The Green Remains (9 page)

Chapter Eighteen

“You are here invited to read the story of an Event which occurred in an out-of-the-way corner of England, some years since.”

—
Wilkie Collins,
Poor
Miss Finch

10:50
AM

Clarendon Hall came into view as the road took a steeper angle upward. Kate and Nora stopped between two square stone columns at the entrance to the paved drive, lined on each side with aged horse chestnut trees. Discreet brass plaques read
Clarendon Hall
on the left and
Estab. 1616
on the right. The notation on the right caught Nora’s attention. “1616—that’s the year Shakespeare died,” she noted.

  Kate guided Nora through the ornate iron gates. “It’s a source of local pride to announce the Bard of Avon slept here on a visit before his death, but I suspect someone from Cumbria Tourism thought of that one years ago.”

  They stopped halfway up the drive for Nora to take in the view of the heavily planted grounds. Nora could see the gardens were dotted with dry fountains and cotoneaster bushes sprinkled with red berries, but most of the shrubs were asleep for the season.

  The stone mansion was impressive, with a large portico shielding the massive entry door. Its wings spread out on either side, framed by low privet hedges, and its upper story was stepped back from the front lower-level rooms, giving the ground floor a soaring, peaked ceiling on the anterior half of the residence. Heavy drapes at the long windows in the right wing were pulled open. Sheer panels provided privacy but let light in and allowed a view of the lake.

  “We’ll go around back and see Cook first, so I can leave this basket,” Kate suggested.

  The drive swung around to the back of the mansion. The curtains at the windows were still; a purple bow hung from a plain, green wreath on the front door.

  “In Victorian times, hay would be thrown in front of a house in mourning to stifle the sounds from the horses in the road, and all of the blinds would be drawn to shut out the sunlight,” Kate said.

  “Is that your favorite period?” Nora asked.

  “That and Edwardian, probably. In my work, I had to become familiar with all different eras. I love the history behind things. That’s why I enjoy refinishing old furniture—it’s the sense of what came before that I like.” She gave Nora a smile. “Even if running the lodge doesn’t always allow me as much time for it as I’d like.”

  The pair reached a small kitchen garden planted with herbs, zinnias and cosmos. Kate twisted a brass knob set next to the door, and a bell could be heard tinkling inside.

  A sturdy woman wearing a spotless apron over her plain housedress opened the door. The apron matched the white of her hair, which she smoothed in a nervous gesture until she recognized her caller, and then her round face broke into a beaming welcome.

  “Well, now, it’s Kate come to the back door, just like in the old days. Come in, my dear, it’s so good to see you.”

  “Cook, this is my friend Nora Tierney. She knew Keith from the travel agency.”

  A shadow passed over Cook’s face as she ushered the women into a huge kitchen, complete with a four-oven, green Aga range. Worn but immaculate cabinets were painted white and set with arched, leaded-glass doors. Green tiles lining the countertops continued onto the backsplash, with Arts and Crafts–patterned ceramic tiles scattered here and there, giving the feel of handfuls of wildflowers scattered about. One part of the counter had a huge piece of marble inlaid on one end and a chopping block on the other.

  The sweet, floury scent of scones baking filled the room, and a tray set with a tea service stood on a rolling cart near the door to the hallway. Cook led them to ladder-back chairs at the long kitchen table, and Nora sat down, happy to rest after her walk.

Kate lifted the towel from her basket and withdrew a shiny plum tart and a smaller version of the same delicacy that she set on the table.

  “From Agnes, for the house and for you, with her love,” Kate said.

  “That Agnes always remembers me, and Mr. Sommer’s favorite is plum. Please thank her for me.” Cook clucked appreciatively as she sat opposite them. “Miss Antonia asked me to prepare tea and scones for you once you called this morning, so I won’t offer you a cuppa right now. But let me see your engagement ring, dear. Very nice for you, Kate.”

  Kate held out her left hand where a platinum Art Deco ring sparkled, its center diamond graced with sapphire baguettes. “It was Ian’s granny’s,” she explained.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Cook asked Nora.

  “Beautiful,” Nora agreed, pleased Cook accepted her presence so easily. She was less sure of the reception Keith’s parents would give her. As if in response to her anxiety, her stomach hardened into a tight ball. She massaged it gently until it passed.

  “How are the Clarendons doing, Cook?” Kate asked.

  Cook leaned across the table and lowered her voice. Nora caught a whiff of rose as the woman answered. “My poor nephew Billy had to deliver the news.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how he does it. Miss Antonia, she didn’t believe him at first and ran upstairs to check Keith’s bedroom. Mr. Sommer, his face got all white, and I was afraid he was going to pass out—it was just awful. Billy said this American lady staying with you found him by the lake … ” Her voice trailed off as she looked to Nora, who nodded.

  “That would be me,” Nora confirmed, to Cook’s grimace.

  “Not a nice thing to come across, I’m sure. Then Miss Antonia came running back into the room, and her shouting brought Gillian down, but not before the poor woman had thrown all her Dresden figurines to the floor. They were special to her,” she added for Nora’s information. “She and poor Miss Julia collected them together. By the time I reached her, she was chucking the very last one, and then she burst into the most heartrending cries you ever heard and threw her arms around my neck.” Cook blinked back tears at the memory. “It was a sight, let me tell you.” She unfolded a flowered hanky from her apron pocket and mopped her forehead.

  Kate reached across the table and patted her hand. “I’m sure it was hard for everyone to absorb.”

  Cook nodded in agreement. “I finally got her to come in here and made her sit down where you are while I made her tea with a shot of brandy. And Mr. Sommer called in the tour guide and canceled the tours. Gillian sat with her so I could clean up the mess, and then Doc Lattimore arrived—Billy had called him before he even came here. And the doc, he left some pills Mr. Sommer got Miss Antonia to take. She’s been in a daze since.”

  Cook ended her narration and sat back in her chair, exhausted. Nora had the feeling it was a story she would repeat over and over in the coming days to anyone who might ask.

Chapter Nineteen

“With a little bit of luck, when temptation comes you’ll give right in!”

— Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe,
My Fair Lady

11:15
AM

Simon threw down his pencil in frustration after checking the totaled receipts on the long slip of paper that fell from the adding machine. It still didn’t match what he had in the cash drawer, but it was off by such a small amount, he thought perhaps Maeve had given the wrong change. He hated to think one of their staff would steal from them. He would speak to Kate about counseling the waitresses again. She had a firm, no-nonsense approach when dealing with the staff. He preferred taking on the nonadversarial roles, as he too often fell for the solemn promises of the young women with their batting eyelashes.

  He was distinctly uncomfortable, banished from his own rooms while a forensic tech from Ian’s team collected the Tanghinia plant he’d borrowed from Sommer Clarendon. There was no telling if they were being careful with his paintings or with his supplies. He shuddered to think about what was happening to his haven and just hoped there wouldn’t be a mess to clean up—let alone the mess there would be if Ian persisted in pursuing him as a suspect.

  Ian had suggested he do paperwork, which Simon knew translated to keeping himself out of their way. He still had to give his formal statement about when he’d borrowed the plant and how long it had been in his possession. He didn’t care at all for the feeling of being scrutinized in connection with Keith
Clarendon’s death.

  Bloody Keith. Just like him to continue to irritate Simon from his watery grave. Simon mentally pinched himself and stood up behind the desk. What was he thinking? Keith was dead—and probably had died in a horrific manner, from what Ian had said, and here Simon was blaming a dead man for his own discomfort.

  He thought back to their disagreements over Keith’s plans for expansion. The pub argument that had escalated to a minor fistfight was unusual for Simon; he’d never been in a physical confrontation before. That night, he’d had a few too many pints after the town meeting, not his usual standard at all, and it had been easy to rise to Keith’s arrogant baiting, especially once he had started harping on Kate, coming on to her in his stupor.

  The fight had been bad enough at the time. He never thought it would have repercussions, but he knew how it now must make him look in the eyes of the police. Simon tried to shake it off. Ian would sort it all out. In the meantime, he would try to be as cooperative in investigating Keith’s death as the men had been confrontational in life.

  Locking the receipt box in the desk, Simon leaned back in his chair and picked up his sketchbook. He was refining the cover for Nora’s next book, and the image would highlight Daria, the head fairy. He had drawn her exhibiting regal grace, with long, red tresses and a crown of bluebells. Nora had not commented on Daria’s likeness to herself in the first book’s illustrations, but with this larger drawing, it would be difficult for Nora not to notice. If she objected, Simon was prepared to point out that she was the author and was therefore entitled to have the main character resemble her own visage.

  Whether Nora would agree to it or not was an entirely different matter. Simon rued the day he’d fallen in love with her. Their relationship now wallowed in uncertainty.

  The inn door opened, and a stranger let himself in. The man imperiously picked up one of the lodge brochures from a holder that stood on a vintage walnut sideboard in the entry hall. Simon watched the man smirk as he leafed through the booklet detailing Ramsey Lodge’s mod cons, including free Wi-Fi and wall-mounted plasma televisions that picked up myriad satellite channels, mixed with old-world charm in the themed guest rooms.

  Negative emotion grabbed Simon; he instinctively knew this well-dressed young man was destined to be a bloody pain in his arse, and he had a sudden urge to throw him out.

  Simon stood as the man approached, and they silently appraised one another. The sandy-haired, slender Simon wore chinos and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up; the shorter, darker man was in an expensive jumper with crisply pressed slacks and blazer. Holding himself in a pugnacious pose, his full cheeks pushed his lips into an unflattering feminine rosebud.

  The man withdrew an ornate silver case from his pocket and slapped his card on the desk. He managed a smile, which creased his bulging cheeks, reminding Simon of a small, squealing pig. Simon had to bite back a chuckle. When the man finally spoke, his voice had a false tone and an arched, public-school accent that put Simon immediately on edge.

  “Tony Warner,
People and Places
mag. Is Nora Tierney in?”

  Simon shifted his weight. “No, I’m afraid she’s out. Was she expecting you?”

  “Let’s say she shouldn’t be surprised to see me.” The porcine look intensified.

  Simon stifled an urge to swat the man across the face. He had never considered Nora’s past relationships prior to the one with her late fiancé, but surely this pompous wally—“I have no idea when she’ll return. I’ll tell her you called.” He ended the conversation by tucking Tony’s card in the corner of the desk blotter and sitting down, dismissing him.

  Tony leaned over the desk, the ingratiating smile on his round face revealing an impressive set of uneven, yellowed teeth. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I plan to stay here. I assume you have a vacancy?”

  Simon’s eyes darted to the VACANCY sign posted on the corner of the desk. There was no possibility this fellow hadn’t seen it. He reached for the registration book, clearing his throat, a habit he’d developed to help cover personal feeling as he put on his public face. “What kind of accommodation are you interested in? We have—”

  “Don’t bother with the recital, dear chap. This one’s on the boss. Make it the best suite in the house.”

Chapter Twenty

“It was a Sunday evening in October, and in common with many other young ladies of her class, Katharine Hilbery was pouring out tea.”

— Virginia Woolf,
Night and Day

11:16
AM

Nora and Kate delicately tried to take their leave of Cook once the scones were out of the oven and Cook had placed them in a linen-lined basket. The kitchen door knocked open. A teenager wearing washed-out jeans and a bright yellow Coldplay T-shirt breezed in. He carried a cloth sack filled with groceries that he dumped on the table.

  “Here’s the change, Cook. Hello, Kate.” The boy smiled engagingly at Nora as he rummaged in his jeans, then dropped a handful of coins in Cook’s apron pocket. He pinched her cheek and grabbed a scone from the basket, then tipped an imaginary cap to the ladies. He left as quickly as he’d entered, whistling out of key.

  “That boy,” chuckled Cook. “He’s always in such a good mood.” She pushed the door to the hallway open and drew the cart through into the hall. “And devoted to his mum,” she added.

  Nora raised an eyebrow quizzically at Kate as she hoisted her bag. As they followed Cook, Kate whispered: “That’s Robbie, Gillian Cole’s son. She’s the nurse who takes care of Sommer and Edmunde.”

  Nora nodded, inspecting the hall as they walked toward the front of the house. The marbled floor echoed their footsteps. The wide, mahogany staircase was carpeted in a rich burgundy. Huge paintings of earlier generations of Clarendons lined the walls of the lower level, and Cook directed Nora’s attention to the artwork as they passed.

  “The whole family is here, Miss. And in the upstairs gallery are the newer generations. It’s their tradition to have a portrait painted on their thirtieth birthday. Keith had two more years to go.” Cook sniffled and stopped before a set of double doors. She knocked, then straightened her back and put a bright smile on her face. She pushed the doors open, and Nora and Kate trailed after her into the library.

  “Here’s Miss Kate and her friend come to see you. I’ve got fresh scones with clotted cream and that blackberry jam you like so much, Mr. Sommer. And Agnes has sent a plum tart.”

  No one rose to greet the newcomers. Sommer Clarendon, confined to his wheelchair, extended his hand in greeting, and Kate crossed the room to shake it. She introduced Nora as a friend of Keith’s from Oxford.

  Antonia sat on a loveseat, her hollow expression softening at the mention of Keith’s name. When she raised her head, the dark shadows under her eyes stood out in contrast to her silky, blonde curls. Her hands trembled. A brief smile passed over her features as she recognized Kate, but it was Nora who held her attention.

  Nora shook hands with Sommer, then walked over to Antonia, who grasped Nora’s outstretched hand and patted the cushions beside her. As Kate took a chair beside Sommer, Nora sat down next to Antonia. She felt a wave of sadness emanating from the woman beside her. It was as if an entire conversation had passed between them.

  “I’ll just get tonight’s stew started,” Cook said and withdrew, leaving the four of them alone.

  Antonia turned Nora’s hand over and delicately traced the veins on the back, as though she might find a hidden message from Keith inscribed there. The quiet stretched on as everyone’s attention was fixed on Antonia. Kate finally broke the silence.

  “Nora and I came to see if there was anything we, or perhaps Simon, could possibly do for either of you.” She took a deep breath. “We’re very sorry about Keith.”

  “Thank you, dear. I think we have everything under control right now between Cook and Gillian, and even Robbie is pitching in. But perhaps you could pour for us?” Sommer indicated the teacart.

  Kate busied herself pouring and handing out scones with dollops of jam and clotted cream on delicate plates painted with violets. When she set Antonia’s plate in front of her, the woman started as though snapped out of a trance and dropped Nora’s hand. Her haunted eyes searched Nora’s face. She lifted her hand and ran it lightly over Nora’s belly.

  Nora decided Antonia was lost in a memory. A light, floral fragrance accentuated her gentle touch; her hands were soft and smooth. Nora pictured those same hands brushing hair off a feverish child’s forehead. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Don’t cry, child,” Antonia’s voice was soft. Nora had to lean in to hear her. “Keith is with Julia now, and my mother and father and Sommer’s parents ... ” Her voice trailed off, and she sat back into the cushions, hands clasped, lost in her reverie. Nora sipped tea, and Sommer spoke to fill the gap.

  “I understand until recently you worked in Oxford, Miss Tierney?” Sommer asked.

  “Please call me Nora. Yes, for the magazine
People and Places
, first as a reporter and then as an editor. I met your son when I won the essay contest that Worth’s sponsored. I’m here writing children’s books now.”

  Sommer’s eyes sparkled. “Keith was quite excited about that scheme. He had a wealth of good ideas, going on about the
new Wordsworth era he wanted.” The man rearranged the rug that covered his legs. He continued on in this vein, recounting other plans Keith had brought to fruition during his school years.

  Keith obviously had learned how to set a goal and achieve it, Nora thought, filing this information away as she bit into one of Cook’s delicious scones, feeling decadent. After yesterday’s respite, her usual healthy appetite was returning. Kate topped off teacups as Nora listened politely to Sommer’s discourse on Keith, a brief distraction he seemed to welcome until he ran out of steam and changed the subject.

  “Simon faring well?” Sommer asked politely.

  His wife cut him off by breaking into the conversation. “Keith was writing a book about the Clarendon history. Perhaps as a writer you would like to see where he worked?” Antonia stood, holding her hand out to Nora, who put down her plate and glanced at the others.

  “Yes, I’d like that very much,” Nora said. “Actually, Keith mentioned sharing his research with me.”

  “Excellent idea. You go ahead for a tour,” Sommer said, consulting his watch. “Gillian will be here shortly for my round of exercises, and I mustn’t upset the routine again.”

  Antonia led the way out of the room. Nora and Kate followed her up the broad staircase. The balusters were intricately carved; the soft carpeting muffled their steps. At the top, a gallery stretched out on either side. Antonia turned to the right, where a standing sign noted part of the wing was private.

  They passed Antonia’s portrait. She wore a sky-blue gown that shimmered, with a string of creamy pearls that complemented her fair hair and pale skin. She reminded Nora of a young Grace Kelly. Beside her portrait hung one of a younger Sommer, standing proudly extended to his full, lean height. He was handsome in a grey-vested suit, his dark hair slicked back from a noble forehead. A Scottish Deerhound sat at his feet.

  The next set of portraits slowed Nora’s steps. A man with curly, black hair and a large frame exuded an aura of imperious strength. Nora assumed this to be Edmunde, the older brother. Next to him, his wife, Julia, seemed too delicate for the man she’d married, yet Nora could see the humor in her sweet smile and the fortitude in her firm chin and uplifted, challenging gaze.

  Julia Brookes Clarendon wore a strapless dress of lilac satin that glistened in the light and fell in soft folds. A thin piece of black velvet circled her neck, dangling a large, oval amethyst surrounded by a ring of diamonds; it nestled in the hollow of her throat. The artist had captured the highlights in her dramatically upswept chestnut hair that revealed fine shoulders and an erect posture that spoke of her stage training. Julia’s eyes seemed full of life and mischief.

  Nora paused before the painting. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  “She’ll always be lovely, frozen in time,” Antonia said. “Julia wanted her portrait to look like a Sargent painting, and I think the artist succeeded, don’t you?”

  She gazed wistfully at the portrait, and Nora realized this represented another loss of a loved one. There was so much sadness in this house.

  Kate spoke up. “I remember a masquerade ball you had here that Mum and Dad attended. Mum fussed for weeks over their costumes until finally Dad told her to relax. ‘No one will outshine Antonia or Julia’ he said.”

  Antonia brightened at the memory. “That was right after we’d found out we were pregnant. I think that was the happiest party of my life.” She turned abruptly and continued down the hall to the last door on the left, where she hesitated before opening it.

  “This was Keith’s playroom when he was a boy.” Antonia led them inside, walked over to the windows lining the end wall and looked down at the garden outside.

  Nora noted the lake view from here, a fitting room for Keith. She inspected the room, outfitted in a hearty male style. Bookshelves lined one wall, with royal-blue drapery complementing the oak linenfold paneling. Window seats that probably used to hold toys and games were covered in a plush, blue-and-gold fabric. A walnut desk with a high-backed leather chair stood in one corner on an angle, facing the windows, complete with the latest computer equipment.

  Nora wandered around the space, taking in the feel of the man who’d worked here. A few loose papers on his desk were neatly stacked under a heavy paperweight with the Clarendon crest captured in brass; a small file box of flash drives stood beside the computer, with several new ones, still in their packaging, lying beside it. Research volumes were piled on one corner of the desk, blue index cards with notes used as bookmarks.

  “Keith worked on his family history here?” Nora asked.

  Antonia nodded. “He had a routine on his days off. He’d walk mornings, work after lunch all afternoon, then scull on the lake after dinner. He’d come down from Oxford on Friday nights and travel back Monday mornings. Mr. Worth was very accommodating about him coming in later on Mondays. Keith would stay later some evenings during the week to make up the time.” She seemed anxious to make Kate and Nora understand that her son had not abused his position.

  It occurred to Nora that Keith must have had huge detractors. Why else would his mother see the need to defend him to a virtual stranger?

  Antonia straightened a few books and turned to Kate, her eyes lit with a feverish glow. “Why, Kate, I believe I know exactly where I have photos of that fancy dress ball you mentioned. Would you like to see them?”

  “Of course, Antonia.”

  “Come with me to my sitting room.” Without waiting, Antonia strode out of the room.

  “I’d better see to this,” Kate whispered.

  “No problem,” Nora answered. “I’ll wait here and look at Keith’s books.” A sanctioned opportunity to find that research, she thought—and to snoop.

  Kate nodded and left, and Nora approached the large desk. She examined the books on the corner, a pile of what appeared to be dry tomes on area history. Nothing much there. Next she sat in Keith’s chair, thinking about the young man she’d known briefly. She rocked in the chair for a minute, remembering his pride in his family’s contributions to Lakeland history. He’d seemed so connected to the land that it was difficult for her to imagine him committing suicide in the midst of work on his plans and his book about the area.

  Nora inspected the computer. It was a MacBook Pro, similar to hers, and its screen saver showed the Clarendon crest in royal blue on a gold ground. Very regal, she thought as she touched the space bar, wondering about the meaning of the crest’s four large Cs. The voices of Kate and Antonia receded behind a closed door, and Nora scanned the icons on the desktop imposed over a view of Lake Windermere from the end of a dock.

  One indicated a document labeled “SC2MyBk.” It didn’t take Nora long to decipher it: Shortcut to my book.

  Nora sat back. What if Keith had found something she could use in a future book? He had said his research might be of interest to her.

  Just a few clicks, and she was quickly scrolling through the pages, wondering if what she was doing were illegal. Nonsense. She wasn’t going to plagiarize his work, after all, she was just reading it. And she had his permission, sort of. Phrases slid past her quick scan: “Sixteen sparkling lakes ... mountains, rare in England, all in 750 square miles … ”

  Then the words “Belle Isle” caught her eye, and she stopped to read more thoroughly:

Belle Isle, just off the shore of Bowness, acts as a natural divider, separating Lake Windermere into two reaches. The history of the island includes an eight-month siege by followers of Cromwell and involved the capture of one Major Philipson, known as ‘Robin the Devil’ …

  This was information Nora hadn’t seen before. It would give her series a basis in history. Nora’s imagination shifted into overdrive. How exciting would it be to have the ghost of Robin the Devil terrorize her fairies? What else had Keith uncovered that she could use?

  The whir of the elevator far down the hall caught Nora’s attention, and she hesitated only a moment before she grabbed a new flash drive from its packaging and inserted it into Keith’s laptop. She clicked on the File menu, scrolled down to the Save As … command and saved Keith’s document to the drive, thrusting it into the pocket of her skirt. In a few clicks, the monitor reverted back to its screen saver.

  Nora picked up a worn copy of
The Lake
District and the National Trust
by B. L. Thompson and leaned back in Keith’s comfortable chair. The door opened, and a scrawny nurse with frizzy, salt-and-pepper hair entered the study, her white uniform and wan complexion blending together.

  “What are you doing here?” the nurse asked brusquely.

  Nora felt the color rise in her face and knew the tips of her ears were red, even as she recognized this must be Gillian Cole, mother of the cheerful Robbie.

  “Hello to you, too,” Nora answered, then stood. “I’m Nora Tierney. Mrs. Clarendon left me here. I was an acquaintance of Keith’s.” She pushed her glasses back up her nose.