Heirs of Ravenscar (46 page)

‘That's correct, Mrs Deravenel. Mr Edward, well, he was a genius. His brother is not of the same caliber, I'm sorry to say, but, nonetheless, he's not a stupid man. He might get rid of a few people now and then, but he's not going to rock any boats, believe me,' Oliveri told her confidently.

‘I was mentioning the Paris office to Mr Finnister. Things are all right there, aren't they?

‘Yes. Couldn't be better. Henry Turner has been running it very well for quite a while now,' Oliveri responded. ‘He's proving to be an asset. We were all a bit perplexed when Mr Edward hired him, several years ago, but he's done well by the company.'

‘I should hope so, since he's a shareholder. I'm sure you both know he is the late Henry Grant's heir, and he inherited all of Grant's shares in the company.'

‘Mr Deravenel, er, Mr Edward that is, did mention it to me,' Oliveri said. ‘He seemed to have a lot of faith in young Henry's business acumen, actually.'

‘So I understand. I want to ask you both something, and I want you to feel at ease in answering me with honesty. It will be in strict confidence, whatever you say.'

Both men nodded.

Elizabeth confided, ‘I hear a great deal of gossip these days about my brother-in-law. It strikes me that Richard Deravenel is not very popular within the company … is that
true
?'

‘Yes, it is. In fact, I would go so far as to say that he's disliked. Intensely disliked,' Oliveri replied.

‘Except for the men he grew up with, and who he brought in after Mr Edward's death last April,' Amos pointed out. ‘They kowtow to him.'

‘But surely that's a handful only?' Elizabeth interjected.

‘Oh, yes, Mrs Deravenel, that's correct,' Oliveri was quick to say.

‘Do people believe he was responsible for the disappearance of my sons?' She finally brought the most important question to the forefront.

‘A lot do, yes,' Finnister responded swiftly. He was hell bent on telling her the truth. She deserved to know how grave the gossip was these days. ‘I would say that eighty per cent of the employees at Deravenels think that your brother-in-law had a hand in their disappearance. Don't ask me why, but they do.'

‘They probably think he got rid of them in order to grab the company for himself, and for his son,' Oliveri asserted, following Finnister's lead.

‘Now dead,' Elizabeth murmured. ‘Odd isn't it, that his son died on the same day my husband died, exactly one year later.'

Neither man spoke; they both agreed with her. It was the strangest thing to most people. Like Divine Judgement, some thought and said.

Elizabeth looked from Finnister to Oliveri. ‘My daughter, Bess, is actually the heir, you know, not her uncle. I'm sure you also know that my husband changed those ancient rules in 1919, and made certain that a woman born a
Deravenel could become managing director when she was old enough.'

‘Yes, we did know,' Alfredo said, answering for them both.

Elizabeth sat looking reflective for a moment, and then she said, ‘She's a little bit young to enter the business. At the moment.'

‘But she could come and work at Deravenels and be trained,' Alfredo exclaimed, excited by the prospect, and eager.

‘In a couple of years she
could
join the company, yes. Do you think she would be made welcome?' Elizabeth asked.

‘Very much so,' Alfredo asserted, and then wondered if he was correct. A lot of the men would resent her.

Finnister said, ‘She's very mature and grown up for her age, Mrs Deravenel, and extremely intelligent, clever like her father. I've known her all of her life and she has all of his qualities: and she's very practical.'

‘That is true, yes. Changing the subject, for a moment, what do you think about Henry Turner joining the London office? Would he also be made welcome?' Elizabeth looked from Oliveri to Finnister.

Alfredo stared at Amos, exchanging a look with him, and they both nodded their heads. Amos said, ‘I think so, yes. Certainly by the employees, because after all, he is sort of, well, part Deravenel, isn't he? At least that's what we've heard.'

‘Yes, through his mother Margaret Beauchard Turner he is, and as I mentioned earlier, he is a major shareholder.'

Amos Finnister now said, in a somber voice, ‘He wouldn't be welcomed by Mr Richard, not by a long shot.'

‘He wouldn't allow him to cross the threshold,' Alfredo announced, grimacing.

‘I realize that,' Elizabeth said.

Staring at her, weighing her expression and her tone of
voice, Amos now murmured very softly, in a conspiratorial way, ‘Are you thinking of an …
alliance
, shall we call it, Mrs Deravenel? An alliance between Bess and Henry Turner?'

Elizabeth merely smiled.

Amos smiled back.

After a short silence, Elizabeth rose, went over to the fireplace and stood with her back to it as Edward had always done. Her eyes swept over them, two of Edward's most trusted and devoted employees, two men who had somehow managed to escape Richard's rampage and were still at Deravenels.

Straightening her back, standing tall, she said, ‘Change. The only thing that's permanent is change. And things do change often, we all know that. People don't live forever, now do they?'

C
atastrophe. That was something his brother Ned had always feared, and he had done everything in his power to sidestep it, to avoid it at all costs, because he believed it would be his undoing. And Ned had succeeded. He had died too young, this was true, but he had died peacefully in his own bed at the height of his success.

But
he
had not managed to avoid catastrophe. He was engulfed by it. And he was undone. His personal life was shattered; his business life was holding its own but only just. Things had gone wrong at Deravenels, and in a sense he had only himself to blame. He had trusted the wrong people, listened to the wrong people, made mistakes … They had been a golden family; but they were cursed.

Richard Deravenel stood in the library at Ravenscar, staring out at the North Sea, his blue-grey eyes taking in the magnificent view. It was the month of August in 1928 and he was thirty-three years old. And a widower. His wife had died this past March, after contracting tuberculosis.
But Richard believed she had really died of a broken heart, grieving for their seven-year-old son, Little Eddie.

Richard sighed, thinking of his darling child. He had not only lost his most beloved little boy, but his heir. All the Deravenel men were dead and gone, except for himself, and George's little son who lived in Dijon with his aunt, Richard's sister Meg. An unlikely successor.

No Deravenel man to take over the company if anything happened to him. The only adult heir left was his niece Bess, Ned's lovely eldest daughter and first-born child. Ned had made it legally possible for a woman to run Deravenels, but how could Bess do that? It just wasn't feasible: she had no experience of business and was still far too young at nineteen. The men would not feel comfortable about her presence in the company – no, not at all.

Bess
. He loved her because she was his brother's child, and because she was a true Deravenel. But he did not love her in the lustful way some people thought. There were stories told about them these days, stories that were scurrilous and untrue … His enemies blackened his name and hers, said that they were lovers, that he had poisoned Anne in order to marry his niece, that together they would rule Deravenels. None of it was true. How did you stop the gossip? How did one wipe the mud off one's face? It stuck. And that was the truth of it.

Turning away from the window, Richard stepped to the centre of the library, stood gazing up at the portrait of his brother Ned, known as the great Edward Deravenel these days. And that was accurate, he
had
been great, and there would never be another man like him. They had thrown the mould away when they'd made Ned. He was unique.

The portrait of Ned was lifesize, and showed him standing in front of this very fireplace, wearing jodhpurs, highly-polished brown riding boots, and a blue shirt that echoed the colour of his eyes. The shirt was open at the neck, Ned's
medallion just visible, with the enamelled white rose of York showing.

Richard touched his chest, feeling
his
gold medallion underneath his shirt; he always wore the rose next to his skin – the other side, showing the sun in splendour, turned outward. Ned had had the medallions made when he had taken over Deravenels in 1904, had them inscribed with the Deravenel family motto:
Fidelity Unto Eternity
.

The portrait had been painted when Ned was thirty-nine, and finished just before his fortieth birthday. It was striking, dominated this room, which was Ned's creation, had been his favourite. It was so life-like, Richard felt that Ned was standing there, smiling down at him …

He had the sudden need to talk to his brother.

‘I didn't do it, Ned,' Richard said, sotto voce, ‘I didn't take your children or have them murdered. I loved them, Ned, just as we loved each other. I swear to God I didn't harm your blood … they were my blood too … Deravenels.'

Richard brushed his eyes with his fingers, swallowed hard, not wanting to break down this morning. Bess was staying here at Ravenscar with Grace Rose, and he did not wish to show weakness in front of these two young women. He felt a sudden tightness in his chest, as he so often did these days when he thought of his little nephews. They had been missing now for two years … gone without a trace. A terrible mystery, still unsolved … and the world blamed him.

He heard footsteps and swung around quickly, saw Bess walking into the library with Grace Rose.

‘I was just admiring the portrait of your father,' he said, his voice sounding strange to him, full of tears.

Bess picked up on this at once, knowing him as well as she did, and she hurried forward, took hold of his arm affectionately. ‘Uncle Richard, are you all right?' She peered into his face.

‘I'm fine, Bess, why do you ask?'

‘You sounded a bit odd, that's all.' She smiled at him. ‘I thought you'd already gone for your walk on the beach.'

‘I'm afraid I was sidetracked by your father's handsome, smiling face,' he replied, then beckoned to Grace Rose. ‘And why are
you
hanging back? No greeting for your old uncle today?'

Grace Rose went to join them. Like her half-sister, Bess, she loved Richard, and believed in him; never for one moment had she thought that Richard Deravenel was responsible for the disappearance of Young Edward and Little Ritchie. The mere idea of it was inconceivable to her. She loathed the revolting gossips in London who besmirched his name.

‘Wasn't he just the most marvellous looking man?' Grace Rose murmured, also gazing up at the portrait of Edward.

Richard turned to her. ‘I was just thinking the same thing a few moments ago.'

‘Father was simply the best. True Blue.' Bess looked from Richard to Grace Rose, and added, ‘Just as we three are.'

‘Indeed.' Richard turned away from the portrait, and walked across the library. He stopped when he had gone halfway, turned around, ‘Oh, by the way, Bess and Grace Rose, I heard from your grandmother this morning. She telephoned me, and she sends her love to you both.'

‘Is she all right?' Grace Rose asked.

‘Very well. She's enjoying being at the retreat in Hampshire.'

‘I'm glad,' Grace Rose said, meaning it. Cecily Deravenel had treated her as part of the family since they first met, and she loved her.

Bess said, ‘When is she coming out? Or is she staying there? My mother said something about Grandmother wanting to become a nun?'

Richard chuckled. ‘I doubt that. I'm sure she was joking.
Now I'm off for my walk. I'll see you both at one for lunch.'

His nieces watched him go. Bess went and sat down on the sofa. Looking across at Grace Rose she said, ‘It was so nice of you to come up here to spend this week with me, to keep me company, and Richard. Thank you.'

‘Don't be so silly, Bess, I enjoy coming here. It's certainly no hardship.' Grace Rose waved the notebook she was holding and went on, ‘I've managed to do quite a lot of work on my book here, it's so quiet and peaceful. I'm the one who should be thanking you.'

‘You're always welcome. I just wanted to come up to Yorkshire to keep Richard company. He's so lonely these days and troubled.'

Grace Rose nodded, took the other chair, and gave Bess a look. ‘I don't think things are too good at Deravenels, from what Amos said.'

‘What did he say?' Bess asked swiftly, her curiosity aroused.

‘That most people don't like Richard. They don't warm to him. He's not as skilful at making friends as our father was.'

Bess answered, succinctly, ‘Unfortunately, he's much better at making enemies.'

Richard was almost at the Cormorant Rock when he saw the two men walking towards him. At first he thought they were local fishermen heading his way, but as he drew closer he recognized one of them, and waved. The man waved back. Richard wondered who the other fellow was; he had no idea, had never seen him before.

‘Going out fishing?' Richard asked, as he drew to a standstill in front of them.

‘Thinking about it,' the man he knew answered, taking several steps closer to him.

Richard was startled, and was just about to step back when he felt a sharp pain in his side, and then another in his chest. His eyes widened as he stared at the other man and saw the knife in his hand. He looked down at the blood on his cardigan.

‘Why did you do that to
me
, Jack?' Richard cried, and staggered back as the man stabbed him again and again. His legs crumpled under him and he hit the beach with a thud, felled by the blade.

‘Let's get out of here,' the man with the knife said, and turned to flee. When he saw Richard's cap on the beach he gave it a swift kick. It sailed up into the air and fell on the lower portion of moorland, where it landed under a gorse bush.

The assassin and his companion ran down the beach. They dragged their boat from underneath the outcropping of rocks, took it to the shallows, got in and rowed away. It was Wednesday August the twenty-second, 1928, and Richard Deravenel was dead.

‘Has Mr Deravenel returned yet, Miss Bess?' Jessup asked from the doorway of her father's office, where she was working on papers.

Bess looked up, frowning. ‘I'm not sure, Jessup, have you looked in the library?'

‘Yes, miss, and he's not there. Nor is Miss Grace Rose. I'll tell Cook to hold lunch for a few minutes, and I'll go and look for them both.'

‘Thanks, Jessup,' Bess answered, and stood up, glancing at the clock, noting that it was already fifteen minutes past
one. She followed the butler out into the Long Hall, and saw Grace Rose coming down the stairs. ‘Have you seen Uncle Richard?' Bess called, going to meet her.

‘No, I haven't,' Grace Rose responded, coming into the entrance hall. ‘Actually, I don't think he's returned from his walk. I've been sitting in the library, checking my notes for ages, almost since he left. I only went upstairs to find a pencil a few minutes ago. No, he's not back, I would've seen him.'

‘He's always so punctual,' Bess muttered almost to herself, and felt a sudden uneasiness. It was settling in the pit of her stomach. ‘I think perhaps I'll go down to the beach, bustle him along a bit.'

‘I'll come with you,' Grace Rose volunteered.

Jessup was hurrying out of the butler's pantry and Bess said to him, ‘We'll go down to the beach and get him. My uncle has probably forgotten the time.'

‘He's always very
punctual
, Miss Bess,' the butler answered. ‘It's not like Mr Richard to be late.'

‘I know,' Bess replied and she and Grace Rose hurried out, went across the terrace and down through the hanging gardens. They were making for the steps cut in the cliff face, located at the far end of the property, well beyond the gardens and lawns.

Grace Rose saw him first from the top of the steps, and she cried, ‘Bess, look! There he is, on the beach. He must have tripped and fallen … I hope it's nothing worse, like a heart attack.'

‘Oh, my God!' Bess exclaimed. Together the two young women ran down the steps and flew across the shingle, pieces of it flying around their shoes as they raced ahead.

Bess was athletic and swift, and she reached her uncle's body first. He was on his back; she spotted the blood on his cardigan at once, and she brought a hand to her mouth to stop the scream that was rising in her throat. Kneeling down,
Bess took hold of his wrist, fumbled for his pulse. There wasn't one, and she instantly knew why she had felt that sudden unease, that rush of panic earlier. He was dead; somehow, she had always known that Richard would die before he should.

Grace Rose bent down next to her, and looked at Richard's white face, and she said softly, ‘His eyes, Bess, look, they're so blue, bluer than I've ever seen them.'

Bess did as her half-sister asked. Richard's eyes were very blue, and this seemed so odd to her. But what struck her most forcibly was the startled expression on his face. He had been taken by surprise when he had been attacked, she was certain of that.