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 just nicer), 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.
“I learned you were in the neighborhood and decided to call on you,” Leo murmured. “All the other details are the same.”
James gave a quick nod. “Mr. Page,” he said, loudly enough to carry and in a creditable simulation of politely repressed surprise, “what can you be doing at Blackthorn?”
“I’m visiting my sister in Looe,” Leo said, matching his tone. He had no sister, either in Looe or anywhere else, and James knew it. “And Miss Pickering rang to tell us that you were only minutes away. Of course Susan insisted that I motor over to give you her love and to ask you for tea tomorrow.”
“I should love nothing more than to see Susan,” James said. “We’ve just finished dinner. Do come in for some coffee.”
Leo followed James across the stone floor of an imposing hall to a sitting room filled with people who, to Leo’s relief, did not seem to be actively engaged in attempts to slip poisons into one another’s drinks. In short order, Leo found himself being introduced to this odd assemblage of guests, James simply presenting him as Mr. Page, a friend from home.
Leo assessed each person he met. A grim-faced but rather distractingly attractive doctor. His wife, a dark-haired woman with the most appallingly posh accent. Their daughter, who was none other than the actress who played Viola in the production of Twelfth Night that he and James had seen the previous month. A mousy, middle-aged spinster who Leo gathered was a sort of fixture in the house, and who looked as tired as Leo felt. A—good God—what was that creature with all the scarves? And a man so old and frail he looked to be at death’s door.
At first glance it seemed to be an ordinary family group with two glaringly obvious outsiders—the actress and the woman who looked like somebody’s idea of a fortune teller. But evidently the actress was in fact family. And James, who appeared to be family, only barely was. The entire picture was slightly off, just enough to set Leo’s teeth on edge.
“You look well,” James said when the introductions were complete. A stranger might not have noticed the question lurking in that statement.
“I’m quite well,” Leo said. And he was. No serious injuries, no imminent likelihood of foreign governments trying to assassinate him in his sleep—he was as well as he’d ever been.
“You might be interested to hear about the peculiar situation in which we all find ourselves,” James said casually. As James recounted the contents of his uncle’s will and the challenge the legatees had been issued, the uneasiness that had been lurking in Leo’s gut solidified into real fear.
“How very thrilling,” he said instead of dragging James out of the house and taking him someplace safe.
“It can’t be legally binding,” interjected the doctor, a Sir Anthony somebody-or-another, in a tone that made Leo think he had been repeating the same phrase intermittently for hours. “We’ll challenge it in court,” Sir Anthony went on. “He must have become senile. It happens, however little we like to admit it. Rather negligent on your firm’s part, Trevelyan, to let him follow through with this delusional scheme of his.”
“He wasn’t in the least bit senile,” said the spinster, whom James had introduced as Miss Dauntsey but addressed as Cousin Martha.
“Even if that were true, how is anyone to verify what happened twenty years ago?” the doctor continued. “There won’t be any proof. This estate will spend an eternity in probate.”
“An excellent question,” said the ancient lawyer with the air of a teacher congratulating an apt pupil. “Mr. Bellamy’s will included a proviso that I am to be the judge of the solution.”
“In other words,” said Lady Marchand, the doctor’s wife, “he’s leaving it up to you to decide who gets it all.”
Mr. Trevelyan cleared his throat. “I rather think your father would say that he was leaving it up to you.”
And wasn’t that an interesting way to put it. Clearly James’s uncle had thought one of his legatees knew what had happened to his daughter all those years ago, and it sounded like the solicitor was of the same mind.
Cora and Edith—whom Leo was usually inclined to trust on all matters of intelligence—said that Rose Bellamy was popularly understood to have died in a swimming accident. Had her father suspected that someone had been to blame for the accident? Or had he believed that there was a more sinister explanation for his daughter’s death?
“The way I see it,” said Lady Marchand, “is that we’d better abide by Father’s little scheme. Otherwise somebody else might go to Mr. Trevelyan with any manner of likely-sounding solution, and then Blackthorn could go to a stranger.” She glanced vaguely at Madame Fournier, not with any particular enmity, but more as if she had forgotten that the woman could hear her. “Or to that charity. Imagine Blackthorn packed to the rafters with lady criminals.”
“It’s a very respectable charity, Camilla. I’ve spent my career—”
“I’m rather enjoying the image of Blackthorn packed with lady criminals,” said the actress, with a faraway look that made Leo want to laugh.
“There is no need for you to flaunt the—the deviance of the company you keep, Lilian,” snapped her father.
“This is all too bad for you, Martha darling,” said Camilla, ignoring both her daughter and her husband. “You’ve been done out of a house. You’ll come stay with us in London, of course.”
“It’s proof that poor Rupert was not in his right mind,” Sir Anthony said severely, glaring at Mr. Trevelyan. “I do wish someone had thought to call me in. I deal with senility cases with some frequency, after all.”
Leo watched as James hesitated with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. A fleeting, pinched expression darted across his features.
“I assure you that Mr. Bellamy’s own doctor attended him almost daily,” said Mr. Trevelyan.
“I intend to give that doctor a piece of my mind if he failed to notice an imbalance.”
“I did always covet that Gainsborough,” mused Lady Marchand. “It’s rather sweet that the old dear remembered, even if he was out of his head at the end.”
“That’s hardly the point, Camilla,” her husband barked. “I dare say the bequests aren’t inane if taken individually. Martha is probably glad to have been left more than an ordinary servant, for example.”
Lilah and James both snapped their attention to Sir Anthony. A glint of ice-cold fury was in the girl’s eyes while James only looked shocked. Martha Dauntsey, meanwhile, hardly seemed to register the slight.
“Mr. Trevelyan,” said Lilah, “when did my grandfather make this will?”
“It’s dated June of last year,” said the solicitor. “Although he didn’t send it to the office. Miss Dauntsey found it among his papers. But it was properly signed and witnessed.”
“I see,” said Lilah with a thoughtful look.
“Besides, we already know what happened to Rose,” said Sir Anthony, as if neither the solicitor nor his daughter had spoken. “It was all decided quite certainly that summer. The police were involved. She died in a swimming accident.”
Leo wanted to curse the naivete of anyone who had reached Marchand’s age without learning exactly how easily the police could be bamboozled by the simple expedients of coordinated lying, a bit of fast talking, and cold hard cash.
“In fact,” Marchand continued, “I’m prepared to offer Mr. Trevelyan a solution right now. Rose died by misadventure, precisely as the police said. Her mind was sadly unbalanced, and as a result, she went for a swim at a time when she ought to have known the tide would be too strong, however good a swimmer she might have been. All very unfortunate.”
This was the second time Marchand had used the word imbalance, and Leo’s thoughts caught on it. The late Mr. Bellamy had been imbalanced; the dead girl was imbalanced. But in this context the meaning was clear—nobody spoke of someone’s death by supposed misadventure and simultaneously alluded to their imbalanced mental state unless they meant the person had taken their own life. Before Leo could wonder what evidence might have been presented to the police—a body, a note, a witness—he heard James set his coffee cup back into its saucer with rather more of a clatter than usual. That was all the sign Leo needed. He rose to his feet.
“Well, I’d better be off before Susan worries,” Leo said, addressing James. “Won’t you walk me out?”
As soon as they were outside and at a comfortable distance from the house, Leo spoke. “Get out of there. Come with me. Say you long to see Susan. We’ll have you engaged to my imaginary sister before the night is out.”
James laughed and bumped his shoulder against Leo’s. “I can’t. If my uncle’s last wish was for this to happen, then I can spare a couple of days.”
“Last wish, my arse. He’s not around anymore to get a say in what you do. And that lot in there are a disaster waiting to happen.”
“That’s why I need to stay, though. They need a civilizing presence. Wait.” They had reached the parked car.
“Well, that’s your car,” Leo said awkwardly. “I think I might have stolen it, by the way.”
“No, I don’t mean the car. The tree.”
Leo followed James’s gaze to a bare-branched tree, likely a fruit tree of some kind.
“That didn’t used to be there,” James said. “I’ve spent half the day cataloguing things that are exactly as they were twenty years ago, and now there’s an entire new tree. Who puts a cherry tree next to the garage? And on the north side, too. It can’t get nearly enough sun.”
“Wendy is rubbing off on you with all this gardening wisdom.”
James bumped Leo with his elbow, then seemed to realize that they were standing next to his car.
“Leo. Did you drive my car all the way from Wychcomb St. Mary?”
“Afraid so.” Leo adopted a studiedly casual tone. “Otherwise I would have had to either change trains in Reading or get a taxi to Cheltenham. This was much faster.”
James looked at him, and Leo knew that he was reading between the lines well enough to hear all the want and concern that had fueled Leo’s hurried drive to Cornwall.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Leo said. “I know I’m intruding. And I took your car without permission.”
“I don’t mind. You’re welcome to anything of mine. You know that.”
James had said as much before, although not in so many words. Leo had long since decided not to take that sentiment at face value. James was determined to fling open the door to his cozy life as if Leo could simply walk in and make himself at home. And Leo didn’t know how to explain to James that this wasn’t possible without thoroughly disillusioning the man. “If you won’t come with me, then let me stay here with you.”
James raised his eyebrows. “What excuse would we give to them?” He gestured toward the house.
Leo reached into his pocket and retrieved a blackened metal object. “My carburetor cap. I took the precaution of removing it before turning into the drive. When I leave, I’ll have engine trouble before I reach the road. If you don’t want me to stay, it’ll be a simple matter of screwing the cap back on before I get in the car. Otherwise, I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour, and your cousin will no doubt offer me a room for the night”
“You’ll probably have to bunk with me. Cousin Martha is already short on room.”
“You say that as if it’ll put me off,” Leo said, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks.”
“Your trip.” James spoke carefully, as he always did when alluding to Leo’s work. “Was it very bad?”
Leo quickly shook his head. “It was fine.” A gust of wind blew across the drive, making them both draw their coats across their chests and carrying with it a faint hint of salt, the only reminder of how close they were to the sea.
“I’m glad you’re back,” James said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Well, that was probably just because he hadn’t yet realized how abnormally Leo was behaving. Leo felt that he ought to point that out, but instead flicked the brim of his hat and winked. “See you in a couple of minutes.”