Death Plays a Part. Vivian Conroy

      Or using her.

      Guinevere felt an unpleasant wriggle of worry in the pit of her stomach again. The surprised responses of the locals to Bolingbrooke accepting a stranger to his keep now took on new meaning. And she wasn’t quite sure what part she was supposed to play in all of this.

      Slowly she said, ‘Mr Betts did give me a letter I should read once I was settled in.’

      Oliver hitched a brow. ‘Sounds mysterious. Why would a girl like you spend her summer holidays here anyway on an island in the middle of nowhere?’

      Guinevere shrugged. ‘I grew up in the countryside. And I love books. Your father has an amazing collection, I heard. Besides, there wasn’t anything to do for me in London, with the theatre closing for renovations. I hope I can also help out with the re-enactment. Mr Betts must have known about that and sent me here for that reason as well. I read in the leaflet about the re-enactment – that the tale is a very old one and an important part of Cornisea history?’

      She pulled the blue leaflet out of her bag and read aloud, ‘The trial against Branok the Cold-hearted is legendary. He was the steward at the castle many centuries ago. He was cruel and he oppressed all the people under his rule. His master chose not to see what he did. Then one day Branok burned down a house to set an example and it turned out there had been two young children in it who died in the fire.’

      Guinevere shivered. ‘How terrible.’

      Oliver said, ‘It was never proven he had actually set fire to the house. Fires happened a lot in those days as houses were often made of wood and thatch. Burned like dry tinder. And people all had open fireplaces inside. The fire Branok was accused of may simply have started from a spark or a lamp falling over.’

      ‘So he wasn’t convicted?’ Guinevere asked.

      ‘No, he never was,’ Oliver said. ‘He was made to leave the island. On the night he left the sea was wild and he never reached land. He must have drowned.’

      He held her gaze. ‘But some say he didn’t drown. Some even say he lives until this day …’ he lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper ‘… to haunt the beach at night with his lantern in his hand, cursing everyone who comes in his path. Locals don’t dare go near the beach.’

      ‘I’m no local. I want to take long walks and see the sunset.’

      Oliver shrugged. ‘I won’t stop you. Just saying that Cornwall has a lot of ghost stories.’

      ‘So did Devon, and it never kept me from going out at night to listen to the owls or count moths.’

      ‘Count moths?’

      ‘Yes, if you put out a sheet and a little light shining on it, they flock to it and you can see all the different species.’ As a biologist, or whatever he was, he should know how to do that.

      Oliver hitched a brow. ‘And your parents let you?’

      ‘I grew up with my grandmother. I had a lot of freedom.’ Studying the leaflet in her hands, Guinevere frowned. ‘Why re-enact a trial of a man who wasn’t convicted? Couldn’t they make it stick?’

      ‘Maybe the judge was bought? I don’t know the details. I only have to chip in tonight because Jago Trevelyan, who plays the judge, can’t make it for this rehearsal. I just hope I remember my lines.’

      Guinevere asked, ‘Who’s playing Branok the Cold-hearted? It seems like a rather unpleasant personality to don.’

      ‘Arthur Haydock.’ Oliver grimaced. ‘And he doesn’t have to don anything. He’s a modern-day Branok if I ever knew one. A lawyer who has been very successful at taking people’s land away from them.’

      Guinevere narrowed her eyes. ‘And at odds with your father.’ Did that mean this Haydock also wanted to take the castle away from the Bolingbrookes?

      Oliver waved a hand as if to slap her question out of the window. ‘Look, if you want coffee and a sandwich, we’d better go back down before the players have finished it all.’

      ***

      In the hallway a young woman in a bright red trouser suit had just come in through the front door. She wore her blonde hair up in a bun on the back of her head, an efficient hairstyle fitting her rather formal appearance. She breathed fast as if the climb up to the castle had exhausted her.

      ‘Leah,’ Oliver said. He went to her and clasped her hands in his. ‘Good to see you. How have you been?’ He looked her over as if he sought the familiar in her features. Maybe, with Oliver’s travels, these two hadn’t seen each other in a long time?

      Ignoring the question of how she’d been, Leah spied past Oliver. ‘Where’s my father?’ Her tone was urgent, almost anxious. ‘Tell me he’s not alone with yours.’

      Still holding Leah’s hands in his, Oliver turned to the dining room door. ‘In there I suppose. But I warned my father not to pick a fight again.’

      Leah pulled her hands away quickly. ‘As if he’s going to listen. We have to get in there and keep them apart.’ She moved to the door, noiselessly on the trainers she wore. They didn’t match her outfit, but Guinevere supposed you didn’t climb up to the castle in high heels.

      ‘That’s Leah Haydock,’ Oliver said to Guinevere. ‘Haydock’s daughter and a partner in his law firm.’ The latter words carried a tinge of bitterness.

      Guinevere studied his expression to probe the meaning of this.

      Leah was already waving them along to the dining room door. ‘Quickly.’

      Just as the three of them reached it, voices rang out from inside.

      ‘Pointless to mention it again,’ Guinevere caught.

      And another voice: ‘Man, be sensible. You can never keep this.’

      ‘It’s mine. And I’ll keep it. No matter what I have to do for it.’

      Oliver pushed the door open, and Guinevere saw Bolingbrooke and a handsome middle-aged man in a neat grey suit almost nose to nose in the middle of the room.

      Bolingbrooke’s right hand rested on the table where the tray with sandwiches sat. The butler had placed another tray beside it with a ham and a round cheese. A sharp knife was placed at the ready for cutting.

      Bolingbrooke’s fingers closed round the handle of the knife as if he was ready to pick it up and brandish it at his opponent.

      ‘Ah,’ Oliver said in a loud voice, barging into the room. ‘You’re already here. Guinevere, this is Arthur Haydock. Haydock, this is our new recruit: Guinevere Evans.’

      Following suit, Guinevere reached out her hand, and Haydock had to turn away from Bolingbrooke. His brown eyes surveyed her critically. ‘A new addition to our cast, you mean? I didn’t know we still had any parts left to give out.’

      His gaze fell to Dolly, and he snorted. ‘A new addition to your dog park too, Bolingbrooke? Isn’t this one a little small for your tastes?’

      ‘That’s Guinevere’s dog,’ Bolingbrooke barked. ‘And you can rest assured: Guinevere has nothing to do with your silly little play. She’s here to catalogue my books.’

      While speaking, Bolingbrooke inched away from the table and the knife, not looking at Oliver, who shot his father accusing glances. After all, he had warned him about staying away from Haydock and about avoiding a scene like this one.

      ‘So pleased to meet you both.’ Guinevere shook Leah’s hand now. It was clammy as if she had worked herself up about her father’s behaviour.

      ‘Leah is a junior partner in my law firm,’ Haydock said with emphasis. ‘And what kind of work do you normally do?’ He looked Guinevere over with a mix of curiosity and bewilderment. ‘This book cataloguing thing is just a summer assignment, I presume?’

      ‘I