1 A Meeting At Corland Castle

Sometime around noon, Mr Bertram Atherton opened his well-worn copy of Virgil's Aeneid and began to read.

‘Ast ego, quae divom incedo regina, Iovisque et soror et coniunx, una cum gente tot annos bella gero! Et quisquam numen Iunonis adoret praeterea, aut supplex aris imponet honorem?"

The clock struck four. Bertram emerged, blinking, from Carthage, and laid aside his book. It was time for his glass of Canary. He rose and crossed to the sideboard where resided the decanters, poured himself a modest amount, then took his customary tour of the library. His library, as he liked to think of it. Not literally, not yet, but one day all of Westwick Heights would be his, and since no one else in the family was in the least bookish, the library had become his particular domain. There was something peculiarly satisfying about the shelves filled with volumes, the unique smell of musty paper and ancient leather bindings, and the exhilarating possibilities to be found within them. If ever he became crotchety or unsettled in any way, the library could always restore his equanimity.

With a sigh of pure pleasure, he settled back into his chair and set his glass down on a side table. Adjusting his spectacles more firmly on his nose, he picked up his book.

‘Talia flammato secum dea corde volutans nimborum in patriam, loca feta furentibus austris, Aeoliam venit. Hic vasto rex Aeolus antro luctantes ventos …'

And he was gone, lost in a world of long ago, the prosaic nineteenth century vanished in a burst of poetic Latin. There was nothing like Virgil to weave a magical tale. For an unknown length of time he was immersed, quite unaware of his surroundings.

A loud cough drew Bertram back into the modern world. "Oh… what is it, Carter?"

"Beg pardon for disturbing you, sir, but this has just arrived from Corland… from his lordship."

Bertram glanced at the letter on the salver. "It is addressed to my father."

"Yes, sir, but the master is not in his study, not in the house at all, and the groom who brought this insisted it was very urgent. "

"Is an answer expected?"

"No, sir. The groom has already left, but it is very important, he was quite clear about that."

Bertram frowned, considering. "I think my father might be in the stables. Greatheart was heated in one fetlock yesterday, and Whyte was going to apply a poultice. Let me see if I can find him."

"Thank you, sir. I should be most grateful, sir. The groom was most insistent."

Bertram carefully marked his place in The Aeneid, took the letter and set off for the stables. It was just like his father to disappear there merely because one of the horses had a minor injury. To Bertram's mind, that was the purpose of grooms, to see to such matters, but to his father, every horse was treated as if it were a precious child, to be cosseted and fussed over. No, that was not even an appropriate comparison, for he had always been relaxed about his children's well-being. Bertram and his brother Lucas had had the freedom to do very much as they pleased, and although Mother flew into a panic at the least sniffle or sign of fever, no one minded their scrapes and tumbles and the mischief that all boys get into. Mother's health and Father's horses — these were the real causes of alarm at Westwick Heights.

As he had expected, his father was in the stables, together with Morton, the head groom, and Whyte, the youngest of the grooms. Whyte had grown up in the village smithy and farriery, so he had lived his whole life with horses and had a great skill, even though Morton still distrusted anyone so young. The three of them were leaning over the rail of Greatheart's stall, deep in discussion, looking up only when Bertram was almost within touching distance.

"Ah, Bertram," his father said, his expression vaguely puzzled, as if seeing his eldest son and heir was a surprising event. "Going somewhere?"

"Shall I saddle Catullus, sir?" Whyte said.

"No, I came in search of you, Father, not a horse. There is an urgent note for you from the castle."

"Urgent?" The frown deepened as he took the letter, turning it over and over in his hands, but he nodded, gave his final instructions to the grooms and followed Bertram out of the stables.

"Any idea what this is about?" he said as they walked back to the house.

"None, sir. The groom who brought it was most insistent that it is a matter of great importance."

"We had better know the worst at once, then."

They were close to the small summer house, so they went inside and sat. While his father broke the seal and read the letter, Bertram admired, as he always did, the fine view of the house. Westwick Heights was not a large building, but it was elegantly constructed from the local honey-coloured stone, and looked as if it had grown naturally on the small eminence which gave it its name. From where he sat, he could see down the hill to the village of Birchall, and the chimneys of the estate on the far side, half hidden by sheltering trees. If he craned his neck, he could see the road meandering down to the town of Helmsley. Bertram spent most of his life mentally travelling the Ancient World in Latin, or occasionally Greek, but if he had to be in the modern world, this was where he would always choose.

"What do you make of that?" his father said, passing him the letter.

‘To Mr George Atherton, Westwick Heights, North Riding. George, A family matter has arisen which must be addressed. Pray be at the castle tomorrow at noon, and bring Jane and Bertram with you. This is very important, so do not fail me and do not be late! Rennington.'

"A family matter? Involving us?"

"Yes, it is odd, is it not? Yet my brother would not write in such terms unless it were so. He is not in the least fanciful. What do you think it can be about?"

"Surely it must be regarding Nicholson. It is three weeks since he was murdered, so perhaps the villain has been caught."

Bertram hardly liked to think about the murder. He read about death and war and unspeakable horrors every day, but they were safely in the past, distanced from real life by thousands of years, and most of what he read was mere fanciful mythology, not even real. It was another matter entirely when a man one had known well, an uncle by marriage, died by violence. Arthur Nicholson had been chaplain to the Earl of Rennington for many years, and was married to the earl's sister, Lady Alice — a genial, inoffensive man, Bertram would have said. Yet someone had taken an axe to the room where he slept and hacked him to death. It was too dreadful for words.

His father clicked his tongue. "But how can that affect the family… or us? Unless… surely it cannot be one of the family? No, that would be unthinkable. It cannot be anything to do with the murder."

"Well, scandal, perhaps? Money troubles? The castle is about to fall down and they all want to come and live here?"

His father laughed. "You are right, of course. It is futile to speculate. Most likely it is some legal matter. He went haring off to York last week, remember, so perhaps he saw the lawyers. Whatever it is, we shall learn of it soon enough. Let us go and tell your mother."

Futile as it might be to speculate, nevertheless that was all the family did for the rest of the day. First his parents invaded Bertram's library, then his brother Lucas, and then his sisters drifted in. It needed only his little brother Philip to arrive from the nursery, and there would be a veritable party in progress.

By the time they assembled in the drawing room before dinner, they each had their favoured theory. Lucas had settled on financial woes — Lord Rennington was in the basket and wanted their father's fortune to bail him out. Julia, with all the wisdom of her twenty years, thought it was some fresh scandal involving their cousin, the earl's heir.

"Birtwell has got himself into some mess or other, you may be sure. A girl, most likely, and Uncle Charles is looking to us to help him patch it up. Or Bertram, perhaps."

"Nonsense," their father said tersely. "Birtwell has never been one to get into that sort of mess."

"George, please," Mother said. "This is hardly a fit topic of conversation in front of the girls."

"Julia started it," Lucas said.

"And she should not have done," Mother said, lips pursed. "Most unladylike. Depend upon it, this is to do with the Dowager Countess. She must be on her deathbed at last, and how she has lasted as long as she has is more than I can fathom."

"That would merely be a letter to inform us of her death, not this odd summons," Father said.

Penelope, who at sixteen thought everything related to marriage and romance, said, "Perhaps the earl wishes to arrange a match for Bertram."

"Ooh, good idea," Julia said. "But with whom? Not Olivia!"

The three girls collapsed in giggles.

"Olivia will make a great match," Mother said. "An earl's daughter with a good dowry and as pretty a face as hers will marry into the nobility, you may be sure. She will certainly not marry her own cousin."

"Tess Nicholson, then," Penelope said. "Her father left her a fortune, so she is quite a catch now."

"She will be in mourning for her father for quite some time," Mother said. "Really, girls, you are too fanciful by half."

"We shall find out what this is all about soon enough," Father said.

***

The carriage was ordered in plenty of time, for it would never do to be late for such a meeting. Besides, Bertram and his parents were agog with curiosity by the time they arrived at Corland Castle, the principal seat of the Earl of Rennington. The castle was a monstrously ugly building, in Bertram's view, for although it was newly built, it was very much in the heavy style of the Normans, with four corner towers linked by uncompromisingly solid fa?ades. The interior was austere, and festooned with collections of swords, pikes, maces and a multitude of other sharp, malevolent objects whose sole function was to kill in as unpleasant a manner as human ingenuity could contrive. The whole place made Bertram heartily glad he was born in a less warlike and more enlightened age. He liked his violence strictly between the pages of a book.

Simpson and Wellum, the butler and under-butler, greeted them in the echoing entrance hall, its stone floor and marble statuary chilling the air, despite the summer heat outside.

"Good day, sir, madam. Good day, sir. You are in excellent time."

"What is this all about, Simpson?" Father said, as Wellum collected hats and gloves and canes.

"I couldn't say, sir. His lordship has not taken me into his confidence. Lord Birtwell is already in the study with Lord Rennington, and the others are gathering in the library."

"The others? Who else is summoned?"

"Lady Rennington, the Lady Alice Nicholson and Miss Nicholson, Mr Kent and the Lady Olivia are already here. Mr Eustace has not yet arrived."

"That boy is always late," Father muttered.

Simpson showed them into the library, where the door to the earl's study was resolutely closed.

Mother went at once to Aunt Alice, the earl's blind sister, who sat beside the countess, her back rigidly straight.

"How are you, dear?" Mother said, in the special voice she reserved for the sick or newly bereaved. "Bearing up bravely, I am sure. I hope you are taking a little beef tea every day. It is just the thing to stop you falling into a melancholy."

As they talked, Bertram was struck by Lady Rennington's face. His aunt was normally the most imperturbable person, but today her face was grey. This was serious, then.

Bertram and his father gravitated to the other side of the room, where Bertram's cousin Olivia sat.

"Olivia? Are you well, dear?" Mr Atherton said gently.

Olivia was dark haired with a rounded figure which suited her striking beauty admirably. She was given to bursts of histrionics, however, and although she was nothing like so bad as her older sister Izzy, she was still trying company and Bertram avoided her as much as possible.

Today she had decided to be lachrymose, a handkerchief pressed to her face. "How can I be well, Uncle, with this… this thing hanging over me?"

"What thing is that?" he said kindly.

"Whatever it is Papa wishes to tell us. It is bound to be horrid, and if it means that my come-out has to be put off again, well… life will be insupportable. I want to be out, Uncle."

"You are already out, are you not? You attend the assemblies at York and Harrogate and —"

"That is not out!" she said scornfully. "Out is Almack's and being presented at court and everyone knowing who one is."

"We are called in," Bertram said, nodding towards the door of the study, which now stood open.

The others moved forward, but Bertram hung back, waiting for Tess, the daughter of Lady Alice and the murdered chaplain. She was a dark, slight creature, always hiding in shadowy corners as if she did not want to be observed, but Bertram could not help feeling sorry for the girl.

"How are you, cousin?" he said gently.

"Quite well, thank you," she said in her soft voice, as if surprised he had asked. Without another word, she followed the others into the room.

The study was crowded, for it was not a large room, being situated in one of the circular tower rooms that sat at each corner of the castle. Chairs were found for the ladies and for a few minutes, as they settled themselves, all seemed perfectly normal. Just another family meeting. Only the grey faces of the earl and countess suggested something unusual. And had the countess been crying? That was a bad sign.

Bertram looked at his cousin Walter, Lord Birtwell, the heir to the earldom, and then he knew something terrible was afoot. Walter looked dazed… shocked, as if he had suffered a great loss. It must surely be another death, for what else could grieve the family so? Izzy, perhaps, or the eldest of the girls, Josie. One of the Lochmaben family, maybe. Or something of import to the nation — the King or Queen? The Prince of Wales? An invasion by the upstart Corsican?

"No Eustace?" the earl said, frowning. "Where is that boy?"

"Charles, must we wait for him?" the countess said fretfully. "Can we not just get this over with?"

The earl would not start without Eustace, however, so they waited until, a full twenty minutes after the designated hour, Eustace strolled in. Then at last they all turned to the earl in trepidation.

He licked his lips nervously, gazing around at their expectant faces. "Something terrible has occurred… has been discovered. Nicholson…" He took a deep breath, fixed his gaze on a point on the opposite wall and then rushed on. "Nicholson was never ordained as a clergyman, so the marriages he conducted are not valid. The countess and I are not legally married, and all our children are illegitimate. Birtwell… Walter cannot inherit. None of my sons can inherit. George, you are my heir now, and Bertram after you."

Bertram felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Birtwell disinherited? The title, the estates… everything, passing to his own father, and then to him? He would be the Earl of Rennington one day!

And in that moment, his placid future of books and ancient kingdoms and long-dead warriors vanished like smoke. Even his home, lovely Westwick, would be lost to him, and he would have to live in this mausoleum of a castle. His life would be filled with stewards and attorneys and land management and government bills and the wretched Season every year, he would have to marry suitably and there would be no peace to be found anywhere.

Nothing would ever be the same again.