It was from Megan Kellaway.
Dear Daphne,
How I miss you! I can’t believe how busy I am being an engaged woman. With Mother hounding me on one end to start organizing my trousseau, and Dean on the other insisting we go to every function we’re invited to, there is scarcely time to write.
What are you doing down there in the country? I’ve bumped into the major a few times and he says you’re working on your book. My dear friend, writing books is for old women. Young women like us need to stay close to our men.
In saying such, I am obliged to tell you that the major has been seen out with Lady Lara Fane. I saw them with my own eyes this morning at the Egyptian exhibition at the museum. I was about to go up and rouse on him on your behalf but Dean held me back. My dearest Dean, he’s so proper! I do love him so …
Falling out of my hands, the letter floated to the floor. I didn’t want to read any more. Red fury consumed me. I felt my face. It was burning hot. How could he? How could he humiliate me this way?
I twisted the ring on my finger. It was still too large.
Tearing to my feet, I paced the full length of my room. If I had a car, I would jump in it and drive straight to London. But I did not have a car. And it would take me an age to travel back there from here.
Lady Lara must be laughing to herself. The poor major has no escort. His fiancée fancies herself a novelist! A novelist, pray. What has she published? I vow she won’t even finish the book …
Now I was livid. My heart thumped so loud it hurt. Why had he failed to mention he’d seen her? Why had he omitted her name from our conversation?
Though tempted, I refused to make a telephone call. Pride forbade it. My mother always said I had too much pride. Pride goeth before the fall.
Scratching those words down on paper in big black letters, I stared at them. Mocking, they stared back, growing larger until they obscured the whole page.
Watery tears kept sprinkling the page, without my permission. “Oh, wretchedness,” I muttered. “Wretchedness.”
Crunching up the messy page and throwing it in the wastepaper basket, I forced myself to think. Think, think. Think about the book, not about him. Him and her.
Seeing the paper ball perched perilously on the edge of the basket, I seized it and looked at the mess I’d created. The page reminded me of those death threats Ellen and Teddy had received.
The notes.
There’s a clue there, I thought, trying to recall the wording of each one. Two had said: Pay £10,000 or you, your woman, and child die, and giving instructions to place the money at the grave of Ernest Gildersberg. The other, accompanying the box of chocolates said DIE.
“Ellen, those other notes you destroyed, do you remember the wording of them?”
Reclining in the sun by the pond, Ellen lowered her sunglasses.
“You should have kept them.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I know I should have, but they were profane.”
“What did they say? Why were they more upsetting than the others?”
She shuddered. “I don’t know … they were more directed at me and Charlotte. Like, ‘Let the Bitch Die,’ and so forth.”
“Did the police think they were from the same source?”
“Yes. Both had the same theme: Die. Die. Die. Die. Somebody wanted us all dead.”
Sitting down on the grass, I began to pluck a few blades out. I wished I could see all the notes together. The police held the others, and I didn’t want to show myself a busybody by asking to see them. However, Inspector James had come to speak to me, hadn’t he?
I decided I would make a telephone call … to Inspector James.
* * *
“Miss Daphne? Is everything all right there?” the inspector asked.
“Yes, for the time being, but I just thought of something which might be important.” After summarizing my reason, I added, “the ones Ellen destroyed carried emotion. Such as might have been sent by a woman.”
“You mean Cynthia Grimshaw?”
“Yes, while the others appear more directed at Teddy Grimshaw, perhaps by a business associate he wronged. Didn’t that note say money was to be placed at the grave of Ernest Gildersberg?”
“We’ve considered that. The family of Ernest Gildersberg have no notion of having written them. He left behind a widow and two daughters, and a cousin or two unconnected to the business.”
“So who do you think wrote the notes and why?”
After releasing a low chuckle, he sighed. “That’s a lead we’re still investigating.”
The line went dead.
Incensed by his flippancy, I suppressed a sudden desire to go fishing and catch a large fish. I’d love to dump such a fish right on the inspector’s desk.
I ordered a cup of tea instead.
Tea always had a calming effect on me. And still upset with Major Browning, whom I’d normally share my find with, I wrote a concise summary:
Death 1 Teddy Grimshaw, died heart attack / hemlock poison
Death 2 Cynthia Grimshaw, died broken neck / fall down hotel stairs
Death 3 ?
I paused. Should I write Ellen’s mother, Lady Gertrude, as Death 3? Leaving it blank, for I instinctively felt there would be another death, I continued on with the suspects:
Suspect 1 Rosalie Grimshaw / Jack Grimshaw (received money from death)
Suspect 2 Unknown business enemies (received nothing from death?)
Suspect 3 Ellen Hamilton / Alicia Brickley (received money from death)
Perusing the page again, I tapped my finger on Suspect 2. I had written received nothing from death, but perhaps that wasn’t true. Perhaps in some way this killer, in a business sense, had benefited by the death of Teddy Grimshaw.
Recalling the initial investigation, my work with the major over the pile of paperwork, I added a name to unknown.
Salinghurst.
Major shareholder?
Rutland, the earl of Rutland.
Lady Lara’s father.
* * *
“How’s the play going?”
“Excellent. I’ve tickets for you, Ellen, and Alicia to attend the premiere, oh, and your major will be there, of course. I said you’d be coming up. You wouldn’t say no to an old father.”
I groaned inside. I didn’t want to sound mulish and suggest Lady Lara accompany him rather than his fiancée who was away down in the country. “Where did you see him?”
“At the club. We had a drink together.”
“He’s often there, isn’t he?”
“And everywhere else. I had no idea he is so well connected. Well done, Daphne.”
Except the engagement’s off. “Megan wrote me. She said she’s run into him, too, a few times, with Lady Lara Fane.”
“Oh, don’t read into that sort of thing. They were childhood friends.”
“Others may read into it.”
“You’re the only one who counts so give the old boy the benefit of the doubt, won’t you? Don’t go using your torrid imagination and paint him a chameleon.”
I smiled. “I’ve been using that word quite a bit, too, lately. It’s from your play. How’s the title? Will it stay The Ringer?”
“Yes, and I’ve got the best cast. I’ll see you there. Two nights’ time.”
I hung up the receiver.
The last thing I wanted to do—go to London. I wanted to hide down here in the country. Write my book. Write a book to the finish, publish it, and throw it in Lady Lara’s face.
To my dismay, Ellen liked the idea.
“It’s only for a night. It was kind of your father to invite us and kind of Jeanne to offer to babysit Charlotte.”
“Mummy, why can’t I go to the play?”
“You’re too young, darling.”
“Why does Nanny have to go? She can stay with me.”
“No, nannies sometimes need a night out. You mustn’t monopolize her, or she won’t want to live with us.”
“Oh, she
’s no trouble,” Alicia assured Ellen. “I’d rather stay with her in any case. I’ve never cared much for plays or opera.”
I asked her why.
“I only went once or twice,” she said. “And both times I simply made up a number. Nobody wanted me along.”
“You speak of your cousins?”
“Yes … Rosalie and Amy, mostly.”
“You accompanied your parents?”
“My mother.” She spat the word with dislike. “My father preferred to stay at home. He worked long days and often went away so when he was at home, he preferred to stay home.”
“Your mother now cares for your grandmother? Have you heard from her?”
“No. She didn’t approve of my going to London to work for Uncle Teddy. ‘Work,’ she said. ‘And bring further reproach on our name?’ You see, our family, even if we were poor, we had to be poor quietly.”
Fascinated by this insight into harsh Boston society, I asked her more questions on the drive to London. Not daring to ask Harry to drive us after their argument, Ellen commanded the front seat while we girls relaxed in the back.
“I’ll never go back, ever.”
She caressed Charlotte’s hair, her long, slim fingers encouraging the curls.
“Here I am my own person. Over there I am simply an appendage nobody wanted.”
Frowning, Ellen shook her head. “Oh, my dear, I’m sure that’s not true. Not all of your family are that bad.”
A coldness touched Alicia’s eyes. “Yes, they are. They have hearts of ice.”
“Well,” Ellen grinned, “we’ll endeavor to find you a nice young man here and you can marry and triumph over them. Fancy landing a title? Smear that in their faces.”
The merest smile came to Alicia Brickley’s lips and for once she allowed herself to ponder such a dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
By the time we reached London, we’d convinced Alicia to go to the play.
“I really don’t mind staying behind,” she persisted as we began to embellish what attractions belonged to us.
Still in mourning, Ellen chose safety in black. I dared to wear a deep oceanic blue drop-waisted number, adorning it with various-length pearl necklaces. Charming in the color salmon, Mother complemented Angela’s demure cream and lace.
Jeanne and Charlotte, having great fun watching us make these elaborate preparations, thought Alicia should borrow my green velvet again, since it became her so well.
“Keep it,” I said as we piled into the motorcars.
Her eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I am.” I glanced at her face, free of spectacles and her lips reddened with Angela’s rouge lipstick.
“Thank you.” She smiled back at me. “It’s kind of you.”
I raised a brow, wondering what she intended to do with her five thousand pounds. She appeared such a shy, retiring figure I imagined it to sit earning interest in a bank. If she didn’t marry, as Ellen predicted, she’d grow old and take the odd seaside holiday.
Speaking of marriage, I shot out my hand to view my engagement ring. Still too large, I had slipped it over my satin gloves. I was certain Lady Lara would be there tonight and I intended to stick it right under her little nose.
As arranged, my father met us in his office. He promptly put out his cigarette and came to greet us.
“Ah, you ladies look ravishing … enough to steal the limelight—eh?”
“We shall behave like withering flowers in the background, Papa,” Angela vowed as my mother went to correct my father’s necktie.
“Thank you for inviting me, Sir Gerald.” Alicia bowed, and my father popped in his theatrical eyeglass.
“Who’s this—eh? Another lily of the pond. Daphne, your friend? Angela, your friend?”
“It’s Nanny Brickley.” Ellen saved Alicia from further embarrassment.
“No! My word, is it? Can it be?” Adjusting his eyeglass, he glowered like an old rogue. “Ever thought of the theater, my girl? You have the looks for it.”
I don’t think Alicia had ever received a greater compliment. Having grown up in the shadow of her rich and beautiful cousins, despised and barely tolerated, she’d never have dreamed of making an impression far across the seas.
“Gerald,” my mother stepped in, “don’t tease her. Is everything ready?”
Peeking behind the curtain, my father surveyed the thronging crowd. “Daphne, I spy your major. Come here and see.”
I did as I was bid. A sea of faces, smiling, laughing, greeting, talking. All attired in their finest, the heightening babble expanded as new arrivals entered the hall. I caught my breath. Major Browning led the group, tall and debonair in a black suit. The ladies admired his charm while the men admired his conversation. He commanded both sexes and could fit into any crowd.
“Why don’t you go down?” My father pushed the small of my back. “Surprise him.”
“I have no wish to intrude,” I replied. “I suppose you invited him to our box?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“And did he accept?”
“No. He already had tickets.”
I lifted a brow at the plural use. “Tickets for how many?”
“Can’t remember. Go on. Go and see him. Don’t hide yourself up here.”
While the others made their way to their seats, I snuck out into the corridor. The crush dampened my spirits. Suddenly claustrophobic and nervous, I waited behind the shadow of a plant, confident nobody would notice me there.
“Daphne, isn’t it? Gerald’s daughter?”
I turned at the melodious voice to see a young man around my age, his raven-black hair combed to one side and spectacularly good-looking. He grinned.
“Escaping the crush or people?”
“Both,” I said.
“Are you afraid?” His eyes danced with amusement.
“I suppose I am. You’re an actor, aren’t you?”
“An actor of Shakespearian tragedy, at the moment,” he presented, flashing white teeth.
“Do you work for my father?”
“I hope to. I’m interested in trying new roles and he’s an eye for direction.”
I knew his ilk. Eager young actors with ambition. “You hope to go to America?”
“No, I hope to stay here. Produce my own, like your father.”
The crush had dwindled to an odd straggler or two searching for their seats. “I must go. It was nice to meet you, Mr.…?”
“Olivier. Laurence Olivier.”
As I made my way to our box, I thought I must mention his name to Papa. His cavalier demeanor reminded me of Major Browning. I wondered where his seats were and who he’d brought to my father’s theater.
“Here.” Ellen shoved her spyglass to me. “I found him. He’s over there on the left.”
My heart fluttered. Was he with her? Squinting through the glass, I smiled with relief to see him sitting with two male friends. However, three rows behind him I also discovered Lady Lara Fane. She was accompanied by a male friend but I caught the odd fleeting glance to the major when he responded to the play.
As expected, The Ringer was a great success. The mystery kept one’s interest and as I watched the various scenes unfolding, I couldn’t help but apply it to the case at hand. A master of disguise, the villain masquerades as anything to get near his prey. His prey? His very own partner, the one closest to him. Why? For revenge, revenge because his partner killed his sister.
“It was originally called The Gaunt Stranger.” My father beamed on his first audience appraisal. “Daphne came up with The Ringer.”
“She has a way with words.”
My heart stopped.
Crouching under the door, Major Browning joined us without ceremony. I flushed. I felt like an idiot. Why hadn’t I called him to say I’d be in town? It was immature of me and decidedly feline.
My shame echoed in my mother’s face. “Tommy, how delightful. Didn’t Gerald invite you to our box?”
> Thank goodness she’d not said, Didn’t Daphne invite you to our box?
“Yes, he did, but I was already committed.”
His eyes bore into mine and my face turned scarlet.
“Daphne, care for some fresh air?”
“Y-yes.” I leapt to my feet.
He said nothing to me until we were outside. Once down the main corridor, we ran into the general mill, the major breaking off to shake hands with an old friend of his. While I stood there stupidly, suppressing the urge to bite my nails, Lady Lara brushed by me.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you…”
I am certain you did. “Oh, hello.” I smiled through my teeth. “Enjoy the play?”
She looked beautiful. Bathed in a feminine pale mauve gracing her figure, she stood over me, tall and graceful with red lips and manicured hair. “Yes … I didn’t see you with Tommy.”
She was assessing me, wanting to know the reason why we’d not sat together. Curious hope flickered in those long-lashed aristocratic eyes.
“You came alone?” I asked. It was my best attempt at an insult.
“Oh, no.” She laughed. “Tommy gave me the tickets. We attached ourselves to his trio.”
Her mouth curled on the word attached.
Before I could inquire as to the “we,” the major usurped our dangerous tête-à-tête. He steered the conversation toward the play and said how proud he was of his future father-in-law.
Her eyes seethed behind their demure congratulations.
“She is why I didn’t call you,” I said to the major as our feet touched the street. “I have friends, you know, friends who care about me. When they see my fiancé spending time with his ex-fiancée, it gives cause for comment—”
“Lara.” He laughed. “She’s just like a sister to me … how can I convince you?”
“She’s too beautiful to be anyone’s ‘sister.’”
“Do you think I’d really want to marry someone like her? She’d make my life a misery. I’ve known her all my life and while she’s beautiful, yes, she’s also selfish and superficial.”
I lowered my lashes. “I should have telephoned you. We’re only here for a night.”
“Then we must make the most of it. Have you dined?”
“My mother’s organized a supper party back at the house. Can you come? Bring your friends.” I grinned. “I’m sure we can find some cozy corner…”
The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries) Page 21
