The Locket

by Jessica Blair

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When Emily Thornton discovers a will linked with the murder of a sea captain in Hull in the 1860's, she is determined to discover what happened - but a vital witness is missing. So, Emily enlists the help of Thomas Laycock, a young man who has come to Hull to open his own detective agency.

As the pair travel to Middlesborough and Whitby, the investigation unfolds, and their attention is brought to a locket worn by a mysterious young woman. Emily and Thomas are convinced that this is a crucial link in the case. Can they unravel the meaning behind this unusual locket? And escape the danger following them every step of the way . . .

Release date: April 7, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Emily ran her gaze from the waters of the Humber to the ridge on the southern edge of the Yorkshire Wolds where she sat quietly
on her horse after the exhilarating ride from home.


It had been along familiar paths and she always halted at this point for she enjoyed the view across the river to the Lincolnshire
countryside. Today, however, her attention was drawn more to the roof and chimneys of a house just visible beyond a small
stand of oaks and she turned her horse along the ridge in its direction. She gave a little frown, puzzled as to her action.
She had known that it was there, ever since she had visited it on two occasions with her father five years before when she
was fifteen. She had had no cause to return. Had her curiosity been raised by the fact that she knew it had stood empty for
eight months since Mrs Harriet Walton’s death last December? But why now? A feeling of compulsion? Was something drawing her
to it? She half-halted her horse, chiding herself for entertaining such foolish ideas, but almost at once allowed her thoughts to revive with speculation and rode
on towards the silent house. Had she known the outcome of that decision maybe she would have turned back.


She rode past the oaks to stop where the ridge curved to form a natural backdrop to a small hollow in which the house, protected
from the north, gazed southwards over fields sloping to the river bank some two miles distant.


But Emily had no eyes for the view, they were riveted on the house. She was mesmerised by its loneliness, emphasised by the
silence which only an unoccupied house can convey. She could feel its longing to be loved even though she was still nearly
a quarter of a mile away.


Emily sat for a few minutes, compelled to absorb the atmosphere. Then she sent her horse forward at a slow pace, her eyes
concentrated on the house. As she slipped away from the ridge down the slope to a path which would take her to the front of
the building she was struck by the appearance of neglect which was starting to take its toll. Some stonework was flaking,
window frames needed a coat of paint, the windows were marked by rain, dust and bird droppings, the garden was beginning to
run wild, the grass was long and at the edges brambles sent their shoots to choke the plants and flowers that had once received
tender care. Her progress was hampered by undergrowth, but she encouraged her horse to force a way through and finally she
reached the bottom of the slope. She rode to the front of the house and dismounted. Knowing the animal would not stray far she left it free to champ at the grass.


She looked at the building. Silence assailed her ears. She felt like an intruder, trespassing on privacy, until she recalled
that no one was living there. She sensed an empathy with the house as if it wanted her to share what it had to give.


‘Hello, Shaken Hall,’ she whispered.

She remembered asking her father, on the first of her two visits, when he was drawing up a will for Mrs Walton, why the strange
name, and being told, ‘In 1750 a previous house was struck by lightning and people commented that it had been shaken. It was
a name that stuck and was still used when a new house was built in 1760.’


Now she saw the date plainly visible above the front door. She started, for it also bore the day and the month – 12 August.
Today. Her own birthday. Surprised, she wondered why she had not noticed it five years earlier, but then a young girl had
eyes for other things. She smiled at the coincidence. ‘A happy hundredth birthday,’ she said warmly as if she was congratulating
a friend. ‘Sorry you won’t have a party like me.’


Her ice-blue eyes sparkled at the thought. There would be about thirty friends and family for an evening buffet and dancing.
The Sutcliffes, Thomas and Meg, with their son Simon and daughter Grace, their lifelong friendship unmarred by the friendly
rivalry of Thomas and her father, Jonas, both attorneys in Hull. Simon and Sylvia, her elder sister by two years, would, no
doubt, have most of the dances together. But who will I dance with? The Eburys? The Masons? The Chadwicks? In all probability there would be a surprise or two. Birthdays had always been
special occasions in the Thornton household and she knew this would be no exception. Wondering what lay in store, her lips
broke into a smile, for she had been pestered into taking a ride this morning. To get her out of the way? Not that she had
protested very much, with fine weather beckoning.


She had removed her hat shortly after leaving home, for at full gallop she enjoyed the wind blowing through her hair. Now
its copper tint shimmered in the sunlight as she ran her long fingers through it.


She surveyed the front of the house. Four wide steps led to a terrace, with a waist-high balustrade, which ran the width of
the building. Two simple columns supported a frieze surmounted by a triangular pediment forming a porch over the front door.
Situated in the centre it had a six-paned window on each side. Beyond these were two matching windows making six in all to
the ground floor. The first storey had identical windows giving the whole front a symmetrical look, and an impression that
a precise orderly household had existed here. There were two attic windows allowing light into the roof space, which Emily
thought must have been used as servants’ quarters.


As she walked up the steps her imagination drew her back into the past, seeing this as a happy family home, full of life.
Elated by the feeling, she danced a few steps, twirling as much as her long, tight riding skirt would allow. She laughed at
her own exuberance as she came to a halt.


The laughter died on her lips and the brightness in her eyes was driven away by concern. The lower east window was partially
open. It shouldn’t be.


Since Harriet Walton’s death the house had been shut up on the instructions of James, her adopted son. She remembered her
father reading Mrs Walton’s will. She had been present in her capacity as her father’s assistant. She had always had a thirst
for knowledge, a spirit which looked beyond the confines of following her mother’s example of running a household with several
servants, organising and attending tea parties, practising needle-work and outwardly the gentle art of conversation, though
she knew it contained more gossip than opinion. Sylvia was more suited to that, in fact she liked it. But Emily thought there
was more to life and that this was a time for women to exert their influence and not sit dormant under male dominance. Though
she gave in half-heartedly to her mother’s wishes, Emily, knowing she could twist her beloved father round her little finger,
slowly influenced his thinking.


At eighteen she was bereft by her mother’s sudden death and for six months a sombre atmosphere prevailed in the Thornton household.
With the support and love of his two daughters, Jonas settled into his new home life with Sylvia taking over the role of running
the house, though her father did not want that to dominate at the expense of a social life among her friends. Emily, not wanting
to be under the eye of her elder sister, took to visiting her father’s office more frequently. Though strict with his instructions
that she should not interrupt his work he had welcomed her visits, for she lightened the atmosphere of office routine. She absorbed the work of an attorney and it came as no surprise to him when one day she
suggested that she should help him.


He had pondered her proposal before he said, ‘You have a nimble brain, you are sharp, intelligent, you get on well with people
and one day maybe I could train you fully in the intricacies of my profession.’ Excitement had come to Emily’s eyes but he
tempered it when he held up his hands to calm her. ‘I only said one day. It would be very unusual for a lady to take up this
profession. It would be frowned upon, but I will risk disapproval. Until that day I will employ you, because of your excellent
copperplate script, as a writer and copier of documents.’ His eyes twinkled with merriment as he added,’ No doubt you will
allow yourself to learn much more.’


So Emily had copied out Mrs Walton’s will and could recall its contents when her father started to read it to the beneficiaries
in his office the day after the funeral. A meticulous man, he had straightened papers on his desk, fidgeted with some envelopes,
and checked once more that he had all the necessary documents. James, eager to know how his mother had disposed of her wealth,
which had come from her husband through the family import business, had pressed him with anxious impatience to ‘get on with
it’.


Jonas had pulled him up sharply. ‘Young man, there are certain procedures to follow and follow them I will.’

Emily had smiled to herself when he started by reviewing Harriet’s life as he knew it, which was confined to her early years,
for since her husband’s death in 1839 when he was only 40 and James was four, she had lived a very reclusive life. Emily knew he was deliberately
being verbose, repaying James’s rudeness.


He paused, cleared his throat and said, ‘Now to the will.’ He picked up a sheet of paper and started to read, ‘… to my faithful
housekeeper and companion, Mrs Sugden, for all the care and attention she lavished on me without one word of complaint, I
leave the sum of three hundred pounds. I also bequeath to her the figurine of the flower-seller which she so greatly admired,
the silverware which stands on the sideboard in the dining room, the gold necklace I wear every day of my life, for I know
she will treasure it as I do, and the five gold and sapphire rings which are in the wash-leather purse in the jewellery drawer
of my dressing table.’ He paused and glanced at Mrs Sugden who sat straight-backed, her gloved hands folded neatly on her
lap. There were tears in her eyes, but she held them back. This was not the time for her to weep. It would not be right in
front of people. It could wait until the privacy of her room, where she would also offer a silent thanks to Mrs Walton for
her generosity.


Jonas did not notice the look of annoyance that crossed James’s face but Emily did. She knew he saw those bequests as money
slipping out of his hands. Her father coughed and started to read again. ‘To the servants in my employ at the time of my death
I leave the sum of twenty-five pounds each, provided they have been with me for a year or more.’ Again Jonas looked at the
housekeeper. ‘You will let me have their names, Mrs Sugden?’ She nodded. He looked at his paper, picked up another sheet and, much to James’s chagrin, checked that it was the right one. ‘Now I come to the main beneficiary.’ He
read, ‘I leave to my son, James, an annual sum of five hundred pounds—’


‘What?’ James had sprung to his feet. ‘A pittance! With all she had! Is that all the thanks I get for being a devoted son?’
There was disgust in his voice. His eyes blazed with anger, his face reddened quickly revealing the fury which boiled within
him.


‘Pittance?’ Emily had seen annoyance and disgust in her father’s expression. ‘Young man, you should think yourself lucky.
There’s many a person who would give an arm for what you call a pittance. You will be able to live comfortably on what your
mother has allowed you until the rest of the will can be fulfilled.’ His tone hardened. ‘Now sit down and let me get on with
the reading.’ He shot a glance of apology to Mrs Sugden, who looked embarrassed by James’s outburst.


Rebuked, James scowled, said nothing and sat down.

‘I leave to my son James an annual sum of five hundred pounds,’ Jonas restarted. ‘That should see him comfortable until he
is twenty-five by which time I hope he will have curbed what I would describe as irresponsible ways, which he sometimes exhibits.
Though I disapprove of these, he has often brought much happiness since my husband and I adopted him at birth. In view of
this, at the age of twenty-five I leave him my house and land, the residue of my fortune and the rest of my possessions.’
Jonas paused then added, ‘Signed Harriet Walton on this day 12 July 1855, witnessed by Jane Sugden and Martin Geary.’ He looked
up, straight at James. ‘Young man, I hope you will live up to your mother’s expectations. I know you broke her heart when you were arrested
for the murder of John Ainslie. It is a great pity that she did not live to know Simon Sutcliffe was able to get an acquittal.’


‘I don’t need reminding of that episode,’ snapped James. ‘Standing in the dock, wrongly accused, was not a pleasant experience.’

‘It might be as well if you do remember it from time to time,’ replied Jonas icily. ‘It might keep you out of trouble. I must
say I think you are a very lucky young man to inherit what you will in November. See that you don’t squander it.’


So Mrs Sugden had taken her rights and, after the house had been cleaned, the furniture covered, James had paid off the staff
and closed it down. He had moved into a house in the best part of Hull so that he could more easily entertain his friends
and indulge in his favourite pastimes.


Emily was uneasy as she stared at the open window. It spoke of a friendly house having been desecrated by intruders. Vagrants?
Itinerant workers? Gypsies? Thieves? Oh, why hadn’t James thought more about the house, which after all had been his home,
and continued to live there? She glanced around. Silence hung on the building. The only sound came from the soughing of the
breeze high in the branches of the oaks, elms and chestnuts.


She stepped to the window and looked in. Dustcovers had been scattered from two high-back chairs and the table, which held
two cups, two plates, a jar, a jug, knives and spoons, the remains of a pie and some bread. Anxious, Emily stooped to the opening and listened intently. Were
there people still in the house? No sound reached her. She hesitated. Should she leave? Report it to her father? Say nothing?
She stood still, trying to decide. She glanced along the terrace. The house seemed to be wanting her to do something. She
thrust the riding crop she was carrying into the top of her calf-length riding boot, then gripped the bottom of the window
frame and slowly pushed it upwards, hoping it would move noiselessly.


It was half open when it squeaked. In her anxious mind it sounded as if it would wake the dead. She stopped and listened.
Silence reigned. She pushed again until the opening was wide enough for her to climb through. She was irritated by the tightness
of her skirt, but managed to swing herself over the sill.


She stood a moment surveying the room. The dustcover had been removed from the sideboard and the drawers were open. She crossed
the room, careful to make as little noise as possible. This must be the dining room, for the drawers contained cutlery. The
bread and pie were mouldy. It seemed that whoever had been here had gone. She felt some relief at this supposition and also
at the fact that no damage had been done. But what about the rest of the house?


She went to the nearest door, opened it cautiously and looked into the hall. No sound reached her. She took her bearings.
Across the hall there was a corresponding door which, from five years before, she remembered, gave access to the drawing room
where her father had talked with Mrs Walton. Beyond it a fine oak staircase, its rail surmounted at intervals with beautifully carved
birds, gave the hall a majestic air. She had a feeling of being watched and glanced upwards to the landing, but there was
no one. She shivered and shook off the sensation, chiding herself not to be so imaginative. Beyond the staircase was a door
which she remembered led to the kitchen, for it was there, five years ago, that the smell of baking had been too much for
her curiosity when she had slipped out of the drawing room, leaving her father and Mrs Walton to discuss matters which, at
that time, were beyond her. She recalled the rosy face of the cook who had tempted her with a scrumptious jam tart and a piece
of Victoria sponge.


Now, she wondered if anything had been disturbed there. Much to her relief, there was only a mess left by someone who had
used it to prepare food without any thought of clearing up afterwards. After returning to the hall a quick glance into the
drawing room revealed little upset.


She looked up at the landing again and then started up the stairs. A step creaked. To her it was like a clap of thunder. Her
heart beat faster. She heard a rustle below, and spun round, her eyes wide with apprehension. Nothing. ‘Emily Thornton, get
a grip on yourself, there’s no one here,’ she whispered sharply. She drew some confidence back, but, even so, there was still
caution in her progress to the next floor.


She glanced along the landing. All the doors were closed. There were rooms in the roof space so she decided to go there first. Holding the rail attached firmly to the wall, she eased her steps as she moved in gingerly fashion
up the narrow staircase. Nothing had been disturbed in the rooms, which had been used by the staff.


Returning to the landing she found that the beds in two rooms had been slept in and the bedclothes left scattered. Another
showed no signs of use, but when she went into the room at the other end of the landing she saw chaos. It was the largest
bedroom and no doubt from its bed and decorations had been used by Mrs Walton. The bed was in disarray, every drawer was open,
the contents scattered on the floor. Ornaments were broken and papers were strewn around the desk. It was obvious that a search
had been made for anything the intruders had thought valuable. They must have used the house as a refuge and then moved on.


Emily looked round the room, sighed with disgust at the mess and then instinctively hunched down to tidy the papers, an automatic
reaction of one used to having documents and correspondence stored neatly. She put them on the leaf of the bureau which had
been left open and started to straighten them into organised piles. She would have to contact James Walton about this and
tell him what she had done. As she brought some order to them, words impinged themselves on her mind. Suddenly she stopped.
‘Will.’ No, she must have been mistaken. But was she? Cautiously she looked back through the last few papers. There it was.
She stared wide-eyed at the neatly folded paper in her hand. ‘The Last Will and Testament of Harriet Walton.’ The fluttering in her stomach heightened when she read the date, ‘12 December 1859.’ Two days before Mrs Walton had died!


This wasn’t the one her father had drawn up and read out after the funeral. That had been signed nearly five years before.

Her thoughts were wild as she unfolded the paper. Had James known about it? Surely not? But who had written it, and was it
officially signed?


Her eyes scanned the writing. She did not recognise it. There were two signatures, both dated with the same date. Jane Sugden,
Mrs Walton’s housekeeper and companion who had witnessed the original will, the other, Thomas Laycock, unknown to Emily. Who
was he? He had signed on the same day as Mrs Sugden, so she could have told them, but not now. She had died two months after
Harriet.


She must get this piece of paper to her father quickly.

Once in the saddle, Emily urged her horse up the slope to the ridge and then put it into a gallop for home.

She usually took her homeward ride at a gentle pace in order to enjoy the view of the Humber towards Hull. The movement of
craft on the river always fascinated her, from small boats plying to and from Lincolnshire, to merchantmen heading for the
sea and the far corners of the world. It was from some of these that her father gained his income. Apart from being an able
attorney he was also a shrewd investor.


Emily appreciated his acumen for she knew it gave them an enjoyable lifestyle, not wealthy but comfortable, able to indulge
themselves in luxuries and pursue their interests without too much restraint. Without it she would not own two horses apart
from the two her father used as carriage horses. Their staff would not consist of groom, housekeeper, cook, butler and several
maids. They would not have moved three miles into the country, from their modest house in Hull to a more salubrious abode, only a little smaller than Mrs Walton’s. But now she had no eyes for the activities on the river. She needed to see
her father urgently.


The groom, hearing the beat of a horse’s hoofs, came to meet her as she rode into the stableyard. He saw that the horse had
been ridden hard, but he made no comment. Something had spooked Miss Emily for she was out of the saddle and rushing into
the house without speaking. He raised his eyebrows. It was most unusual for her not to have a word with him and pat her horse
as if thanking it for the ride.


Emily flung the doors open along the passage leading from the back of the house to the hall. Sylvia, her curiosity raised
by the noise, came from a room on the right.


‘What’s going on?’ The question was immediately followed by an admonishment when she saw her sister. ‘Emily, your hair! You
know it should be—’


‘I haven’t time for niceties,’ snapped Emily, who, after she had been riding, always readjusted her hair to suit decorum before
arriving home. ‘Where’s Father?’


‘In his study.’

Emily rushed across the hall without any explanation for her hurry.

‘I hope you’re calmer by the time of the party.’ Sylvia couldn’t help making a parting comment about her younger sister’s
behaviour.


Emily burst into her father’s study where he was sitting behind his desk, which occupied one corner of a book-lined room with
the light coming from a window on his left. He looked up from the newspaper he was reading to see who had perpetrated this sudden intrusion into his calm world. He had been enjoying a quiet time, for he
knew that later that day he would have to help his daughters entertain their guests. Earlier he had approved Sylvia’s organisation
and then left her to carry it out with Mrs Wentworth, the housekeeper, and Mrs Harvey, the cook.


‘Emily.’ The pleasure at seeing his younger daughter turned to concern when he saw her agitation. ‘What’s the matter?’

She drew the will from her skirt pocket, held it out to him, saying, ‘I found that this morning.’

As she dropped on to the chair beside his desk, he glanced at the paper she had given him. He took in the words quickly and
looked up at her with a startled expression, for the date had pierced his mind like a spear.


‘Where did you get this?’ he asked with an overtone of disbelief that he was handling such a document.

She told her story in a few short sentences as he was unfolding ‘The Last Will and Testament of Harriet Walton.’

‘You’ve read this?’

‘No. When I saw the date I only opened the paper to see if it had been witnessed by two people. It had, so I brought it to
you straight away.’


He nodded. He read a few words silently and, immediately grasping their significance, started again, reading them aloud. ‘I
Harriet Walton being of sound mind, write this will to revoke my previous will drawn up on 12 July 1855. I leave to my housekeeper
and companion the money and items mentioned in my first will. I also leave to my servants the money as stated in that will. It is now
that this will differs. I leave to my son James, five hundred pounds a year for five years only. My hope is that this will
provide him with the means to establish some way to make his own living. The rest of my moneys, my house and my possessions
I leave to Elizabeth Ainslie.’ He paused. ‘Signed H Walton. Witnessed by Jane Sugden and Thomas Laycock. Dated, 12 December
1859.’


Dumbfounded, father and daughter stared at each other. Emily broke the momentary silence. ‘Is it legal?’

‘I can see nothing wrong with it. It is clear in its content. It is signed by two witnesses. There can’t have been any coercion.
Mrs Sugden would have gained no more by this will than the first. The staff get the same. This Thomas Laycock is not mentioned
in it, so he gained nothing. But I would have liked some confirmation about Harriet’s frame of mind.’


‘Unfortunately Mrs Sugden is dead, so that leaves only this Thomas Laycock, whoever he might be,’ commented Emily.

‘You’ve never heard of him?’

She shook her head.

Jonas tightened his lips in frustration. ‘We’ll have to try and find him. This will is going to raise a furore with James.
He’ll challenge his mother’s soundness of mind especially as she died only two days after making this will.’


‘I suppose in the aftermath of her death the second will was forgotten.’



‘It’s a pity Mrs Sugden didn’t remember it, but in all the upheaval and with James closing the house so quickly she must have
overlooked it.’


‘Maybe she thought Mrs Walton had sent it to you,’ said Emily. ‘No doubt she wouldn’t know the contents of the wills and therefore
thought the will you read out was the second one.’


‘That is plausible and the most likely explanation,’ agreed her father.

‘It’s a wonder James didn’t find it.’

‘That young man wasn’t bothered about the house or its contents; all he wanted was to close it down and move into Hull.’

‘As far as this will is concerned,’ mused Emily, ‘it will be easy to implement. The only bequest to be altered is that which
concerns James. What he would have got at twenty-five now goes to Elizabeth Ainslie.’


‘Why to her?’ Jonas’s brow furrowed. ‘Why to the wife of the man James was accused of murdering?’ He continued in a thoughtful
voice as if he were reminding himself and enlightening Emily to what had happened. ‘It was a strange case, with James also
accused of robbery in order to clear a gambling debt. He denied it, but the prosecution found a witness who said he had seen
James running away from the scene of the crime. Thank goodness Simon managed to keep the case going until it was shown that
the debt had been paid before the murder and therefore he had no motive for killing Captain Ainslie.’


‘And where is Mrs Ainslie?’ pondered Emily. ‘It is said she left Hull immediately after the trial. Who can we ask? She led such a quiet life and appeared to have no friends.’


Jonas shook his head. ‘I wish I knew. We need to find her and Thomas Laycock quickly.’ He pick. . .