Heirs of the Body

by Carola Dunn

  Somewhat miffed because, after all, his client was the estate, not Mr. Raymond Dalrymple, Tommy had nonetheless heeded the call. Because he was miffed, he afterwards told Daisy all about the interview. He took her to lunch at the Old Cheshire Cheese.

  “Raymond’s a businessman,” he told her. “A partner in Pritchard and Dalrymple, a member of the De Beers cartel.”

  “Diamonds!”

  “Buying and selling diamonds,” Tommy confirmed. “He was coming to Europe on business anyway, leaving his cousin and his son to run things in South Africa.”

  “How old is he? I don’t know why I assumed he was a young man.”

  “He’s in his early sixties and the son, Stanley, is in his late thirties. He presented me with their birth and marriage certificates right away, very businesslike. His credentials, he called them.”

  “Early sixties…” Daisy attempted the mental maths while she started scribbling down a family branch. “His father must have been Julian’s son, then?”

  “Yes, Henry by name.”

  “Surely Raymond must know whether Henry was Julian’s eldest.”

  “He didn’t even know his grandfather’s name, just that he was the son of an English lord. His father, Henry, was born in Jamaica, quarrelled with his father, possibly Julian, and emigrated to Cape Colony, as it was then. Henry married the daughter of a settler, Alice Pritchard. He and his brother-in-law went prospecting together, and he was killed in a brawl—”

  “He told you that? I’m surprised that he’d reveal such a discreditable blot on the would-be escutcheon.”

  “‘Brawl’ is my interpretation. He sounds like a thoroughly quarrelsome chap. To be precise, Raymond said the two were attacked by rival prospectors.”

  “Claim jumpers. It sounds like the Wild West.”

  “They were out in the wilds somewhere. No death certificate.”

  “How old was Raymond when Henry died?”

  “Just five. He was brought up by his mother’s family.”

  “So he hardly knew his father, and if he was told anything about his grandfather he could well have forgotten.”

  “His mother used to say his great-grandfather was an English lord. That’s really all he knows. Raymond’s baptismal certificate names his father as Henry Herbert Dalrymple of Jamaica, giving no age, no profession.”

  “It sounds as if he was in search of a profession when he died.”

  “You could put it that way. Once again, the earlier certificates aren’t what they might be. The church where Henry married Alice and Raymond was baptised, by an itinerant preacher, burned down in one of their wars or uprisings, and bureaucracy didn’t hold much sway in the wilds in those days.”

  “So once again there’s no proof. Most unsatisfactory.” Daisy frowned at the family branch:

  ?Julian

  Henry Herbert Dalrymple m. Alice Pritchard

  Raymond m.?

  Stanley

  “Raymond’s beginning to sound a lot like Vincent,” she said.

  “Oh, far superior. In his own estimation, at least. The brother-in-law struck a vein of diamonds, or a pipe, or whatever they call it. The family went into the diamond business and prospered mightily, including Raymond, whom his mother’s family more or less adopted. He’s not here in hope of becoming viscount, he’s here to find out whether the estate is worth his while bothering to enter the lists. He wanted me to describe Fairacres and provide information about income and expenses.”

  “What cheek! Did you tell him about the other claimants?”

  “Only that there are others. When I refused to give him the financial details he asked for, he said he would motor down to Worcestershire and call on Lord Dalrymple, so as to see Fairacres for himself. I’ve written to warn them.”

  * * *

  Somewhat to Daisy’s surprise, she received a letter from Lady Dalrymple begging her to go and stay at Fairacres for the weekend.

  Raymond Dalrymple had written to announce that he would call on Saturday afternoon. Cousin Geraldine wanted Daisy’s advice and support in meeting him.

  If Geraldine had simply summoned Daisy, she might have refused in spite of her curiosity about Raymond. She couldn’t resist a plea for help, however, especially as she was dying to meet Raymond. He had already managed to annoy her by not giving permission for her to attend his meeting with Tommy.

  Besides, June was her favourite month in the country, when trees and fields still wore their fresh spring green.

  The weather was beautiful, so she decided to drive rather than be stuck in a stuffy train. It was a pretty route, through the Chilterns and the Cotswolds, though negotiating the streets of Oxford in between could be tricky.

  She set out on Friday morning. The A-40 from London to Oxford was quite busy but all went smoothly. She managed not to run over any undergraduates—or dons, come to that—in the streets of Oxford. Beyond the city the traffic thinned out, and she was able to enjoy sailing through the countryside in her sky blue Gwynne Eight.

  After stopping for a picnic lunch, she came in midafternoon to a high point with a view over the Vale of Evesham. Just over the crest, a convenient gateway in the drystone wall offered a place to pull over. She got out and, shading her eyes, gazed over the fruitful valley of the Severn to the Malvern Hills and the distant, hazy-blue line of the Brecon Beacons beyond.

  Once that sight had meant she was nearly home. Now she was a visitor.

  “Brace up,” she told herself firmly. If it weren’t for the war, if Gervaise had not been killed, he would have married, perhaps someone she disliked. She would have married Michael.… Best not to dwell on that. One way or another, Fairacres would have ceased to be her home.

  Sighing, she turned back towards the car. The right front tyre was flat.

  “Blast!” Hands on hips, she glared at it.

  Alec had made her learn how to change a wheel, but she had far rather not. She belonged to the RAC, and this was a main road; perhaps a patrolman would come by soon. Or if she sat on the running board looking disconsolate, perhaps a helpful motorist would stop to give her a hand. If she took the spare wheel off the back of the boot and leant it against the car, it would be obvious what the trouble was.

  She glanced at her watch. She had written to Geraldine that she’d arrive at teatime, so there was no hurry. On this glorious day, to sit hopefully in the sun for half an hour, listening to the song of larks and the bleat of sheep, would be no hardship.

  Besides, trying to do it herself and making a mess of it might take far longer than waiting for an expert to come along.

  With a bit of a struggle, Daisy managed to unbuckle the spare wheel. She was examining with dismay the black marks on her driving gloves when a vast, gleaming car purred over the hill and down towards her.

  It slowed as it came alongside. The smartly uniformed chauffeur, in the open front, turned towards her. “Trouble, miss? Puncture, is it?”

  In the enclosed rear, a khaki-clad figure leant forward and rapped on the dividing glass with the handle of a stick or umbrella. “Get on, get on!” snapped the passenger impatiently, his voice muffled by the closed windows.

  Her would-be gallant rescuer rolled his eyes, shrugged, and mouthed, “Sorry!” as he changed into first gear. With a soft, expensive hum, the bronze Daimler slid away down the steep hill.

  “Brute!” Daisy exclaimed indignantly. Khaki—a high-ranking army officer? But the chauffeur’s uniform was not military. Whoever the passenger was, he was a rotten cad.

  Contemplating the wheel without enthusiasm, she reminded herself that she was a modern, competent woman. It didn’t help. She just plain didn’t want to tackle the job.

  However, the trickle of vehicles she had encountered before seemed to have dried up entirely. She could at least show willing and make a start by getting out the jack from the tool chest. That was easy. Alas, having accomplished it, she realised she had forgotten how to use the blasted thing.

  This bar obviously fitted into that ho
le, but what next?

  The drone of a motor caught her ear. Something was coming up the hill, so it couldn’t be going fast. Daisy decided she was jolly well going to stand in the middle of the road and force it to stop.

  As she stepped forward, a blue motorcycle came round the bend. Beholding the blue and white RAC insignia, Daisy breathed a sigh of relief.

  The blue-liveried patrolman pulled up and saluted. “Puncture, ma’am? A chap in a Daimler told me you needed help.”

  “The passenger?” she asked, surprised.

  “No, the shover.”

  “That sounds more likely. Yes, a puncture.”

  “You’ve got the spare all ready, and the jack, I see. Won’t take a jiffy.”

  And it didn’t. Which made the Daimler passenger’s refusal to stop all the more egregious.

  “Don’t forget to get the tyre repaired before you go much farther, ma’am.” Her saviour pocketed a tip, saluted again, hopped onto his bike and buzzed off.

  Daisy drove on, passing north of Bredon Hill. Soon the pepperpot bell tower at Upton-upon-Severn came into view. Reaching the drawbridge just as it opened, she watched a brightly painted narrowboat chug through the gap. She refrained from the childish pleasure of waving to the boatman and his wife.

  Miranda and Oliver were old enough to enjoy waving to the colourful boats and watching the bridge open and close, she thought. When they all came in August, she would bring them here one day, even if it meant a battle with Nurse Gilpin.

  Her own nanny had disapproved, saying it was unladylike. That had stopped Violet, though not Daisy nor, of course, Gervaise. How much fun one could miss through fear of not being considered ladylike!

  Daisy got out of the car and, as the bridge closed, waved vigorously at the receding boat. She was gratified when the boatman took off his hat and saluted.

  The bridge clunked into place. Daisy drove across and turned right, past the old church. A few hundred yards farther on, she turned into a narrow lane and wound about for a bit, between hedges adorned with sweet-scented dog roses and honeysuckle. She came to the village of Little Baswell and there she stopped at the smithy.

  The smith, Ted Barnard, had married a favourite Fairacres nurserymaid. With the decline of the blacksmith’s trade, he had turned his hand to doing minor repairs for motorists, and he was more than willing to repair Daisy’s tyre.

  “Won’t take but a few minutes, Miss Daisy. I know the wife’d take it kindly was you to pop in to say hello while ye’re waiting.”

  “Of course.” She walked over to the neat whitewashed cottage next door. The garden was full of sweet peas and sweet william, as fragrant as the hedgerow flowers. The dog, a shaggy, tousled creature called Tuffet, greeted her with rapture. Mrs. Barnard was delighted to see her and at once set the kettle to boil. Daisy regretfully declined a cuppa. “Lady Dalrymple is expecting me for tea, you see. We’ll all be here in August, the whole family. I’ll bring the children to see you.”

  Chatting about children made the wait pass quickly, and Daisy was soon on the road again. Fifteen minutes later, she turned in between the gates of Fairacres. Just beyond the lodge, she stopped under the shade of the first elm of the avenue and walked back to have a word with the lodge keeper, Mrs. Truscott, wife of the chauffeur.

  They were all family, in a sense, the old servants. Their continued presence at Fairacres increased Daisy’s feeling of dislocation, of the world being slightly askew, when she visited. In spite of Edgar’s sincere and Geraldine’s consciously gracious assurances that she was always welcome, she hadn’t spent enough time there since Edgar’s accession to adjust to the changes and the many things that had not changed.

  She was glad that almost all the old servants had been kept on. Apart from maids and garden boys, who tended to come and go, and the aged butler who had been pensioned off, the staff had barely changed.

  Having assured herself that the Truscotts were all well, Daisy continued along the avenue to the house. She stopped in front of the impressive portico. Its marble pillars, pediment, and cupolas had been superimposed by an eighteenth-century ancestor to add consequence to an otherwise sprawling, multiperiod mansion. Brick built, it was clad in whatever stone happened to be convenient at the time, pinkish sandstone, amber Cotswold limestone, pale grey Portland stone, a patchwork mellowed by time.

  Daisy had scarcely time to powder her nose before the footman ran down the steps to open the door for her.

  “Hello, Ernest.”

  “Good afternoon, madam. We’ve been expecting you. If you don’t mind me saying so, madam, her ladyship will be very happy to see you.”

  Daisy laughed. “No, why should I mind?” She was on informal terms with the young man that would have horrified her mother, ever since he had helped her and Alec—and Tommy, come to think of it—to foil a dastardly plot. “Now if you’d told me the opposite…”

  “As though I would, madam!”

  “But I bet you’d manage to warn me.”

  “A hint, maybe, madam. His lordship, of course, will be delighted.” He raised his voice for the benefit of the butler, who was waiting at the open front door. “Mr. Truscott will take your car round to the stables, madam, unless you was wanting it again this afternoon?”

  “No, thank you. I may go down to the Dower House later, but I’ll walk. Good afternoon, Lowecroft.”

  He gave a slight but stately bow. “Good afternoon, madam. May I say that your arrival is particularly welcome at this time.”

  “Thank you.” Goodness, Geraldine must really be in a state!

  “Her ladyship is in her sitting room, madam, not being at home to unexpected visitors.” He took the light coat she had worn for driving and handed it on to Ernest.

  “I’ll pop in to say hello, but I must wash off the road dust before tea.”

  “Certainly, madam. Your usual room has been prepared.”

  “Thank you. You needn’t announce me.”

  She crossed the hall, still hung with centuries’ worth of family portraits—of course, they were Edgar’s family as well as her own. Several of the oldest had obviously been professionally cleaned, revealing the long obscured features of Tudor and Stuart Dalrymples. The passage she turned into was also adorned with pictures she remembered: her grandmother’s collection of Quattrocento martyrdoms, from which she averted her eyes. In Daisy’s childhood, St. Sebastian had given her nightmares.

  The new chatelaine respected the claims of history and had changed very little in the house. Unlike the grounds, Daisy thought with a smile, where Edgar fought an obstinate battle against his gardener and his bailiff to provide wild areas for the sustenance of his beloved lepidoptera.

  What their successors would choose to do with the place remained to be seen.

  The door of Geraldine’s sitting room, which had been Daisy’s mother’s, was ajar. Daisy tapped and went in.

  “Daisy!” The letter Geraldine was reading dropped to the floor—uncharacteristic untidyness—as she stood up and came to meet Daisy, both hands held out in a warm greeting. She kissed Daisy on each cheek, also uncharacteristic.

  In her late forties, Lady Dalrymple was a rather bony woman who moved without grace, though almost a decade of being a viscountess had imparted a somewhat self-conscious graciousness to her usual manner. She was always smartly and appropriately dressed, yet never looked quite at ease in her clothes. Her long-sleeved, shin-length linen frock was an unfortunate shade of mauve that did nothing for a pale complexion, unaided by cosmetics, beneath carefully waved iron grey hair. She wore a modest pearl necklace and a gold cloisonné brooch in the form of a butterfly, accurate to the last detail, Daisy was sure.

  “Hello, Geraldine.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I hope I’ll be able to help you, Geraldine, though I’m not sure how. But I’ve only just arrived. I must go up and wash my face.”

  “Of course, dear. I’ll ring for tea.”

  Daisy went up to the bedroom she ha
d slept in all through the years between the night nursery and leaving Fairacres after her father’s death. It, too, had changed little, though Geraldine had asked her permission a couple of years ago to have it spruced up. The curtains were still blue chintz with a pattern of wildflowers, though not quite the same; there was a new blue bedspread, and the two easy chairs by the fireplace had been reupholstered in the same shade of blue. The dark oak floorboards shone. The bedside and hearth rugs were the old ones but they had obviously been thoroughly cleaned.

  Daisy was touched by Geraldine’s obvious care in making sure she still felt at home, especially as she usually stayed with her mother at the Dower House when she came down, unless Violet and her family visited at the same time.

  In the miraculous way of well-run households, her bags had already been brought up and a maid was unpacking them. She promised to get the black marks out of Daisy’s driving gloves as well as the dust from her hat.

  A few minutes later, cleaner and tidier, Daisy went downstairs. Tea had arrived in Geraldine’s sitting room, and so had Edgar. His pince-nez and baggy tweeds made him look the epitome of the absentminded professor.

  “Look!” he greeted her, presenting a jar with a few leaves in it for her inspection.

  “Hello, Edgar. What have you caught now?” She took the jar and peered through the glass. Among the hawthorn leaves was a brownish caterpillar with bumps on its back. “A country bumpkin butterfly?” she suggested, quite wittily in her own opinion.

  “No, no, a moth, a Brimstone moth. More colourful than most, a vivid yellow.”

  “Edgar, do let Daisy sit down and have her tea. Are you going to join us?”

  “Tea? Is it teatime? Not now, my dear, thank you. I must see this little fellow settled in his case first. He’s quite large and may be almost ready to pupate. You see, if he—”

  “I’m sure Daisy will excuse you, dear,” Geraldine said firmly.

  “My dear Daisy, how kind of you to pay us a visit. We’re always happy to see you, you know.” Retrieving his jar, he patted her on the shoulder and trotted out.