To Be the Best (45 page)

‘Did Anthony explain why Michael Lamont suddenly confessed to accidentally killing Min?’ Shane asked, levelling his eyes at Winston.

‘Anthony told us that Lamont couldn’t go on, that his conscience was troubling him so much it was making him ill,’ Winston said. ‘Apparently he went to Anthony, told him the truth about that night. When Anthony pointed out that a dead person couldn’t take water into the lungs, and therefore Min had to have been alive when he put her in the lake, Lamont went berserk, was so shocked, so devastated, he had the stroke.’

‘At least Lamont’s subsequent death enabled Anthony to bury the whole matter with him,’ Paula murmured. ‘It would have been ghastly for the family if Anthony had been obliged to reopen the case. Not to mention for Lamont, who would have been standing trial for murder, I’ve no doubt.’

‘I always felt that Bridget O’Donnell knew more than she was admitting,’ Emily remarked. ‘But when Anthony was here last week I asked him about her, and he looked at me in the most peculiar way. He told me Bridget had known nothing about Min’s death, that she had been suffering from a migraine in her room that night, just as she had said at the inquest, when she also gave Anthony his alibi. Still –’

‘Excuse me, Mrs O’Neill,’ the housekeeper said, coming into the dining room. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you during dinner, but there’s an important telephone call for you.’

‘Thank you, Mary,’ Paula said, pushing back her chair, rising. ‘Excuse me, chaps, I won’t be a moment.’

Paula hurried out to the Stone Hall and the nearest telephone, wondering who could be calling her at this hour on a Saturday night. Lifting the receiver, she said, ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs O’Neill, it’s Ursula Hood here.’

Paula tightened her grip on the receiver at the sound of Mrs Hood’s voice. She was Alexander’s housekeeper at Nutton Priory, and all of Paula’s senses were instantly alerted to trouble. Her throat was slightly dry when she said, ‘Good evening, Mrs Hood. How can I help you?’

‘Mrs O’Neill……I’m calling because…well, something dreadful has happened.’ The woman’s voice cracked. She was unable to go on, and there was a small silence before she continued quietly, ‘Mr Barkstone went out hunting in the woods early this evening. He…he…accidentally shot himself.’

The hackles rose on the back of Paula’s neck and she began to tremble. She asked shakily, ‘Is he badly injured, Mrs Hood?’

Mrs Hood cleared her throat. ‘Oh Mrs O’Neill…he’s…he’s…Mr Barkstone’s dead. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.’

‘Oh God, no!’ Paula cried and steadied herself against the oak table, trying to absorb the shock, blinking back the tears that had sprung into her eyes.

Mrs Hood said softly, ‘I can’t believe he’s gone…Such a lovely man.’ The housekeeper broke down again, but managed to get a grip on herself, to explain, ‘I’m ringing
you
because I don’t have the heart to get in touch with his sisters…I just wouldn’t know how to tell Mrs Harte, or Miss Amanda and Miss Francesca…I wouldn’t…’

Paula said slowly, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Hood, I understand. And Mrs Harte is here for dinner this evening. I’ll break the news to her, and to her sisters. But please…can you tell me…a little more about…what happened?’

‘Not really I can’t, Mrs O’Neill. When Mr Barkstone
didn’t come down for dinner this evening, I sent the butler up to his bedroom. Mr Barkstone wasn’t there. It seemed that no one in the house had seen him return from the woods. The butler, the houseman and the chauffeur then went out to look for him…’ Mrs Hood blew her nose, finished, ‘They found him lying under one of the big oaks, the gun by his side. He was already dead.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Hood,’ Paula managed to say, striving hard to control her feelings, to contain them as best she could. ‘I’ll handle things here, and my husband and I will drive up to Nutton Priory within the hour. I’m sure Mr and Mrs Harte will come with us.’

‘I’ll be waiting for you, Mrs O’Neill, and thank you.’

Paula put the receiver back in the cradle and stood for a moment longer in the Stone Hall thinking of her cousin. Oh Sandy, Sandy, why did you have to die like that? All alone in the woods. Her heart clenched. And then a most terrible and unacceptable thought flashed through her mind, stunning her. Had he taken his own life? No. Never. He wouldn’t do that, she told herself. Sandy wanted so much to live. He fought so hard to keep going. Every minute was precious to him. He told me that so many times lately. She dismissed the idea of suicide, blocked it out of her mind.

Taking several deep breaths, Paula walked slowly back to the dining room, bracing herself to break the shocking news to Emily.

It was a bleak day for April.

Great clouds, curdled and grey, rolled with gathering speed across the lowering sky which merged into the grim and blackened Yorkshire moors. Lonely and implacable, their daunting aspects appalled the eye, cast dark shadows over Fairley this morning. There was not a drop of sunlight to soften those savage windswept reaches, the cold bracing air held a strong hint of rain and a thunderstorm seemed imminent.

Along the moorland road that cut through this great Pennine Chain of hills a line of cars moved slowly, following the funeral cortège. Soon the cortège left the moors, began its slow descent into the village, and within fifteen minutes it was coming to a stop in front of the lovely little Norman church. Here the new vicar, the Reverend Eric Clarke, was waiting to greet the family and friends of the deceased on the ancient porch.

There were six pallbearers to carry Alexander’s coffin. Anthony Standish, the Earl of Dunvale, and Winston Harte, his cousins; Shane O’Neill and Michael Kallinski, and two of his friends from school. They had known him most of their lives and so it was fitting that they were with him at the end, had brought him to his last resting place in this old churchyard.

The six men lifted Alexander’s coffin, shouldered it lightly, carried it through the lych-gate into the cemetery, moving at a slow and dignified pace down the flagged path. Their hearts were heavy and their sorrow was etched on their grieving faces. In their different ways, they had cared deeply about this man they had come to bury.

The pallbearers brought the coffin to the graveside where the vicar was now standing with Alexander’s sorrowing sisters, Emily, Amanda and Francesca, and his distraught and weeping mother, Elizabeth, who was being physically supported by her French husband, Marc Deboyne. At the other side of the grave stood the rest of the family and many friends, all of them dressed in mourning.

Anthony looked burdened down, his face morose and stark as he walked over to join his wife, Sally, and Paula, who was next to her. He hunched further into his black overcoat, shivering in the gusting wind blowing down from the moors. It was making the new leaves on the trees rustle, and ruffling the flowers in the wreaths. Anthony stared at them. They were a reminder that it
was
spring…tender blossoms, so colourful against the dark earth…the vivid yellow and purple of jonquil and crocuses, the transparent white of pale narcissi…the dark blood-red of tulips. He was barely listening as the vicar began the burial ceremony, his mind awash with troubling thoughts.

Sandy’s funeral was evoking memories of the one he had attended only a few weeks ago in Ireland. He was still disturbed about the way Michael Lamont had keeled over on that dreadful morning in Clonloughlin, when he had confronted him about Min’s death. Lamont had died in the cottage hospital several days later, the victim of a massive stroke. He would have been a vegetable if he had lived. In a curious way, Anthony felt somehow responsible for the death of the estate manager. On the other hand, as Sally kept pointing out, Lamont had been saved the shame, agony and disgrace of a trial, which, she insisted, he would never have survived anyway. Perhaps she was right. He tried to erase Lamont from his mind, partially succeeded.

A long sigh trickled through Anthony, and he turned his head, looked at Sally, gave her a faint smile as she slipped her arm through his, drew nearer to him. It was as if she
understood everything. She did, of course. They were very close, as close as two people could ever be.

He stole a glance at his mother, Edwina, the Dowager Countess, wishing she had not insisted on coming over from Ireland with them for Sandy’s funeral. She had not been well lately, and how frail she
did
look, a white-haired old lady, in her seventies. She was the first born child of Emma Harte, the daughter of Edwin Fairley.

There is so much history in this graveyard, it’s awesome, Anthony thought all of a sudden, his eyes roaming over the gravestones. The ground was full of Hartes and Fairleys. Generations of them. He was both Harte and Fairley, as well as part Standish. It struck him then that it had all begun here in the quaint little church looming up behind him…begun with Emma Harte when she had been christened here in April of 1889. Almost a hundred years ago. Good Lord, his grandmother would have been ninety-three at the end of this month, if she had lived. He continued to miss her even after all these years.

An image of Emma slipped into his mind. What an exceptional, brilliant woman she had been. She had loved each one of her grandchildren, but he was aware she had had a special sort of relationship with Alexander. But then they all had, hadn’t they? And Sandy had managed to bring out the best in them. Yes, they
were
better people for having known him.

Now his thoughts swung back to his cousin. The letter was in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He had kept it on him ever since he had received it the day after Sandy’s death. He already knew that Sandy was dead before the letter came in the morning post, because Paula had telephoned him from Nutton Priory the night before to tell him and Sally. Nonetheless, the letter had been a shock at first. Until he had understood, and had accepted the words.

He had reread it so many times by now, much of it was
committed to memory. He felt as if it were engraved on his mind. It was not a long letter, and it was level-headed, matter-of-fact, really, so like Sandy, and Sandy had meant it only for his eyes. That was why he had not shared it with his wife, close as they were, or with Paula, who, after all, was head of the family. But there was no need for them to see it.

Closing his eyes, he saw Sandy’s handwriting in his mind’s eye…and that particular fragment of the letter which had so moved him.

‘I wanted you to understand why I am doing this, Anthony,’
Sandy had written in his careful script.
‘Mostly it is for myself, of course. A chance to go at last. But it will save everyone the agony of my protracted dying. I know none of you could bear to see me suffer. And so before I take my life, I say goodbye dear cousin and friend. Know that I am happy to shed my mortal coil…I escape…I am free…’

And Sandy had scribbled a postscript.
‘You have been such a good friend to me, Anthony. You have helped me through my private hells more than once, perhaps without even knowing it. I thank you. God bless you and yours.’

Anthony realized it would be unwise to keep the letter, yet he had been incapable of destroying it. But he
must
do so. Today. After the funeral, in fact, when he returned to Pennistone Royal. He would go to the bathroom in their suite of rooms and burn it, then flush the charred pieces down the toilet. Only he knew that Sandy had carefully planned his death, had gone out into the woods hunting, and after bagging several rabbits and hares, had shot himself but rigged it to look like an accident. He would never reveal Sandy’s secret to anyone. There had been an inquest, of course, and the coroner had returned a verdict of accidental death, exactly as Alexander had intended. No one suspected the truth.

So be it,
Anthony said under his breath, looking out towards the distant moors, continuing to dwell on Sandy, so
many memories seizing him…carrying him backwards in time for a few more moments longer.

Unexpectedly, brilliant sunshine burst through the dark clouds with such suddenness the leaden, sombre sky was filled with a most marvellous radiance that seemed to emanate from below the smudged horizon. Anthony caught his breath at the sudden beauty and raised his eyes to the heavens, and smiled inwardly. In the quietness of his gentle, loving heart he said farewell to Sandy. His pain is over, Anthony thought. He’s at peace at last. Gone to his beloved Maggie.

The brief ceremony was coming to an end.

The coffin was being lowered into the rich Yorkshire earth where Sandy’s ancestors lay, and Anthony turned away from the grave as the vicar closed his prayer book.

He took Sally’s arm. ‘Let’s go back to Pennistone Royal for a drink, and lunch,’ he said.

Sally nodded. ‘Yes, we do need something to warm us up. It’s freezing this morning.’

Paula, walking with them, shivered, looked from Shane to Anthony, and muttered, ‘I detest these hearty meals after funerals. They’re barbaric.’

‘No,’ Anthony said in a muted voice. ‘They’re not.’ He linked arms with her as they fell in step, went down the flagged path to the lych-gate and the waiting cars. ‘The lunch today gives us a chance to be together for a while, to console each other…and to remember Sandy as he was. To take comfort from having known him, and known his love. And to celebrate his life.’

Paula was to remember those words.

They were still echoing in her ears a week later, on the morning she was being driven out to Heathrow to take the Concorde to New York.

Amanda sat next to her on the back seat of the Rolls-Royce, sad and withdrawn, hardy speaking. A few minutes before they arrived at the airport, Paula reached out, took her cousin’s hand in hers, squeezed it.

Swinging her head, Amanda frowned slightly, and then she returned the pressure of Paula’s hand.

Paula said, ‘You’re thinking of Sandy, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Amanda whispered.

Patting her hand lovingly, Paula murmured, ‘Grieve for him by all means, and get the grief out. That’s so very necessary…part of the healing process. But also take comfort from your lovely memories of Sandy, the years you had with him when you were growing up. Be glad he was your brother, that he gave you so much love, so much of himself.’