Death and Miss Dane
Elizabeth Cadell
Friendly Air Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, locals, business, organizations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1959, 2005 by Elizabeth Cadell
This edition, Copyright © 2017 by the heirs of Elizabeth Cadell
“About the Author” Copyright © 2016 by Janet Reynolds
Cover art by Apara Bera
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
The Friendly Air
Also by Elizabeth Cadell
About the Author
Afterword
Introduction
There was snow in Devonshire at the end of May, and floods on the first day of June—signs that would have sent an ancient Greek hurrying to propitiate the gods. But Paul Saracen merely cursed the climate and went about his business and remained oblivious to the fact that the floodwater, draining out of Fern Valley, was taking with it his established way of life. It was not only the climate that affected the pleasant village of Fern Valley: it was a brutal murder which, coinciding with a number of unexpected arrivals in the neighborhood, made Paul question his conviction that the lovely Miss Dane could have had no connection with the shocking event.
Chapter 1
There was snow in Devonshire at the end of May, and floods on the first day of June—signs that would have sent an ancient Greek hurrying to propitiate the gods. But Paul Saracen merely cursed the climate and went about his business and remained oblivious to the fact that the floodwater, draining out of Fern Valley, was taking with it his established way of life.
The snow fell during the night, and Paul’s mother, coming down to prepare breakfast, was so surprised to see it and so interested in watching it melt away under the warm sun, that she spent more time at the kitchen window than at the stove. When Paul appeared, the table had a depressingly bare look, and he set about cooking bacon and eggs while his mother made toast and tried to remember how long it was since there had been snow so late in the year.
But seated at last opposite to him, pouring out coffee, she forgot the snow and spoke of something that had been on their minds for some time.
“I was thinking during the night about that job at your office, Paul,” she said. “That extra help you advertised for.”
“Something will turn up,” he said, coating a piece of bacon with egg yolk and conveying it carefully to his mouth. “No need to lose sleep over it.”
“But you’ve been advertising for nearly a month,” she pointed out, “and nobody at all has answered.”
“Young men nowadays,” said Paul, who was thirty-three, “haven’t time to answer advertisements for jobs. They’re all busy practicing guitars.”
“It’s such a lot of work for Frances to manage on her own in the busy season. If you can’t get a young man, couldn’t you get a girl to help you?”
“I could try.”
“You wouldn’t—” his mother spoke hesitatingly, “I suppose you wouldn’t try little Jenny Pertwee?”
“She types?” he enquired.
“Well, not exactly…but they're awfully hard up, Paul. They really need the money.”
“But she doesn’t type?”
“She’s…well, she’s an excellent needlewoman.” Lady Saracen saw her son’s expression and hurried on. “And then there’s that nice girl who used to work for Dr. Veysey. She can type.”
“I thought the doctor sacked her for making advances to all his male patients.”
“But she’s out of a job, Paul. Somebody ought to give her one.”
“I hope it won’t have to be me,” he said, unmoved. “If we're still on the rocks when the summer rush begins, I might try her.” He rose. “Let me have that letter from Madrid, will you? I’ll have to check the time of the plane.”
She brought it to him in the hall and he put it into his pocket.
“Pity she chose the busy season,” he said. “I shan’t have much time to show her round.”
“Do you think she’ll remember us?”
“Hard to say. She was…how old when she came before?”
“Eight.”
“Eight to eighteen; ten years. It’s a long time at that age.”
“Shut the door quickly, Mother,” he said, opening it. “It’s cold. I hope she hasn’t forgotten her English; the only thing I can say in Spanish is adios.” He grinned as he stepped outside. “Adios.”
“God bless you, darling."
He walked down the steeply sloping road, crossed the square in front of the church and entered High Street. From here he could look back the way he had come and see the wide expanse of West Hill, on which only half a dozen houses stood, half hidden by trees. He could see his own house, Fern Cottage, and above it, on the ridge, Tor House, owned by Dr. Veysey and let to a succession of tenants. On one side of it was Brakeways, in which Paul’s fiancée, Philippa Mitchell, lived with her stepmother and her uncle, Mr. Allenby. On the other side, Paul could see the high chimneys of Sanctuary, the house in which he had been born and brought up. The Saracens of Sanctuary…
He walked on. The past was the past, and the present was something for which he could be grateful. He had paid his father’s debts, and he had a business of his own and it was prospering. He had placed his mother in Fern Cottage, which she loved; he had kept her, he would go on keeping her in comfort. In less than three months he would be married and in a home of his own, and the only thing lacking in a satisfactory world was additional staff in the office.
He had reached a doorway over which hung a sign:
PAUL SARACEN
ESTATE AGENT
Even after eight years it could rouse in him a feeling of achievement. He went up the three stone steps to the door and saw at one of the windows the narrow, slant-eyed, intelligent face of his secretary, Mrs. Castle. She glanced round as he entered, nodded in greeting, and resumed her gazing.
“When you’ve finished staring at the passers-by,” said Paul, shaking some snow from his shoes, “you’ll find some unopened mail on your desk.”
She spoke without turning.
“I’m looking at that new dress shop. Did you know it was a branch of a London firm?”
“I didn’t know and I don’t care,” said Paul. “Do I pay you to report on dress shops?”
She went reluctantly to her desk.
“You pay me, I suppose,” she conceded.
She began to sort the mail, slitting open envelopes, glancing automatically at their contents and placing them in separate piles, working swiftly and efficiently, and Paul, watching her, realized how much of the firm’s success had been due to her efficiency and loyalty. Like himself, she had been born and brought up in Fern Valley; she had married Bob Castle, one of his school friends, but for the past eight years she had worked in this office. When she and Paul were alone, she treated him in the careless and sometimes abrupt manner she had used throughout their lives; when clients were present, she adopted a more formal tone.
“There.” She handed him one of the piles of letters. “That’ll
do to start you off.” Her gaze wandered to the window. “Calls herself Madam Fleury.”
“Who does?”
“The owner—or manageress—of the dress shop. You ought to be interested; after all, you hung your own sign out not so many years ago, and sat back and prayed for customers.”
“Clients.”
“Excuse me. Clients. That yellow paint of hers makes us look a bit drab, you know; we’ll have to redecorate. Take a look at that window-dressing! One dress, and one only, elegantly laid out. That introduces a bit of swank into our lives, doesn’t it?”
“I’m fascinated,” said Paul, “but I wonder if you’d mind giving your mind to the business on this side of the street?”
She drew some letters out of a pile in front of her.
“There you are. Those are the applications for the new row of houses on Hill Street. You can be looking through them while I deal with this lot. Oh—Dr. Veysey rang up; he’s let Tor House and he wants us to see the tenants in tomorrow. Look—there’s Madam Whatsit.”
In spite of himself Paul turned to glance out of the window, and was in time to see a stout woman emerging from the shop opposite.
“How do you know?”
“Instinct,” said Frances, “I bet she’s the kind of saleswoman who pushes you into buying what you don't want.” She opened a letter and frowned thoughtfully before pushing it across the desk towards him. “From General Lessing. He’d like to see you today.”
Paul glanced through the letter, and his eyes met Frances’.
“Any idea what he wants to see you about?” she asked.
“None whatsoever.” He gave a slow grin. “It ought to be interesting.”
“Yes. It’ll be the first time you’ve been up there since—”
“—since I sold Sanctuary to him; yes.”
A small worried frown appeared for a moment on her forehead.
“You won’t go seeing ghosts, will you?”
He laughed.
“No. No ghosts.”
“Do you ever wish you were back there?” she asked curiously.
“From the family-history point of view, yes,” he said. “After all, we lived up there, man and boy, for about 300 years. But from the point of view of comfortable living…no. Nobody can run a place that size without servants. If you can’t afford servants, you’re better out of it.”
He gathered up the letters and went toward his private office, and she flung a careless sentence after him.
“Oh—Philippa rang up.”
He turned, an angry gleam showing in his eyes.
“You could have said so before, couldn’t you?” he asked.
“Sorry.” Her tone was airy. “Went clean out of my mind.”
He opened his mouth to tell her that she was lying, and closed it again. On this one subject, and this one only, they had never been able to speak freely.
“What did she want?" he asked.
“You.”
He waited, but there was nothing more; tension, slight but unmistakable, hung in the air, and he eased it by changing the subject.
“I shan’t be in the office tomorrow; I’m going up to London airport to meet my cousin.”
“Oh—Rosario? You won’t drive there and back on the same day, will you?”
“Why not? I’ll start early. What’s the use of spending a night in town?”
“Now that you’re engaged, none, I suppose. Oh—there’s an application for the job.”
His eyebrows went up in astonishment.
“An application?”
“Yes. One and one only.”
“Any good?”
“I don't think so. Nineteen, and nothing spectacular about his examination results.”
“You’d better fix an interview.”
“No need to fix one; he’s fixed it; says he’s looking in—his phrase, not mine—at 10 sharp. Is this due to eagerness? No. It’s due to the fact that he’s looking in at three or four other prospects in the district about the same time.”
“Oh well.” Paul sounded resigned. “I’m only sorry on your account; most of the extra work in summer falls on you.”
“Let it fall,” she said carelessly.
He closed the door behind him, and she stared at it moodily for a few moments. She oughtn’t to have been so abrupt about Philippa, she mused. It made trouble and it didn't help anybody. He’d known the girl for two years and he’d been engaged to her for two months; if he hadn’t seen through her by this time, he never would.
Could a long-term secretary, she wondered, be jealous of a short-term fiancée? No. The secretary was happily married, even though adverse circumstances kept her husband away from home several nights a week. No, it wasn’t jealousy. Then what? Everybody in Fern Valley—with the exception of herself and her husband, Bob—thought highly of Philippa Mitchell and her stepmother. In the two years she had been here, Mrs. Mitchell had done all the things that Paul’s mother, during her twenty-odd years as mistress of Sanctuary, had failed to do. Mrs. Mitchell had been organizer, chairwoman, undisputed leader in church, drawing room, club, bridge and hunting circles. Where Lady Saracen had been loved, Mrs. Mitchell was admired, looked up to and copied. As slim as her stepdaughter, as elegant, and with a dark beauty to offset her stepdaughter’s loveliness, she had given to the valley’s functions a smartness they had never had before.
Frances sighed, and her thoughts went to Paul's cousin Rosario. Eighteen. A vision floated before her eyes: slim, dark, full of Latin passion and fire. True, at eight, she remembered unwillingly, she had been a stringy little thing with big dark eyes in a small white face, and long lank hair—but time worked wonders. She might have blossomed into a raving beauty. Frances dressed her in bridal white and sent her up the aisle on Paul’s arm, a tiny figure clinging to his robust six feet three, and walked behind them, smiling at the charming picture they made…
A voice dispelled the vision and brought her back with a sickening jolt to her desk.
“I said, is Paul in?”
“Oh—Philippa? I’m so sorry; I didn’t hear you come in. I was dreaming.”
“So I saw.” Philippa’s smile was pleasant, and Frances could not make up her mind if it was edged with condescension—or contempt. “I’ll go in.”
She opened the door of Paul's office, and Frances heard his pleased exclamation and the scrape of his chair as he rose, and felt a strong conviction that her days in the office were numbered. It had been fun to lift the screen now and then and give Philippa a glimpse of the dislike she felt for her—but fun had to be paid for, and the pay-off would probably come just after the wedding bells stopped ringing.
She wrenched her mind away from the future and gave herself to her work with such thoroughness that she was startled when the door of Paul’s room opened and he walked out with his fiancée.
“Got those orders handy, Frances?” he asked. “Philippa wants to go out and look over those houses in Brackendry.”
Frances took the papers from a drawer and in silence handed them over the desk, and tried to fight down a fresh surge of foreboding. Philippa had looked at countless houses during the past two months. She had looked, and she had found something wrong with them all, and Frances was becoming more and more certain that she had already chosen the house she wanted, and in time she would tell Paul—regretfully, reluctantly—that Fern Cottage would really be too large for his mother when he married, and if they could find her a tiny house to move into, how well the cottage would suit Paul and herself…
There was a stir at the street door and it opened to admit Mrs. Mitchell. Behind her came her brother, Mr. Allenby, tall and thin, with watery blue eyes, drooping shoulders and a mild, kindly, fussy manner.
“Good morning, Paul. Good morning, Mrs. Castle.” Mrs. Mitchell’s voice was brisker than her stepdaughter’s, but was as light and as musical. “Philippa darling, you really must hurry; you said you wouldn’t be more than five minutes. Your uncle has a train to catch.”
�
��I’m coming, Mother.”
“Isn’t it tomorrow that you're going to meet your cousin in London?” Mrs. Mitchell was asking Paul.
“Yes it is.” Philippa answered for him. “But if you’re going to ask him to bring Uncle Edward back with him in the car, he can’t; there’ll be Paul's cousin in front, and her luggage at the back.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” came in a rush of distress from Mr. Allenby. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Going up by train this morning; coming down by train tomorrow; just got a bit of business in town. But wouldn’t dream…”
“Do you really intend to drive there and back on the same day Paul?” Mrs. Mitchell broke in to ask.
“I’m starting off at dawn,” said Paul. “The plane gets in in time to let us have a quick lunch, and we’ll get back here for dinner.”
“Well, you must bring her up to see us us soon as you can,” she said. “Come along, Philippa.”
Paul went out into the street and found his spirits rising; the sun was shining and the snow was melting into little glistening pools. He turned off the High Street on to the narrow, steep short cut that led up the West Hill toward Sanctuary, and found himself taking it at a run, as he had done when he was a child.
Almost at the top of the hill, the path lurked; the path on the left, narrowing and sometimes losing itself in undergrowth, led to the grounds of Sanctuary, and had a large No Trespassers notice, but the General had given Paul permission to use this entrance at any time, and Paul had felt it stupid not to do so; it would have been churlish to keep deliberately away from this house, these grounds, simply because he no longer owned them. Yet there had not, as it turned out, been any need to use any entrance to Sanctuary, for the General for the past ten years, had remained a stranger to the valley. For all the local residents knew of him or his servants, the estate might have been untenanted. The little home farm, bought from Bob and Frances Castle when their farming venture failed, supplied the General with butter and cheese and eggs; his stores came from London. His servants, unchanged since his arrival ten years ago, never went down to the town, and made no local contacts. Callers had been discouraged and had in their turn discouraged others; courteous but firm, the General had made it clear that he did not wish to entertain or be entertained.
Death and Miss Dane Page 1
