The Thornthwaite Inheritance Page 10

  Lorelli felt a huge sense of relief. Tom had always been a voice she could trust. It was comforting to hear him dismiss Father Whelan’s accusations so offhandedly.

  Tom’s tractor was slow-moving and, on the way back to Thornthwaite Manor, several cars got stuck behind it, impatiently trying to overtake on the narrow lane. Eventually, Tom turned off the road up the dappled drive, towards Thornthwaite Manor allowing the cars to accelerate away. The sun was lower in the sky now, creating an orange glow.

  When she got home, Lorelli looked for Adam, but was informed by Mr Crutcher that he had not yet returned.

  ‘Mr Farthing has asked me to pass on his apologies that neither he nor his son will be joining you and your brother for dinner tonight,’ Mr Crutcher added.

  Lorelli was already sitting down at the dining-room table when Ovid limped in with a crutch under one arm.

  ‘Eventful day?’ she said.

  ‘Bearable,’ replied Ovid, looking at his sister for a reaction.

  ‘Adam and I went to Little Fledgling,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘I heard. Where is Adam?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Lorelli. ‘He came home alone.’

  ‘Tired of you, did he?’ said Ovid.

  The twins consumed the rest of their dinner in an atmosphere of quiet mistrust. Afterwards Ovid suggested that they continue their chess game but Lorelli said she was tired and went to her bedroom.

  .

  ACCUSATIONS AND DENIALS

  In the days that followed Lorelli’s trip to the village, Ovid sensed that his sister had become even more wary of him. Adam was acting differently too and there was a discernable coldness between him and Lorelli.

  Meanwhile, Ovid’s number-one goal was to get into Lorelli’s bedroom to see the proof that his sister was behind the bear attack.

  Eventually, with his ankle healing, and his sister out enjoying her daily swim, Ovid was able to make it to the top of the central spire to his sister’s bedroom door.

  He crossed the room and opened her bureau, where he found the document that Mr Farthing had referred to. It was a request to purchase a bear from a zoo that was closing down. There were various letters about this and Ovid was still reading through the correspondence when the door opened and Lorelli entered.

  ‘Get out,’ she said, catching her breath.

  Ovid looked up. ‘My dearest sister,’ he said, ‘I’m disappointed in you. I thought we had a truce.’

  ‘So did I,’ countered Lorelli.

  ‘So what’s this?’ Ovid held up the bundle of letters.

  ‘I don’t know. What is that?’

  ‘It’s a document showing that you purchased a bear from a zoo, Lorelli.’

  ‘We both had plans before the truce but I cancelled all mine on our birthday.’

  ‘Really?’ said Ovid disbelievingly.

  ‘I never went through with it,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘So the large brown bear roaming about in the woods is a coincidence, is it? Probably just here on holiday.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘A likely story. I suppose you don’t know anything about how my bike came to be filled with honey either?’ snapped Ovid.

  ‘Filled with honey?’ said Lorelli, remembering the design she had found in Bagshaw’s End. She knew better than to trust her brother but she began to feel that something else was going on here. ‘They weren’t your plans in Bagshaw’s End, were they?’

  ‘Bagshaw’s what?’

  ‘It’s where Mrs Bagshaw used to live before she moved here. I thought you’d been using it to plan your attacks.’

  ‘I’ve never been there.’

  ‘There were plans for the booby-trapped tree, the killer bees and . . . a bike filled with honey.’

  The twins stared at each other, their green eyes locked in concentration, both coming to the same conclusion.

  ‘Since the truce, someone else has been trying to kill us,’ said Lorelli, saying what they were both thinking.

  Suddenly an explosion shook the building to its foundations, causing an oil painting on Lorelli’s wall to crash to the floor. The twins maintained their stare, each trying to read the other’s expression.

  ‘What was that?’ said Ovid.

  ‘You tell me,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Nurse Griddle, come quickly,’ shouted Hazel’s voice from downstairs.

  Lorelli bolted out of the room, down the spiral stairs and the main staircase to where Hazel was standing in the hallway, looking distraught. Ovid limped after her. White smoke was billowing out of the drawing-room door. Mr Farthing appeared from the dining room. ‘What is it?’ he was saying. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Adam,’ replied Hazel tearfully.

  ‘What? What about my boy?’ demanded Mr Farthing, growing agitated.

  ‘He was only playing it,’ she said. ‘I was at the door listening, watching through the gap. I like the tunes he plays.’

  ‘What are you babbling about? Speak, girl.’ He grabbed her shoulders angrily.

  ‘The piano . . . It just . . . It exploded,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Get out of the way.’ Mr Farthing pushed her aside. Ovid and Lorelli followed him into the smoke-filled room. Ovid opened a window and the smoke dissipated enough to see that the front half of the piano was missing. Bits of it lay all over the room. Black and white keys lay scattered across the floor. And lying in the middle of the mess, his face blackened from the explosion, was Adam.

  Mr Farthing fell to his knees and took his son in his arms. ‘Adam? Adam?’ he said desperately. ‘Are you all right? Speak to me. Please.’ He looked up at Lorelli and Ovid with fury in his eyes. ‘You murderous children. You are just like your parents,’ he snarled. ‘Look what your terrible games have done to my boy.’

  .

  AN INSPECTOR CALLS

  In spite of Nurse Griddle’s attempts to treat Adam Farthing’s injuries his father had not let her near him.

  ‘But Mr Farthing, I will be able to help the child,’ Nurse Griddle protested.

  ‘I will not put my son’s life in the hands of any of you people,’ said Mr Farthing, shaking with anger and fear. Instead he used his mobile phone to call an ambulance.

  When the ambulance arrived, two men carried Adam on a stretcher and drove away with him and Mr Farthing in the back. The twins stood outside the main door and watched it drive down the long gravel driveway.

  ‘Do you thinking he played a wrong note?’ said Ovid, with a wry smile.

  ‘Tell me, honestly. Was it you? Did you booby-trap the piano?’ said Lorelli.

  ‘My darling sister . . .’

  ‘Don’t start that. Tell me truthfully. You knew that Adam liked to play it. You never liked him. Was it you?’

  ‘No. What about you? This wasn’t another one of your attacks on me gone wrong, was it?’

  ‘I swear on our parents’ grave that I had nothing to do with it.’

  The twins’ attention was drawn by the sound of a motor engine. An old-fashioned car was approaching up the driveway, moving slowly to avoid any loose stones bouncing up and damaging the immaculate paintwork.

  ‘Thornthwaite Manor seems to have become remarkably busy this Easter,’ said Ovid.

  When the car stopped, a tall man in a brown suit stepped out. A thick moustache on his lip compensated for the lack of hair on his head.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, closing the car door behind him. ‘My name is Skinner . . . Detective Inspector Skinner. And I guess you are . . .’ He flicked open a pad and glanced at it. ‘Of course, you’re Ovid and Lorelli. My my, how you’ve grown.’

  ‘You’re the policeman who saw our mother die,’ said Lorelli, recognising the name at once.

 
‘I’m sorry to say that is true. A beautiful woman, your mother. Very sad . . . tragic in fact.’ Skinner bowed his head.

  ‘Can we help you?’ said Ovid curtly.

  Again, Skinner consulted his notepad. ‘I believe there was some kind of explosion that resulted in the hospitalisation of Adam Farthing.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ said Ovid.

  ‘We had a call from a Mr Bernard Farthing. I’ll have to interview everyone here.’ He looked up at the manor. ‘It’s been a long time since my last visit.’

  ‘It has indeed, Inspector,’ said Mr Crutcher, appearing at the doorway. ‘I’d have thought you’d have retired by now.’

  ‘Mr Crutcher. I remember you of course,’ said Skinner. ‘May I see the crime scene?’

  ‘Please come in.’ Mr Crutcher beckoned Skinner up the steps and led him through the hall into the drawing room, where Hazel was on her knees picking up bits of piano.

  ‘You, girl, get away from that,’ barked Skinner. ‘Don’t touch a thing.’

  ‘I was only tidying up,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, don’t. This is a crime scene. Nothing should be touched.’

  The twins followed Skinner into the room and Lorelli noticed that in spite of the chaos caused by the explosion, the game of chess on the far side of the room was undisturbed.

  ‘I’m afraid, Detective Inspector Skinner, that you have got the wrong end of the stick,’ said Mr Crutcher. ‘There’s a perfectly logical explanation for this terrible accident.’

  ‘I’m intrigued to hear how this could possibly be described as an accident,’ said Skinner.

  ‘Then allow me to explain. The piano is an antique. It was purchased by Lord Allegro Thornthwaite in the eighteenth century. A piano was still a relatively new instrument at the time, something of a fashionable accessory. This one was made by London instrumenters, Fob and Swine.’ Mr Crutcher pointed to where the name had been written on the front of the piano but now lay smashed on the floor.

  Lorelli and Ovid looked at each other. Neither had heard the piano’s history before.

  ‘A fascinating musical history,’ said Skinner, ‘but what relevance is all this? Unless Messrs Fob and Swine were in the habit of placing bombs in their pianos.’

  ‘Piano-making was in its infancy. It was a time of experimentation. Each piano-maker had his own quirks. Some made square pianos, some four octaves, some five or six. There was much debate on the merits of pedals. Fob and Swine had an especially eccentric idea that the sound of the instrument could be made more dramatic by making a hollow chamber in the piano lid then filling it with a mixture of sulphur, charcoal and potassium nitrate.’

  ‘That’s gunpowder,’ said Skinner.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You’re telling me some pianos are filled with gunpowder?’ said Skinner incredulously.

  ‘This was the only one. You see, after producing this one for Lord Thornthwaite, Fob and Swine went bankrupt following an explosion in their warehouse.’

  ‘All right,’ said Skinner, ‘so if this is true, why would it explode now?’

  ‘Unlike young Master Thornthwaite, Adam Farthing has a rather enthusiastic style of playing. I did plead with him to abide by our rules, to stick with sombre, respectful pieces, but he is a hot-headed boy. I imagine the vigorous hammer action inside caused a spark and . . . BANG . . . the whole thing went up. As I say, a terrible accident.’

  ‘I’ll have to check this out and interview all of the staff,’ said Skinner, who had been scribbling in his notepad. ‘Excuse me, that’s my phone.’ Orchestral music was coming from his pocket. He put his pad away and retrieved a mobile phone from his pocket. ‘Yes? Yes, I see . . . At what time? Yes . . . Right . . . Of course . . . Yes, I’m here now. I’ll be there shortly.’

  He hit the disconnect button and turned his gaze on the twins, before looking at Mr Crutcher. ‘I’m afraid this has just got more serious. This is no longer simply a criminal enquiry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Lorelli.

  ‘It is now a murder enquiry.’

  ‘Murder?’ said the twins, speaking as one.

  ‘Yes, Adam Farthing is dead. Now, please vacate the room. It will be sealed off until further notice.’

  Act Three

  .

  THE ALL-SKY JIGSAW

  Shortly after Detective Inspector Skinner had delivered the shocking news of Adam Farthing’s death, he ushered Lorelli and Ovid out of the drawing room and sealed it off with police tape.

  Unsure what to do with herself, Lorelli went to the library and picked up her copy of The Seven Dances of Franciska Toth, but when she sat down to read she found it difficult to concentrate on the words. There was too much to think about, so she sat there turning the pages, unable to take any of it in. Adam was dead. He was the only friend Lorelli had ever made. It didn’t seem real. The grief she had grown up with felt damp and musty compared with this new wave of sadness that saturated her heart.

  Ovid entered the room, carrying a brown briefcase in one hand and a cardboard box with a blue lid in the other. Lorelli slipped her book under a cushion and Ovid sat down in front of her. He put the briefcase down by his side, took the lid off the box and poured out its contents on to the table between them. Hundreds of jigsaw pieces spilled out.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Lorelli, coldly.

  ‘I thought that since we were separated from our game of chess we could try this,’ replied Ovid, turning the pieces face up.

  Every single one was light blue.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s a thousand-piece all-sky jigsaw,’ replied Ovid, continuing to turn over the pieces.

  When all the jigsaw pieces were face up, the twins found a corner each and searched for the connecting pieces. They sat in silence for some time until Lorelli spoke.

  ‘We need to be able to trust each other,’ she said.

  ‘I was thinking exactly the same thing.’ Ovid reached into his case and pulled out a wad of paper tied together with string.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Every plan I’ve ever made to kill you, every scheme I’ve devised, every design I’ve drawn.’

  Lorelli took the pile of paper and rested it on her knee. She understood the significance of the gesture. She looked through the hand-drawn designs of countless ingenious methods to ensure her demise: traps to ensnare her; explosives to blow her up; chemical concoctions to poison her.

  ‘I remember this one,’ she said. ‘The trap door in the dining room with the conveniently placed spike underneath.’

  ‘That took me ages to get right,’ said Ovid with a wry smile. ‘And you still survived it.’

  ‘And this was the time you put that deadly spider in the bathroom.’

  ‘What happened to that?’

  ‘Cowell ate it.’

  Ovid laughed. ‘So much for being deadly.’

  The twins shared a smile, then Ovid said, ‘What about you? I need to know I can trust you too.’

  ‘I never kept my plans,’ replied Lorelli.

  ‘Then tell me something you’ve never told me before.’

  Lorelli reached behind her and pulled out the copy of The Seven Dances of Franciska Toth from behind the cushion. ‘This is my favourite book. I’ve read it more times than I can remember. I’ve always kept it secret from you.’

  Ovid stared at the book then reached into his briefcase a second time. He pulled out another copy of it, identical except for its plastic covering.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ asked Lorelli, stunned.

  ‘Mother’s bedside table. It’s the book she was reading when she died.’

  Lorelli took it and opened it. On the inside jacket was a piece of paper with the words Little Fledgling Library printed on it,
beneath which a number of dates had been stamped. The most recent was 19th April, 1996.

  ‘That was the day our father died,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps nothing.’ Lorelli shrugged. She looked down at the mess of blue jigsaw pieces. ‘Our whole lives are like this jigsaw,’ she said, ‘fragments that fit together somehow.’

  Ovid reached into his briefcase again and pulled out a yellowed piece of paper in a clear plastic folder.

  ‘Father’s will,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘I took it from Mr Farthing’s things.’

  He passed it to her and Lorelli read the typed words with their father’s signature at the bottom.

  ‘In the event of my death,’ Lorelli read aloud. ‘I, Lord Mycroft Thornthwaite, leave my entire fortune and estate to my wife, Lady Martha Thornthwaite. In the event of her death it shall be split equally between our children, Ovid and Lorelli Thornthwaite, upon their sixteenth birthday. Prior to that, the estate and management thereof will be entrusted to the guardianship of Mr Alfred Crutcher.’ She looked up. ‘But we know all this.’

  ‘Read the paragraph below,’ said Ovid.

  Lorelli continued. ‘If either twin should outlive the other the whole of the estate will pass to the surviving one. In the event of both of their deaths the estate will be divided equally between our loyal servants, Mr Alfred Crutcher, Mrs Hilda Bagshaw, Miss Eileen Griddle and Mr Thomas Paine.’

  As she read the names, Lorelli’s hands trembled. ‘So they all get the inheritance if we die.’

  ‘We can’t trust anyone,’ said Ovid. ‘I bet Farthing’s in on it too. That’s why he didn’t show us the will.’

  ‘But the servants?’ said Lorelli, in disbelief. ‘If Mrs Bagshaw had wanted us dead she could have poisoned us years ago. Tom has always been there for us. Alfred has looked after us since we were children and Nurse Griddle has spent her life making us better.’