Heirs of Ravenscar (33 page)

The children ran through the yard, waving the sparklers in the air, laughing with glee and enjoying themselves.

Edward stood with Elizabeth and the other adults, the men drinking Scotch and water, the women sipping glasses of sherry, chatting together in the glow of the fire.

Finally it was time for the fireworks. This was carefully managed by Stephen Forth, Mark Ledbetter, Amos Finnister and Edward. There was a fantastic display of Catherine wheels, starbursts, rainbows, and falling stars, as well as many other unique fireworks. The women stood back and watched the children, and exchanged glances of pleasure. It was wonderful to see the happiness and delight on the young faces.

W
ill stood in the library of Edward's house in Berkeley Square, staring at the Renoir painting of the two redheaded young women. It hung above the fireplace, and Will understood why it took pride of place in this room. It was beautiful, a masterpiece, and he understood why it reminded Edward of Bess and Grace Rose.

He had told Edward he needed to speak to him privately, and they had arranged to meet here. Elizabeth was at Waverley Court in Kent with the children. The house was empty, very quiet and still this afternoon.

Mallet came in and, clearing his throat, asked, ‘Would you like something, sir? Perhaps a cup of tea?'

‘No, thank you, Mallet,' Will answered. The butler nodded and left.

Will continued to study the marvellous Renoir, and then suddenly Edward was striding into the room, apologizing for keeping him waiting.

‘What's this all about, Will? You look serious, even a bit grim,' Edward said.

Will was silent. He went and sat on a chair near the fire place, leaned back, crossed his legs.

Edward took the other chair, staring at him intently, and picking up on his sober mood at once. ‘Is there something wrong?'

‘Vincent Martell telephoned me just before I was leaving for the lunch, Ned. He had apparently attempted to get hold of you here, but the line was busy. He in fact tried several times with no success. Which was why he finally got in touch with me.'

‘Is there a problem at the vineyards? Oh, no, wait. A problem with George! Is that it? Has my brother been up to his old tricks again?'

Will took a deep breath, spoke in a low tone. ‘George is dead, Ned.'

Edward recoiled, sat back in the chair, gaping at Will. He was stunned. Frowning, he shook his head. ‘
George
… he's dead?'

‘I'm afraid so. Vincent found him this morning. He noticed the door of one of the large wine vaults swinging in the wind, and went to see what was going on.'

Edward had turned pale, and now he asked in a low, gruff voice, ‘How did he die? Was he sick? What happened, Will?'

‘It seems there was a terrible accident some time last night. Apparently George had made it a habit to go to the largest wine vault if he ran out of wine at the château. There was a tasting table and racks of wine were kept at the far end of the vault. Vincent thinks that George may have been drunk when he went in there. He found him on the floor this morning, laying in a pool of red wine, face down, surrounded by a slew of broken barrels. Vincent believes that George, very likely inebriated, stumbled against a stack of barrels,
and stumbled very hard, so that they came tumbling down on him. Vincent explained that one of the casks obviously hit him on the head and killed him because George had very severe head injuries. The entire pyramid of barrels is decimated, some smashed, others lying on the stone floor.'

‘Oh my God … how ghastly.' Edward brought a hand to his face. ‘I can't believe this.'

‘I know, it's all so … sudden, so unexpected.' Will shook his head slowly. ‘But perhaps not really all that surprising, not if you think about it. It seems to me that George was
fated
… somehow he always managed to get into trouble …' Will's voice trailed off; he was at a loss for words.

The two old friends sat for a while in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

It was Edward who finally spoke. ‘I assume Vincent called for a doctor? Got medical help?'

‘Yes, he did. But George had apparently been dead for some hours. Rigor mortis had set in. The police were also informed and came to the château. However, as Vincent said, it was pretty obvious what had happened because of all the broken wine casks and his head injuries.'

‘They'll blame me. My mother will say it's my fault George is dead … and so will Richard. They both asked me not to send him to the vineyards in France. They believed he would die there, and they were right. My mother
begged
me, Will –' Edward broke off, his voice suddenly hoarse, almost a whisper.

‘No, they can't blame
you
. Listen to me, Ned, it wasn't your fault. Believe me it wasn't. And I've never quite understood why your mother has always taken George's side … I know one shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but your brother was most unbrotherly towards you for his entire life.'

‘Yes, that's true, he was.'

Edward rose, went over to the tray of drinks on a table
near the window, and poured himself a cognac. ‘Do you want one, Will?'

‘Yes, thanks,' he answered.

A moment later, when Edward handed Will the brandy balloon, he murmured, ‘I shall have to telephone them. My mother is at Ravenscar – oh, and so is Richard, come to think of it. And I shall have to let Meg know.'

‘Do it tomorrow,' Will suggested.

‘No, I must do it now. At least I must get in touch with my mother.' Edward went to his desk, sat down, and dialled Ravenscar. It was Jessup who answered, and a moment later Edward heard his mother's voice saying, ‘Yes, Ned?'

‘Mama, something quite terrible has happened. There's been an accident. In France. At the vineyards.'

‘What kind of accident?' Cecily Deravenel asked, her voice trembling slightly.

He told her about George going into the wine vault, perhaps stumbling, and unseating the stack of wine casks. Before he had even finished, she interrupted him.

‘He's dead. George is dead, isn't he?'

‘Yes.'

‘I knew he would die there,' she said and hung up the phone on him.

Fog
. Outside the window. Suddenly in the room. It surrounded him. Trapped him. He sat up in bed. Struggled to see. Blinking in the fog. How had it floated into the room? The window was closed. He threw back the bed clothes. Put his feet on the floor. Moved slowly across the room. He banged into a chest of drawers. Stubbed his toe. Winced. Who had put the chest there?

He went into the bathroom. Fumbled for the light switch.
It was then he realized he was not at Ravenscar. He was in London. At his house in Berkeley Square. The bright lights hurt his eyes.

Edward peered at himself in the mirror, and blinked again, saw his face in a blur. He leaned against the sink, slightly dizzy, feeling nauseous. His head throbbed. He filled a glass with cold water, drank it down quickly. Then he splashed cold water on his face, wet a small towel and held it to his eyes. There. That was better. The fog had disappeared. He could see.

His headache was blinding. And he had a hangover. He went back to the bedroom and crawled into bed, lay still, nursing his hangover. And thinking.

Slowly everything came back to him. He remembered that he and Will had sat drinking cognac for several hours.
Talking
. Talking about George. About his death. About bringing the body back to England. About burying him in Yorkshire. At Ravenscar. They spoke about others. His mother. Richard. Neville Watkins and his beloved Johnny Watkins, and they relived the past. And they discussed George's children, who had to come back to England as soon as possible. Maybe Meg could escort them.

Will had finally left, had been driven by Broadbent to his house behind Marble Arch. Near Jane's house. Jane. He must telephone her. No, he couldn't, it was the middle of the night.

George
. His brother. George was dead. What a beautiful child he had been, and he had become a beautiful young man. Blond. Turquoise-blue eyes. Skin-deep, that beauty.
George
. A mystery to him at times. So uncertain inside … needy. He had always run to their mother, wanting her protection. As a child, as a boy, as a man.

Edward had loved him once. That love had changed slowly. To concern, to mistrust, and finally to disbelief. How blatant George's betrayals and treacheries had been. It was as if he
hadn't cared that
he
knew. His love for George had changed to wariness, had eventually curdled into total dislike.

Edward sat up in bed with a jerk, staring out into the darkened room. And he asked himself the question he had posed to Will Hasling last night when he had been drinking himself into a stupor.

Had it been an accident? Or murder?

Will had said he didn't know. Neither did he. But now he focused on it, wondering. He had no answer for himself.

He lay awake until dawn broke and light seeped in through the curtains, wrestling with that question which still hovered in his mind.

Later that morning Edward had just finished dressing when Mallet knocked on the door. He knew it was the butler. There was no one else in the house except for Cook and a couple of maids.

‘Come in, Mallet,' he called.

The butler opened the door. ‘Good morning, Mr Deravenel. Mr Hasling is here. In the morning room.'

Frowning, Edward slipped on his jacket, buttoned it, and replied, ‘I'll be right down, Mallet. And a cup of coffee would be most welcome.'

‘Yes, sir. Right away.' The butler quietly closed the door.

Striding over to the wardrobe mirror, Edward looked at himself and nodded his head. Certainly there were no telltale signs of a hangover. He looked exactly the same as he had yesterday. And yet … he felt different inside. There was an emptiness, a terrible aching void, and something more intangible … Then he realized it was a strange aloneness. He
was
alone now. And he always would be … for the rest of his life. His mother would never treat him the same way
ever again. Neither would Richard. Because they would blame him for George's death.

And so I stand alone. As I always have
.

Will was sitting at the round table in the morning room, drinking a cup of coffee,
The Times
next to him, but still folded and unread.

‘Good morning,' Edward said from the doorway and walked in, forcing a smile.

Will nodded. ‘Morning, Ned. You'd forgotten, hadn't you? That we said we would lunch together today, and make plans for me to leave for France tomorrow morning. With Oliveri. To bring George's body back. I made a reservation at the Ritz Restaurant. Is that all right?'

‘Yes. I had forgotten,' Edward admitted, sat down and reached for the silver pot of coffee. As he poured a cup, he went on, ‘But that doesn't present a problem. I had no other plans for lunch.'

They sat together drinking their black coffee and talking about all the arrangements which had to be made; after their second cup of coffee they left the house, walked slowly across the square, up Berkeley Street in the direction of Piccadilly.

It was a sunny morning, with a bright blue sky and a light breeze, pleasant for November and not at all cold. They walked in silence, until Edward suddenly said, ‘I remember the wedges, Will. And I kept thinking about them in the middle of the night. I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. I started thinking about George, wondering whether he was murdered or not. And the wedges came into my mind.'

‘I know what you're getting at, Ned. If someone moved the wedges holding the casks in place then the pyramid would tumble.'