The Thornthwaite Betrayal

by Gareth P. Jones

• Eye contact

  • Laughter

  • Physical contact (specifically hand holding and/or kissing)

  The first two requirements posed no problems to Ovid. Any fool could look at someone and laugh. It was the third factor that concerned him. His palms were sweaty at the best of times. Sitting next to Millicent in Little Fledgling Memorial Hall, they were so damp he had soaked his trousers trying to dry them. Kissing wasn’t even a consideration.

  The film provided a welcome distraction. Dramatic orchestral music played over the opening titles, and a boy walked down a long train corridor with the cold English landscape whizzing past outside. Eventually the boy reached a cabin where there were two more children.

  The music faded away as the train pulled into the station and the three children prattled on in squeaky American accents. Outside the station, a sign read ‘Welcome to nowhere’, but Ovid recognised it as Little Fledgling train station.

  ‘That’s here,’ whispered Millicent.

  The children came out of the station, still yabbering on in annoying voices, then bumped into a man holding a bent umbrella and wearing a bent top hat.

  ‘Say, mister,’ said one of the children, ‘where the flaming jelly bean are we anyway?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ replied the man in a plummy English voice. ‘I am here to take you to Hotel Nowhere. There’s nowhere in the world like Hotel Nowhere.’

  Ovid looked at Millicent but she was staring at the screen, open-mouthed. It was showing Thornthwaite Manor. Lightning snaked across the image and thunder rumbled.

  ‘Welcome to Hotel Nowhere,’ said the strange man.

  ‘Gee, it looks kinda spooky,’ said one of the children.

  Millicent leaned over and whispered, ‘It’s your house.’

  Ovid was alarmed by the closeness of her lips, but he was unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. With its faded curtains, brown furniture and oil paintings, Thornthwaite Manor was exactly as it had been before the great fire.

  In the film, the annoying American kids had been sent on holiday to a weird English hotel where strange things kept happening. The children’s response to most of these situations was to scream and run around a lot. It was a terrible film, with only two points of interest for Ovid. The first was a brief glimpse of a boy’s face in an upstairs window of Thornthwaite Manor. It was only a fleeting shot but it lingered long enough for Ovid to see the boy’s green eyes. Nothing was filmed inside the manor, but there was a scene around the entrance to the old mine, in which grubby-faced miners could be seen working in the background. Ovid stopped listening to whatever the characters were going on about when he noticed that one of the miners bore more than a passing resemblance to Dragos.

  When the film finally finished, following a crescendo of screaming and running, the bright hall lights came on, making Ovid blink. ‘What did you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I liked seeing the bits filmed around here,’ said Millicent. ‘Was that your father in the window?’

  ‘I suppose so. I’ve only ever seen old portraits of him, and they’re all gone now.’

  ‘It’s hard to remember faces, isn’t it?’ said Millicent. ‘It’s only been a few weeks since Mum went and I already find it hard to remember hers.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ll see her again, won’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Dad is still pretty upset with her.’

  ‘What about you?’

  Millicent’s eyes clouded over for a moment. ‘She didn’t say goodbye to me either.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Dad says we’re well rid of her.’ Millicent bent down and picked up the bag of meat. ‘Don’t forget your gazelle.’

  Ovid’s research had entirely failed to supply him with a reply to this statement, so he plumped for: ‘Would you like to do something else now? We could go for a milkshake.’

  ‘I promised my dad I’d come straight home after the film. He thinks I’m here with Felicia.’

  ‘Felicia is still at ours,’ said Ovid.

  ‘At the manor?’

  ‘Yes. She stayed last night.’

  ‘You’ll never get her out now.’

  ‘She was almost stuck there permanently.’ Ovid allowed himself a small, wicked smile.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Millicent asked.

  ‘She got trapped in a bathroom. I had to smash the door down.’

  ‘You saved her?’

  Ovid couldn’t tell if Millicent sounded impressed, shocked or horrified. The bitterness in her laughter didn’t sound like the kind of laughter described in his date-research material. The fleeting glance of fear was not the eye contact he had imagined. She leaned forward so quickly he didn’t have time to recoil. The kiss she planted on his cheek was brief. She had a cold nose. None of it was as he had imagined, but before he’d had time to analyse the data, Millicent had gone.

  A History of Murder

  Nurse Griddle discovered Uncle Harry halfway up a ladder in the library of Thornthwaite Manor.

  ‘Mr Marshall,’ she said. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘It’s remarkable. This whole place goes up in flames and a room filled with paper survives.’

  ‘This library was constructed by Lord Willard in 1832. He treasured books above all else so kept them protected in a solid stone room with a nine-inch-thick door.’

  ‘How fascinating.’

  Nurse Griddle deflected his smile with a stern stare. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘Lorelli mentioned a history of the family written by their late butler, Alfred Crutcher.’

  ‘May I ask why you are interested in the history of a family you have shunned for so many years?’

  ‘When my sister married Lord Thornthwaite she made me a part of the family too.’

  ‘A part you have avoided playing for some time,’ said Nurse Griddle.

  ‘True.’ Uncle Harry climbed down the ladder to address the nurse. ‘It’s never too late to make amends.’

  ‘And so the long-lost uncle comes in search of … what exactly? Forgiveness? Redemption?’

  ‘I want to put things right.’

  ‘By giving money to a pair of children whose lives have been torn apart by greed?’

  ‘My methods may be clumsy but my intention is honest.’

  ‘These children deserve honesty.’

  ‘So you are honest with them, are you?’ He picked up a paper knife with an ornate snake-like handle. He tested its sharpness against his index finger. ‘They didn’t even know I existed.’

  ‘It is our responsibility to protect them.’

  ‘Yes. What protective guardians you are too. The twins’ lawyer tells me that until they come of age this estate lies in your hands?’

  ‘Those are the conditions of the will, yes.’

  ‘I also understand that if they meet an unfortunate end the whole thing goes to the servants.’

  ‘In that unlikely and undesirable eventuality, that is the case. There are no surviving heirs.’

  ‘Then you would benefit greatly from their death.’

  ‘Understand this, Mr Marshall: all my life I have tended Ovid and Lorelli’s scratches and scrapes. I have bandaged their wounds, found antidotes for their poisons and extracted bullets. I have nursed them to good health and kept them safe. I will continue to do so as long as they need me.’

  ‘It is to your credit,’ admitted Uncle Harry. ‘I’m sure Tom would say the same, albeit with some obscure gardening reference.’

  ‘Is your intention to insult us all?’ demanded Nurse Griddle.

  ‘No, but while you see these twins as the continuation of a noble aristocratic family, I see a pair of my sister’s kids who need an influence who isn’t on the payroll and would gain nothing from their deaths.’

  ‘Here at Thornthwaite Manor, we don’t need to share blood to consider ourselves a family.’

  ‘It isn’t the blood shared that concerns me,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘It is the blood spilt.’


  Nurse Griddle strode across the library and for a moment Uncle Harry thought she was about to walk out, but she reached up and plucked out a book. It was a brown hardback with no title or author name on the cover. She handed it to him. ‘This is Alfred’s history of the family. I hope you find what you are looking for.’

  Uncle Harry opened it to the title page:

  The Thornthwaite Legacy

  Or

  A History of Murder

  By Alfred Crutcher

  ‘A History of Murder,’ he read out loud.

  ‘Alfred did always have a tendency towards the melodramatic,’ said Nurse Griddle.

  ‘I can see that.’ He flicked through its pages. ‘May I borrow it?’

  ‘It is not my place to stop you,’ said Nurse Griddle, ‘but regardless of what it says about their ancestors, Lorelli and Ovid deserve to be judged on their own merits. Theirs is a fresh page in this history.’

  Half-truths and Lies

  Ovid found his sister sitting alone in the drawing room, her chin resting on her hands as she considered the game of chess.

  ‘Where’s Felicia?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘Gone home.’

  He sat down opposite her and placed the bone tortoise beside the chessboard. ‘So,’ he said, ‘have you decided what to do next?’

  ‘I’m considering the options.’ Lorelli picked up the tortoise. ‘I can see what Millicent means. There is a resemblance.’

  ‘The shell?’

  ‘The eyes.’

  ‘We have the same eyes.’

  Ovid took back the tortoise and Lorelli returned her attention to the game. After a couple of minutes of contemplative silence, she took Ovid’s rook with her bishop, then balanced the piece on the tortoise’s back. ‘What are you up to?’ she asked.

  ‘It was your move,’ said Ovid.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid you’ll need to be clearer.’ Ovid picked up the rook and put the tortoise back in his pocket.

  ‘The bathroom was one of your traps,’ said Lorelli.

  Ovid shrugged. ‘No one got hurt.’

  He took her knight with his queen and handed her the piece.

  Lorelli took it. ‘Felicia is under the impression that you’re her knight in shining armour.’

  ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘Is that what this is, a big joke? What about the leopard? Is that a joke too?’

  ‘I’m sorry? What?’

  Lorelli searched his face for some indication that he was putting on an act, but she could not tell. He was a well-practised liar. ‘The leopard down the mine,’ she said. ‘Or are you going to deny that one?’

  ‘Silas’s mine? I haven’t been down there for years. How did a leopard get down there?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you.’

  ‘You always assume I’m behind things.’

  ‘You usually are.’

  ‘Usually, yes,’ admitted Ovid. ‘But not this time. Maybe the leopard has something to do with Old Tom or Nurse Griddle, or …’ His voice trailed away as he brought to mind the man in the film who looked like Dragos. ‘Half-truths and lies,’ he said. ‘That’s all we have.’

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ said Lorelli. ‘I think you’re trying to blame anyone but yourself.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not to blame,’ protested Ovid.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ Lorelli moved her queen forward, putting it in the firing line of Ovid’s.

  ‘Should I feel threatened?’ he asked.

  ‘If you do, then back down,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Never.’ Ovid took Lorelli’s queen with his. Without a moment’s consideration, she took his with her remaining knight.

  ‘You could have moved away,’ said Lorelli. ‘We didn’t have to exchange queens.’

  ‘I prefer a level playing field.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for a second. So this leopard …’

  Ovid placed his hand on his heart. ‘My dear sister, I swear that I have no idea why there is a leopard down the – Gazelle!’ he said, interrupting his own sentence as the thought struck him.

  ‘What?’ said his sister, understandably confused.

  ‘I read a book on the hunting habits of wild animals once. I was looking for ideas and I remember reading that leopards eat gazelle.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I just picked up a batch of gazelle meat that Uncle Harry ordered.’

  ‘Why would Uncle Harry put a leopard in the mine?’

  ‘Why would anyone?’ said Ovid. ‘And yet, according to you, there is one there. Besides, do you trust him?’

  ‘He’s been nothing but good to us,’ said Lorelli. ‘He’s putting us in his will, not the other way around.’

  ‘It’s too big a coincidence.’

  ‘Why did you pick it up?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve been to the butcher’s, have you?’ Lorelli said with a goading wink at her brother.

  Ovid blushed. ‘No. Millicent gave it to me.’

  ‘You took her on a date?’ said Lorelli excitedly.

  ‘It was not a date.’ Ovid slammed his hand down on the table, knocking his king over.

  ‘Are you resigning, dear brother?’

  Ovid put his king back on its square and stood up. ‘No. But that’s enough game-playing for one evening.’

  Adam Farthing

  The only musical instrument in Thornthwaite Manor to survive the great fire was an eighteenth-century harpsichord. After leaving Lorelli in the drawing room, Ovid walked briskly to the music room, thinking it a good place to gather his thoughts. However, his pace slowed as he got closer and he heard its twangy notes playing a bright, cheerful tune.

  He pushed the door open to find Uncle Harry and Mr Farthing standing next to the ornate keyboard, listening to Adam Farthing play.

  ‘I’d be careful,’ said Ovid. ‘I seem to remember the piano blew up the last time you did that.’

  Adam stopped playing. He looked up and Ovid instantly saw a difference in him. Gone was the brash, self-confident boy, leaving in his wake a far more timid creature. His fair hair was neatly combed. He avoided direct eye contact. He seemed uncomfortable in his own skin.

  ‘Ovid,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘I understand you two know each other.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Ovid. ‘How are you, Adam?’

  ‘I’m very –’ He interrupted himself by tapping his fingertips on his temple, then he said in a quieter voice, ‘I’m making good progress, thank you.’

  ‘Adam is seeing a new specialist,’ said Mr Farthing.

  ‘A specialist in what?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘Doctor Mingus is a behavioural correctologist,’ said Mr Farthing. ‘She specialises in people who are creative with the truth.’

  ‘You mean liars,’ said Ovid.

  Adam tapped his head and blinked rapidly. ‘We don’t use that word,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m learning to distinguish the truth from what I want to be true. Doctor Mingus says …’ Lorelli entered the room and Adam’s words drifted away.

  Ovid noticed the look on Adam’s face. ‘So?’ he said. ‘What is it you want to be true?’

  ‘I …’ Adam faltered.

  ‘Adam?’ said Lorelli. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘He’s here because of me,’ said Mr Farthing.

  ‘And you’re here because of me,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘And since I’m the one paying, shall we get on with the business at hand?’

  ‘Of course. I’m so sorry.’ Mr Farthing opened his case and searched through it before remembering that he had already removed the document he was looking for. He handed it to Uncle Harry. ‘It just needs your signature.’

  Uncle Harry took a pen from his inside pocket.

  ‘Lorelli, Ovid, I’d like you to witness this.’

  ‘Actually, you’ll need an independent person to do that,’ said Mr Farthing.

  ‘I’m sure you can jump through all the legal requirements for me, once this is do
ne,’ said Uncle Harry.

  ‘Really the witness should be present at the point of signature,’ blustered Mr Farthing.

  ‘Charge me for the inconvenience,’ said Uncle Harry firmly.

  He handed the document to the twins. They read it together. It stated that, in the eventuality of his death, Harry Marshall’s possessions and assets would be divided equally among them. They both read it twice, then handed it back to him. He took a fountain pen from his pocket and signed his name at the bottom.

  ‘And so it is done,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘You are now the heirs to my estate.’

  ‘Is that it?’ said Ovid.

  ‘That’s it,’ announced Uncle Harry. ‘Bernard, perhaps you would join me for a celebratory drink. I feel like marking this occasion.’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not good at taking no for an answer. Never have been when celebrating is concerned. Or drinking for that matter.’

  ‘I’d rather not leave my son unattended,’ said Mr Farthing.

  ‘Dad,’ said Adam, ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Very well. A small one.’

  ‘Lorelli, Ovid,’ said Uncle Harry, ‘I’ll see you in the dining room shortly.’

  The two men took their leave and Adam moved away from the harpsichord. Ovid lowered the lid. Adam stared at Lorelli, while she looked at anything except him.

  No one spoke for an uncomfortably long time until Ovid broke the silence.

  ‘Do you know what?’ he said. ‘I’ve just remembered something I need to do before dinner.’

  Ovid left the room. Lorelli waited until she was sure he had gone before she spoke. ‘Why did you come?’ asked Lorelli.

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ replied Adam.

  ‘I got your last letter.’

  ‘Writing things down helps put my thoughts in order.’

  ‘I’m not sure it does for me,’ said Lorelli, thinking about her own failed attempts at writing.

  ‘Doctor Mingus says everyone is different and that’s okay,’ said Adam. ‘She says we can control our own lies, and if we do, it stops them growing bigger. Sometimes, in group, she gets us to draw honesty pies.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Lorelli.

  ‘You draw a big round pie, then imagine you’re taking a bite out of it every time you tell a lie. Whatever is left is how truthful you are. My truth partner says the honesty pie is stupid, but I tell her that’s the point. It makes you see how silly it is. It stops you being scared of the truth.’