Being Elizabeth (34 page)

Tearing her eyes away from the wall of paintings, Elizabeth focused her gaze on Francis. ‘You can't possibly think that someone, i.e. the police, will try and pin Amy's death on Robin, do you?'

‘They can't do that if there's no evidence of foul play, and I'm sure there isn't. Try not to worry, Elizabeth. In a few days all of this will blow over.'

‘I hope so.' She pursed her lips. ‘Somebody in the press might try to insinuate that Robin had Amy killed so that he could marry me. But, of course, the two of
you
know how little their divorce mattered, because I don't want to get married.'

‘No one can write anything like that,' Cecil assured her. ‘There are such things as libel laws in this country, you know. And Francis is right, not only are the two of us lawyers, but we are indeed swamped with them at Deravenels. Just keep a low profile, and don't go rushing down to Cirencester. Promise me that, Elizabeth.'

‘I promise. Anyway, Robin doesn't want me around at the moment. He thinks it's better we don't see each other for the time being.'

‘A wise man,' Cecil said, and silently thanked God that he was.

R
obin had nothing to do with Amy Robson Dunley's death
in any way whatsoever, and neither did I. We are not
murderers nor instigators of murder, but there are those
who are envious of us and jealous, and out to get us both, who
put about nasty and untrue stories, muttered with a knowing
certainty behind our backs
.

Chinese whispers, how I hate them. And they have been
rampant ever since Amy's unexpected and tragic death became
public knowledge. She died on the eighth: it was in the newspapers
on the ninth, and they have not stopped printing stories
ever since. But the press are careful not to libel us; the stories
are all built on speculation and vague, and Francis says they
won't stop until the matter is finally put to rest. That will be
after the inquest. It is to be held at the Coroner's Court in
Cheltenham this coming Monday, and I can't wait for it to be
over and done with. It was supposed to be this Friday, but got
moved to Monday the twenty-first because of some scheduling
problem to do with the court. I am not worried. I have no
reason to be. There are only two possible verdicts. Accidental
death, sometimes called death by misadventure, or suicide. Robin
insists Amy would not take her own life, and certainly not by
throwing herself down a flight of stairs. Others insist the same
thing, say she was in good health and good spirits. And I must
believe Alicia Forrest and her husband Anthony. Both of them
are squeaky clean, renowned for their good character and
respected for their honesty. No one would ever doubt them
because of their extraordinary reputation
.

Alicia told me herself that she was positive Amy was not ill
with any fatal disease, and that she was happy and carefree two
days before her death. I am not worried about Robin. He has
done nothing wrong, and the police have not brought any charges.
As we all know, there is no evidence of any wrongdoing by
anybody
.

But I miss my dearest love, my dearest friend. And I know
he misses me. We speak on the phone several times a day, and
that helps, but I am lonely and a little lost without his loving
presence, his jokes and his laughter, his caring nature. He is
miles away in Kent, staying at Stonehurst Farm, at Grace Rose's
suggestion. And here I am at my beloved Ravenscar. Cecil and
Francis both thought we should do separate disappearing acts
to escape the pestering of the press. And so we did. We put the
whole of England between us. ‘Nothing by half measures, that's
you,' Robin said to me when I told him where I was going and
why, explaining that I didn't want to be too near him in case I
broke my word and rushed to see him. I had promised Cecil
Williams I would play it cool, and I am doing that
.

I still haven't changed my mind about marriage. I aim to have
my freedom … my tune is the same … I've been singing it for
years. Amy's sudden death changes nothing for me. Robin is
now free to marry. I am not. And why is that? I've sometimes
asked myself that over the last few days. The answer is simple …
I don't wish to take that step
.

It's Thursday the seventeenth today, I see from my engagement
book, only a few days now until the inquest. And when
it is over Robin will join me here in Yorkshire. Merry wanted
to come with me to keep me company, but I prefer to be alone.
Also, as I explained to her, I need her to remain in London,
manning my office. Robin has a companion with him at
Stonehurst Farm, his cousin Thomas Blunte. Thomas is a trusted
relative and has spent most of his life looking after the Dunleys
in some way or other, and in the most caring way. A good man
whom Robin trusts and also enjoys being with. I am pleased he
has company
.

There have been more stories in the newspapers today, not
really damaging but irritating. I'll be relieved when all this dies
down. I marvel sometimes that such a grand edifice has been
built on nothing but uninformed gossip
…

Elizabeth walked along the beach below the cliffs, enjoying the fresh air. It was one of those extraordinary September days; the sky was brilliantly blue and unstained, the sun warm, the air balmy … an Indian summer day, the kind she had always loved. A rare kind of day for Yorkshire. All too often on this coastline the sun fled and dark clouds blew in to mar the sky, and the sharp wind off the North Sea cooled the air.

That had not happened this afternoon, and Elizabeth walked on, enjoying the beauty of the empty beach, the sense of freedom she experienced here on her land.

At one moment, she lifted her head and looked up at the brilliant sky, shading her eyes with her hand. The kittiwakes who lived in their nests on the sides of the cliffs wheeled and turned against the clear blue vaulted backdrop, their cries shrill on the air. Those beautiful birds had been here for centuries, just as her ancestors had. For over eight hundred years Deravenels had lived at Ravenscar. Before that beautiful Elizabethan manor house had been built there had been another house … All that
remained of that one now was the ruined stronghold standing above her on the edge of the cliffs. She could see it in the distance, and instantly thought then of all those Deravenels who had gone before, and for whom she had always had a certain partiality. She had been attracted to them for as long as she could remember.

She and Grace Rose were the last of the Deravenel line. Suddenly her thoughts went to Richard Deravenel, and all that she had learned about him from Grace Rose. He had been blamed for a crime … the disappearance of his two little nephews, and their possible deaths. Yet Grace Rose believed in his innocence to this very day. Another mystery that no one could ever possibly solve.

And Amy's death would always be a mystery to some, whatever the verdict of the Coroner's Court next week. There were people who thrived on the theory of conspiracy … it was like manna to them. Who murdered Marilyn Monroe? Assassinated John F. Kennedy? Murdered Princess Diana?
Whodidit?whodidit?whodidit?
She could hear those frantic voices in her head, screaming the words, non-stop, and then the constant
why?why?why
? Amy would become another cult figure, wouldn't she? No matter what the coroner decided, there would always be a hint of suspicion about Robert Dunley and his lover, Elizabeth Deravenel Turner. She sighed under her breath, knowing there was nothing she could ever do about that … She was a Deravenel and scandal and rumour dogged them.

Francis Walsington sat with Cecil Williams in a booth at Wilton's, their favourite fish restaurant in Jermyn Street. As he slid his small fork under the fat Colchester oyster he said softly, ‘I really do think I must go down to Cheltenham, Cecil. As an observer. And Robert just might need me.'

Cecil, who had been reluctant to agree about this matter, unexpectedly caved in. ‘All right, go then, keep an eye out for Robert.
Frankly, I can't imagine any other verdict than accidental death though, can you?'

‘No, I can't. But then one never knows when life's going to throw you a googly.' This was said in a dour voice and Francis grimaced.

Cecil burst out laughing. ‘You've been reading too many tabloid newspapers, me lad. Full of bloody awful stuff these days, scandals galore, and it's bad news in general in the others.'

‘That's what newspapers are for, Cecil, to bring us all
bad
news. But listen to this. Nicholas just told me an hour ago that he saw John Norfell in Paris the other day.'

Cecil glanced at his old friend and colleague, his expression one of total puzzlement. He frowned. ‘So what? Norfell has a right to go anywhere he wants.'

‘Of course he does, but Nicholas saw him coming out of the Dauphin building just off the Champs-Elysées. How about that?'

‘Did he now.' Cecil's thoughtful grey-blue eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Why would our John be visiting Dauphin? To see Catherine de Burgh? Or her daughter-in-law, Marie de Burgh? That gives one food for thought, doesn't it?'

Francis said, ‘Is he perhaps staking his claim … on Marie? Going shopping for the future? You know he was in Mary Turner's pocket.'

‘I've never been really sure about that. And the kilt isn't his type.'

‘Neither was Mary Turner, but I long harboured the suspicion that he wanted to slide in there, and would have done so if she hadn't married the Spanish gigolo.' Francis finally slipped the oyster in his mouth, relishing it.

‘Robert has never stopped warning us that Norfell bears watching, and he's rarely wrong about those things. He has an instinct for sniffing out double-dealing and treachery.' Cecil also ate one of his oysters, and then looked off into the distance before adding worriedly, ‘Norfell is very ambitious, no question
of that. And if François de Burgh dies, and the kilt comes trotting over to the highlands, Norfell might get a few ideas –'

‘About Scottish Heritage,' Francis finished, cutting across him.

‘You'd better keep an eye on him,' Cecil suggested.

‘A tail would be more efficient.'

‘Do what you think is best, Francis. I don't need to know your methods … In fact, the less I know the better. Just do it soon.'

‘Consider it done,' Francis answered and finished his plate of oysters.

O
n Monday morning, Robert Dunley, accompanied by Anthony and Alicia Forrest and Francis Walsington, stood outside the Coroner's Court in Cheltenham.

‘It's good of you to come, Francis,' Robert said, and then introduced his friends who had just arrived. After they had all shaken hands, Robert went on, ‘Anthony and Alicia both knew Amy for a number of years, and as you're aware, Anthony looks after some of my financial affairs. So he was frequently in contact with Amy. That's why he's here to give evidence to the Coroner, along with Alicia.'

‘I understand,' Francis said, and then glanced at a tall, dark-haired woman heading in their direction. ‘Is this someone you know? Whatever, she's about to descend on us.'

Robert followed the direction of his gaze. ‘It's Connie Mellor, the housekeeper.'

‘Is it really? She's a lot younger than I expected and quite a looker, isn't she?' Francis turned to Anthony. ‘This is the woman who you thought might have been gossiping, isn't it? Tittle-tattling to the police?'

‘It is,' Anthony said, and then had no option but to greet her as she came to a sudden standstill next to them.

‘Good morning,' he said, and introduced Francis Walsington.

After she had said hello to everyone in return, Connie Mellor took a step away from them. ‘I was told to be here at nine-thirty and I don't want to be late. If you'll excuse me.' Without another word she hurried away.

Francis watched her go, frowning. ‘A bit abrupt, I'd say.'

Robert gave him a keen look. ‘She may be feeling guilty,
if
she did do some gossiping. Anyway, she's right about one thing, we were told to be here for nine-thirty. So let's go.'

The four of them trooped across the pavement to the door of the Coroner's Court and went inside. They were immediately greeted by a tall, well-built man, who had apparently been waiting for them. ‘Good morning, Mr Dunley,' he said, obviously recognizing Robert. ‘I'm Michael Anderson, the Coroner's Officer.'

After greeting him, shaking his hand, Robert said, ‘This is Mr and Mrs Anthony Forrest, old friends of mine, who are witnesses, and a colleague and friend, Francis Walsington.'

Pleasantries were exchanged, and Mr Anderson guided them through a small lobby, down several corridors and into a large room, rather like a concert hall, which was filled with chairs lined up in rows. At the far end of the room, in front of the chairs, was the Coroner's bench on a raised platform. Nearby was a witness box.

Mr Anderson guided them to the front row of chairs, and explained, ‘Please sit here, and make yourselves comfortable. There will be other witnesses arriving momentarily, but as you can see there is plenty of space for everyone. And Mr Dunley, those seats over there are for the press.'

‘Oh, I hadn't realized the press would be here,' Robert answered, looking surprised.

‘The inquest, any inquest, is open to the press and the public, Mr Dunley. Now, do you have any questions?'

‘I don't think so.'

Mr Anderson smiled, nodded, and said, ‘I've a few things to attend to, but I'll be back in a moment or two.'

Francis leaned into Robert and murmured, ‘Don't worry about the press, or anything else, for that matter. This is going to be a smooth hearing. And incidentally, an inquest is held in order to establish who the deceased is, and how that person died, and when. It's not about why they died.'

‘I understand.' Robert glanced around as he heard voices, and saw that the courtroom was suddenly filling up with people. He spotted Inspector Lawson and Sergeant Fuller, as well as Amy's GP, Dr Norman Allerton. Connie Mellor sat alone in one of the rows; the rest of the people he didn't know, but assumed they were also witnesses.

Suddenly the inquest began, taking Robert by surprise. He heard Mr Anderson saying, ‘Everyone please rise,' and as they all did so a distinguished-looking man entered, went straight to the raised platform and sat behind the bench. Robert realized that this was the Coroner, Dr David Wentworth.

The Coroner began to speak, explained that they were present to look into the death of a woman who had fallen down a flight of stairs, and died of a broken neck. He then glanced over at the Coroner's Officer and instructed him to start the proceedings. Once Mr Anderson had taken the oath, sworn to tell the truth, given the name and address of the deceased, and manner of her death, he stepped down.

The Coroner spoke for a few moments about the forthcoming procedure, and in the process lost Robert for a moment or two … His thoughts drifted, settled on Amy and the ghastly way she had died. It need never have happened … one of those stupid accidents in the home. A feeling of sadness overwhelmed him …
only twenty-six, and she was dead, just like that, in the blink of an eye. Such a silly accident, avoidable, really. But she had always rushed around, hectic and energized, for as long as he had know her. Ambrose had reminded him of this last week at her funeral … a simple affair at the church she liked in Cirencester. Anne had come with Ambrose, as well as Amy's half brother Jack, her only living relative other than him. A small sad funeral. Her passing had been a tragic affair …

The sound of a door banging brought Robert out of his reverie, and he sat up straighter. A second later he was startled even more when the Coroner called the first witness. He had expected to give his evidence before anyone else, but, in fact, the Coroner had called Connie Mellor to the witness stand.

After taking the oath, swearing to tell the truth, she gave her name and address, and, when asked, said that she had been employed as housekeeper for Mrs Amy Dunley for the past four years.

Robert suddenly realized what a kind face and voice Dr Wentworth had. Now he was asking the housekeeper if it was she who had discovered the body of the deceased.

‘It was, sir.'

‘Would you please be good enough to give us the full details of that discovery, and tell the court what happened that day.'

‘I will, sir. Well, it was like this. After I'd served Mrs Dunley lunch I went shopping. In Cirencester. I was only gone about an hour, and I returned home to Thyme Lodge at two o'clock. After I'd put the groceries away, I went looking for Mrs Dunley. To discuss dinner. The menu, I mean. She usually worked in her office in the afternoons, an upstairs office, and so I went through to the front hall, to go upstairs. And there she was, lying at the bottom of the stairs. It was a real shock. She was all twisted up, skewed, sort of. I ran to her, Dr Wentworth, I was ever so afraid … I knew she'd hurt herself badly. And when I knelt down, I realized …' Pausing, Connie Mellor cleared her throat
several times, and her voice was suddenly trembling as she went on, ‘Well, I knew she was dead from her eyes. I didn't even have to check her pulse.'

‘And after this, Mrs Mellor? What did you do next?' the Coroner asked quietly.

‘I went to the phone and called the ambulance and the police. And they came ever so quickly. Together. It was one of the paramedics who asked me if I'd touched the body, and I said no, I hadn't, I knew better than to do that, I told him.'

‘You formally identified Mrs Dunley at this time, and gave the police the information you have just given to this court?'

‘I did, sir. It was another of the paramedics that told me Mrs Dunley had broken her neck. After a while, the ambulance men took her body away, and then Inspector Lawson talked to me. A little later I rang up Mr Forrest to tell him what had happened, and he said he would get in touch with Mr Dunley at once.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Mellor. Now I would like to ask you about Mrs Dunley's state of mind that day, her mood in general. Was she unhappy? Sad, or despondent about anything? Or perhaps depressed?'

‘Not that day, she wasn't, she was all right, sir. She was in a good mood. In fact, she told me she might be going away for a while, abroad, she said, perhaps to Paris, and she asked me if I minded being alone in the house. I told her I didn't. But there were days when she was … well … how shall I put it? A little out of sorts with herself. It was because of the divorce.'

‘Bloody hell, why has she said that?' Anthony hissed to Alicia, and she shushed him softly, took hold of his hand, trying to calm him down.

‘Did she tell you that in those exact words, Mrs Mellor?' the Coroner now asked, focusing his attention on the housekeeper intently.

‘No, not exactly, sir, but I knew that was the reason.'

‘I think that perhaps I might have to categorize that statement
as an assumption on your part, don't you think?' The Coroner gave Connie Mellor another piercing look through very keen, bright blue eyes. ‘A speculation perhaps?'

Connie Mellor appeared chastened. ‘I suppose so,' she agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

‘Did Mrs Dunley ever tell you explicitly that she was upset about the impending divorce? Or angry?'

‘No, she didn't.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Mellor. You may now step down.'

As Robert heard his name called he jumped up at once, and hurried over to the witness box. He swore on oath to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, etcetera, and then waited for the Coroner to question him.

‘I see from your earlier statement to the police that you were separated from your wife, Amy Robson Dunley, the deceased, but that it was an amicable separation,' Dr Wentworth said, looking across at Robert with obvious interest. ‘It is also the court's understanding that you were working on the financial arrangements of the divorce. Is that correct, Mr Dunley?'

‘It is, Dr Wentworth. My wife and I remained good friends, and it was a mutual decision that we divorce; nor were there any problems about the financial settlement. I had already given her Thyme Lodge, just after we finally separated.'

‘When did you last see the deceased?' the Coroner asked.

‘On August the sixth. At Thyme Lodge. I drove down from London to discuss various matters pertaining to the divorce,' Robert said.

‘And you did not see her after that date?'

‘I did not, Dr Wentworth. However, I did speak to her on the phone, both in late August and early September. She also told me, as she apparently told Mrs Mellor, that she might be planning to spend some time in Paris.'

‘Did you ever see her despondent or depressed, Mr Dunley?'

‘No, I didn't. That was not her nature, not by a long shot,
and she was in no way upset because we were divorcing. So I'm convinced that Amy fell, that her death was an accident. I'm certain she didn't throw herself down the stairs.'

The Coroner looked momentarily startled by Robert's comments but made no mention of them. He said, ‘Did you have any reason to believe that the deceased might have been suffering from any physical or mental malady?'

‘No. To the best of my knowledge she was in good health,' Robert answered crisply.

‘Thank you, Mr Dunley, you may go back to your seat.'

The third witness was Dr Norman Allerton, Amy's physician, and after taking the oath, he was asked by the Coroner if Amy Robson Dunley had been his patient.

‘Yes, she was, except that she was rarely sick with anything serious. All I ever treated her for was a cold, the 'flu, such things as that. Minor ailments.'

‘When did you last examine the deceased?' Dr Wentworth now inquired.

‘At the end of June.'

‘Was she suffering from some kind of sudden complaint, Dr Allerton?'

‘No, she was not. She came in to see me because it was time for her annual check-up.'

‘And you found she was in good health?'

‘She was in
perfect
health.'

‘What was her frame of mind the last time you saw her?'

‘Totally normal. The late Mrs Dunley was not suffering from anything. She was in good mental and physical condition.'

‘Thank you, Dr Allerton, you may return to your seat.'

And so it went … witnesses were called and asked the same questions. More or less. Robert listened attentively, as did his friends, finding the proceedings amicable and somewhat informal, and ultimately repetitive and boring.

Suddenly, one of the paramedics, Arthur Tarlaton, was called
to the witness box, and was asked by the Coroner to describe the deceased's injuries.

‘When I entered the hall of Thyme Lodge, the house where the deceased lived, I saw that Mrs Dunley's body looked twisted where it lay at the bottom of the stairs. I thought it more than likely she had tried to break her fall. I examined her immediately, and noted that she had broken her neck. There was also a gash on the back of her head, where she had hit it on the hall floor, or perhaps on the edge of the stairs as she had tumbled down them. There was blood on the marble floor in the foyer, and later DNA tests proved that it was Mrs Dunley's blood on that floor.'

‘Mr Tarlaton, in your opinion, did the deceased die from a fall down a staircase? Or could something else have caused her death? Or somebody? Such as an intruder?'