Hell bay, p.23
Hell Bay, page 23
“That’s not proof against mischief,” I said.
“Agreed.”
He grunted. He was at the early pages of the book.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. I was expecting some sort of information or signs of a missing page. There’s nothing here.”
“Not everything is a clue to what we need.”
“I’ll take any kind of clue, no matter how small.”
“You suspected some kind of written record?”
“Aye, I did, frankly.”
The old book looked frail between his strong fingers. One shrug in irritation and the entire relic would be torn asunder. Cyrus Barker claimed to be able to keep his temper in check, but it was nearly as strong as he was.
“Sir,” I said. “Perhaps there is something in the Bible. People use them to put all sorts of things in. Wedding announcements, birth announcements, and so on.”
I didn’t trust his temper yet. I went up and took over for him as gently as possible, and flipped through the book as carefully as I could. I finally found something several dozen pages in, a yellow cutting, years old. I opened it gingerly. It was a newspaper article at least thirty years old about a young man killed on this very island.
LOCAL LIFEGUARD’S BODY WASHES ASHORE
The body of Silas Hillary was found this morning on the beach of Godolphin Island, following a storm that occurred two nights ago. Hillary was last seen by several witnesses going out in a cutter to rescue fishermen trapped by the gale. There appeared to be no sign of foul play and it is believed that he drowned while attempting to save the stranded fishermen in the very teeth of the storm. Hillary is survived by his parents, Professor and Mrs. Hammond Hillary, and a younger sister, Charlotte. Services will be held at the Congregational Church on Bryher Isle this Tuesday.
“There,” I said. “That’s worth something, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Barker said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Barker was still restless. I could see that from where I was seated in the library. The man had spent a good part of his life traveling or as a sea captain. Being trapped in a building for days on end did not suit his disposition. He was given to pacing, with his chin sunk upon his breast and his hands locked behind him. I was reminded of a lion in its cage, roaming from side to side continually, wanting to get out and run free on the savannah once more.
“Partridge,” he said.
“Yes, sir?” a voice asked behind me. I had not heard him enter, but then that was how they were trained. Butlers don’t stomp into rooms.
“Is Lady Hargrave herself again today, or has she been sedated?”
“She is awake, sir.”
“Would you ask her if I may look over the papers her son was studying when he was killed?”
“Those are private papers of the family, Mr. Barker.”
“I realize that. They may have some connection to this entire business, however. There is a lot of emotion in this case, but precious few cold, hard facts. Could you ask?”
“I shall try, sir. I make no promises.”
“Understood.”
Partridge evaporated, while Barker went back to pacing the floor, under my careful if slightly bored scrutiny. We should be doing something, I told myself, but I had no idea what that was. Looking at some stacks of old papers was better than nothing. At least it would pass the time.
Partridge returned in twenty minutes with his trusty set of keys. Lady Hargrave had reluctantly acquiesced to my employer’s request. The Guv clapped his hands and rubbed them together.
“Come, Thomas,” he said in my ear. “Let us see if we can rattle that skeleton.”
We rose and followed the butler sedately down the hall and up the staircase to the study. I glanced at the door Kerry had tried to break down, and then the large library table where Paul Burrell had been seated when someone entered the room and jammed a knife into his heart. A carving knife, no less, which meant the blade was not brought here from off the island; he had palmed it in the kitchen at some point.
Under our close scrutiny, Partridge inserted the key into the lock of the old Chubb safe and turned it. We began to pull documents from inside, taking them to the very seat Paul had been sitting in when he was murdered.
“Financial matters here, papers related to His Lordship’s work here, and family matters here,” the Guv said, pointing to where each would go. “I shall sit and you bring the contents of the safe to me. Mr. Partridge, would you be so good as to count the monies? I require a reliable witness.”
“Very good, sir,” the old retainer said.
Barker sat while I brought envelopes and papers to him. I thought this part of the process deadly dull, but he looked excited.
“Might His Lordship actually have kept state secrets in the safe?” I asked.
“There is that possibility, yes, lad. Why?”
“Once you know one, you cannot unknow it.”
“It won’t be the first time I have stumbled across a secret that the government would prefer remain secret. We are enquiry agents. It is our duty to discover things under rocks.”
Partridge cleared his throat. I’m sure he felt our going through the safe and the family private papers to be the height of impropriety. I wanted to ask if we were going to read everything, but I couldn’t in front of the butler. Apparently, the time for secrets was over.
Barker began to go through the family accounts in the ledger book. Were there any curious expenditures or regular payments to some third party?
“Mr. Paul Burrell enjoyed a flutter at the track,” Barker said. “It does not appear to have been a ruinous habit.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t the first elder son to do so.”
“Lord Hargrave made regular contributions to the Catholic Church and his church sponsored charities, as well as local ones. We are fortunate that he was an orderly record keeper. One of the charities he gave to was the Bromley School.”
“Really?”
“Did I not say this would be enlightening? And look here, he was on the board of directors at the home for pensioners where Mrs. Tisher died. So many charities.”
“His Lordship was a respected member of the community,” Partridge said. “He judged the sheep in the annual agricultural fair and opened the annual flower show.”
“Did any of the children attend the Bromley School?”
“No, sir. A tutor lived here on the island, a seminary student. They had a traditional Catholic upbringing. His Lordship blamed him for encouraging the heirs to stay unwed. He’d have preferred his children be fruitful and multiply. He hoped he’d have grandchildren on the island again.”
“No doubt. How are you coming along, lad?”
“I’ve been delving into some of the papers regarding the treaty, sir. It’s all extremely long-winded. Better relations between our two countries—a spirit of peace and an end of hostilities going into the twentieth century—a bulwark against instability in Europe. Not very interesting, I’m afraid.”
“Partridge, where were Lord Hargrave’s people from? I forgot he was not from the island.”
“Penzance, sir.”
“Much closer than the school and the pensioners. Hmmm. Was His Lordship raised Catholic, as well?”
“Yes, sir. They were the two most prominent Catholic families in all Cornwall. It was natural that they should marry, though they were fortunate to be so well matched.”
“How is Her Ladyship this morning, Partridge?”
“She’s suffering, sir. We made sure the laudanum wasn’t within reach, in case she did herself damage. Her husband and both sons in less than a week! I’ve only seen her this upset one other time.”
“Oh, really?” Barker said, cradling one knee between his hands and leaning back. “What happened then?”
“It was when she was a youth and I was a footman. A young man she was sweet on was paying court rather aggressively, but he wasn’t Catholic. The parents refused to sanction a marriage. It was a good thing, too, because he was a captain of the local coast guard. Drowned trying to save a vessel during a shipwreck. Washed up on that beach out there. Oh, it was terrible. She was screaming for days. There, sir, you’ve dragged a family secret out of me.”
“What was the poor fellow’s name?”
“I don’t recall it, sir. He was not from one of the good families here on the isles.”
I knew the name. Barker knew it. But we weren’t going to tell Partridge that.
“How long was it before she met Lord Hargrave?”
“Two years. Perhaps three. They were both good for each other. Then the babies came, one after the other.”
“He was in the army, as I recall?”
“The Coldstream Guards. A major, no less. He looked very dashing in his uniform. The ladies can’t resist a uniform, can they?”
“Apparently not.”
A day or two ago we couldn’t get a word out of Partridge, and now he was almost loquacious. What had changed? We must have begun prying open the case. There was no way to close it up again, so the butler had gone from a position of strength to one of weakness. He was seeking mercy, and I wasn’t sure Barker would tender it.
The Guv sat back and folded up the papers in his hand. “That’s all I need from you, I think,” he said.
“I can stay if you have further questions.”
“No, no, I’m sure you have many duties requiring your attention. Thank you for your trouble.”
“Oh, it was no trouble, I assure you.”
Partridge stood about for a moment or two trying to be helpful. Eventually he gave up and left the room for all the other duties he had.
“He is either certain we shall find something or he is afraid we shall,” I said to my employer. “Which is it?”
“If he knew for certain a fact was in a particular document, he would attempt to take it away with him.”
“Unless there is more than one fact he doesn’t want uncovered.”
“Nothing here appears very old or particularly damning. Even his will is only a few years old,” Barker said.
“We’ll soldier on, then,” I told him.
Without the butler’s interference, we delved deeper into the papers, making observations from time to time.
“His Lordship was generous with the people who sold goods in boats locally,” the Guv said. “He bought flowers when he had a fine gardener, and vegetables when his own kitchen garden was adequate.”
“It’s a wonder a boat has not arrived over the last few days, hoping he would buy something. Have you noticed that everyone we’ve spoken to has a high opinion of Lord Hargrave except the killer?”
“I had noticed that. Granted, a man can’t please everyone.”
“Some don’t even try.”
Barker raised an eyebrow.
“Mr. Kerry, for example.”
“Ah,” he said, and went back to looking at papers.
“There are no legal disputes with anyone, nothing involving the coast guard or any local police constabulary. The family seems very law-abiding.”
“You sound disappointed,” I said.
“It means we have to dig deeper into the past of a family that does not deserve such attention.”
“There must be some reason they have been targeted. The killer isn’t moving from one island to another, wiping out the inhabitants.”
“You don’t know that for fact, lad. We are cut off from all local information.”
“But it is unlikely.”
“No less likely than someone plotting an entire island’s inhabitants for destruction.”
“True. What have you got there?”
“It is Lord Hargrave’s will.”
Barker opened an official-looking envelope.
“‘I, Richard Allen Burrell, Lord Hargrave, being of sound mind and body…’”
His voice trailed off. His mind was absorbed in the document. He did not speak for five minutes. I read over a handful of documents, none of much interest. Barker suddenly spoke again.
“In the event of His Lordship’s death, the estate was split between the wife and eldest son, with a settlement upon Percy and a dowry for Olivia. In the event Paul died, his settlement and the title went to Percy. It was assumed that Olivia would marry into her fortune.”
“And if they all die, are there charities?”
“In the event all of them died, the estate and all it entailed but not the title would go to a distant relative, a Mr. John Herbert Hillary.”
“John Hillary. Could that mean Jack Hillary of the so-called Three Tigers, part owner of the Paititi Rubber Company?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“What kind of relation is he?”
“It doesn’t say that, either.”
“One doesn’t just give an estate away, unless there is a title with it. Does it say if he is his relative or hers?”
“It appears to be in her line only.”
“Presumably, his title goes to a cousin, the new Lord Hargrave. She has no family members for the estate to go to?”
“Not necessarily. This Hillary person could inherit after the children but instead of extended family members.”
“So you’re saying this Hillary could be a choice, rather than a natural successor. ‘In the unlikely event that everyone dies, I choose etc., etc.’ A very unlikely piece of legality.”
“Aye.”
“Would Lady Hargrave need to die for this Hillary person to inherit? Or could the estate be split?”
“It would be necessary for everyone to die before he got a farthing.”
“That’s not good.”
Barker thought for a few minutes, shaking his head slowly. “No, there’s only one thing to do.”
“What’s that?”
“We cannot speak with the solicitor in London who drafted this document, provided he’s even alive.”
“True.”
“Therefore, the only person we can ask is Lady Celia herself.”
I felt as if a weight had been lifted.
“Yes. Finally. But she is in heavy mourning. Her family has been decimated. She may not speak to us.”
“We must do everything we can to force her. Perhaps we can trade information.”
“What you mean?”
“I don’t believe Lord Hargrave kept his wife informed about things. Between us we may know more about the family than anyone else on the island.”
“We must talk to her, then,” I said.
“Aye.”
“When?”
“There is no time like the present. I’m afraid I cannot guarantee that all or even one of us shall be alive by the stroke of midnight.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Barker stopped in the hallway and knocked on Mrs. Ashleigh’s door. She and Olivia were no longer in the library. He could have walked into his own room and called out to her through the connecting door but for whatever reason he chose not to. There was something very formal about the motion, as if he wanted it to be on public record.
Philippa answered the door wearing a cream-colored dress and matching pearl necklace and earrings. Having been childless her entire life, and a woman of fashion, her waist was especially small. I had the rare feeling that my employer was being thickheaded. He needed to marry this woman before someone else did. One might feel that he is some God-appointed sentinel to the capital and that’s all well and good, but to keep such a woman as Philippa Ashleigh sitting on a shelf was a crime in and of itself.
“Where is Miss Burrell?” he asked.
“Locked in her room. I had to have a talk with her. Apparently, she was trying to take advantage of Thomas’s better nature. Has something happened?”
“It is time for me to speak to Lady Hargrave. I thought you might be willing to accompany me.”
She stepped forward, her dress sweeping the hardwood floor as she moved.
“Yes, I had better.”
When we reached Her Ladyship’s room, which was just opposite ours on the other side of the hall, Philippa stopped him with a hand on his broad chest, and went inside to speak with her alone. I could hear voices inside, but not actual words. Finally, the door opened and we were ushered inside by Mrs. Ashleigh.
It was a beautiful room. I still recall it now, years later. There were silvery stripes in the wallpaper, rose-patterned Axminster carpet, and Louis XVI furniture. The room might have been delivered here by boat piece by piece from Versailles. Every table was covered in ceramic bric-a-brac of shepherdesses and swains, sheep and castles. The paintings on the walls were landscapes, but sunny ones. All was beauty and light. They did not look like real places at all. She lives in a fairy-tale world, I told myself, created by her husband.
In the very center of a large bed she lay in a dressing gown of red and gold and white. Her hair had been perfectly coiffed. Only the puffiness of her eyes and the redness of her face told of some kind of tragedy.
She was only five or six years older than Mrs. Ashleigh, I thought, but her beauty had faded. Her features were soft and round. Her best feature was her eyes, blue as a robin’s egg. She had been spoiled. Those were my observations, but what did they matter? She looked the way that pleased him, or else he might have strayed, but I don’t think he did. The love between them seemed genuine.
“I have been dreading this,” Lady Hargrave said.
“Consider me like a doctor, ma’am. We shall try to make this as brief as possible. My associate and I are trying to get at what is occurring here, knowing that you have only Olivia left alive. We understand that there is someone in your past. Specifically, a young man named Silas Hillary.”
“Silas,” she whispered to herself.
“I understand you formed an attachment with him, but that your family did not approve.”
“He was not Catholic, you see. And he was poor. If he’d had one thing in his favor they might have accepted him, but, well. He didn’t.”
“Tell me about him, ma’am. I’m sure there are few that even remember him these days.”
“Oh, he was a wonderful young man. So handsome and romantic. He wrote poetry to me. I’ve kept all his letters.”
