Garth of Tregillis

by Henrietta Reid

  Somehow it didn’t seem right that Diana, always so meticulous, so careful of detail, should leave any loose ends behind her.

  I opened the delicate filigreed clasp. It was a five-year diary, closely written, and in spite of my reluctance I began to feel a growing curiosity. Diana had always been comparatively reserved and taciturn. What could she have written about at such length?

  Then, as my eye scanned the small, neat writing, I began to feel a sense of disappointment. I don’t know quite what I had expected, but it certainly hadn’t been this bleak, terse cataloguing of her activities.

  I knew vaguely that she had been concerned with different types of social work, had been. a member of various charitable societies and associations that her mother, as a wealthy and well-known society figure, had enthusiastically lent her name to, and then, typically, had lost interest in. But with Diana, of course, it had been different. To her this work had been important and worth-while and she had carried on where her mother had left off. I could see lists of appointments, committee meetings, the detailed organization of galas and charity balls. Yes, Diana had taken her responsibilities very seriously. And I wondered if it was because she had been truly engrossed in her work or if she had simply felt it was her duty, since her mother had committed herself. Anyway, it was a life so very different from my own that I felt no interest in it.

  I rifled through the pages. Occasionally there was a reference to social engagements and to various men, but again they were cool recordings of her activities and had the same arid brevity she gave to her other occupations. ‘Met Pete R.; theatre,’ was a typical example. Or in her reference to a particular importunate admirer.

  ‘Jason popped the same tiresome question again; won’t take no for an answer; what a bore. We’re so completely different, yet he can’t believe we won’t live happily ever after. I was as tactful as possible, for he is rather sweet, but told him marriage was definitely out. He makes me feel so old and wise; not at all how one should feel towards a prospective husband!’

  ‘We’re so completely different!’ How well I remembered the small figure in the moonlight saying fiercely, ‘If ever I fall in love, Judith, I shall try to make it be with someone as much like myself as possible.’

  But these were the early years of her diary and I flurried through the thin pages feverishly. I must look at the more recent entries.

  Perhaps somewhere there, if I read carefully enough, I might come across a clue. Something that would lead me to an explanation and settle for good-and-all that restless, mystified feeling I had concerning Diana Seaton.

  And then, quite suddenly, I came on it. The date, I knew, was shortly before I joined her in her London home. It was not written in her precise, schoolgirl script, but wildly so that her distress was all too painfully obvious. ‘Telegram from Mrs. Kinnefer—Daddy is dead. I can’t believe it. Will leave for Tregillis immediately.’

  The writing trailed away into an illegible scrawl. After that there were several blank pages, then an entry headed ‘Tregillis’. ‘Today I spoke to Mrs. Kinnefer. She was dreadfully upset and although she doesn’t mention it, I know she’s worried about her own future, for now that Garth has succeeded she does not know whether she will be kept on at Tregillis or not and her whole life is centred here.

  I was trying to comfort her when that odious child M.M. burst in and I wasn’t able to finish what I was saying. Later I had a long talk with Eunice in her room, for somehow I could not bring myself to ask Garth about Daddy’s death although he was with him when the accident happened. It seems Garth and Daddy had gone sailing in the sloop. The wind freshened suddenly and somehow or other they capsized. It’s really unbelievable, for both Daddy and Garth were so used to sailing: it doesn’t make sense. Eunice kept going on and on about how Daddy couldn’t swim and Garth, she said, longed to take over Tregillis here and now. But I can’t believe it— won’t believe it. It was Daddy’s idea that Garth should stay here at Tregillis. He needed Garth so much after Mummy and I left. Trusted him—and Daddy was shrewd about people. He’d have known if Garth were a wrong’un. Eunice must be wrong. The shock of Daddy’s death has been too much for her, she was so devoted to him. Yet I keep remembering that once I myself trusted Garth and he let me down. I mustn’t let myself think of that—’

  There was only one more entry. The handwriting here was precise and small as if the wild emotions that had filled her during the previous two entries had cooled and she were calm again. But the neat, cold handwriting was no clue to what I was about to read.

  ‘Today the “accident” makes horrible, hideous sense. I have just discovered that the Comte de Chalandon is dead and Armanell is now a widow. I didn’t think that I could hate anyone as I hate Garth. He has stolen everything from us. First me and now Daddy, so that he can have a home for Armanell to come to when the time is ripe. Was Daddy’s death an accident, or was it cold-blooded murder? My mind is tortured by doubt. I feel I shall go mad unless I find out—but how can that ever be managed? To think of Garth and Armanell together—at Tregillis—’

  The diary stopped abruptly. There were no more entries. It was as if at that point Diana had felt that nothing else that occurred in her life could have meaning or importance enough to be recorded.

  I shuddered a little as I replaced it. I am not a superstitious person, but at that moment I felt that somehow, if ghosts walk, surely the spectre of Diana Seaton must be present in that ancient grey pile in Cornwall.

  There was another thing that worried me. Instead of being satisfied and reassured I now felt more disturbed than ever. It was as though, now that Diana had died, it was my duty to discover for her the truth of her father’s death. After all, she had left her possessions to me. This would be a sort of repayment. Perhaps then I would feel that I had done all I should have as far as Diana was concerned.

  But to obtain information I should have to be on the spot, and how was I to accomplish this? It seemed quite impossible; I could hardly present myself to the new owner of Tregillis as a friend of Diana’s and claim hospitality. No, it was out of the question. I should never now know whether Diana’s suspicions were justified, and strangely enough my relief was mixed with a vague sense of disappointment. What exactly was Garth Seaton like? From hints in Diana’s diary he was clearly a strange and enigmatic character.

  And who, for that matter, was Mrs. Kinnefer, and the odious child that she seemed to dislike so intensely?

  As I was about to close the clasp of the leather-bound book a scrap, cut from a newspaper, fluttered out. I bent down and picked it up from the carpet. It was dated several days before Diana’s death and it was an advertisement from a West Country newspaper.

  There was something incredibly poignant about the fact that Diana had still subscribed to those papers that reminded her of her own beloved Cornwall and I scanned it with interest. ‘Wanted, a tutor, male or female, to coach a French boy in English. Highest references expected.’ I saw that the applicant had to apply to Garth Seaton of Tregillis, and somehow the insertion was as terse and laconic as I imagined the man who had written it might be. But why had Diana cut it out and kept it? Was it simply that anything to do with her own home and the man whom she considered a usurper had a dark fascination for her? And who was the French boy? I wondered. Could it be by any chance the odious child whom Diana had spoken of?

  I sat on the floor and considered the small scrap of paper and found myself gripped by excitement. It was as though fate had intended I should carry out Diana’s vendetta—for it was clear from her diary that, were she to have become convinced that Garth Seaton had killed her father, she was prepared to do everything in her power to bring him to justice. Why else, unless fate had intended it to be, were my qualifications exactly what Garth Seaton was looking for? Surely I would stand a better chance of obtaining this position than most of the other applicants, because there was no doubt in my mind now what I should do. There was nothing now to keep me in London. According to Diana’s solicitor
her home was to be sold and the proceeds divided between different charities. I, however, was heir to the bulk of her money and I was free now to pursue any life I should choose. Gratitude alone should prompt me to try to solve the riddle of Giles Seaton’s death. But deep inside me I knew there was something less idealistic. There was a growing, gnawing desire to gain access to that majestic old Tudor pile and to satisfy my curiosity.

  I would answer the advertisement, I decided, but of course revealing nothing of my friendship with Diana. I would be able to go to Cornwall if I were accepted—and somehow I felt certain I would be—as if I were a complete stranger. I had no idea how I’d be treated by the master of Tregillis. Would I be confined to my room for meals, like a Victorian governess, or accepted as one of the family? I glanced in the mirror. Anyway, I must subdue that mop of reddish curls and if not exactly wear a grey worsted gown, at least turn up in something simple so that I should look efficient.

  To learn as much as I wanted to about Garth Seaton I must merge with the background, make myself as unobtrusive as possible and keep my ears open. Only by doing that should I have a chance of laying the restless spirit of Diana Seaton.

  Looking back, it seems strange and illogical how convinced I was that I’d obtain the position. Somehow, from the moment I chanced on the newspaper cutting, I felt that it was fated I should go to Tregillis, so that when I had dispatched my application I waited with a sort of quiet confidence for the reply. I hadn’t the slightest doubt what it would be.

  It didn’t take long in coming and the very speed of his reply confirmed me in my summing-up of Garth Seaton: he was precise, cold and incisive, I guessed; not given to procrastination or putting on the long finger anything he made up his mind to accomplish.

  I opened the thick typed envelope with the feeling of increasing excitement. The message was brief, but to the point, and in effect accepted my application, ‘As your qualifications are completely satisfactory’. And I expect a lot better than most of the applicants, I thought, smugly! It continued, ‘Whether or not we are compatible is of little importance as your work will be with the boy, and Tregillis is large enough to ensure that should we disagree, we can avoid each other as much as possible’. It was signed, ‘Paul Newsom per pro Garth Seaton’.

  I felt my cheeks burn, remembering that I had been foolish enough in my letter to hint that I would cooperate in every way possible. He had deliberately chosen to misunderstand me, making it sound as though I were gratuitously trying to worm my way into his private life.

  I crumpled the sheet of paper in my hand and for a moment contemplated replying immediately to the effect that, on consideration, I have decided not to accept the position. But by now I had so accustomed myself to the idea of setting off for Cornwall—had even been confident enough of getting the position to invest in some country clothes—that it was impossible for me to stand on my dignity. I simply must go to Tregillis, whatever insults Garth Seaton chose to inflict. It would have been too much to hope, of course, that he might enlarge on my pupil, even give me his name! I should have to wait until I reached Tregillis to find out if my charge was the “odious child” referred to by Diana. He hadn’t even troubled to give me instructions how to reach the house, I thought furiously.

  But on the following day a letter fluttered into the box. ‘Dear Miss Westall,’ it began in spidery, ladylike handwriting, ‘Mr.

  Seaton has gone abroad, but before he left he requested me to write to you and give you directions how you will reach Tregillis, as it is rather remote.’ Then followed minute instructions. I should be met at the station by a car, it transpired, and driven a further five miles.

  ‘When you arrive at the house, please ask for me. I am the housekeeper. I shall do everything possible to make you comfortable.’ It was signed, ‘J. Kinnefer’.

  So at least I knew who Mrs. Kinnefer was, I thought dryly. I would set off immediately. There was nothing more to keep me. In fact the sooner I left Diana’s home the better I should like it. It had become increasingly gloomy and melancholy. The house had been put up for auction by solicitors and men had come and proceeded to stick labels on the furniture. There was something almost ghoulish about seeing these well-loved pieces lined up for sale and covered by a thin film of dust. Soon the house would be an empty echoing shell and I wanted to cut my ties as fast as possible. This part of my life was over. There was nothing to stay for.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE sun glinted off the blond hair of the young man who strode towards me as I stood on the platform amongst the bustling passengers, feeling suddenly forlorn and awkward and wondering belatedly if I had made a hideous mistake. ‘You’re Miss Westall, aren’t you?’ Blue eyes smiled.

  ‘Yes, but how did you guess?’ I replied cautiously.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled up with a ready smile that I was to learn in time was one of his chief attractions. ‘I’m Paul Newsom, a sort of aide-cum-dogsbody to Garth Seaton. I simply picked the most attractive girl in sight and prayed I’d be right.’

  Paul Newsom! I flushed, remembering the insulting message conveyed to me by Garth through his employee.

  But he gave no sign of having witnessed my embarrassment and I realized that besides being obviously a practised hand with the ladies he could be tactful when the situation demanded it.

  ‘The car’s outside,’ he said, taking my cases and leading the way towards an enormous, gleaming limousine. ‘Actually,’ he said almost apologetically as he put them in the boot, ‘I usually drive about myself in a battered old jalopy. This is the one we use when we want to impress the customers.’

  He saw I was puzzled.

  ‘Customers?’

  As we drove away from the station he nodded. ‘The Seatons have been big landowners in these parts for hundreds of years.

  They own clay-pits and tin mines. Garth Seaton will be away from home for the next few months, but I shall try to keep the wheels turning as smoothly as possible in his absence and do my best in my own small way to advance the Seaton interests.’

  His voice was light, but I detected an undercurrent the meaning of which evaded me.

  ‘I’ve heard that Tregillis is very beautiful,’ I said cautiously.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, it’s certainly a wonderful old pile: its mainly Tudor, but parts of it date from the Middle Ages. The family wealth was founded on the mines. It’s strange to think, isn’t it, that the Phoenicians sailed to Cornwall and traded in tin. It makes one feel almost as if one were a part of history!’

  But I was more interested in the inmates of Tregillis. Suppose my pupil should be the ‘odious child’! The thought was unnerving.

  I decided to approach the subject obliquely, for although Paul Newsom was talkative and charming, I had not missed the wary look in his eyes and I expected that he would be extremely discreet where his employer’s interests were concerned, either from genuine reticence or from fear of being summarily dismissed, for it was clear that Garth Seaton was not a man to be trifled with.

  ‘You know,’ I said lightly, ‘it sounds strange, but I don’t even know the name of the child I’m to tutor.’

  He glanced at me for a moment in surprise. ‘His name is Emile Lelant. His mother is a local girl who married a French aristocrat, the Comte de Chalandon, and went to live in Normandy. His mother wants him to improve his English and Garth has arranged to take him.’ He paused, then said casually, ‘Garth and herself were friends for years. Everyone thought she would marry him.’

  Could this then be the Armanell Diana had referred to in her diary? I was bursting with curiosity, but of course had to pretend indifference. These people must appear to have no interest for me.

  At any rate, I thought with relief, the boy could not possibly be the M.M. whom Diana had referred to with so much loathing. Much as I longed to ask I kept silent, for I suspected that Paul Newsom, for all his air of openness and candour, would close up defensively should I attempt to question him.

  We were driving th
rough wide gates. On narrow piers was depicted a short, roughly-carved figure in Cornish granite.

  He saw me look up at them curiously. ‘That, in case you don’t know it, is supposed to be Saint Piran. He’s supposed to have come and converted the people of Cornwall away back in early Christian times. It seems he came from Ireland and presented the Cornish people with a bottle of Irish whiskey. When he saw how much they enjoyed the stuff he promised to teach them how to make it. He instructed them to gather a pile of stones and when a fire was lit amongst them a stream of tin flowed out. And that’s how tin was first discovered in Cornwall—or so it’s said.’ He chuckled. ‘It sounds a bit thin to me and frankly I can’t imagine what he’s doing on top of the piers of Tregillis, for less saintly types than the Seatons it would be hard to find. They’ve all been tough, hard-living Cornishmen to a man.’

  For a moment I remembered Diana’s description of her father.

  There was at least one Seaton who didn’t fit into this category, and I wondered how long Paul Newsom had been steward at Tregillis and if he had known Diana’s father.

  ‘I expect Garth Seaton inherited from his father,’ I ventured.

  He glanced at me warily. ‘Strange that you should say that, though one would almost assume it. But it so happened that it was from his uncle that he inherited—Giles Seaton: he was drowned out there, actually.’ He pointed out towards a cove that could be glimpsed now on one side of the avenue. On the other were banks of rhododendron of every hue and masses of azaleas. The sky was very blue and glittered on the grey granite boulders that surrounded the cove. I caught a glimpse of a pebbled shore and rocky pools, then the car swung around and we drove through a veritable tunnel of towering rhododendrons. The cove had looked so peaceful and benign that it was hard to believe that it could be as treacherous as Diana had said.