Chapter Three
D iana awakened to the cry of a gull. Wrapping the counterpane around her, she crossed the icy floor to the window and, drawing the drapes, gave a gasp of delight.
Mrs. Phillips had described this place in glowing terms, but Diana thought her godmother’s memories had been clouded by nostalgia. Not so.
The storm was a distant memory. Before her stood a magnificent view.
Pendowar Hall was situated on an eminence overlooking the distant, roiling sea. Intermittent clouds flitted in a bright, blue sky. The sun, she guessed, had risen a couple of hours earlier.
The manor house, at least what she could perceive from this angle, stood three stories high and was fashioned of grey stone. It was built like a rectangle minus its western side, no doubt to permit sea views from the east wing, where she was housed. The north wing ended in a tall tower. The side wings flanked a rear courtyard landscaped with raised flower beds and a green lawn that sparkled with morning dew.
Beyond the courtyard lay an open area of grass and natural vegetation, which terminated at the cliff’s edge. Below, the coastline curved in both directions. Sandy beaches alternated with small coves and steep, rocky cliffs. The sea stretched out in all its glory, the wavy blueness interrupted by thrusting islets of black rock, where seagulls perched and swooped .
Diana was enchanted. She had lived in many fine houses in her former positions, but none as massive or impressively situated as this one. To find herself in this stunning place felt like a gift, and she looked forward to exploring at her earliest opportunity.
After performing her morning ablutions, Diana donned a plain frock and did up her long, dark hair in a simple chignon. She had just satisfied herself that she was neat and presentable when her chamber door quietly opened, and Ivy entered with a tray.
“Good morning, miss. I’ve brought yer breakfast.” Ivy’s brown hair looked neat beneath her white cap, but her starched, white apron and black dress were dusted with ash.
“Thank you, Ivy.”
“Ye’re welcome.” She set down the tray, which contained a boiled egg, a bowl of porridge, and a cup of tea. “I thought ye might need help getting dressed, but here ye are, up and ready.”
“It’s kind of you to think of me. But my frocks are self-sufficient, as you see.” Diana indicated the front hooks on her gown’s bodice. “My sisters and I make our own clothes and we design them so we can dress ourselves.”
“How practical ye are, miss.”
“I try to be.” Diana brought over the dress and cloak she’d worn the day before, which were muddied at the hem. “Mrs. Gwynn said you might be able to sponge and press these for me?”
“I’d be happy to, miss. I’ll take them when I go.” Ivy began laying a new fire.
Setting the garments on her bed, Diana sat down and dug into her breakfast. “Pendowar Hall is a beautiful place.”
“Oh, it is, miss. Been here four years now, e’er since I were thirteen years old. I like it e’er so much. If they offered me the queen’s palace, I’d say, ‘No thank ye, I’ll take Pendowar Hall any day of the week.’”
Diana smiled at the maid’s enthusiasm. “Where does the house’s name come from? Do you know?”
“I do, miss. It be from the Cornish pen , which is a ‘hill’ or ‘headland,’ and dowr, which is Cornish for ‘water.’”
“Interesting.” As Diana sipped her tea, she considered asking Ivy what she knew about Sir Thomas and his untimely demise, but her inquiry with Mrs. Gwynn had gone so poorly, she decided to wait until she knew the girl better. “Ivy,” she remarked instead, “I heard something strange in the middle of the night.”
Having lit the fire, Ivy stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “What did ye hear, miss?”
“A creaking door. I’d swear it was the door to the servants’ stairs. Then I heard footsteps passing this way and continuing down the corridor.”
Ivy’s eyes widened. “Oh!”
“Might it have been the captain or Miss Fallbrook, returning to their chamber?”
“They never use the servants’ stairs, miss. And Miss Fallbrook’s not one to be tramping about in the middle of the night.”
“Are the master’s chambers on this floor?”
“Aye, miss. They be at the other end of the east wing, beyond the gallery. But Captain Fallbrook’s never set foot in the master’s rooms since Sir Thomas died.”
“Where does he sleep, then?”
“In the south wing, in the same chamber as was kept for him since he were a lad, whenever he came on holiday or home from sea to visit.”
Diana nodded, recalling what Mrs. Phillips had told her—that Sir Thomas had sent his nephew off to the Royal Navy after the death of the boy’s parents. “If it wasn’t the captain or Miss Fallbrook I heard… do you have any idea who it might have been?”
“I do, miss.” Ivy came a few steps closer and lowered her voice. “I’ve heard sounds like that myself in the dark of early morning, while emptying the chamber pots on this floor.”
“Have you?”
Ivy’s tone was ominous. “It’s Morwenna. The ghost that haunts Pendowar.”
“A ghost?” Diana fought back a smile. “Who was Morwenna?”
“A mermaid, miss.”
“A mermaid?” Every great house seemed to have a legend about a ghost. It amused Diana to think that Pendowar Hall’s ghost was a mermaid. “How could a mermaid walk down a hall? I believe they have tails, not feet?”
“When Morwenna’s on land, she grows legs and feet like any human.”
“I see. Well, thank you for that explanation. I shall keep an eye out for Morwenna.”
“I see ye don’t believe me, miss, but ye should. It’s a frightful tale, and…” Ivy hesitated, and her brow wrinkled. “Perhaps I ought’nt to tell ye, though. You, of all people.”
“You, of all people?” What did Ivy mean by that? Diana had no time to inquire further, however, because at that moment, Mrs. Gwynn entered the room.
“Ivy!” she admonished. “Why are you standing around chatting? The fireplaces on the ground floor await your attention, and did you empty Miss Taylor’s chamber pot?”
“I will, Mrs. Gwynn.” Ivy withdrew Diana’s covered chamber pot from beneath the bed. “I’ll come back later for yer dress and cloak,” she promised Diana before she scurried from the room.
Diana’s heart went out to the young chambermaid. She offered the housekeeper a deliberate smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Gwynn. I hope you slept well?”
“I never sleep well,” was her curt, unexpected reply.
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“My thoughts plague me at night. So I get up and walk.”
“Do you indeed, Mrs. Gwynn? I heard footsteps in the hall at about two o’clock last night. Was that you?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “T’were fierce cold last night, so I kept to my chambers.”
“Can you think of who it might have been?”
“Nobody. This old house has strange echoes and there were a strong wind.”
“It wasn’t the wind. I heard footsteps. And a creaking door.”
“At two o’clock, you say?” Mrs. Gwynn’s eyes narrowed, and she waved one hand dismissively. “You must have dreamt it or imagined it, Miss Taylor. By the by, you won’t be starting lessons at nine today.”
“Why not?”
“Miss Fallbrook’s not in her room.”
“Where is she?”
“There be no telling. I’ll send the hall boy in search of her and tell her to meet you in the schoolroom at eleven.”
“Is it common for Miss Fallbrook to miss morning lessons?”
“As common as the tide. You’ll get used to it, I reckon.”
This did not bode well. “What about Captain Fallbrook?” inquired Diana. “Will I see him today?” After their unfortunate encounter on the road, Diana wasn’t looking forward to the meeting, but she knew it was inevitable.
“He’s got business with his steward and tenants all day and said he’ll see you this evening at seven. I’ll fetch you when the time comes.”
*
With a bit of time on her hands, Diana indulged her curiosity by embarking on a self-guided tour of the ground floor of the house.
One grand room opened onto another, the high ceilings ornamented by plasterwork, the walls generously paneled in oak or covered in colorful paper or silk. The furnishings were tasteful and looked to be of recent vintage. Money did not seem to be a problem here. If that was true, however, Diana wondered why Mrs. Gwynn had said the north wing was closed off.
She passed Ivy cleaning out the fireplace in one room while another maid, Hester—a fair-haired woman who looked to be in her late twenties—swept the grand, oak staircase leading to an open gallery landing on the first floor.
Moving on, Diana found herself in a great white hall hung with tapestries and family portraits in gilded frames. Pewter dishes gleamed atop a time-scarred refectory table. Two suits of armor stood at either end of the long room beneath proud displays of weapons from long-ago battles.
Although the chamber, like the rest of the house, was impressive, Diana sensed a palpable sadness in the air. A mansion like this , Diana thought, should echo with the conversations of its inhabitants. The master should be at breakfast in the morning room, downing his coffee and reading the paper while his lady plans menus for the week. Children’s laughter ought to ring out from the nursery and a bevy of servants should be rushing to and fro.
In its place was deathly silence.
Perhaps that was understandable, though. Sir Thomas had died just four months ago.
Mrs. Phillips’s words resounded in Diana’s brain.
“My nephew, Captain William Fallbrook, who’s been at sea most of his life, has inherited the entire estate—an ancient and valuable property—as well as the title of Baronet of Portwithys. Is it a coincidence that he, who spent many holidays as a boy and all his leave from the navy at Pendowar Hall, and must have understood its value, came home just a few days before Thomas died?”
The idea that the captain might have murdered his own uncle sounded fantastic. The product of a vivid imagination. The parish constable had said Sir Thomas had killed himself. It was Diana’s job to find out why.
She found a life-sized portrait, elegantly labeled Sir Thomas Fallbrook, Fourth Bart. of Portwithys, prominently displayed above the enormous stone fireplace. Diana recognized the imposing figure and commanding features from the one time she’d met him, again recalling his kindness in giving four small children a treat. In the portrait he held a beautifully bound book. A stack of similar books resided on a nearby table. Objects in portraiture, Diana knew, often symbolized the subject’s personal interests. Sir Thomas must have been fond of reading—a man after her own heart.
Footfalls echoed on the stone floor. Diana turned to find Mr. Emity, the butler, approaching. A slender man who looked to be in his mid-fifties, he wore a black crepe armband: a tribute to the deceased baronet.
“Miss Taylor.” He towered above her, his posture perfectly erect as he gave her a gracious nod.
“Good morning, Mr. Emity.”
“I hope your stay with us will be pleasant.”
Diana felt an echo of her conversation with Mrs. Gwynn—as if he, too, considered Diana a short-term visitor. “Thank you.” She was intrigued by his elegant, unusual manner of speech. “What a lovely accent you have, Mr. Emity. May I ask where you are from?”
“I was born in Guinea, miss.”
“Guinea is a long way from England. What brought you to these shores?”
“It is a long story, miss. Perhaps I shall tell you about it someday.”
“I look forward to it.” Diana mentioned the footsteps she’d heard in the corridor early that morning.
“The only member of this household who might have been up at that hour is Mrs. Gwynn.”
“She said she was awake but kept to her chamber.”
“The beat of tree branches against the house can sound like footsteps, miss, and this old place does groan and creak.”
Diana remained unconvinced. “Perhaps you are right.”
“It has come to my attention that Miss Fallbrook is not to be found. May I suggest, if you are fond of gardens, that you spend some time perusing ours? They were a great favorite of Sir Thomas’s. They are not at their peak now, of course, but autumn has a beauty of its own.”
“Thank you, Mr. Emity. I am indeed fond of gardens. I shall follow your advice presently.” Diana decided to take advantage of this opportunity to learn more about the baronet and his family. The portrait before them was flanked by pictures of two beautiful and elegantly dressed young women. “Speaking of Sir Thomas,” she added, “I was just studying his portrait. The ladies beside him—were they his wives?”
“Yes. On the left is the first Lady Fallbrook, Margaret. On the right is the baronet’s second wife, Sylvia.”
Margaret looked to be no more than eighteen. Sylvia might have been in her mid-twenties. Diana knew what had happened to both women—Mrs. Phillips had shared the sad stories many times. But she wanted to keep the conversation going, hoping to draw the butler out.
“My godmother, Mrs. Phillips, told me that the first Lady Fallbrook died giving birth to her daughter?”
“She did.”
“How sad. And the second Lady Fallbrook?”
A flash of sorrow lit his eyes. “She died in a boating accident some three years past, along with their son.”
“I’m so sorry.” Diana repressed a shudder. To think that the wife and son had both drowned . Of all the ways to die, to Diana, that seemed the most horrible. “Tragedy has struck this poor family many times over.”
“It has, miss.”
“Their passing must have devastated Sir Thomas.”
“The whole household was deeply grieved.”
If only she could tell Mr. Emity that she’d been sent to ferret out information on this subject, it would be so much easier. But she must be discreet, as Mrs. Phillips had insisted. “As I understand it,” Diana said quietly, “Sir Thomas was still so distressed all these years later, he took his own life?”
Mr. Emity hesitated. As if carefully measuring his words, he replied, “That is one interpretation of the event.”
“Is there another interpretation?”
“I—” he began, then he abruptly changed the subject. “Forgive me, Miss Taylor. I have things to attend to. Enjoy the gardens.” With a parting nod, he withdrew.
Diana wondered what he’d been about to say. As butler, he no doubt knew everything that went on in this house. She must find a time to question him further.
A clock rang the hour of nine. Two hours before she was to meet with Miss Fallbrook. Diana headed for the servants’ door.
Once past the stone wall enclosing the kitchen yard, Diana found herself in the rear courtyard. Birdsong erupted from the trees. The sun warmed her face and shoulders as she paused to take in her first good view of the manor house. The immense, stone edifice rose castle-like to a crenellated rooftop peppered with chimneys, fronted by its verdant lawn and colorful plantings. It was quite a sight to behold.
And yet, taking in Pendowar Hall in the morning light, that same paradoxical feeling of gloom and doom that Diana had experienced in the great hall washed over her. It was as if the house were determined to remind beholders that despite its beauty, the building held secrets, and something dark and sinister was to blame.
Don’t be ridiculous , Diana scolded herself. Buildings can’t keep secrets.
But people could.
Diana had always prided herself on being a practical sort. She laughed at superstitions as pure nonsense. She did not believe in ghosts. But untold generations had lived and died here. She knew of four members of the Fallbrook family whose lives had ended tragically. How many more had similarly suffered? The idea sent a shiver down her spine.
Diana shook off the feeling and set out to explore the grounds.
For the next hour, she meandered. Southern Cornwall—unique in England—was known for its Mediterranean climate. Diana was charmed to find a myriad of impressive gardens ranging from formal flower beds to natural landscapes. Although mid-October, many varieties of flowers were still in bloom and gardeners were at work here and there.
Diana heard the gurgle of water and, rounding a bend, came upon a fast-moving river. Its banks were alive with lush, tropical vegetation including palm trees—a sight so unusual, it took her breath away. An old wooden footbridge spanned the river, leading to a path that crossed through fields on the other side.
The river was pretty, but as Diana stared at the footbridge, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. There it was again—that feeling of impending doom—as if the bridge were a portent for a future evil. This time, though, Diana recognized the source of her apprehension.
It was the sight and sound of the rushing water.
She ought to have learned to swim, she knew it. Living in landlocked Derbyshire, however, it had never seemed important. She admired the beauty of rivers, ponds, and lakes and loved looking at the ocean. But she had never ventured into any of them—and feared to.
The far-off sounds of seagulls and crashing waves caught her ear. Glad to leave the riverbank, Diana ventured through the woods in the direction of the beckoning sea. In time, she came to a dirt path along the cliff’s edge. A few feet of scrubby grass and shrubs separated the path from the brink of the precipice. Below, stretches of sandy beach were interrupted by miles of undulating jagged cliffs before the ocean, which pulsed and foamed.
This must be the very path , Diana realized, from which, according to reports, Sir Thomas Fallbrook fell to his death.
Was it a deliberate act?
Or was he pushed?
She chastised herself. Of course he wasn’t pushed.
Diana followed the cliff path, breathing in the tangy air. The scenery was as spectacular as Mrs. Phillips had promised. After a while, she came to a spot marked by dense, high vegetation. A natural break in the shrubbery led to an opening where only a few feet of grass separated the path from the cliff’s edge. Urged by some inexplicable compulsion, Diana moved carefully to the brink and glanced over.
It was a long, deadly drop to the rocky cove below. Beset by an uncustomary sense of vertigo, Diana stepped back quickly.
“Good morning.”
Diana jerked in surprise. A sturdy-looking man in rough clothing appeared, wielding a pair of shears. The shrubbery had masked his approach. He tipped his cap and began clipping a hedge along the trail.
“Good morning.” Diana introduced herself.
“Nice to meet you, miss. My name’s Nankervis.” He appeared to be about forty years of age, and he introduced himself as the head gardener at Pendowar Hall. “I were born on this estate, miss,” he explained, in answer to her query. “My father were head gardener before me, and his father before that. I started in the gardens when I were a sapling myself.”
“You must enjoy the work,” Diana remarked with a smile.
“I do, miss.”
“I can see why. This is a stunning view. And I am quite taken by your gardens.”
A crooked smile lit Mr. Nankervis’s sun-browned face. “The old baronet, he were right fond of ’em as well. Took long walks every morning, he did, always the same route, in the gardens and along this path. ”
“Where does this path lead?” Diana asked.
“That way,” he said, pointing north, “to the tenants’ farms and beyond. To the south, it winds down along the river channel to the beach. At low tide, ye can cross the river by the steppingstones and pick up the path again farther along at Portwithys.”
“How far is the village?”
“Three miles that way. Four by road. But the best and shortest route is by the footbridge over the river.” He nodded in the direction of the estate.
“I’ve seen that footbridge.”
“Take care though, miss, won’t ye, on this path? The weather can be changeable in these parts. Bright as day one minute and the next, wind or rain or fog can blow in and wrap ye in its grip.”
“Thank you for the warning.” She paused. “Mr. Nankervis. Is it true what I heard? Did the old master fall to his death from this cliff path?”
He removed his cap, eyes squinting with discomfort. “Aye, miss. As it happens, from this very spot.”
“This spot?” Strange, that she had felt a compulsion to approach the edge here, of all places.
“Early morning, it was. They found his body on the rocks below.”
“How awful. The poor man.”
“A sad day it were for Pendowar Hall.”
“I heard that the parish constable ruled it a suicide.”
“So he said .”
Was it her imagination? Or had Mr. Nankervis placed heavy emphasis on the word said ? As if there were some debate about the matter? “Did Sir Thomas leave a note behind?”
“No idea, miss. If he did, they wouldn’t tell the likes of me.”
“Could it have been an accident?” Diana prodded. “Might he have taken a wrong step? ”
“Not likely.”
“Why is that?”
“He walked this path every day, didn’t he? Had done since he were a child, I’m told. He knew the way. It was a fine, fair morning. And he were fit, miss. Not old and feeble.”
Diana took that in. Mrs. Phillips had made the same observation.
“What do you think happened, Mr. Nankervis? Do you think Sir Thomas took his own life?”
Mr. Nankervis replaced his cap with a shrug. “I couldn’t say, miss. He had his troubles, same as everyone. All I know is I wouldn’t put much stock in what the parish constable said.” With that, he took off down the path.