner vanished as he dropped to his knees in front of it. With his head bowed, he raised a hand to the stone and felt its coldness.
‘Martha,’ he whispered, ‘I’m sorry, sis. I let you down, but I’m going to make it up to you …’
‘How did you let her down?’ asked Lorelli.
‘I made her a promise.’ Uncle Harry closed his eyes and whispered, ‘I promised her that if anything happened to her, I would look out for you. I have not lived up to my word. I hope it’s not too late.’
‘We don’t need looking after,’ said Ovid.
Uncle Harry nodded. ‘I know. Still, I must do right by her. You must allow me to try.’
‘Try to do what?’ asked Ovid.
He offered them his open palms. Unsure what to do, they took one each. His hands were warm as he closed his fingers around their wrists. ‘Lorelli, Ovid, with your permission I want to write you into my will.’
‘Your will?’ repeated Ovid.
‘I want to show you how serious I am. I want my entire wealth to be divided equally between you when I die.’
Lorelli and Ovid exchanged a glance, then Ovid said, ‘And is dying something you plan on doing any time soon?’
Uncle Harry smiled. ‘Always so direct. No, it is not. I want to get to know you first, if that’s all right with you. I want to be an uncle to you. I want to make it up to you. And to Martha. You are only half Thornthwaite. The other half is the same blood as mine. So what do you say? Will you be my heirs?’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ said Lorelli.
‘No. It’s the right thing to do. You are my family. I understand that now.’ He touched the top of the gravestone gently, feeling its rough edge. ‘And to think I really thought it would just feel like a block of stone.’
Clairmont Prison
Hazel left Tom Paine in the car park while she went into the low-security prison. She found Mrs Bagshaw sitting in the visitors’ room, knitting. The plump cook looked more like a patient waiting to see the doctor than a convicted murderer in a prison.
‘Hello, Hazel dear.’ She put the knitting down and stood to embrace her. ‘How kind of you to pop by. Have they made you a cup of tea?’ She glanced at the unsmiling guard in the corner of the room and made a ‘T’ sign with her hands. The guard did not respond.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ said Hazel. ‘What are you knitting?’
‘A new scarf. My neck does get awfully stiff after an afternoon in the garden with my turnips. It’s funny, before I came here I was never much of a one for gardening. Nowadays, my vegetable garden is a little oasis. It’s a place where I can really escape from all this. I’m planning to make a soup when this crop’s ready. But listen to me prattling on. You need to tell me your news. How did the birthday cake turn out?’
‘It was not as good as yours.’
Mrs Bagshaw chuckled. ‘You must all be missing my cooking while I’m in here. What are you missing most? My apple dumplings or my sheep-bone stew?’
‘It’s difficult but we are all fine.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ Mrs Bagshaw leant forward. ‘So no more … you know … incidents involving the young masters?’
‘Only the c
handelier, but that was a loose fitting. Oh, and the fire in Lorelli’s bedroom, but that was an accident.’
Mrs Bagshaw looked at the guard, then whispered, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Mr Marshall said there were no signs of anything untoward.’
‘Marshall?’
‘Harry Marshall.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Mrs Bagshaw shook her head. ‘Why has he come back after all these years?’
‘Have you met him then?’
‘Yes. On Lord and Lady Thornthwaite’s wedding day. He had a big row, shouted all sorts of unpleasant things, as I recall. He had to be escorted out.’
‘A row about what?’
‘He wasn’t so keen on the twins’ mother marrying Lord Thornthwaite. He thought it would end badly. I suppose he was right, wasn’t he? But Mr Crutcher never let him near the twins after their parents passed away. God rest their souls.’
Hazel thought it best to steer the conversation away from the death of the twins’ parents since Mrs Bagshaw was in prison for the murder of Lord Thornthwaite. The truth was much more complicated than that but it hardly mattered now. The judge had reached his verdict and Mrs Bagshaw was serving her sentence. What did it matter whom she had really poisoned?
‘Why did you never tell Ovid and Lorelli they had an uncle?’
Mrs Bagshaw developed a sudden interest in her knitting. ‘Sorry, Hazel. I’ve come to a tricky bit. I need to concentrate.’
‘I didn’t know there were tricky bits on scarves.’
Mrs Bagshaw put down the knitting needles. ‘Why would he turn up after all this time?’
‘I believe he’s looking for a family.’
Mrs Bagshaw took Hazel’s hands and pulled her close. ‘Family is important. The thought of you is what keeps me going in here.’
‘I wish you were back home,’ said Hazel.
‘You’ve got Nurse Griddle. Honestly, you’d think one mother would be enough for anyone.’ The sadness in her eyes gave lie to the cheeriness of her tone. ‘And it won’t be long before I’m back with you, I’m sure.’
‘The judge gave you a fourteen-year sentence.’
‘Yes, but the prison governor hasn’t yet tasted my turnip soup. I’ll bet he’ll look on my case with very different eyes after he’s been won over by my soup. Oh yes, these turnips are my ticket out of here.’
The Thornthwaite Betrayal Page 5