The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries)

by Challis, Joanna

  If he had even an inkling of sensibility, he’d have denied the invitation. But no, he didn’t. And here was I dreaming of romantic assignations in the gardens of Thornleigh, in the great galley of Thornleigh, in the library at Thornleigh … in the woods surrounding Thornleigh. How the very reminder tasted bitter.

  How should I conduct myself? Smile at his fiancée and pretend there was nothing between us? Scratch his eyes out in front of his fiancée? Scream at him like a fishwife in front of everyone?

  My internal guide said to remain silent. To adopt a facade and ignore the situation. Treat him as nothing more than a slight acquaintance.

  The great gates of Thornleigh arrested me, as they always did, with their weathered rusty exterior.

  “Teddy wants to get new gates,” Ellen sighed, “but I can’t. The gates may be old but they are part of Thornleigh.”

  “Yes, I agree. It would be a crime to remove them; they are so full of character.”

  Entwined on the gates glistened the Hamilton coat of arms, given to Ellen’s ancestor five centuries ago. A knight of fortune, Sir Winston saved his king’s life and thus won for himself a bride and a castle. Since that day, the Hamiltons had occupied this land. I wished I could boast such a family history. My most infamous connection extended to my great-great-great grandmother Mary Anne who became mistress of Prince Frederick, the duke of York.

  Chestnut and lime trees formed a handsome avenue up the house. Sir John Hamilton saw them planted during the Restoration and it was he and his architect friend who designed the Thornleigh standing today.

  “Mama, I can’t wait to ride my new pony!”

  Smiling indulgently, Ellen ruffled her daughter’s hair. “Daphne’s a great rider. I’m sure she’ll take you out this afternoon.”

  “Yes, I will,” I promised Charlotte. Since it had been some time since I’d been on the back of a horse, I looked forward to it, too.

  Beyond the trees, Thornleigh stood ancient and proud. Light rain drizzled down the crenulated turrets and the huge Jacobean wing with its endless mullioned windows and pretty gables. Red and green ivy flourished up the three turrets surviving from the original castle and, I was happy to note, had begun creeping across the limestone mansion.

  “Think, Daphne, what it will look like in another fifty years.” Stepping out of the car, Ellen twirled in the rain. “When we’re old ladies, we can sit in that tearoom overlooking the gardens.”

  I followed her gaze to the far corner of the house.

  “Who has need of a drawing room today? We’ve made it into a tearoom and it’s cozy and bright. Our plan is to transform Thornleigh into an English-Italian villa. You’ll love it.”

  I had no doubt I would. I loved all old houses, but Thornleigh remained a particular favorite. Perhaps because I’d come here as a girl, because I’d wandered alone in the woods, because I’d met my pen-friend Ellen here and because I based all my girlhood fantasies around the romantic grounds encompassing the old house.

  “Had Xavier lived, you could have been mistress of Thornleigh,” Ellen teased as we made our way up to the house and into the delightful tearoom.

  I smiled, an image of the handsome Xavier coming to mind in uniform, on leave from the war. Although I was so much younger, scarcely a child, he’d treated me like a lady and I thought of him as a hero. If he had lived, I calculated quickly, he’d be thirty-three now, a perfect age for a man a girl in her twenties like me might marry.

  Ellen suggested we take tea before retiring to our rooms. I still could not believe how much had changed. From the new Queen Anne staircase to the fully restored state rooms, Thornleigh was well on its way to returning to its former glory.

  “We plan to do one room at a time,” Ellen said to me on our way up to the third floor. “Teddy is a great planner. He’s pushing the builder all the time.”

  “I guess money helps.” Angela grinned, pausing to admire a painting on the stairway wall. “Is that a Monet?”

  “Yes.” Ellen seemed embarrassed. “It was an engagement present. I did think of locking it away, but it’s insured and Teddy says it should be on display. We put it in the library first but I think it looks better here in the hall.”

  She moved on, and Angela and I shared a wide-eyed look. This was how millionaires spent their money, obviously.

  “It can’t have been bestowed on a better person,” I said to my sisters later. “And how kind of Ellen to give us the best room over all the American relatives!”

  “You are her maid of honor,” Angela reminded. “And we do have to share this suite with our parents. No late-night sneaking out.”

  Elated, I skipped about, refamiliarizing myself with the “Queen’s Room.” Called so for Queen Charlotte herself stayed at Thornleigh while passing through the country, it bore the bed the queen slept in, a massive four-poster carved in oak, a King Louis XVI sitting room, a maid’s chamber where we three girls unpacked our luggage, and a separate Regency-style reception room. The old furniture had been tastefully restored and some replaced, and new blue velvet drapes framed the large window. I slipped outside that window onto the private balcony and gazed out at the woods.

  I wanted a moment alone. To grieve, to be angry, to dream of what I’d say to Mister Major Browning when he showed up with his fiancée. Lady Lara Fane! The name made my blood boil.

  Perhaps I should say nothing at all. Treat him with cool indifference, to pretend he meant nothing to me. Oh, how I wished Sir Marcus was here! I missed his merry humor. Instead, I had to face the vultures—the haute ton of English society and their American counterparts, the Bostonians.

  I dreaded it. And as maid of honor, I wouldn’t exactly be inconspicuous, would I? At the best of times, I had little self-confidence and had no wish to be ogled at by all and sundry. I cheered myself that I only had to walk the aisle, smile, and support Ellen.

  * * *

  If only it were that simple, I thought at the dinner table the next evening surrounded by a host of Bostonians. Two of Teddy’s sisters, Mrs. Bertha Pringle and Mrs. May Fairchild, sat there staunch-faced and proud, their children Dean, Amy, and Sophie talking to their cousin Jack and Teddy’s daughter, Rosalie. A party of seven, and they did not mix easily with the English, though Megan endeavored to do her vivacious best to fill the void.

  Glimpsing Ellen’s face across the table, I saw how uneasy she’d become, even shy. Teddy’s daughter Rosalie flaunted herself shamelessly while deliberately ignoring her stepmother-to-be. The Americans liked to dance and Angela joined them while I preferred to remain at the table. The men were good looking and loud, the women lively and overdressed. I gathered that the Americans considered us English as staid as old biscuits.

  After discussing several neutral subjects with the two aunts, I ran out of things to say. Teddy stepped in then, handsome, boyish, and kind, directing his broad grin to me.

  “Daphne here is the daughter of Sir Gerald du Maurier. She comes from a long line of English crust as does my Ellen here.”

  “Oh,” they chorused, lifting their brows, and there was a sudden interest in anything I had to say from that moment on. Mrs. May Fairchild eyed me peculiarly as though trying to ascertain whether or not I possessed a sizable dowry. As the mother of Dean and Sophie, I gathered she planned to wed either of them into our English “crust.”

  The next day hastened my opinion of my fellow guests when upon returning from my ride with Charlotte, Amy asked me outright if my sisters and I had any money to our name.

  We were standing in the stable courtyard, and the gentle breeze rustled Amy’s corn-colored hair about her face. She was prettier than her cousin Sophie, I decided, and more forward, too.

  “Aunt May is determined Dean marries well. She wants a rich English wife for him.”

  Perhaps too forward.

  “So are you…?”

  “Rich? No. Well, my father is. As for dowries, I guess you’ll have to ask him when he arrives.”

  Her face fell. “Sir Gerald’
s coming here?”

  “Of course he is. And the earl of Rutland, too, if you are name hunting. In fact, I do have a list of all the attendees if you’d like to peruse it. I can even add a column on the side with their status in life and the amount of their fortune.”

  She stared at me, her brown eyes thrilled at the prospect before she registered my cynicism.

  “You English are far too proud. I meant no insult.”

  She stormed off, and I let out a little laugh. The confrontation lifted my spirits and I spent the afternoon with Megan making last-minute preparations. The rest of the guests arrived that afternoon, my parents among them, and the hour for the wedding dawned.

  “I’m terribly nervous,” Ellen confessed as we dressed in her chamber on the far side of the house.

  “I’m not nervous, Mummy,” Charlotte said, twirling in front of the mirror. “I like my daddy. Why didn’t you tell him about me? You said my daddy was dead!”

  Half in her dress, Ellen reached out to hold her daughter’s hand. “Charlotte, we’ve been through this before. I told you why.”

  “I asked Rosalie if she burned the letters and she said she never saw the letters.”

  “She’s lying,” Ellen sighed, exasperated. “She was afraid you and I would take her daddy away from her. But hopefully she’s grown up enough now and is happy she has a little sister.”

  Nodding, Charlotte absorbed all this information with unusual solemnity.

  “I had thought to make Rosalie a bridesmaid, too,” Ellen said, “but I couldn’t risk her sabotaging anything. Perhaps it’s wrong of me, but somebody destroyed all those letters I sent and I know in my heart it was Rosalie.”

  “Has Teddy confronted her about it?” I asked.

  “Yes, but she won’t confess. If not her, who else could it be? It was only she and her father living at that address and I can’t imagine one of the servants would have tampered with the mail. Although, on further reflection, they could have at Rosalie’s mother’s bidding. Oh, it’s a mess and I’m done with it. It doesn’t matter now, does it, darling? We’re reunited as a family, even if it is eight years later.”

  “Don’t cry, Mummy.” Charlotte threw her arms around Ellen’s neck. “We can be happy now.”

  “Yes, darling,” Ellen glanced through her tears at me, “we can be happy now.”

  * * *

  Nauseous, I examined the long line before me. The aisle seemed to stretch for miles. Wanting to enjoy the silken tents erected over the prettiest part of the Thornleigh grounds, the candlelight, the shining silver Wedgewood, the chink of crystal glasses, the lulling beauty of the violinists playing Mozart, I took a deep breath and straightened the folds of my dress. Glossy pink satin in a classic cut with touches of white, Ellen insisted we have our hair dressed low under a wreath of flowers.

  Standing there in her shining white beaded gown, her curled hair pinned upward using diamond star-clips, Ellen looked like a princess out of a fairy-tale book. I said so and she laughed, scooping my hand as Charlotte, Clarissa, and Megan left us to begin the wedding march.

  Swallowing deeply, I prayed my high heels did not give way. My pride demanded I walk with dignity, my head held high and my smile sanguine. I was determined not to feel awkward or humiliated knowing Major Browning was in the audience, Lady Lara poised on his arm. I was a du Maurier, and du Mauriers never succumbed to weakness. Never in the public eye, and I would sooner die than cry.

  Blessedly, the wedding ceremony passed sooner than I expected. The romantic atmosphere did nothing for my mood so, at the earliest opportunity, I retreated.

  “What excuse do you have for retiring so early?”

  The low, amused voice hailed from the shadows near the door to the house.

  “Aching feet and a headache,” I retorted, “and it’s a condition worsened by meeting with a disloyal lecher such as yourself. If you will move out of my way, Major, I have much to do.”

  His arm waylaid me. “Ah, so you are going to your room because of me.”

  “Because of you?” I scoffed. “Really, Major, you have too-high an opinion of yourself and your charms. When is the wedding, by the way? I suppose you brought your fiancée here to steal tips for your own forthcoming nuptials. I congratulate you both.”

  “You have the wrong picture, Daphne.”

  Since he would not let me pass, I stood my ground and crossed my arms. “According to you, I always have the wrong picture. I can’t even hope to climb up to whatever exalted limb you imagine yourself perched upon. And that’s exactly it. It’s imaginary. Your overestimation of your intelligence is as misguided as it is laughable. And as for your integrity, well, you have none, sir. Now, please move or I will remove the high heel from my foot and shove it in your face.”

  He laughed, curse him. And laughed harder when I sought to remove my shoe.

  “Daphne, Daphne, it’s not what you think … let me explain.”

  “There’s nothing to explain,” I hissed. “You had better attend to Lady Lara, sir. I am sure she is looking for you.”

  “Daphne, you don’t understand. Yes, she’s my fiancée,” his savage whisper swept past my face. “But only publicly. I had intended to let you know—”

  “That would have been nice.”

  “—but the details are delicate. I didn’t want to speak to you until I was officially at liberty to do so.”

  “Speak what?” I demanded. “We are only friends, Major. Not even; acquaintances.”

  “We are more than friends.”

  “No, we are not. What you have done is unforgivable.” I put up my hand. “No, don’t speak. Don’t breathe another word.”

  On seeing my father, I rushed to his side. In his concern for me, he did not see the major standing there ashen-faced, but my mother did. She remained silent all the way to our room until I was safely tucked into bed.

  “My poor girl, what a shock for you…”

  She’d known about the major’s letters. She had hoped, like I. She had waited for an announcement or omission of some kind and when no omission arrived, naturally commenced her matchmaking venture.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  I drew my knees up to my chin. “There’s nothing to say. Yes, he’s engaged and she’s Lady Lara Fane, daughter of the earl of Rutland. She’s beautiful, too; did you see?”

  Sighing, my mother sat on the edge of my bed. Her furrowed brow deepened. “He’s treated you abominably. I will have your father say a word to him.”

  “Oh, no, don’t! Promise me you won’t. That would be too humiliating.”

  “What did he say to you at the door?”

  “I don’t know. I was too angry to listen and I don’t care. The sooner they leave the better. They’re not staying here the night, are they?”

  “I don’t think so. Shall I go and find out?”

  “Yes, do,” I enthused. “I can’t stand it if they are. Ellen would have told me, wouldn’t she?”

  “Brides have a lot on their minds, my dearest.”

  She left me and I went to sit on my parents’ bed. I had planned to lie there and wait for her return but I couldn’t help myself. Turning off the light, I headed out to the balcony. I don’t know why. Did I want to torture myself watching the festivities below? Watching the major waltz with his beautiful fiancée in the warm summer evening? See the newspaper man snap their photograph?

  Drawn to my senses, I turned to go in when I heard a commotion below. People were running around frantically and shouting.

  Jeanne came to tell me the news.

  “Quick, come quick! Something terrible has happened.”

  “W-what?”

  “You better come down. Quickly!”

  I felt suddenly cold and sick. “Something’s happened to Ellen?”

  “No, to Teddy. He’s dead.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Dead?”

  Teddy Grimshaw is dead? The infallible businessman on his wedding day? Was it too much for him? Had his
heart given way? “Poor Ellen. Where is she?”

  “In the sunroom. They were carrying him there to wait for the doctor.”

  Nodding, I tried to collect my wits. It felt like something out of a nightmare. Teddy Grimshaw, dead? Teddy Grimshaw, Ellen’s husband, dead? Pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I seized a cardigan and rushed out the door.

  Downstairs, chaos reigned. I spied my father looking grim and pacing the corridor. Several other guests followed his lead. What else did one do?

  “Let’s hope the doctor hastens his heels,” my father said to me, searching the inside of his coat for a cigar. “I brought these along hoping to have one with the fellow. Now he’s dead. It’s devilish unfair.”

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “He had a heart attack right before my eyes.”

  Shaking uncharacteristically, Sir Gerald du Maurier echoed the sentiments of every horrified guest. A man didn’t expire on his wedding day.

  I found Ellen sobbing on her knees beside the couch where Teddy lay. The still, white face arrested me. Such a vibrant man, reduced to an inertness that did not suit him. I didn’t know where to look or what to say so I sank to my knees also. “Charlotte?” I whispered.

  “She’s abed. She doesn’t know. Maybe there’s still hope?” She smiled through her tears at the man she loved. “He’s such a kind man, oh, I can’t bear it! Not now when we’ve found each other again.”

  I searched for words but none passed my lips. I wanted to give her hope. I wanted to share her grief.

  Others pressed around us. Seeing my father hovering in the doorway, I flung my hands out in exasperation. Ellen didn’t need an audience. Roused to action, my father shepherded all the genuinely concerned friends and family farther down the hall.

  “This is murder,” screamed a voice. “That bitch killed him.”

  Rosalie Grimshaw pushed past my father into the room. She swayed there a moment, red-faced and bearing the ill-effects of too much champagne. “It’s the truth. She only married him to get his money. That’s why you had Daddy draft up that new will. Oh, I know all about the will.”

  Rising to her feet, Ellen faced her stepdaughter. “The new will has not been signed, Rosalie, which still makes you the chief benefactress.” Bristling, Ellen squeezed my hand tighter. “Don’t you care? You haven’t even looked at him!”