Devil May Care (A Jonathan Harker Mystery) (5 page)

‘Aye,
a recluse, certainly, sir. And perhaps something more. There’s many a person here in St Ives who’d be careful to cross to the other side of the road if they saw Sir Owen Velland heading towards them. Not that he visits the town very often – we saw little enough of him before Lady Velland died, and since then he’s here even less. Now sir, if you are ready for your dinner, I’ve a nice claret in the cellar that might interest you...’

*

I was furnished with a plain but well-cooked meal and went to bed early. However, as it transpired, my night was to be far from restful. It was just after half-past ten when I turned out the gas and thanks to my earlier exercise walking the streets of St Ives – and perhaps also to the claret, which had lived up to the landlord’s testimonial – I soon fell sound asleep.

At
what time my subsequent experience (to call it a mere dream seems hardly adequate) commenced it is impossible to tell for certain. My dreams are usually the normal rag-bag of half-remembered recent events and impressions, rarely connected by any cogent or rational theme, but this was something very different.

In
my nocturnal vision I found myself in a large, dimly lit building of evident antiquity, suggestive of a place of worship. A stone floor stretched in front of me, inscribed with white markings as if drawn upon with a lump of chalk. At the centre of the strange geometric design stood a familiar figure whom I immediately recognised as the same young woman I had seen yesterday morning from the window of my railway carriage. Her face was as pale and sad as I had remembered it and her eyes were once again fixed upon mine. Before I could speak she took a sudden step towards me, holding her hands in front of her as if to encourage my retreat. I would have given ground gladly, but found myself unable to move. As we stood there motionless, the light in the building dimmed further. The figure began to lose its definition and an instant later vanished as if it had been turned to insubstantial vapour. In the same instant a soft but penetrating chanting filled the building, clearly enunciated but not composed of any words with which I was familiar. As the volume of the sound increased, three black-robed figures appeared from the periphery of the large open space and began walking towards me with an air of menace.

It
was at that terrifying moment that I realised with sudden lucidity that I was in fact asleep and dreaming and that the unpleasant vista that was before me was of my own imagining. With this welcome insight the scene in front of me dissolved and I found myself jolted out of my dream and lying in my bed in the George Hotel. It was some time before I could compose my thoughts well enough to fall back into an uneasy sleep, though thankfully it was without further interruption.

*

On waking I took up my pocket book and made as good a job as I could of sketching the peculiar pattern that I had seen in my dream the previous evening. Over breakfast I thought carefully about the previous night’s experience. On the one hand a perfectly rational explanation presented itself: the strange figure that I had seen from the carriage window on Monday morning could have been a natural phenomenon, a real if somewhat unusual-looking young woman. If so, what could be more natural than to dream of such a bizarre encounter? But, on the other hand, I found it hard to accept that the pale-faced figure I had seen from the train had any corporeal existence. Her ability to fix her gaze on mine at a distance and
through
the
train
window
was unnatural. For another, the unique quality of my experience the night before suggested something more than a common dream. I decided that I would take Mina, Charles Ashby and Edith into my confidence and place both episodes before them when we met later today. Meanwhile it was possible that my imminent meeting with Sir Owen Velland might shed some light on the matter.

*

I had arranged with Newsome to provide me with a hired horse and after breakfast he brought Willow round from the stables for my approval. I was delighted with his selection: Willow was a sturdy bay mare, good natured and biddable, but with all the appearance of strength and stamina. She was not a creature to be chosen for hunting or a point to point, but ideal for the kind of cross-country journey to Carrick Manor which I had planned. Newsome had also very kindly supplied me with a large-scale Ordnance Survey map of the area and pointed out the paths that I should follow in order to reach Sir Owen’s somewhat isolated estate. I could see that Carrick Manor was a mile or so north of Gwithian and that the road to it passed through Hayle. However, as I had already arranged to call at Rosehill later that day, I did not intend to visit Mina and the Ashbys
en
route
.

*

My horse turned out to be as stalwart as she looked and in less than two hours I found myself in sight of the house – Carrick Manor was a low, somewhat squat building, sheltered from the worst of the hilltop weather by a small plantation of stunted conifers to the North West. I already knew something of its history from Charles Ashby: the house, inhabited by Sir Owen Velland and his cousin Arnold Paxton, was Elizabethan, having been built in the late sixteenth century. For most of my morning’s journey there had been some welcome autumn sunshine, but as I neared the house a bank of cloud cast a pall of gloom across the countryside.

A
gravel drive led up to the massive arched stone doorway. The mullioned windows which punctuated the front of the building were rather smaller than in other houses I had seen from the same period and I guessed that was because of the severe climate experienced in such a location. I tethered Willow to a stunted bush nearby and knocked twice on the weather-beaten plank door.

After
a considerable pause I was invited inside by a sombre butler, who combined the manners of a trained servant with the features and physique of a prize-fighter. He took me through the hall to a small but comfortably furnished library, where an open fire blazed cheerfully.

‘Mr
Jonathan Harker, sir,’ the butler announced.

Two
men who had been sitting on each side of the large brick fireplace rose to greet me.

‘Thank
you, Jennings, you can go,’ the taller of the two said advancing to shake my hand. ‘I am Sir Owen Velland. And this is my solicitor, Mr Elias Makepiece, of Penning and Makepiece, St Ives.’

As
the solicitor made a polite bow in my direction, I observed the baronet carefully. The first thing that struck me was that for a man of forty five he was remarkably well preserved. He was tall – I would have put him at just over six feet – with a lean and powerful figure. His raven black hair and pointed beard, combined with the pallor of his skin and a penetrating gaze, gave him a somewhat sinister appearance which had no doubt assisted the spread of rumours about him. Immaculately attired, Sir Owen wore a close fitting short frock coat, wing collar and dark silk necktie. A large ruby ring sparkled on the little finger of his left hand. The general effect of this ensemble might have appeared foppish, were it not for the impression of controlled power, both physical and mental, which the baronet projected. Mr Makepiece, in contrast, was dressed in a wool check suit which suggested a tailor from St Ives rather than Savile Row and had the ruddy features of a countryman.

‘I
trust you had a pleasant journey to Cornwall, Mr Harker,’ Sir Owen said. ‘Have you visited these parts before?’

‘I
have been to Penzance, but not previously to St Ives,’ I said. ‘My wife has visited Hayle before: the Revered Ashby’s wife is an old friend of hers. I hope to see the Ashbys later today.’

‘Ah
yes, Trewellard mentioned that she is staying there now,’ Sir Owen said. ‘Ashby is a capable fellow – does most of the vicar’s work, I believe!’

Makepiece
coughed discreetly. ‘I believe that Mr Haywood has spoken to you about his daughter’s marriage settlement?’

‘Indeed,’
I replied. ‘And I have taken the liberty of preparing a draft for Sir Owen’s approval.’

At
the baronet’s suggestion we seated ourselves around a small table in the corner of the library. Makepiece read carefully through the document I had prepared, pausing periodically to make a comment or to draw Sir Owen’s attention to an item in the agreement. All proceeded amicably, until the solicitor reached the final clause in the draft – the same one that I had queried with Flora’s father when I had visited him the previous morning. After reading it Makepiece drew in his breath, re-read it and looked up at me.

‘Upon
my word, Mr Harker, this is most unusual. Did Mr Haywood specifically ask that this be inserted?’

‘He
did sir, and is most adamant that it should remain.’

Sir
Owen leant across and took hold of the document. ‘What is this, Makepiece? Let me see.’

He
read the section aloud: ‘
Notwithstanding
the
provisions
afore
stated
,
if
Lady
Flora
Velland
(
née
Haywood
)
shall
die
within
a
period
of
three
hundred
and
sixty
-
five
days
from
the
day
of
her
wedding
to
Sir
Owen
Velland
Bt
.
and
if
Lady
Velland
is
childless
at
that
time
then
the
five
thousand
pounds
placed
in
trust
to
be
inherited
by
any
children
of
that
marriage
will
be
returned
absolutely
to
Mr
Nathanial
Haywood
of
Chevin
Villa
,
Albert
Street
,
St
Ives
or
if
that
trust
fails
to
Mrs
Nellie
Haywood
of
that
address
or
failing
that
to
the
St
Ives
Society
for
Distressed
Fisherfolk
.’

Sir
Owen scowled at me across the table. ‘Explain this if you please, Mr Harker. I’m no lawyer, but my understanding is that if half Flora’s marriage settlement is to be put in trust for any children we may have – a perfectly normal arrangement – why then if, G-d forbid, she were to die childless the money should go to her husband – to me.’

I
nodded. ‘Yes, and that is what would happen in this case, unless your wife were to pass away within a year. That does not seem a very likely eventuality, since as far as I know she is in very good health.’

The
baronet got to his feet, his face pink with anger, and slammed his fist upon the table in front of him. His solicitor jumped visibly and I noted that the veneer of good manners which Sir Owen affected did not run very deeply.

He
spoke with slow menace. ‘That is hardly the point, Harker, as you are well aware.’ With an effort he controlled himself, sat down and continued. ‘That clause represents a slur on my good name. What if it ever became public? It is a good as saying that because I had the misfortune to lose one wife prematurely, Haywood wants to guard against my losing another equally quickly. No, it won’t do.’

It
was my turn to stand up and as I did so I gathered my papers together. It was now clear to me why Nathanial Haywood had insisted on the inclusion of the contentious clause. If the settlement was unacceptable to Sir Owen Velland, then the marriage could hardly take place: an outcome with which Mr and Mrs Haywood would be very pleased.

I
addressed the baronet. ‘Sir, can I make two points? Firstly, a moment ago you addressed me as ‘Harker’. If in future you could give me the benefit of my title and include ‘Mr’ in front of my name I would appreciate it. Secondly, as you object to a clause in the agreement which my client believes to be essential, there seems little point in prolonging this discussion. I will report back to Mr Haywood and tell him that agreement cannot be reached. If you can ring for your butler, I will wish you good day.’

‘Mr
Harker, let me apologise. I may have spoken hastily.’ Sir Owen paused, and smiled unconvincingly at Makepiece. ‘After all, I have every confidence in my solicitors’ discretion. I cannot say that I am happy with the clause that Flora’s father insists upon, but provided it remains a secret between us, I daresay I will have to put up with it. Let me make a suggestion. If two copies of this agreement can be drawn up by Mr Makepiece by next Monday morning you can call into his office in St Ives and read them both through. Then if you can ask Mr Haywood to sign them and have them witnessed I will do the same and we can each retain a copy. That will, I hope, allow the wedding to take place by the end of January, as Flora and I wish.’