The Ravenscar Dynasty by Barbara Taylor Bradford
‘How did they kill him?’ Edward asked in a voice so inaudible they could barely hear him.
Alfredo hesitated, wondering if he should lie in order to save Edward Deravenel’s feelings. But he knew he could not; he must speak the truth. He owed it to Edward and to his father. ‘He died very quickly,’ Alfredo replied at last. ‘Doctor Buttafiglio told me it must have been an instant death.’
‘But how?’ Edward pressed.
‘They cut his throat,’ Alfredo answered in a shaky voice, one as quiet as Edward’s had been.
There was a moment of utter stillness in the room.
Stunned shock filled the air, was a palpable thing almost.
Rigid in the chair, his face draining of all colour, Edward cried out, ‘No! Not my lovely Edmund. To die like that. Such a brutal way. Oh, no. No, it can’t be. Who would commit such a foul crime? He was only seventeen, for God’s sake, an innocent boy—’
Edward broke off, his face crumpling, tears glistening in those bright blue eyes. He brought his hands to his face, and he grieved a second time for his beloved brother.
At once Neville was on his feet, going to Edward. He bent over him, encircled him with his arms. After a moment, Edward struggled to his feet, turned to Neville and clung to him as though his life depended on it. For a while the cousins stood together in tight embrace. They were united more than ever in their mutual grief, shocked and horrified that Edmund had been killed in this heartless, brutish manner. And they shared their sorrow for their other kin who had been so cruelly slain.
Eventually the two men broke their embrace, and went back to their chairs. It was Neville who spoke first. Looking across at Alfredo, he said, ‘Let me ask you something…do you personally believe that Mr Edmund was killed because he was a Deravenel? That it was not just an odd coincidence that he was attacked that night?’
‘I don’t think the attack on Mr Edmund was a coincidence. Not at all. He was killed because he was a Deravenel and Mr Richard’s son. They did not find him at the hotel when they killed the others, so they went looking for him, in my opinion.’ Alfredo shook his head vehemently. ‘Nothing will convince me otherwise. They went out searching for him.’
‘Do you think Mr Edward is in danger?’
‘Yes, I do. Perhaps not here in Carrara, not now. The murderers have fled back to London. But I do think he’s in danger. Because he’s Mr Richard’s son. In my opinion, Mr Watkins, your Uncle Richard was killed because he was the true heir to Deravenels. Everyone knows it in the company…Deravenels was stolen sixty years ago by the Lancashire Deravenels. Some of the directors are happy with the status quo, but not everyone. There are those who have always believed Mr Richard should have been sitting in the chairman’s seat. Quite a few of us, actually. Henry Grant is ineffectual, always has been in my opinion. He’s been riding on the coat-tails of the two other Grants who went before him. His grandfather, who stole the company, and his father, who made it greater. But it’s slipping. Things are not good, take my word for it. He’s an absentee landlord, just as Mr Richard always said he was. He has no head for business or finance, and he’s dominated by his French wife and her followers. Margot Grant has quite a few supporters, you know, who do her bidding.’
‘I did know. My uncle confided in my father.’ A deep sigh rippled through Neville, and he shook his head, sorrow shadowing his light blue eyes. ‘My father and brother died because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time…’ His saddened voice filtered away, and he pursed his lips. ‘God rest their souls in Heaven.’
‘And so Deravenels, the company started by my ancestor, Guy de Ravenel, is actually being run by a young woman who is not even a Deravenel by birth. That has to make you shudder, Neville,’ Edward remarked in a voice dripping ice.
‘Actually it makes me laugh, if a little hollowly,’ Neville retorted. ‘That woman is a joke, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. But of course she’s being used by James Cliff and John Summers. It is they who have the power there. Still, I do think she is dangerous, she has no conscience whatsoever, and it’s more than likely she’s behind the murders. Don’t you fret, Ned. We will have our revenge, as I said we would at Ravenscar. I will not permit a young and incompetent woman to get the better of you, be assured of that.’
TWELVE
Kent
‘Why aren’t you pursuing the matter with the police?’ Lily Overton cried, her face growing flushed, her eyes filling with sudden indignation. ‘I don’t understand, I really don’t, Ned.’
‘You should. I’ve already explained it several times!’ Edward shot back, striving to keep his temper in check. ‘But I’ll try to do so once again. This is not a matter for Scotland Yard. The crime was not committed here, under their jurisdiction. It occurred in Italy, in Carrara, to be precise, and the—’
‘I know that, Ned,’ she interrupted. ‘I was referring to the police in Carrara. Why aren’t they continuing their investigation? That is what I meant.’
Clenching his fists, taking a deep breath, Edward answered in as controlled a voice as he could manage, ‘Neville and I, and Will, spent hours and hours with the local police chief, attempting to get to the bottom of things. He was very cooperative. Certainly he had done a very detailed investigation before we got there, and came up with nothing. All the police had, in fact, was the information given to them by a local restaurant owner, who told them he had seen two men attacking someone in an alley late at night. He immediately ran to the rescue, shouting at the attackers, who instantly fled. He was too late, of course. The young man, my brother, was dead when he got to him. Benito Magnanni, the restaurant owner, also reported hearing the two men, the attackers, shouting at each other in English. And that is it…there is nothing more.’
Lily did not respond. She merely sat back on the sofa, staring across at him, shaking her head as if baffled, a nonplussed expression crossing her face.
Staring back at her, Edward realized she looked as if she were about to burst into tears. He unclenched his hands, relaxed his body, adopted a more casual stance in front of the fire roaring up the chimney. He knew she was not a stupid woman, quite the contrary, but she could be maddeningly dense about certain things at times, and this drove him to distraction.
Taking a deep breath, he adopted a lighter, softer tone when he murmured, ‘Alberto Oliveri truly went out of his way to probe every aspect of the murders with the police, and, of course, the cause of the fire, its point of origin, everything to do with it, in fact. But there’s not very much anyone can do when there are no murderers loitering on street corners, no arsonists hanging around, for that matter. The whole affair is clouded in mystery…’ He paused, sighed, added, ‘Without credible evidence the Carrara police are totally stalled.’ He shifted on his feet and another small sigh escaped him as he finished, ‘This is not the first case which will go unsolved, Lily, I can assure you of that.’
‘And so do I,’ Will Hasling said from the doorway, walking into the study of his sister’s house in Kent, where the three of them were spending the weekend with Vicky. He went on, ‘It’s also extremely frustrating, since we more or less know who is at the root of this ghastly crime, yet there’s nothing we can do—’
‘Why not?’ Lily cut in swiftly, sitting up straighter on the sofa, looking from Will to Ned, who remained standing in front of the fire.
‘Because we cannot retaliate in kind,’ Edward snapped after a moment, his annoyance with her rising to the surface. ‘We can’t go around killing people off, just because we think they are behind the deaths of my father and brother, Neville’s father and brother. Certainly Scotland Yard would be involved then …they’d be on our backs.’
Lily reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, blew her nose, patted her eyes. ‘It’s such an…agony,’ she muttered, crumpling her handkerchief between her long, supple fingers, playing with it nervously. ‘I don’t know how you can stand it, Ned.’
The room became absolutely still.
Suddenly,
Slowly, almost cautiously, Will walked across the room to the fireplace where his best friend stood rigid and unmoving. Will put a hand on his arm as if to steady Ned, then took a position next to him.
For his part, Edward Deravenel looked perturbed; a veil dropped over his face, obscuring his true feelings. He took a tight rein on himself, breathing deeply.
At last, after a long moment or two, Edward focused his entire attention on Lily Overton. He said, finally, in a cold clipped voice, ‘How can I stand it, you ask? If the truth be known, I can’t. But I have to. I have no choice. Now, let us bring this discussion to a close, shall we? There is no real point to it. We are helpless, as far as prosecuting those whom we believe are responsible. Neville and I have buried our loved ones…they are at peace now. There is nothing to say—’ He broke off, leaned forward, staring at her intently, his face resembling a mask of stone. ‘The matter is now at an end.’
No, it’s not, it’s just starting, Will Hasling thought. It won’t end until Ned and Neville Watkins have destroyed the Grants. Each and every one of them. That is irrevocable.
And as these thoughts swirled in his head, Will felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck and a cold chill swept over him.
Vicky Forth’s second husband Stephen, a well-known banker of some standing, had gone to New York on a business trip, and she had talked her brother into spending a weekend in the country with her.
Will, in turn, had coaxed Ned into joining him. Because Vicky and Lily were close friends, she had been invited to come along as well.
Edward had been delighted to accompany Will, whom he always enjoyed being with, and the fact that Lily was so obviously welcome was an added bonus.
Stonehurst Farm, located not far from Aldington in Kent, was close to Romney Marsh, and long ago it had ceased to be a working farm. Centuries old, dating back to the 1600s, it had undergone a bold transformation in recent years. Now it resembled a manor house, was, in fact, a gentleman’s farm, a country residence. Nothing was grown anymore, except for the vegetables in Vicky’s kitchen garden, and there were no livestock, although Vicky did keep a stable of fine horses for riding and hunting.
Although Stonehurst was large and rambling, with several new additions, it boasted a great deal of cosy welcoming warmth. This was due in no small measure to Vicky’s perfect taste, and her talent and skill as a decorator.
Comfort abounded everywhere, was evident in the blazing fires, large overstuffed sofas and chairs, thick rugs on the wooden and stone floors, and the velvet draperies at the many windows which kept out the winter chill in the evenings.
Edward had stayed here before, and he had always been given the same room, one which he particularly liked because it looked out towards Romney Marsh and the sea beyond.
Conveniently, and obviously intentionally, Lily’s room was located immediately opposite his, just two or three steps across the corridor. They had, so far, enjoyed two nights of passionate lovemaking and had both revelled in the fact that they could share the same bed all night, waking to savour each other in the early morning.
Lily had always managed to soothe him, to lift him out of himself, to chase away the demons that frequently dogged him. But this weekend had been somewhat different, much to his surprise and dismay. Somehow she had done exactly the opposite, upset him on several occasions with her unfortunate desire to bring up the terrible crime which had so afflicted him and his family. He found this hard to comprehend, and she was beginning to get on his nerves, to irritate him. It had never happened before in the relationship.
Now as he sat in front of the fire in his bedroom he asked himself why this rather clever and usually understanding woman was being so insensible to his feelings. What prompted her to constantly mention certain aspects of this tragedy? It was like gouging at a wound on his body, a very deep wound. Why wouldn’t she let it heal? He had been shocked a short while before, and had come up here in order to calm down, to settle himself. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the chair, let himself slide down into his innermost thoughts.
I must remain cool and controlled, in charge of myself. I cannot let Lily agitate me, or distract me away from my purpose. Neville has warned me several times now about allowing women to interfere too much in my life. He told me I must use them, enjoy them, but keep them at arm’s length emotionally. Easier said than done, I told him last week, and he agreed with me. But he also reminded me that he and I are about to set out on a very important mission. A campaign to bring down the House of Grant, bring it to its knees. We must win, Neville informed me, and of course we will. I have more to gain than Neville, because once the Grants are gone Deravenels will be mine, and I will have avenged my father. Not only avenged his murder but the usurpation of Deravenels sixty years ago, which left him to inherit an inferior position within the company. Yes, we will do it, and we will do it fast. I promised my mother that, after the funerals at Ravenscar and at Ripon. In fact, I made a vow to her, and I know this pleased her. I am the head of the Deravenel family now, and I have to protect and look after my mother and my siblings, see to their welfare and their comfort, and to the future. It will be done. I can do it, Neville assured me of that. Of course my mother is safe, because she has her inheritance which Neville will now manage, but I must take from the company all that which is my due. I must find out why my father was always so impoverished, and rectify that situation as soon as I can. And I must find myself a house, a proper place to live. My mother owns the house in Charles Street, and although she offered it to me I cannot take it from her. That would be most unfair since it is actually hers by inheritance from her father.
My mother is self-contained, but then that is her nature, and knowing her as well as I do, I understand that her grief for my father and Edmund is very raw. It will take a long time to heal, if it ever does. But she is stoic and she will go on doggedly, and unbowed, taking care of Richard and George, and my sister Meg, raising them as my father would want them to be raised.
Before I left Ravenscar I informed my mother about the black notebook, which Alfredo Oliveri had mentioned to me in Carrara. A notebook constantly used by my father, who made daily jottings in it. She and I searched for it, but had no success whatsoever. She will continue to look for it, as I did in his rooms at Charles Street before coming down here to Kent. No luck so far.
Oliveri will be most useful to us, and he has promised to help in any way he can. He is an undoubted ally. I am lucky to have him on my side. He says we can win. I believe him.
Will had been coming to Stonehurst ever since his sister had bought the place twelve years ago. She had purchased the property not long after the death of her first husband Miles Tomlinson, wishing to leave the hustle and bustle of London for the tranquillity of the Kentish countryside. She had also turned the restoration of the old farmhouse and its decoration into a project to help keep grief at bay.
To some extent she had succeeded in this effort, and Will had been her willing helper over the years. He had grown to care for Stonehurst as much as she did, in winter as well as summer. The old farmhouse was surrounded by a hundred and fifty acres of wonderful land—there were fields and pastures, as well as a pond and a bluebell wood, and beyond the vast flower gardens was the Romney Marsh.
To Will, the Marsh was mysterious, a magical kind of place with its wild, blowing grasses and winding paths, its perpetual mists which rose at dusk and floated over the landscape, obscuring everything. And at this particular twilight hour the salty smell of the sea was carried in on the light breeze, reminding everyone how close the English Channel was.
In olden days the locals had latched their windows at this time of day, believ
Vicky generally laughed at these old wives’ tales which were still told to whomever would listen, and when it came to the mention of ghosts she usually muttered under her breath to Will, ‘More like the local smugglers winding their way inland from the sea, hauling their tobacco, their wines and brandy from France.’ He agreed with her, fully believed the smugglers still plied their dubious trade here.
This afternoon, as he strode along the flagged path which led from the back terrace to the gardens, he could not help thinking how beautiful the landscape was even on this cold February Saturday. It was growing late, was almost dusk already, and the grey sky of early afternoon had changed, darkened, and was filled with rafts of fiery red and purple along the horizon. Or was that the sea? Some of the low-lying Marsh beyond the gardens was well below sea level, and frequently it seemed to him that the sea in the distance was high in the sky. A most curious illusion.
‘Will, Will! Wait for me!’
He swung around at the sound of Ned’s voice, and stood waiting as his friend hurried down the path at a fast pace.
‘Why didn’t you ask me to come for a walk with you?’ Ned demanded, peering at Will. ‘Or did you feel like being alone? Am I intruding?’
Linking his arm through Ned’s, Will shook his head, drew closer to his friend as they walked on together. ‘I thought I’d better leave you to your own devices after lunch. You seemed so upset this morning, and were rather silent at lunchtime.’
‘I was, and with good reason, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do. Anyway, I knew you were up in your room alone, since Lily and Vicky took the horse and trap into the village after you disappeared. I just saw them coming back and so I ducked out here.’