“Anything,” he confirmed. “Anything.”
* * *
Mevagissey, on the east coast, was a delightful little town. Upon reaching it, I made good my promise to Jeanne and spent an hour or so browsing the gift shops and art galleries. Jeanne found a painting she liked but my haggling failed to bring results and we left the shop downhearted.
Like Fowey, where we had a home, Mevagissey attracted many tourists. Small and unspoilt, the traditional fishing village was an ideal place to begin my research. With Harry’s help, I found the shipbuilding company I wanted to talk to on the west quay.
“We are a family business.” The owner’s wife agreed to speak to me. “Prichards has been in our family for five generations.”
After taking me on a tour of the warehouse, she invited Jeanne and me for tea at her home.
“We live above the office. It’s nothing but we call it home.”
The apartment surprised us. Small, yes, but well planned and filled with tasteful furniture and a charming burgundy-and-cream theme.
“What is your story about, Daphne?”
Looking through the old family photographs, I replied I still wasn’t sure. “The characters will lead me. I want to create strong characters, based on what is real.”
“Then you’d love the story of my grandmother, Adelaide. I hope you brought a pen and notebook?”
* * *
Upon our return to Thornleigh, I raced straight up to my room to write. An idea kept buzzing through my mind and I was anxious to get it on paper. I didn’t always trust my memory.
“Are you coming to dinner at all?”
Jeanne. Her stomach persistently rumbled.
“Yes. I’m nearly finished. A whole chapter. I can’t believe it.”
My excitement failed to illicit a smile from Jeanne. When she was hungry, she was hungry, and nothing else mattered.
“All right,” I conceded. “I’ll put it aside and continue later.”
She beamed. “I wonder what we’ll have for dinner tonight? Nelly cooks so wondrously.”
“Yes, she does.” Nelly, I thought. I have to talk to Nelly.
After dinner, a chance presented itself. Ellen wanted a blackberry pie for tomorrow’s afternoon tea.
“Nelly, I visited Mevagissey today where your grandmother lived. It’s lovely and Mrs. Morgan from the pastry shop said to say hello. She remembers you as a little girl.”
“Dear me,” Nelly reflected. “Is she still alive?”
“Alive and working. Her pasties are famous.”
Nelly’s eyes rounded. “And she won’t share the recipe?”
“No. And I did ask.” I paused and offered to help put away the fine china. “While I was in the shop, something came to mind. I remember Mr. Grimshaw speaking of the pasties. He loved them. Are you sure he didn’t have anything to eat? Could someone have brought him a pasty from the village?”
“It’s possible … but I doubt it. Lots goin’ on that day. Who knows what madness struck.”
I could see Nelly resented the idea of anyone bringing in pasties into her house and offering them to guests.
“That nice sergeant came back today … he asked after ye.” Nelly winked. “Nice lad. Had a cup of tea.”
“Oh?” I raised my brows. “Ellen didn’t mention the police calling. What did they want?”
“Funny. The sergeant was askin’ the same thing as you and went to speak to all the maids again. Nothin’ came of it that I know.”
“It had to be from one of the guests.” I spoke aloud, deep in thought. “They delivered the death-dealing food. I say food and not drink, don’t you? It doesn’t stand to reason somebody bringing him a drink unless it’s hundred-year-old whiskey or some sort—” I broke off. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? “Nelly … do you remember if there were any empty glasses used by Mr. Grimshaw on the day?”
She sighed. “As if I’d remember! I had me hands full … there were a hundred things goin’ on. Things goin’ back and forward from the kitchen. You’d best to ask Olivia.”
“Thank you. I will.”
Nelly frowned at me. “Where’s all this leadin’ though? You’d best to leave police business to the police.”
“Yes, I know. You’re right. Good night, Nelly.”
Of course, I’d do exactly the opposite. Whiskey. Mr. Grimshaw liked whiskey and he might have indulged in a nip on the day in celebration. Nobody would think anything of it. Our maids at Cannon Hall often cleared and replaced my father’s port glasses daily. It was so ordinary.
Ordinary enough to have been overlooked?
* * *
“Here is our defense.”
Ellen shoved the newspaper before me, almost knocking my cup of tea. Pushing the teacup and saucer away, I proceeded to read aloud the following:
TRAGIC LOVE by Jeffrey Leighton
Last month we were all shocked to hear of the untimely death of American millionaire Mr. Teddy Grimshaw on his wedding day.
Since this tragic event, startling controversial claims have arisen from Mr. Grimshaw’s former wife, Cynthia, who is pursuing a legal case against her husband’s will.
Cynthia maintains her ex-husband’s bride Ellen Hamilton (the main beneficiary of his will) is responsible for his death.
“There is little doubt Mr. Grimshaw died unexpectedly and we are investigating all leads,” police say, but they are unwilling to confirm if Mrs. Ellen Grimshaw is a suspect.
“Her claims are outrageous,” Ellen replies, agreeing to an exclusive interview at her home Thornleigh in Cornwall.
“She received a lucrative divorce settlement but instead of investing it wisely, she has spent a large portion of it and seeks more by using her daughter as a pawn.”
I mentioned the late Mr. Grimshaw’s will at this stage.
“Yes, I knew of the details in the will and the reasons behind my husband’s decision. It is not true Rosalie Grimshaw was left nothing. She received twenty thousand pounds and forty percent of shares in a company. My husband intended that she work for the company.”
“Do you think it’s a fair settlement? Cynthia claims the will is a forgery,” I asked.
“She claims a lot of things which aren’t true. For instance, it was she who committed adultery and broke up her marriage, not my husband’s alleged affair with me. I met Mr. Grimshaw in France during the war. He was injured, and had been recently divorced. We fell in love and planned to marry after the war. However, forces worked against us and in a cruel twist of fate my letters never reached him.”
“What do you think happened to the letters?”
“They were destroyed.”
“You believe his family had a hand in sabotaging your relationship?”
“Yes, I do, but that is past now. We found each other again.”
“And you have a daughter by him? One he only recently claimed?”
“Yes … things were difficult after the war. When I didn’t hear from him, I thought he had abandoned us.”
“And on the other side of the ocean, he was thinking the same?”
“Yes … I’m sorry. I wish to stop now.”
Mr. Teddy Grimshaw married Ellen Hamilton at her family estate Thornleigh on June 6. Together they have a daughter Charlotte. Ellen maintains her innocence in her husband’s death.
“It’s good,” I said at the end.
“I feel I can show my face again. Your mother telephoned today. She’s organizing a dinner party but she didn’t want me to feel impelled to go if I am not up to it.”
“You should go. It will stop people talking, too, if you are out in society.”
“Yes, I know.” Ellen hung her head. “I’m fighting her game.”
“She won’t be accepted if you’re in town,” I reminded. “She’s an outsider with few connections. Wait. I have an idea. My friend Sir Marcus is back in town. Shall I get him to host a soiree? He knows all the right people.”
“Sir Marcus.” Ellen’s brow fluttered. “The
one your mother wishes you to marry?”
“Yes.” I groaned. “It’s the title she’s after. Imagine. Lady Daphne. It doesn’t suit me.”
“I think it does. Even better still Lady Daphne Browning.”
I admitted I liked the sound of it and my heart became heavy thinking of him in Germany. Was it safe? What did he hope to achieve?
“Come.” Ellen squeezed my hand. “You’re in need of some cheering up and so am I. Charlotte is safe with Jeanne and Nanny Brickley. Let’s go for one of our old rambles through the woods.”
A good walk was exactly what I needed and we waved to Harry as we headed out. The fineness of the day darkened upon reaching the woodland. It didn’t quite threaten rain yet. I estimated we had an hour or so.
“Life’s strange, isn’t it?” Ellen whispered. “Things could have turned out so differently. I was a young woman and you were a girl. What aspirations we had! What happened?”
“The war.”
“Ah, yes, the war.” She bit her lip. “Do you think there’ll be another one?”
I shivered. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to acknowledge the love of my life working in dangerous Germany. I shivered again. If anything happened to him I didn’t know what I’d do. I couldn’t live without him. I choked back a sob just imagining him dead.
“Here. Take my coat. You’re cold.”
Without waiting, Ellen draped her fine ivory cashmere over my shoulders.
“Thank you,” I replied and we resumed our walking and reminiscing through the woods. As we drew closer to the tree where we’d carved our initials as children, I thought I heard something. A twig breaking.
I looked around. There was nothing there.
“It’s probably just a small animal—”
Then the shot fired.
Startled by pain in my shoulder, I collapsed to my knees. Blood seeped onto the cashmere. I closed my eyes and winced. I felt sick and weak.
And then darkness.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“She’s lucky. The bullet missed the collarbone and went out the other side.”
“Oh, look. She’s waking.”
“Yes. I’ve left something for the pain, Mrs. du Maurier. A little laudanum will help her sleep, too.”
“Is it too early to move her? We’d like her take her home to Cannon Hall,” my father said.
“A slow and steady journey will do no harm.”
I opened my eyes. Familiar faces loomed above me, tender and concerned. “Home,” I murmured. “I don’t want to go home.”
“Just for a little while,” pacified my mother, caressing my hand. “Don’t worry. Ellen’s coming, too.”
“Ellen.” I started and seized by pain, fell into the pillows. My head thundered and my throat was dry. I felt as if I’d collided with a motorcar shoulder first. Under the sheets, I examined my limbs. They all appeared to be intact and in good working order. “How long…?” I winced, touching the sling holding my left arm.
“Have you been abed?” My father’s jolly smile did little to appease me. “Two days. Sleeping like a log. Good for healing.”
“This is serious.” My mother sent him a glare.
“It’s deadly serious,” my father replied. “Where’s that fellow meant to protect her?”
“He was hired to protect Charlotte.” Ellen came into the room, looking as if she hadn’t slept in days. “I should have listened to the major. I should have engaged another man to … to—”
“There, there.” My mother embraced her. “Daphne’s fine.”
“But don’t you see? Daphne was wearing my coat. That bullet was meant for me.”
I saw my father halt with this news. He’d been conversing with the doctor over some need for eye drops. “What’s this about a coat?”
“It was just before the attack. Daphne was cold and I gave her my coat. It’s one I often wear.”
Gazing at my father, my mother frowned before taking my hand in hers.
“You both must come to Cannon Hall,” my father decreed. “I’ll get a man to look into it. Where’s this fellow you hired for Charlotte? I’d like to speak to him. And Harry, too. He’s handy to have around.”
I heard a knock at the door.
“Is she all right?”
It was Alicia Brickley, Charlotte at her side. Bursting past them, Jeanne carried a tray into the room.
“Tea and cucumber sandwiches,” Jeanne announced. “Nelly’s worried. She’s been talking to herself all morning.”
Touched by their concern, I couldn’t help wishing the major was there. If not at Thornleigh, then at least in the country. A trifle piqued, I sipped my tea and ate the sandwiches. I longed for sympathy and not just any sympathy. I longed for his sympathy. Having my parents paw at me wasn’t the same.
“We should let the major know.” Ellen seemed to understand. “The attack could be important.”
On saying this, her glance flew to Charlotte. If they were prepared to strike Ellen, were they prepared to strike a child?
Which left one question.
Who?
* * *
I experienced an overwhelming sadness when the gates to Thornleigh closed. How long until our return? I confess to a love affair with the stately old mansion; I didn’t want to part from it.
Ellen looked wistful, too, staring back at the house.
“Mama.” Charlotte nudged her mother’s hand. “Can we go on a sea holiday now? I want to see Grandmama.”
Raising haunted eyes to me, Ellen tried to put on a brave face. “Maybe we will, darling. Winter’s coming.”
Her words faded against the rhythmic hum of the Bentley. In the front seat, Harry adjusted the speed. He knew his cars very well, and no doubt enjoyed driving the fleet Ellen had inherited.
We spoke little on the journey. I, on the best of occasions, refrained from the chitchat I despised, the kind with no meaning or intention, and Alicia Brickley preferred the silence. Ellen sat alone with her thoughts, attempting to amuse the child with a book.
My parents and Jeanne arrived ahead of us. To my disappointment, Angela wasn’t at home. She’d gone to our riverside house in Fowey to write.
Envy burned heavy against my cheeks. I planned to spend all these days composing my novel at Thornleigh and researching the area. And now a faceless villain interrupted those plans, keeping us in London.
“You may stay as long as you wish, dear Ellen,” my mother said as we entered Cannon Hall.
I greeted the dismal mansion of my childhood with a tight smile. The light wasn’t good and the too-familiar surroundings failed to inspire me.
“I long for a seaside holiday, too,” I whispered to Charlotte as we climbed the stairs.
Alicia turned at this comment. She had an odd expression on her face. I couldn’t quite make it out.
“The room will do nicely,” Ellen pronounced from inside. “And Alicia, you’re next door. You can help Charlotte unpack?”
Alicia nodded and resumed her duties with quiet servitude. Since Uncle Teddy’s death, she seemed even more devoted to Charlotte and cared little for her own independence. I wondered how long she intended to stay on as Charlotte’s nanny. Five thousand pounds was a fortune; she might well head on a seaside holiday herself.
Retiring to my room and under Mother’s orders, I drank the sleeping tonic and curled up in bed. My left shoulder throbbed. To focus away from the pain, I closed my eyes and imagined the novel I wished to write.
Some hours later, I joined my father in his study.
“You look pale,” he said, looking up from his desk. “Come and see this new play I’m working on.”
Still in my robe and slippers, I slipped gratefully into the great armchair by the fire and yawned.
“I trust my audience won’t yawn,” my father joked and proceeded to read some of the play. “The Gaunt Stranger, by Edgar Wallace—”
“Edgar Wallace.” I blinked. “Don’t I know that name?”
“You s
hould do. He came for dinner last year.”
“The novelist.” I hung my head low. “I remember. He’s so lucky. Published and a great success. His life is so interesting … a reporter in the Boer War, correspondent for the Daily Mail; how can I possibly join his rank?”
Joining me by the fireplace, my father tipped his spectacles on the tip of his nose. “Finish the book, Daphne. I have someone who’ll look at it if you do.”
“Really? Who?”
“Finish the book then we’ll see. No promises.”
Excited and inspired, I’d have run upstairs to write but forced myself to listen to my father talk about his play.
“Here’s the rundown of the story: the killer is known as ‘the ringer.’ He’s a master of disguise who continually baffles the police. Young Detective-Inspector Alan Wembury takes over the Deptford police division and is hoping to marry Mary Lenley who has just become Meister’s secretary (Maurice Meister, a lawyer mixed up with the ringer). News comes that the ringer, who had been traced to Australia and reported dead, has returned to London. Meister is his next victim, for he left his sister in Meister’s charge and her body was found floating in the Thames. Soon a gaunt stranger is stalking the frightened lawyer who seeks police protection. Wembury has a hard task complicated by the fact that Mary’s brother, ruined by association with criminals, is jailed for robbery—and Meister knows more than he will admit. Also, the unpopular Inspector Bliss from America is working along his own lines to solve the case. Who is the ringer?”
“It’s intriguing,” I said at length, a little dismayed by the theme. Was a gaunt stranger stalking Ellen, and in turn, any who accompanied her? “Who is the ringer?”
Grinning, my father put the pages aside. “Ah, you’ll have to watch the play to find out. Why not take that Jack fellow?”
“He’s gone to Germany.”
“Oh, yes. To secure his inheritance, no doubt.”
“Father … what do you know of the company Salinghurst?”
“Owned by that old stick Salinghurst and his sons. Needed to raise cash. Sold off most of it to Grimshaw and Rutland.”
“Rutland?” I blinked. “The earl of Rutland?”
The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries) Page 14
