“The very same.”
“But Ellen didn’t mention him at the shareholders’ meeting. She said the other party was a Mr. Prichard.”
“Ah, the erstwhile Mr. Prichard. A Jewish moneylender. Probably put up the money and Rutland loaned his title. Nothing extraordinary there.”
“But why would Scotland Yard want Ellen to attend these meetings? They must suspect someone. That’s why they sent the major to Germany.”
“Great Scott! Everyone’s leavin’ Britannia for Germany these days. I daresay they’re after J.G. Jack Grimshaw. He’s a shady fellow.”
I stared at him aghast. “If you think he’s shady, why would you want me to go out with him?”
“Because he’s a charming chameleon. He’d make a good actor.”
I began to feel ill. “Oh, no … you didn’t ask him to audition, did you?”
My father grinned. “He can do accents, too. I merely suggested it may be a line of work for him.”
“And how did he take that? I don’t think he’s the kind to like work.”
“Ah, but acting is fun work. There’s the difference.”
Obviously, the two of them had had several discussions. I asked my father where.
“At the club, where else?”
“Did he say anything about his uncle’s will?”
“He mentioned it once or twice. I advised him to secure his interest. He admitted he had no head for business but that his cousin did.”
“What of Rosalie Grimshaw? Did he mention her?”
“No. Not a word.”
I glanced down into my lap. “The two are lovers, you know.”
To my disappointment, my father elicited no shock and I recalled my own girlish infatuation with my cousin Geoffrey.
“Geoffrey’s in town, by the way. He’s called here a couple of times,” my father said, reading my mind.
“Oh.” My face turned a deeper shade. Two years ago, I mightn’t have been able to face Geoffrey. I had once thought myself hopelessly in love with him.
“Does it bother you to see him?” my father probed.
I shrugged. “Mother needn’t strike him off the receiving list, if that is what you mean.”
“You once said you’d never see him again.”
“That was a long time ago. I was a child, really.”
“And now you are a young woman in love with another man.”
I sensed my face turning scarlet.
“I looked into Browning. It’d make a good match.”
“Not against Lady Lara Fane. She, I think, is determined to have him.”
Grinning, my father searched his desk for something to nibble on. “You’ve never backed off from a challenge, Daph, m’girl. What’s stopping you now?”
“I don’t know.” I heaved a weary sigh. The warmth of the fire, the security of being home, and my close dance with death sent a furor of emotions warring within me. I missed him. I wished he was here.
“I telegraphed the major,” my father murmured. “I asked him of his intentions.”
“Oh, no, you didn’t! How embarrassing … I’ll die of mortification.”
“No, you won’t.” Tearing a strip out of his pocket, he read what I needed most to hear. “‘Intentions honorable. Stop. Coming home. Stop.’”
Elated beyond words, I forgot about the pain in my shoulder for at least a minute or two. I just wanted to hug his telegram to me.
“Gerald. Is that you down there?”
My mother’s voice found its own way into our sanctuary.
“Yes, dear. We’re turning out the lights now.”
“I don’t feel at all tired,” I confessed.
“Nor do I,” winked my father, helping me out of my chair. “But we’ll both be in trouble if we don’t go up.”
“May I read the rest of this play The Ringer?”
“Of course you can but that’s not the title. It’s…” At the door, my father paused to smile, his eyes gleaming with a new idea. “You’ve done it! The Ringer. Yes, that’s much better. Shorter, catchy. You’ve got a gift, m’girl. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.”
“Thank you, Papa.” I reached up to kiss him on the cheek, and later that night I dreamt of my book with my name emblazoned on the cover and a title, a title with no name. Yet.
* * *
Since I was the last to bed, I was the last to wake.
“Daphne, you’ve missed breakfast. I’ll send to the kitchen. I want a fresh cup of tea anyhow. My, my, you won’t believe what’s in this morning’s paper.”
Yawning, I glanced at the serious faces before me.
“Ellen doesn’t know,” my father began.
“She sent up for breakfast this morning,” my mother informed.
“I knocked on her door,” Jeanne relayed. “Charlotte answered and said her mother was still sleeping.”
“It’s very awkward…”
“And unexpected—”
“What is? What’s happened?”
The three faces all lowered their eyes at once.
“It’s Cynthia Grimshaw,” my mother blurted out.
“She’s dead.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“At least Ellen won’t have to worry about the court case now.” My father, adding sugar into his tea, smiled.
“Your quip, Gerald, is in bad taste,” my mother said. “They say she was found dead at the bottom of the staircase.”
“With her neck broken,” my father put in.
I reached for the paper. I could scarcely believe it. Ellen’s nemesis dead. When? How?
“It happened sometime yesterday afternoon. She died quickly. An accident, it seems.”
The newspaper revealed few details. On first impression, it appeared Mrs. Grimshaw misjudged a step and tumbled to her death.
“‘A hotel maid discovered her a few minutes afterward.’” I read from the paper. “‘The police are investigating possibilities…’”
Possibilities. What could have induced Mrs. Grimshaw out of her luxury hotel suite in the middle of the afternoon? “How was she dressed?” I wondered aloud.
“Daphne.” My mother’s stern frown arrested me. “I don’t like you mixed up in any of this affair.”
“Ellen is my friend.” I shrugged. “It’s only natural I am curious.”
“Two deaths.” She shivered. “So close together…”
“‘A curse upon thee house,’” my father dramatized, to her horror.
She was scandalized. It was a good thing, I thought, that she didn’t know of my true involvement in the Padthaway case, or last winter’s peril at Somner House. On both occasions, I couldn’t help conducting my own investigation. I did so for inspiration and future characterizations. People and their motivations interested me.
“She wasn’t popular,” my mother went on. “I heard from Mrs. Pinkerton the previous week. The Americans’ greed for money sent her making all kinds of mistakes. Do you know she actually called at Langton House? She was turned away at the door, of course. As if the duchess would acknowledge her!”
“You never can tell,” my father added, somewhat amused by this incident. “She had all the papers lined up to print her grievances.”
“Grievances.” My mother’s mouth turned down in disgust. “Anyone can see it is pure jealousy which drove her over here in the first place.”
“She was worried about the money. Allegedly, her daughter’s money.”
“I wonder if the daughter will continue to fight the case,” my mother reflected as Alicia Brickley swept down the stairs and into the room.
Giving us a curt look, my father hid the paper behind his back. “Morning. Is Mrs. Grimshaw up and about yet?”
“Yes. She sent me down to fetch some tea.”
“Oh, good. Very good.”
“Is she not feeling well?” my mother inquired.
“A bad night’s sleep,” Alicia obliged. “But she said she’ll come down after some morning tea.”
“I se
e. Well, tell her I should like to see her in my study when she is ready.”
Concern flickered over Alicia’s fine features. “Is everything all right, Mr. du Maurier?”
“Everything’s perfectly all right,” he assured her. “Do be sure to take up some of these little lemon biscuits.”
“And the scones are delicious.” Jeanne grinned. “It’s Cook’s own jam recipe.”
“Thank you.” Alicia selected a plate. “I’ll return for the tea.”
“We do have maids to do that, you know,” my father called up after her.
“I know.” She smiled, pausing on the stairs. “I’m so used to it now, it’s become second habit. Really, I don’t mind.”
“I’d drop the tray if I had to carry it upstairs,” Jeanne announced.
“If you went slowly and took care you wouldn’t,” I replied.
“Maybe you should have told her, Gerald. She’s still part of their family. She has a right to know. It would be dreadful if she found out by some other means…”
“They have no paper or telephone in their rooms, dear. They’ll hear of it first from my lips.”
“I feel sorry for the daughter,” my mother confessed. “All alone in a different country and with both parents dead. Who is she to turn to?”
“Her cousin,” I said, omitting the word “lover” from my lips though it was poised there. “Jack Grimshaw.”
“But he’s in Germany, isn’t he? What of that other nice boy … Fairchild or something? Megan’s quite keen on him. Apparently, he has been calling on her. Did you know, Daphne?”
No. I didn’t know. “But I like Mr. Fairchild. I can’t see that Megan’s parents would approve.”
“They do want her to aim somewhat higher,” my mother agreed. “And Mr. Fairchild’s financial situation is unstable. He’s forced to become a businessman.”
“A terrible destiny.” My father smarted. “And what do you think I do, dear?”
“Oh, Gerald, but you’re a gentleman—”
“And a businessman.”
“—but you don’t have to work. You work because you like to.”
“I like to earn money.”
At this brash declaration, my mother recoiled in horror. To her dismay, however, my father refused to redeem himself. “It’s true we all need money. And we all like money. I don’t know why it ain’t etiquette to feign ignorance of the fact.”
“‘Ain’t,’” my mother cringed. “You ought to work on your grammar, Gerald.”
“Nonsense, m’dear. I am in character.”
* * *
Lingering outside the study, I imagined a hooded gaunt stranger entering the Claridge Hotel. The stranger proceeds up the stairs, luring his prey out of her rooms. At the top of the staircase there is a struggle. Mrs. Grimshaw plunges to her death …
Why? The great question. And who?
An accident? From memory, one would have to be terribly clumsy, or intoxicated, to fall to death on the Claridge’s carpeted stairs.
Ellen blinked twice. “Dead? She’s dead?”
“Yes,” my father confirmed. “On the floor at Claridge’s.”
Clearly shocked, Ellen reached out for the newspaper report. Shaking, she read down the page. “Did she fall or was she pushed?”
“I daresay that’s the question the police will be asking. Ellen, m’dear, I do advise saying nothing to the papers at present. They will try to trap you.”
“You wish me to remain housebound for a few days?”
“I think it’s wise,” I said, wincing at a sharp pain in my shoulder.
“Best they try and hound our house rather than yours,” my father added.
“But I had nothing to do with her death, Uncle Gerald … I hated the woman, it’s true, but I certainly didn’t go to Claridge’s, sneak up the stairs, and push her to her death.”
Listening to Ellen, I suddenly developed the urge to take tea at Claridge’s. To make my outing seem normal, I telephoned Megan and asked her to join me. To my mother I said: “Megan wants to see me. I think she has some news.”
“Oh, news.”
My mother loved news.
“What kind of news? Did she say?”
“No.” I smiled. “But I suspect it has something to do with a certain gentleman.”
“How interesting…”
“It’s a secret. Please don’t say anything to her mother.”
“Of course I wouldn’t dream of breaking a confidence if you choose to trust me.” Her gaze turned wistful. “Daphne, sometimes I wish you’d trust me. Who better than a mother to wish the best for her daughter?”
I said I didn’t know what precipitated this outburst.
“Oh.” She sighed. “You trust your father more than me. He says Major Browning is coming home to see you.”
“I’m sure he has business to attend to as well,” I added, my face flushing a vibrant red.
“But he’s an engaged man, Daphne. It’s getting quite embarrassing. Yesterday, Lady Holbrook asked after you. She said she heard you dined alone with the major … is this true?”
I turned a deeper shade of scarlet. “Yes, it’s true … I really must go to the bathroom now—”
“Sit down, Daphne. I wish to have a word.”
Oh dear. I knew what having “a word” entailed. A lengthy lecture.
“Lady Holbrook is a friend of Countess Rutland. News has also reached the countess’s ears of your association with her daughter’s fiancé.”
“I don’t see what the big fuss is all about—”
“Big fuss! You’re putting yourself out there as a girl who facilitates broken engagements.”
“Nonsense.” I stopped short, breaking into a grin. “The engagement is off?”
“The major broke it before he left for Germany. He quoted you as the reason.”
It was time to set matters straight. I was innocent. I’d done nothing wrong. After hearing my side of the story, my mother’s face softened.
“Oh, my! I am soon to have an engaged daughter! How exciting. And we must let the world know about the faux engagement. I don’t want your reputation injured—”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I can’t do that.”
“Can’t? What do you mean, can’t? We must. Otherwise, you’re bringing reproach on our name.”
“Mother,” I sighed, “we’re not living in the Dark Ages. Besides, broken engagements do happen.”
“Not in my day.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you imagine. You know since the war things have changed.”
“You’re wrong, Daphne. People like the countess never forget. The stain will remain with us. We won’t be accepted,” she choked, “we won’t … and what of the major’s family? I’m certain his mother feels the same as I do.”
Her words hit hard. An uneasiness curled in my stomach. What did his mother think? It pained me to acknowledge the fact that she might oppose. Whereas before her son’s entanglement with Lady Lara she may have been glad to welcome me into the family. Our name was not as illustrious as the Rutlands, true, but we had a respectable name and a fair place in society. I could see, however, how a little malicious gossip from the countess could malign our chances in certain circles and thus hurt my mother.
I did not care for these kinds of matters but my mother did and so it affected me whether I liked it or not.
* * *
I slipped out of the house after luncheon and took a cab to Claridge’s. Megan was waiting in the hotel foyer.
“Why here?” she whispered. “That woman died here. She was Dean’s aunty at one time. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Yes, he’s coming home. He’s worried about Rosalie. Her mother’s controlled her life for so long he thinks she’ll be lost. And she’s in a foreign country, too. She has no one but Dean and Jack.”
“Jack,” I murmured. “What do you think of him?”
“Sleazy and charming; a toxic combination. Shall we g
et a table?”
“Yes, let’s do.”
I’d forgotten the niceties of having afternoon tea at a fancy hotel. It was one of London’s saving graces, I thought, admiring the highly polished floor and luxurious interior. Busy at this time of year, I wasn’t sure whether we’d secure a place in the tearoom.
“Ah, Miss Kellaway, yes, I am able to fit you in. Will the middle table do?”
“They know me.” Megan’s triumphant whisper turned into a smile as we snatched the last table to the dismay of others in the queue. “It’s one advantage, Father’s name.”
“It’s more than that. You’re a famous socialite. You’re in the papers all the time.”
“Well,” she grinned, removing her gloves, “I’ll be in the papers less now that I’m engaged. Yes, it’s true!” She flashed a ring before me. “We’re engaged! We’re announcing it when Dean returns from Germany.”
I stared at her, aghast. “Your parents accepted him just like that?”
“Mother didn’t like it, but Father was quite impressed with Dean’s ethics. ‘He has a mind for business, m’girl,’ he said to me. ‘I’m certain he’ll take care of you.’ And what’s more he isn’t entirely homeless. He half-owns a house in Boston so we’re going there after the wedding.”
“When will that be?”
“Oh, who knows, a year or so away. Dean wants to make sure this company is running well before he leaves it to the hands of a manager. He can’t trust Jack.”
“No,” I agreed, “or Rosalie. Have you had much to do with either?”
“A little. Parties and that kind of thing.” Her gaze lowered in a covert fashion. “I think they’re lovers, or were lovers. Last time I saw them together they had a great row, Jack and Rosalie. I think he was pressing her to marry him but she’s not interested. Jack’s probably after her money.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And what of you, my dear?” Her eyes twinkled, inspecting my hand. “No ring yet but I wager it won’t be long.”
I flushed. “What have you heard?”
“More what I’ve seen than what I’ve heard.” She clicked her tongue. “You naughty, naughty, girl. Stealing another’s fiancé…”
“It wasn’t like that,” I assured her. “And Mother’s fuming about it. She believes the Rutlands will make it difficult for us.”
The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries) Page 15
