The Ravenscar Dynasty by Barbara Taylor Bradford

Mining Division. And why had Edmund, Uncle Rick and Thomas been killed if his father was the target? He was truly baffled, and it suddenly struck him that he would remain in a state of bafflement until he arrived at Carrara and started asking pertinent questions of the local authorities, as well as the manager of their quarries. Only then perhaps would he have a better understanding of the fire, the cause of it, and the manner in which his family had died.
    As he continued to gaze into the roaring flames, Edward remembered that he had not looked in his father’s desk. He had meant to do so earlier, but he had become so distracted by the children’s plight, their sorrow and their need for him, it had slipped his mind. Rising, he hurried out of his bedroom and along the corridor, quickly went down the wide staircase into the Long Hall.
    Within seconds he was turning on the lights in hisfather’s spacious study and striding over to the desk positioned near the window. He knew exactly where the key was hidden; some time ago his father had shown him the hiding place. ‘Just in case you ever need to get into my desk when I’m not here,’ his father had explained.
    Kneeling down in front of the mahogany Georgian partner’s desk, Edward pushed his head and shoulders into the space between the sets of drawers and reached his hand towards the back for the key. It hung on a hook on the section of the desk just beyond the knee space.
    Slowly, carefully, Edward searched each drawer. His father had been meticulous, and everything was neatly placed. But he came up with nothing of any importance. There were no notes, no records, no diaries, and no files on anything to do with his father’s work or the Deravenel Company. Everything in the desk was innocuous, personal, and of very little consequence.
    Sitting back in the chair, feeling frustrated, Edward let his eyes roam around the study, thinking of his father, and how much he had loved this particular room at Ravenscar. Every piece of furniture in it he had chosen himself and placed; he noted his father’s collection of ancient coins, the many photographs of the family in silver frames, and his treasured books. The Moroccan-bound volumes were carefully arranged in low shelves placed against one of the long walls.
    And then there were the portraits…the paintings of so many Deravenels, from long ago to the present. Guy de Ravenel, the founder of their dynasty, his likeness somewhat faded now in the extremely old painting.And, on the other wall, there was the recently-completed portrait of his father, commissioned by his mother and hung there by her only a few weeks ago. As he stared at his father’s image a lump came into Edward’s throat. He swallowed hard, pushing back the incipient tears. How he would miss him.
    His eyes continued to another wall, and he spotted a couple of Deravenel Turners from Wales, along with portraits of the Deravenel Grants from Lancashire. The Grants might spell trouble, but certainly the Turners were relatively docile, and there were not many of them left, only two or so he believed. That line had dribbled down to nothing. Well, that was how his father had put it…
    A rustling sound, followed by a faint cough, brought Edward’s eyes to the door. He was startled to see his brother Richard standing there, bundled up in his woollen dressing gown, staring at him.
    â€˜What on earth are you doing up at this hour, Little Fish? It’s the middle of the night!’ In a flash Edward was on his feet, hurrying across the room to his small brother, concerned for him. Leading him over to the fireplace, Edward went on, ‘It’s very late for you to be up, old chap.’ He sat down, brought Richard close to him.
    â€˜I couldn’t sleep. I went to your bedroom, Ned, but you weren’t there.’ Looking into his face intently, Richard frowned, and asked, ‘You will come back, won’t