The Body on the Beach (The Weymouth Trilogy) Read online

  ‘I think he’ll be all right for a while,’ she said, decidedly. ‘We have done all we can for the moment, I think. You get on with what you need to do, gentlemen, and I will return home and fetch the doctor for him. Thank you for your help today. I am sure the gentleman will show you his own appreciation as soon as he is in a position to do so.’

  Somewhat cheered by this assurance, the one very young and two very old men got up to attend to their tasks. Kathryn lingered for another few moments, looking steadily at the man at her feet, before picking up her skirts, letting herself out of the cottage, and running swiftly the remaining distance up to Sandsford, and her son.

  Chapter 2

  The doctor, examining his patient at the cottage later that afternoon, pronounced that other than ingesting a good deal of seawater, wearing himself out in his attempts to reach the shore, and a good many painful bumps, bruises and gashes about the whole of his body, the gentleman was in surprisingly good condition.

  ‘He is well enough to move to your own house, Mrs Miller,’ he said, putting his equipment back into a little leather bag. ‘I advise complete rest for a couple of days, good food and warmth, and I expect he will be righter than rain by the weekend.’

  The gentleman, indeed, was already so much better as to require the assistance only of the doctor to enable him to stumble (albeit unsteadily) into the waiting gig and deposit himself on the somewhat firm bench which formed its only seat. There being insufficient room for Kathryn as well she followed on behind, on foot. She reached Sandsford House just in time to see the doctor relinquishing his patient into the care of Sally, Kathryn’s maid of all work, and turning back to reclaim his vehicle and return home into town.

  ‘So you found the gentleman on the beach, Mrs Miller?’ he said, hauling his somewhat rotund figure back into the gig. ‘I have not heard of a ship going down last night, though it was so stormy. The gentleman remains a little incoherent. I will make enquiries in Weymouth and if I find anything out I’ll get a message to you.’

  It turned out, however, that the doctor’s enquiries were unnecessary. The gentleman himself, perhaps revived by the short drive in the fresh air, was feeling so much more the thing that, had it not been for his somewhat rough and ready country attire, which gave him an almost comical look and which he, himself, was eyeing rather ruefully as he sat by Kathryn’s fire in the dark little parlour, one could have been forgiven for assuming that he was just a normal afternoon caller. Sally had bustled away to make a pot of tea and Bob had crept into a corner of the parlour to take a look at the strange gentleman who had so suddenly materialised in their midst. Kathryn took some sewing to the heavy wooden seat opposite her visitor and regarded him thoughtfully between her stitches. She judged him to be still quite young – perhaps eight- or nine-and-twenty. He was well built and powerful-looking, with large feet and hands, but she could see from the clean and well-kept nails that he was most obviously quite unused to manual labour. He had, even as he sat, a most elegant deportment. His short fair hair was a mass of curls, and the slight curve of his mouth and just the hint of some crows’ feet by his eyes, suggested a strong sense of appreciation of the absurdities of life. He had been looking at the fire but when he turned some piercing blue eyes upon Kathryn he caught her gaze as she studied him and returned it with a similar, somewhat twinkling, appraisal of his own.

  ‘Andrew Berkeley at your service, madam,’ he said, seemingly amused by the intensity of her gaze, and bowing his head slightly in recognition of it. ‘And I understand that I’m to hold myself for ever in your debt. My good friend the doctor kindly informed me of your great service to me this morning when you found me on the beach. I regret that I was not in a position to appreciate it at the time – but let me assure you that I am most grateful for it. I understand that if you had not discovered me when you did I should have gone to meet my maker by now.’

  Mr Andrew Berkeley’s speaking voice was most arresting. It was deep and powerful, the words articulated impeccably. Kathryn felt almost abashed by her own Dorset accents.

  ‘I am only pleased to have stumbled upon you in time, Mr Berkeley,’ she managed to say. ‘It is not every day that a lady is enabled to undertake a good deed, even in these parts where, sadly, the wrecking of ships is only too frequent an occurrence.’

  Sally brought the tea things in and laid them upon the small table that lay before the fire. She lingered for a moment. She was obviously keen to take a better look at the stranger herself.

  ‘Perhaps I could introduce you, Mr Berkeley. This is Sally, my maid of all work, while the imp you see in the corner over there is my little boy, Bob. Bob – come and say hello to Mr Berkeley. Don’t worry. I’m sure that he’ll not bite you. Bob is my son from my first marriage, Mr Berkeley. His father died before he was even born and he is a little unused to male company. I married my second husband, Mr Miller, only a few months ago and Bob has still not quite come to terms with the change, I’m afraid.’

  Mr Berkeley inclined his head most kindly at Sally as she left the room, and then turned to look at the little boy who was hesitating, apparently torn between shyness and politeness, in the space behind the chair.

  ‘Most pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Bob,’ said Mr Berkeley, as softly as his powerful voice would allow. ‘I have a great affinity with small boys. I used to be one myself, you know.’

  Kathryn smiled and Bob inched forward a little.

  ‘But let me hazard a guess that you have a somewhat longer name than Bob,’ went on the visitor. ‘Now, what could that possibly be? Richard, perhaps, or maybe something even grander – Bartholomew – or even – I have it – Nathaniel John?’

  These ridiculous guesses were far too much for a clever young lad like Bob to ignore. He approached the stranger a little more closely, jumping up and down, excited that here was something that he knew, and the stranger was obviously far too stupid to work out for himself.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he shouted, delightedly. ‘You’re right that I have a longer name but you haven’t guessed it at all. Have another try.’

  ‘But I should have to go through all the names in the alphabet,’ protested Mr Berkeley. ‘It could take a lifetime. I would guess that you are not an Andrew, like me. You are far too superior a person to share my humble name. But perhaps you may be a George, or a William? They, at least, have the advantage of being regal names.’

  ‘No,’ asserted Bob, now getting so close to Mr Berkeley that he was able to put his hand on the gentleman’s knee. ‘You are wrong again, though you are nearly right with George. My papa’s name was George and George is one of my middle names. I have three middle names, you know. George is only one of them.’

  Mr Berkeley threw back his head and laughed a little. His two front teeth were slightly angled into each other, giving them a crooked appearance. In anyone else this would have been a blemish. In Mr Berkeley, quite absurdly, it simply added to a character which Kathryn could tell, even then, was most definitely larger than life.

  ‘Three middle names?’ he repeated, sounding incredulous. ‘Why, the minute I saw you I knew that you must be a gentleman of substance. There are not many fellows that I know who possess as many as three middle names. So one is your father’s – and the others your grandfathers’, perhaps?’

  Bob was on less certain ground with this question so his mama was obliged to affirm the veracity of this assumption.

  ‘Yes, Bob – do you not remember? You were named George after your papa, Francis after grandpapa Adams and Adolphus after grandpapa Shepherd – Robert George Francis Adolphus Adams – or simply Bob for short.’

  ‘Ha,’ roared Mr Berkeley, ‘your mama has given the game away, Robert George Francis Adolphus Adams. So your real name is Robert. I would not have guessed it had I thought about it all night.’

  ‘I bet you cannot guess how old I am,’ suggested Bob, emboldened, perhaps, by the success of his first skirmish with Mr Berkeley. ‘I am quite a grown up man already, you kno
w.’

  Mr Berkeley confessed himself to be totally flummoxed as to the young gentleman’s age and demanded immediately to know what it was.

  ‘Why, I am more than five,’ was the solemn reply. ‘In fact, I am more than five and a half. I am almost five and three-quarters, am I not, mama? And then I shall be a very big boy indeed.’

  ‘To be sure, the three quarters make all the difference,’ agreed Mr Berkeley, quite seriously. ‘I regret that I am of so great an age that I have given up all pretence to quarters entirely, though I still remember the time when they were of great consequence to me even now. I wager you cannot imagine just how many quarters make up my great age, can you, young master Bob?’

  Being somewhat uncertain as to the exact nature of quarters Bob decided to turn the focus of the conversation elsewhere, and directed his attention towards rearranging the blanket which was loosely covering Mr Berkeley’s broad shoulders instead. Concerned that their visitor might tire himself out, Kathryn applied herself to the tea and provided her son with a small cake, bidding him to take himself off with it to the kitchen to plague the long suffering Sally for a while. Now that she had assured herself that Mr Berkeley was, indeed, a gentleman she was keen to find out a little more about him and, in particular, how ever he had ended up prostrate and almost lifeless amongst the pebbles and rocks of Preston beach. The afternoon was now well on and the sky, having been overcast all day, was darkening rapidly. Kathryn lit a candle and drew the heavy woollen curtains (which were a little the worse for moth damage and a lot less bright than in their younger days, but remained serviceable for all that) against the gloomy day and, stoking the fire, returned to her sewing as Mr Berkeley finished his tea. The steady tick-ticking of the grandfather clock gave the dark room, with its old-fashioned wooden panelling, its plain, heavy furnishings and the blazing fire in the grate, a sense of safety and security which the perils of the darkening night were quite unable to breach.

  ‘I was wondering how you ended up on Preston beach, Mr Berkeley,’ she said, after a while, finding that her visitor seemed more inclined to watch her than to speak. ‘After all, the doctor had heard nothing of a wreck. It seems a little singular to go for a swim in the teeth of a gale, in March.’

  Mr Berkeley smiled across at her.

  ‘It was not by choice that I went for a swim,’ he assured her, ‘although I have long known of the beneficial effects of Weymouth water on the body and the soul. No, I was foolish enough to attempt the rescue of a small dog from the deck of the boat – a fellow passenger had brought him on board at Southampton and, unluckily, he had decided on a marked preference for the shore. The lady was so distraught at the thought that the little fellow should jump from the boat and drown that I felt it incumbent upon me to retrieve him. I almost had him in my grasp when, much to my grave misfortune, a great wave suddenly appeared from nowhere and swept me off my feet and straight overboard. I have a lasting impression of the wretched animal leaping from my arms and scuttling down below decks as I flew – most elegantly, I hope – into the water and to what I truly expected was a certain death. I am a strong swimmer, having spent many of my holidays by the sea, but the storm was raging so vehemently that I had no real expectations of making it to land and there was no way in which the boat could stop to pick me up. I am not quite sure exactly how I ended up on your beach. What I do know is that I am eternally grateful that I did so. And Preston, I know, is not so far from Weymouth, where I was heading, so hopefully I shall be able to repay at least a little of the enormous debt which I am most sensible of owing you. I will be living there from now on, you see,’ he went on, helpfully, as Kathryn looked a little mystified. ‘I have recently inherited Belvoir House from my brother. I was on my way to secure my new home when the accident happened.’

  ‘Belvoir House? Why – you are the brother of the other Mr Berkeley – Mr John Berkeley. He had lived there for some time, I believe?’

  ‘You knew my brother?’

  ‘Only by sight. I regret we are not important enough to have made his regular acquaintance.’

  ‘Then the loss was all his, Mrs Miller. I feel sure that he should have been pleased to get to know you. What a pity he never did so. But yes, John’s wife sadly passed away quite shortly after their marriage and he died suddenly of some horrid illness just a few months ago. As the next in line I have therefore been fortunate enough to inherit the property. I think of it as home anyway. I was brought up there and have stayed there many times since. When my father died it became my brother’s. My mother – who was Dutch – decided to return to her family in the Netherlands. She was never totally at ease here in England. She always struggled with the language. I was fifteen at the time and at school over here but I went to stay with her each summer holiday and decided to make the Netherlands my home with her when I finished my education. The French wars were bubbling just about then and I thought it best to remain over there with her in case she might need me. My sister, Jane, had similarly spent several holidays over there but she is some years younger than I and eventually it became just too dangerous for her to travel. So she remained in Weymouth and kept house for my brother instead – or at least, did so until her own marriage removed her from Belvoir and into a new house on the High Street – just by the quay - last year. She married a naval officer who, as you might imagine, is much away at present so I am hopeful that I shall be able to renew my acquaintance with her now that I am back home again.’

  Kathryn listened to his story with great interest. She knew of the family by repute but, as she had intimated to Mr Berkeley, she had never been introduced. She had heard that Belvoir was a most beautiful property, second in Weymouth only to that of Mrs Buxton nearby and benefiting from a most delightful position overlooking the bay. She should definitely be pleased to know the family and she suspected that Giles, should he ever determine on returning, would certainly feel the same.

  Mr Berkeley, finding that he had become a little stiff (doubtless as a result of his exertions the previous night), now determined on rising from his seat and taking a turn about the room. He had already forgotten the extent of his injuries and managed a couple of steps before being reminded of them most forcibly by dint of such a weakness in his legs as to cause him to stumble. He should certainly have fallen had Kathryn not leapt up immediately to prevent him. As it was, he was far too heavy for her to do more than soften the descent and they ended up together, most inelegantly and at great damage to their personal pride, in a sorry-looking heap in front of the fire.

  ‘Perhaps I should desist from too much exertion just at present, Mrs Miller,’ he admitted ruefully, as Kathryn scrambled to her feet, blushing, and rang the bell for Tom. ‘I do beg your pardon. I seem to do nothing but prostrate myself before you today.’

  Tom appeared with rather more alacrity than usual, perhaps buoyed by the expectation of seeing the mysterious visitor for himself. Finding the gentleman sprawled most peculiarly in front of the fire rather than in the more usual habitation of an easy chair he assisted him to get to his feet, and took the opportunity to study him most closely as he did so. Although none too certain about the gentleman’s dress sense, which reminded him strongly of that of his neighbours down the lane, he could tell at once – as Kathryn had done – that he was a gentleman of quality and therefore deserving of some attention. He therefore enquired politely whether the gentleman would be requiring dinner that evening, to which the answer was a quiet affirmative, and whether he would also require the spare room to be made up, to which his mistress gave a similar response.

  ‘We live quite simply here, Mr Berkeley,’ explained Kathryn, as Tom went off on his errands. ‘You have met the whole household now, with the exception of my husband, who has gone away, and I regret that our meals are as simple as they come. However, be assured, please, that you are most welcome to share all that I have here at Sandsford House for as long as you need to and that Sally and Tom will be more than pleased to assist you in whatever ways they can.’<
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  Chapter 3

  It was several days before Mr Berkeley felt strong – or inclined – enough to think of removing himself from Sandsford House and making the three mile journey along Weymouth bay to the house he now called his home. Indeed, considering that he must surely have felt impatient to renew his acquaintance with Belvoir, to make his alterations and impose his own ideas upon the place, Kathryn was quite surprised (although not altogether displeased) to find him still at Sandsford a full four days after his fortuitous discovery on the beach.

  For the first three days, to be fair, Mr Berkeley still felt ill and weak enough to justify his continued stay at Preston, where he sat for most of the time within sight of Kathryn, watching her closely as she worked. From dawn until dusk, he saw that she was ever busy - cleaning, cooking, baking, churning butter, working with Sally in the wash-house, seeing to Bob - singing softly to herself as she did so - while in the darkness of the evening she picked up her little workbox and sewed. He also saw that she was forever thoughtful, forever looking out for ways in which she could help everyone else – not just Bob, but anyone who happened to wander by. She had spotted that Tom’s smock was ripped and she had quietly mended it for him while he washed himself under the pump; she had welcomed an old Gipsy woman who had come to sell her wares – given her more than half of her nuncheon and bought her pegs even though she already had more than enough of her own. But by the Thursday evening Mr Berkeley felt so much recovered as to participate with Bob in a somewhat rough and tumble game of toy soldiers which appeared, in the main, to consist of rolling around on the parlour sofa, soldier in hand, in a (normally vain) attempt to knock the opponent’s soldier from out of his grasp. From the shrieks and laughter emitting from little Bob (if not Mr Berkeley himself) it appeared that the gentleman was experiencing the worst of the action and at one stage Kathryn was so concerned for the state not only of her visitor’s health but also for the state of Mr Arthur’s best outfit that she felt obliged to intervene.