THEO ROUSSEL SAT in the now empty drawing room for a long time, thinking about the awful things that had been said and done in his family’s name. When he was a child, his father had been his hero, so lively and dashing. And his pretty mother had been loving, worshipping even, to her handsome husband. Well, the old man had had feet of clay.
But was he, Theo, any better? Money and position, he supposed, had given him licence to behave badly. Poor Miriam Blake. Though, on reflection, she seemed a happy woman. Especially since her old mother died. A thought struck him. But no, he erased it instantly. She wouldn’t have, not in a million years. A very softhearted girl. Always had been.
And now Beattie had been arrested, with that appalling brother of hers. A really nasty piece of work he was, too. He looked up at the portrait of his father, and noted sadly that Keith had quite a look of the Roussels about him. They all had, himself, Beattie and Keith, and Miriam Blake. Ye Gods, what a muddle! He accepted without question that Beattie, with or without her brother, had killed old Mrs. Blake. Some kind of jealousy or envy, he decided, dismissing the whole thing.
“The only good thing that happened today,” he said to nobody, “is meeting that delicious Polish girl from Springfields! What a poppet!” He must find out how long she was staying in England. Then, without a thought for the devoted Beattie, he cheered up at the idea that with the right approach, Katya might well take over the housekeeping job here at the Hall. He would certainly like to get to know her better!
He got up, shook himself, and walked over to the portrait. Maybe he would turn its face to the wall for a bit! But no, the old man wasn’t all bad. Hadn’t he left provision in his will for a memorial seat outside the shop? He’d had a strong sense of duty towards the village, hadn’t he?
But there was something else he would do. He went into the study and lifted the portrait down from the wall. He opened the little safe door with the combination of numbers he had committed to memory. There it was, the lovely diamond ring that in a rush of enthusiasm he’d thought of for Rosebud or Deirdre, but had replaced, biding his time. He held it up to the light, and the fire within sprang to life, all its colours sparkling in his hand. “Yes, it should be worn,” he muttered. “I might need it yet,” he added, and smiled to himself.
He wandered over to the windows and looked out at the dark gardens, silent and reassuring. Continuity, that was the thing, he realised. It was his duty to keep the Roussel family name going here at the Hall. He strode over to the long mirror between the tall windows, and looked sternly at himself. A strict diet for a week or two would smarten him up. He still had a good head of hair, and his skin was good, in spite of years of incarceration indoors. Beattie had been responsible for that. Well, now she was gone, and he could look forward.
He turned and as he replaced the ring, saw something he had never noticed before. An envelope tucked at the back of the safe. He pulled it out, and was alarmed to see his own name. “Theo Roussel-for his eyes only.” It was discoloured, and the flap of the envelope had come unstuck. He withdrew a small sheet of paper, and recognised his father’s handwriting, large and flamboyant.
After he had read it, he walked unsteadily back to his chair and sat down and reread, anxious to make sure he had it right.
“My dear son Theo,” it began, and continued, “I wish you to read this letter and then destroy it immediately. There is no need for anyone but you to know what it contains.”
Theo shook his head, and his hands trembled. He read on. “You are my legal heir, and no one needs to know that my dearest wife was not your mother. Beloved Hermione was sadly barren. The two of us together, in total and loving agreement, decided that I should father an heir to the estate with a sweet orphan girl who worked in the kitchen here. You were taken away from her immediately after the birth, and she was to be handsomely rewarded. Sadly, she did not survive a difficult and long childbirth, and was laid to rest. You have been the light of our lives, Theo, and we could not have loved you more. Your loving father, John Roussel.” After this, he had added the family motto: “Go forth and multiply.”
Theo put back his head and roared with laughter. “The old devil!” he shouted delightedly. “Well, he certainly lived up to family tradition.”
He found a box of matches, and holding the letter between thumb and forefinger, set fire to it until it was burning brightly, then threw it into the great hearth, where the dry paper quickly reduced to ashes.
So that makes us level pegging, he realised with amusement. Me, Miriam, Beattie and Keith. All by-blows of the wicked squire. He shut the safe door and replaced his father’s portrait. “Father, my lips are sealed!” he said, and poured himself what was left of the brandy.