Page 123 of The Christmas Retreat
Rose very enterprisingly showed me her drawings and embroideries of legends and fairy tales and asked me to give her employment at the pottery, which I did – and a great asset she has been both in her design work and in helping me run the business.
Daisy, too, proved an enterprising girl, for she is determined to become a crime writer, and to this end, hearing that a famous female author she much admired was holidaying in Harlech, managed to go there and introduce herself to the lady, seeking employment as her assistant – and succeeding! I suspect she will learn much and eventually forge her own career, for a more determined girl I never met.
But you will, I hope, have grown up knowing and respecting your stepmother and aunts, and realize how undeserving I felt when Rose forgave me for my past actions when I confessed all to her, and she agreed to marry me.
I don’t believe, and nor does Rose, that the sins of the father – or even grandfather – are visited on their children, so I fondly hope that you, my dearest son, have a long and happy life, free from regrets.
Your loving father,
Hugh Caradoc-Jones
Rhys folded the paper with a crackle and looked up. ‘I’d always thought of Triskelion and Seren Bach as a tranquil, magical place,’ he said. ‘Yet in the past there has been all this tragedy.’
‘There’s even more to come,’ said Nerys grimly. ‘Knowing some of what happened in the past has never spoiled it for me, and my parents were very happy here, too. But you’d better read the rest of it.’
She took back the letter and handed him a much bulkier document from the large envelope.
‘Hugh describes the events of that summer in 1919,’ said Nerys, ‘so some of it will be familiar from Arwen’s letters, although, since Hugh wasn’t aware of all the true facts, it’s not entirely accurate.’
Rhys began to read again, and the only sound, other than his deep voice, was the crackling of the stiff paper.
Deposition of Hugh Caradoc-Jones
Triskelion
18 November 1919
To whom it may concern:
I have deposited this document, with my solicitor, to be opened in the event of my sudden death, because of the dreadful suspicion that my wife may be attempting to do away with me.
Rhys glanced up, looking startled, then resumed.
Certain incidents that have occurred since my recent marriage have unnerved me. There have been a series of seemingly small accidents that yet might have had fatal consequences. The firstwas the loosened carpet at the top of the main staircase at Triskelion, which would have precipitated me down the stairs headlong, had I not managed to grab the handrail in time.
Then there were the periods of severe gastric upsets I suffered until eventually it occurred to me that they only followed my eating something I am partial to, but which neither my wife nor her companion, Mrs Fry, cared for.
I hope my fears are groundless, although if not, some might say that I have brought this on my own head due to the means I used to persuade Beatrice Caradoc to marry me after her father died on the evening of 1 August this year.
It is a description of what happened on that fatal night at Triskelion, the home of Cosmo Caradoc, my old friend and a renowned artist, that I wish to set out here, but first I must briefly touch upon the circumstances that led up to what happened.
A widower, Caradoc lived at Triskelion with his daughter, Beatrice, then a young woman of nearly twenty, and an elderly relative, Mrs Maude Fry.
A recent addition to the household was Miss Arwen Madoc, the daughter of Cosmo’s cousin who, on his death, had left her to his guardianship.
I had been a close friend of Caradoc’s since our schooldays – indeed, as he grew more reclusive every year, his only friend – and I had bought a nearby property just before the war.
Recently we had gone into business together, setting up Triskelion Art Porcelain in the former stables and coach house. Unknown to anyone else, including his daughter, he had lost most of his capital in unfortunate speculations andinvested most of what little remained in our joint enterprise, which he hoped would restore his fortune.
While his paintings were much in demand and fetched good prices, so that he could continue to maintain the household, yet he also had a secret worry on this score: he was suffering from an incurable and progressive eye disorder that would eventually prevent him from painting.
However, the recent arrival of Miss Madoc had given him some hope on this latter score as well as causing quite a change in my old friend, who quickly became very fond of her – and, it seemed, she of him.
While only eighteen, she had already studied at the Slade School of Art in London for two years and was determined to make her way as an artist. However, Caradoc had vetoed her plan to live and work with a friend in Cornwall and insisted she come to live under his own roof.
Caradoc knew that Miss Madoc had assisted her father, a portrait painter, with his work when a tremor in his hands made it difficult for him to pursue his career, and that she was a good copyist, so that he hoped she might be able to help him to continue his work in a like manner. I saw nothing wrong with this plan. After all, the old masters had employed assistants in their studios to work on the less important parts of their masterpieces.
While she was of an independent and headstrong nature, Miss Madoc seemed to settle down – as well she might, for Caradoc allowed her the use of his studio and his experience, so that she could continue her studies.
