Daughter of Riches

by Janet Tanner

  Juliet sat on her haunches, the telephone balanced on her jean-clad knees, one ear cocked in case someone came downstairs and asked who she was ringing.

  She was safe enough for the moment, she thought – David had left for the office, Deborah was taking her shower, usually quite a lengthy process, and Sophia was still in bed, resting. Later on the doctor would come to take a look at her but for the moment the coast seemed to be clear and Juliet had snatched the opportunity to look up the number in the telephone book of the man who had defended Sophia against the charge of causing Louis’s death.

  Finding the number had proved easier than she had expected – here in Jersey it was common practice to list Christian names rather than just initials. What had surprised her was the address. It sounded more like a private house than a place of business – but then it could be that the advocate had retired. Twenty years was a long time.…

  She dialled the number and listened to the bell ringing endlessly at the other end of the line. Perhaps she had been wrong in assuming Dan Deffains had retired. Perhaps he was a partner in a legal practice that was listed under someone else’s name. If so she had no chance whatever of finding him.

  ‘Hello. Dan Deffains.’

  The man’s voice was deep and full with a hint of a Jersey accent and ever so slightly impatient as if he was none too pleased to be disturbed. Juliet swallowed at the lump of nervousness that suddenly constricted her throat.

  ‘You won’t know me, Mr Deffains, but I am Juliet Langlois. I believe you represented my grandmother, Sophia Langlois at the time she was tried for causing my Uncle Louis’s death. I am over here from Australia and I really would like to talk to you about the case. Would it be possible for us to meet?’

  There was a moment’s complete silence and Juliet held her breath, half-expecting a refusal.

  ‘You are Sophia’s granddaughter you say?’ There was a sudden edge in his voice that might almost have been excitement. Later Juliet would remember and puzzle over it but for the moment she was too keyed-up and eager to even realise she had noticed it.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I realise it all happened a very long time ago but …’

  ‘All right. I can’t make today, I’m afraid. I’m totally tied up. But what about tomorrow?’

  She could hardly believe it. Somehow she kept the excitement out of her voice. ‘Morning or afternoon?’

  ‘Either. Though morning might suit me best. About ten, say? Or is that too early for you?’

  ‘No, that would be fine. Where?’

  ‘Could you come here? You have the address?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ A door opened upstairs. Someone was coming. Juliet panicked. ‘ Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She replaced the receiver just in time before Deborah came down the stairs, coolly beautiful in cream slacks and peach silk shirt.

  ‘Goodness, that’s better! I feel halfway human again. Sophia is looking much more herself this morning, thank God. Have you been in to see her?’

  ‘Yes. Briefly. But I think I’ll pop in again.’

  She ran up the stairs, feeling a little guilty about the deception but at the same time elated. Dan Deffains might not be able to tell her anything but at least she would have tried. And it wasn’t just idle curiosity either.

  I don’t believe Grandma killed Louis, Juliet thought. I just don’t believe it. And if she didn’t kill him, then someone else did, someone who has gone unpunished all these years – worse, has let Grandma take the blame for their actions. And I want to know who it is.

  The house was on the east side of St Helier, three stories high, white-stuccoed with a green tiled roof and green paintwork. Juliet parked her hire car on the opposite side of the road and sat for a moment looking up at it. Then she crossed the street to the short flight of stone steps flanked by pots of begonias that looked on the point of bursting into irrepressible pink and scarlet life. As she was about to ring the bell the door was opened by a woman wearing a bright headscarf and a coat which was flying open to reveal a floral apron.

  ‘Yes?’ The eyes in her florid face were small and beady.

  ‘I have an appointment with Dan Deffains.’

  ‘Oh.’ The woman hesitated, eyeing Juliet with suspicion. Then she went back into the house, closing the door after her as if she were afraid Juliet might sneak inside if she left it ajar. A few moments later she was back. Her eyes were still bead sharp and unfriendly.

  ‘You can go in, he says.’ Then: ‘I’m off now!’ she called back to Dan Deffains, as if to wash her hands of the visitor.

  The door closed after her and Juliet stood in the hall waiting and wrinkling her nose appreciatively at the smell of fresh lavender polish. After a few moments a man came down the stairs – a tall man, athletically built, wearing chinos and an open necked shirt. Not handsome, exactly, but there was something about him which was instantly attractive. Perhaps, she thought, it was his smile – a very nice smile which crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Miss Langlois? I’m Dan Deffains.’ The voice was deep dark brown, like thick warmed treacle. It certainly sounded like the voice at the end of the telephone. But he was far too young to be the man she had come to see – early thirties at the very outside.

  ‘I think there must be some mistake,’ Juliet said, disconcerted. ‘The Dan Deffains I wanted to talk to was the advocate who defended my grandmother twenty years ago.’

  ‘That was my father. Also Dan Deffains. It is a bit confusing, I know. Look – shall we go in?’

  He pushed open the door of what was obviously the sitting-room. Sunlight slanted in, brightening the mustard-coloured curtains and rugs and glancing off the freshly polished table, but it could not disguise the stark masculinity of the room. No woman lived here, Juliet felt sure. There were no fresh flowers, no ornaments, none of the little touches a woman gives to a room, and what pieces there were were strictly unfrilly – a set of Hogarth cartoons on the wall, hunting knives over the mantelpiece, a plain brass Tilly lamp on the table. Some silver trophies were displayed in a glass fronted cabinet – although ‘displayed’ was hardly the right word to use, Juliet thought. The trophies looked as if they had simply been put in the cabinet and forgotten.

  The room suited the man, however. He looked completely at home in it.

  ‘I hope I’m not making too much of a nuisance of myself,’ Juliet said. ‘It’s very good of your father to see me. Is he …?’

  She broke off. Dan Deffains was looking guilty, almost like a small boy caught stealing the chocolate hiscuits.

  ‘I’m afraid there is a bit of a snag there, Miss Langlois. My father died last year.’

  ‘Oh!’ Juliet was startled. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that on the telephone?’

  He paused, countering her startled response with a rueful grin.

  ‘I’m sorry – I should have explained on the telephone, I suppose, that I am not the Dan Deffains you thought I was, but I have to admit to having been fascinated by the case involving your grandmother for a very long time. I was only a boy when my father represented her, of course, but I know she was almost a cause celebre as far as he was concerned and I couldn’t resist the opportunity of talking to you about it.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Juliet’s disappointment was as evident in her voice as it had been in her face. ‘I had been hoping your father would be able to tell me something about what happened. As I said earlier I’m over here from Australia – we emigrated when I was four years old – and I thought perhaps as her lawyer he might be able to fill me in with a few details. Since that is obviously not possible I think we are both probably wasting our time.’

  Dan Deffains regarded her thoughtfully. He too was disappointed – when she had telephoned he had thought that perhaps at last luck was turning his way and he might find a breakthrough point in the case that had occupied his thoughts for so long, both personally and professionally. But he was better at hiding his feelings than Juliet and in any case, from his point
of view all might not be lost. It wasn’t going to be handed to him on a plate as he’d thought it might be – but then, what in life was?

  ‘I’m not sure I agree we’d be wasting our time if we were to have a talk.’ He ran a hand through his hair, thick, dark and very short. ‘Look – can I get you a coffee? Mrs Ozouf put it on for me ten minutes ago so it should be just about ready.’

  Juliet hesitated. She couldn’t think what he meant and she wondered briefly if he was making a play for her. But in spite of getting her here under false pretences he did not seem the sort of man to avoid being alone with and besides, although she could not see what he could possibly tell her she felt oddly reluctant to close the door on the one link with the past that she had established outside the family.

  As if on cue the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted in from the kitchen and she made up her mind.

  ‘All right, thank you. Though I still don’t really see the point.’

  ‘I’ll try to explain in a minute. Sit down – I’ll fetch the coffee.’

  Juliet perched on the edge of a worn brown wing chair, tucking her legs beneath her and wishing she had worn trousers instead of her mini-skirted linen suit. Back at La Grange it had looked sharp and smart, just the thing for a visit to a frowsty old advocate. Here, in this aggressively masculine room, she was acutely aware of her bare legs and felt oddly vulnerable.

  ‘Here we are then.’ Dan came back into the room carrying a coffee jug, two mugs and a bowl of sugar on an enamelled tray. The design had faded somewhat, Juliet noticed as he put it down on a low table. But at close quarters the coffee smelled even better.

  ‘So,’ Juliet said as he poured, ‘ why did you say we might not be wasting our time?’

  As he pushed the cup towards her across the low table his glance lingered for a moment on her long tanned legs and his mouth quirked into a half-smile. But he said nothing. Somehow he did not think Miss Juliet Langlois would appreciate wisecracks, however honestly flattering they were intended to be!

  ‘My father was an advocate of the old school, French trained at Caen rather than an English lawyer such as you’ll find today. He went into what was his father’s practice and he had no partners – he liked to work alone. When he died all his current work was turned over to other firms and it fell to me to clear out his office and dispose of his archives. A pretty boring job it was too for the most part and I consigned the bulk of the stuff to the shredder. But one file I kept because it had always fascinated me, just as I knew it had haunted my father. That was the file relating to your grandmother’s case.’

  ‘Really?’ Juliet sat forward eagerly, annoyance forgotten. ‘And you still have it?’

  ‘Yep.’ He got up, crossed to the heavy old chiffonier that stood in a corner and took out a cardboard file tied with pink legal tape. Then he brought it over, tossing it carelessly down onto the table beside the coffee cups. ‘There we are. ATTORNEY GENERAL v. SOPHIA LANGLOIS – November 1972.’

  A nerve jumped in Juliet’s throat. She stared down at the file, almost hypnotised by the wording on the label. ATTORNEY GENERAL v SOPHIA LANGLOIS. Seeing it in black and white was a shock somehow, giving substance to what had previously been almost a fiction, something that might never have happened at all.

  ‘It’s all there,’ Dan was saying. ‘Every last detail. Or, to be more precise, every last detail that the principals chose to tell my father.’

  His tone was heavy with meaning. Juliet glanced up, meeting his eyes and reading the implication as a confirmation of the same doubts Catherine had expressed.

  ‘You mean … you think it’s not necessarily the truth?’

  ‘I know my father always believed Sophia was innocent and it played on his mind. He had been in a cleft stick professionally speaking. On the one hand he was governed by his client’s instructions and she never said one word to suggest she was anything but guilty. On the other he went to his grave feeling he had let her down by not insisting on persuading her to fight the charges. To be honest I wonder if the whole business had something to do with his early death – he had a heart attack at the age of sixty-five, and we all know stress plays a part in cases of that sort.’

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘Not your fault. Nor your grandmother’s, come to that. An advocate should be able to live with his own ethical decisions. I mention it only to show you that I do have a very real and personal interest in the case. But to get back to your question as to whether I believe the statements and so on in the file tell the truth, I have to say that if your grandmother was innocent – as my father was convinced she was – then clearly they do not.’

  Juliet could feel her skin prickling. She had been so sure she was right, now hearing Dan Deffains’s son more or less confirming her suspicions she experienced an emotion midway between elation and apprehension.

  ‘It all dovetails though?’ she asked.

  ‘As far as one would expect. But I don’t think the case was ever properly investigated. I don’t know how much you know about our legal system here but to be honest it leaves something to be desired. The chief officers of law enforcement are civilians, known as the Constable, the centeniers and the vingteniers. In the old days the terms were strictly literal – a centenier was in charge of a hundred households and a vingtenier twenty. Nowadays of course that is no longer the case and there is a professional police force – the ‘paid police’, as they are somewhat disparagingly called, but they are still answerable to the Honorary police and believe it or not they have no powers of arrest which are all vested in the elected officers.’

  ‘Paid police. Yes, I’ve heard of them. But I didn’t realise the proper police didn’t have any powers of arrest. How odd!’

  ‘To the rest of the world it must seem pretty feudal, but that’s the way it is here. Until fairly recent times even the Parishes were all separately administered – if a criminal crossed the boundary he couldn’t be followed until the law officers had sorted it out between themselves. Pretty ludicrous, really, especially in an island the size of Jersey, and as you can imagine the system causes friction between the Honorary and the paid police. On occasions it can be detrimental to the course of justice. I believe – and so did my father – that Sophia’s was a case in point.’

  ‘Why?’ Juliet sat forward, cup clasped between her hands, but the coffee untouched.

  ‘There was a fair old feud going on at the time between John Germaine, the centenier and Ivor Fauval, the detective inspector. Germaine was an old school country gentleman type, proud of his position, jealous of Jersey’s history and traditions, typical well-to-do middle class. Fauval, on the other hand, was an ordinary career policeman and he resented everything about Germaine – his money, the breeding that oozed out of every elegant pore, and, most of all, the fact that he, Fauval, was answerable to him. That, I think, was the bitter pill he could not swallow. Here he was, a trained professional policeman, required to do the bidding of a man who, in his opinion, just played at the job.’

  Juliet frowned. ‘Are you saying this Inspector Fauval pressed charges against my grandmother out of spite?’ she asked.

  ‘No – simply that it might have made him less anxious to look for any other explanation. Let’s face it, he had an open-and-shut case presented to him with Sophia’s confession. You could hardly expect him to throw it out because she happened to be a friend of John Germaine – the ‘‘ boss’’, so to speak.’

  ‘It sounds as though you have some sympathy with Inspector Fauval,’ Juliet said.

  ‘I have – or at least with his point of view. I used to be a policeman myself and I know how galling it can be. In this case, however, I think resentment blinded Fauval to his duty. He knew the Langlois family – your family – were personal friends of the centenier. He knew the embarrassment the whole thing was causing him. And he was envious too of everything your family had – wealth, position, lovely homes, chauffeur-driven cars. When Sophia confessed he was only too glad to take her confess
ion at face value. He marked it down to his clear-up rate and he never investigated it as thoroughly as he should have.’

  ‘I see.’ Juliet’s mouth was dry. ‘And what do you think he would have discovered if he had investigated properly?’

  Dan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know, but I wish I did. I thought you might be able to fill in some of the blanks.’

  ‘Me!’ She stared at him. ‘But I’ve told you – this is all totally new to me. I didn’t even know until a few weeks ago that I had an Uncle Louis, much less that my grandmother had stood trial for killing him. My parents never told me and nobody here seems to want to talk about it either. I can understand that in a way. It must be something they would rather forget. But on the other hand the brick wall that goes up does seem a bit excessive. Especially since I get the feeling …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t think they believe Grandma was guilty either. So why don’t they want to get the whole thing out in the open and prove her innocence? She’s a sick woman – she has a weak heart. She could have a serious attack and die at any time – wouldn’t you think they’d want to clear her name before it’s too late?’

  ‘Is that why you telephoned to talk to my father?’ Dan asked directly. Faint colour rose in Juliet’s cheeks.

  ‘Well, yes, if I’m honest I think it is. I wasn’t certain what I expected him to say. I just thought I’d like to hear what happened from an independent source – someone not directly involved. And yes, I suppose I did fancy the idea of playing at detective. It’s not a very nice thing, you know, for any of us. My parents emigrated to escape the scandal. I think I was hoping I might find some evidence to clear Grandma’s name. But I suppose that is out of the question now.’

  ‘It might not be. If we worked together …’ He hesitated, trying to gauge what her reaction might be, then he went on: ‘ Look – I have my father’s file. I also have connections with the State of Jersey Police. I might be able to do a bit of digging in the archives. And you are in close contact with most of the people who were involved. You say that they clam up and refuse to talk about what happened. But if you were to ask the right questions perhaps you could get to the truth.’