A Grave Inheritance (19 page)

‘He married me, not you. The proof’s in the pudding,’ Doreen retorted smugly.

Sophia closed her eyes, willing Doreen to leave her alone. The room was quiet and after a few minutes Sophia ventured a peek. Her heart sank to see Doreen still sitting beside her, her face deadpan.

Summoning up her courage Sophia said, ‘The Deverell inheritance will go to those whom I choose. You know you will be remembered in any will I make, as will Leonie and David. If I decide to change my current will to benefit my great nieces then I will, and I would prefer to do it without your interference for once.’

‘Oh! How unfair you are to me,’ Doreen said, smoothing her skirt over her knees. ‘You would change your will for two girls you don’t even know, but not for my great grandson whom you have known since he was born. He’s a good boy, and you know how much I love him.’ Doreen rose and made for the door, then stopped and turned, facing Sophia again. ‘If I die before you, Sophia, my Nathan won’t inherit anything.’

Doreen left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Outside in the corridor she took a deep breath. ‘We’ll see about you, Sophia Deverell,’ she said, spitting out Deverell as Devil.

Back in her own room Doreen stamped her foot. She was so annoyed with Nathan. What on earth had possessed him to tell those Farrell girls that they were related to Sophia? She picked up the telephone receiver and pressed nine for an outside line. Then squinting through her thick lenses she made a call.

1911

When Jim brought the news that John had been taken in for questioning, Ellen’s first instinct was to rush to her husband’s aid, and she would have done so too, had it not been for Amy. No, Ellen decided, John wouldn’t want her to make matters worse. In any case, the message Jim brought was clear. Stay away from Woodbury and Tapscott Manor, and Ellen readily agreed.

Amy endured her pregnancy better than anyone had expected. Her haunted expression had gone, replaced by a serene composure. Her nightmares had ceased, and surprisingly her appetite had returned, causing a healthy glow to flush her cheeks. Ellen noticed the change in her daughter and wondered at it.

Once Anwen accepted Amy’s condition she became the professional. After all, it was only a year since she’d given birth to Owain, and she was an expert in all that was required. Anwen sorted through Owain’s early clothes, making ready for the impending arrival. She sat by the fire each evening, her knitting needles clicking endlessly. The misbegotten baby certainly wouldn’t be short of matinee jackets, bootees or hats, Anwen would make sure of that.

George kept a low profile most of the time, blatantly retreating to the bakery at every opportunity, but all in all there was an air of unrestrained excitement in the house, a cavalier acceptance acknowledging the inevitable.

As the pregnancy progressed month by month, Ellen occupied herself by letting out seams in Amy’s frocks and underwear and listening to Anwen’s purposeful chatter. Ellen knew she would never accept the baby as her grandchild. She would always remember how the wretched thing had been conceived.

***

Luckily for John, he hadn’t needed Charlie to verify his alibi. Sir Edmund Deverell himself spoke up for him. Sir Edmund told the officer sent to question him that he would always remember the day his son Laurence disappeared.

‘It was Martha’s birthday and because it was such a lovely day, we decided to have afternoon tea on the lawn next to the lake. My good lady and I were sitting out most of the afternoon and we watched the men returning along the path from the wood after their day’s work. John Farrell was one of them. Don’t you think it would have been noticed if he’d had blood on his hands?’

If that wasn’t enough, Dora Stoakley told the policeman she’d been instructed by her master to give the men, including John, a piece of birthday cake and a mug of sweet tea in the kitchen. Which was true, she had. John had forgotten this seemingly trivial kind act, which it turned out had helped to set him free.

John walked away from the prison euphoric. A silly grin plastered his face and he broke out into a hearty laugh, a mixture of relief and incredulity. He passed through Chester’s busy streets and unhurriedly walked the few miles home, savouring every sight and sound. The hustle and bustle was soon behind him and after long weeks cooped up in a cell, the freshness of the fields filled him with delight. He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs. He quickened his stride and his feet barely touched the ground. John couldn’t wait to get home to the comfort of his soft bed, fireside chair and proper food. He couldn’t wait to tell Ellen, knowing how relieved she would be. Justice had been done, and he felt light at heart, and with a spring in his step he hurried on.

December

Martha Deverell glanced around her sitting room, satisfied. In one corner, the tip of a tall Christmas tree touched the high ceiling, obscuring the ornate cornice and pictures but looking magnificent. Silver bells, golden baubles and red bows hung from tinsel-draped branches, and perched on top of the tree was an angel made from fluffy white pipe cleaners and lace from a worn-out petticoat. Red, blue and green paper chains criss-crossed the ceiling just avoiding two elaborate crystal chandeliers, positioned one at each end of the room. The decorations, brought down from the attic, would be abandoned once the festive season was over, packed in boxes and stored away once more.

Logs were stacked in a basket by the open fire and a bright red patterned rug covered most of the wooden floor, its cheery colour reflecting the festive mood. Christmas cards covered every available surface, each one different. Most were handmade, rough plain paper decorated with a crayon figure of a snowman or robin, brought to the kitchen door by children living on the estate and in the village. Even though poor quality, Martha still included them in her display. Some cards came from friends living in Chester and a few from London where several of Sir Edmund and Lady Deverell’s friends resided. These cards, silk embossed and edged in glitter, she positioned separately on a low table near her chair.

Underneath the tree numerous presents wrapped in brightly coloured paper waited for the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve. This was when Martha and Edmund exchanged their personal gifts. Beatrice would wait until the morning, as would Leo. Martha dabbed her eyes, remembering suddenly that Laurence, her poor dear boy, would not be there to receive a gift this year.

Edmund stood with his back to the fire. John Farrell’s arrest had upset him, and even though released, John was still under suspicion for Laurence’s murder. For murder it was, the coroner’s examination had confirmed it. Edmund wouldn’t believe John capable of murder, but was sensible enough to realise that being released from prison didn’t exonerate John in other people’s eyes. Naively, he’d given John his old job back, and now didn’t like what he was hearing in the yard. The men’s antagonism was getting out of hand and was likely to lead to more trouble if it wasn’t stopped soon. He knew who was behind it, jeering them on, inciting them. Leo. He would have to speak to his son soon. It was a duty he’d postponed for too long. The unpleasant task filled him with distaste, but he knew he could put it off no longer. Edmund was in no doubt that Leo would try to manipulate his mother to use her influence to get rid of the Farrells and Edmund eyed his wife suspiciously as he bent down to place another log on the fire.

Although Martha could hear the crackle and spit as the log caught, her husband’s broad back blocked any warmth coming from the flames. She stared at her husband’s stern face. Leo had asked her, no begged her, to arbitrate on his behalf regarding John Farrell, and she wondered if it was a good time to broach the subject. Something else was at the forefront of her mind first though.

‘Edmund, we’ve received a Christmas card from the Davenports and inside was a letter from Sylvia saying how much she’s looking forward to seeing us, meaning Leo of course, on New Year’s Eve at the Grosvenor Ball. Well, it set me thinking. What are we going to do about the wedding? Do you think it inappropriate to carry on with the arrangements under the circumstances?’

‘I for one don’t want it delayed. Sylvia will be the making of Leo. She’s got spunk and he needs a woman, who can stand up to him,’ Edmund spoke bluntly. ‘It’s about time he settled down, don’t you think?’

‘I agree dear, wholeheartedly. You don’t think Easter too soon after Laurence’s death then?’ Martha asked.

Edmund walked to the door and after opening it and having a quick look in the hall, he came back to his place in front of the fire. Lowering his voice barely above a whisper, he said, ‘Dearest, don’t be upset when I tell you that another young village girl is pregnant.’

‘Are they saying Leo is responsible?’ Martha pressed her lips together and looked at her husband defiantly.

‘Leo is saying he’s responsible, bragging about it if you please. If word gets out, we won’t see Sylvia Davenport or her money for dust. That’s not the worst of it. The girl who took over Ellen’s job helping Dora in the kitchen – Dolly or Daisy – she’s up the duff too.’

Martha groaned. ‘Oh God, whatever is Leo thinking.’

‘He doesn’t think, that’s the problem,’ Edmund replied. ‘The sooner we get him married off and made respectable the better.’

Martha nodded in agreement. ‘Perhaps Easter isn’t soon enough then. I’ll have a word with Lady Davenport and see if we can bring it forward.’

‘Whatever you decide is best, dear.’

Although her husband was in a sombre mood, Martha decided to approach him on the other matter. ‘Darling,’ she smiled sweetly. ‘Do you really think it was wise to take John Farrell back?’ Keeping her head bent down, she prepared for the onslaught.

‘I keep telling you, John is innocent,’ Edmund said in exasperation as Beatrice entered the room.

‘What about Laurence? Surely you’re not going to forget what happened to him and let the murderer get away with it,’ Martha tried again, fluttering a silk handkerchief and dabbing her eyes in dismay.

‘Of course I’m not, but John didn’t do it, I tell you. The police don’t have any evidence against him and it’s why they let him go, because he is innocent.’ Edmund Deverell looked at his wife’s fake display of distress, knowing full well her tricks and who had put her up to it. She’d always spoken highly of the Farrells in the past, and after all, what difference did it make to her either way? She’ll be denying me my pleasures in the bedroom next, he thought glumly, so threw out an olive branch to pacify her. ‘I’ll not leave a stone unturned until we find out who killed Laurence. Rest assured, my dear.’

‘But the other men don’t like working with him,’ Martha persisted.

‘Who says so?’ Edmund demanded.

‘Leo.’

‘Leo! For goodness sake, Martha, what have we just been discussing? Leo’s got his head stuck in a pint pot most of the time. He knows nothing about farming, or much else.’ Beatrice sniggered, and her father nodded at her in agreement.

Martha sighed and tried to think of another argument she could bring against the Farrells, but her husband continued.

‘Don’t forget, Martha, the man has been through it, what with being under suspicion for murder, and now they’re saying Ellen is ill. We should be supporting the family, not making life more difficult for them.’

‘I’ve heard Ellen and the children are staying in North Wales until spring,’ Beatrice said, sitting down on a sofa opposite her mother.

Edmund was in full flow now and said encouragingly, ‘Well then, when they return we’ll invite them all for supper one evening as a goodwill gesture. To show the village there’s no hard feelings between us. Yes, what a splendid idea. What do you think, Beatrice?’

‘I don’t mind. It will be good to see Amy again.’ Beatrice glanced over to her mother, waiting for a response.

‘Martha?’ Edmund said, expecting an objection.

Martha picked up her embroidery. It was almost three months to spring time so she knew she still had time to change her husband’s mind, and anything could happen between now and then. But for now, she knew she had lost the argument. Leo and Sylvia’s forthcoming wedding occupied her mind, and Martha decided that February was a good month.

1912

February

The sound of a carriage on the cobbles outside took Leo across his room to the window. Leaning against the wall to keep out of sight, he looked down. Pritchard was idling by the front door waiting for the first of the guests to arrive, and Leo watched him run towards the carriage, open the door and lower the steps. The first to alight was Lord Davenport and he in turn helped down his wife, followed by Sylvia. Leo couldn’t see Sylvia’s face which was obscured by a hat with a large brim, but in his mind’s eye he pictured her pretty upturned nose and soft brown eyes. Sylvia suddenly tilted her head and looked up towards Leo’s room as if sensing him watching her, and knowing she’d think it unlucky for the bridegroom to see his bride before the ceremony, Leo drew back quickly. He’d half expected his future wife to be wearing her wedding gown and veil, but he might have known sensible Sylvia would travel in suitable attire. Leo smiled with approval. Moving back to the window he watched Pritchard lift down the Davenports’ luggage, filled with all their finery. The wedding service was to take place at St Martin’s Church at two o’clock. It felt stuffy in his rooms and Leo stifled a yawn and decided he needed some fresh air to revive him.

Opening his bedroom door Leo checked the landing was clear and then grabbed his overcoat and hat. He’d intended to go out through the main entrance but more guests were arriving. They stood in a small crowd while Pritchard relieved them of their overcoats and gloves and the gentlemen of their hats. Leo crossed the hall into the kitchen where all hell had been let loose. Four extra kitchen staff helped Dora with the food and would wait on tables during this marriage weekend. Dora, cheeks bright red from the oven and her rising blood pressure, shouted instructions and cuffed those with idle hands. No one noticed Leo. He slipped through all the commotion into the yard, where he stood contemplating. He couldn’t go left into the garden as he’d intended, as that would take him past the front door where he’d be mobbed by guests and expected to make small talk and polite niceties. Leo shuddered. He turned towards the gate, deciding to go as far as the wood.