Page 5 of The Missing Page
For an awkward moment, everyone stared at Madame Fournier as if absorbing how out of place she was among the Sevres and Aubussons of the Blackthorn drawing room. Everyone seemed to expect somebody else to take charge. Camilla plainly expected Martha to act as hostess, while Martha expected Camilla to do the same. As for Sir Anthony, he probably thought awkward silences were psychologically edifying.
James flung himself into the breach. “Have some tea, Madame,” he said. “Sugar?”
When James glanced up as he handed Madame her tea, he saw an elderly man standing in the open doorway, carrying a sheaf of papers. He had sparse white hair and a weathered face partly obscured by a pair of thick spectacles. Even at a distance of several yards, James could see that the papers shook in the man’s grip. This had to be the solicitor, Mr. Trevelyan. He was very old, at least eighty; twenty years ago, he would still have seemed very old to a twelve-year-old James.
Martha went to him and relieved him of his papers, then led him to a wingback chair near the fireplace—which, James couldn’t help but think, would have been a kinder gesture if the fireplace had contained an actual fire or even an electric one.
“It’s nearly five,” James heard Martha tell the solicitor, “so the Carrows will come up shortly and then we can start. They’re the couple who live in the lodge and look after Blackthorn,” she added, seemingly for James’s benefit.
“They were mentioned in Rupert’s will, so they ought to be present,” Mr. Trevelyan added.
No sooner had the words been spoken then two more people entered the room, a man and a woman.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Dauntsey,” said the woman, addressing Martha. “Had to get the roast in the oven.” In one hand she clutched what appeared to be a hastily removed apron. She had a soft West Indian accent, and was about thirty, Black, and plump. She was pleasant looking, with an air of competence about her that made James feel optimistic about dinner. The man by her side was a little bit older, with skin that might originally have been fair but was darkened by what looked like a lifetime spent in the sun. He was dressed for the outdoors, including a cap that he didn’t remove. Instead of sitting, they stood by the door—not, James thought, out of deference, but from a reluctance to be any more involved in the proceedings than strictly necessary.
James’s attention was on the Carrows, so he couldn’t have said exactly what happened or who was responsible, but Madame Fournier’s teacup, which a moment before had been safe in her hand, was now shattered on the floor, its contents distributed between the carpet and Sir Anthony’s trouser leg.
“Oh dear,” Martha said, looking around futilely for something to mop up the spill. Sir Anthony dabbed ineffectively at his trouser leg with a pocket handkerchief. James managed to extract the tea towel from the tray without upending the teapot, and handed it to Sir Anthony, who took it without thanks.
A clock then began to chime, loud enough to bring any conversation to a standstill. It was the tall casement clock in the hall, James recalled, able to picture it vividly. It tolled five times, during which the assembled guests mostly avoided looking at one another.
“I won’t take up too much of your time,” Mr. Trevelyan said. His voice was thin and shaky, but it carried across the drawing room. “The late Rupert Bellamy’s will was quite simple.” He took a pair of spectacles from his pocket and balanced them on his nose. “To my wife’s cousin Martha Dauntsey, in recognition of her devotion, I leave two hundred pounds and an annuity of fifty pounds a year.”
James tried not to look as if he were watching Martha for a reaction, but he didn’t see her face register any reaction. Fifty pounds a year was no mean thing, but it was not enough to live on unless Martha were to abide in shabbier circumstances than he could imagine any relation of his—or of any of the Bellamys—willingly inhabiting.
The solicitor continued. “To my daughter, Camilla Marchand, I leave the Gainsborough that hangs in the dining room at Blackthorn.”
Camilla looked like she was about to speak, presumably to ask what was to become of the rest of Blackthorn’s contents as well as the house itself, but Mr. Trevelyan didn’t pause.
“To my wife’s nephew, James Sommers, I leave the photograph of his father on Coronation Day in 1911.”
James hadn’t known such a thing existed. Bequeathing James a photograph of a man who had been so thoroughly erased from the family history seemed at best a mixed blessing. A sick feeling began to gather in the pit of his stomach.
“To Reverend—” Mr. Trevelyan broke off. “We can pass over that bequest, as the legatee is not present.”
He cleared his throat and continued. “To Miriam and Henry Carrow, I leave one hundred pounds in recognition of their service. To anyone who was employed at Blackthorn in 1927, I leave one hundred pounds, if they can provide proof of their identity and employment so as to satisfy the law firm of Trevelyan and Hodges, Plymouth.”
At the mention of 1927, the room, which had already been quiet, went utterly still.
Mr. Trevelyan looked up and peered at his audience over the rims of his spectacles. “That part of the will is straightforward. The next part is also straightforward, but unconventional.” He returned his attention to the paper before him. “The residue of my estate, including the property of Blackthorn as detailed in Appendix A and the contents of the bank accounts and financial assets detailed in Appendix B, I leave to whichever of those named above and present the day this document is read discovers what happened to Rose Bellamy on the first of August, 1927.”
For the space of two heartbeats the room was utterly silent. James saw Martha’s hands gripping the arms of her chair so hard that her knuckles were white. He saw Camilla’s mouth hang open. Sir Anthony’s face darkened to an alarming shade of puce. Even Lilah’s face was grave. From where James sat, he could not see Madame Fournier or the Carrows without turning his head, which he managed to resist doing.
“There’s one final clause. In the event that no satisfactory solution has been presented to Robert Trevelyan or his representatives at the stroke of noon, two days after the reading of this will, the residue of the estate, including Blackthorn and all its contents, is to be held in trust for the Society for the Reformation of Young Delinquents.”
Another silence fell, during which James heard nothing but the ticking of the grandfather clock.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was the work of ten minutes for Leo to let himself into James’s house, shower off the grime of travel, change into something from James’s side of the wardrobe (he couldn’t help it if James’s clothes were justnicer), help himself to James’s car keys, and take off in a general southwesterly direction. Only then did he bother to devise a pretense for visiting this godforsaken Cornish country house that James had taken himself off to.
The sun was low in the sky when Leo finally rolled into the drive, the house backlit in a way that rendered it a mere silhouette and stripped it of any detail. It looked frankly ominous, but Leo supposed all houses looked ominous under these conditions.
It was an awkward hour, just the time when most households were sitting down to dinner or clearing up afterward, and nobody came to the door when Leo knocked. There was no light at the front door except what came from the setting sun, but Leo’s pocket torch revealed no sign of any kind of doorbell. He knocked yet again, this time hard enough to make his ungloved knuckles smart. But his persistence was rewarded and the door swung open, revealing James himself.
For an instant, Leo knew that everything he felt was written across his face—relief at seeing James safe and sound, relief at seeing James at all, and the dawning comprehension that he had behaved like an utter maniac by driving across the country to arrive uninvited at the home of a stranger. If this had been a job, he would have blown his cover in that unguarded half second.
He watched James for any sign that he was less than delighted by Leo’s arrival. Instead, though, a flicker of something bright and candid crossed James’s face before he checked himself. Leo had the distinct sense that if it hadn’t been for the chance of being observed, James might have taken him in his arms. Leo’s heart gave a wild, happy leap in his chest, something he had not known it was capable of until he met James. The sweetness of James’s reaction made Leo feel vaguely fraudulent, as if he had succeeded in passing off a bad penny to an innocent shopkeeper.
