Page 34 of The Missing Page
“Rather. It’s just that if I find anything, I don’t want anyone else to follow my lead.”
“Why not? I needn’t remind you that I don’t particularly want to inherit this place, do I?”
Leo rolled his eyes. He knew that. “It’s not that. If there’s a secret worth burying for twenty years, I’d rather people not know it’s been unburied.”
The import of this seemed to register with James. “You’re worried.”
Leo managed to refrain from saying that he didn’t know how not to be worried when James was within ten leagues of even the most theoretical danger. “Just a precaution,” he said, and James shot him a skeptical look.
In the library, Leo made for the drawers that were of a size to contain files. There weren’t many, and Leo judged that the important papers would be at the solicitor’s office in Plymouth. But Leo wasn’t interested in those. Mr. Trevelyan had said that Rupert Bellamy was in the habit of drafting his own wills and simply sending them to the solicitor. In that case, he might still have drafts of the earlier, outdated documents, retained so he could repeat the same phrasing, or simply to keep a record.
The first drawer contained bills—all paid promptly and in full, Leo noticed. There was a ledger in which household expenses were itemized in a precise feminine hand, from the minor (eight shillings sixpence to the butcher, another four shillings for eggs) to the major (eight pounds for a new boiler). As Leo scanned the columns, he saw what he thought might be a pattern. Little was spent on Blackthorn’s upkeep beyond what it would take for two people to live comfortably.
The second drawer contained a checkbook, a stack of banknotes, and little else.
But in the third drawer he found what he was looking for: an entire file holding nothing but Rupert Bellamy’s old wills.
The first one dated from 1929 and left all his assets to be divided evenly three ways among Camilla Marchand, Lilah Marchand, and Martha Dauntsey. It was interesting that Lilah, who at that point was a child of two years old, merited her own share even though her mother was alive. The next will was dated from several years later and said much the same thing but with a handful of annuities for servants and contributions to charity.
The 1940 will left everything to Martha Dauntsey, with an annuity for Lilah Marchand, and several pieces of art for Camilla. The 1942 will appeared to be identical to the 1940 will, but with a flat sum to Lilah rather than an annuity.
Outside the library door, he could hear the sounds of people walking toward the dining room. He’d have to hurry. Once more, he flipped through the various iterations of Rupert Bellamy’s will and finally noticed something. The 1942 will was missing a page. The signature wasn’t there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dinner was, as Leo had promised, a very tasty beef stew, but it was rendered infinitely more palatable by virtue of Leo’s presence on the other side of the table. James couldn’t talk to him, as they had both the length and breadth of the table between them, but it soothed something within James to know that he was there, in sight, almost within reach. He didn’t dare let his gaze travel to that end of the table too often, though, because he was certain all his emotions were written plainly on his face.
“I found a few photograph albums,” James said to the table at large. “There’s one that’s almost entirely the summer of ’27. We should all look at it together.” He said this brightly, as if suggesting a fun outing, but it fell flat. He drained his wine glass, hoping for enough courage to plunge headfirst into a willful social transgression. “Why aren’t there photograph albums of other summers?” he asked. “There were dozens of snapshots from the summer of ’27 alone, but only a handful from other years.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten,” said Camilla, almost absently. “You weren’tthatyoung, Jamie.”
James shook his head, genuinely confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You got a little camera for your birthday and brought it down to Blackthorn that year. None of us were safe. You took photos of me coming out of the sea with my hair wet, some of Rose in the chauffeur’s overalls, some of Martha—anyway, you were a menace.”
As she spoke, James remembered the camera. It had been a Brownie, not a birthday present but a gift from some relation or another, handed awkwardly to him after his father’s funeral as if offered as a consolation prize. “Whatever happened to that camera?” he wondered aloud. “I can’t remember ever having it after that summer. And how did the photos wind up here at Blackthorn, rather than at school with me?”
“Daddy confiscated the film,” Camilla said. “Ofcoursehe did,” she added knowingly.
She spoke as if she and James were in on a secret, but James had been utterly in the dark until Leo had briefed him earlier that evening.
“Are there any pictures of Mother in old-fashioned gowns?” Lilah asked.
“Not in that album,” James said. “Oh, but that’s probably because you were on the way.” Again, a tense silence fell across the table. “I suppose not all women fancy having their picture taken in that condition.”
Mr. Trevelyan cleared his throat and seemed about to break the silence, when somebody at the other end of the table knocked over their glass of wine. The glass was either Madame Fournier’s or Sir Anthony’s, as they both had to scramble to move their plates to avoid the spill.
“Do you think any of your old gowns are still around here somewhere, Mother? In the attic, maybe?” Lilah asked while people at the other end of the table dabbed ineffectually at the spilt wine. It was incredible, James thought, that a group of people who were probably used to dining without servants couldn’t manage to feed and clean up after themselves once put in a house like Blackthorn. It was like the place stripped everyone of basic survival skills. The Marchands certainly had servants in London, but surely even they occasionally resorted to mopping up their own spills; certainly he and Leo did. And yet they all sat around watching the spill as if a footman might materialize from fifty years in the past and see to all their needs.
“Possibly,” Camilla said vaguely. “Neither Rose’s nor mine would fit you, though.”
“No, I suppose not,” sighed Lilah. “And it’s a bother to have old things taken in just for a fancy-dress party. But anything of Cousin Martha’s would fit me perfectly,” she added, glancing at the other woman.
It took Camilla a moment too long to respond, and James wasn’t sure if she was trying to navigate the awkwardness of explaining that Martha had never had fine gowns or wrestling with a greater truth, but decided to cut in with his own question before the conversation got too far off track.
“In several of the photographs there was a man I think I recognized. Blond, rather handsome.” It was like pulling teeth, James thought, making these people talk about the one topic they were meant to be thinking of this weekend. He hoped Leo, at the other end of the table, was having better luck, but when James looked over he saw Leo examining that blasted Gainsborough with a peculiar expression. “He must have been around here an awful lot if he was in so many pictures,” James said cheerfully. “Here, I brought along a photograph to jog your memory.” He passed it to Camilla, who put on her spectacles to examine it.
“Stephen Foster,” Martha said, something tired and wistful crossing her face. “He was the vicar’s son.”
