But he had not managed to avoid catastrophe. He was engulfed by it. And he was undone. His personal life was shattered; his business life was holding its own but only just. Things had gone wrong at Deravenels, and in a sense he had only himself to blame. He had trusted the wrong people, listened to the wrong people, made mistakes … They had been a golden family; but they were cursed.
Richard Deravenel stood in the library at Ravenscar, staring out at the North Sea, his blue-grey eyes taking in the magnificent view. It was the month of August in 1928 and he was thirty-three years old. And a widower. His wife had died this past March, after contracting tuberculosis. But Richard believed she had really died of a broken heart, grieving for their seven-year-old son, Little Eddie.
Richard sighed, thinking of his darling child. He had not only lost his most beloved little boy, but his heir. All the Deravenel men were dead and gone, except for himself, and George’s little son who lived in Dijon with his aunt, Richard’s sister Meg. An unlikely successor.
No Deravenel man to take over the company if anything happened to him. The only adult heir left was his niece Bess, Ned’s lovely eldest daughter and first-born child. Ned had made it legally possible for a woman to run Deravenels, but how could Bess do that? It just wasn’t feasible: she had no experience of business and was still far too young at nineteen. The men would not feel comfortable about her presence in the company – no, not at all.
Bess. He loved her because she was his brother’s child, and because she was a true Deravenel. But he did not love her in the lustful way some people thought. There were stories told about them these days, stories that were scurrilous and untrue … His enemies blackened his name and hers, said that they were lovers, that he had poisoned Anne in order to marry his niece, that together they would rule Deravenels. None of it was true. How did you stop the gossip? How did one wipe the mud off one’s face? It stuck. And that was the truth of it.
Turning away from the window, Richard stepped to the centre of the library, stood gazing up at the portrait of his brother Ned, known as the great Edward Deravenel these days. And that was accurate, he had been great, and there would never be another man like him. They had thrown the mould away when they’d made Ned. He was unique.
The portrait of Ned was lifesize, and showed him standing in front of this very fireplace, wearing jodhpurs, highly-polished brown riding boots, and a blue shirt that echoed the colour of his eyes. The shirt was open at the neck, Ned’s medallion just visible, with the enamelled white rose of York showing.
Richard touched his chest, feeling his gold medallion underneath his shirt; he always wore the rose next to his skin – the other side, showing the sun in splendour, turned outward. Ned had had the medallions made when he had taken over Deravenels in 1904, had them inscribed with the Deravenel family motto: Fidelity Unto Eternity.
The portrait had been painted when Ned was thirty-nine, and finished just before his fortieth birthday. It was striking, dominated this room, which was Ned’s creation, had been his favourite. It was so life-like, Richard felt that Ned was standing there, smiling down at him …
He had the sudden need to talk to his brother.
‘I didn’t do it, Ned,’ Richard said, sotto voce, ‘I didn’t take your children or have them murdered. I loved them, Ned, just as we loved each other. I swear to God I didn’t harm your blood … they were my blood too … Deravenels.’
Richard brushed his eyes with his fingers, swallowed hard, not wanting to break down this morning. Bess was staying here at Ravenscar with Grace Rose, and he did not wish to show weakness in front of these two young women. He felt a sudden tightness in his chest, as he so often did these days when he thought of his little nephews. They had been missing now for two years … gone without a trace. A terrible mystery, still unsolved … and the world blamed him.
He heard footsteps and swung around quickly, saw Bess walking into the library with Grace Rose.
‘I was just admiring the portrait of your father,’ he said, his voice sounding strange to him, full of tears.
Bess picked up on this at once, knowing him as well as she did, and she hurried forward, took hold of his arm affectionately. ‘Uncle Richard, are you all right?’ She peered into his face.
‘I’m fine, Bess, why do you ask?’
‘You sounded a bit odd, that’s all.’ She smiled at him. ‘I thought you’d already gone for your walk on the beach.’
‘I’m afraid I was sidetracked by your father’s handsome, smiling face,’ he replied, then beckoned to Grace Rose. ‘And why are you hanging back? No greeting for your old uncle today?’
Grace Rose went to join them. Like her half-sister, Bess, she loved Richard, and believed in him; never for one moment had she thought that Richard Deravenel was responsible for the disappearance of Young Edward and Little Ritchie. The mere idea of it was inconceivable to her. She loathed the revolting gossips in London who besmirched his name.
‘Wasn’t he just the most marvellous looking man?’ Grace Rose murmured, also gazing up at the portrait of Edward.
Richard turned to her. ‘I was just thinking the same thing a few moments ago.’
‘Father was simply the best. True Blue.’ Bess looked from Richard to Grace Rose, and added, ‘Just as we three are.’
‘Indeed.’ Richard turned away from the portrait, and walked across the library. He stopped when he had gone halfway, turned around, ‘Oh, by the way, Bess and Grace Rose, I heard from your grandmother this morning. She telephoned me, and she sends her love to you both.’
‘Is she all right?’ Grace Rose asked.
‘Very well. She’s enjoying being at the retreat in Hampshire.’
‘I’m glad,’ Grace Rose said, meaning it. Cecily Deravenel had treated her as part of the family since they first met, and she loved her.
Bess said, ‘When is she coming out? Or is she staying there? My mother said something about Grandmother wanting to become a nun?’
Richard chuckled. ‘I doubt that. I’m sure she was joking. Now I’m off for my walk. I’ll see you both at one for lunch.’
His nieces watched him go. Bess went and sat down on the sofa. Looking across at Grace Rose she said, ‘It was so nice of you to come up here to spend this week with me, to keep me company, and Richard. Thank you.’
‘Don’t be so silly, Bess, I enjoy coming here. It’s certainly no hardship.’ Grace Rose waved the notebook she was holding and went on, ‘I’ve managed to do quite a lot of work on my book here, it’s so quiet and peaceful. I’m the one who should be thanking you.’
‘You’re always welcome. I just wanted to come up to Yorkshire to keep Richard company. He’s so lonely these days and troubled.’
Grace Rose nodded, took the other chair, and gave Bess a look. ‘I don’t think things are too good at Deravenels, from what Amos said.’
‘What did he say?’ Bess asked swiftly, her curiosity aroused.
‘That most people don’t like Richard. They don’t warm to him. He’s not as skilful at making friends as our father was.’
Bess answered, succinctly, ‘Unfortunately, he’s much better at making enemies.’
Richard was almost at the Cormorant Rock when he saw the two men walking towards him. At first he thought they were local fishermen heading his way, but as he drew closer he recognized one of them, and waved. The man waved back. Richard wondered who the other fellow was; he had no idea, had never seen him before.
‘Going out fishing?’ Richard asked, as he drew to a standstill in front of them.
‘Thinking about it,’ the man he knew answered, taking several steps closer to him.
Richard was startled, and was just about to step back when he felt a sharp pain in his side, and then another in his chest. His eyes widened as he stared at the other man and saw the knife in his hand. He looked down at the blood on his cardigan.
‘Why did you do that to me, Jack?’ Richard cried, and staggered back as the man stabbed him again and again. His legs crumple
d under him and he hit the beach with a thud, felled by the blade.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ the man with the knife said, and turned to flee. When he saw Richard’s cap on the beach he gave it a swift kick. It sailed up into the air and fell on the lower portion of moorland, where it landed under a gorse bush.
The assassin and his companion ran down the beach. They dragged their boat from underneath the outcropping of rocks, took it to the shallows, got in and rowed away. It was Wednesday August the twenty-second, 1928, and Richard Deravenel was dead.
‘Has Mr Deravenel returned yet, Miss Bess?’ Jessup asked from the doorway of her father’s office, where she was working on papers.
Bess looked up, frowning. ‘I’m not sure, Jessup, have you looked in the library?’
‘Yes, miss, and he’s not there. Nor is Miss Grace Rose. I’ll tell Cook to hold lunch for a few minutes, and I’ll go and look for them both.’
‘Thanks, Jessup,’ Bess answered, and stood up, glancing at the clock, noting that it was already fifteen minutes past one. She followed the butler out into the Long Hall, and saw Grace Rose coming down the stairs. ‘Have you seen Uncle Richard?’ Bess called, going to meet her.
‘No, I haven’t,’ Grace Rose responded, coming into the entrance hall. ‘Actually, I don’t think he’s returned from his walk. I’ve been sitting in the library, checking my notes for ages, almost since he left. I only went upstairs to find a pencil a few minutes ago. No, he’s not back, I would’ve seen him.’
‘He’s always so punctual,’ Bess muttered almost to herself, and felt a sudden uneasiness. It was settling in the pit of her stomach. ‘I think perhaps I’ll go down to the beach, bustle him along a bit.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Grace Rose volunteered.
Jessup was hurrying out of the butler’s pantry and Bess said to him, ‘We’ll go down to the beach and get him. My uncle has probably forgotten the time.’
‘He’s always very punctual, Miss Bess,’ the butler answered. ‘It’s not like Mr Richard to be late.’
‘I know,’ Bess replied and she and Grace Rose hurried out, went across the terrace and down through the hanging gardens. They were making for the steps cut in the cliff face, located at the far end of the property, well beyond the gardens and lawns.
Grace Rose saw him first from the top of the steps, and she cried, ‘Bess, look! There he is, on the beach. He must have tripped and fallen … I hope it’s nothing worse, like a heart attack.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Bess exclaimed. Together the two young women ran down the steps and flew across the shingle, pieces of it flying around their shoes as they raced ahead.
Bess was athletic and swift, and she reached her uncle’s body first. He was on his back; she spotted the blood on his cardigan at once, and she brought a hand to her mouth to stop the scream that was rising in her throat. Kneeling down, Bess took hold of his wrist, fumbled for his pulse. There wasn’t one, and she instantly knew why she had felt that sudden unease, that rush of panic earlier. He was dead; somehow, she had always known that Richard would die before he should.
Grace Rose bent down next to her, and looked at Richard’s white face, and she said softly, ‘His eyes, Bess, look, they’re so blue, bluer than I’ve ever seen them.’
Bess did as her half-sister asked. Richard’s eyes were very blue, and this seemed so odd to her. But what struck her most forcibly was the startled expression on his face. He had been taken by surprise when he had been attacked, she was certain of that.
Finally, a sob broke through, and tears were rolling down Bess’s face as she gently closed his eyelids. She kissed his cheek, and so did Grace Rose, and then she whispered, ‘Safe journey, Richard. My father’s waiting for you.’
The two of them hurried back to the steps, and began to climb. At one moment, Bess tilted her eyes to the sky. It was a vivid blue, and the sun was shining. And for once the weather at Ravenscar was warm. Such a beautiful day, Bess thought, such a beautiful day to leave behind. And the tears came again, trickling down her cheeks.
When they reached the terrace, Jessup was waiting for them. His face was white, and his apprehension visible. ‘What has happened, Miss Bess?’ he asked, suddenly sounding old.
‘My uncle is dead … there’s blood all over his chest.’ Her voice broke on the last few words; she took a deep breath and continued, in a steadier voice, ‘Please have the gardeners go down to the beach to retrieve his body, Jessup. They’ll need sheets to wrap around him. Meanwhile, I shall go and telephone the police.’
Grace Rose and Bess went to the office and the butler rushed off to send the gardeners to fetch the body. Grace Rose said quietly, taking hold of Bess’s arm, ‘The police will come but they’ll find nothing. Someone came in by boat, stabbed Richard and left. It’s Wednesday, and everyone in the village is working. The beach has been deserted all morning: in fact, I’ve not seen one person on it since I arrived here on Friday.’
‘I know,’ Bess agreed and dialled the number of the Scarborough constabulary. When she got through she asked for Inspector Wallis. He came on the line immediately and she told him what had happened.
There was a sudden silence at his end of the phone for a moment, before he said in a sympathetic tone, ‘I’ll be there as quickly as possible. I’m so very sorry you’re having to cope with yet another problem at Ravenscar, Miss Deravenel. My condolences about your uncle.’
After thanking him, Bess hung up, turned to Grace Rose, and murmured, ‘I don’t think I can go down to that beach ever again.’
‘I can’t say I blame you.’ Grace Rose shook her head. ‘Now we’re going to have two unsolved mysteries: please believe that.’
Bess was alone at Ravenscar.
Everyone had come for Richard’s funeral, and his burial in the family cemetery. Then everyone had left. She had elected to stay on, needing to be alone, to think about her life, and her future, and the things she and her mother had discussed.
Now, as she sat in the library thinking, it was already the middle of September. Her mind settled on the last few years. So much had happened … Uncle George had died in the strangest of circumstances at the vineyard in Mâcon; then her father had passed away very unexpectedly. Her brothers had vanished and had never been found. And last month Uncle Richard had been stabbed to death by an unknown assailant. The police had found nothing, just as Grace Rose had predicted. It was another unsolved murder on the books, so Inspector Wallis had told her. They all now believed Richard had been killed by a business enemy, or a disgruntled friend of her father.
Her family had been decimated. All the men dead. Only women left. Richard had said there was a curse on the family. Perhaps there was.
Rising, she went and stood at the window, looking out towards the sea. How her life had changed … Not so long ago she had been so very happy, carefree. Now she felt as though she were surrounded by death … and enveloped in unhappiness.
Her thoughts swung to her mother. Elizabeth had come to the funeral, bringing her four sisters, accompanied by her grandmother. Cecily Deravenel had looked careworn and exhausted to Bess, and she still worried about her. Cecily had gone back to London, insisting she had doctors to see, appointments to keep. Bess had the feeling that her grandmother could not bear to be here at Ravenscar … certainly not at this moment.
Bess loved this house. Perhaps because her father had loved it so much. However, she had not been down to the beach; she did go to the gardens and often visited the ruined stronghold which had been so meaningful to her father.
On a sudden impulse, Bess jumped up, and went outside, running down to the stronghold, swift on her feet, anxious to get there.
Once she was there she leaned against the wall, and looked out, thinking about her father, wondering what he would want her to do. She had two choices. She could remain as she was, a single woman. Or she could marry, have a husband and children, a life of her own as a wife and mother, creating and nurturing her own family.
Her
mother had spoken to her at length before going back to London, had broached the subject of Henry Turner yet again. Her mother had been pushing him at her ever since the boys had disappeared; it had actually started in December, two years ago. She had told her mother then that she wasn’t interested in marriage with anyone.
Last month her mother had pointed out that this was a chance for them to keep Deravenels steady and on course. Richard Deravenel was dead. She was the heiress. Obviously she could not run the family company, become what her father and Richard had been. She was too young, a woman, who would be alien in the company, resented. Her mother, however, believed that Henry Turner could handle it, with her by his side to add credibility and the name Deravenel. She had not met him, and she was not sure if she would like him. Could she grow to love him? After all, this was an arranged marriage, if it took place. But what other choice was there?
Glancing at her watch, she realized Elizabeth and Henry would be arriving very soon. No sooner had this thought entered her mind when she heard her mother calling her name.
‘Bess! Bess darling! Are you down in the stronghold?’
‘Yes, mother, I am,’ she answered dutifully, turning around.
‘May we come down? I have Henry with me.’
For a moment she could not speak. ‘All right,’ she said eventually, holding onto the crenellated edge of the wall. Her legs were weak under her, and she was trembling, feeling nervous, even afraid.
Her mother was standing there, dressed in a beige travelling suit, looking elegant. Next to her was a tall, slender young man, with light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a pleasant face. He was dressed in a dark grey suit, and a grey silk tie.
Her mother brought him forward, and said, ‘Bess, this is Henry Turner. Henry, my daughter, Bess.’
He stretched out his hand, took hold of hers, and smiled at her. She saw that his eyes were soft and full of understanding. He said, ‘I’m happy to finally meet you.’
‘I’m happy to meet you too,’ she mumbled, and extricated her hand quickly, took a step backward.
The Heir Page 42
