Summers Slain

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 followed 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 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 lay 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 had brought back a raft of painful memories.

Having handed her mother the 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, had 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 could 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, the hem of her black dress brushing the floor as she passed. Lily, her tiny Yorkshire Terrier, closely followed her passage from the room.

Lady Gayle smoothed the skirt of her drop-waisted dress, ensuring her knees were covered, and followed her mother. The countess abhorred modern fashions and wasted no opportunity to share her views with her daughter.

The solicitor, Mr Southall, had made himself comfortable at the only desk in the library. Lady Gayle snatched a glance at her mother on hearing the sharp intake of breath. Since they had taken up residence in the castle a few short months beforehand, the desk had been her father’s domain. Seeing another man sitting in his place brought the grief into sharp focus.

Lady Gayle followed her mother to a pair of sofas which faced each other by the fire. Only by sitting next to each other could they both keep the solicitor in their line of vision. As already requested, Fredericks brought in tea, although Lady Gayle noticed he had refreshed her mother’s gin and added a little ice. The countess sipped and held the glass on her lap. Glancing down, Lady Gayle could not help but notice her mother gripping the glass. The older woman’s knuckles grew whiter as she clenched the crystal.

She’s as worried as I am. What is to become of us?

Lady Gayle turned her gaze to Mr Southall as he shuffled papers on the desk as if he were awaiting orders.

‘Do make a start, man,’ commanded the countess. ‘Or we shall be here all night. I would like to rest before dinner.’

‘By all means, Countess,’ the little man replied. He pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose and regarded them both.

Lady Gayle bit her lip, holding on to irreverent mirth, when she spotted his watery blue eyes, enlarged by the thick spectacle lenses. He looks as innocent as a child.

‘As you are aware, Earl Cedric Bethencourt recently inherited the castle, the title, the estate and fortune from his cousin, the late Earl Percival Bethencourt—’

‘That would be his first cousin once removed,’ interrupted the countess. ‘Percival and Cedric shared a great-grandfather, not a grandfather.’ The countess took a large sip of her gin. The level in the glass had dropped with a dangerous swiftness.

‘I encouraged him to make a will, which I am happy to report he did,’ continued Mr Southall as if the interruption had not occurred. ‘Earl Cedric Bethencourt leaves a few annuities to his staff, the staff here at Bethencourt Castle having already been adequately provided for in the late Lord Percival’s will. There is also a provision for yourself, Countess, but the majority of his earlier inheritance and the title has been left to Lady Gayle Summer, or should I say Countess Bethencourt?’

‘That’s preposterous,’ the older countess exclaimed. ‘The estate has been entailed. My daughter can inherit nothing.’

‘Countess, or should I say, Dowager Countess, the entailment was for twelve generations. Your late husband was the last of those generations and was free to leave his estate to whomsoever he chose. Since his son was killed in the Great War, he chose his daughter.’

The solicitor switched his watery gaze to Lady Gayle. ‘You, my lady, are now Countess Bethencourt,’ he said. ‘The castle and the entire estate are for you to do with as you will, apart from selling it. That is one stipulation of your father’s will. You may not sell the estate.’

The new Countess Bethencourt brushed a tear from her cheek. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said. ‘I expected to be told who the new earl would be and how soon we should be asked to leave.’

‘There is no one else,’ said Mr Southall sadly. ‘Although—’

‘Well, either there is someone or there isn’t,’ said the Dowager Countess. ‘Spit it out, Mr Southall. Don’t keep us in suspense.’

‘Your late husband and I had heard of a child. A boy. But despite all efforts, he has not been found. In any case, Lord Cedric inherited as was his right, and he willed the property to his daughter as, once more, was his right. The boy, should such a person exist, would be entitled to the property only if something were to happen to the current Countess Bethencourt. Since she is a young lady of a robust disposition, that is hardly likely to happen for some time.’

‘What happens to me?’ The new Dowager Countess’s voice shook and took on a querulous tone.

‘Nothing, Mama. Nothing will change. You’ll live here with me, and we will carry on as before.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, child, you know nothing of running an estate like this,’ replied her mother. ‘How on earth will you manage? How will any of us manage without your dear papa?’

Lady Gayle rose, and Mr Southall jumped to his feet. ‘I am not a child, Mama,’ she said.

‘Indeed, you are not. We must find you another husband, and you will produce an heir. There will be no more talk of alternative heirs.’

‘Mother, I have no plans to find a new husband. Even if there were anyone suitable left.’ Lady Gayle sighed. She bit her lip and dropped her gaze to her stomach where her hand rested lightly. Her own husband had been one of the many young men lost during the Great War.

She raised her chin, pulling back her shoulders. ‘I played my part during the war, Mama, and if that experience taught me anything, it taught me that I am perfectly capable of learning anything I choose to.’