A Grave Inheritance

by Renshaw, Anne

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  1911

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  1911

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  1911

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  1911

  December

  1912

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  1912

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  1912

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  1928

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgements

  A Grave Inheritance

  by

  ANNE RENSHAW

  Heatherway Press

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Heatherway Press

  Kindle Edition 2012

  Copyright © Anne Renshaw 2012

  Anne Renshaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author and/or publisher.

  Cover design by Blondesign

  Image credit: © Chris Lofty | Dreamstime.com

  eBook conversion by eKindled.co.uk

  For my late mother, Sophia Morris Stephenson

  1905-2007

  Prologue

  1912

  In his hand he carried a spade and he looked for a flat space free of tree roots. Finding an area well hidden from the path, he took a breath and tried the soil. The spade hit the solid earth with a thud. He tried again, this time managing to slide the edge of the spade into the ground. Every now and then the moon hid behind a cloud, and darkness fell like a blanket, bringing with it a numbing despair. Even though in his own garden, he looked around uneasily, the isolation closing in.

  While waiting for the moon to show its face again, he mulled over recent events. Fear rose in his throat like bile, and he fought off the quiver of panic that threatened to overcome his courage. Between the trees he saw a glimmer of light from the kitchen window and he wondered what she was doing. Feeling wretched he choked back a sob and pulled out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket to wipe the sweat and tears from his eyes. Suddenly the moon appeared, lighting the clearing again, and he continued to dig.

  Later, when he’d returned to the cottage, she was still upstairs. He washed the grime from his hands in the enamel sink, eyes drawn towards the coffin on top of the kitchen table. Taking nails and a hammer from a toolbox beside the back door he began to fasten down the coffin lid.

  Ellen heard the hammering from upstairs and her stomach lurched with each blow. She walked into the kitchen and stood at the table beside her son. After a few minutes she lit another oil lamp and, averting her eyes, tugged on the sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘You ready?’ Ellen said gruffly to him.

  He nodded and slung a rope around one end of the coffin to make a handle. Ellen clutched the rope and yanked it, sliding the coffin forward. He took hold of the other end before it reached the edge of the table and with Ellen leading the way they carried the coffin outside and down the path towards the trees. Stretching her free arm, Ellen lifted the lamp as high as she could to light their way.

  Neither of them noticed the small white face pressed up against the bedroom window, watching.

  Chapter 1

  Sunlight glared through distant trees and hedges, flashing Morse code messages Amelia would never decipher, and not for the first time that day she wished she’d remembered her sunglasses. For all the excitement bubbling inside her, they could have been driving through the wonders of Luxor, or along the Italian Amalfi coast, instead of a quiet country road in Cheshire. But then Amelia’s excitement was not so much for the journey, but for what was waiting for them at the end of it.

  Sitting in the passenger seat next to her, her sister, Grace shielded her eyes with her hand. Her head on a continual pivot, she squinted through the car windows, straining to read the names of the side streets as they drove past.

  ‘I think that was it.’ Grace pointed behind her to a narrow lane almost hidden between tall beech hedges.

  Amelia looked quickly, keeping one eye on the road. She continued driving, watching out for a place to turn her Peugeot around. At last she came to a wider section, an obvious passing place, and was able to pull in. Making sure the road behind her was clear she began a three-point turn. Aware of every flinch and exasperated sigh beside her, Amelia swore loudly when she stalled the car for the second time.

  ‘That helps,’ Grace remarked, cringing at Amelia’s choice of word.

  ‘I’m doing my best.’ Amelia’s resentment focused on Grace, but she directed her comment to a house opposite where net curtains shimmied in the window. On the way back Amelia turned left into Marsh Lane and breathed a sigh of relief.

  The lane was empty of houses and seemed endless, and just as Amelia decided to turn back, she saw the sign almost hidden against a hedge. An open metal gate had a roofing slate tied to it with the name Primrose Cottage painted on it.

  ‘This is it,’ Grace said excitedly, and almost before the handbrake was on she was out of the car, walking on ahead. Amelia locked the car and followed at a slower pace. The overpowering smell of jasmine made her sneeze, and she smiled when she heard her sister’s “Bless you” from further along the path.

  From a distance an observer could be forgiven for thinking the sisters were twins, although there was five years between them. Grace, the youngest, was as tall as Amelia, but finer boned and slender. Both had long, thick light brown hair but whereas Grace’s grew ramrod straight with no inclination to bend at all, Amelia struggled every day to control her unruly curls. Both in white tee shirts and blue denim jeans, they made their way along the path, the grooves in their Reeboks picking up bits of gravel as they walked.

  Primrose Cottage stood before them. Five leaded windows, arched in gothic style, were in a semicircle around the front door, which was itself hidden inside an arched porch. White wooden window boxes on ground floor level windowsills held pink and purple pansies, smiling a welcome. The three upper windows nestled snugly under low eaves.

  Grace peered through one of the ground floor windows. ‘Is it really ours?’

  ‘Don’t get too enthusiastic, we haven’t seen inside yet.’ Amelia could hardly believe it herself. She’d half expected a dilapidated ruin, a renovation job that would take thousands of pounds, but from outward appearances the cottage looked in good repair. It did seem too good to be true, but with the common sense of an older sister she reserved judgement. She stood by the front door and tried each key from a selection the solicitor had handed over the previous day. None fitted
the lock.

  ‘Try them again.’ Impatiently Grace tried to take the keys from her.

  Amelia did as she was told, but to no effect. ‘Let’s have a look around the back. There must be another door.’

  ‘There should be a front door key though,’ Grace persisted.

  Amelia ignored her. Around the side of the cottage was another door which had a large old metal lock. Amelia selected the largest key from the group and inserted it. ‘Fingers crossed,’ she said and smiled when the lock turned smoothly.

  The door opened into a spacious kitchen. A dresser, still with plates lining its shelves, almost filled one wall. A centrally position large well-scrubbed oak table held an odd assortment of jugs and a teapot. Amelia crossed the room and opened French doors leading into a large square conservatory.

  ‘Look at this, Grace,’ Amelia said, enthralled. Potted Clematis spread along the cottage’s exterior brick wall inside the conservatory, and grew up and over the French door. Purple flower heads too heavy for the sinewy stems, drooped languidly, and tendrils hovered ready to wrap twine-like fingers around anything protruding. In one corner stood a white wrought iron table and two chairs, shaded by a large fern.

  Automatically Grace began to examine plants in pots of differing sizes set here and there on the stone floor. ‘I wonder if the water is turned on; these could do with a drink,’ she murmured, half to herself.

  Considering the length of time the cottage had been unoccupied, Amelia was surprised any plants had survived and she left her green-fingered sister to attend them. Finding the right key she unlocked the outer French doors to let in some fresh air and stepped outside. Trees from the wood on the other side of their hedge had seeded and invaded the side of the garden and a stand of about thirty trees stood tall and dark some metres away. The hedge, a thick hawthorn, was high and looked impenetrable. Ahead of her a smooth lawn sloped slightly down to a low boundary wall, giving an uninterrupted view across the garden and beyond, where meadows and farmland retreated into the distance. Her eyes drawn to a raised mound on the horizon, Amelia saw a tall church crowning the knoll; its sun-kissed square bell tower resembled a lift shaft transmitting prayers and, perhaps, departed souls to heaven.

  ‘Imagine sitting here in the evening with a glass of wine, watching the sun going down,’ Amelia said wistfully to Grace who had joined her outside, and was standing beside her.

  ‘I love it,’ Grace sighed, and without the need of further words they knew they were thinking along the same lines. Grace brushed her dusty hands down the thighs of her jeans and tugged on Amelia’s sleeve. ‘Come on, let’s see upstairs,’ she said, eager to explore further.

  Amelia expected the worst so was pleasantly surprised. After inspecting each room and making mental notes of the refurbishment costs, she felt relieved that it wasn’t going to cost a fortune to do up. Two large bedrooms contained odd items of furniture and although old and dusty, the smell of beeswax still permeated the air. The bathroom was disappointing and needed updating, but could be rectified in time.

  In the small third bedroom, Amelia crossed the room to the pretty arched window. She could see into the wood, and although still early May, the faint haze of bluebells was beginning to show. ‘This could be the office,’ she said. Grace mumbled something and shivered and told Amelia she would see her downstairs.

  Amelia did another tour and then lingered in the conservatory, enjoying the silence. No rush hour traffic or heavy vehicles trundling past the windows here and, except for the birds rustling in the trees, the quiet was complete. A modicum of peace was all it took to release Amelia’s pent-up emotions. She took a deep breath, taking control.

  Grace called to her from the kitchen. ‘I’m turning on the mains stopcock.’

  Amelia watched from the doorway, preoccupied. Her sister’s head was in the cupboard underneath the sink and after a few grunts and sighs, accompanied by a sharp squeak, the tap began to turn.

  Grace emerged and sat back on her heels. ‘A penny for them,’ she said.

  ‘I was just thinking how Mum and Dad would have loved this cottage.’

  ‘Oh,’ Grace replied quietly.

  The following silence was uncomfortable, and to try to make amends for her bluntness, Amelia asked, ‘Need any help?’

  ‘No, its okay thanks.’ Grace began to turn the tap off again, her earlier high spirits diminished. ‘The water’s disconnected but I noticed a rain barrel outside. Have I got time to water these few plants before we leave?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Amelia reassured her. She hated an atmosphere between them and wished she hadn’t spoken her thoughts so readily. ‘Sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to ruin the day,’ she said forlornly.

  Grace went outside and filled a plastic bucket with water and brought it back into the kitchen. ‘You don’t need to apologise for mentioning Mum and Dad, you know. I think about them too, all the time.’ Grace smiled. ‘Anyway, you’re right. They would have loved it here.’ Relieved and glad to have cleared the air, Amelia smiled, but her heart sank when Grace went on, ‘Don’t you think it’s strange that Dad never talked to us about our grandfather, or great aunt Lillian? Is it possible we have other relatives we don’t know about?’ While Grace questioned Amelia, she squatted on her haunches and gave lavish quantities of water to some red geraniums. Thankfully, with her back turned, Grace didn’t see the expression on her sister’s face.

  Since the arrival of the solicitor’s letter they had talked of nothing else, and Amelia didn’t want to have this conversation again. She had nothing to add to their previous discussions and, anyway, Amelia knew that whatever she said would only lead to more questions. It had come as a bit of a shock to receive the solicitor’s letter and be told, three years after their parents’ untimely death, that their grandfather, Harry Farrell, had lived less than two hours’ drive away from Llangollen. Having recently passed away, he’d left his only valuable possession, Primrose Cottage and its large garden and wooded copse all set in approximately half an acre of land, to his only child Robert, their father. Their father’s death preceding that of Harry, the legacy transferred to Amelia and Grace. Harry had inherited the cottage ten years earlier, from his sister Lillian, but having no desire to up sticks and move back to the Cheshire village he’d left as a small boy, he had rented the cottage out to two elderly ladies.

  ‘I’m as much in the dark as you,’ Amelia finally said.

  Grace had stripped away dried leaves from the clematis. The scorched foliage disintegrated in her hand and bits lay where they fell on the stone floor, like discarded confetti. Absorbed in the job at hand, Grace let the matter rest.

  Chapter 2

  Amelia mulled over what a move to Cheshire would entail as they drove back home. Besides their house in North Wales there was their business, Farrell Interiors, to consider.

  ‘You know I’ve been thinking of expanding the business. We might find suitable premises in Chester,’ Amelia said to Grace, confident in a solution to free up some of her time.

  ‘How will you manage both?’ Grace turned slightly in her seat to face her.

  ‘I’ll promote Gwyneth. She can manage the shop in Llangollen. Jake will manage the decorating and I’ll employ an apprentice to help him and to learn the trade. I’ll continue to make curtains and complete furnishing orders from our new home. If anything urgent crops up Gwyneth can reach me by telephone or email.’ Amelia changed gear as she came up to traffic lights.

  ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ Grace turned back in her seat and stared ahead out of the car window.

  Amelia left Grace to chew on it and mulled over the possibilities herself. It would mean more work for Jake, but if agreeable, he could use the company’s small van, with petrol and expenses paid. Amelia could trust her assistant, Gwyneth Jones, to order materials, look after the stock room and serve their valued customers. Gwyneth rented the one bedroomed flat above the shop and Amelia appreciated what an added bonus it was, having her living on t
he premises. Amelia began to make lists in her head. Estate agent, van hire, packing boxes, bubble wrap, sort garage, clean loft …

  ***

  Their house in Llangollen sold quickly. Amelia and Grace packed up all their worldly goods, and on moving day everything was ready to go. Jake and two of his mates, Jason and Lee, plus Gwyneth turned up to help, true to their word.

  ‘Weather’s crap,’ Jake said needlessly as thunder storms rolled around the Horseshoe Pass and dark clouds hung like dirty washing over the town. Gwyneth glared at him, but Amelia and Grace laughed. Nothing was going to spoil today, they’d decided.

  After everything had been loaded into the hired van, Amelia and Grace took it in turns to hug Gwyneth goodbye, while she sniffed and dabbed her eyes. ‘Anyone would think you were moving to Australia, all this blooming fuss,’ she said.

  ‘They’re only going up the road, an hour and a half max. Tell you what! I’ll take you to visit them on the back of my bike if you like,’ Jake teased. Gwyneth looked at him aghast. She wasn’t known to refuse a lift from anyone but made an exception when it came to motorbikes. Jake’s especially!

  Jake had offered to drive the van for them and Grace climbed up beside him. Amelia, with her Peugeot loaded to the gunnels, set off behind them. A brisk wind helped to clear the clouds and lighten the skyline and with the A483 free from holdups, they made the journey in good time. Jake swung the van through the narrow entrance to Primrose Cottage managing to trim a side of the hedge by a good inch.

  Grace slipped down from the high seat onto the gravel the instant the van stopped. ‘Crikey, Jake, we’re supposed to return the van in one piece you know,’ she said, exasperated.

  Amelia stood next to her car further along the driveway. ‘Can you get a bit nearer to the cottage, Jake?’ she called. They still didn’t have a front door key so everything had to be taken in through the back door. Jake acknowledged with thumbs up and manoeuvred the van’s rear end as close as was possible.