The Heir to Evercrest Hall

by Andrea M. Theobald

  I gauged from the woman’s warmish mannerisms toward me, that Davenport had not yet approached her about the letter. Maybe he hadn’t had time to adjust to the knowledge of his sister’s death and awaited a time when he was calmer to confront his aunt.

  “This is the reason I have asked that you come here in the privacy of my chamber. This is the safest place I can discuss my nephew without intrusive ears.”

  My face heated when I looked at the wall directly behind the bed’s headboard.

  The woman turned to look outside again. “My nephew is such a handsome man, don’t you think, Smithers?”

  “Yes, of course he is.”

  “He is such a fit, young man, one would be justified in thinking he is the epitome of good health.” Charlotte turned to look over her shoulder at me. “I must warn you that he is far, far from normal.” Charlotte slowly paced about the room. “He is just like his grandfather. He does odd things that have often frightened people.”

  “I didn’t get the impression that he was mad, in fact, I felt comfortable with him, milady.”

  Charlotte stopped walking. She regarded me quietly. “Like I said, he appears normal, but there is another side to him.” The view out the window took precedence over my image. “His grandfather used to imagine things. He claimed that people who had passed away would pop in and converse with him in the folly.” Charlotte tapped the side of her temple. “His mind went because of the war. He was already genetically predisposed to madness, but it was the war, and seeing his friends slaughtered before his eyes, that befuddled his mind.”

  “How is his grandson like him?” I hadn’t had time to check my question, only managing to throw “milady” at the end of it.

  “He witnessed his governess murdering his parents.” Charlotte regarded me steadily, no doubt reading for a shocked reaction on my part.

  I boldly said, “I understand that to be the case, milady, and I also understand that he saw the murder of another.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Did he tell you that?”

  “It was all over the newspapers. But what I can’t understand”—my detective streak had come boldly to the fore—“is why did the governess kill the man she loved too?”

  “She did not love Lord Davenport!”

  “No, but she loved the imposter housekeeper. He was her lover, wasn’t he?”

  Charlottes face lost all pallor; she snorted. “Undoubtedly, you would have been filled in by the staff about the people who once lived under this roof, both of whom conspired to kill the lord and lady of the manor. There was never any mention in the newspapers of the victim being a male housekeeper.” She glared back.

  “So…so Mr. Albert saw everything that happened?”

  “Yes! And just like his grandfather, it was the trauma of seeing those close to him die that pushed him over the edge.”

  “One wouldn’t have guessed—walking with him yesterday—that he was as you say.”

  “He is very good at deception, Smithers.”

  “What has he done that has proven to you that he is…?”

  “That he is mad?” Charlotte threw her head back and laughed. She walked rapidly about the room. “How shall I put this so that you may understand, seeing you are a religious girl?” She flicked her hands about as she spoke. “If one was to compare the reason for Simeon’s existence as being similar to the story of Lot’s daughters, then they would understand the magnitude of my pain in keeping the secret from outsiders. My purpose is to save the family’s honorable name, and to save Simeon’s father from the scornful accusations of those who are set on the family’s downfall—that is, if this abominable truth ever comes out.”

  Suddenly, the chamber door burst forth. In marched a glaring, crimson-faced Davenport.

  “Miss Smithers, you can leave!” he said with a growl without looking at me; his attention was on the woman whose countenance had turned pale.

  I left at once.

  My afternoon was spent wound up with the expectation of Charlotte coming upstairs to give me my marching orders, yet there was no sign of her. Even Millie commented on her ladyship having not been seen by a living soul. After giving much thought to what Charlotte had divulged to me about Davenport, about her reason for believing he was mad, and the relationship between him and a story about Lot’s daughters, I pulled out a bible I had found in the bottom of my wardrobe, and with this in my lap and seated in the armchair beside Simeon’s crib, I easily flipped the pages to the beginning book of Genesis.

  From memory, there was something about a family escaping hail, fire, and brimstone, and Lot’s disobedient wife turning to salt after not listening to the two angels’ warnings not to look back. Reading further into the story, I was surprised that I had not read the passages that followed, about how, after Lot and his two daughters had escaped, they had found refuge in a cave, and because his two daughters were afraid that they might be the last left on the earth, they deliberately got their father drunk and took turns to have intercourse with him, in the hope of preserving their lineage.

  I looked up at the window, too astonished to notice the beauty of the sunlight trying in vain to break through the heavy mantle of gray cloud. That would explain why my bible had ink lines blocking out large lumps of text, because somebody deemed this information to be too explicit for a young child! It was a most detestable story, which Charlotte had selected as an example. Her exact words left me with the feeling of nausea. If one was to compare the reason for Simeon’s existence as being similar to the story of Lot’s daughters, then they would understand the magnitude of my pain in keeping the secret from outsiders.

  Davenport was too young to have a daughter of breeding age. What would be as bad as a father having intercourse with a daughter? What was equal in magnitude to a sin like that if Davenport was the father? Charlotte was not the child’s mother, and even if she had been, she was not closely blood-related to cause speculation from outsiders. The only other combination, which caused a stronger wave of nausea to hit me, was that there was one of mothering age, my age in fact, and she was purported to have been at a deportment school in Germany, only to die in London.

  My mind worked nineteen-to-the-dozen, thinking about the plausible excuse Charlotte would have used for the girl if all along she had known she was pregnant. India had never left England, as believed by most; instead she had been taken somewhere distant for the duration of her pregnancy, such as a place near London. Keeping everything hush-hush might have worked for Charlotte, but she hadn’t counted on the girl having a huge set-back—dying! And the letter to Miss Collier, which Davenport now had in his possession, spoke of the infant on a first name basis, leaving me without a doubt in my mind that the mother was India and that the brother, Albert Davenport, was the child’s father.

  If I imagined rightly, India’s image in the painting downstairs looked very similar to mine; perhaps why as a child Davenport had taken an especial liking to me, although I was boyish looking. India would have grown up with these exact features, proof yesterday of the maid’s, butler’s, Millie’s, and surprisingly, Davenport’s reactions at seeing me dressed up in her clothing. And what about Millie saying I had a way with Simeon, as if I were a miracle worker? If she was correct in her theory that babies could identify their mothers, the little one, although mistaken, was identifying me as his!

  My lunch was untouched. All I could think of was how depraved Davenport and his sister were to have done the very act together that ultimately created the very infant I had earlier cradled in my arms to feed some mashed food to. I had heard of the deformities in babies, mental or physical—or both—begotten by incest. How was it that Simeon was perfect in mental development, health, and looks?

  Vera had been right all along about the family being mad. Certainly, I owed her an apology. As were the village locals, and the church gossips I’d grown to dislike, like the queen of them all, Mrs. Jenkins. Every single one of them believed that madness ran in the family, apart from gullible me, an
d now my thoughts had polarized, I was absolutely convinced of what they had been preaching all along.

  »»•««

  I lived on the edge of my seat for a week, waiting for my dismissal orders, but nothing eventuated to that effect. Millie had said that Davenport had rushed off to London along with his Aunt Charlotte. Since word had reached the world that his sister had only recently passed away, a gloom had been supernaturally cast over the entire household. Yet I was the only servant who knew the real truth, that the timeline had been warped deliberately to have everyone believe she had died later than she really had. According to Millie, the house was full of guests. She told me the funeral would take place tomorrow morning and that Miss India would be interned in the mausoleum. She also told me that his lordship looked extremely tired, yet considering he had lost his only sibling, he kept a strong resolve for poor Charlotte, who was devastated at not being able to alert her husband about the death of his beloved niece. My suspicions had been piqued. If Charlotte’s husband had never returned from Egypt, who was the man making himself useful in her private chambers?

  The day following the funeral, when most of the guests had left, Charlotte entered the nursery at three o’clock, wearing a most becoming light green dress. There was paleness and perspiration on her normally composed face, and extreme fear in her eyes. Gone was the thought she was going to dismiss me, because she ran up and snatched my hands.

  “My little Rufus is missing. It has to be Albert who took him!” Charlotte grabbed a handkerchief out of her pocket and sobbed into it.

  “But, milady, why would he do such a thing?” I was still in my automatic mode of defending the man.

  She looked up, and her eyes were red. “He is not taking the death of his sister well. And…and he yelled at me in the drawing room for no reason at all. That’s what goes on in his mind”—Charlotte tapped her temple—“he has decided I have done something wrong, so he has deliberately done something vindictive, such as taking my poor little Rufus.” She sobbed into her delicately embroidered handkerchief again. “I just know it is him. I know he did it. Cruelty has always been prevalent in this family!”

  It didn’t stop you marrying one. “Perhaps Rufus escaped. He could have found a cavity somewhere.” The secret cavity behind what had been a vigorously banging headboard.

  “No! That is impossible. He hates being away from me. Besides, I had all the windows and doors closed to my chamber. You see, I’ve been locking my door because he has been scaring me of late.”

  “Rufus?” I exclaimed incredulously.

  “Albert! You stupid girl.”

  Davenport’s access throughout the secret labyrinth could certainly allow him clandestine entry into Charlotte’s chamber, and the removal of something of value to the very person who had caused him grave injury.

  “Have you seen Mr. Albert since?” I asked calmly, brushing off her insult.

  She sniffled like a cold-inflicted street urchin; her eyes were an extraordinary bright blue because of the contrast of redness about the whites. “Yes, I did see him a quarter an hour ago. He was going toward the castle ruins. He likes to go there…to the tower. I think he wants to….”

  “No, he wouldn’t do such a thing; he is far too self-centered to kill himself.” I was surprised, just as Charlotte’s expression was, of my comment. “Would you like me to come with you so we can both have a look together?”

  “My dear girl, I haven’t got the strength; not since all this funeral business. W…would you go for me instead?”

  “That won’t be a problem, milady. I might be able to reason with him to give Rufus back.” I was about to say, “If he has him.” “He might feel under pressure if there are more people involved.”

  “Right you are! People with unstable minds can be unsettled when surrounded by people they think are against them; besides, he seems taken with you. Perhaps you might convince him.” Charlotte smiled, dabbing her eyes. “If Rufus returns to me untouched, I’ll quadruple your wages from today onward.”

  I was taken aback by the woman’s financial generosity more than her comment that her nephew was taken with me. More money would mean I could save up enough to move away much sooner. The dream of becoming a self-employed artist had me determined to find her pooch.

  Before long, I ran the shortcut route via the gallery and emerged from one of the ballroom terrace doors. Toward the shrubbery, I was met with a sign that read “Danger, do not pass this point!” I ignored it and continued until I came out on the other side of the shrubbery to a view much more spectacular than the day before. The sun shone through a fine curtain of drizzle, and beyond were two rainbows, one inside the other, each encompassing the extremities of the mirror glass lake. The view was not what I was there to appreciate. I aimed for and ran up the folly steps, entering and starting for the central stairway within.

  “Hello. Is anybody in here?” My voice echoed about the marble and glass structure.

  At the landing of the stairs, there were two doors on either side of a tiny lobby. I peered around the first door and saw it was a study, with a writing bureau and a book-lined wall, waiting for its deceased owner’s return. Reservedly, I looked in the room opposite. This had a single bed with meager furniture not unlike my very own. Something about the place made me shudder, as if an invisible presence lurked there and was annoyed that I’d intruded, so-much-so I hurriedly retrace my steps back outside.

  My next destination was the castle ruins. I ran so fast that when I came to the depression in the earth, where Davenport and I had turned back from yesterday, I swerved sharply only for my foot to meet with a small hole. I crashed to the ground. I felt a combination of pain, one in the joint of my ankle, and a sharper pain at my temple, where my head had banged on a small rock in the grass. For a moment, as I rubbed my head, my mind went back to the time I had attacked Davenport and his friends with stones, wondering if this was in some way a divine justice of sorts. Denying my silly thoughts of ghosts and divine retribution, I got to my feet, relieved to find that my ankle could support my weight, not at all worried that my skirt was filthy.

  The first obstacle challenge was to slide down the slope of the ancient moat, which still served its purpose of impeding intruders, but it was the mud grabbing hold of my boots and pulling at my sore ankle, not water, that slowed my progress. Gratefully, I managed to trudge over without losing a boot, grab hold of the long grass on the opposing slope, and hoist myself upward.

  I followed my way along the curtain wall and passed through what was once a long gateway arch that would have had huge, solid wooden gates that secured the occupants within. Surrounding me, as I stepped farther into the castle grounds, were walls beaten through time by the elements and human-hand; any that were still their full height looked ready to topple on what I imagined was once a hustling and bustling scene of village life. Farther along, instead of the main tower standing proudly over all, there was its rocky carcass in one big stony mound. The only fully intact feature about was one of four fortress towers. It looked hauntingly menacing with the backdrop of dark clouds looming up from behind its crenulations. It was easy to imagine the three other towers joined by interconnecting wall walks, and the watchmen running along them to warn their lord of the enemy’s fast approach, before letting loose with all manner of deadliness.

  “If someone wanted to end things quickly,” I whispered, looking upward, “then this would be the place they’d do it.” Still I could not fathom the heir of Evercrest doing such an act when he had so much in life to look forward to.

  The smell of dampness coated the walls of the narrow staircase that spiraled its way steeply upward. For every flight of stairs I limped up, there was a small landing that offered me an outside perspective from two long slit windows spaced widely apart. I tiptoed upward again until I finally arrived at a chamber. There was one window, and two exit doors on either side that opened out onto the wall walk. Being open to the elements, the chamber was wet and slippery, not helped by
the stairs abruptly ending at a square opening in its ceiling.

  Aware that Davenport could be up on the roof, I treaded carefully upward and poked my head up into the fresh air to find no one. I climbed onto the tower’s roof and was immediately captivated by a spectacular pre-winter landscape of trees hued with brown, gold, bronze, and red. What halted me from walking closer to the outer edge of the tower, toward the chest high crenulated wall, was the masonry missing in some places, for it looked ready to crumble away should a foot be set upon it. I returned my gaze to the breathtaking view, all void of human life, and noted that even the placidity of the lake’s surface lacked its normal bird population.

  Steadily, I scanned the treetops across to the living chimneys of Evercrest. Looking to my immediate right, in stark contrast, the chimneys at Clearwater Manor were dead. Suddenly, as if I felt some connection to that fateful night so many years ago where three people were killed under its very roof, the same sensation I had experienced in the folly room crept up my spine.

  A sound of rock fall spurred me out of my wonderings; it came from somewhere down below. I carefully stepped toward the edge of the tower, as close as I was game, and peered down into the courtyard. There was no one. I made my way carefully down the tower, and when I came out at ground level, there came yet another sound, this time of stone scraping against stone and in the direction where the main tower had stood.

  “Rufus, here Rufus,” I cried, ever aware of falling over the debris lying all over the ground. As was expected, no white shaggy little creature ran out to greet me with a growl.

  I pressed on while keeping my wits about me for any sign of Davenport. I passed under what once must have been an internal doorway, and there, to my astonishment, I spotted a hole partially covered by a slab set in the ancient flagstone flooring.

  Rufus could have fallen down in there!

  Going by how Davenport lovingly treated his pony as a boy, I still refused to believe Charlotte’s viewpoint that he’d mistreat her dog, that he was cruel. Again, I called out to Rufus, this time I was on my haunches and peering down on what were many steps; what unsettled me, was that the bottom step had a mysterious glow.