Deadly Inheritance (57 page)

One day, Jack had returned from the mine in triumph. ‘We’ve done it!’ he cried. ‘A massive lode. All the silver anyone could want. You will have dresses and jewellery and we’ll build a magnificent house. Come on, we must celebrate.’

He’d dragged her off to the sordid drinking den he patronised. Raw whisky was produced and all too soon cards appeared and a poker game was in progress. Jack won bigger and bigger pots; it was as though he couldn’t lose. Then someone produced a revolver and said he should try his luck with that. Russian roulette, it was called, said the gun’s owner, a despicable fellow who constantly jeered at Jack. You put one bullet in the gun, give the barrel a twirl then point it at your head and pull the trigger. If your luck was in, you survived. Jack, drunk with more than whisky, had grinned and said that was his sort of game. Ursula had begged him not to play something so stupid and dangerous. He’d pushed her out of the way with a curse. She would never forget the look of astonishment on his face as the bullet entered his brain. The subsequent inquest struggled for a verdict but finally ruled it misadventure.

It was after his death that Jack’s first wife had turned up and announced that Jack’s estate was hers and Ursula had no claim on his share of the silver strike. No one knew where she had come from or how she had known about the mine, and it had never occurred to Ursula to ask. Now she thought she knew exactly who had informed the woman.

The Colonel leaned forward and took her hands. ‘I am so sorry, Ursula.’

How easy it would be if he took her into his arms and promised to look after and protect her! She knew it wasn’t going to happen.

She rose, walked over to the window and stood with her arms folded across her breast, her back to him. ‘What are you going to do, Charles? Follow your plan to stand for election to your Parliament?’

He came and stood beside her, looking out, as she was, at the garden. She knew neither of them saw it.

‘I feel rather as Napoleon must have done after Waterloo. All around is a defeated battleground.’ He gave her a wintry smile. ‘My aim was to distance myself as much from Mountstanton as possible.’

‘You’d make a brilliant politician.’

‘Would I?’

‘Of course you would. You’d speak the truth, fight for the rights of the people.’

‘I’m not sure that’s how to be a successful politician. And already I’m mired in lies and deceit. There is no other way out of this tangle if Harry and Mountstanton are to have a chance.’

‘You cannot deny Mountstanton, can you?’

He shrugged, ‘I find that you are right. I can’t. Helen says she is returning with Harry and Belle to New York for a while. Someone will have to look after things here.’

‘Harry’s inheritance,’ she said softly.

He nodded. ‘But what about you, Ursula? What are you going to do? Return to America?’

‘No!’ The answer was as much of a surprise to her as it was to him. She felt a slow excitement begin to build within her. ‘No, Charles, I’m not. If I can find a job, I’d like to experience London.’

‘I’m sure with all our connections, we can find you something.’

‘No!’ He looked stung and she smiled. ‘Sorry, Charles, I don’t mean to be ungrateful but I have learned to distrust favours. I need to make my own way.’ It was as though a huge burden had dropped from her shoulders and she suddenly felt as light as a cloud. She spread out her arms. ‘It will be an adventure. I need an adventure.’

He caught her hands, brought them to his mouth and kissed them. ‘Perhaps when you know where you are to be, you will be good enough to let me have your direction. Ursula Grandison, I would like to remain your friend.’

‘And so I would with you, Charles Stanhope.’

THE END

Janet Laurence is the author of numerous books, including the Darina Lisle culinary crime novels (Macmillan). She was a weekly cookery columnist for the
Daily Telegraph
between 1984 and 1986, and has contributed to recipe collections and written cookery books. Janet was Chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association (1998-1999), was included in
The Times
’ ‘100 Masters of Crime’ in 1998, and invited to run the crime writing workshop at the Cheltenham Festival of Literature in 2000. She was the Writer in Residence and Visiting Fellow at Jane Franklin College at the University of Tasmania in 2002 and has also run the Crime Writing Course at each of the Bristol-based CrimeFest conventions to date. She lives in Somerset.

First published in 2012

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