by Carola Dunn
‘I looked it up in the atlas my other gran and granddad gave me for Christmas. Daddy’s in Northumberland, and you left that message for him saying you were catching the Flying Scotsman to Scotland today, and they’re right next to each other.’
‘Northumberland’s a big county, and Scotland’s a whole country. I don’t even know whereabouts your father is, and we have no plans to meet.’
‘Oh.’ Belinda’s eyes, a greener grey than Alec’s, were huge in her freckled face (more freckles than Daisy had ever possessed). ‘Oh dearie, dearie me.’
‘What am I to do with you, for pity’s sake?’ Daisy’s eyes wandered to the emergency brake pull above the window. She had always wanted an excuse to yank down that red chain. Penalty for Improper Use Forty Shillings she read, and came back to earth with a bump. Money – ticket – ‘How did you get onto the train?’
‘I bought a platform ticket from a machine. It’s only a penny. I’ve only got tuppence left of my pocket money, though, ’cause the bus fare was thruppence. The child’s fare.’
‘Child’s fare? Of course, thank heaven. I was just thinking I haven’t enough, money on me to pay your train fare when the ticket-collector comes round.’
‘I could get off at the next station and go home,’ said Belinda unhappily.
‘This is an express train,’ Daisy informed her with asperity. ‘The next station is York. We don’t get there till after lunch, and your father – to say nothing of your grandmother – would have my head if I sent you home alone. They may anyway, since it seems to be my telephone call which gave you the idiotic idea of running away.’
‘I’m awfully, awfully, awfully sorry.’
‘Well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk. Cheer up, darling, and take your coat and hat off before you expire from this frightful heat. Tell me about your friend Deva.’
‘She’s got a sari! That’s a sort of Indian dress you wrap round you. She wears an ordinary uniform to school every day, but she put it on for our Christmas pageant. It’s blue silk with gold stars and gold along the edges. She said I can try it on if I go to her house. I don’t see why Granny won’t let me. Deva’s daddy works for the India Office, so she’s perfickly respectable. You’d let me, wouldn’t you, Miss Dalrymple?’
‘That’s beside the point. It’s for your grandmother to decide, and she only wants what’s best for you.’
Belinda sighed. ‘I wish you’d marry Daddy.’
‘Mr. Fletcher and I are just friends,’ Daisy said firmly, hoping her face-powder hid her blushes. She welcomed the interruption of a smart young woman who appeared in the doorway with a sleeping baby in her arms and a little girl in tow.
‘Daisy, it is you! I thought I saw you in the station but the crowd was so frightful I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Anne Smythe-Pike – no, of course you’re married now. It’s ages since we last ran into each other, and you were engaged then.’
‘Bretton. Mrs. Harold Bretton,’ said her one-time school-fellow complacently. At twenty-six, a year older than Daisy, Anne Bretton’s pretty face already bore marks of petulance, so it was no surprise when she added in a querulous tone, ‘Harold is being disagreeable.’
‘How difficult for you,’ Daisy said with a sympathetic smile.
‘He says children should be seen and not heard, and preferably not seen either, but I want my little darlings with me. I’ll join you. You won’t mind the children.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘No, of course not. I see you, too, have succumbed to the heat. The sun shining in doesn’t help. Aren’t you glad you wore a summer frock?’
‘Rather! Except it will probably be freezing in Scotland.’ Sitting down, the infant in her lap, she gave Daisy’s bare head an envious look. ‘Mother would have forty fits if I took off my hat.’
‘Mrs. Smythe-Pike is with you?’
‘She and Father have a compartment to themselves, because of Father’s gout. The whole family’s on the train, believe it or not. We’re . . . Oh, is this your daughter? No, surely not. She’s too old.’
Anne’s little girl, who had been staring at Belinda, now announced, ‘I’m five. How old are you?’
‘Nine and three quarters. Nearly ten.’
‘This is Belinda Fletcher, Anne. She’s the daughter of a friend.’
‘How do you do, Mrs. Bretton,’ Belinda said politely. ‘What is your little girl’s name?’
‘Tabitha, dear. How nice, you two can play together.’ She smiled fondly as the child, clutching her doll, clambered up onto the seat beside Belinda. Anne glanced at Daisy’s left hand. ‘You’re not married, then, Daisy? That time we bumped into each other – at the Savoy, wasn’t it? – you were engaged, too. Oh! Oh dear I suppose . . . ?’
‘Yes, Michael was killed in the War.’ Daisy did not elaborate. Anne had never been a close friend, had in fact been regarded as fearfully soppy by Daisy’s set. She changed the subject. ‘Did you say all your family is on the train?’
‘That’s my bruvver,’ said Tabitha, pointing at the baby. ‘He’s in my family. He’s called Astair.’
‘After Fred Astaire?’ Daisy queried, surprised.
‘No, no,’ Anne assured her. ‘His name is Alistair. Alistair McGowan Bretton, in honour of my grandfather. He’s Grandfather’s first direct male descendent. Don’t you think he’s bound to change his will in Baby’s favour?’
‘Good heavens, Anne, how can I possibly guess? Surely it depends on who else has claims upon him.’
‘If only it did,’ Anne said peevishly, ‘I’m sure we have a better claim than anyone. The trouble is, Grandfather is frightfully prejudiced. In the first place, he loathes the English, and of course Father is as English as can be, and so is Harold.’
‘So are you, aren’t you? And your children.’
‘Well, yes, but Mother is Scottish, being his daughter.’
‘If he – Mr. McGowan, is it? – has left his money to your mother, will it not come to you in time?’ Daisy asked.
‘To me and Judith, but he hasn’t. Hasn’t left it to Mother. That’s the other thing. Grandfather has left everything to Great-Uncle Albert, even though they haven’t spoken to each other for decades, only because he believes in inheritance through the male line.’
‘Not really! How fearfully Victorian.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Anne agreed. ‘What’s more, as they’re twins Uncle Albert is just as ancient, and everyone was sure he’d die first.’
‘Why?’
‘He spent most of his life in India, ruining his health with the climate and curries and too many chota pegs – isn’t that what they call whisky? Yet Grandfather Alistair is on his deathbed and Uncle Albert’s here in this very train, summoned along with the rest of us, and the solicitor. The only possible reason for Uncle Albert to go is to gloat over being the survivor. He doesn’t need the money.’
Daisy was beginning to get interested in the ramifications. ‘Who gets Uncle Albert’s money?’ she enquired. ‘His children, I imagine?’
‘He has none. He never married. There’s a family legend that Grandfather pinched his fiancée, though I don’t know if it’s true. His own fortune, the one he made in India, dies with him. Would you believe he spent every penny to purchase an annuity just to spite the family?’
‘So he’d leave practically nothing.’
‘That’s what it looked like. No one expected him to outlive Grandfather, to inherit Dunston Castle and the family fortune. Hush, Baby,’ Anne interrupted herself as little Alistair began to whimper. ‘Don’t start fussing again, my little sweetypie doodums. Be good and your great-grandfather will leave you lots of money.’
‘As he has sent for his lawyer, I should think he might,’ Daisy said, ‘since the money would presumably have come to you, or at least to your mother if Albert McGowan had died before Alistair as expected.’
‘Not at all. It’s terribly unfair. The next heir is Uncle Peter, who’s the son of their younger sister. She married a Scot, yo
u see, and Uncle Peter was born in Scotland. So were his wife and children, though the Gillespies live in London now. What with that, and there being only one female generation on that side, they get the preference over Grandfather’s own . . . Hush!’
The baby wailed. Screwing up his little red face, he hiccuped, and then let loose a full-throated bawl. Daisy tried not to wince too obviously.
‘Oh, do be quiet, you horrid little monkey,’ Anne snapped at her sweetypie doodums. ‘If you’re going to be naughty, you’ll have to go to Nanny. You too, Tabitha. Come along.’
‘No!’ screeched Tabitha. ‘I’m being good. I want to stay with B’linda.’
‘She really is being good,’ Belinda said gravely. ‘I’ll look after her for you, Mrs. Bretton. If Miss Dalrymple doesn’t mind.’
‘Not at all.’ Daisy swallowed a sigh. What had happened to her long, dull, but peaceful journey?
CHAPTER 2
‘Where’s my wife?’
The man at the open doorway of the compartment wore a pearl grey lounge suit of obvious Savile Row cut and a club tie with a rather too flashy gold pin. His thin, fair hair was pomaded back from a prematurely receding hairline. He looked hot enough to be gin steaming at the ears any moment. Pitying him for being too gentlemanly to take off his jacket, or even loosen his tie, Daisy almost forgave the scowl he bent upon her.
‘Where is she?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘That’s my daughter. Where’s my wife?’
‘I’m being good, Daddy,’ Tabitha wailed. He ignored her.
‘You must be Mr. Bretton,’ Daisy said, her tone frigid. ‘I’m Daisy Dalrymple. I was at school with Anne. How do you do?’
He nodded an ungracious acknowledgement. ‘Where . . .’ he began again, then thought better of it. ‘Oh lord, I beg your pardon,’ he said, flashing her a weak smile. ‘The Honourable Miss Dalrymple? Anne mentioned spotting you at King’s Cross. My humble apologies for my curtness, but honestly, what with one thing and another, it’s enough to try the patience of a saint.’
‘Do come in and sit down.’ She spoke with slightly less coolness, but on first acquaintance she didn’t much care for Harold Bretton. ‘I expect Anne will be back any minute. She took the baby to his nanny, in third class, I presume. My young friend Belinda Fletcher offered to take care of Tabitha for her.’
‘How do you do, sir,’ said Belinda. Daisy was proud of her manners, particularly as Tabitha, used to being dismissed and determined not to be parted from her, was clinging like grim death around her neck.
Belinda might as well not have spoken for all the notice Bretton took of her. ‘You’re going to Scotland?’ he asked Daisy with the air of a man prepared to make polite small talk though his mind was on more important matters.
‘Yes, I have a job to do near Roslin.’
‘A job?’ He stared, his protuberant blue eyes shocked. ‘You work?’
‘I’m a writer,’ Daisy said shortly. ‘What do you do?’
‘Me? Oh, I, er, I help my father-in-law run the jolly old family acres in Kent. At least, he’d like me to,’ Bretton corrected himself in a burst of candour, ‘but it’s a mug’s game if you ask me. Since the War, there’s no money in farming. Not at all what I expected when I married Anne. We’ll all be on our uppers if things don’t look up.’
It really was very odd, Daisy thought, the way the most unlikely people insisted on confiding in her. ‘My cousin, the present Lord Dalrymple, seems to be doing reasonably well with Fairacres,’ she said.
‘Actually, the truth of the matter is Smythe-Pike’s let the estate go to rack and ruin,’ the disillusioned son-in-law said resentfully. ‘All he ever cared for was his huntin’, shootin’, and fishin’, though his gout’s put a stop to all that, which doesn’t help his temper, I can tell you. It’s only cash will save the place now, a big win on the gee-gees or Anne’s grandfather coming round.’
‘Anne told me you hope Mr. McGowan will relent in favour of your son.’
‘The old skinflint! Never spends a penny where a farthing’ll serve, so there must be plenty to go around, but what does he do? Leaves the lot to Great-Uncle Albert, who’s already rolling in it I must say Albert knows how to live,’ Bretton said with envy and grudging admiration. ‘He won’t loan a fellow a fiver, let alone anything useful, but it’s nothing but the best for him, no expense spared. Though how much joy he gets of it with his dyspepsia is another matter.’
‘I gather Albert McGowan’s in a parlous state of health.’
‘Ha! He’s been at death’s door since before I married Anne. Still, even if he had popped off, it wouldn’t have done us any good. Old Alistair’s next heir is Anne’s uncle, that crook Peter Gillespie.’
‘Crook?’ Daisy pricked up her ears.
‘Inherited a thriving boot factory – rather infra dig, of course, but a real money-spinner – and he goes and kills the goose that laid the golden eggs by selling shoddy boots to the Army in wartime. They couldn’t prove it was deliberate fraud. He wasn’t convicted, but the business had to pay enormous fines and it went under.’
‘Does Alistair McGowan know?’
‘Oh yes, Smythe-Pike – Anne’s father – made sure of that! Would you believe it, the old miser apparently considered it praiseworthy to have saved money by buying the cheapest leather available. If that didn’t make him change his will, I don’t know what would. I suppose if we can’t talk Alistair into providing for his great-grandson, we’ll have to tackle Albert next.’
Daisy was dying to find out who was Uncle Albert’s present heir. Before she could ask, a sandy-haired young man in light tweeds appeared in the open doorway.
‘Tackle Uncle Albert?’ he said. ‘Rather you than me, old bean. His man announced in no uncertain terms that the old curmudgeon doesn’t want to see hide nor hair of any of us. I just walked past his compartment and he’s got the blinds drawn. We’ll get nowhere if we set the ogre’s back up. Hello there, Tabby.’
‘’Lo, Uncle Jemmy. Not Tabby, Tabiffa.’
‘Right-ho.’ He glanced at Daisy with a frown, of puzzlement rather than annoyance. ‘Excuse me for butting in, I assumed Bretton was talking to one of the family.’
‘This is Jeremy Gillespie, Anne’s cousin,’ Bretton explained to her. ‘Miss Dalrymple is a friend of Anne’s, Gillespie. She’s on the same train by sheer coincidence.’
‘Oh, I see. I thought I knew all the relatives, except Aunt-Geraldine-who-ran-away, of course, and you’re much too young and pretty to be her.’ He studied her with an appraising eye, and gave her a smile of approval. ‘How d’ye do, Miss Dalrymple. I don’t know how it is, but my cousin Anne – second cousin, by the way – seems to be friends with all the prettiest girls.’
Daisy smiled back. He was quite good-looking in a sturdy, sandy, Scottish way, and older than she had thought at first sight. In his early thirties, she thought, about the same as Harold Bretton, who looked older because of the thinning hair.
‘You make a point of meeting Anne’s friends, Mr. Gillespie?’ she teased.
‘As many as possible,’ he said with an exaggerated leer. ‘But please, the name’s Jeremy.’
‘Where have you left Mattie?’ Bretton enquired nastily.
Jeremy Gillespie flushed. ‘She’s with Ray and Judith and Kitty. My wife Matilda, Miss Dalrymple,’ he said, rueful now, ‘being great with child, as they say in the Bible, tends to stay where she’s put.’
‘How fortunate for you,’ said Daisy sweetly, her opinion of Gillespie taking a nose-dive.
His point made, Bretton dropped the subject. ‘How is Raymond?’ he asked.
‘Judith’s calmed him down. Your sis-in-law has a way with the poor chap, but unless one of the great-uncles comes through, they haven’t a hope in Hades of getting married.’
Raymond and Judith – Daisy had heard those names recently. Oh yes, the shell-shock victim. And ‘Judith Smythe-Pike, of course, Anne’s sister. She was a couple of forms below me at school.’
Gillespie laughed. ‘
If you remember Judith as a scrubby schoolgirl in a gym tunic, you’ll never recognize her. She’s a flapper now, the epitome of the bright young thing, all drawl and “darling.”’
‘And “too, too frightfully boring,”’ added a scornful young voice, ‘and she smokes gaspers when Uncle Desmond’s not around.’
A plump, plain girl of about fifteen, the newcomer had Jeremy Gillespie’s sandy colouring. She wore a buttercup yellow summer frock that suited her not at all, and a bottle green school-uniform hat. Her direct, almost challenging hazel eyes went straight to Daisy. ‘Hallo, are you a friend of Jeremy’s?’
‘No!’ said Daisy with more emphasis than she intended. ‘I’m a friend of Anne Bretton’s.’
‘My little sister, Kitty,’ Gillespie said condescendingly. ‘With any luck she’ll learn a few manners before she leaves school. This is Miss Dalrymple, Kitten.’
‘Don’t call me Kitten!’
‘Then pull in your claws.’
Pulling a face at her brother, Kitty Gillespie turned her back on him. ‘Howjerdo, Miss Dalrymple,’ she said rapidly, then addressed Bretton. ‘Cousin Harold, Daddy told me to find you. He wants to talk to you about Great-Uncle Albert’s will.’
‘A fat lot of good that’ll do him. I haven’t the foggiest who’s his heir, any more than anyone else.’ Nonetheless, Bretton departed.
Kitty at once took his seat. ‘Hallo, young Tabiffa. Who is your friend?’
‘It’s B’linda.’ Tabitha, relaxing as her father left, now moved closer to Kitty and clutched her arm. ‘Have you got any sweeties?’
‘Not here. They’re in my coat pocket.’ She and Belinda regarded each other with interest ‘Are you traveling with Miss Dalrymple?’ Kitty wanted to know.
‘Yes,’ said Belinda guardedly. ‘Sort of.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t be a Nosey Parker,’ Jeremy Gillespie advised her.
‘It’s good practice. I’ll have to be nosy when I’m a reporter.’
‘Ha! You know perfectly well the parents will never let you get a job.’
‘I’ll probably have to, since it looks as if Gruncle Alistair is going to die before Gruncle Albert,’ Kitty pointed out ‘Anyway, I’m not like you. I want to work.’
