Summers Slain

SUMMER DAYS_3 CAROLINE GOLDSWORTHY CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 31. The End CHAPTER ONE Lady Gayle Summer flinched as the motor car behind her backfired. She brushed the ochre dust from the portico pillar off her heavy, black coat as she continued following her mother up the short flight of steps into the hallway of Bethencourt Castle. Making a mental note to discuss the smooth running of the Bentley’s engine with Chadwick, the chauffeur—after all she had been a mechanic and ambulance driver during the Great War—she began to unbutton her new winter coat. Then she frowned and thinking she might forget she decided to mention the noise to Chadwick immediately. She marched towards the entrance as the butler, Fredericks began closing the front door. Below on the gravel drive, Chadwick was on the point of leaping back into the Bentley to start the engine. Odd, she thought. Something must have backfired, but what? She pursed her lips and glanced up at Fredericks, nodding at him to shut the door. Still frowning she shrugged off her coat and she handed it and the black cloche hat to Alice, her maid and onetime war comrade. Alice bobbed a curtsy. ‘Will that be all, milady?’ Lady Gayle nodded. ‘I think I’ll spend some time taking care of Mama before Mr Southall arrives. We won’t bother dressing for dinner this evening.’ ‘Very good, milady.’ Alice shook the coat and a nugget of ochre-coloured plaster fell to the floor. She swooped down to collect it but, although on the point of popping it in her apron pocket, she placed it in Lady Gayle’s outstretched hand. Lady Gayle frowned at the lump of ochre plaster for a moment, rolling it around in the palm of her hand. Where on earth can that have come from? She looked upwards, but the tawny lump did not match the ceiling. However, with a swift raise of her shoulders, she dismissed the puzzle, popped the plaster into her handbag and joined her mother in the drawing room. Her mother, Lady Ethel Summer, the Countess Bethencourt, was already seated on a sofa facing the fire, back ramrod straight. She wound a delicate, black trimmed, lace handkerchief around her fingers as she stared into the flames. The mismatched pack of dogs laid in front of the fire, heads on paws and letting out the occasional whimper. ‘Would you like tea, Mama?’ Lady Gayle asked looking around for the bell rope. ‘Something stronger, I think,’ replied her mother. ‘Especially since we have to endure the Gosforths for dinner this evening.’ Lady Gayle glanced at the Louis XV carriage clock on the mantel over the fire. It was scarcely past lunchtime and unlike her mother to indulge in alcohol this early in the day, but then when were funerals ordinary days? ‘Dash it all,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten about the Gosforths. Why did we invite them again?’ Her mother didn’t reply but dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. Lady Gayle felt a rush of sympathy, after all, it wasn’t every day you put your husband in the ground, she thought. She strolled to the drinks trolley and poured her mother a small gin. After a moment’s hesitation, she poured one for herself too. Although it was four years since she’d buried her own husband, who died from his war wounds; today brought back a raft of painful memories. Having handed her mother a drink she wandered to the tall windows which gave out over the parkland of Bethencourt Castle. Gaspod, her late father’s enormous bloodhound, followed her and she stroked his soft, silky ears as the dog leaned against her legs. Outside the lawns ran downhill to a lake where she and her brother Alfred played on their sporadic visits to Great Uncle Percival as children. She allowed herself a moment’s relief in happy memories before dragging herself back to the present and the vast changes that had occurred in their lives since the war and again in recent months. When Great Uncle Percival died in the spring, leaving the estate and title to her father, she gained a title. Having been the Honourable Gayle Summer all her life she was now Lady Gayle Summer. For a long time she’d wondered if she’d ever get used to it. Now her father too had died after a fall from his horse and the estate would be handed to someone else. If only her brother had survived the war, she thought, then the estate would have gone to him. Whoever it is, I wish them luck. There has been so much death in recent years. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, turning towards her mother. ‘I didn’t hear you.’ ‘What time will the solicitor be here?’ Her mother repeated her question and took another sip from her glass. ‘Soon. He had to collect the will from his safe.’ ‘Such a nuisance, he should have brought it with him to the church.’ Countess Bethencourt finished her gin and stared meaningfully at her daughter. ‘I think there were several documents, Mama.’ Lady Gayle turned away from the view wondering once more who would inherit the title and the castle now. At least she’d be able to return to her life and friends in London. I can’t wait. There was a gentle knock on the door and a polite cough as the butler entered. ‘Mr Southall has arrived. I’ve put him in the library, my lady.’ ‘Very well,’ replied the countess. She pushed herself to her feet, flapping away her daughter’s attempts to assist. ‘I am perfectly capable of walking to the library, Gayle. Don't make a fuss.’ The countess glided across the rugs,