‘Mads, this is awesome,’ Ben said, eyes wide, taking it all in.
‘Not bad, shortie, not bad.’ She smiled and winked at her brother.
Phones trilled in the background and she heard low murmuring voices from the room behind the large reception desk. Barely a couple of sips of lemonade later, and Maddy saw Mr Vasey-Smith heading their way. He smiled at Maddy and Ben and nodded to Trevor and Angie.
‘Shall we?’ He gestured to them and they followed him up a small set of stairs to the left of the reception area and then through an unmarked door into a small conference room with an oval walnut table and eight high-backed chairs. A briefcase lay on the table. He sat down in front of it and wheeled the combination lock until it clicked open. The receptionist came in behind them and set the tray of drinks and biscuits on the table, along with a pot of tea for Mr Vasey-Smith.
‘Please do sit. Now, first things first. Did you bring your birth certificate?’ Angie took the document out of her handbag and passed it across to him. ‘I’ll take a copy of this, but it’s just a formality, Madison. We know who you are.’ He removed a rolled-up scroll of paper from his briefcase and slid it across to her. ‘This is how we found you.’
Maddy unfurled the paper and laid it flat on the table. It showed a hand-written family tree stretching back to 1764. Hers and Ben’s were the most recent names, right at the bottom, linked to her mother’s name. The names Swinton and Hathaway were the predominant surnames on the document. Her surname, ‘Greene’, was her father’s name and none of his ancestors were on the tree. The tree related to her mother’s lineage.
‘The gentleman we’re interested in is ‘Harold Swinton’. His wife Victoria is your distant relative.’ Mr Vasey-Smith reached across and pointed to the name, somewhere near the top of the scroll. ‘She was the niece of your great-great-great-grandmother and her husband left his considerable fortune to you and your brother.’
‘So what about all the other people here?’ Maddy asked. ‘Surely some of them must’ve had kids? Are me and Ben really the only ones?’
‘Yes, we’ve researched it extensively. We had to go back to the eighteenth century to find another branch of the family, which led us back down to you. It was only with the advent of the internet and the release of certain classified military records, that we were able to trace you.’
Maddy thought for a bit. She and Ben were alone in the world. Here on a scrappy piece of paper in black and white, was evidence of a real family, but they were all dead. Just her luck. She knew she’d give up all the money if she could have her mum back, but that wasn’t going to happen. So she decided this money would be their way forward. She would use it to make their lives safe.
‘So let me get this straight,’ Trevor said. ‘These Swintons were Maddy’s ancestors, but their kids are dead and there’s no other relations anywhere apart from Maddy and Ben?’
‘Just so.’
‘And Maddy gets everything?’
‘I’ll get to that in a minute.’
‘I thought you said she gets a house and sixty one million? Angie, you told me …’
‘Mr Johnson,’ Mr Vasey-Smith interrupted. ‘I mean no disrespect to you, but this meeting is for Madison and I would be obliged if you would let me explain all the details.’
‘Just looking out for Maddy here, that’s all. She’s only sixteen.’
Maddy looked at her foster father with dislike and felt an unfamiliar wash of embarrassment at his crassness. She returned her gaze to the solicitor and waited for him to continue.
‘Once the paperwork is signed, you will stand to inherit the house in Gloucestershire and will receive a very generous monthly allowance from your trust fund. The main stipulation is that you must make the property your permanent residence, not just in name. You must live there for at least forty weeks in each year.’
‘Live there? I can’t live there.’
Chapter Four
1881
*
Inside the Gare du Nord, a cold March light washed down through a massive glazed arch onto the hoards of passengers. Among them, Alexandre and his family stood in the Salle de Depart, waiting to board the sleeper train from Paris to the Port of Marseille.
Papa went off to locate their platform and soon returned to guide them towards a large black steam train which hissed and blew on the line. They found their first class carriage easily enough, their name written on a piece of stiff card attached to the door.
Other passengers squeezed past them in the corridor and Alexandre eyed them with interest, wondering what their stories were and whether he would have the chance to converse with any of them. The rest of his family bustled about inside their compartment, stowing away bags and removing overcoats.
‘Come in, Alexandre,’ his mother chided. ‘Why are you standing out there? You are blocking the way for the other passengers.’
‘Sorry, Maman,’ he replied and entered their compartment.
‘But where are we to sleep?’ Isobel asked.
‘It has only just turned four o’clock, Isobel. You do not need to worry about that just yet,’ Papa teased.
‘Tell us more of Turkey, Papa,’ Jacques said.
‘Let us remove our outer garments and make ourselves comfortable first. We have a long train ride ahead of us.’
Before long, they were snugly ensconced in their first class compartment, all coats and bags stowed away under their seats.
Doors slammed, the whistle blew and great clouds of steam wheeshed into the icy afternoon air. The carriage lurched backwards unsteadily and then, with more confidence, rocked forwards and away, out of the station, leaving behind the great iron roof of the Gare du Nord.
The soft rhythmic puffing of the train took Alexandre and his family northwards through the grimy Parisian suburbs until they were outside the city. And then it curved back round onto the main line that would take them south to the sea and beyond.
They travelled down the tracks through woods of pine and larch. They climbed hills and steamed through tunnels hollowed out of the soft limestone. Over bridges and viaducts they steadily made their way southwards. Through mirror-black windows Alexandre stared out into the rapidly growing gloom at the smudged outlines of smoking cottage chimneys until at last night finally fell and their train was a lone speeding light through the dark French countryside.
Supper on the train turned out to be quite a lavish affair. The Chevaliers were shown to their table where they chatted and sipped aperitifs.
‘I cannot believe it will actually be warm in Turkey. The weather is so vile here,’ Isobel said, tasting her drink.
‘Do not forget it will still be cold at night,’ Papa replied.
‘If we are lucky, it will be warm in Marseille too,’ Maman added.
‘Do stop talking about the weather and tell us of all the exciting discoveries we shall make in Turkey,’ Jacques said.
‘How can Papa tell us that, when we haven’t even discovered them yet.’ Isobel rolled her eyes.
‘Is it really true you do not yet know what lies in Cappadocia? That you have no idea what manner of artefacts we are going to uncover?’ Alexandre asked his parents.
‘Monsieur Bouvier has made me and your mother sign a letter of confidentiality. But I can tell you this much – you will not be disappointed.’
‘You mean to say, you actually know what is there? Then you must tell us, Papa,’ Jacques said. ‘It is too unfair to make us wait this long to find out.’
‘If I tell you, Monsieur Bouvier will send his wife to hunt us down and then we will all be in dire trouble.’
‘Didier,’ Maman chided. ‘Do not let them hear you talking this way about Madame.’
‘But everybody knows she is a shrew, Maman,’ Alexandre said.
‘They may know it, but it is not polite to say it out loud.’
‘Your mother is right. I should not have spoken so. Erase that comment from your memories, children. Aah, here comes the soup - Pigeon Bisque. It smel
ls delicious.’
‘I am so hungry I could eat my shoe.’ Alexandre’s eyes lit up at the arrival of the first course.
‘You boys are always hungry,’ Maman replied.
Alexandre concentrated on his food while Jacques cross-examined Maman and Papa on every aspect of archaeology he could think of. Papa never tired of talking about his favourite subject and Jacques’ interest fuelled his enthusiasm.
Alexandre realised this Turkish dig could lead to the most important find of the century or it could be a wild goose chase. But it was a risk his parents were willing to take. They wanted to uncover that one big find that would gain them the respect of their peers and re-launch their ailing careers.
Whilst they had been enjoying dinner, the train staff had transformed their first class carriage into a comfortable bedroom. The lower benches were now beds, and two further bunks had been pulled down from each wall. Alexandre and Jacques were to share, topping and tailing.
‘Keep still, man, for goodness sake.’ Alexandre jabbed his brother’s leg with his foot.
‘Ow! Maman, tell Alex to stop hogging the whole bunk and maybe then it wouldn’t take me so long to get comfortable.’
‘Just lie still, close your eyes and go to sleep,’ Alexandre said. ‘That usually works for me.’
‘It usually works for me too, but I don’t usually have to lie next to a six foot idiot who takes up the whole bed.’ Jacques kicked him back.
‘Ow! You little ...’
‘Right, that’s it!’ Alexandre heard his mother slip down from her bunk. She drew back the curtains in front of their bed. ‘Jacques, you take my bunk. I will share with Isobel. I cannot stand another moment of your bickering. Just promise me you will not be like this for the whole nine months we are away. Didier, why are you not scolding your sons?’
Alexandre followed his mother’s gaze to see Papa lying in his bunk with his mouth open, snoring.
‘Oh. Now quiet, everyone. Papa is asleep.’
‘We don’t have to whisper, Maman. We could scream blue murder and he wouldn’t wake,’ Alexandre said. ‘You know what he is like once he falls asleep.’
‘Yes, well …’ Maman replied, climbing in next to Isobel. ‘… it is late and we have another long day tomorrow. Sleep now, children. Goodnight, I love you all.’
‘Goodnight, Maman.’
‘Goodnight, Maman. Sleep well.’
Alexandre stretched out on his narrow bunk, relieved he no longer had to share it with his fidgeting brother. He lay with his hands behind his head and stared up at the underside of Jacques’ bunk. It didn’t look too sturdy. He hoped it didn’t detach from the wall and come crashing down on top of him.
The train swayed gently and Alexandre thought this is what it must feel like to be a babe rocked to sleep in its mother’s arms. He and his siblings had never travelled on a train before. They had rarely travelled anywhere within their own country, let alone abroad.
His parents, on the other hand, were two of the most well-travelled people of their time and it had always struck Alexandre as grossly unfair he had been nowhere and seen nothing, whilst they had travelled the world ten times over. Now, however, his time had come and he meant to make the most of every second of every day.
The next morning dawned clear and cold, the wide pale country sky trying its hardest to be blue. By ten o’clock it had succeeded.
After an early breakfast, the family returned to their compartment and once again it had been transformed back into its daytime persona. Everyone was quiet and contemplative this morning. Even Jacques remained uncharacteristically silent. Alexandre had slept fairly well, but his thoughts now turned to the long sea voyage ahead of them.
Once they boarded the steamer at Marseille, they were to meet up with The Swintons, old family friends from England. Victoria and Harold Swinton were archaeologists who had worked with his parents on various digs around the world. They had two children – Leonora and Freddie. Alexandre wondered what they would be like. He had a vague memory of them from his younger days - the girl had been irritating.
Through the window, idyllic country scenes scrolled past – olive groves, ruined castles, small river ferries cruising beneath arched stone bridges and bent-backed agricultural workers with all manner of livestock working the brown and yellow fields.
All too soon, the mellow French countryside was swallowed up by a more urban landscape. A random spattering of chalky white houses gradually merged and darkened into dirty suburbs – Alexandre’s first introduction to Marseille. The Paris rain had not reached this far south and the views were dusty and dry.
Suddenly the train slowed and drew into the Gare St Charles, Marseille’s train station, which perched loftily on top of a high plateau. They were not to disembark here, however. After a short wait, the train moved off onto a single track branch line, towards Gare de la Joliette, the harbour station.
*
Marseille, the oldest city in France, lay on the eastern shore of the bay, backed by green-covered hills and high-peaked mountains. Down at the harbour, sailing boats and steamers purposefully set out to sea or else lined up along the dockside, moored two and three deep.
Alexandre breathed in the sea air and almost gagged. The Marseillaise atmosphere felt much drier than cold damp Paris, but it smelt infinitely worse. The docks swam in ships’ rubbish and the stench of foul water was almost too much to bear.
‘Oh, it is worse than anything I have ever smelt in my life!’ Isobel exclaimed, holding her lace handkerchief in front of her nose and mouth.
‘It is not very pleasant, I must agree.’ Their mother too, covered her nose.
‘It is the scent of adventure,’ Papa declared.
‘Where are we to meet the Swintons?’ Isobel asked from behind her handkerchief.
‘We will find them on the ship. They have made their way from England. Maman and I visited them there many years ago.’
‘And how old is their daughter?’
‘Leonora must be seventeen or eighteen by now. They stayed with us once, but you were probably too young to remember. You all got on very well.’
‘Maman, how can you say that?’ Alexandre said. ‘I can remember the girl was very annoying. Rude and entirely without charm.’
‘You only say that, because she did not fall for your charms, Alexandre. I have met her several times since and she has spirit - an admirable quality.’
‘And the boy?’ Jacques asked.
‘A thoroughly delightful chap,’ said Papa. ‘Jacques, you and he got on like a house on fire. Got up to no end of mischief though. He has now grown into a very likeable fellow.’
‘Is Monsieur Bouvier also their patron?’ Alexandre asked.
‘Goodness no,’ his mother replied. ‘Papa wants their expertise on the dig. The Swintons are so wealthy, I believe they own half of South Gloucestershire. They are passionate archaeologists though, just like me and Papa.’
The cold Mistral blew down from the Rhone Valley and they had to keep turning aside to prevent grit blowing in their eyes.
‘Oh, it is awful. Freezing cold and smelly. Can we not return to Paris, Maman?’ Isobel pouted.
Maman laughed. ‘Now, Isobel, you are made of stronger stuff than this. A bit of rubbish and a gust of cold wind is not something to get upset about.’
‘Isobel, it is wonderful here,’ Alexandre said. ‘There is so much to see and the Mediterranean is so blue out there.’
Isobel threw Alexandre a resentful glance. He had hoped she would have forgotten her crossness with him, but he realised he wasn’t going to have it so easy. Her face did soften a little as she looked out across the ocean. Away from the murky harbour, the sea twinkled and glittered in the morning sun, a slightly deeper shade of blue than the powdered sky.
‘I thought the Seine beautiful, but the Mediterranean is something entirely different,’ Alexandre said.
‘I feel your mother and I have been remiss in your education. We should have brought you to see t
he ocean long before now.’
‘I cannot argue with that, Papa,’ Alexandre replied.
*
The Mistral was a magnificent steamer, with a sleek hull, black-topped funnels and four masts for sailing if the winds were fair.
Standing high on deck, Alexandre looked out across the land side of the ship onto a sea of colour. He saw upturned faces, hats and twirling parasols. Cases and trunks passed over heads, smiles, tears, waving handkerchiefs, kisses being blown and caught.
He left his family for a while and walked around to the other side of the ship. There, the blue green ocean mesmerised him, its waves rippling out to the horizon and beyond. Gulls cried out: hovering, swooping, gliding and diving. Alexandre felt an affinity with these birds; a feeling that he now shared in their freedom. His wings had stretched and strained against the stiff breeze for too long, but suddenly he found himself no longer struggling - fair winds were taking him exactly where he needed to go.
The steamship sounded its horn. Three long low blasts which filled up the air with its deep mournful sound. Cheers and shouts erupted all around and the large vessel began to heave its way out of the harbour, towards the open sea.
A small child on deck pointed down into the water and Alexandre caught his breath as he saw a school of about twenty shiny-backed porpoises leaping up out of the navy blue ocean and diving back under to glide beneath the clear surface. As the evening sun slid slowly into the Mediterranean, one of its rays caught Alexandre’s face. He savoured its bright warmth and enjoyed an unfettered moment of billowing happiness.
*
The Swintons had been rich land owners for generations and Harold Swinton had inherited his wealth, like his father before him. These fortunate circumstances had allowed him to indulge in his passion for archaeology. He had met his beautiful half-Russian wife, Victoria, on a dig at an ancient Mesopotamian site where they had fallen in love and married within the month.
Now, the Chevaliers walked across the black and white tiled floor of the Garden Lounge to where the Swintons sat at wicker chairs around a tile-topped table. They appeared to be playing the card game, Chance, and from the look of things the boy, Freddie, appeared to be winning.
When Darkness Falls - Six Paranormal Novels in One Boxed Set Page 5
