Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama), Carole Williams [ebook reader 8 inch .TXT] 📗

the expertise to run it and we couldn’t find anyone good enough to keep it going for us.  In the end it was best to sell up and move on.  So, we came here and with the little we had left, bought this ….”

“Oh,” said Delia quietly, wishing she could at least risk a glass of water.  Her mouth was terribly dry and her head was beginning to throb.  She needed a painkiller but it would have to wait.  She had to get as much information out of Parfitt as possible now because there was no way she wanted to make a return visit.

Parfitt rubbed a hand over his eyes and took another long swig of brandy.  “Your mother couldn’t stand it here.  There’s little trade as most of the islanders aren’t interested in patronising our establishment and we’re not posh enough for the few tourists who tip up occasionally.  So there’s little for us to do, nowhere to go and no bloody money if there was anywhere.  We can’t afford air conditioning so the mosquitoes are a damned nightmare and the beach is somewhat of a let-down, covered in volcanic ash, and looks nothing like the golden stretches in holiday brochures.  We have to be careful with the water as the only supply is from the sky and there’s little food in the shops.  Your mother turned to drink in a big way.  In fact, I can’t remember her being sober the whole time she was here.”

“Goodness,” said Delia, trying to imagine her beautiful, elegant mother coping with such a scenario.  She must have been going crazy.   “So, what happened to her?”

“Having polished off a whole bottle of cheap vodka, she decided she wanted to swim in the middle of the night, and fell all the way down those steps to the beach,” he waved a hand towards the corner of the overgrown grass trying to resemble a lawn in front of them.  “One of the locals found her the following morning.  She had broken her neck.”

“Oh God,” exclaimed Delia, her face contorted with horror.  “Where the hell were you?  Didn’t you realise she was missing?”

“No.  Too inebriated myself.  When she said she was going swimming I went to bed.  She had been before.  She always came back.  But not this time.”

Delia walked across the overgrown grass to the steps.  It was a long way down to the blackened beach, which didn’t look a bit inviting.  She tried to imagine her mother prostrate at the bottom, with her neck snapped.  She still felt numb, unable to feel any emotion.  No pain; no anguish.  The sea crashed onto the beach, a few more pelicans had joined the others to fish for their supper and Delia couldn’t weep for the woman who had stood and looked at this scene before her and finally fell down to her death to the black sand below.  It was impossible to take it in.  It was surreal.

She went back to Parfitt.  “Have you told my family?”

“Yes.  I sent a telegram to your father so I suppose he has told your brother and sister.  How come you didn’t know?”

“Um … well, I left home a while ago.  I’ve been in London for a few weeks and haven’t had any contact with them for a while.”

“So, what’s brought you here now?”

“I wanted to build some bridges I guess … but it’s too late now.”

“Actually, I’m glad you’ve come.  You can help sort out her things … in fact you can take everything.  There’s nothing of any use to me.  What little she had left is in the bedroom, the door to the left of the bar.  She sold all her good things to buy alcohol but there are a few papers and photographs you might want.”

The bedroom was a tip; dirty clothes all over the floor, an unmade bed with a torn mosquito net and a tatty wardrobe and chest of drawers serving as a dressing table.  A cheap lipstick and a powder compact lay near to an ashtray containing a couple of cigarette butts.  Delia remembered her mother smoking on the south terrace at home.  She obviously hadn’t kicked the habit.  She opened the top drawer of the chest of drawers and recognised the enormous delicately carved wooden jewellery box which belonged to her mother.  Charles had bought it for her on their honeymoon and it had resided on her mother’s dressing table at Canleigh up until she left.  As a child, Delia had been fascinated with it as it had several tiny drawers for earrings and trinkets and on the odd visit to her mother’s bedroom, she had been allowed to play with it.  The more valuable pieces of jewellery belonging to the Duchess of Canleigh were either kept in the family safe or at the bank in Leeds.

Delia pulled it out of the drawer.  It was hand carved and inlaid with mother of pearl.  She opened it slowly.  Nothing of value rested in its compartments apart from a broken pearl necklace, two odd gold earrings and a lot of dust.  She coughed and automatically pressed the button on the inside which revealed the secret compartment.  The last time she did this her mother had been in the room and flew off the handle, shouting at her to shut the drawer and leave it alone.  Now, years later, there was no-one to stop her and Delia was riddled with curiosity, although expecting it to hold nothing of any significance.  Surprisingly there was something there.  Two crumpled pieces of paper, brown with age, giving the impression they had been scrunched up to be thrown away and then retrieved, lay inside.  Delia pulled them out.  One was a birth certificate for someone called Peter Percival, born two years prior to Delia and Richard.  His father’s name was blank but his mother was Margaret Percival.

Delia stared at the name, trying to take