‘No. It’s sprained.’
‘How long will it take to get better?’
‘A couple of days and it should be on the mend. I’ll give you some crutches until then. Now, let me have a look at that cut on your head.’
As the doctor disinfected the cut on Ovid’s head, Ovid asked, ‘Will it turn into a scar like my fathers?’
‘Your father’s scar? Yes, that was an odd thing. I was there the night he got it.’
‘You were hunting with him?’
‘Hunting? Goodness, no. He got that scar after a collision with a waiter carrying a breadknife.’ Doctor Scragg scratched his chin.
‘A breadknife?’
‘That’s right. It was the night after you were born. We were having dinner together. He went to the toilet and when he came back he was holding his head. That’s how he got the scar.’
‘Alfred must have been mistaken,’ said Ovid.
‘Perhaps he was trying to make it sound more glamorous,’ said Doctor Scragg, wheeling Ovid out of the surgery back into the waiting room.
Mr Crutcher was standing with his back to the room, looking out of the window. He turned around and said, ‘Home, young master?’
‘Yes, please,’ replied Ovid.
Keeping his head down again to avoid being seen, Ovid didn’t notice his sister and Adam Farthing walking in the opposite direction.
.
FATHER WHELAN
Lorelli was too concerned about being recognised by the villagers herself to notice Ovid drive past. She had never intended to come so far but, during their walk, she had been so engrossed in conversation with Adam that she failed to notice when they reached the bridge that crossed the River Curtail at the edge of the village.
‘What’s Imelda Gaunt like?’ Lorelli asked as they walked.
‘She looks a bit like you,’ Adam said thoughtfully. ‘She’s very beautiful,’ he added, making Lorelli blush, ‘and really intelligent.’
‘Has she written anything else?’
‘She doesn’t need to. That book has made her loads of money.’
‘Really? Is it popular?’ Lorelli felt a pang of jealousy. She had liked the feeling that the story belonged to her alone.
‘Oh yes. I should say she was a millionaire probably.’
‘But she didn’t write it for the money, surely?’
‘Why else would you write a book? Why else would you do anything? It’s all about money in the end, isn’t it?’
‘Can you really introduce me to her?’ asked Lorelli, not wanting to dwell on this point.
‘Of course.’
When they reached the outskirts of Little Fledgling, Lorelli suggested heading back but Adam said that since they had come so far they may as well go and see the village. ‘We can catch the bus back,’ he said. ‘There’s a bus stop right near Thornthwaite Manor.’
‘Will it let me on?’ Lorelli had never travelled by bus. The idea of it unsettled her.
Adam laughed. ‘Buses let everyone on. You just stick out your hand, pay the driver your money and get on.’
‘I haven’t got any money,’ said Lorelli.
‘I can lend you some. I’m sure you’ll be able to pay me back some time. I’ll buy you an ice cream too.’ Adam made it sound so harmless and so normal that Lorelli couldn’t think of any reason to say no even though the village scared her.
They passed a man pushing a large noisy lawn-mower in front of his thatched cottage. Seeing the sharp blades rotating, chewing up the grass, Lorelli felt the urge to turn and run, but the man smiled and waved. Next door, an elderly lady was clipping her hedge. Lorelli looked fearfully at the pair of secateurs in her hand, but the old lady said, ‘Good afternoon,’ and went back to cutting her hedge without a second glance.
They stopped outside a tiny police station, barely bigger than the public toilet.
‘You see,’ said Adam, ‘there’s nothing to fear. Little Fledgling is a charming village.’
Lorelli looked at his grinning face and allowed herself a small sigh of relief. She relaxed. Adam was right. Everything was fine. It was a beautiful day and Little Fledgling was a quaint place full of nice people minding their own business, none of whom wanted to harm her.
But this feeling suddenly passed when a voice growled in her ear, ‘You’re a Thornthwaite.’ A hand landed so heavily on her shoulder that she felt her legs buckle with the force.
She turned to see a man dressed entirely in black, except for a white dog collar. His lack of hair revealed an uneven skull with thin patchy skin stretched over the top. He had crooked teeth and wild eyes that darted around in their sockets before settling on her.
‘Get off me,’ said Lorelli, trying unsuccessfully to knock his arm away.
‘You are a Thornthwaite,’ he said again. His breath stank.
‘So what if she is? Who are you?’ demanded Adam.
The man kept his eyes trained on Lorelli. ‘My name is Father Whelan. Your parents tied their terrible union in my church. Their sinful bodies lie in my graveyard. I pray that you have not inherited the sin that runs in your family.’
‘What sin?’ said Lorelli, trying to wrestle free.
‘Murder runs through Thornthwaite blood like a virus,’ said the priest, tightening his grip.
‘Come on, Lorelli,’ said Adam. ‘Let’s go.’
At last, Lorelli wriggled free but Father Whelan jumped in front of her, his black robe flapping like a giant bat. ‘Murder is the deadliest sin!’ he shouted, waving his arms in the air dramatically. ‘Renounce it! Renounce it!’
‘Leave her alone,’ said Adam. ‘Can’t you see you’re scaring her?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Lorelli to the priest.
Father Whelan lunged forward and grabbed her shoulders once more, pulling her near and whispering in her ear, ‘Everyone knows how your mother murdered your father. And I know what your father did before that. He was guilty of the same. He murdered a man, an innocent man, a good man.’
‘What man?’ said Lorelli.
‘Hedley Bagshaw,’ he whispered. ‘The police wouldn’t believe me.’ He pointed across the road at the tiny police station. ‘They said he was out of the country at the time. Your father probably paid them off. But I know what I saw. With my own eyes I saw him leave the printing press. There was a woman with him too. At the time, I didn’t know what they had done, but when I heard what had happened to poor Hedley, then I realised. It was your father who killed him. Both your parents were murderers. You must not go down the same path.’
Lorelli knocked the priest’s hands away and ran.
.
THEIR PARENTS’ ROOM
On the drive back to Thornthwaite Manor, Ovid did not mention what Doctor Scragg had said about the scar. Once they were home, Mr Crutcher stopped the car and jumped out. He held Ovid’s door open and handed him his crutches.
‘Thank you, Alfred,’ said Ovid. ‘I can make it from here on my own.’
‘Very good, young master,’ said Mr Crutcher. ‘I’ll take the car around the back, then.’
Ovid made his way up the stairs, into the hallway. His foot was already feeling a bit better and he found it easier to walk with one crutch. He climbed the stairs and found Hazel sitting in the bay window, reading a letter.
‘Have you hurt your foot?’ she asked.
‘I’ve sprained my ankle,’ replied Ovid. ‘Who have you got a letter from?’
‘It’s from my mum.’
‘Why does Mrs Bagshaw write you letters?’
‘Not Mrs Bagshaw. It’s from my real mum.’
‘The one who left you on Mrs Bagshaw’s doorstep? I never knew you kept in touch.’
‘She writes sometimes. She never signs t
hem or tells me where she lives and they always get mailed from different places, so I can’t write back.’
‘What does she say in the letters?’
‘Sorry, sir. It’s private.’
‘I see. Have you seen Lorelli?’
‘She went for a walk with Adam after their game of tennis.’
Ovid let out a short burst of derisive laughter. ‘Hah. Were they holding hands?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Ovid left her and hobbled down the east wing of the manor. When he reached a white door with purple flowers painted around its border, he stopped. He took the doorknob in his hand but paused before turning it. This had been his parents’ room. He had been inside once before, several years ago, hoping to find some clue about why his mother had killed his father, but had discovered nothing.
But the conversation with Doctor Scragg had got him thinking about his father’s scar. Either the doctor was mistaken or Mr Crutcher was confused. Or one of them was lying. Ovid knew that his ancestors were highly superstitious about having their picture taken but he had to wonder, was it possible for a man to live his entire life without being photographed?
Once inside the dark room, he flicked the light switch but the bulb had gone. He made his way around the bed and drew the curtains. Sunlight spilt in, illuminating the dust particles that Ovid had disturbed. Nothing had been touched in the room since his mother’s death. On an ornate dressing table was a hairbrush with fine black strands of hair, various items of make-up and a glass, stained with a water mark where its contents had evaporated over time.
On the bedside table was a framed photograph of two people with their arms around each other. Both wore old-fashioned masks to cover their faces. Noticing a gondola in the background, Ovid remembered Mrs Bagshaw saying that his parents had honeymooned in Venice, but with the masks covering their faces Ovid could only make out his father’s green eyes.
He opened the drawers but was unable to find any more photos. On the other bedside table was a book with a pair of reading glasses on top. Ovid read the title, The Seven Dances of Franciska Toth. He had never heard of it, nor its author, Imelda Gaunt. He turned it over to read the back and a piece of paper fluttered down to the bed. Intrigued about what his mother had used for a bookmark, he picked it up. One side was blank but on the other, scribbled in blue biro, were two bars of music. There was no bass clef for the second hand and no flats or sharps in the stave. It was a simple melody that began on F and ended on D..
Wanting to hear the tune, Ovid tucked the piece of paper into his back pocket and left the room. .
.
A TRAIN PULLS IN
‘Don’t worry about what that priest said. He’s just a crazy old man,’ said Adam.
Lorelli didn’t speak. Hard as she tried she couldn’t shake Father Whelan’s words from her head. Both her parents were murderers, he had said. Murder runs through Thornthwaite blood like a virus. She had always thought the family inheritance was Thornthwaite Manor and its contents. Was it possible to inherit the tendency to murder? Was that why she and Ovid had spent their childhood trying to kill each other? Was it in their blood? She wondered. Were they born killers?
Walking down the main street of the village, it was still as beautiful a day, only now the blue sky felt almost blinding in its intensity. Lorelli could hear Adam talking, trying to sound chirpy and light, but she wasn’t listening. She felt like every villager that passed her looked at her accusingly: a postman delivering post, a teenage girl walking a dog, a mother pushing a child in a pushchair. Everyone knows, the priest had said. What were these people thinking as they glanced at her then quickly looked away? She was so obviously a Thornthwaite with her black hair and green eyes. Did they all know the terrible truth of her parents’ deaths?
‘I said, what flavour do you want?’
Adam was standing in front of her. They had stopped outside the village shop.
‘Flavour?’ said Lorelli vaguely.
‘Ice cream,’ said Adam, pointing to a sign outside the shop.
Lorelli smiled. No matter how dark her thoughts got it seemed that Adam Farthing could always remind her of normal happy things in life like ice cream.
‘Vanilla?’ she said, which was the only flavour that had ever been served in Thornthwaite Manor.
‘Bor-ring,’ sang Adam. ‘I tell you what, I’ll surprise you. Wait here.’
A bell tinkled as he went inside the shop. Lorelli sat down on a bench outside.
She heard a rattling, rumbling noise. Across the road was a train station where a train was pulling in. It was the first that Lorelli had ever seen.
She felt a strange urge to run across the road, jump on the train and escape her life. She remembered the passage of her favourite book in which Franciska first travelled on a train, feeling free and grown up. Lorelli wanted to feel like that. However, she remained where she was and watched the passengers walk out of the station, shielding their eyes from the sunlight. In among the strangers she saw a face she knew: Nurse Griddle. Lorelli looked down to avoid being recognised. When she looked up, Nurse Griddle had gone.
‘I got you two scoops, one chocolate, one toffee,’ said Adam, thrusting a large ice cream under Lorelli’s nose.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it.
‘What do you want to do now?’
‘I want to go to the graveyard to see my parents’ grave,’ Lorelli replied.
.
MARTHA THORNTHWAITE’S MELODY
Ovid picked up the book, slipped the piece of paper between its pages and left the room with it tucked under his arm. Going downstairs with the crutch was trickier than going up, but it wasn’t long before he was trying the door to the drawing room, where the piano was kept. It was locked.
‘Who’s in there?’ he said.
No one replied. Ovid turned and headed along the east wing, until he reached the door labelled The Organ Room. He opened it and stepped into the high-ceilinged room.
Before him a row of huge pipes of varying sizes stood against the wall. At their base was a keyboard and red-cushioned seat. In front of the magnificent organ were several rows of wooden benches.
The step-tap sound of foot and crutch echoed around the room as Ovid made his way down the aisle to the organ. He sat on the cushioned stool and pulled out the piece of music. He placed it in front of him and found the first note on the keyboard.
Slowly he played the tune. Each note reverberated around the walls. It was the same tune that he had heard Tom whistle, the tune his mother wrote shortly before she died. On the organ it sounded even more haunting. He played it again, only quicker. Then once more, even faster. He hit a wrong note and began again. He tried it on the high notes, then down on the lowest octave. He played it with both hands. He wondered what his mother had been thinking when she wrote it. It sounded so angry, so dark. It felt like an incomplete sentence. He tried to work out what she had intended to come next but couldn’t come up with anything good. He played it again, keeping his fingers down on each note he played, slowly creating a heavy, jarring chord that drowned the room in noise.
When he released his fingers, he heard a small cough behind him. He turned around to see Mr Farthing standing at the far end of the room.
‘That’s an interesting little ditty,’ said the lawyer, smiling.
‘What do you want?’ snapped Ovid, angry at the interruption. ‘Have you come to count how many pipes are on the organ?’
‘Oh no,’ said Mr Farthing. ‘You see the organ counts as one object, irrespective of the number of pipes.’
‘It was a joke,’ said Ovid drily.
‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘I was passing when I heard music. It’s a magnificent instrument. Eighteenth century, if I�
��m not mistaken.’
‘Yes,’ replied Ovid. The room dated back to the late eighteenth century when Lord Allegro Thornthwaite would invite nobility from all over the country to come and listen to his recitals. ‘I daresay it will go down in your inventory.’
‘I haven’t even started on this wing of the house. You do have a lot of rooms.’
‘Well, I’m leaving now, if you want to make a start.’ Ovid tucked his mother’s tune into his pocket and started to leave but Mr Farthing stepped in front of him, blocking his way.
‘Do you want something?’ asked Ovid.
‘Well, yes, there was something else. A question.’
‘Well?’
‘Yes . . . I wondered if you’d be kind enough to confirm how many pets you have.’
‘Pets?’
‘Pets . . . Well, animals. How many animals are there in Thornthwaite Manor?’
‘Why, are you putting them on the inventory too?’
‘Everything has to be accounted for.’
‘There’s Cowell the cat and the two horses, Pride and Joy.’
‘So no other animals?’
‘Well, Tom has his bees but they belong to him. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s nothing really, I mean, well, that is . . . It’s just that I came across some rather peculiar documents in your sister’s room.’
‘What were you doing in Lorelli’s room?’
‘I have to itemise everything in the manor.’
‘What were these documents, then?’ asked Ovid sceptically.
Mr Farthing shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s paperwork regarding the acquisition of an animal from a closed-down zoo. They detail the purchasing of one female of the species referred to as Ursus arctos.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I looked it up. It’s Latin. It’s the name for a . . . well . . .’ Mr Farthing laughed awkwardly. ‘It’s a type of bear.’ He met Ovid’s gaze. ‘You were joking when you said about the bear in the woods, weren’t you?’
The Thornthwaite Inheritance Page 8
