A New Dawn Over Devon

by Michael Phillips

  Crumholtz paused and glanced up.

  “The instrument is properly signed,” he concluded, “is witnessed by the signatures of Rev. Timothy Diggorsfeld and Mr. Stirling Blakeley, and appears to be in order in every way.”

  As quiet descended within the ancient church, Geoffrey’s father sat in angry and gloomy silence.

  “Well,” he said at length, “it would appear, Jocelyn, that you have succeeded in thoroughly poisoning my son against me.”

  He stood to leave. “But this changes nothing,” he said. “Whether this so-called will is legal or not hardly matters. There are extenuating circumstances which make it a moot point. I will have Heathersleigh Hall, and nothing you can do will stop me.”

  “What sort of circumstances?” asked Jocelyn slowly.

  “My son’s foolishness,” replied Gifford, “was not limited merely to making unwise loans to the community—he also jeopardized his own financial standing. And when his own account went dry and he no longer had cash reserves to cover the loans he was guaranteeing, Geoffrey took out a sizeable mortgage against Heathersleigh Hall in order to continue his folly.”

  “He mortgaged . . . Heathersleigh Hall?” said Jocelyn in disbelief.

  “A foolhardy decision, I grant you, but unfortunately true.”

  Jocelyn’s head was swimming.

  “But . . . I have a few assets left,” she said. “Perhaps if I guaranteed—”

  “Tut, tut, Jocelyn, my dear . . . believe me, the amounts in question are far beyond the scope of your limited means. The amount due against the Hall alone is £14,500, not to mention all the other loans. The total indebtedness created by Geoffrey’s benevolence amounts to more than £30,000. So you see, his sham of a will does nothing but tie around your daughter’s neck the noose of Geoffrey’s indebtedness.”

  He turned to go.

  “But . . . but what will you do?” Jocelyn asked after him as the others continued to listen in silence.

  Gifford paused and turned. “It is really quite simple, my dear. I shall return to the bank immediately, where I will set in motion the steps necessary to fulfill Geoffrey’s obligation against Heathersleigh Hall.”

  “What kind of steps?”

  “Those prescribed by law under the terms of the note. It is called foreclosure. The Hall and all its assets will be sold by public auction, and the other notes called due. There is simply no other way.”

  “But surely, Gifford . . . selling off the Hall by auction—how can you do such a thing!”

  “Why do you not see what you and others in the community can raise?” suggested Gifford, raising one eyebrow and glancing about at the others. “Perhaps, that is if the people of the community were behind you and you all banded together . . . you might buy back your old home.”

  Even as he spoke, Gifford knew that what the community could probably raise, pooling every penny together including what was in Jocelyn’s account—the balance of which he had checked on himself before setting his plan in motion—would not amount to more than two thousand pounds.

  “If not, however,” he added, “the mortgage on the Hall remains . . . and remains due.”

  He turned to Amanda.

  “So unless you can come up with fourteen thousand pounds within the month, my dear,” he said, “you will have but thirty days to enjoy it.”

  He turned again and now left the church and returned to the bank.

  Even as he walked along the street, Gifford knew he had no intention of letting the thing be decided by an auction where he would run the risk of some wealthy Devonshire land baron coming in to outbid him. The Heathersleigh property was easily worth over £100,000. He would, before then, quietly pay off the debt in a private transaction with the bank, and then foreclose on Amanda himself.

  Back in the church, the others sat stunned for perhaps a minute.

  “Mr. Crumholtz,” said Jocelyn at length, “may I ask a question . . . even though what Gifford says is correct about the outstanding mortgage against the Hall, who actually owns it now . . . right now?”

  “Technically,” replied the solicitor, “no one. It is included in Geoffrey’s estate; therefore, the formalities of an actual transfer of title will take time to sort out. However, as benefactress, your daughter’s claim is legally undisputable, there is little doubt that she could be viewed as the owner, and you as executrix of the will may deem it best to expedite her taking possession pending the actual transfer of title. In fact, to avoid awkwardness and any contestation of the will, I would recommend it. But I am afraid Mr. Rutherford is right concerning the lien. Once title is transferred, you will be liable for the amount. If it is called due by the bank, as appears certain, you will have to pay the amount in full or forfeit the property to its creditors.”

  “In other words . . . the bank,” said Jocelyn.

  “So it would appear, Lady Jocelyn. I am sorry. I wish there were something I could do.”

  “Well, if it is Amanda’s until then,” said Catharine in a huff, “I suggest we go there right now and take possession. Otherwise, Gifford will take it over as his. I am sorry, Cousin Martha.”

  “Think nothing of it, dear,” replied Martha, dabbing at eyes which wept as much for her husband as her son. “You are no doubt right. Gifford tends to do what is best for the bank without thinking of anyone else.”

  They all rose and began moving toward the church door.

  “Mr. Crumholtz,” said Jocelyn, “would you like to join us for tea before your drive back to Exeter?”

  “Yes, thank you,” replied the solicitor. “There are a few signatures I will need as well.”

  “Jocelyn,” said Martha, “I think I shall go back to the inn. I am very tired.”

  “It must be very difficult for you,” said Jocelyn, giving her a warm hug. “I am so sorry again about Geoffrey.”

  Martha nodded, shook hands with Vicar Coleridge, then left the church. The others followed.

  “Timothy, will you join us?” asked Jocelyn as they emerged again into the sunlight.

  “I don’t want to intrude if there are legal matters—”

  “Nonsense,” interrupted Jocelyn. “You are our advisor. Please come. We will have tea together, and perhaps talk further about what we should do.”

  Word had spread that some sort of meeting in the church was in progress with Lady Jocelyn, a solicitor from Exeter, and Mr. Rutherford. Fifteen or twenty people were, therefore, milling about hopefully outside. They had seen Gifford Rutherford storm out a few minutes earlier and walk briskly through their midst.

  And one look at Lady Jocelyn’s face now told them that the situation with the bank remained unchanged.

  Within thirty minutes a public announcement was posted outside the bank, per regulations, which would, as much as the circulation of the call notices, set the community all the more aflame against Geoffrey’s father.

  NOTICE OF PUBLIC AUCTION OF ASSETS

  IN SATISFACTION OF DEBT

  Three weeks from today, on the 26th of March, 1923, at 2:00 in the afternoon at the estate known as Heathersleigh Hall, Milverscombe, Devon, a public auction will be held of all assets on the premises, including approximately 120 acres of land, the building of Heathersleigh Hall, and all its furnishings—to be sold as single lot. Auction will be by sealed bid. No bid less than £14,500 will be accepted.

  99

  Deliverance

  Two automobiles drove slowly up the long entry to Heathersleigh Hall. It felt different now that, for a short time at least, Amanda was the owner again. Yet it seemed so empty and lifeless. Not even Sarah or Wenda were present, for Jocelyn had brought both women to the cottage to be with them after Geoffrey’s death. Not a voice, not a sound, came from within the old, cold grey stone walls.

  The seven walked inside. It was chilly and quiet.

  Slowly Amanda walked toward the stairs while Jocelyn went to the kitchen to start a fire and begin preparing tea.

  “Where are you going?” asked Stirling.

/>   “I want to see Geoffrey’s room again,” Amanda replied.

  They climbed the stairs and walked into the room that had belonged to her parents for so many years and in which Geoffrey had died only five days before. Amanda glanced about with a sad smile. The sight was familiar yet distant. It was so silent and sterile. It almost smelled like a hospital ward after the cleaning Sarah and Wenda had busied themselves with after Geoffrey was gone.

  They stood several moments in silence.

  “Wait . . . what am I thinking!” Stirling suddenly exclaimed in the midst of the solemn atmosphere.

  “What?” said Amanda as she turned toward him, jarred by his sudden statement.

  “Geoffrey gave me some papers to give to you,” he said. “In the grief over his death and the funeral, I forgot all about them.”

  “What were they?” asked Amanda.

  “I don’t know. He said they were important, that I should guard them with my life, and—what else . . . he said he had found something.”

  “Where are they?”

  “That’s what I am trying to remember,” said Stirling, frantically searching his pockets. “But they’re not here—I must have been wearing a different shirt and pair of trousers.”

  He paused, thinking hard.

  “No—I was wearing my heavy coat. It was chilly that day. I’ll run home and see if I can find them.”

  “I’m going with you!” said Amanda, following him from the room and toward the stairs. As they went, somehow a sense of urgency came over her. By the time they reached the door, she was as anxious to find the papers as Stirling. “We’ll take the Peugeot,” she said. “I’ll drive!”

  Four and a half minutes later Charles Rutherford’s Peugeot, once the talk of the community but now becoming an automotive relic, nearly skidded to a stop on the dirt street in front of the Blakeley home. Now the villagers had something to talk about other than the call notices on their loans—the fact that a dozen of them had nearly been run down by Amanda Rutherford speeding through town.

  Stirling ran inside with Amanda on his heels.

  “Hello, Agatha . . . Rune,” said Amanda, hastily greeting Stirling’s parents.

  “What are the two of you—?” began Agatha.

  But the brief conversation was interrupted a moment later when Stirling ran out of his room carrying his coat in one hand and fumbling in the pockets with the other.

  “Here it is,” he cried. “—Amanda, I’ve got it!”

  He rushed to her and handed her the papers. Amanda sat down in the nearest chair, unfolded them, scanned both the letter and drawing, then calmed herself and began to read.

  Two minutes later she glanced up, tears in her eyes from what Geoffrey had written. She had just heard his voice speaking to her from beyond the grave.

  “I think we had better get back to the Hall,” she said. “This time you should drive. I don’t think I could keep my hands from trembling.”

  “Why . . . what did he say?” asked Stirling.

  “I will tell you on the way,” replied Amanda, hurrying from the house, while Stirling’s mother and father stared after the two, knowing no more what was going on than when they had rushed in.

  For the second time in less than an hour, Stirling and Amanda entered the doors of Heathersleigh Hall. But this time they burst through at a run.

  “Catharine . . . Catharine!” cried Amanda. “Catharine, where are you—you have to see this!”

  Already she was flying up the staircase, Stirling on her heels. Catharine arrived from somewhere on the ground floor, called for Terrill, then chased after her sister.

  Catharine caught the other two just as Amanda had reached the second-floor landing and had turned toward the library. Lieutenant Langham’s footsteps could be heard behind them taking the stairs two at a time.

  “What is it!” asked Catharine as she overtook Amanda.

  Amanda paused as she saw the makeshift piece of rug on the floor in front of her. She glanced above her to see Geoffrey’s patchwork repair on the ceiling.

  “Right there,” she said, pointing to rug and blanket, “—that’s what it’s all about.”

  “What are you talking about?” repeated Catharine.

  “Do you remember,” replied Amanda, “how George always thought there was another mystery to be discovered about the garret? Even after he discovered the secret room?”

  “Of course. He was always sure there was more.”

  “It turns out he was right,” said Amanda excitedly. “Geoffrey apparently found out what it was just a few days ago, during that big storm we had.—Look!”

  She handed her sister the papers as she opened the library door.

  “Where are we going now?” said Catharine, trying to scan them quickly as they went.

  “To the garret room.”

  “But it’s just an empty room.”

  “Not if you know where to look.”

  “What in the world are you two talking about?” laughed Catharine’s husband as he tried to make sense of the conversation.

  “Come with us, Terrill,” said Catharine. “You’ll see!”

  Three minutes later, the four young people, still being led by Amanda, scampered up the narrow circular staircase into the garret room and closed the floor-door behind them.

  “And there’s no access to this,” said Langham, “other than through that hidden passage?”

  “That’s right,” answered Catharine. “That’s why no one knew about it for years until our brother discovered it.”

  “According to Geoffrey’s drawing and explanation,” said Amanda, “the board in this corner . . .”

  She scooted to the corner on hands and knees and began probing about with her fingers.

  “—There, look . . . this end just slipped down!”

  “Let me slide it back,” said Stirling, who had just read Geoffrey’s directions again.

  It slid easier to Stirling’s touch than it had to Geoffrey’s. A moment later, all four faces were bent down close to each other in amazement over the concealed lock in the floor.

  “It’s just like the mechanisms in the two cabinets!” said Catharine. “Maggie’s great-grandfather must have been a mechanical genius.”

  “How does it open?” asked Terrill. “I don’t see a key.”

  “There isn’t one,” said Amanda. “Geoffrey suggested the key ring in the tower.”

  “Let’s go!” cried Catharine.

  They pulled open the trapdoor again, squirmed through the small opening, descended the stairs, then rushed off through the labyrinth, this time to the northeast tower of the Hall. A few minutes later they were on their way back, the key ring jingling in Stirling’s hand.

  “But all of these keys are accounted for,” said Catharine. “There is the large tower door key, the medium-sized one that unlocks the door in the opposite wall into the hidden passageway, and the small key that opens the hidden panel of the cabinet in the library. There aren’t any extras.”

  “We’ll have to try them,” said Amanda. “Perhaps the same key opens two locks.”

  Scrambling up into the garret room, again they knelt down.

  “It’s obviously not the big one,” said Stirling, looking at the keys and lock. He held the next one down toward the floor.

  “No, that couldn’t be it either—too big. How about the secretary key?—Here, Amanda, it looks about the right size . . . you do the honors.”

  Amanda took the key from Stirling’s hand and slowly pointed it down into the lock, then attempted to insert it. It slid smoothly into the mechanism. Slowly she began to turn the key.

  From somewhere in the wall facing them, they could hear a metallic click of retracting bolts. In front of them a hidden panel that had been built into the wall measuring some two feet wide by four feet high swung back, revealing a darkened chamber behind it. It had no floorboards, only the back side of lath and plaster from the ceiling below between the joists, and had obviously never been intended to su
pport any weight.

  “It’s exactly as Geoffrey described it!” exclaimed Amanda. “A tiny vault between the two opposite garret walls.”

  Three wood shelves had been built on the wall of the vault and contained various objects, trinkets, a book or two, a tattered blanket, a knife, a spyglass, a pocket watch, and a compass. Evidence was apparent of the leak in the roof above and the hole where the lath work had fallen into the corridor below.

  “What’s that!” said Catharine. “Look!”

  On the lower of the shelves sat what had first drawn Geoffrey’s attention as well—an ancient chest approximately a foot long, six inches wide, and nine inches deep, with top rounded from front to back, silverish in color with hammered designs and patterns engraved in the metal.

  Stirling reached across with one hand to pick it up.

  “It’s heavy—I can’t lift it!”

  Crouching forward, he now lifted the box with both hands and withdrew it into the larger room, where he set it on the floor with a heavy thud.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” said Terrill, “but that is a Turkish money box. I would recognize it anywhere. I saw one in a museum once. I recognize the engravings.”

  “It looks like something out of The Arabian Nights!”

  “Actually, you’re not so far wrong,” said Langham.

  “Open it, Amanda!” said Stirling. “What are you waiting for? The Hall is yours now. I presume that means so is that box.”

  It fell silent a moment. A sense of awe descended upon them in anticipation of what their eyes were about to see.

  Slowly Amanda raised the unlocked latch, then lifted the lid.

  Gasps of incredulity and astonishment broke from all four mouths at once.

  “Can that possibly be . . . what it looks like!” exclaimed Catharine, the first to find her voice.

  Terrill reached toward the gleaming sight and picked up one of the coins with which the box was filled, examined it a moment between thumb and forefinger, then tried to judge its weight by tossing it up and down in his hand.