Authors: Brenda Joyce
The Third Heiress (34 page)
Stepping inside was like stepping through the window of time. The chapel was empty now and achingly silent, with that powerfully peaceful feeling Jill had encountered in churches before. They stood in the aisle, blinking, blinding sunlight pouring through the windows behind the knave. The pews lining up on either side of them were worn smooth from usage and the passage of so much time. The wood smelled sweet and well oiled.
Incense also sweetened the air, Jill thought, either that or the wisteria blooming outside was extremely fragrant. As she stood there with Alex, their hips not quite touching, Jill glanced around and suddenly imagined what the church must have been like when Kate was alive. The pews would have been filled with the local villagers, the men clad in somber ill-fitting suits with high-collared shirts and fedoras, the women in long dark dresses and heavy black shoes, the boys in suspenders and knickers, the girls with their lacy drawers showing beneath wide knee-length dresses. She could almost hear horses wickering outside, and the occasional stomping of a hoof. Then she saw Kate, standing in the doorway, her face shockingly pale behind an opaque black veil, holding a swaddled infant to her bosom.
Of course Kate would have come there to pray and to hope.
Jill shivered, glancing cautiously around. The chapel was empty, but for one moment, she had glimpsed another place in time. It had almost felt as if she had been there.
“May I help you?” The vicar was approaching them, clad in a dark suit and a white clerical collar.
“Vicar Hewitt?” Alex asked, coming forward, his hand extended. “I’m Alex Preston, Lord Collinsworth’s nephew. I called a few minutes ago.”
The two men shook hands and Jill was introduced. Jill was surprised, for the vicar was very young—not much older than she was. Alex explained their business and Hewitt led them into a small, book-lined room behind the chapel where the church records were kept. He found the ledger they were looking for and laid it out on the old, scarred table in the center of the room. It was the size of an atlas, its dark maroon cover worn and faded with age, its pages yellowing and torn. “Anyone who died
in 1909 and was buried here in our cemetery would be listed in this volume,” he told them. “The listings are in chronological order, of course.”
in 1909 and was buried here in our cemetery would be listed in this volume,” he told them. “The listings are in chronological order, of course.”
Alex thanked him and as he and Jill bent over the volume, the vicar left the room. The two windows were open and birdsong filled the silence. Alex turned the pages, running his finger down date after date, finally pausing as May 17, 1908, appeared before both of their eyes.
“One week after my grandfather was born,” Jill murmured. A man named George Thompson had died that day and been buried in the chapel cemetery.
The ensuing date was for September 30, 1908. The next date was for December 3 of the same year. After that, the dates were for 1909.
Jill’s heart raced. She ran her finger down to May 21, the next entry for that year. And as abruptly, her heart dropped. January 12, 1909, was not listed. Katherine Adeline Gallagher was not listed.
“There must be a mistake,” Jill said, scanning the names of those who were buried and then dismissing them all, as Katherine Adeline Gallagher was not one of them. “Go back, Alex,” she urged.
He shot her a wry glance, turned back a page, but they were already in 1907. Then they went forward, flipping to the summer of 1909. Katherine Adeline Gallagher was not listed; clearly she had not had either a service or a formal burial at the Hinton Vale Chapel Cemetery.
Jill stared at Alex as he shut the volume, the sound echoing in the stone room. “This is odd.”
He did not reply.
“Someone buried her, Alex, but did so in great secrecy.”
“That would seem to be the case,” he said.
“What did they do, come here in the middle of the night with shovels and spades?”
“I doubt she was buried in broad daylight. I didn’t expect to find anything, Jill. The police never solved the case. Of course she was buried in secrecy. The question is, why? Someone took a great risk to bury her here.”
“Yes,” Jill returned, clenching her fists. “Undoubtedly it was her killer who buried her—which would indicate some lingering fondness for her on his part.”
Alex looked at her. “So who are you accusing?”
Jill bit her lip. “Look, Edward was fooling around with Kate, but he married Anne. I imagine Kate caused him quite a bit of grief. I mean, I don’t think she wished him well and politely walked away so he could marry her best friend.”
“Jill, hold your horses. What if she died in childbirth? Maybe she got pregnant again. That kind of scandal would also be covered up. You’re going off the deep end.”
Jill looked at him, then looked out into the chapel and toward the doorway. “She came here to pray. To pray, and to hope for the solution to her dilemma.”
He studied her. “And how do you know that?”
“Don’t you think she stayed at Coke’s Way? It’s across the road, for godsakes! Why wouldn’t she come here?”
“Why are you shouting?”
“I’m not.” She took a breath. “I’m just upset.” That was the truth. She was distressed, and not merely about Kate.
He spoke very quietly. “If you’re going to continue this quest of yours, so be it. But to make yourself sick is insane. She died ninety years ago, Jill. Nothing you find out will change what happened to her.”
He was right. Why was she so emotional? Jill pulled away. “I don’t know why this whole thing is getting to me this way. I almost feel as if Kate is watching me, expecting me to solve this.” She looked at him, but he did not respond. “I think your family knows a lot more than they’ve let on.
His eyes widened. Then he resumed absolute control of his expression, and it became as flat as an overbeaten pancake. “Really.”
“Yes. Most families have all kinds of folklore that’s passed down through the generations. Everyone seems totally ignorant of even the existence of Kate. I don’t buy it, not for a New York minute,” Jill said. “You know, if Edward was the father of Kate’s son, Peter, he was only twelve years older than William.”
He just looked at her. “Are you trying to make a point?”
“How could William not have known about an older bastard brother?”
Alex was silent. “Maybe there was no older bastard brother.”
“Maybe,” Jill said, not believing it for an instant.
“Do you intend to confront him?”
Jill stared back at him. Suddenly he did not seem to be the man whose arms she had lain in last night. Suddenly it felt as if they were warily eyeing one another from opposite sides of the fence. And she could pretend all she wanted to, but that did hurt. “I did confront him—but mildly, when I first returned to London.” Alex’s expression did not change. “He said he knew nothing. At the time, I believed him.”
“But now you do not.”
“No. Now I do not.”
“My uncle is an honest man. He’s not a liar.”
“But I’m an outsider, and responsible for Hal’s death. I’m sure he wouldn’t want me to know the family dirt.” Jill’s mind was racing, and suddenly an idea occurred to her that she should have had before—could not believe she hadn’t had before. “Let’s go back to the house. Don’t these old estates have ledgers that go back hundreds of years? Let’s get Edward’s signature. First thing Monday I’m going to have it compared to Barclay’s. If they come up the same, Alex, then that is proof that Edward was Kate’s lover and that he had her bastard.”
“All right,” Alex finally said.
Jill shrugged. “You are a spoilsport.”
He smiled then. “Someone has to keep a tight rein on you, kid, or God only knows where you’d be rocketing off to. Did anyone ever tell you that you could be termed a loose cannon?”
She stopped smiling. There was affection in his tone. It was also teasing. But she did not like being called “kid” after last night. “Should I be flattered?”
“Only if you like having someone looking out for you,” he said, his own smile fading. “Let’s go back to the house and find those ledgers you’re talking about.”
Jill nodded. Excitement swept over her again. But with it came trepidation. She felt as if she was on the verge of finding the answers she was looking for, but she also felt as if she were on the edge of a cliff, and that one misstep would send her plunging into an abyss.
A
lex carefully tore a page out of a huge ledger, a volume far bigger than the chapel’s tome. He folded it and handed it to her.
lex carefully tore a page out of a huge ledger, a volume far bigger than the chapel’s tome. He folded it and handed it to her.
“I hope nobody notices that you did that,” Jill said, glancing over her shoulder at the open doorway. They were in what Alex referred to as the study. It was not the same room as the library. This room was much smaller, it was dark and somber with wood paneling, and had only one window, which looked out on the rocky cliffs and the sea. It had clearly once been used as a home office. Jill did not think it had been used in twenty or thirty years, if not more. It was too dark, too airless, and it smelled old and musty.
“I doubt anyone comes in here, except for the odd maid to clean,” Alex said, replacing the ledger onto a bookshelf filled with a dozen other ledgers. The estate records went back to 1495. Jill found that amazing.
She was cheerful. “Ready for a tour of the attics?”
He started. “You want to go up to the attics? Today?” The sun continued to shine so brightly that one might mistake their location for Florida. “You haven’t been to Robin Hood Bay yet. We can have lunch at the pub.”
“How about a late lunch?” Jill smiled. “Alex, everyone shoves their old stuff in their attics. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s up there in your attic. We can’t possibly leave tomorrow without checking it out.”
Alex sighed. “Follow me.” As he led her through the house and upstairs, he told her that, as children, they had explored the attics at Stainesmore too many times to count. “When we were caught, we were always scolded,” he said with a smile.
They were on the uppermost floor where a few of the staff slept. At the end of the hallway was a narrow door, which Alex pushed open. Jill peered past his shoulder and saw very narrow stairs ascending into darkness. “Any lights?” she asked hopefully.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. He pulled his penlight out of his pocket. “But there are three windows, if I recall correctly, and the sun is bright today.” He gave her a look that indicated he’d rather be out in the sun than inside, with her, going through a musty attic searching for clues about the fate of her supposed ancestor.
Jill shoved past him, walking cautiously up the narrow stairs, hoping there were no mice scurrying about. She paused on the landing, glancing around at a long space with slanting, low ceilings. It was filled with boxes and trunks, varying in size from the kind of cartons one would pack books in, to crates that could hold clothing or even linens. She sighed. “It would take a month to go through everything up here.”
“Robin Hood Bay?” Alex asked hopefully.
Jill ignored him and stepped forward. He was right, they didn’t need an interior light at this time of day, in spite of the clutter. She went to a stack of old leather traveling trunks, trimmed in brass, and began pulling the top one down.
Alex immediately came forward. “Hold on before you break something—like your foot.”
She watched the muscles popping out of his arms as he hefted the trunk, grunting, and moved it to the floor. Jill saw that it had a small padlock on it. She knelt and jiggled it. “Do you think we can break this lock?” she asked.
He knelt beside her. “It’s been a while, but I’ll try.”
Jill watched him extract a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, flip open a file, and fool with the padlock. Suddenly she found herself thinking about the intruder KC claimed to have seen leaving her studio in New
York. Her sense of levity vanished. When he did not have success, she was oddly relieved. “I guess you’re out of practice.”
York. Her sense of levity vanished. When he did not have success, she was oddly relieved. “I guess you’re out of practice.”
He looked at her as the lock snapped open. “Voilà.”
“I guess not,” Jill said, unsmiling. She told herself to forget about that earlier incident—KC had probably imagined it—and Alex had been in London anyway. She needed to focus on the task at hand, and she watched Alex open the lid of the trunk, revealing carefully packed women’s clothing. Then she thought about the fact that these were not her belongings. They belonged to William and Margaret. “Will you tell on me?” Her gaze met his.
“No. We’re in this together.”
Jill dug into the trunk. She had been hoping that the items were old—dating back to Edwardian times, but they were not. The suits were designer, and mid-calf length. She held one up. “This must be from the fifties,” she said. “God, look at the fabric—at how this is made.”
“Might even be from the forties,” Alex returned. “Look at those shoulders.”
She smiled. “So you know fashion?”
“I’m an insomniac. I like watching the classics in the wee hours.” He smiled back.
Their eyes locked. Jill looked away. “Let’s get to work,” she said, refusing to think about their relationship now.
“I can see there’s no deterring you,” Alex remarked, hauling another trunk down to the floor.
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