A New Dawn Over Devon

by Michael Phillips

  “Well, I’m going back inside,” she said and ran off.

  Jocelyn and Amanda continued on some minutes in silence until they were well away from the Hall.

  “That’s just the trouble, Mother,” said Amanda at length in a more serious tone.

  “What’s the trouble, dear?” asked Jocelyn.

  “Catharine was teasing me about Lieutenant Langham. She thought he was paying me some kind of romantic social call. I know she meant nothing by it, but it made me uncomfortable.”

  “You don’t think he was?”

  “Of course not,” rejoined Amanda. “When we went out walking, remember, after tea, it was only so that he could tell me about Ramsay. I am certain he knows I’m married. I can’t exactly remember if he heard when Ramsay told everyone—I think he was outside somewhere. But why else would he come all this way to inform me about him?”

  “I don’t know, dear. He does seem very fond of you.”

  “But I am married, Mother.” Amanda paused briefly. “Sometimes I just don’t know what I am going to do!” she burst out after a moment.

  Again it was silent for several pensive seconds.

  “Have you considered a divorce?” asked Jocelyn.

  “Of course I have thought about it,” replied Amanda. “How could I not? The thought of what to do is with me constantly. But—”

  “What is it, dear?” asked Jocelyn.

  “I don’t know if divorce is right. And I couldn’t face having to locate Ramsay to sign papers. I don’t ever want to see him or have anything to do with him again.”

  “Why don’t you talk to Vicar Coleridge?”

  “I hardly know him, Mother.”

  “He is a very nice man. Sometimes it helps to get an outside opinion on such things.”

  “But I don’t want someone’s opinion. I want to know what is right. There are right opinions and wrong ones.”

  “Your father was extremely fond of the vicar,” said Jocelyn. “He would not have respected him unless he thought him a wise man.”

  Jocelyn paused and glanced about. The dark clouds had moved nearly overhead and the wind had intensified.

  “If we stay out here much longer,” she said, “we may get soaked. And look at me—I’m still in my dressing gown! I have the feeling this is going to be quite a storm.”

  Gradually they turned and began making their way back toward the Hall by way of the heather garden.

  18

  Crumholtz, Sutclyff, Stonehaugh, & Crumholtz

  The storm about to engulf southwest England was born on winds slanting down from Scandinavia. Its northeast rains therefore hit Exeter a few minutes before arriving at the westernmost portions of Devon. And they hit suddenly and with fury.

  The expensively dressed man hurrying along the walkway of Exeter’s High Street glanced up, silently cursing whatever gods were responsible for such things, and pulled his overcoat more tightly around his neck. He had been caught unsuspecting without an umbrella on his way from his hotel, and his shoulders and feet were nearly drenched. Unfortunately, the hotel was farther behind him than his destination was ahead, and he had no choice but to continue. He quickened his pace to an awkward run.

  A long minute later he sloshed his way under a faded green awning, paused briefly to compose himself and catch his breath, then entered the door ahead of him.

  “Good morning,” he said to the secretary who greeted him. “I have an appointment with Mr. Crumholtz.”

  “Yes . . . Mr. Rutherford, is it?” she replied. “Mr. Crumholtz is expecting you. I will tell him you are here.”

  She rose and disappeared into an inner office while Gifford Rutherford moved about uneasily on his cold feet, hoping the activity would keep him from freezing to death.

  She reemerged a few minutes later. “This way please, Mr. Rutherford,” she said as she led him into the lawyer’s office, introduced him to her employer, then left the two men alone.

  “I have been conducting some investigations for a period of several years,” began Gifford when he was seated.

  “Investigations . . . of what nature?” inquired Bradbury Crumholtz.

  “Dealing with an ancient family property about which there are some ambiguities of title,” replied Gifford. “It is, I believe, an estate with which you are familiar, as your firm has executed several wills and deeds for certain of its principals.”

  “What do you know about my firm’s transactions?”

  “As I said, I have been conducting an investigation of my own—a thorough investigation,” added Gifford, and the emphasis was not lost on Mr. Crumholtz. “That is why I am here—because I know you have had dealings in the affair. My own solicitor felt that your services would be invaluable, and that the necessary documents would carry more force coming from your office. It may be that you possess, or are in a position to obtain, the necessary information to right the wrongs done to my family once and for all.”

  Crumholtz listened without betraying his annoyance at the fellow’s manner. From the cut of his suit, even wet, and his speech, he knew his visitor came from London and was wealthy—no doubt influential too. But already he didn’t like him.

  “The estate is that known as Heathersleigh,” continued Gifford. “As I am sure you know, it lies northwest of here just outside the village of Milverscombe.”

  Crumholtz nodded. “And?” he intoned slowly. “What is it exactly you want me to do?”

  “It is simple, really,” replied Gifford. “I want you to initiate legal proceedings against Jocelyn Rutherford, the current resident of Heathersleigh Hall. She is, though this fact is of no consequence in the case, the widow of the late Charles Rutherford, who was my cousin.”

  “What kind of proceedings?” asked Crumholtz.

  “Putting forth my legal claim to the Heathersleigh estate,” replied Gifford, now shoving several sheets he had removed from inside his coat across the desk in front of the solicitor.

  Crumholtz eyed the papers carefully, letting no twitch or expression betray his suspicions. A gnawing caution in the pit of his stomach told him to tread lightly with this man.

  The office grew quiet. Crumholtz picked up the papers and pretended to review them. In truth, his mind was racing as he quickly tried to marshal what he knew about the estate in his brain, connecting various pieces from out of his memory. Suddenly he recalled the old McFee woman. She was connected to Heathersleigh as well.

  “I will look into it, Mr. Rutherford,” he said after a moment, “though it may take a little time. These things always do. Though I am not at the current time a specific agent representing the present owner, there may be conflict-of-interest issues to be resolved. Where may I contact you?”

  Gifford reached forward and handed him his card.

  “I will make it worth your while,” said Gifford.

  Crumholtz nodded. “And I may . . . keep these papers?” he said.

  “Of course,” said Gifford, rising. “They are duplicates.”

  Gifford departed and the solicitor remained seated another minute or two, continuing to turn the matter over in his mind.

  Then he rose, walked to his safe, opened it, and thoughtfully removed the documents, including the sealed envelopes, that had been entrusted to the firm for safekeeping. He sat down at his desk again, spreading both new papers and old out in front of him.

  What can it all mean? he puzzled to himself. And who is this new London Rutherford?

  19

  The Garret

  Meanwhile Betsy had left the room where Jocelyn found her and had wandered some distance along the corridor of the east wing, then turned into the north. Passing the library, whose treasures had not yet drawn her, she reached the end of the wide hallway, turned right into a narrower corridor, then left again until she came to its end at the northwest corner of the building.

  As she paused Betsy saw to her right a small door barely two feet in width. Rarely used, for it had no apparent purpose except to provide access to a garret, w
hich to all appearances was itself useless, the door was altogether unlike any of the other large doors she had seen in the Hall. The instant it caught her eye, the narrow entry to places unknown invited exploration.

  Testing the latch, she found it unlocked. She opened the door and crept through it and immediately found herself facing a steep, narrow wooden staircase. The cool, musty aroma of disuse met her face, drifting on an imperceptible breeze from unseen regions above coming down through the door. Intrigue swept through her. She placed a tentative foot on the first step, then took another. The stairs creaked to the weight of her feet, and slowly she continued. The very smell of the narrow passage, as she rose into darkness, spoke of antiquity and mystery.

  An inquisitive girl by nature, she had grown even more so since arriving at Heathersleigh. Not only had she never imagined houses so big, she had never dreamed of clothes so clean, food so delicious, beds so soft, or people so kind. Whenever she thought of the past, hatred continued to rise in her for her father’s murderers. But being among such loving women as had temporarily adopted her was gradually drawing the latent instincts of approaching womanhood from her soul. And with them came a gradual softening of the rough edges that her upbringing could not help to have left upon her.

  But she was not thinking of such things as the thin illumination from the corridor below receded behind her through the door she had left open. A gust of air swirled momentarily about her head, then died back down, evidence that the approaching storm outside was playing havoc with roof and tower of Heathersleigh Hall. Outside and above her, the wind racing through the ceiling tiles whistled and moaned eerily through the upper portions of the structure. Betsy shivered briefly, though it was not cold, and continued on.

  At length she arrived at the end of the staircase. She paused and glanced about where she stood at the corner of the garret where the north and west wings of the house connected.

  Betsy found herself in a narrow room that from its cobwebby appearance had likely had no visitors in years. A thin light came from an air vent high on the wall of the far end, though it was scarcely enough to see by.

  She felt about, found a light switch, and flipped it. The space around her filled with light. How could she have known that she owed the bulb above her to the very young man whose feet had been the last before hers to venture here? In truth it was not a room in which she stood at all, but merely a wide-open corridor of sorts running along the length of the north wing garret. Wall-like partitions approximately six feet in height had been erected from the floor to the open beams of the roof rafters, blocking from sight the lower portion of the roof as it sloped down to meet the floor. But the large central space was apparently not used for anything. The floorboards were uneven and overspread with the accumulated dust of years, and cobwebs covered every inch above her where the huge beams of the sloping rafters met in the center at the apex of the roof.

  She glanced about uneasily for a few moments, for, with the wind still moaning and blowing above her, the place could not help but make her shiver from sensations other than cold. Slowly she walked across the floor and came to another door leading beyond. She opened it. Another light switch illuminated the passage in front of her. She now found herself in a narrow corridor that led at an angle away from the door, the open beams of the roof above her head such that she occasionally had to brush away the cobwebs to prevent them from matting her hair. The passage turned and twisted to the right and left at such odd angles as she followed that she quickly lost her sense of direction. She walked and walked until eventually she was above the library, though she did not know it. Whether there were closets or rooms, or anything at all, for that matter, behind the walls enclosing her as she continued on, it was impossible to tell. From all appearances the circuitous hallway served no purpose and led nowhere.

  Then suddenly, as if to confirm that fact, Betsy rounded a turn to the left and the passage ended abruptly. She found herself facing a solid wall. No door or latch or indication of any way through it was visible. She stood puzzled for a moment or two, then rapped against the boards that had so abruptly ended her exploration. A dull, hollow echo came back from the sound of her fist. Whatever was behind this wall, she thought, it was not the solid stone from which the major structural portions of the Hall were constructed.

  As her knocking investigation quieted, suddenly she was startled by a loud clattering noise almost directly above her. She jumped momentarily, then glanced up and around. Seeing nothing, she realized it must be the wind outside making mischief with a loose roof tile. Again she probed the walls about her, pounding once more upon them, but still without discovery.

  At length she had no choice but to turn around and leave the garret the way she had come.

  On her way back down into the inhabited portions of the house, as she reentered the second-floor corridor and walked along it past the library, she met Catharine coming up the main staircase.

  “Hello, Betsy,” said Catharine with a smile. “Having a good time exploring?”

  “I was until the hall up in the garret ended.”

  “You were up there?” rejoined Catharine in some surprise. “You were brave, Betsy! I used to be scared to death to go up there with my brother. I was always afraid we would stumble on some old bones. How did you get there?”

  “Through that little doorway back there,” answered Betsy, pointing behind her.

  “Oh, that explains it. And you came to the end of a narrow, twisting hall?”

  Betsy nodded.

  “Then you have much more exploring to do!” said Catharine excitedly. “You were on the wrong side, that’s all.”

  “Wrong side of what?” said Betsy, now excited again herself. “More exploring to do where?”

  “You were on the wrong side of the wall,” replied Catharine. “There is a secret room behind it.”

  “A secret room!” exclaimed Betsy, suddenly coming to life.

  “Yes, I’ll show you,” said Catharine.

  “How do you get to it!” Betsy asked as she hurried to keep up. Already Catharine was walking toward the library.

  “Come with me!”

  Catharine led through the large library doors, turned on the light, and then strode quickly through the bookshelves to the rear of the room.

  “But this is the library,” said Betsy. “The garret is above us.”

  “Just be patient, Betsy. You won’t believe what I am about to show you. My brother, George, discovered all this when he wasn’t much older than you. He loved to explore too.”

  20

  Difficult Options

  Jocelyn and Amanda sat down on one of benches in the heather garden, ready to make a dash for it if the sky suddenly emptied.

  Amanda seemed for the first time to notice the intricate woodwork of the bench’s design.

  “I don’t remember this bench, Mother,” she said. “Has it always been here?”

  “Your father built it after you left home,” replied Jocelyn. “He built most of the benches in the heather garden.”

  “I don’t know why I never noticed them before.”

  “He tried to make them all different, and in distinctive woods.”

  Amanda pondered her mother’s words.

  “Why?” she asked. “That seems like a lot of extra work.”

  “You know your father’s passion to understand things.”

  Amanda nodded.

  “Whenever variety presented itself, he wanted to grasp every side of it. You know how he was with ideas—always trying to look at issues and situations from different angles. And when it came to objects that fascinated him or that he found useful, he could never be satisfied with just one,” chuckled Jocelyn. “You know his watch collection, all his various tools—”

  “And his Bible collection,” interjected Amanda.

  “Exactly. He had to have every available translation. When we became interested in heather, he had to try to find every kind of heather. When he discovered the Scotsman’s writ
ings, he searched high and low until he had every book the man had written. Had Charles lived, I don’t doubt that eventually we might have had five or six different cars. When he started building benches, he had to make them all unique and use a different kind of wood. That’s just how he was. He loved variety. And he always had to investigate everything that crossed his path to the ultimate.”

  “He was a very creative man, wasn’t he?” smiled Amanda.

  “‘Creatively restless’ one of his friends once said about him.” Jocelyn now smiled too at the memory. “Charles always laughed at the phrase,” she said, “but it fit him perfectly. He always had some new idea or project to try.”

  “What kind of wood is this?” asked Amanda.

  “It’s called redwood,” Jocelyn answered. “Your father had it shipped from a small, obscure seaport in northern California. It was quite costly, but he found it such a joy to work with.”

  Gradually Amanda’s thoughts returned to her personal dilemma.

  “I don’t know, Mother,” said Amanda after a brief silence, “I understand what you say about Vicar Coleridge. But I really want your counsel more than anyone’s.”

  “I have never faced what you are going through.”

  “Neither has Vicar Coleridge.”

  “I suppose you are right,” replied Jocelyn. “There is also Timothy to think of. He would be glad to talk to you. But you know I will do whatever I can.”

  “Then tell me what you think I ought to do,” said Amanda. “If someone you didn’t know was in my position, and you were the only person she had to turn to, what would you tell her? What if it were Betsy? She has no one else—what would you tell her to do? Even if you haven’t been in my situation, what do you think is right?”

  “Well, dear,” answered Jocelyn thoughtfully, “I suppose the first thing would be to look at what options you see before you. What comes to my mind immediately is the most straightforward—stay married but not see Ramsay again.”