Heirs of Ravenscar (47 page)

Finally, a sob broke through, and tears were rolling down Bess's face as she gently closed his eyelids. She kissed his cheek, and so did Grace Rose, and then she whispered, ‘Safe journey, Richard. My father's waiting for you.'

The two of them hurried back to the steps, and began to climb. At one moment, Bess tilted her eyes to the sky. It was a vivid blue, and the sun was shining. And for once the weather at Ravenscar was warm. Such a beautiful day, Bess thought, such a beautiful day to leave behind. And the tears came again, trickling down her cheeks.

When they reached the terrace, Jessup was waiting for them. His face was white, and his apprehension visible. ‘What has happened, Miss Bess?' he asked, suddenly sounding old.

‘My uncle is dead … there's blood all over his chest.' Her voice broke on the last few words; she took a deep breath and continued, in a steadier voice, ‘Please have the gardeners go down to the beach to retrieve his body, Jessup. They'll need sheets to wrap around him. Meanwhile, I shall go and telephone the police.'

Grace Rose and Bess went to the office and the butler rushed off to send the gardeners to fetch the body. Grace
Rose said quietly, taking hold of Bess's arm, ‘The police will come but they'll find nothing. Someone came in by boat, stabbed Richard and left. It's Wednesday, and everyone in the village is working. The beach has been deserted all morning: in fact, I've not seen one person on it since I arrived here on Friday.'

‘I know,' Bess agreed and dialled the number of the Scarborough constabulary. When she got through she asked for Inspector Wallis. He came on the line immediately and she told him what had happened.

There was a sudden silence at his end of the phone for a moment, before he said in a sympathetic tone, ‘I'll be there as quickly as possible. I'm so very sorry you're having to cope with yet another problem at Ravenscar, Miss Deravenel. My condolences about your uncle.'

After thanking him, Bess hung up, turned to Grace Rose, and murmured, ‘I don't think I can go down to that beach ever again.'

‘I can't say I blame you.' Grace Rose shook her head. ‘Now we're going to have two unsolved mysteries: please believe that.'

Bess was alone at Ravenscar.

Everyone had come for Richard's funeral, and his burial in the family cemetery. Then everyone had left. She had elected to stay on, needing to be alone, to think about her life, and her future, and the things she and her mother had discussed.

Now, as she sat in the library thinking, it was already the middle of September. Her mind settled on the last few years. So much had happened … Uncle George had died in the strangest of circumstances at the vineyard in Mâcon; then
her father had passed away very unexpectedly. Her brothers had vanished and had never been found. And last month Uncle Richard had been stabbed to death by an unknown assailant. The police had found nothing, just as Grace Rose had predicted. It was another unsolved murder on the books, so Inspector Wallis had told her. They all now believed Richard had been killed by a business enemy, or a disgruntled friend of her father.

Her family had been decimated. All the men dead. Only women left. Richard had said there was a curse on the family. Perhaps there was.

Rising, she went and stood at the window, looking out towards the sea. How her life had changed … Not so long ago she had been so very happy, carefree. Now she felt as though she were surrounded by death … and enveloped in unhappiness.

Her thoughts swung to her mother. Elizabeth had come to the funeral, bringing her four sisters, accompanied by her grandmother. Cecily Deravenel had looked careworn and exhausted to Bess, and she still worried about her. Cecily had gone back to London, insisting she had doctors to see, appointments to keep. Bess had the feeling that her grandmother could not bear to be here at Ravenscar … certainly not at this moment.

Bess loved this house. Perhaps because her father had loved it so much. However, she had not been down to the beach; she did go to the gardens and often visited the ruined stronghold which had been so meaningful to her father.

On a sudden impulse, Bess jumped up, and went outside, running down to the stronghold, swift on her feet, anxious to get there.

Once she was there she leaned against the wall, and looked out, thinking about her father, wondering what he would want her to do. She had two choices. She could remain as
she was, a single woman. Or she could marry, have a husband and children, a life of her own as a wife and mother, creating and nurturing her own family.

Her mother had spoken to her at length before going back to London, had broached the subject of Henry Turner yet again. Her mother had been pushing him at her ever since the boys had disappeared; it had actually started in December, two years ago. She had told her mother then that she wasn't interested in marriage with anyone.

Last month her mother had pointed out that this was a chance for them to keep Deravenels steady and on course. Richard Deravenel was dead. She was the heiress. Obviously she could not run the family company, become what her father and Richard had been. She was too young, a woman, who would be alien in the company, resented. Her mother, however, believed that Henry Turner
could
handle it, with her by his side to add credibility and the name Deravenel. She had not met him, and she was not sure if she would like him. Could she grow to love him? After all, this was an arranged marriage, if it took place. But what other choice was there?

Glancing at her watch, she realized Elizabeth and Henry would be arriving very soon. No sooner had this thought entered her mind when she heard her mother calling her name.

‘Bess! Bess darling! Are you down in the stronghold?'

‘Yes, mother, I am,' she answered dutifully, turning around.

‘May we come down? I have Henry with me.'

For a moment she could not speak. ‘All right,' she said eventually, holding onto the crenellated edge of the wall. Her legs were weak under her, and she was trembling, feeling nervous, even afraid.

Her mother was standing there, dressed in a beige travelling suit, looking elegant. Next to her was a tall, slender
young man, with light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a pleasant face. He was dressed in a dark grey suit, and a grey silk tie.

Her mother brought him forward, and said, ‘Bess, this is Henry Turner. Henry, my daughter, Bess.'

He stretched out his hand, took hold of hers, and smiled at her. She saw that his eyes were soft and full of understanding. He said, ‘I'm happy to finally meet you.'

‘I'm happy to meet you too,' she mumbled, and extricated her hand quickly, took a step backward.

‘I'll leave you together for a while,' Elizabeth announced. ‘I need to change. I'll see you both for tea.'

Left alone the two of them stood and stared at each other for a long time; neither had the courage to speak. Finally, Henry said, in a gentle voice, ‘I know you've been reluctant to marry me, and I do understand why. But I'm not too bad a chap, so I've been told. And certainly I will be very happy if you accept me. And I promise I will cherish you. Also, I feel sure I will probably grow to love you.'

Unexpectedly, and unable to stop herself, Bess started to laugh.

Henry Turner stared at her nonplussed and completely puzzled.

Catching her breath, swallowing her laughter, Bess said, ‘I like you for saying that, Henry Turner. I really do.'

‘For saying what?'

‘For being so honest, for saying that you'll
probably grow
to love me
. That's how I feel about you – slightly uncertain, awkward, not sure if we will love each other …'

He nodded. ‘I do want to marry you, as I said before. Well, you knew that anyway, from our plotting mothers.' He grinned at her. ‘I want to make you happy … Bess. I think I can. I'll do my damnedest.'

She was silent. She discovered she quite liked him. He wasn't the most handsome man, but he wasn't ugly either,
and he seemed to have a pleasant, warm personality. Certainly he was honest, to the point of bluntness. That was important to her. Taking a deep breath, she reached out, took hold of his hand. ‘Now that we've finally met each other, I would like to be alone, to be by myself a while. Would you mind?'

‘No, of course I don't. I understand. I'll wait for you inside.'

He left without another word.

Bess leaned her head against the stone wall, staring out across the North Sea. Who would help her if she married him? There was no one. Not even her mother. She was alone. Totally alone.

I'll fend for myself, she thought. And I'll manage.

We'll have children … And at least one of them will be a boy …
I must have a boy
. I must have a male heir for Deravenels. And I will help him. I will encourage his ambition, Show him the way.

She smiled, thinking of her handsome father. My son will be like the great Edward Deravenel … and there will always be Deravenel blood sitting in Papa's chair, running the company. And I will help to run the business through my husband and my son.

Turning around, Bess Deravenel walked back up to the house, her mind made up.

She found Henry Turner standing in the library, gazing at the portrait of her father.

‘He was the handsomest, nicest, cleverest man I ever met,' Henry told her.

‘I know,' Bess replied. ‘And we will have a son exactly like him: just you wait and see.'

H
e stood in the library at Ravenscar, staring up at the painting above the fireplace, admiring it. What an extraordinary portrait it was, of a handsome man in the prime of his life.

The great Edward Deravenel. His grandfather.

His mother, Edward's eldest daughter Bess, had always told him that he would grow up to look like her father, and she had been proven right.

This painting had been finished just a short time before Edward's fortieth birthday, and in a few days' time he himself would be forty years old. And he was the spitting image of his grandfather: six foot four, broad of chest, with red-gold hair and blue eyes. He knew that if Edward Deravenel could step out of the portrait, come to stand next to him, they would look like twins, so close was their resemblance.

Harry Turner finally turned away and walked out onto the terrace, headed through the hanging gardens, making for the ruined stronghold. His mother Bess had constantly taken
him down there as a child, explaining that it had been her father's favourite spot at Ravenscar, and therefore hers. And now his, of course.

She had brought him up on Deravenel lore, and most of it had been about his grandfather. How she had adored her father; just as he had loved his mother most especially. He had loved his father, too, but the somewhat taciturn Henry Turner had not been quite as warm, outgoing and loving as his mother. And, in fact, he had been a somewhat dull man, boring. Bess Deravenel had been a unique woman. It was from her that he had inherited his fair colouring, and also her indomitability, her strength of will, her ambition, and her positive personality. Her glass was always half full, never half empty, and he felt exactly the same. Tomorrow would always be a better day, as far as he was concerned.

Odd, though, that there were things in his life which so closely echoed Edward Deravenel's life. He, too, had married a woman five years older than himself, just as Edward had. And he dreaded the idea of catastrophe dragging him down, in the same way his grandfather had. Edward, somehow, had managed to side-step it.

He
wasn't doing quite so well with that aspect of his life. At this moment, on June twenty-third of 1970, he felt as though he was about to plunge down into a bottomless pit of catastrophe. And, if not quite that, he was, nonetheless, swimming in a sea of problems, in his personal life and in business. Deravenels he could handle. He was not quite sure about his private life.

He had to get a divorce … had to get a new wife … had to get an heir. But his wife wouldn't budge. Nothing would convince her or persuade her to release him from his torment. No divorce, that was her eternal cry.

He was haunted by his father's last words. On his deathbed
his father had told him he must get a male heir for Deravenels. Over and over again, he had said it.

But Harry had only had a daughter, and he knew full well that a woman could never be the boss. Catherine and he had been married for over twenty years and sadly Mary was their only offspring. So many dead babies, so many miscarriages.

Time was running out on him. On June twenty-eight, in four days' time, he would be forty years old and Catherine was already forty-five. How could
they
make another baby? She was too old, that was certain. Yes, it was an impossibility. Besides which, he did not desire her anymore. It was Anne he longed for, ached for, yearned to have, to hold and to possess forever. She was holding out for marriage and would not become his acknowledged mistress. In the past seven years she had thwarted him, would not move in with him … it had been that long, their dalliance. He was at times driven to the edge.

He knew full well he was caught between the iron wills of two very obdurate women. They were squeezing the life out of him.

Harry rested his forehead against the stone parapet and closed his eyes, wondering what to do … the words repeated themselves in his head: get a divorce, get married, get an heir, get a big new deal for Deravenels … get it all before it's too late.

‘Harry! Harry! Are you down there?' Charles Brandt shouted, running down the last of the steps that led into the ruined stronghold.

Harry roused himself from his dire thoughts, and straightened. He focused his eyes on Charles, his best friend from
childhood, and as he did he suddenly thought, Charles is my Will Hasling.

Harry knew all about his grandfather's best friend and closest colleague, a man his mother had loved and held in such great regard. She had constantly told him Will had died in mysterious circumstances …

So many suspicious deaths in his family's past … it made one think, didn't it? His mother's Uncle George, struck by wine casks and drowned in Beaujolais at their vineyards at Mâcon. Her Uncle Richard, stabbed by an unknown assailant on the beach here at Ravenscar. And all those other people who had died in peculiar ways years before her birth. The Deravenels seemed to be dogged by weird deaths. Had they been murders? And had some Deravenels been murderers? Yes indeed, it did make you think …

Charles Brandt walked across the flagged floor of the stronghold, once a circular tower, now roofless and open to the winds and the weather of this northern coastline. It was sunny on this Tuesday morning late in June, and Charles felt its warming rays on his face. He realized he couldn't wait to get to his house in the south of France next week. He needed a rest from everything.

Standing in front of Harry, staring hard at him, Charles felt an unexpected rush of exasperation. ‘Come on, my lad, buck up!' Charles exclaimed. ‘You look bloody miserable. What is it now?' Charles smiled faintly and shook his head. ‘As if I didn't know … you're thinking about the two women in your life who've got you by your short hairs.'

‘You've hit the nail on the head.'

‘Ouch!' Charles shot back, laughing. ‘Unfortunate choice of expression, Harry, under the circumstances.'

Harry laughed hollowly. ‘You're right, Charles, I mean about the women. But it's also about
me
. I know I can't go on much longer. I've been thinking a lot whilst we've been
up here this weekend, and in four days I'll be forty. Jesus, Charles, forty! I'm nowhere in my personal life. Absolutely bloody nowhere. I'm at the end of my tether with both of them, you know.'

‘I don't bloody blame you. Those two are ball-breakers. Catherine's been playing the pious, dedicated, saintly wife for donkey's years, and has become a martyr – in her own eyes, at least. As for Anne Bowles, she's nothing but a prick-tease, and you know it. No wonder you're desperate. I think you ought to dump them both, and move on,
tout de suite
. You know that old saying, there's more fish in the sea than ever came out.'

Harry leaned against the parapet, staring back at Charles. They had met when they were youngsters. Charles's grand father had worked for his father at Deravenels, and he had been killed in a mining accident in India. After Charles's grandfather had died Charles had become an orphan because his parents were already dead. And so Henry Turner, feeling a sense of responsibility, had brought him into their family. Charles and Harry had grown up together.

Charles was six years older, as handsome, as tall and as well built as Harry was, and he was not only his best friend but his brother-in-law. Charles Brandt was married to Harry's favourite sister, Mary. And he was the only person who would and could talk straight to Harry Turner, could tell him the absolute truth without Harry being offended.

Taking a deep breath, Harry now said, ‘It's not quite as easy as you make it sound.' He felt around in the pocket of his jacket, and looked at Charles. ‘Do you have any cigarettes on you?'

Charles nodded and pulled out a packet, offered it to Harry, then took one himself.

The two men stood in silence, smoking together, and staring out at the North Sea, lost in their own thoughts.

Charles was focused on the ridiculousness of the situation which Harry Turner was now trapped in. Here was one of the greatest tycoons in British business, if not indeed in world business, and he was caught in a complicated triangle, because of the wiles and manipulations of two women and his own weakness.

Harry was thinking similar thoughts, and cursing himself under his breath, and also wondering why Anne had such a terrible hold on him. The truth was she had a sexual attraction for him the likes of which he had never known before.

Charles said suddenly, ‘It just goes to show how two really clever women can control a man … a foolish man, I might add.'

Harry turned to him swiftly, a sudden flash of anger in his bright blue eyes. He was proud,
frequently arrogant and imperious by nature; he resented being called foolish, even by
someone as close as Charles Brandt.

‘Don't call me foolish. I hate it, and you know that,' Harry snapped.

‘Sorry, old chap.' Charles held Harry's eyes, and continued in a milder voice, ‘You're the smartest, cleverest, most brilliant man I know, have ever known. Unfortunately, you are a fool when it comes to these two women. Why don't you just tell them both to go to hell? I'll find you another woman, a beautiful, pliable, adoring woman who will satisfy all of your needs and not play you for an idiot.'

‘That's not strictly true,' Harry protested, shaking his head. ‘I mean about being an idiot.'

‘I know. And I know what you're going to say, so don't. It's all a lot of bloody bullshit between the two of you.
Jesus
! It beggars belief in this day and age. It's 1970, Harry, not the dark ages. Anne should live with you. I don't know what her problem is.'

Harry nodded, looking chagrined. ‘She won't take that final step.'

‘Too bad.' Charles took hold of his arm. ‘Let's go. Bradley has your bags packed, and mine, and they're already in the Roller. We'll discuss this on the way to town. All right?'

‘Good idea. We'd better get going.'

The two friends walked back to the house, crossed the terrace, and went into the library. Charles paused in front of Edward Deravenel's portrait and held Harry back.

‘
Look at him
. Look at your grandfather. He wouldn't have put up with a situation like this, and he lived in the 1920s, when manners and mores were entirely different than they are today. Edward Deravenel made his own rules, and so should you. You've got to solve this once and for all, Harry, or they'll take you away in a straitjacket, and in the not-too-distant future.'

Harry remained silent, stood gazing at the portrait for a long moment, and then he allowed Charles to propel him out into the Long Hall, towards the front door.

Bradley, the butler, was standing on the front steps, and he swung around at the sound of footsteps. ‘There you are, Mr Turner Everything's stowed in the boot, sir.'

‘Thanks, Bradley. I won't be in Yorkshire this coming weekend. I'll see you in a couple of weeks.'

‘Right you are, sir.' Smiling, nodding, the butler went out to the discreet black Rolls Royce and stood waiting for them, then opened the doors.

As he got in, Charles took charge. ‘I'll drive.'

Harry merely nodded, and got into the car on the passenger side, relieved that Charles was behind the wheel. He felt suddenly tired, from worry, he had no doubt.

Once they were settled, their seat belts fastened, Charles turned on the ignition and the Rolls slid smoothly down the long drive.

At one moment Charles murmured, ‘Sit back and relax, and I'll tell you what you're going to do, how you're going to handle those two … shall we call them
ladies
for want of a better word?' Charles chuckled. ‘Although I could think of a few other colourful nouns that would describe them more accurately.'

Harry laughed for the first time in days.