Книга - Death Plays a Part

Death Plays a Part
Vivian Conroy


‘An incredibly tightly written closed door mystery.’ Rachel’s Random Reads (Top 500 Amazon Reviewer)‘Is yet another fantastic tale.’Karen QuickWith high tide comes murder…When her beloved London theatre closes for renovations, costume maker Guinevere is excited to start a job at Cornisea castle, a centuries-old keep on a small tidal island off the coast of Cornwall. Imagine a whole summer full of stories of hidden treasures, fab food and long walks with her perky dachshund Dolly.But when a reenactment of a medieval trial in the castle dungeons ends in real-life murder, and accusations threaten the castle's future, Guinevere and Dolly dig deep into the island community's best-kept secrets to unmask the killer and save their Cornish summer.The first book in the Cornish Castle Mystery series with the second instalment RUBIES IN THE ROSES coming August 2017!Praise for Vivian Conroy‘The first in a new series and it’s off with a bang!’ Rosemary Smith‘Highly recommended.’Well Read Pirate QueenPlot tightly woven, unique setting’ Avonna Loves Genres







With high tide comes murder …

When her beloved London theatre closes for renovations, costume maker Guinevere is excited to start a job at Cornisea castle – a centuries-old keep on a small tidal island off the coast of Cornwall. Imagine a whole summer full of stories of hidden treasures, fab food, and long walks with her perky dachshund Dolly.

But when a re-enactment of a medieval trial in the castle dungeons ends in real-life murder, and accusations threaten the castle’s future, Guinevere and Dolly dig deep into the island community’s best-kept secrets to unmask the killer and save their Cornish summer.


Praise for VIVIAN CONROY (#ulink_54224cb9-e6d5-54ee-943f-6a458336827a)

‘This book is a cross between Downton Abbey and Miss Marple … Perfect for the long winter nights ahead where comfort becomes a key word in everyone’s vocabulary.’

Katherine (Goodreads), A Proposal to Die For

‘A Proposal to Die For is wonderfully smooth and glamorous, in the style of Agatha Christie combined with the beauty of Gatsby.’

The Storycollector Blog

‘When it’s as charming as A Proposal to Die For mystery and history make the most wonderful combination.’

Little Bookness Lane

‘Dead to Begin With is a charming, entertaining and absorbing cozy mystery and a great start to a new series.’

Mystereity Reviews

‘Dead to Begin With by Vivian Conroy is a wonderful story, perfect for fans of Murder, She Wrote, and I cannot wait for the next in the series!!’

Books of All Kinds

‘What a cosy story featuring a cozy murder, and some cute dogs!’

Rachel’s Random Reads, Dead to Begin With


Available from Vivian Conroy (#ulink_b5bdbd5d-1e7a-5b4c-8169-db7e51f06228)

ACountry Gift Shop Mystery series

Dead to Begin with

Grand Prize: Murder!

Written into the Grave

A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series

A Proposal to Die For

Diamonds of Death

Deadly Treasures

Coming Soon:

Fatal Masquerade

Cornish Castle Mystery series

Death Plays a Part

Coming Soon:

Rubies in the Roses


Death Plays a Part

Vivian Conroy






ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES


Contents

Cover (#u8294fd0a-9962-5099-8859-9fab8277d06b)

Blurb (#u25859022-59ce-548b-8d6f-0d1db20b43de)

Praise (#ulink_c940ce03-4b0b-5948-8d99-1d6b29d60fb5)

Book List (#ulink_1dceded3-9eb2-5aee-a431-ca9a6a070f22)

Title Page (#u27aa2fd9-e632-5c6e-96a6-c5090c44b55c)

Author Bio (#ue60e7dc5-7730-521c-8376-e3c6eb887bdc)

Acknowledgements (#u1a8429ed-e8f8-59c0-8cda-ededeece2ace)

Author’s Note (#ulink_8b6361aa-dce3-5eb7-9b34-e6dbe3150e2b)

Chapter One (#ulink_87a8dcf4-3686-5dd0-baf5-e74c59015e50)

Chapter Two (#ulink_25702dd2-6a68-5f68-a07c-9f278eec27dd)

Chapter Three (#ulink_551c8149-f16f-5337-9891-8f26a1681e7a)

Chapter Four (#ulink_0178f9f2-c089-544d-ba44-080633e0e2b0)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


VIVIAN CONROY

discovered Agatha Christie at thirteen and quickly devoured all the Poirot and Miss Marple stories. Over time Lord Peter Wimsey and Brother Cadfael joined her favourite sleuths. Even more fun than reading was thinking up her own missing heirs and priceless artefacts. Discover the glamour and secrets of the roaring Twenties in Vivian’s Lady Alkmene Callender Mysteries and open up shop, with murder in the mix, in the contemporary Country Gift Shop Mysteries. Also contemporary, but set at a location full of history and folklore, are the Cornish Castle Mysteries, in which a London costume designer and her perky dachshund take a summer job at a castle on a tidal island off the coast of Cornwall. For news on the latest releases, with a dash of dogs and chocolate, follow Vivian on Twitter via @VivWrites (https://twitter.com/VivWrites)


Thanks to all editors, agents, and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.

Thanks to my fantastic editor Victoria Oundjian and her team for embracing Cornisea Castle, Guinevere, and Dolly from the very first brief pitch I presented, and to the design team for creating a fabulous new cover look for this series.

A special thanks to all my readers who share their enthusiasm for my books online and in real life:

you keep the series coming!

May Cornisea Island bring you summery escapism

and the satisfaction derived from solving a good puzzle!


Note (#ulink_6a45c94b-8b75-5ac1-a2d4-6d306f03f8ba)

Although inspired by real-life tidal islands like St Michael’s Mount and its French counterpart, and by many fascinating sources of Cornish history, archaeology, folklore, flora and fauna, cuisine etc., Cornisea Island and its castle with ruling family is a fictional world. Its layout, businesses and societies, special constable and deadly legends of patron saints and secret treasure are all the fruits of my imagination.


Chapter One (#ulink_d917e485-dc3a-50e7-9e3e-fc2bf117ea93)

‘But if the gardener didn’t dig those holes, then who did?’ Lady Margaret’s voice – speaking over the headphones – carried an exaggerated note of terror. ‘It must have been …’

She paused for dramatic emphasis. ‘The spectre of the old tower.’

‘Ancient tower,’ a voice called, apparently from further away.

Lady Margaret sounded impatient as she said, in her normal speaking voice, ‘I can’t remember ancient. “Old tower” rolls off the tongue.’ Suddenly she broke into a sneezing fit.

‘Ruddy boa. Even the thought of a chicken gives me a rash.’

Guinevere laughed out loud, then remembered she was on a train and toned it down. Her hand rested on the player clipped to her belt. Through the headphones she had been listening to a rehearsal session for Well-mannered Murder, the play her company in London were to perform after the summer.

Set in the 1920s at a manor where a lady with a lack of funds is organizing classes to groom girls for their entry into society and possibly to forge a connection with a wealthy man, it had glamour, wit, and even a hint of comedy as the lady in question had to fight manipulative staff, mysterious occurrences, and a cunning killer to keep her new enterprise afloat.

The retired actress who played Lady Margaret was perfect for the part, and Guinevere had been thrilled to dress her in the opulent gowns and cute hats of the era. She had been stitching sequins and attaching feathers and even hand-painting a fan. Mr Betts, the theatre director, had also allowed her to work on the décors and the props, which had meant scouring antique shops and vintage stores to dig out all the best items.

Guinevere took a deep breath. She missed the theatre already, as well as her friends in the crew. Although they had been working with each other for years when Guinevere had been added to the team, fresh from her studies, the members had taken her in like they had known her all along. They had invited her to lunch at the cute little café close to the theatre and had lent a quick hand whenever Guinevere couldn’t keep up with the pace during a performance.

Soon she had felt part of the unruly family they formed, at home in the cosy building with the long history that formed their haven. But their beloved theatre was currently closed for renovations, and the crew had left London for the summer, each to his own place. Guinevere had to focus on her temporary job now.

She checked her watch. Almost there.

Holding her breath, she leaned over and pressed her cheek against the cold glass pane to catch a glimpse of water. After all, her new workplace was an island. As a child she had longed for a holiday by the seaside but her grandmother, who had taken care of her, hadn’t been able to afford any sort of holiday, let alone one in a popular destination. Now her childhood dream was finally coming true: summer along the Cornish coast.

Her heartbeat sped up, and she strained her eyes to catch that first alluring glimpse of sparkling water.

But there was nothing to be seen. Still the way in which the train lost speed told her they were near her final destination.

The woman opposite to her, in her fifties with a basket on her knees, nodded at her with a friendly smile. ‘New here, are you?’

‘Yes, I come from London. I’m going to work on Cornisea Island. Can I see it from here?’

The woman shook her head. ‘The village is on a hill. You can’t see the sea or the island from the train track and the station. Where are you going to work? I think I saw they were advertising for someone at the bakery.’

‘No, I’m going to catalogue books. At the castle.’

‘With Lord Bolingbrooke?’ The woman leaned forward, her arms on the basket, her voice lowering into a confidential tone. ‘He doesn’t like outsiders, does he?’

Recognizing the small-town willingness to share a little titbit that had pervaded her childhood in Devon and was so remarkably absent in the big-city bustle of London, Guinevere couldn’t help a smile coming up. With an inquisitive mind of her own, and a never-ending interest in what motivated people, she could never resist a snippet of gossip here or there.

Still, her new position as Lord Bolingbrooke’s employee required a tactful reply so she said cheerfully, ‘Well, he advertised for someone to help him catalogue his books, so I’m sure he’s aware that I’m coming.’

The theatre’s director, Mr Betts, had told her about the position available at Cornisea Castle. He had said it was the perfect place for her to spend the summer as it had history and the island was full of fascinating stories about the past. Secret treasure, local lore.

The excitement that had grabbed her as soon as she had heard about it rushed through her again. She hadn’t had time to dig deeply into Cornisea’s colourful history but the summaries she had read about it had unrolled a tableau vivant full of saints, knights and squires, ladies and maids, a tale of siege, love, deception, heartbreak.

As if Dolly noticed her excitement, she squeaked. The short, high-pitched sound was the dachshund’s favourite way to express her enthusiasm. She held her long nose close to the window as if she also wanted to catch a glimpse of their new home. Guinevere scratched her behind the ears. ‘Almost there, girl. Just a few more minutes.’

The woman opposite them said, ‘Some people think it’s silly to talk to dogs. Well, I think it’s silly not to talk to dogs. Had them for all of my life. Retrievers first when I was still living on the farm my parents had. Now I live in the village, in a smaller house. Took in a cocker spaniel when an elderly neighbour moved away and couldn’t take her along. The sweetest little thing. Is by my bedside in the morning, the moment I wake up. Keeps me company while I garden. She’s with my sister today. She doesn’t like trains, you know.’

Guinevere smiled. ‘Dolly likes everything. She’s quite the adventurer. Aren’t you, girl?’

Dolly squeaked again and rubbed her head against Guinevere. Her bright little eyes took in everything that moved outside the window: the clouds against the skies, the specks of birds, a yellow tractor on the fields.

The train was slowing down even more, swaying, and soon they stopped all together. The woman with the basket helped Guinevere to lift her heavy suitcase from the train onto the platform. ‘Is someone coming to get you?’ she asked with a worried frown.

‘No, but I can manage. Thank you for your help. And have a lovely day. Say hello to your cocker spaniel from me and Dolly.’

The woman smiled at her and walked away, calling out to a woman at a flower stand just outside the station. It only had two platforms and an old-fashioned building with vintage motifs of golden fleur-de-lis over the entry doors.

Guinevere took a deep breath. The air carried the typical tinge of salt that always betrays the sea is nearby. But there was also the smell of paper and coffee. She spotted a window where hot beverages were sold. She also saw cans of soft drink in a cool box and newspapers. A turnable rack held leaflets on regional sights and activities.

On a blue one Guinevere read: ‘Medieval re-enactment at Cornisea Castle.’

Underneath were a few lines of explanation that the Cornisea Historical Society was to re-create the trial of Branok the Cold-hearted, the steward of Cornisea Castle, who had been accused of vile acts against the villagers under his care.

‘Based on medieval sources, the play gives a true-to-life representation of the trial, the parties involved, and medieval justice, against the breathtaking backdrop of the centuries-old castle and its rugged environment,’ she read to Dolly.

What perfect timing. Her theatrical expertise would come in handy for this re-enactment. She might help with costumes or setting the scene or whatever else was needed.

Guinevere already saw herself choosing some props from the castle’s extensive collection. Maybe some items from the armoury would lend nice touches?

And if Lord Bolingbrooke didn’t want the real things to be used, they might make copies of a coat of arms, hand-painting them in the bright heraldic gold, blue, and red.

The woman behind the window leaned on the counter and called out to her, ‘You can take that leaflet along if you want to. They’re free.’The woman looked at Guinevere’s clothes – her poppy-strewn dress with broad red belt, her matching red pumps, and the long braid hanging down her right shoulder – and asked in a conspiratorial tone, ‘You’re here for that re-enactment, right? You look sort of … vintage.’

‘Thank you. But no, I’m going to work at the castle for the summer. Cataloguing books.’

‘With Lord Bolingbrooke? You don’t say.’

Her surprise matched that of the woman on the train, and Guinevere got an unpleasant twinge of worry in her stomach. All of these people seemed baffled that Lord Bolingbrooke would invite an outsider to his keep. As if he was the type of man who kept to himself and shooed away strangers.

But he had advertised for someone to catalogue his books, right?

Guinevere frowned a moment. She hadn’t actually seen the advertisement. Mr Betts had told her about it and had encouraged her to write an application email to an email address he had provided to her on a sticky note. She had received a reply from an O. Bolingbrooke, inviting her over at her earliest convenience. She hadn’t printed it off, thinking it was all settled now. Should she have brought it, to prove she had actually been invited? Lord Bolingbrooke might not personally open the door.

Guinevere thought a moment longer and then shook it off, thanking the woman behind the window and putting the leaflet about the re-enactment in her bag.

The woman said, ‘Just follow the road, and you’ll see the island soon enough. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you for the directions. Have a wonderful day.’

Clutching her suitcase, Guinevere pulled Dolly along, who wanted to sniff all the exciting smells. The road was a simple cobbled affair, broad enough for two cars to pass each other if the drivers took a little care. The houses on either side of it were built from grey stone, the low walls circling the gardens put together from rocks that stayed in place because of their own weight.

The occasional tree in a garden leaned into the road, spreading its branches to throw shade across the verge and attract birds, which swooped down to peck in the grass only to shoot back up into the tree again as soon as they spotted a possible threat.

Dolly poked her long nose through a wooden fence and barked at some ducks that waddled through a garden – probably to keep it free from snails.

‘Come on. Leave those poor ducks be. They’re only doing their job.’ Guinevere pulled the dachshund along, eager to see the island. As the road went up here, it was impossible to see the sea yet and if you weren’t aware that it should be out there, you might be mistaken and think you were still far from it. But all of a sudden they were at the highest point and could see the landscape before them.

The road went down at a steep angle, ending abruptly where the land changed to water. There was a path there though, narrower, continuing with a few mild curves to lead across the water to the island. This causeway had been there for centuries, allowing people to reach Cornisea Island when the tide was low.

Staring at it, Guinevere could just picture the people who had walked across it in centuries past: merchants who came to offer their wares at the castle, theatrical companies like theirs in London who wanted to provide entertainment for a feast.

A wedding maybe, between the lord of the castle and a princess who had come here from France, carrying the sweet scent of the blossoming lavender fields with her in the dried flowers she had sprinkled between her clothes in her many trunks. Maybe that princess had also brought the seeds of plants and small trees to fill out the gardens and arboretum that Cornisea Castle was famous for?

The island itself was an oval piece of land that seemed to have drifted away from the shore to lie by itself, surrounded by choppy waves. The left of the island was wild: towering cliffs, dense trees and shrubs, and a beach where Guinevere could see herself walking Dolly, playing a little fetch as the sun set and turned the waters into a deep red and purple while the first stars appeared against the velvety skies.

In contrast to the wild, uncultivated left of the island, the right consisted of neat cottages in a row forming a front along a sheltered harbour where boats bobbed on the waves.

There Guinevere pictured the bakery, which the kind woman on the train had mentioned. Just the idea of sweet smells made her mouth water. She needed a snack after the long train ride.

The few houses sat there like a miniature village, taking refuge in the shadow of the castle above. It towered over everything as the crowning piece on a wedding cake.

It was no fairy-tale castle in light colours with many high, elegant towers flying colourful banners, but instead was a sturdy old burg with two plump towers, flat above with a row of merlons all around. From up there you had to have a magnificent view across the island and the surrounding sea, the mainland so close by.

Guinevere began to descend, holding her weight back, Dolly pulling ahead of her. The doggy had never been to the seaside, but she didn’t seem to get nervous about all the water or about the fact they had to continue walking on a road that was surrounded by water on both sides. From the day Dolly had run into the theatre and right onto the stage – during a performance! – she hadn’t been fazed by anything new she met.

The causeway was only accessible during low tide, while at high tide the island was completely cut off from the mainland. The distance wasn’t great, and of course there were always boats to take, but still Cornisea had a certain isolation that contributed to its special appeal.

Walking here in the footsteps of those who had once visited the castle – to sell, to perform, to wed, to dance, to laugh and cry, to honour old traditions like the historical society was going to do with their re-enactment of the Branok trial – Guinevere’s heart beat faster that she had been given this unique chance. To work in a world of her own, a place where time had stood still and traditions of old were very much alive.

‘Isn’t it peaceful?’ Guinevere said to Dolly. ‘The gulls overhead, the island in front of us, the smell of the sea. Not at all like London, right, with all the traffic and the exhaust fumes.’

She hadn’t finished yet, when an engine roared behind Guinevere. She just had time to halt and step aside before a motorcycle blasted past her. The sun reflected off the shiny mirrors and the silver helmet that the motorcyclist wore.

‘Maniac!’ Guinevere called after him, knowing full well he wouldn’t hear her, or Dolly’s indignant barking, over the roar of the engine.

In a cloud of bluish fumes the rider sped ahead of her.

Waving a hand in front of her face, Guinevere waited for the fumes to clear before she walked on, following the man with her eyes. He came to the end of the causeway and turned right into the harbour area. Then, having startled two fishermen busy with their nets, he turned again, disappearing between the cottages. Did he live there? The irresponsible son of an elderly couple who only blasted by every once in a while to say hello to his parents?

At least he had parents.

For a moment Guinevere’s heart sank, thinking of the father and mother she had never known. No graves to visit, no place to go and remember. No photo albums either with shots of her on her birthday or riding a pony or at the zoo.

Nothing.

Like she had no past at all.

Maybe that was why she liked history and genealogy, obscure traces of people who had once lived and loved their lives. Reconstructing what had been to give meaning to the now.

A young family was coming from the other direction, the man holding a girl of six or seven by the hand, the woman carrying a toddler. They were talking excitedly about the island. Guinevere caught the word ‘donkey’. Maybe there were rides offered on the island?

She had to check that out. She loved donkeys: their gentle nature, their instinctive understanding of how people felt and their response to it. Maybe she could help out with the rides some time, during an afternoon off? She supposed Lord Bolingbrooke wouldn’t expect her to be working all of the time.

At last she reached the end of the causeway and turned into the harbour area. The fishermen greeted her with smiles and nods before lowering their heads over their nets again. At Emma’s Eatery a chalkboard invited visitors to try the pasty of the day with stout from the island’s own brewery. People sat at the tables with chequered cloths, cups of coffee and glasses of beer in front of them.

Guinevere’s stomach growled under the delicious food smells wafting at her from the eatery’s terrace – beef, fried fish – but she didn’t have time to sit down. Maybe the bakery offered something to eat on her way up to the castle?

She discerned the sign BAKERY rocking in the sea breeze and further down there was also a bookshop with a table outside full of second-hand books. The golden lettering over the large window read THE COWLED SLEUTH. Apparently enough tourists visited to sustain several businesses on such a small island.

In front of the bakery Guinevere put her suitcase down and used both hands over her eyes to spy inside. Behind the counter on shelves were all kinds of loaves of bread: braided, round, oval. There were also jars of something and packages of flour.

She told Dolly to wait for her and went inside. A sweet scent of baked goods wafted around her, and on the counter a model of a cupcake with generous pink icing made her mouth water. ‘Hello,’ she greeted the woman behind the counter. ‘Do you have some small bread or bun?’

‘Ya. Look here.’ The woman – in her forties with reddish-blonde hair swept back in a ponytail – waved a hand at a basket full of buns and rolls. Her arms were bare and there was some flour left under her right elbow as if she had recently been preparing fresh dough. ‘We’ve got cranberry, cinnamon, or lemon with a twist. All freshly baked this morning.’

‘I’ll have lemon with a twist, please.’ Guinevere fished a few coins from her pocket. ‘There are quite a few shops here for a small island.’

‘All family-owned. Have been around for generations. A B&B too. If you’re looking for a place to stay.’

‘I have a place to stay. I’m going to work at the castle, cataloguing the book collection.’

‘You don’t say.’ The woman looked her over as if trying to fit her appearance with the task she was hired for. ‘You’re with the historical society then, I suppose? They’ve been doing a lot at the castle lately, also for this trial re-enactment.’ She nodded at the wall where a rack held tourist information. The same blue flyer Guinevere had accepted at the train station took centre stage.

The woman put Guinevere’s bun in a napkin and handed her the change. ‘It’ll bring some life to the castle. It can use it. The whole island can.’

She gestured to the baskets with bread that were still quite full even though it was almost the end of the day. ‘There’d be more tourists out here, you know, if the castle was open to the public. Maybe not all the rooms, but a few. To give people an idea of what life was like there in the old days. There’s so much beautiful furniture inside – and paintings. A shame when nobody gets to see them but his lordship.’

Guinevere didn’t know what to say to that. Lord Bolingbrooke was her employer, and she didn’t want to criticize him, even unintentionally. Word of it might get back to him, and it would be a bad start to her summer experience. She asked quickly, ‘Can I just walk up to the castle? Is there a path?’

‘Oh, yes, between the houses. Just turn right from here, and you’ll see the pole with the signs on it. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you, and good day.’

The woman replied with a greeting in Cornish that Guinevere didn’t understand. To prepare herself she had gone online to look for some easy words and phrases to use, like good day, how are you?, I’m new here, et cetera.

But it had turned out that even the simplest things looked quite complicated to her untrained eye. Especially the frequent combination of consonants that seemed enough to put her tongue in a twist, and she had decided she wasn’t going to insult the locals by mutilating their language to their faces. Unless she found someone who could teach her to speak it with ease it was best to stick to what she knew.

Outside the bakery Guinevere bit into the bun and relished the combination of fresh lemon and sweet heavy dough. Dolly looked up to see if a bit of it was forthcoming, but Guinevere had a strict ‘no human food for dogs’ policy. Her friends at the theatre had never stuck to that rule though, and Guinevere was certain that as soon as Dolly made friends here on the island, she would get her treats as well. She was just too cute to resist.

Like the woman in the bakery had said, a sign on a wooden pole directed them to the path that led up to the castle. All kinds of plants grew here, some wild, others clearly cultivated, forming an inviting sloping garden up to the castle walls. Bright colours contrasted with the endless blue skies overhead. The sense of freedom was intense, and if she hadn’t been carrying a heavy suitcase, Guinevere might have thrown her arms overhead and whooped out loud.

The overfull streets of London seemed far away, and even missing her friends was less painful as the beauty of this new world invited her in. There was life everywhere: bees and bumblebees humming about, butterflies landing on the path in front of her resting a moment before taking to their wings again, and even something flashing away into the undergrowth that could be anything from a mouse to a lizard.

Through a closely planted grove Guinevere reached the castle walls, towering over her with their archer slits and holes where canons had poked through in the past. Right in front of her was the large entry gate. In the tall, wooden doors decorated with metalwork was a much smaller door, used in the old days to get in and out without having to open the huge doors. It stood ajar.

As Guinevere didn’t see a bell beside it and guessed that knocking wouldn’t bring somebody out of the huge structure, she pushed the door open and stepped into the yard.

To her surprise it wasn’t an empty, barren affair but a warm, welcoming courtyard full of wooden baskets filled with small orange trees and blossoming plants. Opposite to her position were a few metal chairs around a table that held a large lantern. Braziers full of half-burned wood suggested people sat out here at night. With little artificial light around, you had to have an amazing view of the night skies, all the stars overhead.

As Guinevere walked across to the door into the main building, she caught a flash of reflected sunlight to her left. There between all the natural beauty was a big chunk of metal.

The motorcycle that had passed her on the causeway.

She was sure it was the same one, as the silver helmet the driver had worn lay on the leather saddle.

Guinevere grimaced remembering the noise and exhaust fumes. Could the owner of the castle be fond of motorcycles? It seemed at odds with what she had expected of Lord Bolingbrooke: an older bookish man with a passion for history and plants and the beautiful island he lived on.

But maybe he was eccentric or tried to maintain his youth by blasting around the countryside?

The door into the main building did have a bell, and after she had rung it a couple of times, an old man in a simple pullover and dark trousers opened the door. He held a stack of paper cups in his hand. He looked her over with a hitched brow. ‘I thought it was an early arrival for the rehearsal but I’m sure we’ve never met before.’

‘I would like to speak to the owner of this castle,’ Guinevere said. ‘Lord Bolingbrooke.’

‘Do come in.’

The hallway was formal with lots of wood panelling along the walls. She saw antlers and a mounted pheasant in a corner, a large wooden trunk with metalwork on it at the foot of the stairs, upon which sat an enormous brass pot with a flower arrangement. Probably from the castle gardens. Guinevere recognized the same yellow roses she had seen outside.

A door to her right stood open, and inside that room a long table was covered with a cloth and plates stood ready, cutlery in a basket, sandwiches on a tray covered with plastic wrap. Preparations it seemed to receive guests. For this rehearsal the butler had mentioned?

The butler took her to the foot of stairs. ‘You can leave your suitcase here. His lordship is upstairs in the library. You can’t miss it.’

He was the third person to tell her that she couldn’t miss something, so maybe it was the local way of putting things. But as Guinevere came to the top of the stairs and saw the two corridors leading away from it, she wondered how on earth the man could be certain she wouldn’t pick the wrong door. There were so many, all looking exactly the same. Oak panelling with a metal bar in the middle and a metal doorknob. It seemed to be shaped differently though for each door. She discerned a seal, a beaver – or otter perhaps; a swan in flight, its long neck stretched out; and another bird with a long neck, maybe a stork or a heron?

Then she heard the voices.

Yelling voices it seemed.

Dolly also turned her head in that direction and whined. She never liked a tense atmosphere. The doggy put her ears flat against her head and lowered her rear to the floor, reluctant to push on.

Guinevere hesitated herself, then walked in the direction of the yelling, half curious what it could be.

The door with the swan head door handle flew open, and a man stepped into the corridor, calling into the room, ‘… be happy to see me, but you need not give me this.’

‘You can take your trust and stuff it,’ a voice from inside called and, to accompany the latter words, something flew out of the open door and almost hit the man in the corridor. He managed to jump out of its path at the last instant, and the object shot past him and hit the wall, falling to the floor and spinning in circles.

It seemed to be a …

Metal thing, round, with a hole in it …

Guinevere cringed as another object flew from the room and hit the wall with a deafening clang.

The man had now spotted her and came in her direction. ‘Yes?’ It sounded curt, not surprising when you were caught in the middle of a fierce argument like this.

The man was tall and muscled with a suntanned face, blue eyes, and short blond hair. He wore a grey T-shirt with faded jeans and trainers on his bare feet. He looked her over as if he was trying to remember where he had seen her before.

Guinevere said, ‘I’m here about cataloguing the books.’

‘Aha. Let me announce you before dear Father breaks even more ancient armour.’

‘Armour?’ Now Guinevere realized that the metal object with the hole in it was the helmet of an old knight’s armour. It had been joined by a piece of shin plating.

The man called into the room, ‘Here’s Guinevere Evans to see you about the books. Cataloguing the whole lot, you know, getting it into a computer for posterity?’

Guinevere was surprised that he knew her name without her having told it to him.

The man pressed, ‘Don’t throw anything at her when she comes in, OK?’

There was no reply from inside of the room.

The man nodded at her. ‘Give it a try. But be careful.’

His wry tone didn’t sit well with her, but she didn’t have time to think about it. From the room a voice roared, ‘Show your face to me, girl. Don’t dally.’


Chapter Two (#ulink_25caddd5-c2d6-55c4-b3a3-5900def04c0a)

Guinevere pulled Dolly along, who contrary to her usual impetuous nature didn’t want to go in first this time.

They both peeked around the doorframe into the room.

Close to a big fireplace a man stood, in his sixties, his arms spread wide, holding a large map. He had his feet planted apart on a beautiful multicoloured rug. On that rug two dogs lay. They immediately perked up when they spotted the intruder. Not the human one, but the canine one.

They both rose and started barking. They were so tall they would tower over poor Dolly. One was a mastiff, the other a Great Dane.

Guinevere reached down instinctively and gathered the dachshund up in her arms. Dolly glanced down at the dogs and pulled up a lip as if to challenge them from her safe position on high.

Lord Bolingbrooke snapped his fingers at the dogs who sank back on their rears but kept watching her intently. ‘They don’t bite,’ he barked at her. ‘Come closer, girl, so I can see you better.’

He stood tall in the painfully straight way of someone who’d had a nanny who always poked him in the spine with a fingertip to ensure he didn’t slouch.

Keeping her eyes on the map in his hands, Guinevere walked on, clutching Dolly to her chest. ‘Lord Bolingbrooke? Pleased to meet you.’

‘Yes, yes, delighted I’m sure, but don’t make a fuss about titles. The days they meant anything are past. I know because they’re writing me letters most every day trying to wean my property away from me.’ He gestured at a stack of paperwork teetering on a desk in the corner. ‘The insolence.’

‘I can imagine you don’t want to give up on it. The castle is amazing.’

Bolingbrooke looked pleased. ‘It’s rather nice, isn’t it? You haven’t seen it before? No, I didn’t think so.’ He raked a hand through his wild grey hair, making it stand up even more. ‘Come closer, have a seat. Never mind the dogs. They look fierce, but they’re really as meek as lambs.’ He patted the mastiff’s large head, and the dog immediately licked his hand.

‘This is Rufus,’ Bolingbrooke said. ‘The other one’s called Nero. Yes, after the Roman emperor. Fortunately he doesn’t compose bad verse. What’s her name?’ He nodded at Dolly.

‘Dolly. She showed up at the theatre one day, just sneaked in through the back entrance and ran onto the stage during the performance. Old Carter, our prop man, had to get her off again. But the audience loved it. They all clapped for her. We brought her out on stage with us when we took the final bows. Since then she’s been with us. But she couldn’t live at the theatre of course, so I took her in. She can’t stand being alone. She follows me everywhere I go. I hope you don’t mind.’

While talking, Guinevere sank on the nearest chair, keeping Dolly in her lap. Rufus and Nero seemed to calm down now that she was sitting quite still.

Bolingbrooke ignored her latter remark and said, with a probing look, ‘You’re not from the island.’

‘No, I live in London. I came here to help out with your books. You’re cataloguing them, right?’ She glanced around at the stacks on the floor, the piles on the long table, the overfull shelves. There had to be hundreds of them in this room alone, and there might be more in others. This would be an epic task.

Bolingbrooke waved a hand. ‘I asked Meraud for help, but the stubborn woman doesn’t want to come up here. She’s still concerned about that old feud.’

‘What feud?’

Bolingbrooke folded the map he had been holding. ‘Let’s just say not all Bolingbrookes were pleasant, easy-going fellows like me.’

Pleasant and easy-going, huh, when you threw armour at your own son …

Guinevere tried to smile. ‘I see. Well, I’m not related to anybody on this island or anyone for miles in the distance so …’

‘An uninvolved party. Excellent. Just what we need.’ Bolingbrooke slapped the folded map on the edge of the table, creating a whiplike sound. ‘How would you like a room in the west tower? Has a great view of the sea.’

‘That sounds lovely.’ Guinevere was still working through the information he had so carelessly revealed. ‘But if you wanted to work with this Meraud, won’t she be upset that I’m here now?’ She didn’t fancy meeting someone who felt like her summer job had been stolen away from her by a complete stranger from the city.

‘Nonsense. She had her chance; she didn’t take it. Fine with me. And don’t you listen to anything she tells you about me. She’s prejudiced. Why don’t you come and stay here to see things with an open mind? The castle, the books, me, Oliver.’

‘Oliver?’ Guinevere queried.

‘My son. As he’s back from one of his trips and planning the next one, he has no place to stay. He doesn’t own anything besides that beastly machine of his. When I hear its engine roar down the causeway, I know I have to prepare myself for warfare. Figuratively speaking of course.’

Guinevere gestured to the door. ‘I can’t call throwing helmets around figurative warfare.’

‘I like to underline my point,’ Bolingbrooke said without blinking. ‘I like to be taken seriously, especially by Oliver. Because he has travelled the world and because he’s in the prime of his life, he thinks he can tell me, his old father, what to do. But he had better think twice about that. I’m still able to make up my own mind. And if he doesn’t tread carefully, I’ll throw him out completely. Out of the castle and out of my will.’

Guinevere gasped at the idea of losing access to this beautiful heritage. ‘Does he know that?’

‘If he ever listened. I’ve told him countless times what this property means to the family. He is a Bolingbrooke as well, whether he likes it or not. Since his brother married and moved to Singapore, Oliver is all I have left. He would make such a good keeper of the castle, you know. He could repair so many things that I don’t have the strength for. He’s good with money too. He could have any degree he wanted. But no, he wanted to travel, is always off after some beast on the edge of extinction. Leaving his family heritage to fall apart.’

‘Beast on the edge of extinction?’ Guinevere repeated. ‘He’s into wildlife conservation?’

‘Guinevere doesn’t want to be talked to death.’ Oliver stood in the door opening. The expression on his face suggested he had overheard some of the things his father had told her about him, his lifestyle, and his choices.

Oliver said, ‘Coffee, tea, and sandwiches are ready downstairs. I suppose you’re hungry after your journey out here. I’d better remove your suitcase from the hallway before the guests arrive for the rehearsal and break their necks over it.’ He continued to his father, ‘Where are you putting her up?’

‘In the west tower,’ Bolingbrooke said. ‘You’d better show it to her. I’ll go down to play host.’

‘Just stay out of Haydock’s hair. Last time you two were in a single room, he threatened to sue you for assault.’

‘I barely touched him.’

‘Well, this time don’t touch him at all. A lawsuit is the last thing this castle needs.’ Oliver gestured to Guinevere. ‘Follow me.’

Guinevere carried Dolly out of the room and then put her down. The dachshund seemed excited to explore the castle and dashed ahead of them, up the steep winding stairs inside the tower.

Despite the suitcase Oliver was carrying for her, he took the steps two at a time, and Guinevere had trouble keeping up. Sweat formed on her forehead and between her shoulder blades as she laboured up one broad, worn step after another. There didn’t seem to be an end to them. How much higher still?

She called out to Oliver, ‘Your father … doesn’t like … this Haydock?’ The mention of Haydock threatening him with assault charges suggested they had come to blows. Bolingbrooke’s casual remark that he had ‘barely’ touched him wasn’t very reassuring, given his obvious inflammable temper.

Oliver didn’t seem to have heard her question, or pretended that he hadn’t.

When Guinevere reached a landing, she was positively panting. A door stood open, and muffled sounds came from inside the room. ‘Oliver?’ she called. ‘Are you in there?’

‘Yes.’

She stepped to the door and peeked in. Oliver was brushing his hands over several surfaces, blowing away dust and kicking something under the bed. Dolly scooted after it and dragged it out again, shaking it. It was a woman’s slipper, dark blue with embroidered roses on it. It was covered with dust that scattered under Dolly’s shaking.

‘Give that to me, girl.’ Guinevere rushed to extract the slipper from the dog’s mouth and put it on the old dressing table in the far corner. A velvet-covered chair sat in front of it, while the wall beside it was covered with a wall tapestry showing a hunting scene full of hounds and horses. A cherrywood side table held a marble statue of a deer on a pedestal and a tall mirror in a brass frame. The metal had gone dim but Guinevere bet that with a little polish it would shine again.

In fact, her fingers itched to give this entire room a good cleaning and restore all these beautiful items to their former glory. Put together like this, they formed an odd mix of different periods and different styles, but judged individually, they were all well preserved and had stories to tell.

Guinevere held her breath at the possibilities. The woman at the bakery had been so right: opening up but a part of this castle would pull in the tourists in droves. Oliver could take photographs for a brochure, and she could write up the text. They could also work on a website together.

Together.

Hmmm, as if Oliver would want that.

If his father could be believed, Oliver was dead set on selling off the castle or at least handing over the care for it to a trust or some other kind of organization while he travelled the world to protect wildlife. He wouldn’t want to put time or energy into a plan to keep the castle in the family and still make money off it.

She wasn’t even sure Bolingbrooke himself would be open to that. He didn’t seem a big fan of change.

Frowning, Guinevere walked to the window. The view with its bright colours hit her in the gut again. It was so intensely alive and inviting, whispering to her that this summer had amazing things in store for her.

Keeping her back to Oliver, she said softly, ‘You wrote the acceptance email to me, right? You are O. Bolingbrooke.’ That was how he had known her name.

‘My father doesn’t touch computers. He thinks they might bite him.’ Footfalls betrayed Oliver was pacing the room. ‘Meraud didn’t want to come here. She has her hands full with her bookshop so she asked her brother to recommend someone. And he recommended you.’

Guinevere turned to him in a snap. ‘You mean …’ Her mind whirled. ‘Mr Betts is actually related to someone here on the island?’

‘Apparently.’ Oliver surveyed her. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

‘No. So there was never any advertisement in the paper either.’

‘What?’ Oliver asked.

‘Your father didn’t advertise for someone to come help him.’ Bolingbrooke probably didn’t even know how all of this had been set up behind his back. By Oliver, the son he didn’t see eye to eye with.

The son also who had other plans for the castle than his father did.

Had Oliver set this up with Mr Betts, hoping he could persuade his father to sell?

But why would Mr Betts be a part of something like that? She couldn’t imagine him letting himself be used.

Or using her.

Guinevere felt an unpleasant wriggle of worry in the pit of her stomach again. The surprised responses of the locals to Bolingbrooke accepting a stranger to his keep now took on new meaning. And she wasn’t quite sure what part she was supposed to play in all of this.

Slowly she said, ‘Mr Betts did give me a letter I should read once I was settled in.’

Oliver hitched a brow. ‘Sounds mysterious. Why would a girl like you spend her summer holidays here anyway on an island in the middle of nowhere?’

Guinevere shrugged. ‘I grew up in the countryside. And I love books. Your father has an amazing collection, I heard. Besides, there wasn’t anything to do for me in London, with the theatre closing for renovations. I hope I can also help out with the re-enactment. Mr Betts must have known about that and sent me here for that reason as well. I read in the leaflet about the re-enactment – that the tale is a very old one and an important part of Cornisea history?’

She pulled the blue leaflet out of her bag and read aloud, ‘The trial against Branok the Cold-hearted is legendary. He was the steward at the castle many centuries ago. He was cruel and he oppressed all the people under his rule. His master chose not to see what he did. Then one day Branok burned down a house to set an example and it turned out there had been two young children in it who died in the fire.’

Guinevere shivered. ‘How terrible.’

Oliver said, ‘It was never proven he had actually set fire to the house. Fires happened a lot in those days as houses were often made of wood and thatch. Burned like dry tinder. And people all had open fireplaces inside. The fire Branok was accused of may simply have started from a spark or a lamp falling over.’

‘So he wasn’t convicted?’ Guinevere asked.

‘No, he never was,’ Oliver said. ‘He was made to leave the island. On the night he left the sea was wild and he never reached land. He must have drowned.’

He held her gaze. ‘But some say he didn’t drown. Some even say he lives until this day …’ he lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper ‘… to haunt the beach at night with his lantern in his hand, cursing everyone who comes in his path. Locals don’t dare go near the beach.’

‘I’m no local. I want to take long walks and see the sunset.’

Oliver shrugged. ‘I won’t stop you. Just saying that Cornwall has a lot of ghost stories.’

‘So did Devon, and it never kept me from going out at night to listen to the owls or count moths.’

‘Count moths?’

‘Yes, if you put out a sheet and a little light shining on it, they flock to it and you can see all the different species.’ As a biologist, or whatever he was, he should know how to do that.

Oliver hitched a brow. ‘And your parents let you?’

‘I grew up with my grandmother. I had a lot of freedom.’ Studying the leaflet in her hands, Guinevere frowned. ‘Why re-enact a trial of a man who wasn’t convicted? Couldn’t they make it stick?’

‘Maybe the judge was bought? I don’t know the details. I only have to chip in tonight because Jago Trevelyan, who plays the judge, can’t make it for this rehearsal. I just hope I remember my lines.’

Guinevere asked, ‘Who’s playing Branok the Cold-hearted? It seems like a rather unpleasant personality to don.’

‘Arthur Haydock.’ Oliver grimaced. ‘And he doesn’t have to don anything. He’s a modern-day Branok if I ever knew one. A lawyer who has been very successful at taking people’s land away from them.’

Guinevere narrowed her eyes. ‘And at odds with your father.’ Did that mean this Haydock also wanted to take the castle away from the Bolingbrookes?

Oliver waved a hand as if to slap her question out of the window. ‘Look, if you want coffee and a sandwich, we’d better go back down before the players have finished it all.’

***

In the hallway a young woman in a bright red trouser suit had just come in through the front door. She wore her blonde hair up in a bun on the back of her head, an efficient hairstyle fitting her rather formal appearance. She breathed fast as if the climb up to the castle had exhausted her.

‘Leah,’ Oliver said. He went to her and clasped her hands in his. ‘Good to see you. How have you been?’ He looked her over as if he sought the familiar in her features. Maybe, with Oliver’s travels, these two hadn’t seen each other in a long time?

Ignoring the question of how she’d been, Leah spied past Oliver. ‘Where’s my father?’ Her tone was urgent, almost anxious. ‘Tell me he’s not alone with yours.’

Still holding Leah’s hands in his, Oliver turned to the dining room door. ‘In there I suppose. But I warned my father not to pick a fight again.’

Leah pulled her hands away quickly. ‘As if he’s going to listen. We have to get in there and keep them apart.’ She moved to the door, noiselessly on the trainers she wore. They didn’t match her outfit, but Guinevere supposed you didn’t climb up to the castle in high heels.

‘That’s Leah Haydock,’ Oliver said to Guinevere. ‘Haydock’s daughter and a partner in his law firm.’ The latter words carried a tinge of bitterness.

Guinevere studied his expression to probe the meaning of this.

Leah was already waving them along to the dining room door. ‘Quickly.’

Just as the three of them reached it, voices rang out from inside.

‘Pointless to mention it again,’ Guinevere caught.

And another voice: ‘Man, be sensible. You can never keep this.’

‘It’s mine. And I’ll keep it. No matter what I have to do for it.’

Oliver pushed the door open, and Guinevere saw Bolingbrooke and a handsome middle-aged man in a neat grey suit almost nose to nose in the middle of the room.

Bolingbrooke’s right hand rested on the table where the tray with sandwiches sat. The butler had placed another tray beside it with a ham and a round cheese. A sharp knife was placed at the ready for cutting.

Bolingbrooke’s fingers closed round the handle of the knife as if he was ready to pick it up and brandish it at his opponent.

‘Ah,’ Oliver said in a loud voice, barging into the room. ‘You’re already here. Guinevere, this is Arthur Haydock. Haydock, this is our new recruit: Guinevere Evans.’

Following suit, Guinevere reached out her hand, and Haydock had to turn away from Bolingbrooke. His brown eyes surveyed her critically. ‘A new addition to our cast, you mean? I didn’t know we still had any parts left to give out.’

His gaze fell to Dolly, and he snorted. ‘A new addition to your dog park too, Bolingbrooke? Isn’t this one a little small for your tastes?’

‘That’s Guinevere’s dog,’ Bolingbrooke barked. ‘And you can rest assured: Guinevere has nothing to do with your silly little play. She’s here to catalogue my books.’

While speaking, Bolingbrooke inched away from the table and the knife, not looking at Oliver, who shot his father accusing glances. After all, he had warned him about staying away from Haydock and about avoiding a scene like this one.

‘So pleased to meet you both.’ Guinevere shook Leah’s hand now. It was clammy as if she had worked herself up about her father’s behaviour.

‘Leah is a junior partner in my law firm,’ Haydock said with emphasis. ‘And what kind of work do you normally do?’ He looked Guinevere over with a mix of curiosity and bewilderment. ‘This book cataloguing thing is just a summer assignment, I presume?’

‘I work in a theatre,’ Guinevere said. She straightened her back as she spoke, pulling back her shoulders. She was used to people not considering it a real job.

‘You’re an actress?’ Leah asked, her eyes lighting up. ‘You have to tell us something about the plays you perform in.’

‘No, I do costume design. I also help out backstage during performances.’

‘And what do you study?’ Haydock asked in a patronizing tone. ‘I mean, such a job is obviously meant to earn a little something on the side while you get your degree.’

‘I already have my degree, in drama and theatre studies. I was very lucky to find a theatre that could take me on right away.’ Guinevere couldn’t resist adding, ‘In London.’

‘I would love to live in London,’ Leah said. She had a warm, melodious voice, and her tense expression relaxed as she took to the topic. ‘All those historic sites and museums to visit.’

‘Then why don’t you move there?’ Oliver said. His tone was a little too loud for a normal question. It was more like a challenge.

Leah flushed the same colour as her trouser suit. She held her head up, but her shoulders slumped as if she was physically trying to remove herself from the scene.

The butler appeared in the door and announced, ‘Kensa and Tegen Morgan.’

A stout woman in her late forties walked in, carrying a twined basket on her arm. She was already dressed in a woollen garb that gave her a medieval look. ‘I made some changes to the script. I’ll hand out the new information right away.’ She reached under the cloth in the basket she was carrying. Dolly came over to see if there were any treats forthcoming.

‘Not again,’ Bolingbrooke said. ‘Why can’t you just leave the play alone?’

‘There are no changes to the text,’ Kensa countered. ‘Just a few directions as to where everybody should be standing. Body posture and so on.’ Kensa threw Leah a pointed look as she said the latter.

Leah said, ‘Guinevere here works in a theatre. I’m sure she knows much better than you how people in a play should behave.’

Guinevere cringed at being drawn into the disagreement in this way, but Kensa ignored the mention completely and started to pass sheets around with brisk movements.

Leah accepted hers but put it on the table right away without even looking at what it said.

Haydock flashed Kensa a smile and even said something in a low voice that Guinevere couldn’t overhear.

Bolingbrooke made an evasive gesture, and Kensa put the paper beside him on a side table. ‘You have a small part anyway. Doesn’t matter much whether you are any good or not.’

‘A small part?’ Bolingbrooke protested. ‘In the Middle Ages the lord of the castle had the power of life and death over the people under his rule. He could decide to have you strung up just because he didn’t like you.’

The girl who had come in with Kensa was still at the door, watching the scene as if the take-charge behaviour embarrassed her.

Their shared surname – Morgan – suggested these two were related, but there was little likeness in their faces. While Kensa was blonde with bags under her eyes suggesting she slept badly, Tegen had wild raven hair and a deep tan as if she was outdoors a lot. She wasn’t in medieval garb either but a green shimmery cocktail dress that ended two inches above the knees.

Tegen focused on Oliver, and her expression lit. ‘I had no idea you were back here, Ollie.’

Oliver didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm for their reunion. He looked at her dress and said, ‘I’m sure polyester wasn’t around in the Middle Ages.’

‘Well, I don’t want to look like an idiot in front of all of those people. Mum says the society is inviting members from other societies to attend. There might even be a piece in the newspapers. I want to look good.’ Tegen smoothed down the short skirt, the silver bracelets on her left arm tinkling. Intrigued by the sound, Dolly came over, and Tegen sat on her haunches at once to scratch the doggy behind the ears. ‘We need a dog too, Mum. Just a small one like this. At Emma’s there was an ad for puppies.’

Kensa’s eyes narrowed. ‘What were you doing at Emma’s?’

Tegen ignored the question and said, ‘Golden retriever puppies. They’re so fluffy and cute.’

Kensa had returned to her basket and looked Oliver over. ‘Don’t they feed you on your travels?’

‘Mum!’ Tegen shot to her feet and elbowed her. ‘He’s just lean.’

Oliver didn’t seem to hear as he lifted the cloth covering off the basket. There were garments inside like the one Kensa wore herself, of coarse dark material. Oliver scoffed as he ran his hand over the fabric. ‘Haydock’s going to wear this? That’ll be the day. Why didn’t he want to be the judge in the play? Be on the good side of the law?’

Looking past him as if he didn’t exist, Haydock said to Kensa, ‘Now that the costumes are ready for us to wear during our rehearsal tonight it will be even more real than other times.’

He seemed to want to catch Kensa’s eye, but she avoided looking at him, fussing with the basket instead. Her reluctance to engage formed a complete contrast with her earlier dominant behaviour.

Oliver pressed Haydock, ‘Why did you want to be Branok?’

Haydock’s eyes flashed a moment. ‘Branok was a resourceful man. Without him this castle would have ended up destitute. He saved it. He should never have been tried.’

‘He wasn’t convicted,’ Oliver scoffed. ‘He got away scot-free.’

‘Scot-free? He was forced to leave the island. Even without any conviction his old life as he had built it was over. Hardly fair.’

‘Fair?’ Kensa hitched a brow. ‘That man was guilty of the death of two small children. Hurting children is the worst thing anyone can ever do.’

There was a short tense silence. Haydock seemed to have flinched under her words as if they struck him across the face.

Then Kensa said in a forced light tone, ‘Do you have the Branok ring?’

‘Yes,’ Haydock said, reaching into his pocket as if to produce it.

Everybody watched him expectantly, but he retracted his hand. ‘When I’m dressed, I’ll put it on.’ He looked around slowly. ‘You’ll be surprised to see it. It’s the genuine article.’

‘I don’t believe you have a ring dating back to Branok’s lifetime,’ Oliver said at once. ‘Where would you have found it?’ He surveyed him suspiciously.

‘Maybe not dating back to Branok’s lifetime, but it’s centuries old. And intimately connected with Cornisea.’ Haydock smiled as he said it, hiding some secret satisfaction related to the ring he carried on his person.

Everybody waited for him to go on, but he didn’t seem willing to reveal more about it right now.

Then Bolingbrooke said, ‘Yes, well, let’s get on with it. Everybody better get dressed and then I’ll lock Branok in the dungeon. Perhaps Oliver can go down there already to light the torches?’

He looked at Guinevere and explained, ‘We still have no electric light in the dungeons. It’s old-fashioned torches along the wall.’

‘More like lanterns with tea lights in it.’ Oliver gestured at her. ‘Do you want to come along? Then you can see the dungeon. Everybody else has already seen it.’

The latter seemed meant to stop Tegen, who appeared about to invite herself along.

Guinevere agreed and snapped her fingers at Dolly, who immediately came to her side. They followed Oliver out of the room. The last thing Guinevere saw was Tegen, whispering angrily to her mother. Kensa wasn’t listening though as she was watching Haydock and his daughter Leah with a brooding look.

‘Nobody seems to like each other,’ Guinevere observed as they took a corridor that led into a dim recess. ‘Is all this tension just because of the play? Kensa seemed to force her directions onto the others.’

‘That’s just the way she is.’ Oliver sighed. ‘She thinks she did most of the work for the play, gathering information from sources kept here at the castle. So she believes she should tell everybody how to act the part. Besides, they’ve all been stuck here for all of their lives. They have history with each other.’

‘History?’ Guinevere asked, trying to interpret the word.

Oliver made a gesture. ‘If you asked my father, he’d say Kensa is always supporting Haydock, because she’s in love with him. But that was ages ago, before she married her husband. Haydock was ambitious even then and he would never have married someone who wasn’t in his league. The woman he did marry brought in money and connections so he could establish his law firm. His only disappointment in life is that he doesn’t have a son to take over.’

‘So he took Leah in.’ Guinevere understood. ‘Is she her father’s successor now?’

‘She’d be very stupid if she agreed to that.’

Oliver sounded bitter again, like he had before. Apparently, there was also history between him and Leah. Concerning her professional choices?

‘Why would it be stupid?’ Guinevere probed. ‘Leah seems so eager to please her father.’

‘That’s exactly why. The old kitchens,’ Oliver said, waving his hands in that direction. ‘But we’re going down here.’ He took the iron ring on an old door in his hand and pulled. The door opened slowly with an ominous creak.

Guinevere felt a shiver go down her spine. Dungeons had been creepy places in times gone by. People had been locked up there with the rats, awaiting trial or execution. Without daylight, with just a little food. And foremost no hope of ever getting free again.

Oliver gestured. ‘Ladies first.’

Dolly yapped and seemed eager to explore the dark void ahead.

Guinevere hung back and protested, ‘But I have no light.’

‘Here you go.’ Oliver reached inside the door and produced a large torch. ‘Hold tight, it’s heavy.’

Guinevere took it from his grasp and switched it on. The light fell on a stone floor that soon turned into steps that went down. Guinevere moved forward carefully, keeping her eyes trained on the floor right before her feet. Dolly didn’t seem to mind the darkness as she jogged ahead, sniffing every few paces. Her nails scratched across the stone.

Behind Guinevere’s back the door fell to a close. The sound echoed away into the emptiness ahead of her. Goose bumps rose on her arms.

‘Spooky, huh?’ Oliver said at her shoulder.

Guinevere shivered, imagining rustling ahead of them and reddish rodent eyes lighting up in the darkness, but she forced herself to walk on quietly. ‘What was that between your father and Haydock anyway? They seemed ready to come to blows. And you had even warned him to avoid such a situation.’

‘Yes, well, Haydock should of course not set one foot here. It’s asking for trouble. But he’s in the play, he’s our leading man even, so we have to put up with him.’ Oliver took a deep breath. ‘Haydock and his Cornisea Historical Society are after the castle.’


Chapter Three (#ulink_dcceee8d-b098-59ea-8be9-ed2f7c42a53c)

It was a short terse statement with a lot of implications.

Oliver said, ‘They believe they can do a better job of exploiting it. Open it to the public.’

‘It would draw people in droves. It’s so beautiful.’

‘It’s also private property. People should respect that.’ Oliver tapped her shoulder. ‘Watch your step now; it’s very uneven in places.’

They reached a large room with metal cage constructions along the wall. There were four of them on either side. Each cage had metal rings in the wall to which the prisoners used to be shackled. In one of the cages there was a table and a chair.

Dolly managed to squeeze herself through the bars and dashed under the table. When she ran out on the other end, she touched the chair, and it tottered, almost falling over.

‘Come here, girl,’ Guinevere called and added to Oliver, ‘The floor is really ragged there.’

‘Yes, the cells were never meant to have furniture in them. But Haydock claimed that by the time of the Branok trial these cells weren’t what they had once been. He wants to sit at that table, writing up his last will. History does say Branok wrote a will in here, or a map with directions to his hidden stash, whatever you like to believe, but I bet he did it shackled to the wall. If he could write at all, of course. Over time he must have become larger than life, while he might just have been a lawless scoundrel.’

‘But he was steward at the castle, right? Shouldn’t a steward have been able to read and write?’ Guinevere asked curiously.

‘Not necessarily. Branok might have been appointed because he was shrewd and knew how to play people. A clerk may have kept the accounts. Many orphans who had been raised at monasteries could read and write and they found positions at keeps like this one.’

‘If Branok had a clerk who knew about all his dealings, and some of them were unfair, that clerk must have been his accomplice,’ Guinevere mused. ‘Was he heard at the trial?’

‘A partner in crime?’ Oliver winked at her. ‘I doubt that Branok shared his illegal transactions with the clerk who kept the official records for the castle. He probably went about that business alone.’ He scanned her expression. ‘You sound like you know something about trials.’

‘More about murder investigations. We’ve been rehearsing a play set in the roaring Twenties about a murder at an estate where young ladies are groomed for high society. I helped working out some kinks in the scenario.’

‘In the scenario?’ Oliver frowned.

‘Yes, some clues were too obscure. And one motive didn’t make sense at all. The audience does need a fair chance to unmask the killer, you know.’ She looked at the cell Haydock was going to use. ‘Only one way in – through the door. But there is a sort of hole in the wall?’

She pointed at a square, large enough to put a man’s fist through. Light seeped in, but the outside world couldn’t be seen clearly as the walls were so thick that her view was obstructed by the stone she looked upon.

‘It’s like something is moving on the other side,’ Guinevere said, squinting. ‘The light isn’t flowing in naturally.’

‘Probably bushes,’ Oliver said. ‘That’s the garden out there. I think …’ He frowned as if conjuring up the plan of the castle in his mind. ‘Rhododendrons.’

‘So these dungeons are not like cellars?’

‘In part,’ Oliver said. ‘You may have noticed that the castle’s entry door has steps in front of it. The whole castle is built a little higher, as it were, and the room below was used for these dungeons and for cellars to keep food. The dungeons did not need to be deep underground as escape was virtually impossible anyway. Just look at it. You were shackled to the wall. Then the cage was locked. The door through which we just entered was bolted from the outside. And there were always people around.

‘So even if a prisoner miraculously made it out of the dungeon, he’d not be out of the castle yet. He would most likely be spotted. At night the gate was closed, and a gatekeeper kept watch over it. Also keep in mind that the island’s cut off from the mainland during high tide. So a prisoner would have to know exactly when he could use the causeway or have a boat ready for his escape.’

‘It could only have been done with an accomplice,’ Guinevere said. The silence made her lower her voice. ‘If someone came from the outside, to lure the guard away, made sure a boat was ready and waiting along the beach … Maybe even delivered the key of the shackles to the prisoner.’

‘In a homemade pasty?’ Oliver grinned. ‘We should have forgotten about re-enacting this boring trial and gone for a daring escape instead. It would have been so much more fun.’

He made a movement as if he brandished a club over his head. ‘Knock the guard down, sneak through the dark passageways …’

Guinevere had to laugh. ‘I think the historical society would not have approved. That’s not how Branok’s story played out.’

‘Well, sometimes to sell something you need a little fiction to make it juicier. Ah, the lighter. Can you open the lanterns’ doors for me? They’re slightly crooked and never stay open when I want them to.’

They had to stand closely together to make it work. Guinevere looked at Oliver’s features as the lighter’s flame threw shadows across it. She couldn’t make any sense of him. What he was about. If he really disliked his father and the castle, or only pretended he did.

And if so, why.

‘Hello?’ Oliver tapped her shoulder. ‘Are you there? We’re all done. Father can come down to lock Haydock in. My part as judge will be a disaster of course. I haven’t had time to rehearse, and Haydock will be livid when my stumbling ruins the flow.’

He leaned over to her, whispering, ‘Who knows, I might condemn that scoundrel to death anyway.’

***

The flickering light of a few candles illuminated the group gathered in the tall room.

Oliver sat on a carved chair, holding a broomstick by way of wand of office. His father had said he would only produce the real wand, which was part of the castle’s collection, for the actual trial. That one special night when everybody would be present.

Kensa, grave in her plain garment, had given her testimony to condemn Branok for killing two innocent children when he had ordered the house to be set on fire.

‘But he never knew the children were in there,’ Leah had just said. She was a witness to defend Branok and plead his innocence. ‘You yourself had left them, being a bad mother who neglected her brood. You were at the inn meeting men and inviting them to the attic above the horse shed.’

‘I am not proud to say I made money that way in the old days,’ Kensa replied, ‘but not any more after I wed Merek.’

Leah laughed. ‘We all know Merek is a weak man who drinks too much. He may earn money but he spends it on stout and ale, not on your children. If you wanted them to have anything, anything at all, you had to return to your old trade.’

Oliver lifted a hand. ‘Do we know,’ he asked in an exaggerated baritone voice, ‘where the accusing party was when her house burned to the ground? Was she really at the inn with men?’

‘I have witnesses to confirm it,’ Leah said eagerly, gesturing to where Tegen and Bolingbrooke were waiting for their turn.

‘All liars, for gain!’ Kensa cried. She beat her fist on the wooden table before her.

‘You are accusing the other party of bringing bought witnesses into this court?’ Oliver asked.

‘Before this tribunal,’ Bolingbrooke corrected audibly from the side.

Guinevere suppressed a laugh, as this was so like rehearsal in their London theatre.

Oliver frowned at the interruption, but the women, completely into their parts, were already moving on.

Kensa cried, ‘Yes, my lord, he has done it before. He is a wicked man who buys people’s words for gain. He is a murderer too, of innocent children.’

‘She is just accusing Branok out of spite.’ Leah’s cheeks were red as she leaned forward. She had let down her hair, and it hung to her shoulders in waves, framing her delicate features. The dark colour of the plain garment underlined her solemnity. ‘Branok never wanted her and told her husband of her lecherous activities at the inn. Merek beat her for it, and she blamed Branok. But it was her own doing that got her beaten and also got her children killed. The thatch on the roof caught fire when she was not there. It was not arson.’

Oliver opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to have forgotten his lines. He scrambled to pull a piece of paper from his pocket.

Bolingbrooke called out, ‘Hurry up with that cheat sheet; you’re spoiling the momentum.’

Oliver nodded. ‘Calm yourself. I’m just a stand-in. What does he say here? Oh, yes. Do you have proof of that?’

‘The house is burned to the ground,’ the mother wailed. ‘How can I produce proof of anything?’

‘We can confirm that Branok was elsewhere at the time,’ Leah said. ‘He didn’t do this evil deed. Nobody did. It was an accident.’

Guinevere thought that, if Leah was like this in real court cases, she had to win a lot. But then she wasn’t even sure what Leah’s part in her father’s law firm was and what kind of cases they handled. Maybe it was just settling disputes and mediating between people? Nothing as big and dramatic as this old trial. It seemed like tension grew with every line, filling the room up to the shadows in the rafters overhead.

‘It is high time I hear the accused speak his own mind.’ Oliver rose slowly from his seat. ‘I will go to him in his place of …’

He consulted his cheat sheet again. ‘Confinement. Looking at this poor woman who suffered such loss, he will not be able to lie. I will see in his face if he speaks the truth.’

He looked around. ‘Is that the way they did it those days? Just take the villain’s word for it that he hadn’t done it?’

Bolingbrooke exhaled as if the delay was getting on his nerves. ‘Apparently. As Branok was influential, his word was worth a lot. And what else do you suggest to get at the truth? Torture?’

Oliver waved the broomstick. ‘All right, I get the point. Let’s go down into the dungeon then. Did the whole group come?’

‘Yes, of course. How else can we have another altercation between the accusing and defending parties?’

‘But during the re-enactment you actually propose to take the audience down there? There’s not much room.’

‘I guess that we might have to bring Branok up then and do it here anyway. However, I like the dramatic setting of the dungeon and the sort of … sense of impending doom it has. The presence of death.’

Tegen, who didn’t have to speak in this section, gave a little shriek.

Oliver shook his head at his father. ‘You lay it on too thick.’

Guinevere said, ‘We could build a stage version of the cage in the dungeon right here in the room. That way you could have Branok in his cell present in the proceedings.’

‘Rattling his chains at us and shouting abuse.’ Oliver grimaced.

‘Very funny,’ Leah said with a pinched expression.

Oliver exhaled as if he wanted to apologize for what he had said, then his expression tightened and he just snapped, ‘Follow me.’ To Guinevere he said, ‘Dolly had better stay here. We’ll be back up in ten minutes.’

‘Stay, girl.’ Guinevere gave the doggy a quick pat on the head. She sat down and watched them with her inquisitive little eyes, her tail wagging across the floorboards.

Carrying the wand of office like it was a sword he could use to hack at invisible enemies, Oliver led the way into the dungeon. Guinevere was in the back of the group making its way down there and entering into the flickering light of the tea lights in the lanterns.

Her eyes strained to see the figure of Haydock sitting at the table. She remembered that he had specifically requested a table and chair be brought in to make it easier for him.

Kensa called out, ‘Arthur! What’s wrong? Arthur!’ She pushed forward.

Guinevere felt a shiver go up her spine as if she suddenly felt what Bolingbrooke had just put into words. Impending doom.

The presence of death.

Oliver said, ‘Haydock, that’s not funny. You’re giving us all a heart attack.’

Leah gave a shriek. ‘Maybe he really had a heart attack? Look at his face.’

Something fell to the ground. Being in the back, Guinevere still couldn’t see what the commotion was all about. Her heart beat fast. Was Haydock on the floor? Looking like he was unwell?

Oliver was at the cage already, pulling at the metal bars. ‘Where’s the key?’

‘I have it,’ Bolingbrooke said and handed it over.

Guinevere stood on tiptoe and craned her neck to see what had caused the alarm.

Haydock seemed to be down on the floor, on his back. One hand was grasping at his chest. Had he really had a heart attack, like Leah suggested, or had he merely fainted?

Was there bad air in here? Lack of oxygen?

Or was it an act like Oliver had suggested? Haydock’s way to make the re-enactment a little more exciting than just ending with a non-conviction and an accused who had drowned in the sea at night.

Oliver opened the door and went in. He knelt beside the body to feel the face and the neck.

Guinevere waited for his reassuring words that Haydock was fine and just pulling their leg. He’d rise to his feet laughing and cause another row with Bolingbrooke, who would blame him for his insensitivity.

Then Oliver inched back. ‘He’s dead. And there’s a knife in his chest.’

Tegen shrieked again.

Guinevere found herself saying, ‘What? That can’t be.’ Her mind refused to grasp the meaning of the word ‘dead’. There had to be some misunderstanding. Haydock had staged this somehow, for dramatic effect.

Oliver repeated in a curt tone, ‘There’s a knife in his chest. His hand is curled around it as if he wanted to pull it out again, but he didn’t manage.’

He looked up, straight at his father.

Bolingbrooke looked back with a blank expression. ‘A knife? How can that be? There are no knives here in the dungeons.’

Oliver said, ‘Somebody brought it in here and stabbed him.’

Guinevere swallowed. Her stomach squeezed at the idea that a man had died right under their feet.

Kensa said, in a thin voice, ‘That stupid castle. Arthur never could stop talking about it. How much he wanted it. And now he’s dead for it. Now …’ She pointed a finger at Bolingbrooke. ‘You killed him! You killed him so he couldn’t take Cornisea away from you.’

Bolingbrooke glanced from Kensa to Oliver and back. ‘Are you all out of your minds? I? Kill for the castle? When I locked him in here, he was sitting at that table, alive and well. I even asked him if he was all right and he said he was fine. The door to the cage was already closed so I only turned the key in the lock. I never went near him. I couldn’t have stabbed him.’

‘But,’ Oliver said, ‘you’re the only one with the key to this cage. If you locked him in when he was still alive and well, how did he die? Nobody else could get in here to get at him.’

‘Through the air hole?’ Guinevere suggested. She had found her voice again and, to stop the light feeling in her head, she had to think rationally, discover how it had been done.

Oliver shook his head at her suggestion. ‘It’s too small to throw anything through with enough speed or strength so it would embed itself into his chest. I’m no expert but I think this stab wound has been delivered face to face, in close proximity.’

‘Then it’s clear,’ Kensa said. ‘Bolingbrooke did it to save the castle.’ Her voice was steady and her expression almost calm. Only her eyes showed a little too much white. Maybe she was in shock and didn’t know what she was saying?

‘The constable has to come and see this,’ Leah said. She hugged herself tightly. ‘He can determine what to do next.’

Tegen scoffed, ‘Eal? He couldn’t catch a killer if he bumped into him still carrying the bloody knife.’

Kensa poked her with an elbow to make her shut up.

‘I’ll call Eal right away.’ Oliver reached below the robe he wore for his mobile phone. He kept an eye on all present. ‘Nobody moves from this spot until he’s here.’

Kensa said, ‘Why? Can’t poor Leah leave? The girl must be frantic with her father dead in front of her.’

Leah made a soft, suppressed sound in her throat. With her loose hair and the dark garment she suddenly looked like she was already mourning.

Tegen was staring at her mother. Her eyes were narrowed and questioning as if she was trying to work something out.

‘Leah can stand back,’ Oliver said, ‘but she can’t leave. This is a crime scene and we can’t run the risk of anything being disturbed here. Eal will have to collect evidence.’

‘Evidence?’ Kensa echoed. ‘In here?’

‘Yes.’ Oliver looked straight at her, a cold hard look. ‘You just accused my father of this murder. But it’s not the Middle Ages any more. We have fingerprints now and DNA traces. The killer must have left some proof behind that will point him or her out to us. It’s only a matter of time until we know the truth.’

In the silence his words seemed to linger, like a knell of death.

Guinevere’s arms were full of goose bumps, and she ached to hold Dolly close and feel the dachshund’s reassuring licks on her face.

Only a matter of time until they knew the truth.

But what would the truth be?

Who had hated Haydock enough to kill him? To stab him in the chest, face to face?


Chapter Four (#ulink_39bfa789-ec39-50c3-90e1-7881df801744)

‘What a day to arrive here.’

Guinevere didn’t turn her head to Oliver’s voice. He had come up to her without making a sound. Or maybe she had missed the sound as she had stood there, staring up at the skies that were so full of stars. Once upon a time, Gran had pointed them all out to her, telling her their names and the stories connected with them. Guinevere had felt small standing under the canopy, thinking about the universe out there and the places far away where the stars were born. But at the same time she had felt totally safe, with Gran’s arm around her shoulders, totally loved and in place, part of her own little universe in which Gran was the sun around which everything revolved.

Those memories, and Dolly’s warm body against her, drove away the cold of their forced stay in the dungeon with the dead body until Constable Eal arrived. Kensa’s harsh accusations against Bolingbrooke still echoed in her ears. Would her new employer really get into trouble now? Would his guilt be readily assumed? Oliver had earlier said that a lawsuit was the last thing the castle needed. He had then referred to one for assault. Would it now be one for murder?

Oliver looked up at the night skies as well, his hands folded at his back. ‘You should be in bed by now.’

‘What did the constable say when he left?’

‘That he’ll tell us when he has more. What else can he say?’

‘But what do you think that he thinks?’ Guinevere glanced at Oliver. His expression was blank, but there were lines of fatigue around his mouth. ‘I don’t know anything about the police around here, but Tegen suggested that Constable Eal can’t catch a killer even if it was obvious that he had committed the crime.’

Oliver sighed. ‘Eal has never had much to do here. Just keep an eye out for people poaching, for illegal fishing, for fires made on the beach at night. He also collects the money people have to pay for putting their boats in the harbour. Cornisea hasn’t had any big or shocking crime since he started work here. And he has been here for decades.’

Guinevere nodded. ‘I already thought so. The way he questioned me … He didn’t try very hard to get anything relevant out of me.’

‘Maybe, as you’re an outsider, he didn’t think you could know anything worthwhile?’

‘That’s nonsense. I was there tonight. I saw everything play out. The way people looked at each other, what they said. There was a lot of tension. And not just between your father and Haydock. The way Leah and Kensa went at each other during the re-enactment. There was so much genuine emotion in their statements. As if Leah was really defending her father against Kensa, not some vague medieval figure against a made-up charge.’

Oliver shrugged. ‘I don’t know why Leah wouldn’t like Kensa. Outside of the historical society they have nothing to do with each other. Besides, Eal won’t ask such deep and profound questions. He sees the obvious. It doesn’t look good for my father. He had motive; he had opportunity.’

‘Eal did ask me if I knew for sure where the others were before it started, when you and I were lighting the lanterns and were rehearsing your part. But I couldn’t tell him. I only saw Leah carrying the robe for her father to the dungeons. I suppose she stayed with him while he put it on. He also wanted to put on this ring he had, right? An old ring that was supposed to have a link with Cornisea.’

‘Right, it was on his finger when he lay there dead. I saw it clearly.’

‘Haydock acted like it was something very special but he never told us why.’

Oliver nodded. ‘You’re right. I didn’t have a close look at it but it shone like gold. It also had a signet with engraving. A coat of arms or something.’

Guinevere gestured with her hand. ‘There you go. Maybe it’s significant. You told me Haydock was after the castle. And he turns up here with a ring with a coat of arms on it. Maybe he believed he had discovered something important about the rights to Cornisea? Maybe Kensa was in the know? Why else would she be so sure your father had a reason to kill Haydock? And what did her remark to Haydock mean, about hurting children being the worst thing in the world?’

Oliver shrugged. ‘She referred to the Branok trial. Him being accused of causing the lethal fire.’

Guinevere shook her head. ‘There was more to it. She meant actual children. Her daughter Tegen? Had Haydock somehow hurt Tegen, and was that a reason for Kensa, or for Tegen herself, to get back at him?’

Oliver grimaced. ‘I don’t really want to see my father accused and in trouble, but to go pointing fingers at a schoolgirl … This is a murder case. We’re looking at a long stint in prison.’

‘Even so we must be objective. What do you know about Tegen that can help figure out what really happened tonight?’

Oliver looked her in the eye as if he wanted to ascertain something. ‘Are you serious about this?’ he asked slowly.

‘Of course. We can’t just sit around and wait for your father to be accused. You told me the castle is under threat from people who want to buy it or change it. Your father is the only one who stands in their way of succeeding. What if the murder has something to do with that?’

‘An attempt to frame him?’

Guinevere shrugged. ‘He was the only one who had access to the cage, so someone wanted the police to conclude that he did it. Someone used this re-enactment tonight to set up the murder and your father as the most likely suspect.’

‘The knife was on the table for the taking. Can’t it have been a crime in anger? Grab the knife, go down to the dungeon where Haydock was all alone …’

‘And how to get into the cage?’ Guinevere held Oliver’s gaze. ‘We had the same thing in Well-mannered Murder, the play we are rehearsing. A locked-room mystery. Someone dies in a room that is closed off so how did the killer get in and out? The thing is: there is always a way into the locked room. You just have to figure out what it is.’

Oliver sighed. ‘I don’t feel like playing detective.’

‘Well, with your father under suspicion, we might not have a choice.’

Oliver walked away from her and sat down on the steps leading to the entry door. He rubbed his face with both of his hands, then pulled them away and faced her, as if he had come to some decision. ‘I did see something. Before we started the re-enactment. Something between Tegen and Haydock.’

‘Aha.’ Guinevere came to sit beside him, Dolly still in her arms. The dachshund looked up at Oliver with her head tilted as if waiting for his revelation.

Oliver said slowly, ‘There have been rumours, for years, that Haydock isn’t faithful to his wife.’

Guinevere looked at him. ‘And you think he was betraying his wife with Tegen? He’s old enough to be her father!’

‘I know. And I never believed it before. But tonight there was something between them … Almost like an understanding.’

Oliver frowned. ‘I can’t put a better word to it. She looked at Haydock and he looked at her and … at some point I think Haydock passed her something.’

‘Passed her something?’

‘A note maybe. Something made of paper, I think, but I didn’t look too closely. I don’t want anything to do with his tricks.’

‘If you’ve been away from here for years, only dropping by for occasional visits, you can’t have known much about him.’





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