“Nicole, it’s not like that,” Kyle said, his expression pained.
“Then how is it?” I asked. My stomach was twisting with disappointment, and I tried hard not to give in to the desire to cry. I had trusted him. I had opened up to him. Perhaps there was a good reason he was friends with someone like Len. He was just like him, only a little more polished, a little more reserved.
Kyle gazed out over the water. His posture was tense, as if he were walking into the wind, but the air around us was still, everything unnaturally quiet.
“I always knew Lockwood Hall existed. I heard about it from my grandmother. She was the family historian, and she loved to talk about the past. She made the stories come alive and was, in part, responsible for me taking up writing. I tried writing historical novels first, but that wasn’t my true calling.”
“No, your mind is too devious for that.” I knew I was being snarky but didn’t care.
Kyle smiled wryly. “Maybe it is. Anyway, someone I know mentioned this place had been turned into a writer’s retreat, and I suppose I couldn’t resist the chance to visit a piece of my family history. I never intended to tell anyone about it, not even Len, because he was going to make a thing of it and tell everyone I was the rightful lord of the manor,” Kyle said.
I supposed I could understand his reticence. I could see Len doing that and making things awkward for Kyle. “You could have told me,” I said, hurt that he hadn’t trusted me with the truth.
“When you first expressed an interest in writing about Alys, I didn’t think anything of it, but I was curious to see if there was any factual information about her case. I’d never bothered to look, but now that I was here, I was interested. This place had an effect on me. It’s as if it was calling to me in some way, the past reaching out in a way I never expected. I was going to tell you about my relationship to the Lockwoods the day you went to see Reverend Hargreaves, but then your notebook was taken, and your computer tampered with, so I decided to wait. Your attempt to research the story was clearly getting under someone’s skin, and I wanted to understand why, and how far they were willing to go to stop you from getting to the truth. You’re right, like most writers, I do have a devious mind, and I quickly realized not only that something was wrong, but that I could better protect you if no one was aware of my personal interest.”
“And have you figured out what’s going on?” I asked, still angry but a little less so.
“You did. You pointed out that Lisa Prentiss did not show up in any genealogical data. That’s why I rang Andy Cunningham. I knew there’d have to be a trail I could follow.”
“That led us to Bella Ridley,” I said, finally understanding where Kyle was going with this.
“Lisa and Alastair have tried to defraud elderly people in the past, and they hit the jackpot when they came across Jeffrey Lockwood, who was old, alone, and most importantly, too ill to see what Lisa was up to. She got him to change his will and inherited the house and everything that went with it. I have no doubt that it was Lisa who stole your notebook and tried to get into your computer because if you found a direct descendant through your research, they might challenge her claim.”
“Are you saying this place is rightfully yours?” I asked, sounding more skeptical than I had intended.
“It could be. Now that I know Lisa is not actually Jeffrey’s niece, I have a strong legal claim.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Kyle, correct me if I’m wrong, but in order to have a claim to the Lockwood estate, you would have to be descended not only from Alys but also from Jeremiah Lockwood. There’s documented proof that Alys was hanged in the fall of 1640. Jeremiah Lockwood died in 1642. The only way you can be descended from them is if your ancestor is their son James.”
“I’m not descended from James.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” I said.
Kyle suddenly smiled, his face transforming from an expression of gloom to one of wonder. “It’s quite a story, actually. And if you’re still interested, I would love for you to write it.”
“Let’s forget about my story for a moment. Is there any proof that you’re descended from Alys Bailey, or is this all just hearsay?” I asked, my excitement mounting despite my better judgment. I had a feeling I was about to be amazed.
“There’s proof. There’s even this.” Kyle reached into his pocket and took out a small leather pouch. He handed it to me, and I extracted an exquisite hummingbird pin worked in gold and precious gems. But this wasn’t just any brooch. This was a cloak pin, the kind of thing no one made anymore. “This belonged to Alys. Jeremy gave it to her in 1639.”
“Jeremy?” I asked.
“That’s what everyone called him. Either that or Jem. Not to be confused with Jamie, his son.”
“It’s beautiful, but it’s hardly proof. This could have belonged to anyone,” I pointed out, and handed the pin back to Kyle.
“That’s true, but there’s other proof. Letters, a family Bible, even a dusty portrait.”
This was sounding better and better, so I decided to reserve judgment for the time being. “So, are you going to tell me the whole story or just dole it out bit by bit?” I asked, watching him. His smile was
