A Grave Inheritance by Anne Renshaw Read Free Book Online Page A

Laurence left the path and followed the soft whimpering coming from behind the trees to his right. Purposefully avoiding bulky tree roots, Laurence stepped around a wide oak, completely unprepared for the sight before him. He looked down on Amy Farrell and knew immediately what had taken place. He glanced back along the track, cursing his twin.
    ‘Amy, Amy,’ Laurence said softly.
    Amy’s eyes were open and glazed in shock. She looked straight through Laurence, revulsion and pain fixed in her eyes. She shook uncontrollably from head to toe and the trembling reverberated through her teeth. Scratches etched her arms and breasts, and blood trailed along the soft whiteness of her inner thighs. Laurence took off his jacket to cover Amy, and then picking her up without effort he carried her back towards the clearing of felled trees. She was weightless in his arms, pale and limp. Doll like. Gently he laid her down and positioned her head on a cushion of dried leaves and watched dark bruises beginning to form along her jaw.
    ‘Oh my dear Amy, what can I do to help you?’ Laurence asked pitifully, deliberating what he should do. The Farrell’s cottage wasn’t far away. Should he carry her straight home? Or would it be best to leave her here and go for help? Which was nearest, his home or hers? If he took her back to Tapscott Manor everyone would know what a bastard his brother was. Some already knew. Laurence pursed his lips, imagining his mother’s distraught face and his father’s anger. He knew they would rather not hear of this. They wouldn’t thank him for drawing attention to another of his brother’s sins, or for bringing shame upon the sacred Deverell name.
    Lifting his jacket away from her, Laurence pulled Amy’s torn petticoat down to cover her thighs and legs. Her bodice was ripped beyond repair and her small breasts were exposed. Laurence looked at them for a moment, unable to avert his eyes. He replaced his jacket over her chest and tucked in the sides to help keep her warm.
    Bending over Amy, trying to make her as comfortable as he could, Laurence was unaware of Ellen Farrell lying a few yards away.

Chapter 7
     
    David Lanceley kept his promise and telephoned Amelia a few days later. ‘I haven’t had much luck,’ he told her apologetically.
    ‘It was good of you to offer to help,’ Amelia said, flustered, but the vicar continued as if she hadn’t spoken.
    ‘I checked the register for births and deaths in this parish for 1912 and looked for the name Farrell, but nothing showed up.’
    ‘Oh well, thank you for trying.’ Amelia was disappointed. She knew Grace wasn’t going to let it rest and hoped she’d have something to placate her with. Amelia tried not to sound too let down and on impulse decided to invite the vicar over for lunch. Before she could ask him, Amelia heard a curt goodbye on the other end of the line and the replacing of the receiver.
    David Lanceley relaxed back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together. Staring out of the window he swept his eyes across a view that resembled a watercolour painting. Yellow buttercups dotted the green meadows, and in the foreground a carpet of bluebells gave Oakham Wood a hazy blue lustre. Beyond the wood he had a magnificent view of Hemsworth Hill and further into the distance, although he couldn’t see it, he knew Lower Shelton nestled on the other side. Lanceley took a deep breath, as always calmed by the beauty of the scenery. Amid otherwise flat moorland, St Martin’s Church and vicarage sat on a low sandstone mound situated east of Woodbury village. The low land on the other side of the river was liable to flood, but Woodbury remained safe and dry. The original part of the church dated back to Saxon times, and like a beacon of hope its spire could be seen for miles. In contrast to the elaborate stone-built church, the red-brick vicarage stood square and squat. Renovated and added to during the 1980s, it boasted all modern conveniences