THE LAYTON PROPHECY
BY
Tatiana March
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Kindle Edition
Copyright 2012 by Tatiana March
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the permission of the author except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner to create a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
The Layton Prophecy
About the Author
Prologue
Of course I was familiar with the Layton Prophecy. I’d grown up with it. Many a summer, I’d skipped through Layton Village, Holly Jameson and Grace Parker trailing in my wake, my cotton socks bunched around my ankles, my sandals clattering against the cobblestones as we chanted the rhyme under our breaths.
Old Man Layton, he goes first
Lost and lonely, dies of thirst
Bonnie Maiden follows soon
Love and marriage, that’s her doom
Death is diamonds, curse is gold
Those who seek them, won’t grow old
Children, children, you be ware
Heed this warning, leave it there
We all knew that “Old Man Layton” meant Lord Francis Layton, who’d been a gentleman adventurer. He met his death in South Africa in 1929, while scouring the Kalahari Desert for gold and diamonds.
“Bonnie Maiden” was Cleopatra Layton, his only child. After her father’s disappearance, she promptly married a scoundrel and perished giving birth to twin sons, who twenty-five years later went on to blow up Layton Manor, turning the house into rubble and getting crushed to death in the process.
The rhyme was supposed to be a curse, cast by a dismissed servant. More likely, the verses had been composed by some local poet fascinated by the decaying ruins. Generations of village children had spent countless happy hours getting muddy in the overgrown gardens, digging for the gold and diamonds we all firmly believed to be buried somewhere on the estate.
In actual fact, the Layton Prophecy had first been recorded in 1658, and eight more verses existed in addition to the popular chant. But by the time I found this out, it was too late for me to heed the warning.
Chapter One
Monday evening started badly.
On my way across the parking lot, the icy November downpour drenched every inch of me. In the foyer, an ‘Out of Order’ sign barred the elevator. By the time I reached my sixth-floor apartment, a blister stung on my left heel.
The sound of the telephone ringing inside spurred me on. I fumbled for my keys, unlocked the door and lurched through, expecting the telephone to fall silent the instant I reached it.
It didn’t.
“Hello,” I said, gasping for breath.
“Am I talking to Alexandria Holt?”
Everyone I knew called me Alexandra, but the man pronounced my name the way it was spelled on official documents, with an ‘i’ towards the end.
“Yes.”
The caller introduced himself as Richard Bowen, an associate at Crosland and Baxter, a law firm in Oxford. “Were you born on April fourteenth?” he asked, and added the year.
“That’s correct.” The reminder that I’d soon turn thirty deepened my gloom. Most people had achieved something by then, either a family or a career. I had an overdraft and frown lines across my forehead.
“Good,” the caller said. “The next step is to make an appointment for you to come and see one of our partners. Simon Crosland.”
I clutched the receiver against my shoulder and contorted to shrug off my damp coat. “What’s this about?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” the lawyer said. “Not until we’ve seen some identification. But it may be to your advantage.”
It may be to your advantage.
Excitement curled in my belly. In Hollywood melodramas, calls from unknown lawyers often heralded upswings of fortune. Perhaps the same could happen in real life.
Even to someone as ordinary as me.
I made an appointment for next Wednesday, when I knew I could take the afternoon off at the Bodleian Library in Oxford where I worked as a temp. For the rest of the evening, I spun fantasies of a long-lost relative who’d left me a sheep farm in Australia.
Or a gold mine in Canada.
Or a hacienda in Mexico.
The possibilities seemed endless.
****
By Wednesday afternoon, the wrath of the weather had blown over and a pale winter sun hung low in the sky. I decided to walk. Tourists bundled in heavy overcoats and scarves milled around the college gates as I hurried over Magdalen Bridge.
Crosland and Baxter occupied the upper floors of a tall sandstone house on Headington Road. A tiny reception area had been crammed into the landing. Barely enough room remained for a slim blonde in a black suit, perched on a swivel chair behind a curved desk.
“Mr. Crosland is expecting you.” She resumed her typing. “The first door on your right. Go right in.”
I edged past her, gave three quick raps to announce my arrival and entered. I found myself in a large room furnished with reproduction antiques. An abstract oil painting on the wall added a splash of color. My nose wrinkled at the faint smell of cigarette smoke the floral air freshener failed to disguise.
Simon Crosland was a young man wearing a charcoal designer suit. The carefully cultivated stubble on his jaw was just the right length, macho without looking unkempt. When I walked toward him, he glanced at his slim gold watch, as though eager to get rid of me before we’d even started.
“Alexandria Holt?”
I came to a stop. “Yes.”
“Please, sit down.” He gestured at the chair facing his desk with one hand while continuing to rifle through the papers in front of him with the other.
I sank to the padded seat and lowered my canvas bag by my feet. He offered to hang up my coat but I told him I’d rather keep it on. It occurred to me that it might have blended in better dressed in something more formal than a pair of jeans and a parka, but those had kept me warm during the walk.
“Do you have some identification?” he asked.
I bent to dig in my canvas bag and took out my driving license.
He inspected it carefully. “Alexandria Holt? That’s an unusual spelling.”
“A folly of my father’s. Alexandria is the town in Egypt where I was...” Heat flared to my cheeks as I explained it was where my parents had gone for their honeymoon—where I’d been conceived.
Unruffled, he scribbled a note in the file in front of him and passed the driving license back to me. “Your father was Martin Holt?”
“Yes.”
“And you grew
up in Layton Village?”
“Not really.”
He glanced up from the file.
“My father was at sea, and my mother worked. There was nobody at home to look after me during the school holidays, so I’d go to Layton Village and stay with my father’s sister who is single and doesn’t have any children of her own.”
He consulted the notes in front of him. “Oh yes, I see.”
I doubted that he did. In some strange way, my childhood had been made up of two halves, almost as if I were two different people, one much stronger and more confident than the other. Magical summers with Aunt Rosemary in Layton Village, alternating with dreary winters in Southampton with my unhappy mother.
“I understand that your father died recently,” the lawyer said.
“Yes. Almost a year ago.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the details.” His gaze hung expectantly on me. “Had he been ill...?”
I hesitated. I didn’t like to talk about my father. He was never at home, and from my mother’s pained comments, I’d understood there’d been other women. “My father raced yachts,” I said finally. “He was doing a solo crossing in the Southern Ocean, and his boat broke up in a storm.” I heard the tremor in my voice and paused to draw a calming breath. “He got into a life raft, but he didn’t get picked up. Another storm blew up, and he drowned. His body was eventually recovered from the sea.”
I remembered how pathetically grateful my mother had been for getting something to bury. She’d shown more joy over his body being flown home than she’d ever shown when he arrived alive.
Simon Crosland cleared his throat, a look of sympathy crossing his masculine features, adding a touch of warmth. The female radar in me clicked into action. My gaze drifted over his hands. No wedding ring.
“Did your father ever discuss his parents with you?” he asked.
“No, not really.” I shook my head. “They didn’t get along. He didn’t visit, but when I went to stay with my aunt, I got to know my grandparents well. They died when I was in my teens.” My voice fell. “There was bad blood, because they left the house in Layton Village to Aunt Rosemary.”
“Did anyone explain to you why?”
My brows furrowed at the probing question. “I assume it was because Aunt Rosemary had looked after them in their old age.” In truth, the situation worked in my favor. My aunt had promised to leave the property to me. If my father had inherited, he’d have sold the house and everything in it to fund his ocean racing jaunts.
“What do you know about the Layton family?” the lawyer asked.
“The Layton family?” I glanced up, startled. “Why?”
He plucked a gold fountain pen from the desk and toyed with it. “Just some background about your childhood,” he said smoothly.
Well...” I hesitated. “There is, of course, the Layton Prophecy...”
He chuckled. “I didn’t mean children’s tales. Do you know anything about the current owners of Layton Manor?”
“No,” I said curtly.
The corners of his mouth tilted into an apologetic smile. “The last occupants were Francis and Martin Layton, a pair of identical twins. They died in the fire that destroyed the building in the 1950’s.” He paused, as if to honor their deaths with a second of silence. “Francis Layton was married. His wife and young son survived. The son, also called Francis, lives in America. Until recently, he owned Layton Manor. On his death, the property passed to his daughter, Cleopatra.” Simon Crosland leveled his eyes at me. “The names are a family tradition. The oldest son is usually called Francis, and the second son is called Martin.”
Martin. Like my father. Foreboding unfurled inside me.
The lawyer shuffled the papers on his desk. “I’m sorry if this comes as a surprise to you, Miss Holt, but your father was not the natural son of the man you think of as your grandfather. He was already two years old when your grandparents married. Martin Layton, the younger of the Layton twins, was his father.”
“What...?” I shifted in my seat. “Did he know?”
“Yes. I have no idea why he chose not to tell you. Your mother might be able to shed some light on it, or perhaps your aunt.”
A shiver ran up my spine, sending my shoulders into a shudder that rustled the fabric of my parka. Recollections flickered through my mind. All at once, so many odd looks, so many veiled comments in Layton Village made sense.
Everyone must have been in on the secret.
Except me.
I met his gaze. “Why am I here?”
The lawyer pulled a sheet of paper from the stack in front of him and held it up. “It’s the will,” he said. “The will that put Layton Manor into a trust. It is a rather unusual will for those days, since it recognizes the right of illegitimate children to inherit. Not the title, of course, but the property.” He handed the document to me. “With the death of the last Francis Layton, you’ve been elevated to the second in line, and the terms of the Layton Trust obligate us to inform you of your position.”
I took the piece of paper he was holding out to me. It was the Last Will and Testament of one Francis Layton, dated April 13, 1773.
Back to contents
Chapter Two
I studied the document, struggling to decipher the ornate letters and archaic turns of phrase. The writing was faint in places, and the copy had uneven dark lines where the original must have been folded. A circular smudge by the signature indicated the presence of a wax seal.
“You can keep that,” Simon Crosland told me. “It’s a spare copy.”
Dazed, I glanced up at him. I took my time bending to slot the copy of the will between the pages of a book on medieval sculpture in my bag. When I straightened, I caught him watching me.
“Before you get excited, I must inform you that your potential inheritance will never make you rich.” His dark brows knotted into a warning frown. “Layton Manor is in trust and can’t be sold. The lands were lost more than two hundred years ago. All that’s left is the title of Lord Layton, the derelict house, and the six acres of grounds around it. A small amount of money remains invested in government securities, but the income is barely enough to cover the property taxes and legal fees.”
“I see.” I clutched my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. On the street outside, a lorry roared past. The rattle of the windows felt like laughter, mocking my lofty daydreams of a financial windfall.
“If Cleopatra Layton has children, you’ll be notified that you’re no longer the second in line. But should she predecease you, leaving no heirs, Layton Manor will become yours. If that were to happen, we’ll have several further meetings to inform you of the details involved.” The lawyer pulled his pad closer and poised his pen in the air. “Should you get married, or have a child, you’re expected to notify us, so we can update the file.”
I stared at him.
“Yes,” he said. “Your father informed us when you were born.”
My mind whirled. In addition to a potential inheritance, I had acquired a new set of relatives. My mother had no brothers or sisters, and Aunt Rosemary was childless. Up to now, I hadn’t had any cousins that I knew of.
“What can you tell me about Cleopatra Layton?” I asked.
“You may have already figured out that she’s your second cousin. Your grandfather Martin Layton and her grandfather Francis Layton were twin brothers. I’m afraid that’s the extent of details I can disclose without her express permission.” Simon Crosland slammed the file shut and rose to his feet to indicate my time was up. When we shook hands, my fingers felt numb, as though my nerves had ceased to function.
I walked across the room, my steps hesitant, and exited to the landing, where I eased past the receptionist. Then I climbed down the stairs to stand irresolute on the street. I considered finding somewhere for a cup of coffee, to digest what I’d been told, but anxiety invaded my thoughts, and I decided to hurry home instead.
I took the bus out to the Park and Ride, where I�
�d left my car. Clouds had gathered, and the winter landscape appeared monochrome through the dirty windows. I stared at the bare trees and desolate fields, feeling oddly adrift, as if I no longer knew who I really was.
When I reached my apartment, uneasy memories about my father crowded my head. I had accepted that we’d never been close, but it came as a shock to realize that I might not have known him at all.
****
On Friday night, I drove down to Layton Village for the weekend. There was little I could do about the prospect of a cumbersome inheritance, but at least I could visit Layton Manor, see for myself how bad things were.
My Vauxhall Vectra was the first brand new car I’d ever owned. I’d bought it two years ago, just before I lost my job as a designer for a furniture company in High Wycombe. The sensible thing would have been to sell it and get something cheaper, but I didn’t want to add to my sense of failure.
I parked in the narrow cul-de-sac on the edge of the village and climbed out. After hauling my overnight bag from the rear seat, I slammed the car doors shut and clicked the remote locks. When I turned, I saw Aunt Rosemary standing in the open doorway of Mill Cottage.
There was something guilty in her welcoming smile, so I knew that she knew that I knew, and I knew that she had always known. Instead of skirting around the topic, I chose to vent my feelings.
“Why didn’t anybody tell me?” I complained as I bent to hug her. I’d been taller than her since thirteen and leaning down had become a habit.
“What have you done to your hair?” Aunt Rosemary asked.
“Don’t try to distract me.”
“I wasn’t. What happened?”
Because I’d avoided mirrors all week, I’d almost forgotten. “It was supposed to be auburn. I turned on the TV and lost track of time.”
“Will it wash off?” she asked.
“In a couple of months.”
Aunt Rosemary reached up to touch my hair, as though the strands were coated in something toxic. I’d always liked my hair. It was straight and thick and glossy, cut in long layers that bounced about my face, but the color was the dullest brown. This was my first experiment.
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