The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth

ELEVEN

Carrara

From the moment Edward had arrived in Carrara with Neville and Will earlier that morning, he had wanted to turn around and leave. There was something about this town in Tuscany which truly depressed him.

He knew that, in part, this feeling sprang from the fact that his father and brother, uncle and cousin had died here only last week, and in tragic circumstances. And yet he genuinely disliked certain aspects of the place, found it cold, unwelcoming, and reeking of danger, and there was yet another element that troubled him. He felt oppressed by the range of mountains that encircled Carrara on three sides, and seemed to close it in like a prison.

Marble dominated here. Great slabs of it gleamed whitely high on the mountain sides of the Apuan Alps; its grey-white dust floated on the very air, settled on the buildings and the ground; on the people as well; it penetrated their clothing and hair. There was the constant sound of marble being chipped at, in studios, workshops and apartments along the streets, where artists and artisans were working on sculptures, frescoes, urns and other different kinds of artifacts. Carrara was busy in the town as well as up on the mountain ranges.

Edward fully understood that he must get himself through the meeting with Alfredo Oliveri and then hurry away as fast as he could. In his mind, Carrara would be forever associated with death and grief, and he never wanted to return here as long as he lived.

At this moment he was sitting in a chair in the offices of the Deravenel Company, studying Alfredo Oliveri, who was speaking to Neville, suggesting they should stay the night in Carrara, and adding that he would be happy to have them as guests in his home. ‘Far better than a hotel,’ he was murmuring.

They had arrived at the offices about twenty minutes ago, having travelled for some hours by hired carriage from Florence, an arrangement made by the head concierge of the Hotel Bristol. It had proved to be a comfortable ride.

Edward already knew that he trusted this man whom he was meeting for the very first time. He now realized why his father had liked him so much, had had such confidence in Oliveri. There was something about him, the expression on his face, his manner, his way of expressing himself that spoke to Edward of integrity, honesty and loyalty.

Alfredo Oliveri was not at all what he had expected. To begin with, he had the brightest of auburn hair, that intense red colour which was usually referred to as ‘carrot top’ in England. And secondly, he was very English. After they had introduced themselves, and entered Alfredo Oliveri’s private office, Neville had commented on Alfredo’s perfect command of English. It was then that the other man had explained that he was born of an English mother and an Italian father, that he had spent every summer in London with his maternal grandparents during his childhood. His mother had taken him there with her; later he had attended an English boarding school for four years, returning to Italy for the summers.

‘No wonder you sound like an Englishman,’ Neville remarked when Oliveri had finished explaining his heritage. ‘In fact, you are one, of course,’ he added, hoping he hadn’t sounded patronizing when he had meant to compliment.

‘Half and half,’ Alfredo had murmured and smiled faintly, obviously gratified, understanding it was a compliment. ‘My Englishness usually takes visitors from the London office by surprise. Although it never surprised Mr Richard.’ He looked pointedly at Edward when he added, ‘Such a good man, your father was. Too good, if the truth be known.’

‘You’re the one who knows everything about things here, Mr Oliveri,’ Edward ventured. ‘And the fact that we came at once after I received your note yesterday must tell you something—’

‘That you are suspicious,’ Alfredo cut in swiftly, his eyes on Edward.

‘Yes, we are. What did you mean when you wrote nothing is the way it seems?’

‘Exactly that.’ He gave Edward a keen look. ‘So many things appear to be quite straightforward. But when you look beneath the surface, well, that’s a different matter altogether. There’s very often something else at play. At least, that’s the way I’ve frequently found it.’

‘So we are right to be suspicious about their deaths?’ Neville asked quietly.

‘Indeed,’ Alfredo answered. ‘I would like to tell you about the night of the fire, tell you everything I personally know and what I subsequently found out later.’ He raised a brow quizzically.

‘Yes, please do,’ Edward encouraged, leaning forward, every part of him alert, expectant, and also somewhat afraid, wondering what awful things Alfredo was about to reveal to them.

‘It was Sunday night, just over a week ago. I had dined with your father and uncle, and the two young men, Mr Edmund and Mr Thomas. I left them at the small hotel, the pensione, at about eleven o’clock, and went home. As I learned later, the fire apparently broke out in the early hours of Monday morning, around one o’clock. It seemingly started in the right wing, spread to the foyer, and then to the left wing, where your family were staying. It was a sudden fire, and because of the wind that night it kept spreading and, in fact, it became a real conflagration at one point. And—’

‘But they weren’t burned,’ Neville interrupted peremptorily. ‘We’ve seen the bodies, and their faces were not scarred. If it was an inferno, as you suggest, how can that be?’

‘The wind suddenly dropped, and it also began to rain. Very heavily. And, anyway, almost immediately the alarm was raised and many of the townsfolk came out with buckets of water, helping to douse the fire.’

‘So what you’re saying is that the fire was put out quickly, but that our family members died of smoke inhalation at the beginning, when the fire was at its height?’ Edward asked.

‘That’s exactly what the death certificates say,’ Neville pointed out to Alfredo. ‘Death from smoke inhalation.’

‘There was no smoke inhalation,’ Alfredo began, and nervously cleared his throat several times. ‘They did not die as a result of the fire. They died from their injuries of earlier.’

‘Injuries?’ Edward sat up straighter, once again fixing his vivid blue eyes on Alfredo.

Neville and Will were also on the edge of their chairs, staring intently at the manager of Deravenels in Carrara, aghast at what they were hearing from him.

Alfredo steadied himself, and said in a low tone, ‘Your father, uncle and cousin sustained head injuries, Mr Edward,’ and then he looked across at Neville, and continued, ‘All three men died instantly. Dr Buttafiglio told me—’

‘Someone attacked them? Killed them? Are we understanding you correctly?’ Edward cut in, his voice rising.

‘You are…I’m so sorry to give you this dreadful news, and you, too, Mr Watkins. Very, very sorry.’

‘And so the fire was started to conceal the crime? Is that what you’re suggesting?’ Neville asked, his expression grim, his voice hard.

‘Yes, I am. That is the doctor’s theory, and I concur with him. The men of your family were killed, and the fire was set in order to burn their bodies to a crisp, so that nobody would know that murder had been committed. But whoever did this had not bargained for the rain. It was a deluge. It stopped the fire.’

‘You mentioned my father, uncle and cousin, but not my brother,’ Edward exclaimed, staring at Alfredo. ‘What of Edmund?’

Alfredo Oliveri had been dreading this question and for a split second he could not speak. He lost his courage; but he knew that he would have to tell Mr Edward later, if not now, and so he took a deep, steadying breath and said, ‘It appears that after I left Mr Richard and the others at the hotel, Mr Edmund went out again. No one knows where he went, and by that I mean the police, who made inquiries later, to no avail. They found out nothing. Anyway, as he was returning to the hotel, probably just before the fire was started, Mr Edmund was waylaid in one of the side streets and attacked. He—’

‘By whom? Who would attack my young brother?’ Edward demanded in a loud voice, his face growing flushed and angry.

‘I don’t know. No one knows, no one here understands it at all. Everyone is baffled, believe me they are.’

‘And no one saw it happening?’ Neville asked sceptically, in that same sharp voice, a voice like a whiplash.

‘Not the actual attack, no. But Benito Magnanni, the owner of the Colisseum Restaurant, was on his way home after closing up, and he saw two men bending over a body. It just so happens there was a street light on in the alley where they were standing, and he began to run down the alley, shouting at them. They immediately fled. They were English, though.’

‘How do you know that?’ Will asked quickly, staring hard at Alfredo. He was aware Edward and Neville were too distressed to speak at this moment, and so took charge.

‘Because Benito told the police they looked English, and that he heard one of the men say something about London, and the man made a remark like let’s ski diddle. This phrase didn’t make sense to either Benito or the police. But it did to me. I believe that what the man was saying actually was let’s skedaddle back to London, something like that.’

‘How did they kill him?’ Edward asked in a voice so inaudible they could barely hear him.

Alfredo hesitated, wondering if he should lie in order to save Edward Deravenel’s feelings. But he knew he could not; he must speak the truth. He owed it to Edward and to his father. ‘He died very quickly,’ Alfredo replied at last. ‘Doctor Buttafiglio told me it must have been an instant death.’

‘But how?’ Edward pressed.

‘They cut his throat,’ Alfredo answered in a shaky voice, one as quiet as Edward’s had been.

There was a moment of utter stillness in the room.

Stunned shock filled the air, was a palpable thing almost.

Rigid in the chair, his face draining of all colour, Edward cried out, ‘No! Not my lovely Edmund. To die like that. Such a brutal way. Oh, no. No, it can’t be. Who would commit such a foul crime? He was only seventeen, for God’s sake, an innocent boy—’

Edward broke off, his face crumpling, tears glistening in those bright blue eyes. He brought his hands to his face, and he grieved a second time for his beloved brother.

At once Neville was on his feet, going to Edward. He bent over him, encircled him with his arms. After a moment, Edward struggled to his feet, turned to Neville and clung to him as though his life depended on it. For a while the cousins stood together in tight embrace. They were united more than ever in their mutual grief, shocked and horrified that Edmund had been killed in this heartless, brutish manner. And they shared their sorrow for their other kin who had been so cruelly slain.

Eventually the two men broke their embrace, and went back to their chairs. It was Neville who spoke first. Looking across at Alfredo, he said, ‘Let me ask you something…do you personally believe that Mr Edmund was killed because he was a Deravenel? That it was not just an odd coincidence that he was attacked that night?’

‘I don’t think the attack on Mr Edmund was a coincidence. Not at all. He was killed because he was a Deravenel and Mr Richard’s son. They did not find him at the hotel when they killed the others, so they went looking for him, in my opinion.’ Alfredo shook his head vehemently. ‘Nothing will convince me otherwise. They went out searching for him.’

‘Do you think Mr Edward is in danger?’

‘Yes, I do. Perhaps not here in Carrara, not now. The murderers have fled back to London. But I do think he’s in danger. Because he’s Mr Richard’s son. In my opinion, Mr Watkins, your Uncle Richard was killed because he was the true heir to Deravenels. Everyone knows it in the company…Deravenels was stolen sixty years ago by the Lancashire Deravenels. Some of the directors are happy with the status quo, but not everyone. There are those who have always believed Mr Richard should have been sitting in the chairman’s seat. Quite a few of us, actually. Henry Grant is ineffectual, always has been in my opinion. He’s been riding on the coat-tails of the two other Grants who went before him. His grandfather, who stole the company, and his father, who made it greater. But it’s slipping. Things are not good, take my word for it. He’s an absentee landlord, just as Mr Richard always said he was. He has no head for business or finance, and he’s dominated by his French wife and her followers. Margot Grant has quite a few supporters, you know, who do her bidding.’

‘I did know. My uncle confided in my father.’ A deep sigh rippled through Neville, and he shook his head, sorrow shadowing his light blue eyes. ‘My father and brother died because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time…’ His saddened voice filtered away, and he pursed his lips. ‘God rest their souls in Heaven.’

‘And so Deravenels, the company started by my ancestor, Guy de Ravenel, is actually being run by a young woman who is not even a Deravenel by birth. That has to make you shudder, Neville,’ Edward remarked in a voice dripping ice.

‘Actually it makes me laugh, if a little hollowly,’ Neville retorted. ‘That woman is a joke, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. But of course she’s being used by James Cliff and John Summers. It is they who have the power there. Still, I do think she is dangerous, she has no conscience whatsoever, and it’s more than likely she’s behind the murders. Don’t you fret, Ned. We will have our revenge, as I said we would at Ravenscar. I will not permit a young and incompetent woman to get the better of you, be assured of that.’

TWELVE

Kent

‘Why aren’t you pursuing the matter with the police?’ Lily Overton cried, her face growing flushed, her eyes filling with sudden indignation. ‘I don’t understand, I really don’t, Ned.’

‘You should. I’ve already explained it several times!’ Edward shot back, striving to keep his temper in check. ‘But I’ll try to do so once again. This is not a matter for Scotland Yard. The crime was not committed here, under their jurisdiction. It occurred in Italy, in Carrara, to be precise, and the—’

‘I know that, Ned,’ she interrupted. ‘I was referring to the police in Carrara. Why aren’t they continuing their investigation? That is what I meant.’

Clenching his fists, taking a deep breath, Edward answered in as controlled a voice as he could manage, ‘Neville and I, and Will, spent hours and hours with the local police chief, attempting to get to the bottom of things. He was very cooperative. Certainly he had done a very detailed investigation before we got there, and came up with nothing. All the police had, in fact, was the information given to them by a local restaurant owner, who told them he had seen two men attacking someone in an alley late at night. He immediately ran to the rescue, shouting at the attackers, who instantly fled. He was too late, of course. The young man, my brother, was dead when he got to him. Benito Magnanni, the restaurant owner, also reported hearing the two men, the attackers, shouting at each other in English. And that is it…there is nothing more.’

Lily did not respond. She merely sat back on the sofa, staring across at him, shaking her head as if baffled, a nonplussed expression crossing her face.

Staring back at her, Edward realized she looked as if she were about to burst into tears. He unclenched his hands, relaxed his body, adopted a more casual stance in front of the fire roaring up the chimney. He knew she was not a stupid woman, quite the contrary, but she could be maddeningly dense about certain things at times, and this drove him to distraction.

Taking a deep breath, he adopted a lighter, softer tone when he murmured, ‘Alberto Oliveri truly went out of his way to probe every aspect of the murders with the police, and, of course, the cause of the fire, its point of origin, everything to do with it, in fact. But there’s not very much anyone can do when there are no murderers loitering on street corners, no arsonists hanging around, for that matter. The whole affair is clouded in mystery…’ He paused, sighed, added, ‘Without credible evidence the Carrara police are totally stalled.’ He shifted on his feet and another small sigh escaped him as he finished, ‘This is not the first case which will go unsolved, Lily, I can assure you of that.’

‘And so do I,’ Will Hasling said from the doorway, walking into the study of his sister’s house in Kent, where the three of them were spending the weekend with Vicky. He went on, ‘It’s also extremely frustrating, since we more or less know who is at the root of this ghastly crime, yet there’s nothing we can do—’

‘Why not?’ Lily cut in swiftly, sitting up straighter on the sofa, looking from Will to Ned, who remained standing in front of the fire.

‘Because we cannot retaliate in kind,’ Edward snapped after a moment, his annoyance with her rising to the surface. ‘We can’t go around killing people off, just because we think they are behind the deaths of my father and brother, Neville’s father and brother. Certainly Scotland Yard would be involved then …they’d be on our backs.’

Lily reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, blew her nose, patted her eyes. ‘It’s such an…agony,’ she muttered, crumpling her handkerchief between her long, supple fingers, playing with it nervously. ‘I don’t know how you can stand it, Ned.’

The room became absolutely still.

Suddenly, the fire spurted, crackled; fabric rustled like a faint whisper as Lily moved on the sofa; light rain began to patter against the window panes. Otherwise there was total silence. Neither man spoke. Lily herself swallowed the sentence on the tip of her tongue, afraid to utter a word, accepting she had just said the wrong thing.

Slowly, almost cautiously, Will walked across the room to the fireplace where his best friend stood rigid and unmoving. Will put a hand on his arm as if to steady Ned, then took a position next to him.

For his part, Edward Deravenel looked perturbed; a veil dropped over his face, obscuring his true feelings. He took a tight rein on himself, breathing deeply.

At last, after a long moment or two, Edward focused his entire attention on Lily Overton. He said, finally, in a cold clipped voice, ‘How can I stand it, you ask? If the truth be known, I can’t. But I have to. I have no choice. Now, let us bring this discussion to a close, shall we? There is no real point to it. We are helpless, as far as prosecuting those whom we believe are responsible. Neville and I have buried our loved ones…they are at peace now. There is nothing to say—’ He broke off, leaned forward, staring at her intently, his face resembling a mask of stone. ‘The matter is now at an end.’

No, it’s not, it’s just starting, Will Hasling thought. It won’t end until Ned and Neville Watkins have destroyed the Grants. Each and every one of them. That is irrevocable.

And as these thoughts swirled in his head, Will felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck and a cold chill swept over him.

Vicky Forth’s second husband Stephen, a well-known banker of some standing, had gone to New York on a business trip, and she had talked her brother into spending a weekend in the country with her.

Will, in turn, had coaxed Ned into joining him. Because Vicky and Lily were close friends, she had been invited to come along as well.

Edward had been delighted to accompany Will, whom he always enjoyed being with, and the fact that Lily was so obviously welcome was an added bonus.

Stonehurst Farm, located not far from Aldington in Kent, was close to Romney Marsh, and long ago it had ceased to be a working farm. Centuries old, dating back to the 1600s, it had undergone a bold transformation in recent years. Now it resembled a manor house, was, in fact, a gentleman’s farm, a country residence. Nothing was grown anymore, except for the vegetables in Vicky’s kitchen garden, and there were no livestock, although Vicky did keep a stable of fine horses for riding and hunting.

Although Stonehurst was large and rambling, with several new additions, it boasted a great deal of cosy welcoming warmth. This was due in no small measure to Vicky’s perfect taste, and her talent and skill as a decorator.

Comfort abounded everywhere, was evident in the blazing fires, large overstuffed sofas and chairs, thick rugs on the wooden and stone floors, and the velvet draperies at the many windows which kept out the winter chill in the evenings.

Edward had stayed here before, and he had always been given the same room, one which he particularly liked because it looked out towards Romney Marsh and the sea beyond.

Conveniently, and obviously intentionally, Lily’s room was located immediately opposite his, just two or three steps across the corridor. They had, so far, enjoyed two nights of passionate lovemaking and had both revelled in the fact that they could share the same bed all night, waking to savour each other in the early morning.

Lily had always managed to soothe him, to lift him out of himself, to chase away the demons that frequently dogged him. But this weekend had been somewhat different, much to his surprise and dismay. Somehow she had done exactly the opposite, upset him on several occasions with her unfortunate desire to bring up the terrible crime which had so afflicted him and his family. He found this hard to comprehend, and she was beginning to get on his nerves, to irritate him. It had never happened before in the relationship.

Now as he sat in front of the fire in his bedroom he asked himself why this rather clever and usually understanding woman was being so insensible to his feelings. What prompted her to constantly mention certain aspects of this tragedy? It was like gouging at a wound on his body, a very deep wound. Why wouldn’t she let it heal? He had been shocked a short while before, and had come up here in order to calm down, to settle himself. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the chair, let himself slide down into his innermost thoughts.

I must remain cool and controlled, in charge of myself. I cannot let Lily agitate me, or distract me away from my purpose. Neville has warned me several times now about allowing women to interfere too much in my life. He told me I must use them, enjoy them, but keep them at arm’s length emotionally. Easier said than done, I told him last week, and he agreed with me. But he also reminded me that he and I are about to set out on a very important mission. A campaign to bring down the House of Grant, bring it to its knees. We must win, Neville informed me, and of course we will. I have more to gain than Neville, because once the Grants are gone Deravenels will be mine, and I will have avenged my father. Not only avenged his murder but the usurpation of Deravenels sixty years ago, which left him to inherit an inferior position within the company. Yes, we will do it, and we will do it fast. I promised my mother that, after the funerals at Ravenscar and at Ripon. In fact, I made a vow to her, and I know this pleased her. I am the head of the Deravenel family now, and I have to protect and look after my mother and my siblings, see to their welfare and their comfort, and to the future. It will be done. I can do it, Neville assured me of that. Of course my mother is safe, because she has her inheritance which Neville will now manage, but I must take from the company all that which is my due. I must find out why my father was always so impoverished, and rectify that situation as soon as I can. And I must find myself a house, a proper place to live. My mother owns the house in Charles Street, and although she offered it to me I cannot take it from her. That would be most unfair since it is actually hers by inheritance from her father.

My mother is self-contained, but then that is her nature, and knowing her as well as I do, I understand that her grief for my father and Edmund is very raw. It will take a long time to heal, if it ever does. But she is stoic and she will go on doggedly, and unbowed, taking care of Richard and George, and my sister Meg, raising them as my father would want them to be raised.

Before I left Ravenscar I informed my mother about the black notebook, which Alfredo Oliveri had mentioned to me in Carrara. A notebook constantly used by my father, who made daily jottings in it. She and I searched for it, but had no success whatsoever. She will continue to look for it, as I did in his rooms at Charles Street before coming down here to Kent. No luck so far.

Oliveri will be most useful to us, and he has promised to help in any way he can. He is an undoubted ally. I am lucky to have him on my side. He says we can win. I believe him.

Will had been coming to Stonehurst ever since his sister had bought the place twelve years ago. She had purchased the property not long after the death of her first husband Miles Tomlinson, wishing to leave the hustle and bustle of London for the tranquillity of the Kentish countryside. She had also turned the restoration of the old farmhouse and its decoration into a project to help keep grief at bay.

To some extent she had succeeded in this effort, and Will had been her willing helper over the years. He had grown to care for Stonehurst as much as she did, in winter as well as summer. The old farmhouse was surrounded by a hundred and fifty acres of wonderful land—there were fields and pastures, as well as a pond and a bluebell wood, and beyond the vast flower gardens was the Romney Marsh.

To Will, the Marsh was mysterious, a magical kind of place with its wild, blowing grasses and winding paths, its perpetual mists which rose at dusk and floated over the landscape, obscuring everything. And at this particular twilight hour the salty smell of the sea was carried in on the light breeze, reminding everyone how close the English Channel was.

In olden days the locals had latched their windows at this time of day, believing that the mists caused the ague; others had fastened their shutters tight because they were certain ghosts were at large on the Marsh.

Vicky generally laughed at these old wives’ tales which were still told to whomever would listen, and when it came to the mention of ghosts she usually muttered under her breath to Will, ‘More like the local smugglers winding their way inland from the sea, hauling their tobacco, their wines and brandy from France.’ He agreed with her, fully believed the smugglers still plied their dubious trade here.

This afternoon, as he strode along the flagged path which led from the back terrace to the gardens, he could not help thinking how beautiful the landscape was even on this cold February Saturday. It was growing late, was almost dusk already, and the grey sky of early afternoon had changed, darkened, and was filled with rafts of fiery red and purple along the horizon. Or was that the sea? Some of the low-lying Marsh beyond the gardens was well below sea level, and frequently it seemed to him that the sea in the distance was high in the sky. A most curious illusion.

‘Will, Will! Wait for me!’

He swung around at the sound of Ned’s voice, and stood waiting as his friend hurried down the path at a fast pace.

‘Why didn’t you ask me to come for a walk with you?’ Ned demanded, peering at Will. ‘Or did you feel like being alone? Am I intruding?’

Linking his arm through Ned’s, Will shook his head, drew closer to his friend as they walked on together. ‘I thought I’d better leave you to your own devices after lunch. You seemed so upset this morning, and were rather silent at lunchtime.’

‘I was, and with good reason, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I do. Anyway, I knew you were up in your room alone, since Lily and Vicky took the horse and trap into the village after you disappeared. I just saw them coming back and so I ducked out here.’

‘For a man who doesn’t like rural life, who protests so much about country living, and who prefers the gaiety, bright lights and razzle dazzle of London, you certainly seem rather attached to Stonehurst,’ Ned remarked, sneaking a surreptitious glance at Will as they headed down the path together.

‘I have grown attached to it, actually, perhaps because I helped Vicky bludgeon it into shape, and because we shared something rather special, a unique relationship during that time, just after Miles died. I was fourteen or fifteen, thereabouts, and we worked well together and we bonded. She has always reminded me that I helped her to combat her grief. But to be honest, Ned, I wouldn’t want to live in the country permanently. I like to visit Vicky because we’re so close. I’m also fascinated by the Marsh. There’s something curious about that land out there that spells mystery to me.’

Ned laughed. ‘Ah yes, I do understand. It appeals to the young adventurous lad that still exists inside you…stories of smugglers, and baccy and brandy-running, and God knows what else. But I understand what you mean, and I also appreciate that the Romney Marsh has a genuine history to it.’ Peering ahead as they came to the edge of the lawns, Ned added, ‘And there’s romance there, too…a fair wind for France tonight, and all that, eh?’