Nevertheless, Trydell Hall was nearer to the druid stones than was The Castle.
In fact, they might almost be said to be on the Trydell estate, although the piece of land on which they stood near the bank of the river was common land.
As the Marquis rode over the fields, he was thinking of Caspar Trydell and how he had been an unpleasant, tiresome little boy who had grown into a young man for whom the Marquis had what amounted to a dislike.
He was in fact much nearer the Marquis’s age than his brother John had been and it should have been natural for them to be friends. But Caspar had shown him an unaccountable hostility from the moment they had first met.
Once when Caspar had come to The Castle in the company of his brother, he had made himself so unpleasant that the Marquis had never asked him again.
He thought now that perhaps the friendship John had accorded him might have been because he took the place of the brother with whom he had nothing in common.
Caspar was not physically strong and perhaps, because he resented his weakness, he expressed it by being rude and aggressive to nearly everybody he came into contact with.
There was no doubt that his father, Sir Harold, had disciplined him with unnecessary severity.
Extremely strict with both his sons, he was a martinet at home, which John found trying as he grew older, but Caspar resented it with a sullenness that made him secretive and underhanded.
Because he suspected that his father preferred his older brother to him, he waged a petty, ineffective, but nevertheless irritating vendetta against John.
He would hide his guns. He would move things which his brother had put down in his bedroom or in one of the sitting rooms. He once tried to hurt John’s dog and received a punishment that made it quite certain that he would never do such a thing again.
They were all petty actions, trivial in themselves, but carried on day after day, year after year, they created an atmosphere at The Hall, which the Marquis sensed even though John never complained about his brother.
He only knew that, where he himself was concerned, he disliked Caspar and Caspar disliked him.
They therefore saw as little of each other as possible, but everything the Marquis had heard of Caspar in the years that followed only accentuated the distaste he had felt ever since he was a boy.
Riding now towards Trydell Hall, he told himself that if he was to come frequently to stay at The Castle, it was important that he should make an attempt to be friendly with Caspar.
Their estates marched and there would obviously be a number of local difficulties and problems on which they would be forced to confer. It would be ridiculous to perpetuate childhood likes and dislikes when they were both grown men.
‘If only John was here,’ the Marquis thought with a sigh, as he turned in at the great impressive gates and rode up the avenue towards the house.
It was an ugly building with none of the artistic beauty of The Castle.
It had been built in the reign of Queen Anne and was square, red brick and with large windows, but little else to recommend it.
The gardens, the Marquis noticed, were not well kept up and the house seemed somehow austere and forbidding. Moreover, it was a long time before anyone came from the stables to take his horse.
Finally a groom appeared and the Marquis told him to ring the bell before he dismounted and walked up the steps to the front door.
It was opened by an old man with grey hair, whose uniform hung loosely on him as if he had shrunk since it was made.
The Marquis looked at him for a moment and then he said,
“Good afternoon, Bates! It is Bates, is it not?”
“It is – ” the old man began, then exclaimed, peering at him with short-sighted eyes,
“Master Oswin! I never expected to see you here!” “I am at The Castle,” the Marquis explained. “I thought I would call on Sir Caspar.”
“Sir Caspar’s not here, Master – I mean – my Lord,” Bates replied. “But come in! Come in! It’s a long time since you were last here, my Lord.”
“It is over ten years,” the Marquis said. “I came over to spend Christmas with Mr. John.”
“I remember, my Lord,” Bates said. “The Christmas of 1789, that were and Master John drowned the following summer.”
The Marquis walked through the dark oak-panelled hall and into the room that opened off of it, which, although it was called the drawing room, had, as Lady Trydell was dead, become more masculine year by year.
The elegant sofas and chairs had been replaced by larger and more comfortable ones, the objets d’art on the tables had gradually been removed to make way for books, tobacco jars and pipe stands.
There was, however, at the moment a very unlived-in look about the room, due, the Marquis thought, to Sir Harold being ill for some time before he died and doubtless being confined to his bedroom.
“How are you keeping, Bates?”
“Oh, well enough in myself, my Lord, but I worry when I wonder what’ll become of me.”
“What do you mean by that?” the Marquis asked. “Sir Caspar has dispensed with my services, my Lord!”
“Dispensed with your services?” the Marquis exclaimed. “But, Bates, you have been here for years and I cannot imagine the place without you!”
“Fifty-three years, my Lord! I came first when I was a boy of twelve and worked my way up until Sir Harold made me butler.”
“But why has Sir Caspar told you to go – and surely he has provided for you?”
“He’s promised me a pension, my Lord, but I doubts as I’ll get it.”
“And no cottage?” the Marquis asked sharply.
“None, my Lord!”
The Marquis’s lips tightened.
This confirmed all he had heard of Caspar Trydell and also what Roger Clarke had told him.
“I cannot believe that is what Sir Caspar intends to do,” he said, and his voice was angry. “But if he does not give you a cottage, Bates, I promise you I will find you one or else you can come to The Castle for as long as you wish to work.”
The old man’s face lit up.
“You mean that, my Lord? I’m good for a few more years yet and if I’ve nothing to do I’ve a feeling ’twould be the quickest way to tumble into my grave. I’ve worked all me life and wouldn’t know how to stop now.”
“No, of course not, Bates, and I should be very glad to have you. I know how fond Mr. John was of you.” “Mr. John were a fine gentleman – none better!” Bates said simply. “Everyone loved him. I can’t think to this day how he came to drown as he did and him such a strong swimmer!”
“What did happen?” the Marquis asked. “I never came back to The Castle after his death, as you know. I joined the Army from Oxford and so I never heard the details.”
“Mr. John went off swimming as he always did in the summer. You know, my Lord, how he loved the water.”
“I remember well,” the Marquis answered.
“It were never too cold for Mr. John,” Bates continued. “That particular day there was a sea-mist over the river and a full tide, but nothing like we have in the winter with a heavy swell. Nothing that would ordinarily have constituted any danger for Mr. John.”
The Blackwater River was, as the Marquis well knew, tidal water. When a very high sea was running, it could be considered dangerous, but in the summer there was no danger and John would have bathed from Steeple Creek.
“Mr. John never came back,” Bates was saying, “and when it got late in the evening and near dinnertime I began to worry about him. I thought he might be late for the evening meal and that always annoyed Sir Harold. I asked Mr. Caspar if he had seen anything of Mr. John and he said no.”
Bates sighed before he continued, “Then it was dinner time and Sir Harold said irritably that he would not wait for anyone. After dinner, when there was still no sign of Mr. John, I went to look for him myself and walked as far as the creek.”
Bates’s voice expressed the anxiety he
had felt.
“The fog had cleared and the tide had gone out,” he went on. “I was just going home when I sees a towel and the robe and slippers Mr. John used to wear when he ran from the house to the creek. As you know, my Lord, it’s nearly a mile, but it meant nothing to Mr. John. He was that fit!”
“No, of course not,” the Marquis agreed.
“I went back and fetched two of the gardeners and several grooms, but by the time we got back to the water’s edge, it were dark and there was little we could do.”
“When did anyone find him?” the Marquis asked.
“It were three days later,” Bates replied with a tremor in his voice. “His body was swept up at Shingle Head Point. The tide must have carried him towards the sea, then somehow left his body behind on the other side of the river.”
Bates stopped speaking and then he added,
“His head was badly injured, my Lord, as if he had battered it against a sharp rock of some sort.”
The Marquis was very still.
“Rock?” he queried. “But there are few rocks round this part of the world, Bates. It is mostly mud and sand.”
“Yes, I know that, my Lord. But it was a nasty wound on his head. The undertakers had tidied him up a bit, but I could see it clearly.”
The Marquis was silent for a moment, then he asked,
“You thought it was done by a rock, Bates, but could the wound have been the result of having been hit with a weapon of some sort?”
“I don’t think, my Lord, that anyone would wish to harm Mr. John,” Bates said quickly.
“I asked you a question,” the Marquis persisted.
“I suppose it could, my Lord. I never thought of it. Who’d want to hurt Mr. John? He were loved by everyone. There wasn’t a man or boy on the estate who wouldn’t have laid down his life for him. Very different to what they feels about Sir Caspar!”
As if he realised he was being indiscreet, Bates looked over his shoulder as he spoke.
“When they found Mr. John,” the Marquis went on, “how did they know who he was?”
“They didn’t, my Lord! Someone at Shingle Head Point reported there was a body on the beach, but, as there was nothing anyone could do, they took their time in notifying the Sheriff. He, of course, knew by then that Mr. John was missing.”
“Who is the Sheriff?” the Marquis enquired. “And has he been changed since?
“No, my Lord. Colonel Trumble is still there. He hadn’t been in office long when Mr. John was drowned.”
“Where can I find him?” the Marquis asked.
“His office is in Chelmsford, my Lord. But, as it happens, he lives near Malden, not more than ten miles from here I should imagine. Malden Park the house is called and you’ll find the Sheriff a very nice gentleman – very nice indeed!”
“Thank you, Bates.” The Marquis slipped a guinea into the old man’s hand and said,
“Now remember, the day you leave here we shall be delighted to see you at The Castle. I will instruct my agent, Mr. Clarke, that you will be arriving and everything will be prepared for you.”
“Thank you, my Lord! Thank you!”
There were tears in the old man’s eyes as the Marquis walked across the hall.
“I forgot to tell you, my Lord,” Bates said as he reached the front door. “Sir Caspar may be returning this evening or tomorrow.”
“He has gone to London?” “Yes, my Lord. He left the day before yesterday. He had some business to do.”
As Bates spoke, he involuntarily glanced up at the wall behind the Marquis, who followed the direction of his eyes.
He saw that a large picture, which had been one of the most valuable in Trydell Hall had gone. There was a mark on the wall where it had rested ever since the Marquis could remember.
Now he glanced round and saw that quite a number of the pictures painted of horses and dogs, which had been Sir Harold’s great joy, had also disappeared.
It was quite obvious, he thought, what Sir Caspar’s business in London would be.
Telling himself that his curiosity was justified, he said to Bates in a quiet voice,
“I always thought Sir Harold was a wealthy man.”
“That’s what we all thought, my Lord,” Bates answered. “It’s what Mr. Chiswick, the Solicitor, who came here after his death, told me as an actual fact.”
“Have you any idea of the wording of the will?” the Marquis enquired.
“It may seem an impertinence, my Lord, but, having been with the family for so long, I was naturally interested and Mr. Chiswick had known me for years.”
Bates paused.
“He told me, my Lord, exactly how Sir Harold had left the estate. He had not changed his will since Mr. John was drowned.”
The old man’s voice quivered as he added,
“It’s my belief, my Lord, he couldn’t bear to face the fact that Mr. John was no longer there.”
“What did the will say?” the Marquis persisted.
“Sir Harold’s will said,” Bates recited, “‘To my eldest son, John, unconditionally, my entire estate. In the event of his death, to any issue of the aforesaid John Trydell, also unconditionally and without reserve’.”
“So there was no provision for Mr. Caspar!” the Marquis said slowly.
“There was, my Lord, but only as an afterthought. As you know, Sir Harold never really liked Mr. Caspar and they did not get on and, although he had no idea that anything might happen to Mr. John, he had added a codicil.”
“What was it?” the Marquis asked.
“‘In the event of my son John’s death and if he dies without issue, then the estate shall pass to my second son, Caspar’.”
The Marquis was silent and Bates carried on,
“Mr. Chiswick told me, my Lord, that Sir Harold was absolutely adamant against leaving anything to Mr. Caspar while Mr. John was alive.
“‘John will provide for his brother,’ he said when the Solicitor pointed out to him that he was cutting his second son off without a penny. ‘As far as I am concerned, he can live on his wits. It’s the only asset he has anyway’.”
Bates shook his head and added,
“Very bitter and nasty Sir Harold could be if anybody crossed him.”
“And Mr. Caspar had crossed him?” the Marquis questioned.
“Time and time again, my Lord. Not only did he ignore Sir Harold’s advice, telling him he intended to live his own life, but he also came home to get his debts paid, not once but half a dozen times.”
“And Sir Harold paid up?”
“He said to me once after Mr. Caspar had rushed back to London with the money he had got out of him, ‘I cannot see the family name dragged into the gutter, Bates, so what else can I do?’”
“I can understand his feelings,” the Marquis said. “Thank you, Bates, I am glad to have had this talk with you.”
The groom was waiting outside the door, holding the Marquis’s horse.
He swung himself into the saddle. As he rode back to The Castle, he thought to himself that he now had even more to think about than he had before.
Chapter Five
Idylla was sitting on the balcony and the canopy over the wicker chair shaded her so that her face was in shadow.
She was wearing one of the new gowns that the Marquis had ordered for her from London. It was a soft pink, which made her eyes seem bluer than ever and brought out strange and unusual lights in her long hair.
It hung over her shoulders to below her small waist. Nanny had refused to allow her to pin it up on top of her head, because the wound had not yet healed.
As the Marquis walked onto the balcony, he thought that the huge pots of flame-and-white azaleas and the stone balustrade were a perfect setting for her.
It was almost as if she toned in with the house and became a part of it, even though he still thought of her as a nymph rising from deep water.
She smiled at him spontaneously and it illuminated her face and seemed to echo in her e
yes.
“How are you today?” he asked.
“So much better that I would like to go out into the garden,” Idylla replied, “but Nanny will not let me.”
“It’s no use arguing with Nanny, as I have found all my life,” the Marquis replied. “She always gets her own way!”
“But I want to see your garden,” Idylla protested. “The flowers look so lovely from here, but they are so far away.”
“Tomorrow, the next day or the day after you will be able to touch them and pick them if you wish to do so,” the Marquis promised, “but there is no hurry.”
“N-no – I suppose not,” Idylla said hesitatingly, “but I – might not – be here.”
“Why should you say that?” the Marquis enquired. She looked back through the open window into the bedroom and saw that when the Marquis had appeared, Nanny had left the room.
The Marquis was aware that her expression was troubled and after a moment he asked gently, “What is worrying you?”
He pulled up a chair to sit facing her as he spoke, his back to the garden.
She looked down at her hands and twisted her long fingers together as if she was agitated.
“Try to tell me what is troubling you,” the Marquis insisted.
The scratch marks had almost completely gone from her face, but there was still some visible on her arms.
Her gown was short-sleeved, but she wore a long floating scarf that covered her shoulders and hid some of the marks.
“You will – think I am very – foolish,” she said in a low voice.
“I cannot promise you I will not think so, until you tell me what this is all about,” the Marquis said. “But I think it unlikely that anything you say would seem foolish to me at any rate.”
There was a note of sincerity in his voice which seemed to reassure Idylla and after a moment she said, “I-I want you to give me – something.” “What is it?” the Marquis enquired.
“A cross.”
He looked at her in astonishment.
Women had asked him for a great many things in his life, but no one until now had requested a cross! “Why?” he asked.
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