Outside, the mist had burned away, and Lou emerged from the stable block to a crisp winter’s day. With a free afternoon, she had time to go back to the library in her own time. But not before taking a turn around the grounds in the glorious weather. What she was going to do with any incriminating information on George Caxton, she wasn’t sure, but it was enough for now to know that she might find something to use against him.
Keeping the church to her right, she walked at a fast pace, the sun shining on her face, the icy air chilling her nose and cheeks. Following a set of rabbit tracks, she ventured into the woods and the darkness of the snow-covered canopy. The tracks eventually disappeared into a tangle of branches. Where did they come out? Over by the church wall? Down by the frozen fishing lake? Among the neat vegetable patches in the walled garden? Somewhere across the vast expanse of fields?
Shivering, she pulled her collar around her neck and pressed on, wanting to escape an unwelcome image of this forest floor buried beneath six lanes of tarmac with a footbridge replacing the oaks and a dismal concrete housing estate sprawling across the countryside.
With no discernible path, she beat her own, squeezing between tree trunks, ducking beneath low-hanging branches. In some places, the snowdrifts were so deep that snow spilled over the top of her boots. But she didn’t care; she was determined to feel everything this world had to offer. Even soggy stockings.
For ten minutes, perhaps longer, she pushed further into the wood until she became aware of a noise other than that of her boots breaking the crust of the snow. It began as a distant murmur but soon became recognisable as voices. She followed them to a clearing in the woods. Still sheltered by the trees, she looked at the fleet of vehicles parked up beside a marquee. Through an open flap, she caught a glimpse of the table laden with food and crystal and china, as though it were a dining room. A rug had been laid over the snow, and there was even a heater in the corner with a chimney belching smoke from the top of the tent to warm the members of the shooting party and their wives who sat at the table, served by a small army of staff. The only concession to this al fresco dining experience was the addition of overcoats and hats to the guests’ outfits.
A little way off, a group of men sat on upturned logs, huddled around an open fire, eating slabs of pie wrapped in waxy paper. The dogs looked up longingly; their wagging tails flicking up puffs of snow as they waited for crumbs of pastry to drop their way.
Laughter from the marquee mixed with the low rumble of the voices outside, but Lou was too far away to hear the conversation of either party distinctly. Suddenly, one voice rose above all the others. ‘Oi! What do you think you’re doin’ there?’
It was only when a large man jumped up and lumbered in the direction of the wood, that she realised he was shouting at her. She turned and ran, hiding behind the trunk of a large oak. Why was she hiding? She could have gone into the marquee to join the party for lunch if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to.
She heard the man’s laboured breathing. ‘Where are you?’ he shouted.
‘What’s going on?’ another man’s voice called.
Lou slammed her hand across her mouth, afraid that breathing alone might give her away. There was no time for a confrontation; she had to get to the library. If someone saw her, at best she would get dragged into the marquee. At worst, she would have to explain her behaviour the previous evening.
‘I saw someone, sir,’ the man wheezed. ‘A woman sneaking around in the trees. Some of ‘em caused a scene at the Huntingdean shoot last week, so their gamekeeper told me.’
‘Quite.’
‘Will I get one of the dogs to hunt her down? She can’t have got far. We’ll flush her out.’
‘What? No. There’s no need for that. Go back and finish your lunch, Campbell.’
‘The beaters’ll be ready to start again in five minutes, sir. P’raps getting caught in the firing line’ll teach her a thing or two. Won’t look so clever, then.’
‘Tell the beaters to be ready to start again in ten minutes.’
‘But that’ll give her a head start –’
‘Ten minutes, I said.’
There was a note of disappointment in the man’s voice when he said, ‘Very good, Captain Mandeville.’
After a few moments of silence, Lou peered around the trunk. Tom was standing on the edge of the clearing, hands on hips, scanning the line of trees. Lou didn’t hear the noise until it was too late. A drift of snow fell through the branches above her head and crashed on to the ground below. She retreated behind the tree but not before Tom spun around. For a fleeting moment, she was sure he caught her eye.
Lou waited. When Tom didn’t appear, she peered around the truck and saw him heading towards the marquee.
She ran back through the woods and didn’t stop until she reached St Mary’s. The first crack of the afternoon’s gunfire echoed around the countryside, and she stumbled over a hidden root, tripping and falling heavily to her knees. She got up and ran again, her lungs burning, her heart pounding. Once she was clear of the woods, she turned and ran down the drive.
It was only once she was out on the rubbish-strewn pavement that Lou regained the presence of mind to take a step back through the gates. Her trainer changed back to a brown boot in the snow. She hadn’t outstayed her welcome, not yet anyway.
At the library, Mrs Rogers glanced up when Lou passed her on the way to the office at the back. She knocked on the door, and Will beckoned to her through the window.
‘You came back.’ He smiled.
‘Is this a bad time?’ she asked, taking in the plastic sandwich box on the desk.
‘Couldn’t be more perfect.’ Will screwed up an empty crisp bag and dropped it in the wastepaper basket. He patted the chair beside him. ‘I hoped you’d come. Our chat yesterday got my research antennae twitching. I was up half the night looking into those Mandevilles and Caxtons of yours.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’ve been itching to share this with you.’ He pulled a lever arch file from an oversized battered satchel on the floor and pushed it across the desk. Lou stared in awe at the hefty brick of paper between the black covers of the file. She knew only too well that that level of research was the result of burning the midnight oil until it ran dry.
‘You’ll have to let me pay you for the paper and ink,’ she said.
Will looked at her from beneath his fringe. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. If I’m honest, you did me a favour. I’m staying with my cousin while I’m on my placement, and this gave me an excuse to stay in my room and steer clear of her kids. I’m not sure how much more In the Night Garden I can take.’
Lou smiled. Will really was a very sweet guy.
‘I digress.’ Will patted the file. ‘The Mandevilles and Caxtons are fascinating. They had a ridiculously tangled past. This isn’t even the half of it. I could have gone on searching all night. But, you know, I need my beauty sleep.’ He waggled his eyebrows, but Lou was fixated on the contents of the file and didn’t respond.
Will coughed. ‘Anyway, I’ve been doing my best to unpick what I can. You said you were interested in the First World War period, so I used that as my starting point. It was like reading a blockbuster, but better than the Da Vinci Code any day.’
Will’s eyes shone with what Lou recognised as the thrill of the research chase; the joy of unearthing disparate facts and documents that had lain unread for decades or centuries and joining the dots to get to the truth of the story. She had to fight the instinct to tear into Will’s carefully prepared file. He had to be allowed the satisfaction of the reveal. And he might think it odd if she seemed too keen. She wasn’t supposed to know anything about the history of the Mandevilles and Caxtons.
At last, and with the reverence of an archaeologist opening a long-sealed tomb, Will opened the file. Lou didn’t need a dusty old sarcophagus or a room full of gold and gems to experience a rush of delight. All it took was Will’s colourful dividers splitting the pages into meticulous sections with the tabs neatly marked as Sir Charles Mandeville, Sir Edward Mandeville, Sale of Hill House, Lord George Caxton. She sat on her hands. She couldn’t trust herself not to rip the file from Will to find out what had happened to Sir Charles.
‘We may as well start at the beginning,’ Will said, opening the first tab. ‘Sir Charles Mandeville. You remember him don’t you, the father of the young woman you were researching yesterday? You read the newspaper report on the inquest into her death, and we found that her father, Sir Charles, had come to a sticky end too. Stop me if I go too fast, or you don’t understand anything.’ He smiled, and Lou smiled back, all the while willing him to get a move on.
‘So,’ Will said, ‘I found evidence that it was under Sir Charles’ watch that things took a nasty turn for the Mandevilles. Before his tenure, they had been a reasonably successful family, with a history stretching back a couple of hundred years, making money from the rents of tenant farmers and other businesses. Sir Charles inherited the baronetcy when his father died in 1890, and in the same year, Sir Charles was voted in as MP to represent the seat left vacant by his father’s death.’
Yes, yes, yes! I know. ‘Oh, really,’ Lou said sweetly. ‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. And from what I’ve read, it’s clear that Sir Charles was liked and respected by his political colleagues and constituents, even his adversaries. I read some of his speeches, he was a fantastic orator and had some quite fiery debates across the despatch box! He had incredibly forward-thinking views on the rights of the workingman – and woman – and sailed about as close to being a socialist as it was possible for a Tory to. It seems the only criticism that could be levelled against him was that he was a bit too liberal for those on the right of his own party. Are you following?’
YES! Lou nodded politely.
‘It was in 1919 that things took a nose dive for Sir Charles,’ Will said. ‘It would be unfair to lay all the blame at his door – the early twentieth century wasn’t an easy time for any titled family. It’s a popular misconception that the landed gentry were rolling in pots of cash, but that simply wasn’t so – unless your name was Caxton, in which case, money sprouted money while you slept!’
Lou curled her hands into fists. Her knuckles dug into her backside.
‘The Mandevilles were on the very lowest rung of the gentry,’ Will said, ‘It was hardly a hand to mouth existence, but it was hard work to make money from land and keep it. Many, including Sir Charles, relied on investments. And it was with one of these investments that he made an epic error of judgement.’
Will took a slug of water. Lou knew what he was about to say before the cap was back on the bottle. The Polish salt mine.
‘You see, there was a Polish salt mine scheme that turned into a huge scandal.’ Will wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Much of what I found out comes from reports in The Times in 1919. Unfortunately for Sir Charles, back in 1912, he invested in a new salt mine on the recommendation of a friend. From what I’ve read about Sir Charles, I’d put money on the fact that he wasn’t a man to gamble on a speculative or risky business. I’m filling in a gap here, but I’m guessing that he trusted this “friend.” That’s where it went wrong. Sir Charles was duped.
‘The exact details are a little sketchy in the articles, but it seems that the friend kept tapping him for more cash, saying that the mine needed more investment. I suppose once you’re in for a huge sum, you can’t back out easily. Once the friend had drained the coffers, he upped and left, taking all of the money with him. Sir Charles managed to keep the story out of the press at the time. An MP implicated in a scam would have been compromised and, at the very least, would have been subjected to a parliamentary enquiry. Over the course of the next few years, Sir Charles managed to claw his way back from the brink of ruin with some judicious investments. He could have been forgiven for thinking he had put a lid on the whole sorry episode. Until this.’
Will flicked through the sheets and stopped at an article. ‘In 1919, someone leaked the story of the salt mine investment to the press. The Express broke the story, and took great delight in twisting the knife, accusing Sir Charles of a hush up, insinuating that he was involved not only in the mine but that he had his finger in lots of dodgy pies. There was even some suggestion that he was involved in a scam to fleece the War Office, making huge profits from investment in a munitions manufacturer.
‘The Express steadfastly refused to reveal the identity of their informant, saying only that it was a “secret source.” They ripped Sir Charles apart. A juicy scandal, especially at the expense of the great and good, sold newspapers back then just as it does now. It was only a few months after the story broke and he resigned as an MP, that Sir Charles committed suicide. The scandal must have rocked an honourable man like him to the core. The truth eventually came out that he had been conned by his so-called friend, and that the accusation of involvement in the munitions scam was false, but it was too late for poor Sir Charles.’
Will sat back and tapped his teeth with his pencil. ‘You have to feel sorry for him. He had no idea that the person who engineered his ruin from beginning to end was an enemy within.’
Lou felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Who?’ she asked, more for Will’s benefit than hers.
‘It was the chap that married Sir Charles’ daughter. Lord George Caxton. When George’s father died at the beginning of 1919, George stepped into his shoes and went on the rampage. As you know, he even married Sir Charles’ daughter. What was her name again?’ Will consulted a notepad. Lou wanted to grab it from him. Charlotte! Her name is Charlotte!
‘Charlotte, her name’s Charlotte,’ Lou said. ‘But I don’t understand. How do you know all this about George Caxton?’
Will traced a fingertip down his notes. ‘It was the link between the Mandevilles and the Caxtons through Charlotte’s marriage that was the key I needed. I went forward in the newspapers to see what I could find out about both families after the deaths of Sir Charles and his daughter.’
He flicked to an article in the file. The typeface was different from the others, modern. ‘You have to jump forward decades, but this article explains everything. It wasn’t published until the 1980s, but it’s based on an investigation by a young journalist straight out of college in the 1960s. He wanted to make a name for himself as an investigative journalist and started digging into George Caxton’s history.
‘There had been rumours surrounding Caxton for decades with his dubious deals and less than salubrious associations. The young journalist began by looking into a fraud involving land deals in Africa. Once he started digging, he amassed a mountain of evidence linking Caxton to a whole host of dodgy deals. But where other men went to jail, Caxton always managed to wriggle off the hook. The journalist even found witnesses who implicated Caxton in the death of a fellow student way back in his student days at Cambridge. The journalist had been on the cusp of revealing all in a massive scoop in the sixties, when the editor, who’d promised to publish the story, got cold feet and pulled the plug. The journo went to other papers, but no editor would touch the story. Even in the sixties, the aristocracy had real power. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Caxtons didn’t have a stake in some of the papers or dirt on the editors. It wasn’t until the 1980s, after George Caxton died, that the journalist finally found an editor willing to break the story. By then, the papers were so full of corruption and scandal that the sting had gone out of the story of a crooked old Lord. It barely caused a ripple.’
Lou tried to piece together everything that Will was telling her but something was missing. ‘What has this got to do with Sir Charles?’ she asked.
‘Isn’t it obvious? Can’t you guess who the secret source for the story was? I’ll give you a clue; it begins with a C.’
‘Not George Caxton?’
‘Got it in one. He was the secret source who went to The Express to discredit Sir Charles way back in 1919. The young journalist doesn’t say how he found out. I suppose he had a source of his own. It looks like George waited until his father died before going to the press to blow the lid on Sir Charles’ Polish salt mine, throwing in the lie about the munitions investment for good measure.
‘There’s some suggestion that George’s father – the previous Lord Caxton – had coerced certain quarters of the press not to print stories about Sir Charles’ investment back in 1914. They were distant relatives and in protecting the Mandevilles, he was protecting his own name, not that George seemed to give two hoots for that. He threw poor Sir Charles to the lions and let them tear him apart. Then, he had the gall to marry the man’s daughter, knowing all the while that it was him who had brought that family to their knees! There’s nothing here to explain why he did it, whether he had a grudge or whether Sir Charles was a poor misfortunate caught up in Caxton’s twisted power games.’
Will pulled out some more articles to demonstrate how the history of the Mandevilles went quiet after Sir Charles’ death – a few reports in the local press about Edward’s gradual sale of Hill House land following its use as a hospital in the Second World War and a brief obituary in The Times announcing Edward’s death.
‘Sir Charles’ heir, Sir Edward Mandeville, died a sad and lonely recluse in a flat in London, saddled with a financial albatross. After the First World War, income tax skyrocketed, and men like Edward Mandeville were just not able to manage that increase. Add to that inheritance taxes, and Edward stood no chance.’
‘Edward buckled while George Caxton, and men like him, lived the high life,’ Lou said.
‘Spot on. It’s a miracle Hill House wasn’t demolished years ago. Not much to show for the end of a dynasty, is it?’ Will paused. ‘Are you ok?’
‘Sorry, what? Yes, I’m fine.’ Lou pulled the cuff of her jumper over her hand and wiped her eyes. ‘I’ve got a cold coming, that’s all.’
‘There’s a lot of it going around,’ Will smiled sympathetically. ‘So, how did I do?’
‘What? Oh, it’s a lot to take in,’ Lou said. ‘Fascinating, though.’
‘Isn’t it. Are you sure you’re ok? Why don’t I pop out and get you a hot drink?’ Will grabbed his coat. ‘I’ll be back in ten. You’ve got that lot to keep you entertained while I’m gone.’
The moment she was alone, Lou wiped her eyes and grabbed the file. Her inner-historian kicked in. She turned to the section containing the information on George and made straight for the article from the eighties. THE TEFLON LORD, the headline screamed. Lou read quickly, taking in the details of the shady associates of George, who had been only too keen to roll over and reveal all of his secrets to the journalist back in the sixties. His criminal activities had extended to property fraud and embezzlement and had seen many men end up in jail. He had hung his various partners in crime out to dry. After a brief first marriage to the unnamed daughter of a minor peer – Lou bit her lip and continued to read – George had been linked to a string of society women and actresses in London until he finally married an heiress in the 1940s. He had bolstered the Caxton coffers through lucrative munitions contracts in the Second World War; contracts that the journalist claimed were secured by coercion and bribery.
There was information on the man George had blackmailed into fleecing Sir Charles over the Polish salt mine – an old school friend of Sir Charles’. But it was the details of the death of the student at Cambridge that Lou was drawn to.
The young man – Harry Riley – had spent an evening drinking heavily and playing cards with George and another student. It was while the third student went out to buy more whisky that a gunshot rang out from Riley’s room. At the time, it had been reported that without any kind of warning, Riley had taken a gun and shot himself in the head, dying instantly. There had been no suicide note.
A cutting reported the coroner’s inquest where George gave evidence. He said he had left Riley’s room for a few minutes to answer the call of nature. At the sound of the gunshot, he ran back to find Riley slumped over the table. He said that Riley had been behaving strangely for a number of weeks, and while he had been concerned by his friend’s behaviour, he had never imagined that he intended to take his own life. It was such a terrible shock, and he had been deeply traumatised by finding his friend in such a manner. The other man who had been playing cards – Ernest Simpson – corroborated George’s version of events and the fact that Riley had been behaving strangely.
The coroner recorded a verdict of suicide, and with that, the sad case had been concluded. Until the journalist started digging around decades later. He had tracked down the third man, Ernest Simpson. By then in his seventies and with terminal prostate cancer, Simpson was happy to finally unburden himself of the truth he had carried since his teenage years. His new version of the events of that night were in stark contrast to George’s story, and the original evidence given to the coroner. It was true that there had been a game of cards, but George was no friend of Riley’s. According to Simpson, George Caxton owed Riley a considerable sum of money in gambling debts. It had been an ill-tempered evening with all three men drinking heavily, George more than the others. An argument had broken out when Riley threatened to go directly to George’s father to have him settle his son’s debts. It was shortly after that when George had sent Simpson out to buy more alcohol.
For all these years, I have known the truth about that night. Caxton shot poor Riley, Simpson was reported as having said to the journalist. Caxton came to my room after the police left and warned me off. He said if I didn’t want to end up like Riley, then I’d forget everything I’d seen and heard. I was more terrified of Caxton than I was of the law. I knew that if I went to the police and told them the truth, Caxton would go scot-free, and I would be left to face his retribution. You have no idea what that man is capable of. If I were not dying, I would never have dared tell you the truth, even now.
There was another article from the eighties in which George’s son rebuffed the allegations, saying they were the word of one disgruntled former friend of his father’s. The case had been closed a lifetime before, and he dismissed the allegations as nothing more than a fantastical, far-fetched vendetta conducted by a left-wing press, hell bent on a discrediting an aristocratic family.
A fuzzy black and white photograph of a fair young man accompanied the story. Poor Riley. By the time Simpson’s accusations had been reported – seventy years after that fateful game of cards – Riley had slipped out of living memory. He was yet another forgotten victim of George’s tyranny. Just like every member of the Mandeville family.
Another photograph of an old man in a ceremonial gown accompanied the article. With his piggy eyes in a wide, flabby face, there was no mistaking who it was. Lou closed her eyes and saw the eyes of a different man looking back at her through the snow-covered trees that morning. How could a man like George Caxton be allowed to make old bones when a man a million times his better had been left to rot in a grave on a battlefield across The Channel? She gripped the page, pulled it free of the rings, and screwed it into a ball.
‘Crikey,’ Will said. He closed the door behind him with his foot and placed two cardboard cups on the desk. Biting the fingers of his gloves, he pulled them free of his hands. ‘I leave you alone for a few minutes, and you trash my file.’ He smiled, and Lou released the sheet of paper.
‘Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.’
Will looked at the page. ‘Can’t say I blame you. He was a right royal bastard, wasn’t he? Oh, and I got this for you. A hot chocolate’s too wet without one.’
He pulled a paper bag from his pocket and placed it before Lou. She peered inside. A sob caught in her throat.
‘Oh dear,’ Will said. ‘I’m sorry. I –’
‘It’s ok. It’s just …’ He wasn’t to know that her mum made gingerbread men every Christmas. She had been so wrapped up in the Mandevilles that she hadn’t given her mum a first – let alone a second – thought all day. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, getting up too quickly and bashing into the desk.
‘But your hot chocolate,’ Will said, steadying the cups.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Was it something I said?’
‘No. It’s not you. I just … I’m needed …’
‘Will you come back tomorrow? We could do more research.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘After Christmas, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
Will tried to force the file on Lou, saying he had printed it for her.
‘I’m not going straight home,’ she said. Unlike the pad and pencil, she couldn’t shove the file in her pocket. Who knew what would happen to it when she re-crossed the threshold of Hill House.
Will scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. ‘It’s my number. The library’s shut on the 25th and 26th, but I’m here between Christmas and the New Year. Or we could meet over a drink to talk about your research. Two heads and all that.’
Lou shoved his number into her pocket. ‘Thank you. And thanks for the hot chocolate … sorry, I …’ She ran from the room, passed Mrs Rogers and pushed out through the doors into the dark evening.
Dodging puddles, she rushed down the High Street, George Caxton polluting every thought. The truth was worse than she had imagined. He had destroyed the lives of so many people. The coroner should have installed a revolving door just for him; he had spent so much time in the court, playing the grief-stricken husband or friend.
Had the evidence of George’s actions not been so overwhelming, she wouldn’t have believed anybody capable of such evil. Surely nobody in their right mind would murder a friend for something as ridiculous as the threat of revealing his debts to his father. Especially when the Caxtons were rolling in cash. The information she had gleaned from Mary made it sound like George’s father had paid off plenty of George’s gambling debts in the past, so why not that one? What made poor Riley so different to everybody else George had owed money to? What had singled Riley out?
Arriving at Hill House, Lou stood before the rusty, twisted gates. What remained of the once intricate filigree metal work was obscured by the faded warning posters. She stepped through, the heat in her blood burning just beneath the surface of her flesh. This time when she witnessed Hill House morph into a welcoming stately home, the experience was flooded with sadness. George Caxton wanted to take a sledgehammer to this place and demolish it brick by brick and destroy everyone inside. But why did he hate the Mandevilles so much that he wanted to wipe them from the face of the Earth?
The icy breeze nipped Lou’s hands and chilled her legs through the woollen tights that replaced her jeans. Greedily, she soaked up the cold. She had to take her rage off the boil. Fate, karma, chance, divine intervention, whatever it was that had brought her here and put her on a collision course with the Mandevilles, had finally revealed its purpose for her. It had presented her with evidence of George’s intentions and the brutality he would commit in the future, if events remained unchanged.
Tom was the only person who could stand in the way of George. Tom would never allow George to tear his family apart. He would never let George discredit the Mandeville name with his false accusations. Free of scandal, Sir Charles could live a full life and when he died a natural death, it would be Tom, not Edward, who inherited the baronetcy. With Tom in his rightful position as the head of his household, Charlotte wouldn’t be forced into a marriage with George. Whatever it took, Lou would make Tom marry Emma; it was the only way to ensure he would resign his commission and return home to take up the vacant job Lady Mandeville had suggested. It wouldn’t be the half-life he feared. It would be a good life. He would be happy.
Lou stored the details of Riley’s death in a mental file. Finally, she had proof of a crime that George had already committed in this time. Backed up by whatever Elliot was able to provide on his gambling debts, and she should have enough ammunition to use against George. The threat of revealing his crimes would surely bring a man – even one like George Caxton – to his knees.
Lou collected up the hem of her skirt and walked slowly up the drive. She had to calm down, gather her thoughts, and formulate a plan for how exactly to use this evidence against George. If saving the Mandevilles was so important that it had allowed her to put aside thoughts of her mum’s death for a morning, then they were worth fighting for. She could almost hear her mum cheering her on to give the Mandevilles the best Christmas present they had ever had – George Caxton all wrapped up in a huge bow. A bow that would bind him and gag him and put an end to his plans.