Bolingbrooke folded the map he had been holding. ‘Let’s just say not all Bolingbrookes were pleasant, easy-going fellows like me.’
Pleasant and easy-going, huh, when you threw armour at your own son …
Guinevere tried to smile. ‘I see. Well, I’m not related to anybody on this island or anyone for miles in the distance so …’
‘An uninvolved party. Excellent. Just what we need.’ Bolingbrooke slapped the folded map on the edge of the table, creating a whiplike sound. ‘How would you like a room in the west tower? Has a great view of the sea.’
‘That sounds lovely.’ Guinevere was still working through the information he had so carelessly revealed. ‘But if you wanted to work with this Meraud, won’t she be upset that I’m here now?’ She didn’t fancy meeting someone who felt like her summer job had been stolen away from her by a complete stranger from the city.
‘Nonsense. She had her chance; she didn’t take it. Fine with me. And don’t you listen to anything she tells you about me. She’s prejudiced. Why don’t you come and stay here to see things with an open mind? The castle, the books, me, Oliver.’
‘Oliver?’ Guinevere queried.
‘My son. As he’s back from one of his trips and planning the next one, he has no place to stay. He doesn’t own anything besides that beastly machine of his. When I hear its engine roar down the causeway, I know I have to prepare myself for warfare. Figuratively speaking of course.’
Guinevere gestured to the door. ‘I can’t call throwing helmets around figurative warfare.’
‘I like to underline my point,’ Bolingbrooke said without blinking. ‘I like to be taken seriously, especially by Oliver. Because he has travelled the world and because he’s in the prime of his life, he thinks he can tell me, his old father, what to do. But he had better think twice about that. I’m still able to make up my own mind. And if he doesn’t tread carefully, I’ll throw him out completely. Out of the castle and out of my will.’
Guinevere gasped at the idea of losing access to this beautiful heritage. ‘Does he know that?’
‘If he ever listened. I’ve told him countless times what this property means to the family. He is a Bolingbrooke as well, whether he likes it or not. Since his brother married and moved to Singapore, Oliver is all I have left. He would make such a good keeper of the castle, you know. He could repair so many things that I don’t have the strength for. He’s good with money too. He could have any degree he wanted. But no, he wanted to travel, is always off after some beast on the edge of extinction. Leaving his family heritage to fall apart.’
‘Beast on the edge of extinction?’ Guinevere repeated. ‘He’s into wildlife conservation?’
‘Guinevere doesn’t want to be talked to death.’ Oliver stood in the door opening. The expression on his face suggested he had overheard some of the things his father had told her about him, his lifestyle, and his choices.
Oliver said, ‘Coffee, tea, and sandwiches are ready downstairs. I suppose you’re hungry after your journey out here. I’d better remove your suitcase from the hallway before the guests arrive for the rehearsal and break their necks over it.’ He continued to his father, ‘Where are you putting her up?’
‘In the west tower,’ Bolingbrooke said. ‘You’d better show it to her. I’ll go down to play host.’
‘Just stay out of Haydock’s hair. Last time you two were in a single room, he threatened to sue you for assault.’
‘I barely touched him.’
‘Well, this time don’t touch him at all. A lawsuit is the last thing this castle needs.’ Oliver gestured to Guinevere. ‘Follow me.’
Guinevere carried Dolly out of the room and then put her down. The dachshund seemed excited to explore the castle and dashed ahead of them, up the steep winding stairs inside the tower.
Despite the suitcase Oliver was carrying for her, he took the steps two at a time, and Guinevere had trouble keeping up. Sweat formed on her forehead and between her shoulder blades as she laboured up one broad, worn step after another. There didn’t seem to be an end to them. How much higher still?
She called out to Oliver, ‘Your father … doesn’t like … this Haydock?’ The mention of Haydock threatening him with assault charges suggested they had come to blows. Bolingbrooke’s casual remark that he had ‘barely’ touched him wasn’t very reassuring, given his obvious inflammable temper.
Oliver didn’t seem to have heard her question, or pretended that he hadn’t.
When Guinevere reached a landing, she was positively panting. A door stood open, and muffled sounds came from inside the room. ‘Oliver?’ she called. ‘Are you in there?’
‘Yes.’
She stepped to the door and peeked in. Oliver was brushing his hands over several surfaces, blowing away dust and kicking something under the bed. Dolly scooted after it and dragged it out again, shaking it. It was a woman’s slipper, dark blue with embroidered roses on it. It was covered with dust that scattered under Dolly’s shaking.
‘Give that to me, girl.’ Guinevere rushed to extract the slipper from the dog’s mouth and put it on the old dressing table in the far corner. A velvet-covered chair sat in front of it, while the wall beside it was covered with a wall tapestry showing a hunting scene full of hounds and horses. A cherrywood side table held a marble statue of a deer on a pedestal and a tall mirror in a brass frame. The metal had gone dim but Guinevere bet that with a little polish it would shine again.
In fact, her fingers itched to give this entire room a good cleaning and restore all these beautiful items to their former glory. Put together like this, they formed an odd mix of different periods and different styles, but judged individually, they were all well preserved and had stories to tell.
Guinevere held her breath at the possibilities. The woman at the bakery had been so right: opening up but a part of this castle would pull in the tourists in droves. Oliver could take photographs for a brochure, and she could write up the text. They could also work on a website together.
Together.
Hmmm, as if Oliver would want that.
If his father could be believed, Oliver was dead set on selling off the castle or at least handing over the care for it to a trust or some other kind of organization while he travelled the world to protect wildlife. He wouldn’t want to put time or energy into a plan to keep the castle in the family and still make money off it.
She wasn’t even sure Bolingbrooke himself would be open to that. He didn’t seem a big fan of change.
Frowning, Guinevere walked to the window. The view with its bright colours hit her in the gut again. It was so intensely alive and inviting, whispering to her that this summer had amazing things in store for her.
Keeping her back to Oliver, she said softly, ‘You wrote the acceptance email to me, right? You are O. Bolingbrooke.’ That was how he had known her name.
‘My father doesn’t touch computers. He thinks they might bite him.’ Footfalls betrayed Oliver was pacing the room. ‘Meraud didn’t want to come here. She has her hands full with her bookshop so she asked her brother to recommend someone. And he recommended you.’
Guinevere turned to him in a snap. ‘You mean …’ Her mind whirled. ‘Mr Betts is actually related to someone here on the island?’
‘Apparently.’ Oliver surveyed her. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘No. So there was never any advertisement in the paper either.’
‘What?’ Oliver asked.
‘Your father didn’t advertise for someone to come help him.’ Bolingbrooke probably didn’t even know how all of this had been set up behind his back. By Oliver, the son he didn’t see eye to eye with.
The son also who had other plans for the castle than his father did.
Had Oliver set this up with Mr Betts, hoping he could persuade his father to sell?
But why would Mr Betts be a part of something like that? She couldn’t imagine him letting himself be used.
Or using her.
Guine
vere felt an unpleasant wriggle of worry in the pit of her stomach again. The surprised responses of the locals to Bolingbrooke accepting a stranger to his keep now took on new meaning. And she wasn’t quite sure what part she was supposed to play in all of this.
Slowly she said, ‘Mr Betts did give me a letter I should read once I was settled in.’
Oliver hitched a brow. ‘Sounds mysterious. Why would a girl like you spend her summer holidays here anyway on an island in the middle of nowhere?’
Guinevere shrugged. ‘I grew up in the countryside. And I love books. Your father has an amazing collection, I heard. Besides, there wasn’t anything to do for me in London, with the theatre closing for renovations. I hope I can also help out with the re-enactment. Mr Betts must have known about that and sent me here for that reason as well. I read in the leaflet about the re-enactment – that the tale is a very old one and an important part of Cornisea history?’
She pulled the blue leaflet out of her bag and read aloud, ‘The trial against Branok the Cold-hearted is legendary. He was the steward at the castle many centuries ago. He was cruel and he oppressed all the people under his rule. His master chose not to see what he did. Then one day Branok burned down a house to set an example and it turned out there had been two young children in it who died in the fire.’
Guinevere shivered. ‘How terrible.’
Oliver said, ‘It was never proven he had actually set fire to the house. Fires happened a lot in those days as houses were often made of wood and thatch. Burned like dry tinder. And people all had open fireplaces inside. The fire Branok was accused of may simply have started from a spark or a lamp falling over.’
‘So he wasn’t convicted?’ Guinevere asked.
‘No, he never was,’ Oliver said. ‘He was made to leave the island. On the night he left the sea was wild and he never reached land. He must have drowned.’
He held her gaze. ‘But some say he didn’t drown. Some even say he lives until this day …’ he lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper ‘… to haunt the beach at night with his lantern in his hand, cursing everyone who comes in his path. Locals don’t dare go near the beach.’
‘I’m no local. I want to take long walks and see the sunset.’
Oliver shrugged. ‘I won’t stop you. Just saying that Cornwall has a lot of ghost stories.’
‘So did Devon, and it never kept me from going out at night to listen to the owls or count moths.’
‘Count moths?’
‘Yes, if you put out a sheet and a little light shining on it, they flock to it and you can see all the different species.’ As a biologist, or whatever he was, he should know how to do that.
Oliver hitched a brow. ‘And your parents let you?’
‘I grew up with my grandmother. I had a lot of freedom.’ Studying the leaflet in her hands, Guinevere frowned. ‘Why re-enact a trial of a man who wasn’t convicted? Couldn’t they make it stick?’
‘Maybe the judge was bought? I don’t know the details. I only have to chip in tonight because Jago Trevelyan, who plays the judge, can’t make it for this rehearsal. I just hope I remember my lines.’
Guinevere asked, ‘Who’s playing Branok the Cold-hearted? It seems like a rather unpleasant personality to don.’
‘Arthur Haydock.’ Oliver grimaced. ‘And he doesn’t have to don anything. He’s a modern-day Branok if I ever knew one. A lawyer who has been very successful at taking people’s land away from them.’
Guinevere narrowed her eyes. ‘And at odds with your father.’ Did that mean this Haydock also wanted to take the castle away from the Bolingbrookes?
Oliver waved a hand as if to slap her question out of the window. ‘Look, if you want coffee and a sandwich, we’d better go back down before the players have finished it all.’
***
In the hallway a young woman in a bright red trouser suit had just come in through the front door. She wore her blonde hair up in a bun on the back of her head, an efficient hairstyle fitting her rather formal appearance. She breathed fast as if the climb up to the castle had exhausted her.
‘Leah,’ Oliver said. He went to her and clasped her hands in his. ‘Good to see you. How have you been?’ He looked her over as if he sought the familiar in her features. Maybe, with Oliver’s travels, these two hadn’t seen each other in a long time?
Ignoring the question of how she’d been, Leah spied past Oliver. ‘Where’s my father?’ Her tone was urgent, almost anxious. ‘Tell me he’s not alone with yours.’
Still holding Leah’s hands in his, Oliver turned to the dining room door. ‘In there I suppose. But I warned my father not to pick a fight again.’
Leah pulled her hands away quickly. ‘As if he’s going to listen. We have to get in there and keep them apart.’ She moved to the door, noiselessly on the trainers she wore. They didn’t match her outfit, but Guinevere supposed you didn’t climb up to the castle in high heels.
‘That’s Leah Haydock,’ Oliver said to Guinevere. ‘Haydock’s daughter and a partner in his law firm.’ The latter words carried a tinge of bitterness.
Guinevere studied his expression to probe the meaning of this.
Leah was already waving them along to the dining room door. ‘Quickly.’
Just as the three of them reached it, voices rang out from inside.
‘Pointless to mention it again,’ Guinevere caught.
And another voice: ‘Man, be sensible. You can never keep this.’
‘It’s mine. And I’ll keep it. No matter what I have to do for it.’
Oliver pushed the door open, and Guinevere saw Bolingbrooke and a handsome middle-aged man in a neat grey suit almost nose to nose in the middle of the room.
Bolingbrooke’s right hand rested on the table where the tray with sandwiches sat. The butler had placed another tray beside it with a ham and a round cheese. A sharp knife was placed at the ready for cutting.
Bolingbrooke’s fingers closed round the handle of the knife as if he was ready to pick it up and brandish it at his opponent.
‘Ah,’ Oliver said in a loud voice, barging into the room. ‘You’re already here. Guinevere, this is Arthur Haydock. Haydock, this is our new recruit: Guinevere Evans.’
Following suit, Guinevere reached out her hand, and Haydock had to turn away from Bolingbrooke. His brown eyes surveyed her critically. ‘A new addition to our cast, you mean? I didn’t know we still had any parts left to give out.’
His gaze fell to Dolly, and he snorted. ‘A new addition to your dog park too, Bolingbrooke? Isn’t this one a little small for your tastes?’
‘That’s Guinevere’s dog,’ Bolingbrooke barked. ‘And you can rest assured: Guinevere has nothing to do with your silly little play. She’s here to catalogue my books.’
While speaking, Bolingbrooke inched away from the table and the knife, not looking at Oliver, who shot his father accusing glances. After all, he had warned him about staying away from Haydock and about avoiding a scene like this one.
‘So pleased to meet you both.’ Guinevere shook Leah’s hand now. It was clammy as if she had worked herself up about her father’s behaviour.
‘Leah is a junior partner in my law firm,’ Haydock said with emphasis. ‘And what kind of work do you normally do?’ He looked Guinevere over with a mix of curiosity and bewilderment. ‘This book cataloguing thing is just a summer assignment, I presume?’
‘I work in a theatre,’ Guinevere said. She straightened her back as she spoke, pulling back her shoulders. She was used to people not considering it a real job.
‘You’re an actress?’ Leah asked, her eyes lighting up. ‘You have to tell us something about the plays you perform in.’
‘No, I do costume design. I also help out backstage during performances.’
‘And what do you study?’ Haydock asked in a patronizing tone. ‘I mean, such a job is obviously meant to earn a little something on the side while you get your degree.’
‘I already have my degree, in drama an
d theatre studies. I was very lucky to find a theatre that could take me on right away.’ Guinevere couldn’t resist adding, ‘In London.’
‘I would love to live in London,’ Leah said. She had a warm, melodious voice, and her tense expression relaxed as she took to the topic. ‘All those historic sites and museums to visit.’
‘Then why don’t you move there?’ Oliver said. His tone was a little too loud for a normal question. It was more like a challenge.
Leah flushed the same colour as her trouser suit. She held her head up, but her shoulders slumped as if she was physically trying to remove herself from the scene.
The butler appeared in the door and announced, ‘Kensa and Tegen Morgan.’
A stout woman in her late forties walked in, carrying a twined basket on her arm. She was already dressed in a woollen garb that gave her a medieval look. ‘I made some changes to the script. I’ll hand out the new information right away.’ She reached under the cloth in the basket she was carrying. Dolly came over to see if there were any treats forthcoming.
‘Not again,’ Bolingbrooke said. ‘Why can’t you just leave the play alone?’
‘There are no changes to the text,’ Kensa countered. ‘Just a few directions as to where everybody should be standing. Body posture and so on.’ Kensa threw Leah a pointed look as she said the latter.
Leah said, ‘Guinevere here works in a theatre. I’m sure she knows much better than you how people in a play should behave.’
Guinevere cringed at being drawn into the disagreement in this way, but Kensa ignored the mention completely and started to pass sheets around with brisk movements.
Leah accepted hers but put it on the table right away without even looking at what it said.
Haydock flashed Kensa a smile and even said something in a low voice that Guinevere couldn’t overhear.
Bolingbrooke made an evasive gesture, and Kensa put the paper beside him on a side table. ‘You have a small part anyway. Doesn’t matter much whether you are any good or not.’
‘A small part?’ Bolingbrooke protested. ‘In the Middle Ages the lord of the castle had the power of life and death over the people under his rule. He could decide to have you strung up just because he didn’t like you.’
Death Plays a Part (Cornish Castle Mystery, Book 1) Page 3
