CHAPTER 1
KAI
Arivulet of rain runs down my neck and under my collar, its icy tendrils making me shiver. Why does it always rain at funerals? I’m sure it doesn’t, but it has at all those I’ve attended.
The January drizzle soaks into my coat and I can already feel it seeping into the shoulders of my one good suit—my only suit—kept solely for funerals and award ceremonies. So far the tally is funerals two, award ceremonies nil. I’ll have to land a big role in a major film or series for that to change. But one day, hopefully, and what is hope if not the fuel that keeps us going.
As the vicar intones, his words washing over me without making a mark, I steal a glance at the others assembled. Apart from the solicitor, Mr Nagle, who introduced himself to me a few minutes ago, there are six others standing across the graveside from me, three men and three women. There’s a kindly looking woman, perhaps around sixty, though I’m not good with guessing ages, and two younger women. They have their arms linked as if for support. Next to the older lady is a man of about her age, talland austere looking. The other men are younger, maybe late twenties or early thirties. They’re both broad-shouldered and handsomely rugged, brothers maybe.
On each of their faces is etched a grief I don’t feel. How can I feel anything for someone I’ve never met and was only vaguely aware of. I stifle a bitter laugh at that thought. I barely felt more emotion at the funeral of my father three years ago. He wasn’t a man who invoked feelings, not even respect. He may have raised me but he never loved me. He was a hateful and resentful man, who lived that way and died the same.
I knew there’d been a rift between him and his brother a long time ago, but as he refused to talk about it, I have no clue what it was about. This is the closest I’ve ever come to my uncle, but now he’s also dead and I’ll never know the reason they were estranged. As the coffin’s lowered, one of the women, the eldest, brings a handkerchief up to her mouth to stifle a sob. The man standing next to her puts an arm round her shoulder in comfort and she leans into him. Whoever my uncle was, he certainly touched the lives of a few people.
The funeral finishes and I head back towards the sleek black car that had brought me here.
“Would you like to walk up to the house?” Mr Nagle appears at my elbow. I look around, and all I can see is the small church and graveyard, with the road on one side and a bank of trees around the rest. All I’d really like to do is get back to London—to my flat—strip out of these sodden clothes, and try to warm up. I need to prepare for an audition next week. It’s for a soap opera and a bigger part than I’ve played before. It could be my big break. Instead of saying any of this I reply.
“I can’t see a house.”
Mr Nagle gives me a little smile and gestures with his arm to the other side of the graveyard. The other funeral attendees are disappearing through a gateway where I can see a path leading through the woods. I’m curious enough to start walking, and he falls into step beside me. The whole experience has been intriguing so far so I might as well continue on a little longer. I’d also like to find out more about my Uncle. Having not known much about his existence, I certainly didn’t know about his death until I received a call a few days ago. I hardly ever answer unsolicited calls—usually they’re scams or my phone company trying to upsell to me—but it might have been a potential job offer coming directly to me instead of through my agent. It had been Mr Nagle, though, who informed me of my uncle’s death, and told me about the funeral and that a car would come for me.
At first I thought it was a scam, though an elaborate one, but he knew too much about me and my father, things that would be of no use to a scammer, so it piqued my interest. I did protest about attending the funeral as I had a shift behind the bar at the White Horse—my local and how I pay the bills between acting jobs—but he insisted it was my uncle’s wish for me to be here, and so here I am, following a group of strangers through a wood to who knows where. Naked trees drip with a melancholy air as I trudge up an incline, wondering if the damp from the leaf litter around my feet is going to soak through my shoes and make my feet as wet as the rest of me. The journey here was at least two hours, and I don’t fancy sitting that long in the car with cold damp toes. That is if the car is taking me back. I assumed but didn’t ask about those arrangements.
As I reach the top of a short rise, I emerge from the treeline and come to an abrupt stop. The ground slopes away again, showing me acres of parkland, bordered by woods in the distance and a lake to one side. But what draws my eye is the house, it’s...
Not a house, it’s a palace.
Well, maybe not a palace. I’ve watchedDownton Abbey, and it’s not even half as big as that, or even a third the size. But it is huge, and all the other funeral-goers are heading towards it.
I turn to Mr Nagle and he’s smiling broadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners.
“It’s something isn’t it?”
“That’s—” I stop, not sure I can get the words out. I take a breath and try again. “Is that my uncle’s house?”
Mr Nagle nods, clearly enjoying my reaction.
“He always did like to see it from this aspect.”
“Who was my uncle?” I say, mostly to myself but I receive an answer anyway.
“The seventh Earl of Cavendish was considered to be a kind and generous man, if a little eccentric.” Mr Nagle sets off down the grassy slope in the wake of the others.
“Wait, did you say earl?” I call out, letting my legs carry me quickly down the hill to catch him up.
“When we get to the house, I can tell you more,” is his enigmatic answer, and he strides forward leaving me to trot along beside him. He clearly isn’t going to give me any more answers, so instead, I take a good look around, wondering what will happen to this place now and not at all believing his talk of my uncle being an earl. Surely I’d have known that, my dad would’ve mentioned it. And if my uncle had a title, wouldn’t my father also have been something? Actually, I don’t know the answer to that. My knowledge of titles and peerages is non-existent.
We approach the house and I look up in awe. It’s made of a mellow yellowish stone, four storeys high, and I count eight windows wide. Mr Nagle veers off along a path round the side and I follow him, past more windows and round another corner to what I assume—from the steps leading up to a large door in the centre—is the front of the house. Before the steps is a circular area of gravel with a fountain in the middle, then a long driveaway bordered by an avenue of trees leading to some gates at the front. I stare round in stupefaction. This has to be some weird mistaken-identity thing.
Mr Nagle heads straight up the steps, the door opening as he reaches it.
“Would you like to come and get warm and dry?” he asks, and that’s all the encouragement I need to get moving and follow him.
I step into a large entrance hall, its ceiling high above me. Huge paintings hang on the walls and there are a couple of antique couches arranged at each side. The older gentleman I saw comforting the lady is holding open the door, and he closes it behind me as I enter. Is he some sort of staff? I guess with a house this size you’d need someone to look after it.
“I’ve lit the fire in the west drawing room,” he addresses Mr Nagle.
“Thank you, Jones,” Mr Nagel replies. Jones. Doesn’t he have a first name? It all feels very old-fashioned. I almost take out my phone to see if there’s still a signal, or if I’ve somehow been transported back in time. At this point it wouldn’t surprise me. Instead, I follow the solicitor, who seems to know exactly where he’s going.
