Now Neville smiled to himself as he continued to think about Amos. Taking the man under his wing all those years ago had been a brilliant piece of strategy on his part. Amos was diligent, logical and persistent, like a dog with a bone when it was necessary. Calm and cool, whatever the circumstances, or the pressure he was under, he was loyal, discreet, and on call night or day. He had a clever knack of picking men to work for him who had similar characteristics to himself.
One of the things Neville considered of unquestionable value were the contacts Amos had…in all walks of life. This was one of the main keys to being a successful private investigator.
Before he had left for Italy with Edward and Will Hasling, Neville had given Amos a list of names, for the most part people who worked at Deravenels and were known adherents of Henry Grant, and, therefore, more than likely to be enemies of Edward.
Now, since returning to London, he was more convinced than ever that his cousin needed genuine protection; he had been made truly aware of that by Alfredo Oliveri. But from whom exactly?
Who were the real wielders of power at Deravenels? Margot Grant, obviously, and John Summers. But Grant himself?
Maybe. Maybe not. He was a weak man, a trifle lazy, ready to pass on the burdens of business to his wife, who was keen to grab those so-called burdens as fast as she could. And naturally there were others who were against Edward, simply because he was the son of Richard Deravenel, the true heir to the company.
Amos would find out, if he hadn’t already; Neville could not wait to see him.
I have to triumph, Neville told himself, as he struck out towards the end of the garden. When he came to the ancient stone wall that fronted onto the River Thames he leaned against it, staring out into the distance. It was a slow moving river today, black as ink, and the sky above had suddenly changed. The pale blue had curdled, become a mix of grey and a strange bluish green.
It’s going to rain after all, he decided, lifting his eyes to the sky. And this thought had hardly surfaced when he felt the first drops of cold rain on his upturned face.
Swinging about, Neville hurried up through the garden and went into the house, crossed the central gallery, deposited his overcoat in the hall closet, all this accomplished in the space of a few minutes.
He made his way back to the library, a large and elegantly appointed room, his favourite in the lovely old house that dated back to the Regency period. He had always thought of the library as his haven, one which closed him off from the ugliness of the world outside.
A fire blazed in the hearth and the softly-shaded lamps had all been turned on during his absence in the garden, giving the room a welcoming, roseate glow. He realized he had grown slightly chilled outside, and he went and stood with his back to the fire, warming himself, thawing out.
His mind was alive with ideas and plans. He was going to put Ned in the seat of power, however long it took him. And he himself would be the one to wield the power.
FOURTEEN
Ravenscar
The North Sea glittered like highly-polished chain mail, rippling under the light breeze. Above, the sky was a cloudless arc of brilliant azure blue filled with golden sunlight. Sunlight without warmth on this cold wintry morning. Nonetheless, Cecily Deravenel had been lured outside by it, and wrapping herself warmly in heavy woollens and a fur-lined cape she had braved the cold.
At this moment she stood inside the old ruined stronghold on the promontory, somewhat protected by its high walls, staring out across the sea. Her thoughts were with Edward in London: a week ago he had presented himself at Deravenels, and his professional life had begun. She shivered, but not from the cold. How would they treat him? And how would he fare in the long run? She was well aware that Ned had dreaded going there. In the past week he had told her little, his two phone calls kept to the briefest of conversations. Yet Neville had reassured her, as best he could, that it would be all right. At least for the moment. No one would make any kind of move against Ned. Too soon, he had explained. Also, Alfredo Oliveri was there; ostensibly, he was on a business trip to the London headquarters from his base in Italy. But, more specifically, he was really there to keep an eye on Ned. Keep an eye on him. What a silly euphemism that was. Protection was what he would ultimately need. Her son was sitting in the middle of a nest of vipers.
Cecily shivered again and hunched into her warm clothes; her gloved hands fumbled with the ends of the scarf tied around her head. As she tightened it her mind raced.
Neville had been honest with her the other day; he had admitted that all of her sons were in danger. Still, he had also managed to convince her that her two youngest were quite safe here at Ravenscar. She trusted her nephew implicitly, knew how clever he was, highly intelligent and brilliant of mind. He was also loyal to family, just as Ned was, and as her father and brother had been…family was all to them. Rick, her only sibling, was gone forever, and Thomas, his youngest, was dead and buried with him. Now she must rely on Neville, and his brother John, both older than Ned. Dear Johnny. Her face softened at the thought of him. Less flamboyant, less ambitious than his brother, a loving young man, and wholly devoted to Ned.
We are a strong family unit, the Watkins and the Deravenel clans. We will stand together in this battle to come. We will prevail. These thoughts made her suddenly lift her head higher, and with great pride as she remembered who she was, her lineage, and whom she had married: Richard Deravenel, rightful heir to the Deravenel business empire. His widow now. She must do his memory justice. Unexpectedly her eyes blazed with a new determination.
She came to a sudden decision. She would not permit herself to be frightened by the likes of Henry Grant and his avaricious French wife, or by their subordinates. Never. She would stand up to them, stand tall, just as her father had taught her to do.
As for her overwhelming grief, caused by her devastating losses, she would bury it deep. Her grief was something private, not for public consumption. Nor for sharing with anyone, not even her children.
Her children. She must focus all of her attention on them now, protect them at all costs, ensure their safety. ‘Of course nobody’s going to come and murder them in their beds,’ Neville had reassured her with a laugh when he was in Yorkshire recently. ‘All I’m saying i s…well, just keep an eye on them.’ And that she would certainly do…she would protect them with her very life.
Turning around, chilled from the wind coming off the sea, Cecily went back to the house, climbing the steps intersecting the tiered gardens, entering the house through the French doors on the terrace.
She was shedding her cape and heavy jacket in the Long Hall when she heard a yell, almost a war cry, and to her surprise there was George on the stairs, almost hurtling down them, blond hair rumpled, his clothes askew, his face flushed with anger. Margaret was fast on his heels, looking equally distressed. Only Richard, following them slowly, seemed sedate, and perfectly in control.
‘Good Heavens! Children! What on earth is going on here?’ Cecily demanded in her crisp, businesslike tone as she pulled off her gloves and scarf, threw them on top of her outer garments on the chair.
‘It’s not my fault! Not mine, Mama. I didn’t smash the wall in,’ George yelled as he scurried towards her down the hall, and as usual flung himself onto her body, clutching at her. ‘It’s not my fault, Mama,’ he repeated. ‘I’m not to blame, she pushed me.’
Automatically, Cecily’s arms went around the eleven-year-old boy in that particular protective way she had with him, but she looked over his head to his sister Meg, who was straightening her jacket, then smoothing her blonde hair back into the black silk bow at the nape of her neck. She looked as if she had been in a tussle, and obviously with George.
Hesitantly, Meg took a few steps towards her mother, and said in a trembling voice, ‘It was George’s fault. He started it all.’
‘No, I didn’t!’ he shouted back.
‘Be quiet!’ Cecily exclaimed, staring down at George. Instinctively, she believed
Meg, who was usually so loyal to George. Why would she turn on him unless he deserved it? Looking across at her daughter, Cecily continued, ‘Please explain the situation to me, Meg, since you at least seem to be in control of yourself.’
‘I’m the one in control,’ Richard volunteered.
‘I see that,’ his mother answered. ‘Come now, Meg, what is this fuss about?’
‘We were in the old nursery playroom. Richard was reading, I was working on my stamp collection. George was idling his time away, and growing bored. Suddenly, he swooped down on me and took my album. Actually, Mother, he grabbed it. Then he pranced around the room, waving it in the air. I thought he would damage some of my best stamps which Papa had given me over the years, so I jumped up, tried to get it. But George kept dodging away from me, taunting me, and he made me angry. I lurched towards him, and naturally he tried to avoid me, and as he did so he tripped over a foot stool and fell against the wall next to the fireplace. It caved in, just like that. George fell inside the wall, but it was very strange because there’s actually a room there.’
Cecily froze. The priest hole. Closed permanently by Richard when Anne, their first child, was born, her husband had decided that the concealed door must be nailed down, and so it was. He was fearful that a small child might lock herself inside and suffocate before she could be rescued. And so he had made it safe. And no one had ever known about the priest hole except them, and the Deravenel ancestors, of course.
Cecily opened her mouth to speak and then closed it as the youngest in the family came forward, slowly approached her. His face was solemn, his eyes grave, thoughtful, as they frequently were. He was totally in control of himself, just as he had said he was, much more so than his siblings.
What had silenced Cecily was the black leather notebook Richard clutched in his hands. Surely it was her husband’s missing black notebook, wasn’t it? The one she had searched for, and Ned, too, in his father’s rooms in London.
‘I climbed into the wall,’ the boy was saying to her. ‘To help Georgie, Mama. He was flat on his back on the floor. Between the walls. That’s what I thought at first, but when I went to him I found I was in a little room. There’s a chest in there, and after I helped Georgie to get up I opened the drawers, well, not all of them because one was locked. Anyway, Mother, I found this.’ Moving closer to Cecily, he thrust the black leather book at her.
Cecily disentangled herself from George’s clinging embrace, and accepted the book from her youngest child. ‘Thank you very much, Dickie,’ she murmured.
Holding it in her hands she experienced a wonderful flare of hope. Her husband had jotted notes in it almost every day…she opened it eagerly and saw lines and lines of numbers, but few words. There were odd sentences, here and there, but none of them made any sense to her. Disappointment swept through her, and her heart sank. For a brief moment she had thought the book would reveal something important—important to Ned. However, the notes in it were an enigma. Unless there was someone who could decipher them. Was this a code of some kind? Perhaps.
Oliveri. Instantly, Cecily thought of the Italian, who had apparently been a close colleague of her husband’s, and was obviously so willing to help them in any way he could. Would he know what the numbers meant?
Meg interrupted her thoughts when she said, ‘Mother, George did take my album, whatever he says. He grabbed it and ran around the room with it.’
‘I did not,’ George cried, his anger surfacing.
‘George, tell me the truth. Did you do what Meg says?’ Cecily asked, her tone icy.
‘No, I didn’t,’ he began, and then his voice faltered under his mother’s fixed and sharp scrutiny.
‘I’m asking you for the final time,’ Cecily informed him.
‘I only…wanted to…have a look at the stamps,’ he muttered, sounding guilty, looking shamefaced, and he blushed as his mother held him away from her by his shoulders, stared into his eyes.
‘I will not tolerate lying, George. Now, apologize to your sister.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled without looking around at Meg.
‘Please, Meg, come forward. That’s right, stand next to George. Now George, turn to your sister and say you are sorry and shake her hand. And Meg, you must apologize, too.’
The two of them did as she asked without any further argument.
Cecily said, ‘Well, George, you’re not hurt, apparently, none the worse for wear, so do stop whining. Please.’
The old nursery playroom at Ravenscar was entirely panelled in dark wood. Except for the gaping hole made when George had fallen, it looked perfectly in order. But Cecily understood that part of the panelling might easily be fragile. After all, it was centuries old and some woods did rot with the passing of time.
Ravenscar had been built in the Elizabethan period, almost four hundred years ago, which was when a priest hole had been created behind a wall which adjoined the fireplace. During the early part of Elizabeth Tudor’s reign there had been religious persecution after the Catholic risings in the north, and many renowned Catholic families like the Deravenels had built priest holes in which to hide priests in the event of sudden surprise, such as the unexpected arrival of soldiers.
Bending down, Cecily felt the wood around the hole which George had made, and a few pieces instantly crumbled in her hand. It was a little fragile, and George, a sturdy boy, had obviously fallen hard against the panelling.
Stepping away from the damaged wall, she tried to recall where, all those years ago, her husband had hammered in the nails, and she was gratified when she had no trouble remembering. Six feet up from the baseboard, at the top of the second panel a couple of feet away from the fireplace…that was exactly where he had nailed the small door shut.
Taking a chair from around the circular table in the middle of the room, Cecily pulled it over to the fireplace wall. Tall and athletic, she was agile. Lifting her long black skirt, she climbed onto the chair, and reaching up she felt around for the nails. They weren’t there anymore, just as she had suspected. She could actually feel the little holes where the nails had been; they had been darkened over with varnish, or dark boot polish, and quite recently. There was no question in her mind that Richard had pulled them out, just as he had hammered them in place not very long after the first baby, Anne, came into the world.
Stepping cautiously off the chair, Cecily hurried to the fireplace and picked up the poker. Leaning forward, squinting in the bright firelight blazing up the chimney, focusing her eyes intently, she finally spotted the tiny metal lever set in the lower part of the brick fireback. It was hardly visible, covered in soot, and difficult to find even when someone knew exactly where to look for it, as she did.
Lifting the poker she brought it downward, struck the tiny lever, and instantly the panel, no longer nailed shut, slowly swung open, became a door.
After replacing the poker, Cecily went to the priest hole and manoeuvred herself inside through the small door. She was quite startled to find the space relatively clean. Obviously her husband had swept out the dust whenever it was that he had finally opened the priest hole for the first time in years.
Cecily’s main target was the chest; it took only a moment to locate the locked drawer, which she managed to pry open with a pair of scissors.
The drawer slid out easily, and she experienced a sense of satisfaction and a rush of hope. She had known full well that there would be something inside the locked drawer, something put there for safety by her husband, and indeed there was. It was a second black leather notebook. This one was slightly larger than the first which Richard had discovered; it had her husband’s initials embossed in gold in the bottom corner, and her hand trembled as she reached for it, opened it and began to read. Her excitement grew and grew as she stood there in front of the nursery fire, scanning the pages.
She did not read for long. She had read enough for the moment to know how important it was for Edward to have this. Hurrying downstairs, she went immediately to the
small sitting room which adjoined her bedroom and seated herself at the desk.
Placing her hands across the top of the private diary, for that was what it was, she stared off into the distance, thinking. This book had to go to Edward as quickly as possible; how to get it there? She did not want to post it to him, fearing that it might get lost. She could send Jessup up to town with it. A sealed package was safe from prying eyes. Or perhaps she should take it herself? On the other hand, she didn’t want to leave her children here alone. She could take them with her, of course. What to do…what to do?
PART TWO
Golden Boy
Edward & Lily
‘Very tall of personage, exceeding the stature almost of all others, comely of visage, pleasant and broad breasted.’
Polydore Vergil
‘He had courage, determination and resourcefulness, which he used to his own advantage, and was pragmatic, generous, witty and ruthless when the occasion demanded it.’
Alison Weir
‘She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.’
Lord Byron
FIFTEEN
Kent
‘What to do? What to do?’ Lily murmured, staring at Vicky. ‘Please tell me what to do, because I really don’t know.’
Vicky Forth put down her coffee cup and sat back in the chair, contemplating her friend for a second or two, and then, shaking her head, she answered softly, ‘I don’t think there is anything you can do at the moment, my dear. You must let the matter rest, and just wait.’
The Ravenscar Dynasty Page 13
