“If your arm’s broken, it’s just a fracture,” Tom said as he pulled up outside Mill Cottage. “I could drive you out to casualty in Salisbury, or you can call the heath center and get a doctor to make a house call. They do that outside normal hours.”
The throbbing in my wrist had eased as soon as we stopped bouncing over the potholed road. The thought of the long drive to Salisbury made me shudder. “I’ll wait for a doctor,” I told them.
Tom gave me a reassuring smile. “All right. Make sure you don’t jar your arm, and take plenty of painkillers.”
“Thanks.” I supported my injured wrist with my opposite hand and shuffled to the door. Holly rattled the knocker. Aunt Rosemary understood the situation in a flash. She installed me on the living room sofa and went to call the health service out-of-hours emergency number. When she came back, she hovered, but didn’t make a fuss or bother me with concerned questions.
“Shall I make you a cup of tea?” she asked.
“That would be lovely.” I leaned into the cushions, closing my eyes.
“I’d better go and let you get some rest,” Holly said uncertainly.
“No. Please stay and have a cup of tea.” I opened my eyes and saw her fidgeting with the wooden toggles on the front of her navy blue duffel coat.
“If you’re sure,” she said. “But I can’t stay long. We dumped the kids with my parents.” A blush tinged Holly’s pale cheeks. “We were on our way to the Christmas Bazaar at the garden centre when we saw you and Miles walking up to Layton Manor. We offloaded the kids and came after you, hoping that Tom could talk to Miles about the access rights.”
My lips curved into a bitter smile. “You’re wasting your time. If Miles doesn’t want to talk about it, he won’t.”
Holly shrugged. “Tom had to try. You’re not angry, are you?”
“Of course I’m not.” I sent her a wan smile. “It’s lucky you were there.”
Holly stared at her hands. “We heard you cry out. Then we rounded the corner and saw that the wall had collapsed. The last stones were still crashing down.” She raised her gaze, her eyes huge with fear. “You were shouting no.”
I shrugged, wincing as pain jolted through my wrist. “I must have seen the wall crumble.”
She shook her head. “You were shouting no, Miles, no.”
I stared back at her. My insides knotted tight as the terror that I’d tried to ignore leapt back into life, numbing my mind, constricting the flow of air into my lungs. Aunt Rosemary joined us, and we drank our tea in a strained silence. I was grateful when Holly left, and even more grateful to know that Aunt Rosemary hadn’t overheard what she’d told me.
No, Miles, no.
I recalled my last thoughts before the rocks tumbled down. Miles was pushing me under the falling stones, instead of pulling me into the safety of his arms. In that last fraction of a second, I’d recognized the truth, and I had screamed my terror out loud.
In my mind, I reviewed the three incidents in the last few weeks when my life had been in danger.
Miles had turned off the gas fire in Rose Cottage, leaving it leaking after he’d departed for South Africa.
Miles had invited me to go with him up to Layton Manor. He’d visited the ruins alone the day before, and he’d directed me to stand in the spot where the stones had landed.
Miles hadn’t been in South Africa when the lorry hurtled at Petra and me, but I had no evidence that there had been any lorry at all. I only had Petra’s word, and if she was helping Miles, the whole incident could have been a story concocted to convince me that the danger was from the Layton Prophecy, and not from Miles.
My breath came in tiny gasps as faced the logical conclusion. The man I was in love with was trying to kill me. As soon as the words formed in my mind, I discarded them as crazy. Murder was a heinous crime. There could be no reason for Miles to want me dead. If the loot was hidden on the grounds of Layton Manor, rather than lost at the bottom of the sea, Cleopatra had the right to it. She was the current Layton heiress, not me.
But...what if...what if it wasn’t the loot? What if it was Layton Manor and the offer of two point five million from Dryfield Homes? And why did I so blindly believe that Miles adored his young niece? He had told me so, but it might be a lie. All I had was his word for it.
As the thoughts tumbled around my brain, I recognized that my suspicions were irrational. And yet, deep down, fear took hold. I dwelled on the possibility that I might have harbored a kernel of doubt all along. Why else had I not asked Miles about the offer from Dryfield Homes? The only explanation was that I’d been burying my head in the sand, trying to ignore the possibility that he was after the money.
Two hours later, Miles came back from Layton Manor, his clothes streaked in mud, his face grim. My mind fragmented. One part of me responded to his anxious questions and received his soothing hugs. The other part hovered at a distance and assessed his every expression, every nuance of his voice, and searched for proof of his guilt.
He seemed troubled. Even though he fussed over me, his manner appeared tense and forced. He went upstairs to wash off the worst of the dirt. After that, he didn’t stay for long, but made an excuse and left.
The behavior of someone with a guilty conscience.
When the locum doctor from the health service came, I barely paid attention when he probed my wrist. He told me I’d fractured some of the tiny bones. He fitted a temporary cast and told me that if I didn’t want to go to the hospital in Salisbury, I could wait for the local surgery to open on Monday morning.
I lay listless on the sofa after he was gone.
No curse, I thought.
No buried treasure.
Layton Manor, and two point five million pounds from Dryfield Homes.
****
That night I was in too much pain to sleep. On Sunday, I dozed most of the day, drugged with paracetamol and ibuprofen. Miles came in briefly to see me. He seemed preoccupied. He told me it was safe to take the maximum dose of both painkillers at the same time, as the two compounds didn’t interfere with each other.
I asked Aunt Rosemary to check it on the internet. When she told me it was true, shame for having doubted Miles sent me into a brooding silence. I felt terrible about my suspicions, but I simply couldn’t ignore my fears.
On Monday morning, before going to the health centre to show my arm, I rang Crosland and Baxter. I was told that Simon Crosland was in court. When I said it was urgent, the girl at the reception gave me his mobile phone number.
He answered at once.
“I need to know something very urgently,” I told him.
“I have five minutes.”
“What happens if there are no more Layton heirs? For example, if both Cleopatra Layton and I were to die without leaving any children?”
“First we’d have to advertise for any unknown heirs to come forward and make a claim. For example, Petra Osterhuis could have made a claim. We’d run a DNA test. If anyone tested positive, they would inherit. If more than one person tested positive, the usual order of sequence would apply.”
“What if no one tests positive?”
“If there are no more heirs, the trust will be dissolved. It’s explained in the penultimate paragraph of the will, although the wording might be somewhat difficult for a layman to follow.”
“What happens to Layton Manor if the trust is dissolved?”
Simon Crosland’s voice faded. I could picture him looking at his gold watch. “Any assets left in the trust will be included in the estate of the last beneficiary to die. The person who inherits the last living Layton descendant will get Layton Manor, and they’ll no longer be bound by the terms of the trust. They’ll be free to sell.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“It’s simple,” the lawyer said, a trace of impatience in his voice. “If you were the last surviving Layton, on your death the person who inherits the rest of your assets would also get Layton Manor. They could do whatever they want
with the place—for example sell it, or split it into lots and try to get a planning permission to build houses on the land.” I could hear a muffled voice calling out his name. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”
My insides turned into ice as I lowered the receiver. If I died first, and Cleopatra died second, whoever inherited her would get Layton Manor. That person would be free to sell the land to Dryfield Homes for a huge sum of money. No wonder Miles had resented the man who’d married his niece. I remembered the relief in his voice when he told me that Cleo had filed for divorce. I was fairly certain that she’d leave everything to Miles. Her father was already dead, and she was on bad terms with her mother.
I was the only obstacle between Miles and a fortune.
I hobbled upstairs to Aunt Rosemary’s guest bedroom. The last two nights, I’d slept on the sofa. This was the first time I was up on my feet. Dark bruises decorated my torso and limbs. Every step I took sent an ache throbbing trough my muscles. I lowered to my knees and searched in my bag.
The copy of the Layton will wasn’t there.
Ignoring the pain, I emptied the contents of the bag on the floor and rifled through everything in a frantic inspection. They were all gone—the three diaries Miles had given me and the will from Simon Crosland. I closed my eyes and tried to recall what had taken place when Miles came into the house. He’d visited me on both days since the accident. He’d only gone upstairs once. That was on Saturday, when he came back muddy from Layton Manor. He’d used the bathroom. In my mind, I could picture him coming down, the pockets of his dark green waterproof wax jacket bulging with things inside.
“I’ve never known a woman to love like she loves. Without reserve, without conditions, without expectation of being loved in return, without promises of a future.”
I’d gone one step further than Beatrice Osterhuis.
Despite my suspicions that Miles might be trying to kill me, I still loved him.
****
I called a taxi for the half-mile trip to the modern health centre on the edge of the village and waited for my turn. My arm was x-rayed. I was told there was a hairline fracture which required a proper cast. A brisk doctor with a thick Eastern European accent treated me. He sent me off with a prescription for stronger painkillers and a sick note for two weeks.
When I got to Mill Cottage, fatigue swamped me. Pain radiated from my arm to the rest of me. The AVIS car was gone. Aunt Rosemary opened the door, looking troubled. “Miles came in to say goodbye,” she told me. “You’ve only just missed him. He’s on his way to Heathrow to catch a plane back to the States. Cleopatra has slipped into a coma.”
I stared at her. I wasn’t worrying about Cleopatra. I was thinking about Miles, how it would screw up his plans if Cleopatra died first. Then Layton Manor would go to my mother after me. I didn’t want that. I went upstairs, called Simon Crosland, and asked him to draw up a simple will leaving everything I owned to Aunt Rosemary.
Arranging my financial affairs didn’t make me feel any better. I lay down in the spare bedroom, but despite my fatigue, I couldn’t doze off.
Aunt Rosemary peeked in. “Are you all right, petal?”
“I...” I wanted to share my suspicions, but I found it impossible put my morbid thoughts into words. They were not even proper thoughts, more like dark shadows flickering on the edges of my mind. If I told Aunt Rosemary, her methodical brain would take over. She’d probe, seeking evidence. She’d force me to formulate those terrible fears, and if she decided there was the slightest grain of truth in them, she’d call the police. She’d always been my champion, and she’d protect me with all her wisdom and strength.
If she took things that far, called in the cops, the gossip would tear through the village. Even if I was wrong, the accusations would stick. Miles would never be able redeem himself in the eyes of the village. He’d always be the man who attempted to murder his jilted girlfriend. He’d never forgive me for the slander, and the curiosity of the gossips would suffocate me.
“I’m just tired,” I muttered to Aunt Rosemary.
“I’ll get you a cup of tea,” she said and went off downstairs.
To my shame, I missed Miles. I longed to turn back the clock, to be with him in Rose Cottage before everything went sour between us. I wanted snuggle up against his solid warmth in the darkness. I had to accept the truth about my feelings—even if he charged at me with a knife in his hand, I would still look at him with love in my eyes.
I guess I didn’t deal in half measures. I’d finally let myself love someone without reserve, and that love couldn’t be taken back. My only hope was that it would fade over time, allowing me to get over him and find a different future.
If I managed to keep alive that long.
****
Although Aunt Rosemary invited me to stay with her, I preferred to brood in solitude, and I moved back to Rose Cottage, only going over to her side at mealtimes.
A day later, I had a visit from my friend Grace Parker and her trendy boyfriend Brandon. He trailed in behind her, clutching a manila folder in his hands. Grace was almost back to normal, dressed in army pants and a bulky jacket, but smattering of makeup brightened her face. Brandon’s hair had lost its gelled spikiness, and his outfit seemed a little less coordinated. He appeared willing to meet her halfway. I had a feeling that they might make a go of it.
“I like your hair,” I told Brandon as we sat down in my cramped living room.
“Grace told me it’s not nice to touch when it’s gelled.” A blush swept up his lean features, and I instantly warmed to him.
“Brandon has something to tell you,” Grace announced.
I smiled at her formal manner. “All right,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“Go on, Brandon.” She prodded his shoulder.
“Yes, well, err...”
“He isn’t writing any bloody book on derelict stately homes,” Grace blurted out.
“Oh?” My sound of surprise hung in the air.
“He was curious about the Laytons,” Grace said. “The book was a cover story.”
“A cover story for what?” My gaze shuttled between them.
“I do write.” Brandon sounded defensive. “I’m writing a novel.”
“What’s it about?” I said, not pressing for an answer to my first question.
“It’s about one of my ancestors. He worked at Layton Manor.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“My grandmother died recently, and since I’m unemployed, I’ve been given the job of clearing out her house before it’s put up for sale.”
I waited through the long pause. Verbal communication didn’t seem to be a strong point for Brandon. I hoped he had more talent for the written word.
“I found this.” Brandon reached into the document folder in his lap and handed me a thick page of parchment covered in ornate writing.
It was a copy of the Layton Prophecy.
“Look at the date at the bottom,” Grace said.
I did. It said August 23, 1658. “This must be the original.” I glanced up, stunned. “The original of the Layton Prophecy.”
Brandon cleared his throat. “That’s right,” he said. “It was my great-great-something-grandfather who wrote it. He was a writer.”
“But...” I paused. “The curse was supposed to be cast by a servant who was sacked for stealing a game pie and a jug of ale.”
“Unlikely,” Grace pointed out. “According to Brandon, in those days very few servants could read or write.”
“My ancestor was a scholar.” Brandon reached up to his hair, appearing surprised not to encounter the gelled spikes. He brought his hand down again without stirring a single strand. “He’d been engaged to write a history of the Layton family.”
I frowned at him. “How do you know all this?”
“There were lots of old papers preserved, not only this,” Brandon fingered the flap on his manila folder. “I’m going through them with the local history society. I’m making co
pies and donating the originals to their collection.”
“Why did your ancestor write the prophecy?” I asked.
“The Layton’s didn’t pay him. They sacked him, after he’d already done most of the work.”
The corners of my mouth tugged down in disbelief. “Why?”
Brandon grinned, relaxing in the seat. “He wrote an honest account. Greed, treachery, deceit. The Laytons were furious. They’d wanted a eulogy. The main reason they’d commissioned the history was to polish up their reputation. In a few generations, the truth would be forgotten, but the written account would survive.”
“Why did you lie about your interest in Layton Manor?” While I waited for him to reply, I studied the truculent expression on his face.
He shot a glance at Grace, who spun her hand in an encouraging motion.
Brandon turned back to me. “Grace told me about the treasure hunts you used to have when you were kids, how you believed there was gold and diamonds buried on the grounds. I didn’t want to give the game away, in case there was some clue in the papers.” He looked down at his feet. “I hoped to get rich.”
“There couldn’t have been a clue in the papers written by your ancestor,” I explained. “The treasure was lost almost three hundred years later.”
“Yeah, well...” Brandon fidgeted on the two-seater sofa. “I didn’t know that, and once I’d made up the lie, it seemed too awkward to come clean.” He shot another glance at Grace. “She insisted that I tell you.”
“Thank you.” I nodded at them both, more relieved than annoyed. “Will you promise me that if there’s anything in the papers connected with the Layton Prophecy, you’ll let me know?” I asked, like a teacher talking to unruly pupils.
“Sure.” Brandon got up and offered me his hand. “We’re cool now, right?”
“We’re cool,” I assured him with a grin.
I stood on the doorstep and watched them hold hands as they walked down Mill Lane. It warmed my heart to see Grace happy, and yet, a small sting of envy pressed inside me at how easily they’d conquered their differences.
The Layton Prophecy Page 23
