Edward was enormously proud of his children. Bess, such a beautiful girl, and tall for twelve; next to her was Young Edward, a handsome boy of eight, and his little brother Ritchie, now five. Mary, who was eleven years old, was clutching Cecily’s hand. A golden-haired child like her brothers, she was a little timid, even though she was nine. Nanny was holding three-year-old Anne in her arms; next to her was his darling Grace Rose. A rare beauty at twenty-one and everyone’s favourite. Even Elizabeth treated her kindly these days, and was obviously quite fond of her.
His family. His large family, whom he loved, adored and treasured. They were safe, thank God. He and Elizabeth had made them safe through their secret marriage this past August. He would always be thankful that she had married him again without too much fuss; but then, she had not had any alternative really.
Thoughts of George intruded, and then he pushed them to one side. He had hopefully foiled his brother and his treacherous intentions. If he hadn’t put a stop to the gossip, what did it matter, actually? He could deny it and in all truth insist he was well and truly married to Elizabeth because now he was.
Suddenly, Bess was standing in front of him and her words brought him out of his reverie. ‘Father, you must give the order, tell Joby and the others to light the bonfire.’
‘Yes, I must, Bess.’ He stepped forward and cried, ‘All right, lads, do it. Get the bonfire going.’
Within seconds the twigs and branches caught light, and once the flames were flaring up into the sky and the effigy of Guy Fawkes was burning, Bess gathered her brothers and sisters together, and holding hands, dancing around the roaring bonfire, they began to sing the old song:
‘Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
The gunpowder, treason and plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy,’ twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
To prove old England’s overthrow.’
When the children had finished singing, the adults applauded them and shouted their hoorahs; Cook and several of the young maids passed around plates of gingerbread men, the parkin and other sweet cakes, while Faxton brought out a tray holding tall glasses of lemonade. And Elias, armed with a pair of long tongs, ran around the edge of the bonfire, pulling out the hot baked potatoes which had been placed there earlier to warm. After everyone had tasted the special treats and drunk the lemonade, Amos distributed the sparklers. The other men went around and lighted them for the children.
The children ran through the yard, waving the sparklers in the air, laughing with glee and enjoying themselves.
Edward stood with Elizabeth and the other adults, the men drinking Scotch and water, the women sipping glasses of sherry, chatting together in the glow of the fire.
Finally it was time for the fireworks. This was carefully managed by Stephen Forth, Mark Ledbetter, Amos Finnister and Edward. There was a fantastic display of Catherine wheels, starbursts, rainbows, and falling stars, as well as many other unique fireworks. The women stood back and watched the children, and exchanged glances of pleasure. It was wonderful to see the happiness and delight on the young faces.
THIRTY-EIGHT
London
Will stood in the library of Edward’s house in Berkeley Square, staring at the Renoir painting of the two redheaded young women. It hung above the fireplace, and Will understood why it took pride of place in this room. It was beautiful, a masterpiece, and he understood why it reminded Edward of Bess and Grace Rose.
He had told Edward he needed to speak to him privately, and they had arranged to meet here. Elizabeth was at Waverley Court in Kent with the children. The house was empty, very quiet and still this afternoon.
Mallet came in and, clearing his throat, asked, ‘Would you like something, sir? Perhaps a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you, Mallet,’ Will answered. The butler nodded and left.
Will continued to study the marvellous Renoir, and then suddenly Edward was striding into the room, apologizing for keeping him waiting.
‘What’s this all about, Will? You look serious, even a bit grim,’ Edward said.
Will was silent. He went and sat on a chair near the fire place, leaned back, crossed his legs.
Edward took the other chair, staring at him intently, and picking up on his sober mood at once. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘Vincent Martell telephoned me just before I was leaving for the lunch, Ned. He had apparently attempted to get hold of you here, but the line was busy. He in fact tried several times with no success. Which was why he finally got in touch with me.’
‘Is there a problem at the vineyards? Oh, no, wait. A problem with George! Is that it? Has my brother been up to his old tricks again?’
Will took a deep breath, spoke in a low tone. ‘George is dead, Ned.’
Edward recoiled, sat back in the chair, gaping at Will. He was stunned. Frowning, he shook his head. ‘George … he’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid so. Vincent found him this morning. He noticed the door of one of the large wine vaults swinging in the wind, and went to see what was going on.’
Edward had turned pale, and now he asked in a low, gruff voice, ‘How did he die? Was he sick? What happened, Will?’
‘It seems there was a terrible accident some time last night. Apparently George had made it a habit to go to the largest wine vault if he ran out of wine at the château. There was a tasting table and racks of wine were kept at the far end of the vault. Vincent thinks that George may have been drunk when he went in there. He found him on the floor this morning, laying in a pool of red wine, face down, surrounded by a slew of broken barrels. Vincent believes that George, very likely inebriated, stumbled against a stack of barrels, and stumbled very hard, so that they came tumbling down on him. Vincent explained that one of the casks obviously hit him on the head and killed him because George had very severe head injuries. The entire pyramid of barrels is decimated, some smashed, others lying on the stone floor.’
‘Oh my God … how ghastly.’ Edward brought a hand to his face. ‘I can’t believe this.’
‘I know, it’s all so … sudden, so unexpected.’ Will shook his head slowly. ‘But perhaps not really all that surprising, not if you think about it. It seems to me that George was fated … somehow he always managed to get into trouble …’ Will’s voice trailed off; he was at a loss for words.
The two old friends sat for a while in silence, lost in their own thoughts.
It was Edward who finally spoke. ‘I assume Vincent called for a doctor? Got medical help?’
‘Yes, he did. But George had apparently been dead for some hours. Rigor mortis had set in. The police were also informed and came to the château. However, as Vincent said, it was pretty obvious what had happened because of all the broken wine casks and his head injuries.’
‘They’ll blame me. My mother will say it’s my fault George is dead … and so will Richard. They both asked me not to send him to the vineyards in France. They believed he would die there, and they were right. My mother begged me, Will –’ Edward broke off, his voice suddenly hoarse, almost a whisper.
‘No, they can’t blame you. Listen to me, Ned, it wasn’t your fault. Believe me it wasn’t. And I’ve never quite understood why your mother has always taken George’s side … I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but your brother was most unbrotherly towards you for his entire life.’
‘Yes, that’s true, he was.’
Edward rose, went over to the tray of drinks on a table near the window, and poured himself a cognac. ‘Do you want one, Will?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ he answered.
A moment later, when Edward handed Will the brandy balloon, he murmured, ‘I shall have to telephone them. My mother is at Ravenscar – oh, and so is Richard, come to think of it. And I shall have to let Meg know.’
‘Do i
t tomorrow,’ Will suggested.
‘No, I must do it now. At least I must get in touch with my mother.’ Edward went to his desk, sat down, and dialled Ravenscar. It was Jessup who answered, and a moment later Edward heard his mother’s voice saying, ‘Yes, Ned?’
‘Mama, something quite terrible has happened. There’s been an accident. In France. At the vineyards.’
‘What kind of accident?’ Cecily Deravenel asked, her voice trembling slightly.
He told her about George going into the wine vault, perhaps stumbling, and unseating the stack of wine casks. Before he had even finished, she interrupted him.
‘He’s dead. George is dead, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew he would die there,’ she said and hung up the phone on him.
Fog. Outside the window. Suddenly in the room. It surrounded him. Trapped him. He sat up in bed. Struggled to see. Blinking in the fog. How had it floated into the room? The window was closed. He threw back the bed clothes. Put his feet on the floor. Moved slowly across the room. He banged into a chest of drawers. Stubbed his toe. Winced. Who had put the chest there?
He went into the bathroom. Fumbled for the light switch. It was then he realized he was not at Ravenscar. He was in London. At his house in Berkeley Square. The bright lights hurt his eyes.
Edward peered at himself in the mirror, and blinked again, saw his face in a blur. He leaned against the sink, slightly dizzy, feeling nauseous. His head throbbed. He filled a glass with cold water, drank it down quickly. Then he splashed cold water on his face, wet a small towel and held it to his eyes. There. That was better. The fog had disappeared. He could see.
His headache was blinding. And he had a hangover. He went back to the bedroom and crawled into bed, lay still, nursing his hangover. And thinking.
Slowly everything came back to him. He remembered that he and Will had sat drinking cognac for several hours. Talking. Talking about George. About his death. About bringing the body back to England. About burying him in Yorkshire. At Ravenscar. They spoke about others. His mother. Richard. Neville Watkins and his beloved Johnny Watkins, and they relived the past. And they discussed George’s children, who had to come back to England as soon as possible. Maybe Meg could escort them.
Will had finally left, had been driven by Broadbent to his house behind Marble Arch. Near Jane’s house. Jane. He must telephone her. No, he couldn’t, it was the middle of the night.
George. His brother. George was dead. What a beautiful child he had been, and he had become a beautiful young man. Blond. Turquoise-blue eyes. Skin-deep, that beauty. George. A mystery to him at times. So uncertain inside … needy. He had always run to their mother, wanting her protection. As a child, as a boy, as a man.
Edward had loved him once. That love had changed slowly. To concern, to mistrust, and finally to disbelief. How blatant George’s betrayals and treacheries had been. It was as if he hadn’t cared that he knew. His love for George had changed to wariness, had eventually curdled into total dislike.
Edward sat up in bed with a jerk, staring out into the darkened room. And he asked himself the question he had posed to Will Hasling last night when he had been drinking himself into a stupor.
Had it been an accident? Or murder?
Will had said he didn’t know. Neither did he. But now he focused on it, wondering. He had no answer for himself.
He lay awake until dawn broke and light seeped in through the curtains, wrestling with that question which still hovered in his mind.
Later that morning Edward had just finished dressing when Mallet knocked on the door. He knew it was the butler. There was no one else in the house except for Cook and a couple of maids.
‘Come in, Mallet,’ he called.
The butler opened the door. ‘Good morning, Mr Deravenel. Mr Hasling is here. In the morning room.’
Frowning, Edward slipped on his jacket, buttoned it, and replied, ‘I’ll be right down, Mallet. And a cup of coffee would be most welcome.’
‘Yes, sir. Right away.’ The butler quietly closed the door.
Striding over to the wardrobe mirror, Edward looked at himself and nodded his head. Certainly there were no telltale signs of a hangover. He looked exactly the same as he had yesterday. And yet … he felt different inside. There was an emptiness, a terrible aching void, and something more intangible … Then he realized it was a strange aloneness. He was alone now. And he always would be … for the rest of his life. His mother would never treat him the same way ever again. Neither would Richard. Because they would blame him for George’s death.
And so I stand alone. As I always have.
Will was sitting at the round table in the morning room, drinking a cup of coffee, The Times next to him, but still folded and unread.
‘Good morning,’ Edward said from the doorway and walked in, forcing a smile.
Will nodded. ‘Morning, Ned. You’d forgotten, hadn’t you? That we said we would lunch together today, and make plans for me to leave for France tomorrow morning. With Oliveri. To bring George’s body back. I made a reservation at the Ritz Restaurant. Is that all right?’
‘Yes. I had forgotten,’ Edward admitted, sat down and reached for the silver pot of coffee. As he poured a cup, he went on, ‘But that doesn’t present a problem. I had no other plans for lunch.’
They sat together drinking their black coffee and talking about all the arrangements which had to be made; after their second cup of coffee they left the house, walked slowly across the square, up Berkeley Street in the direction of Piccadilly.
It was a sunny morning, with a bright blue sky and a light breeze, pleasant for November and not at all cold. They walked in silence, until Edward suddenly said, ‘I remember the wedges, Will. And I kept thinking about them in the middle of the night. I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I started thinking about George, wondering whether he was murdered or not. And the wedges came into my mind.’
‘I know what you’re getting at, Ned. If someone moved the wedges holding the casks in place then the pyramid would tumble.’
Edward said nothing, simply nodded.
‘But who would move the wedges? And how could anyone be certain George would go into that particular wine vault?’ Will wondered aloud.
‘Everyone knew his habits. And there are a number of people who could have loosened the wedges, Will. If someone did do that, then all he had to do was sit back and wait. Inevitably something would happen. Because George had to walk down that particular alley to get to the bottles of wine at the other end.’
It was Will’s turn to be silent.
Edward said at last, ‘Perhaps someone thought they were doing me a favour, ridding me of George. God knows, he’s caused me enough heartache and anguish over the years.’
‘I’m sure it was an accident,’ Will was quick to answer, although he was not sure at all. Like Edward, he, too, wondered if George had been murdered. But they would never discover who was responsible, if this were the case. There was one thing he was absolutely certain of – finding a culprit was only the beginning. Proof was needed. Absolute proof. He thought then of Vincent Martell, and of Amos Finnister, and finally of Alfredo Oliveri. Possible suspects, certainly. The three of them were utterly devoted to Ned, and capable of doing it. But had they?
THIRTY-NINE
Paris
Paris was her favourite city at any time of year, in any kind of weather, but Jane Shaw particularly loved it in May. And now as she walked through the Tuileries she felt a wonderful surge of happiness at being there today.
It was lovely weather, sunny and balmy, with a pale blue sky and sunlight filling the branches of the trees with shimmering light. But Paris and the beautiful weather aside, there were other reasons for her carefree spirit and lightheartedness. She and Edward were in Paris for five days, and in a short while she would be meeting Grace Rose at the Louvre Museum.
Grace Rose had been studying at the Sorbonne for a couple of years now, and Jane cou
ldn’t wait to see her. They had become close in recent years, shared a love of French history and a number of other things French, and, in fact, they told everyone they were a couple of genuine Francophiles. After their visit to the Louvre, they were going to lunch at the Grand Véfour with Edward, a restaurant he and she enjoyed. At this moment he was attending a meeting at the Paris office of Deravenels, and would rendezvous with them at the restaurant in the Palais-Royal.
As she walked through the beautiful gardens, originally designed by Louis XIV’s famous gardener André Le Nôtre, her mind focused on Ned. Last month he had celebrated his fortieth birthday; not that he looked it. He was as boyish as ever, and she hoped her age was not showing either. She was now in her fiftieth year; she and Ned had been together for eighteen years, since 1907, and she considered herself truly blessed to still be with him.
It was the year 1925, and Jane was dressed in the most popular style of the moment, and looked as chic and as beautiful as she had ever looked. Her suit was by Chanel, the French designer who had become all the rage since the end of the war in 1918. Jane’s outfit was made of navy-blue light wool tweed, and was composed of a skirt with pleats at the front and back, and a cardigan-style boxy, edge-to-edge jacket with no buttons.
These days Jane was wearing only Chanel. She found the designer’s beautifully-made haute couture clothes elegant without being at all structured, and they had ease, comfort and practicality. It was Coco Chanel who had first designed trousers for women, and Jane had purchased several pairs yesterday – one of grey flannel, the other of butter-coloured wool Jersey, both worn with man-tailored white silk shirts. Edward had been with her at the Chanel boutique on rue Cambon, and he had been so entranced with her in the grey trousers and white silk shirt that he had persuaded her to buy the second set.
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