Ignoring both the proffered newspaper and Warren’s curious look, she pulled the menu towards her, dropping her head so he could not see the tears filling her eyes.
She found it difficult to explain her emotions to Warren. The obituary would, no doubt, eulogise Mary Fitzroy’s brilliance and her outstanding work as an historian, presenting her life as a list of scholarly achievements, interspersed with some personal details to give readers a sense of the woman behind the achievements. Yet, these comments about Mary’s family represented the most painful parts of Perdita’s life. Reading one obituary had been enough, she did not want to read any more.
Blinking away her tears, she scolded herself: pull yourself together, she thought, Mary showed no interest in you while she was alive, why would you or Piper be mentioned in her obituary?
She had finished eating and was pouring coffee when the manager interrupted them. He seemed agitated as he handed her a thick cream envelope.
“Dr Rivers, a message has arrived for you,” he said. “A courier is waiting if you wish to send a reply. I’ll be happy to relay any answer.”
“Er — thank you,” said Perdita, surprised. “I’ll let you know if there’s a response.”
The manager nodded and retreated. Perdita turned to Warren, her eyebrows raised in confusion. “What the…?”
“Open it,” urged Warren, who seemed suddenly nervous. “It’s probably from the University asking if they need to send a replacement.”
“Unlikely,” said Perdita. “No one I work with knows about my connections to Mary Fitzroy. Anyway, they’d have emailed, not gone to the expense of a courier.”
She slit open the envelope and unfolded an expensive, heavyweight sheet of headed writing paper. In one corner was a small and unusual emblem of a portcullis surrounded by a repeating pattern of tiny swords, interwoven with a plant Perdita did not recognise. The motto underneath was in Latin: Ecce signum! and across the top, the word Jerusalem.
“Behold the proof!” she murmured, translating the motto. Across the table, Warren stiffened slightly, waiting while Perdita read the letter. White-faced she looked up from the short note and handed it to him.
“Read it,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Tell me first, what’s happened?”
“It’s from Mary Fitzroy’s solicitor, he’s requested a meeting of the utmost urgency and has suggested today at 11 a.m.”
“What?” said Warren. “Where?”
“Marquess House, Mary’s estate in Pembrokeshire. It’s not far from here,” she replied.
He looked at her in confusion. “This morning…?”
Perdita nodded. “Am I being paranoid?” she whispered. “Or is there something strange happening?”
“What do you mean?”
“I live in London and, in theory, have no connection to Mary,” she said. “How do they know about me and, more importantly, how the hell do they know I’m here?”
Warren squeezed her hand.
“There are lots of ways they could know you’re here,” he said calmly.
“How?”
“The news of the dig has been in the local paper,” he continued. “As one of the more senior members of the team and a known expert in the symbolism of jewellery, your name was mentioned…”
“But why have her solicitors been keeping tabs on me?”
Warren took the letter from her and smoothed it out on the table. “Do you see this?” He pointed to the emblem in the corner and Perdita nodded. “Jerusalem is a historical trust that funds archaeological digs, particularly in this area. Perhaps they were financing yours and, if your grandmother’s solicitors are affiliated to them, it’s likely your grandmother was aware of which projects they were involved with this summer. It could have been your grandmother who was keeping an eye on you, not the legal firm, and now with her sudden death, you are fortuitously in the right place for the solicitors to contact you quickly.” Perdita was unconvinced and beginning to marshal counterarguments, when he added with a final flourish: “It’s a village, Perds, it isn’t London, people know each other’s business.”
Looking into his calm, grey eyes, she sighed. She knew he was trying to offer a rational explanation and, now he had put it so bluntly, she agreed with the assessment of how the solicitors knew her whereabouts. It did not stop the powerful sense of pain that had shot through her at the thought that her grandmother might have been monitoring her. Mary may have been aware of her proximity, but she had still made no attempt to contact her. This was why she was reacting so skittishly to the letter: after a lifetime of being ignored by Mary Fitzroy, it felt strangely sinister to be contacted by her solicitor the moment her grandmother had died. It was unlikely she and Piper had been remembered in her will, so for what possible reason had she been summoned to Marquess House?
“Will you go?” Warren’s voice floated across her teeming brain, bringing her back to the present and the sunny dining room.
“Yes,” said Perdita, tight-lipped but determined. She glanced at her watch, then pushed away her unfinished cup of coffee. “I’ll tell the manager to let them know we’re coming.”
In a swift, elegant movement, she stood and walked from the room. The manager was hovering behind the reception desk.
“Ah, Dr Rivers…”
“Tell them, I’ll be there at 11 a.m.,” she said, then ran up the stairs to her room. Piper was in Austin, Texas, so she was six hours behind them and still asleep. Taking a deep breath, Perdita walked to the window and looked out over the landscaped gardens, breathing deeply to steady her nerves. When the door clicked open, she did not turn, knowing Warren would come to her and encircle her in his arms as he had done so many times before when the strangeness of her family situation had shaken her to the core.
“Whatever they say, whatever they do, you don’t have to stay or listen to anything that might upset you,” he said, his arms around her waist, his head resting next to hers.
“I know,” she said, her voice hoarse with tears. “But you understand, don’t you? I have to know, to see…”
She felt rather than saw him nod. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll drive us there.”
Perdita stared out of the car window, barely noticing the beauty of the Pembrokeshire countryside as it moved into the full bloom of summer. Hedgerows billowed in the breeze, the grass and flowers brushing against Warren’s Audi as he weaved them down the winding lanes.
“Do you remember it? Your old home in Pembrokeshire?” asked Warren.
Perdita shrugged. “Bits,” she said. “Our home was called Air House. There were stables, I think, and chickens. We had a dog called Copper. She came with us to Chiswick.”
“And your grandmother’s house? Was it nearby?”
“I don’t recall,” she murmured. Her eyes once more drifted to the scenery as she contemplated this unexpected summons to confront her past.
From hints her father had dropped, she knew her grandmother was wealthy, but she assumed this had come from her writing and from her grandfather, Hector Woodville, who had been a businessman and had died before she and Piper were born.
Perhaps, she thought, as they turned off down even narrower lanes, her grandmother had left her and Piper something that had once belonged to their mother. A book; a piece of jewellery? Or, a small voice said, perhaps they are warning you off and making it clear you have no claim on the estate, despite the fact you and Piper are Mary’s only living relatives. That’s more likely, she thought.
“Not far now,” said Warren. Perdita glanced at the satnav screen that indicated they were only three minutes away. “You OK?”
“No,” said Perdita and managed a rueful laugh. “I might be sick.”
“It would certainly be a memorable entrance,” he replied.
“Definitely.”
They took a tight left turn and the satnav announced they had reached their destination. Warren raised his eyebrows and crept slowly down the tiny lane. It curled around to the right and a
pair of magnificent wrought iron gates that were fastened open greeted them. On one of the posts was a polished slate plaque that read: Marquess House. Perdita stifled a giggle.
“How many miles to get up the drive to the front door?” she grinned.
“Ten, at least!”
Her laughter was a mixture of wonder and hysteria. Get it together, she told herself, gripping the door handle until her knuckles were white. Then they rounded the corner and Perdita gasped.
Marquess House was magnificent. The endless windows glittered like diamonds in the early summer sunshine. At the heart was an old square castle tower from which the rest of the house had flowered. The majority of the building was Tudor with a timbered central structure and winding red brick chimneys reaching endlessly towards the sky. The crenellations that topped the house mirrored the old tower. Down the east side was what appeared to be a Jacobean wing and glimmering to the west was a Victorian addition with dramatic gothic arches. Marquess House stood huge and imposing on a slope, the vast mullioned windows facing a lake that spread away from the house towards the sea.
“Oh my goodness…” whispered Perdita.
“What?” asked Warren.
“The only clear memory Piper and I have of Mary is being taken by her to a stately home,” she said. “I thought she’d taken us on a day out, but this was the place, I’m sure of it.” Fishing her phone from her pocket, she took a rapid succession of shots. “Piper is never going to believe this! It was her home.”
Warren gazed at her. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, and having you here makes it easier.” She smiled at him. “You really are remarkable, dropping everything to drive down here to support me.”
“I love you,” he said. “Your happiness and well-being are more important to me than my own.”
She reached up to kiss him as a small ripple of happiness ran through her, giving her confidence. Until she had met Warren, she had never understood what it was like to feel unconditional love. Her ex-fiancé had been a kind man, but Warren had swept into her life like a chivalric knight of old and she had not needed much persuasion to end her engagement to placid, safe Rory.
“I love you too,” she said. “Now, let’s go and see what this man —” she checked the name on the bottom of the letter — “Alistair Mackensie wants.”
Perdita climbed out of the car and stared at the building in awe. She had expected her grandmother’s house to be large, but not a full-blown stately home.
“She can’t have made this much money from selling books,” said Perdita. “This is old money.”
“Do you think you’re about to inherit a title?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! If anything, I’m probably being told never to darken their doorstep again.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” replied Warren. “If that was the case, they would have sent you a snotty letter full of threatening legalese. You might be Lady Perdita Elizabeth Woodville-Rivers.”
She shook her head. It was hard enough processing the shock of seeing her grandmother’s home, Marquess House, and the realisation there was a great deal more to her grandmother and, therefore, her mother’s family, than she had ever suspected. It made her nervous. What else was she about to discover? Despite the warm weather, she shivered.
“Come on,” she said through white lips, “let’s get this over with.”
Squaring her shoulders, she strode towards the large, studded, Gothic wooden front doors with their metal bell-pull. Quashing the nerves fluttering in her stomach, Perdita grasped the handle and yanked with all her might. Somewhere in the depths of the house there was a resonant clang, then a few moments later, footsteps hurrying across the hall.
“Do you think the butler will answer?” murmured Warren. Despite herself, Perdita giggled.
“I’d be very excited if he did. I hope he’s in full livery.”
A moment later, the door was flung open by a tall, dark-haired man in his late twenties. His piercing blue eyes were hooded and wary, and his full, generous mouth was set in a fierce line. He appeared to be about to shout something, before checking himself and pausing, his face relaxing very slightly.
“Dr Perdita Rivers?” he asked, his voice deep and resonant.
“Yes,” she replied, taken aback by the oddly aggressive greeting.
“Sorry,” he said, his entire demeanour softening. “We’ve had some press door-stepping; I thought you were them coming back. I’m Kit Mackensie. You obviously received my father’s letter? Please come in, come in.”
He ushered them into the double-height entrance hall. A huge, ornately carved wooden staircase swept upwards, dividing at the first floor and disappearing to the west and east of the building. Above the ancient front doors was a vast rose window beaming coloured rays onto the wall opposite. Here, the intricate designs on the window were echoed in a delicately carved wooden frieze surrounded by a minstrel’s gallery. Underneath this was a separate pane that seemed to balance above the door. Etched into the glass was a coat of arms bearing the motto: Fide sed cui vide. Perdita’s eyes slid across it, “Trust but be careful in whom,” she translated and, unbidden, a shudder ran down her spine.
Panelling covered most of the walls, giving way occasionally to sections of silk wallpaper, leaving Perdita to wonder whether the swirling patterns could be original William Morris designs. Paintings adorned the walls and she noticed several suits of armour. Glancing down, she gasped. The floor was a masterpiece of design; hand-painted quarry tiles of flowers and intricate patterns in pale greens and golds mixed with garnet reds and brilliant peacock blues surged in front of her like an ancient meadow. An enormous rug woven to replicate the pattern underneath, covered the bulk of the tiles.
“This floor,” said Perdita. Unable to resist, she lifted the edge of the carpet to look more closely at the tiles. “Surely this isn’t original Tudor?”
“Perdita!” admonished Warren, but Kit grinned.
“A lot of it is,” he said. “Although, it’s been heavily restored. A few tiles around the edge are as they were. Mary had them covered in Perspex so they could be left in view. She commissioned the carpet to protect, but not hide, the beauty of the tiles.”
Perdita jolted slightly at the easy way he referred to her grandmother.
“It’s incredible, I’ve never seen one like it. Are there others, or is this the only one in the house?”
“There are a few other original sections and the ceiling in the chapel is thought to have some images dating from approximately 1530. You’re welcome to have a look at it, but perhaps we should see my father first.”
“Of course,” replied Perdita, brought back to reality.
“He would have greeted you himself but an urgent call came through,” Kit explained as he led them through the hall towards the west of the house. “He’s in his office.”
“His office?” asked Warren.
“Yes, my father and Mary worked together on various charitable and funding projects. As our business headquarters are in Andorra, Mary let him set up an office here. She and my father are old friends and she enjoyed the company. My brother, sister and I practically grew up here.”
Perdita knew Kit was merely imparting information, but each casually flung out mention of her grandmother was akin to tiny knives piercing her heart and soul. There was no need for my grandmother to have been lonely, she wanted to scream — she had us; she had me and Piper, and Dad before he died. We could have kept her company — but she did not speak and merely took Warren’s hand for comfort.
“Kit, is that you?” called a voice as they walked down a less ornate corridor leading towards the back of the house. “Was that the press back or is it…?”
A man appeared in a doorway. He was in his mid-sixties, tall and elegantly dressed in a grey suit with a black tie to indicate he was in mourning. His hair was silver, brushed back from his forehead and, like his son, he had piercing blue eyes. Although his were surrounded by fine laughter lines.
“My dear,” he said as he saw Perdita, “how wonderful to meet you at last.” He clasped her hand in both of his and, to her amazement, Perdita saw his eyes fill with tears. “If only things had been different,” he said. Then, before Perdita could ask what he meant, he turned to Warren. “And you must be Warren Dexter, Perdita’s fiancé. Good to meet you. I understand you had an exemplary military career until the bullet you took in your shoulder meant you were invalided out.”
Perdita’s eyes were wide, and even Warren looked unnerved. Few people knew the reason he had left his military career.
“You’re very well informed, sir,” said Warren coldly.
“Yes,” replied Mackensie with a smile that seemed to welcome Perdita and freeze Warren. “Now, please, come in.” Gesturing them forward, he led the way into his office.
It was a large room. An antique desk dominated one side, behind which were floor to ceiling bookshelves, laden with heavy law books. A vast fireplace was the other focal point, carved to match the endless swags of flowers that Perdita had seen throughout the house. Above this hung a portrait of a woman with long red hair. Her style of dress placed her in the Victorian era and this time it was Warren who exclaimed.
“Is that a John Singer Sargent?” he asked, stepping forward to examine the painting more closely.
“Yes,” replied Mackensie senior. “It’s a portrait of Lettice Lakeby, née Hawkland, your great-great-great grandmother, Perdita.”
Perdita turned to look at the picture. It was unnerving; it reminded her too vividly of her twin sister, Piper. Although her and Piper’s faces and build were almost identical, their colouring was vastly different. Perdita had a wild cloud of dark hair and haunting, grey-green eyes that held lights of gold, while Piper had a mane of ferocious red waves and curls with brilliant green eyes. Perdita spun on her heels and faced Alistair Mackensie, her nerves at breaking point.
“What’s going on?” she asked bluntly. “I receive a strange letter from you this morning concerning the grandmother who cut me and my sister out of her life, and now you’re talking me through family history as though we’re old friends.”
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 2
