The Ravenscar Dynasty. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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Edward shot back coldly, glaring at him.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Edward sat perfectly still in the chair, filled with frustration. Was Aubrey Masters really a nincompoop or was he a clever dissembler? He wasn’t sure, and suddenly he made up his mind to leave this office at once. There was nothing he and Neville could learn here, that was patently obvious. Once they arrived in Italy in the next few days they would gather the facts themselves.
After leaving the Deravenel offices Edward and Neville went out into the street, where Neville spoke to the driver of his carriage. The two men then walked across the Strand and entered the Savoy Court, the forecourt to both the Savoy Hotel and the adjoining Savoy Theatre.
Neville broke his stride as they approached the theatre, and turning to Edward, he said, ‘It’s thanks to those Gilbert and Sullivan operettas that Richard D’Oyly Carte was able to build this theatre and the hotel a few years ago, you know. All those profits from them, he made a veritable fortune.’
Edward nodded. ‘So my father told me. He loved the operettas, especially The Mikado and H.M.S. Pinafore.’
‘Not to my taste. I much prefer Mozart.’
Once they were seated at their table, Neville ordered a bottle of dry white wine and sat back in the chair, regarding his cousin intently. ‘You don’t like Aubrey Masters, do you, Ned?’ he said at last.
‘It’s not a question of liking or disliking him…I’m not sure that I trust him. He never was a favourite of Father’s, and when we were at the offices I began to wonder if he was stupid or a clever dissembler.’
‘If he’s given to dissimulation then he’s a mighty fine actor. Personally, I think he’s a trifle dimwitted. Which brings me to a leading question. Why is he in that position? Who made him head of the Mining Division?’
‘Henry Grant, of course. Aubrey Masters is a relative, a cousin twice removed, I do believe.’
‘Nepotism again, eh?’ Neville shook his head. ‘Weren’t you surprised, not hearing from Henry Grant, not receiving condolences?’
‘Not really. You see, before Father left for Italy he told me that Henry was out of sorts, not feeling his best, and that he had gone into a religious retreat in Cumbria for two months. So presumably he’s still there, and perhaps no one’s bothered to inform him of our tragedy.’
‘If that is so then I find it quite preposterous he’s been kept in the dark.’
‘So do I. Never mind that. We have better fish to fry, you and I, Neville. It is imperative that we set off for Italy as soon as possible. Will and I are both prepared to leave immediately. You just have to say the word.’
‘We depart on Saturday, Ned. All the arrangements are being made by the Thomas Cook agency, as I mentioned earlier. I merely have to confirm the hotel to them later today.’
‘The Ritz is fine, as I told you.’
Neville nodded and picked up a menu. ‘I’ve hardly eaten for days, and I know it’s been the same for you. However, I do think we should order a decent meal, if only to keep our strength up.’
‘You’re right. The problem is I haven’t been at all hungry. Lost my appetite.’
Following suit and opening the menu, Edward studied it for a moment, then put it down, and remarked, ‘You know, the pious Henry Grant might be purging his soul and revelling in his religion, but his wife is here in London. Condolence letters could easily have been sent to us and our families, don’t you think?’
‘Look to the source, Edward. That she-wolf doesn’t know any better. Now, let’s order something to eat and relax. This afternoon we must go over our plans. We have to find a way to get to the bottom of this situation. We really do have to know whether there was foul play or not, and then act accordingly.’
‘I’m hoping the two managers in Italy will have more information for us, especially Alfredo Oliveri, since he lives in Carrara. My father always liked him, and often spoke about him. And with some affection, I might add.’
‘Then he’s our man, and no doubt he’ll have the police report. Or at least access to it. That will be a start.’
‘I thought Aubrey Masters was most cavalier in his attitude, and it infuriated me,’ Edward confided.
‘I know it did. I can read your eyes, even when you keep a poker face, Ned. Anyway, I do feel there is a way to get the better of the Lancashire Deravenels,’ Neville said, and went on, ‘I predict I will have you sitting in Henry Grant’s chair in less than six months.’
Edward was silent for a moment, and then he protested. ‘I’m so young, Neville. Let’s not forget I am not yet nineteen.’
‘Let’s not forget that William Pitt the Younger was only twenty-four when he became Prime Minister of England.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, Ned. You will run Deravenels.’
‘But only if you are by my side,’ Edward exclaimed.
‘And I will be, have no fear of that, Cousin,’ Neville Watkins promised.
They had come here to take the bodies back home to England. But they were also in Florence to find out what had happened to their kin in death. And suddenly, now that they were finally here in Italy, the one thing that Edward dreaded the most was actually viewing the bodies.
He was only too well aware that to gaze upon the waxen, lifeless faces of his father, brother, uncle and cousin would have a devastating effect on him. Conversely, he did need to see them, in order to be truly convinced they were really dead. In his mind he could not quite accept that this catastrophe had happened.
Edward Deravenel was standing in the window of his hotel room, staring out at the River Arno and the hills of Florence beyond. There was no sun on this cold January morning, and the sky was bloated, bulbous with grey clouds. A mist floated over the surface of the river, obscuring the dark waters, a mist that reminded him of London’s winter fogs.
He had arrived here last night from Paris, accompanied by Neville and Will, and they had checked into the Hotel Bristol. This was a well-known hotel, built in the second half of the nineteenth century, much frequented by the English aristocracy, and it had come highly recommended.
Like most of the grand hotels here, it was located on the banks of the Arno, and their rooms faced the river and the scattered hills which stood on the outskirts of the city. He and Will occupied rooms next to each other, while Neville was in a large suite just a few doors down the corridor.
Turning away from the window, Edward strode over to the mirror and began to tie his cravat made of a fine black silk. Once this was arranged to his satisfaction, he added a beautiful pearl pin in the centre of the carefully draped and folded knot. The pearl tiepin was a gift from his father, given to him last year for his eighteenth birthday, and he treasured it more than ever now.
Walking over to the wardrobe, he took out his waistcoat and slipped it on, returned to the cheval mirror, stared at himself, thinking how pale he looked, even haggard. With a small sigh he headed back to the wardrobe to retrieve his jacket.
And it seemed to Edward, as he walked back and forth, that the awful sense of dread he had just experienced trailed along with him, surrounding him like a thin veil, as if it were the mist off the river. He shivered involuntarily, paused