Edward knocked on the door of the parlour and waited, entered the room only when his mother called, ‘Come in, Edward.’
She was seated at her small, kidney-shaped desk in the bay window, and glanced up as he closed the door behind him.
‘Peace reigns at last!’ she exclaimed, shaking her head, sighing. ‘I thought George would never stop chattering. And that Will would never leave.’
Walking towards her, Edward sat down in the chair facing the desk, and exclaimed, ‘Yes, George was unusually garrulous, and as for Will outstaying his welcome, that was all my fault, Mother. I did invite him to have tea with us, and it somehow got out of hand, just seemed endless and rather rowdy, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry.’ He studied her for a moment, then asked quietly, ‘Are you not feeling well?’
Cecily Deravenel gave him a long puzzled look, frowning. ‘I’m perfectly fine, Ned, thank you. And please don’t misunderstand—I like Will. No, let me correct myself, I love him, and you know very well he’s been like a member of this family for years. The only reason I became so impatient was because I needed to be alone with you, and you seemed so embroiled with the children and Will.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, my brothers were all over me like chickenpox.’
She smiled, her love for her eldest son written all over her face. Cecily leaned forward, fixed her soft blue-grey eyes, so like Richard’s, on him intently. ‘The reason I came to London today, instead of in a few weeks’ time, was to see you, Ned, and bring you this.’ She patted a small package wrapped in silk, which was on the desk.
‘What is it?’ he asked curiously, eyeing the odd-looking red bundle.
‘The famous missing notebook,’ she replied a little triumphantly.
‘I can’t believe it! I thought that was lost forever! However did you find it? Where was it?’ His excitement was apparent, his blue eyes sparkling.
‘In the priest hole.’
‘The priest hole. There’s a priest hole at Ravenscar?’
‘Yes, there is,’ she answered, and proceeded to tell him what had happened the day before, and explained the history of the old hiding place. When she had finished, she removed the red silk scarf, handed him the notebooks, and added, ‘There is a second book, Ned, full of jottings by your father. Most illuminating, I think, and it will be more useful to you than the actual notebook.’
As he took the two black leather books from her he seemed puzzled by this comment, and asked, ‘But why would that be? I mean, Oliveri said my father always had his nose in the notebook.’
‘Perhaps he did, but only your father understood what he was writing in it. I don’t. It’s full of numbers which seem quite meaningless. However, perhaps Oliveri will understand, or perhaps you yourself will. Your father spent a lot of time talking to you about Deravenels over the years.’
‘Yes he did, but he never spoke to me about numbers, Mother.’ Ned opened the smaller notebook, and began to read, scanned several pages, and then shook his head. ‘I see what you mean, I’m baffled, too. There are sentences here and there, as you no doubt saw, but I don’t have a clue as to their meaning. Oh, here’s a line that makes some sense. He wrote this…“Necessary to talk to my compadre about two and eleven”.’ Edward glanced up, gazed at Cecily and shrugged his shoulders. ‘What on earth can that mean?’
‘I have absolutely no idea, Ned. I wondered when I read the sentence yesterday if it might be Oliveri he was referring to as his compadre.’
‘Perhaps. But it could be anybody, you know. However, do I have your permission to show the notebook to Oliveri?’
‘Of course. And as I said, I think you will find the second book much more fascinating, and it is going to help you achieve your goals.’
Edward jumped up restlessly, began to move away from the desk, obviously excited about the find, and anxious to delve into the pages. At the door, he swung around. ‘Thank you for bringing the books to London, Mother, and so promptly.’
‘It seemed the safest way to get them to you.’
Edward took the stairs two at a time, rushing to his room. Once inside he locked the door, not wishing to have any intrusions from his younger brothers. They had been so excited to see him, so happy, he half anticipated a visit from one of them, or both. He was glad they were here in London, being so attached to them, but at this moment he wanted total privacy, peace and quiet to read the notebook and the slightly larger book, which looked like a diary to him. From the way his mother had spoken, he believed the diary contained information about Deravenels, Henry Grant and his cronies. And Margot Grant. The look on his mother’s face, the intonations in her voice, had indicated this to him. He knew how much she hated the Lancashire faction, the usurpers, as she referred to them with great bitterness.
Settling himself in front of the fire, Edward put the diary on the floor, and looked at the notebook first, quickly flipping the pages.
Lines and lines of numbers, page after page; an occasional written comment that was meaningless, although he did realize that the comment usually referred to a number. The numbers two, eleven, thirty-one, and twenty-nine recurred a lot. Unable to decipher the notebook, not understanding what the numbers referred to, Edward impatiently put it on a side table and bent down to retrieve the diary.
After scanning the many pages swiftly, he sat back and turned to page one, the beginning of his father’s jottings.
There was no date at the top of the page, so he had no idea when his father had started to write this, except that the condition of the diary told its own story, in a sense. The ink was black, unfaded, the white page crisp, new looking, certainly.
Edward began to read, filled with eagerness and not a little trepidation.
‘I am at my wit’s end. I do not know what to do about Margot Grant. She is worse than ever, and I worry about Harry. My cousin is not a bad man, nor is he evil, like his wife. Actually, Henry is just a poor soul, out of his depth. We were such good friends when we were younger, spent much time together, and I was not only loyal to him, but a devoted cousin, his close friend, just as he was mine.
The trouble with Henry is that he has always been the most pious of men, entangled with priests, full of devotion, wanting only to mingle with the clergy, and he made them his companions, listened to them, took their advice. And he loved to go to church, to study the Bible. His thoughts were always on God, not business, and it is still that way. Deravenels never really meant anything special to him. Nor does it now. Oh yes, he was, and is, proud to be the chairman, sitting in the seat once occupied by his magnificent father, and his grandfather before that. But he did not want to run the company, cannot run it, and he knows that now. He is not capable of it. This is the reason I call him the absentee landlord.
He is a vague, distracted, lazy man; contemplating God is his favourite pastime, and so he lets the Frenchwoman do his job, at least he permits her to give orders to John Summers and James Cliff. They are devoted to her, but they do not follow her guidelines. They dismiss her orders. They are far too clever and smart for that, oh yes. Especially Summers. He takes after his late father—like him he is a handsome man, personable, intelligent. And ambitious. He means to take more and more power, I know that.
I worry about Henry because he’s no match for her, or for them. He’s daft in the head, I believe. It has