The Cavendon Women

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  DeLacy was weeping quietly, but after a few moments she pulled herself together, and stood away.

  “Hello, Eric,” she murmured, then looked at Cecily, her eyes still wide with shock. She said, “Please look at Travers? I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  “Yes, we will,” Eric answered. “Where is he?”

  “In the bedroom. It’s over there.”

  Together Eric and Cecily crossed the large studio, and went into the bedroom. But it was Eric who stepped over to the bed, took hold of Travers’s hand, and felt for his pulse. There wasn’t one. Looking into Travers’s face, he shook his head, gently closed his eyelids.

  Turning to look at Cecily, and then DeLacy standing in the doorway, Eric said, “I’m so sorry, Lady DeLacy. I’m afraid he’s dead. Of what, I’ve no idea. I would think a heart attack, perhaps.”

  “But he’s young,” Cecily exclaimed, shaking her head. “How can that be?”

  DeLacy didn’t say a word. She just stood there staring into space, tears trickling down her face. Then she walked into the bedroom, bent over Travers, and kissed his face. It was cold, and she pulled back. Swallowing, endeavoring to control her emotions, she lifted the sheet with shaking hands and covered him up.

  Cecily took hold of her arm, and said, “I think we must leave. Do you have everything?”

  “I do, yes.”

  Looking at the expensive jewelry, Cecily said, “Are you sure you do have all of that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Ushering DeLacy into the studio, Eric said, “Let’s sit down for a moment, so you can tell us what happened this evening. I’d like to know.”

  She nodded, and they all sat. DeLacy said, “Travers and I went to the Coddington wedding at the Ritz. Travers had been at school with Peter Coddington. It was a very lavish affair. Travers and I had quite a lot to drink, more than usual. And especially for me. When we left we were really drunk, but managed to get ourselves here in a cab. We fell into bed, and passed out. I woke up around one-thirty, feeling nauseous. I vomited a lot. Then I drank some water, and went to sit in here. I saw Travers; he looked so strange, falling out of bed, his eyes blank. I was afraid. I didn’t know what was wrong.” Looking across at Cecily she said, “That was when I called you, Ceci.”

  “It was almost two when you telephoned. I know because I looked at the clock on my bedside table.”

  “Nobody else was here with you?” Eric asked.

  DeLacy shook her head. “No, we were alone.”

  “You say you vomited,” Cecily said, frowning. “Could you have eaten something that poisoned you? And also Travers?”

  “I told you, the reception and dinner were at the Ritz Hotel. The food is the best.”

  Eric, who had been looking thoughtful, said slowly, “It’s not the first time I’ve heard of a young man dying of a heart attack. And who knows, Mr. Merton might have had heart problems. Do you know if he did, Lady DeLacy?”

  “He never mentioned it.”

  “Could all the alcohol have caused something to happen?” Cecily looked at Eric, raising a brow.

  “It could, but I’m not a doctor, you know.”

  “I don’t think we should just go and leave Travers here like this after all,” Cecily now said, changing her mind about leaving. “I think we ought to call Uncle Howard, tell him what’s happened.”

  “But he’s Scotland Yard,” DeLacy whispered, frowning. “Why do you want to involve Scotland Yard?”

  “He’s also family, Lady DeLacy. But the normal thing to do when somebody dies is to call that person’s doctor. Did Mr. Merton have a doctor?” Eric asked.

  “No, not that I know of. He was very healthy.”

  “Shall we call an ambulance? And have Mr. Merton’s body taken to a hospital? When somebody dies suddenly like this, there has to be an examination, perhaps even an autopsy,” Eric explained.

  “I’m going to telephone Uncle Howard, ask his advice. I’d like to have this matter in the hands of a Swann.”

  “He’s not a Swann,” DeLacy muttered.

  “He’s married to one, and that means he is,” Cecily answered firmly.

  * * *

  Howard Pinkerton arrived at Travers Merton’s studio in less than half an hour, having told Cecily that he would come over to check everything out himself.

  He spoke to DeLacy at length, and she took him through the progression of earlier events. When she had finished, he said, “I would like to see Mr. Merton’s body, please, Lady DeLacy. If I may?”

  DeLacy took him over to the bedroom, showed him inside, then retreated.

  The inspector pulled back the sheet and scrutinized Travers Merton’s body intently. He made a mental note that there were no marks on the body, no bruises, no signs of violence. He covered the body with the sheet and went back into the studio.

  He said, “I’m going to call for an ambulance, have Mr. Merton’s body taken to hospital, for a thorough examination. I will take my medical examiner over there myself.”

  Sitting down on a chair, he continued, “Quite frankly, it looks to me like a natural death. More than likely a heart attack. How old was Mr. Merton, Lady DeLacy?”

  “Thirty-seven,” she answered. “And he was in good health.” Tears filled her eyes, and she endeavored to control her emotions, turned her head away, blinking.

  Inspector Pinkerton volunteered, “Often a young man walks around with a condition he’s not aware of, and perhaps this was so with Mr. Merton. You told me he didn’t have a doctor.”

  “That’s right. I know because I once asked him, and he said he didn’t need a doctor, he was as fit as a fiddle. Those were his words.”

  Howard Pinkerton nodded. “I prefer not to speculate. Let us wait for a professional opinion.”

  He stood up, went over to the phone, made a telephone call to Emergency Services. He looked across the room at the others, and said, “There’s no need for you to wait for the ambulance. I will handle this. By the way, who is the next of kin, do you know, Lady DeLacy?”

  “Travers was orphaned, and his grandparents are dead. He does have one relative, on his mother’s side. A cousin, and they were quite friendly. Otherwise, there’s no one.”

  * * *

  Eric hailed a cab, and Cecily and Eric took DeLacy to her flat in Alford Street. Cecily had invited DeLacy to stay with her, not wanting her to be alone at this difficult time. DeLacy refused, explaining that she needed to be in her own home.

  “There are a lot of his things in my flat, and I have to be surrounded by them. I’ll be all right, Ceci. Thank you for coming to help me.”

  “You know I’d do anything for you, Lacy.”

  “So what happens next?” DeLacy now asked.

  “Uncle Howard will stay in touch,” Cecily replied.

  Eric interjected, “I think we’ll know quickly how he died once he is examined by a doctor.”

  “Do you know Travers’s cousin, Lacy?” Cecily asked. “I think you will have to be in touch, and there is the matter of the funeral.”

  “I’ve met his cousin, he’s pleasant. His name is Vivian Carmichael and he’s from the Noyers side of the family. But I’m not sure how to reach him.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Uncle Howard can handle it, or Miles.”

  * * *

  Eric and Cecily walked through Mayfair, back to her flat in Chesterfield Street. At one moment, he took hold of Cecily’s arm, and drew her to a halt.

  She looked at him. “What is it, Eric?”

  “I just wanted to say that you acted like a true Swann, the way you wanted to hurry DeLacy away from the studio.”

  “I know it must have seemed heartless. But that’s the way we’re built—protect the Inghams, take the bullet if you have to. And frankly, I’d no idea what had happened. I felt I had to get her away from the studio, and back at home.”

  “You did the right thing, phoning Howard. He’s the best copper I know. But I think it was a natural death, don’t you?”


  “Yes, I suppose so. Yet something nags at the back of my mind, something I can’t quite put my finger on.”

  Eric frowned. “You’re surprising me. Do you think they were poisoned? If so, by whom? Who would want to hurt them?”

  “I don’t know. But why was she vomiting?”

  “DeLacy is not used to imbibing a lot of booze, is she? Maybe the tippling made her feel nauseous, caused the vomiting.”

  Cecily simply frowned, and they walked on.

  Eric said, “She’s still a bit wobbly, you know, and her eyes look glazed. And she’ll have one hell of a hangover.”

  “She’s a fragile person, Eric. I must look after her.”

  Fifty-three

  There is no place more beautiful than Cavendon Park, especially when the sun is shining, Cecily thought as she walked up to the house from the village.

  It was the middle of April, and after weeks of rain, and before that, melting snow, the weather had suddenly changed for the better. She glanced up.

  The sky was pale blue this afternoon, with white, scudding clouds, and the sun was bright, if not exactly warm. Buds were opening on the shrubs and trees, and even a few early daffodils were pushing their way up. Everything was green and growing. Renewal was in the air.

  After Travers Merton’s tragic death, things were looking up. DeLacy was recovering slowly from her soul-destroying anguish and emotional devastation. He had died of a heart attack, according to the doctors at the hospital, and the medical examiner brought in by Howard Pinkerton. It was declared to be a natural death.

  Travers’s cousin, Vivian Carmichael, had asked DeLacy to help with his funeral, and she had done so willingly. All the Inghams had attended, to give her support, along with many of his old friends.

  Cecily had quickly come to realize that this extraordinary turnout and display of loyalty and love had been part of DeLacy’s healing process. It had comforted her that his friends cared so much for Travers.

  DeLacy was living at Cavendon most of the time. She felt at ease within the middle of her family, welcomed their love and affection.

  DeLacy was also on the mend, and in no small part because of Cecily’s brother, Harry. They had been childhood friends, and in his spare time Harry went riding with her, and sometimes they all went to the theater in Harrogate. Harry was offering DeLacy some companionship, and this pleased Cecily. There was nothing worse than being alone when you were sorrowful. She knew that only too well.

  Cecily was feeling rather chuffed today. Only two hours ago, Michael Alexander, the producer of the musical, had telephoned her to say he loved the first sketches of the clothes. She was enjoying this new venture, had discovered she liked designing for the theater.

  Her other project, the boutique in Harte’s department store, would be opening in the late summer. She was currently designing a new line of accessories exclusively for Harte’s. She could sell them in her own shops, but not to any other retailers.

  Dulcie had come up with a few good ideas for her, and they were already in production. She smiled to herself at the thought of Dulcie, who had already found a building in Mayfair for her art gallery.

  The two of them had giggled together the other day, at the Burlington Arcade shop. Dulcie had confided that she was about to raid all the family attics in order to have an inventory for the gallery. They had both envisaged the furor this would create.

  The other bit of good news was that Diedre had given birth to the baby in New York. It was a boy, and mother and child were doing well.

  Cecily glanced at her watch. It was just after three-thirty. She had been invited to tea by Aunt Charlotte, who had asked her to bring some of the sketches of the clothes for the musical, and she had them in her satchel.

  As she hurried past the rose garden, Cecily noticed the oak door was wide open. She went to close it, and was surprised to see her aunt sitting on a garden seat. She had her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  * * *

  Cecily went into the rose garden, closing the heavy door behind her and running down the steps.

  She flew along the gravel path; her aunt looked up and saw her, stared at her blindly, as if not seeing her at all. Charlotte’s face was stark, and the color of bleached bone.

  “Aunt Charlotte, what is it? What’s wrong?” Cecily cried, sitting down on the seat next to her, letting her satchel fall onto the ground.

  Charlotte did not answer. She sat there motionless, as unmoving as a statue. Cecily noticed a vein throbbing in her aunt’s temple and there was a look of anguish in her eyes.

  Cecily, who was afraid of nothing, was unexpectedly very frightened. She knew that whatever had happened, it was big. Enormous, in fact. Was the earl ill? No, she would not be on this seat if he were. She would be with him. And yet instinctively Cecily was positive her aunt was in some kind of shock. What was scaring her and creating this state of mind?

  Without warning, Charlotte suddenly put her arms around Cecily and began to sob, clutching her tightly, clinging to her like a drowning woman to a raft. Holding her closely, trying to calm her, Cecily wondered where Miles was. She needed Miles. And no one else. It was apparent that Charlotte had a problem which she could not share with the earl.

  After a while, the sobbing lessened, and finally Charlotte sat up, looking deeply into Cecily’s face. Taking a few deep breaths, she said in a trembling voice, “I think I needed that, it helped. And I’m sorry, Ceci, to do that to you.”

  Grabbing hold of her aunt’s hands, Cecily said softly, “I love you. I am always here for you. Please tell me what’s wrong? Explain why you are so dreadfully disturbed. Perhaps I can help you. I know the earl must be all right, otherwise you would be with him. Are you ill, Aunt Charlotte?”

  “No, I’m not,” she answered, her voice shaking, tears behind her words. “It’s Cavendon that’s ill. It’s dying, Cecily, it’s going to disappear before our very eyes. We have lost. And without Cavendon Hall we have nothing. When Charles finds out it will kill him, I know it will. Cavendon is his life. That’s why I’m hiding down here, wondering what to do. I cannot give him this news. I dare not. I’m afraid it will cause him to have another heart attack—”

  Interrupting her, Cecily cried, “But what has happened? You must tell me, and we’ll work out how to handle it.”

  “It was Ted,” Charlotte said. “He discovered some major problems in the house—”

  “You mean when Ted was having the plumbing in the bathroom repaired during the wedding?”

  “Yes. First it was one bathroom, and then two, and now it’s ten.” Charlotte broke down again, the tears flowing. “And that’s not all of it,” she said, brushing away her tears with her hands. “The entire house is in danger. Bad floors, more leaking roofs, the structure is in a weakened state. When Ted came with the first bit of bad news in January, and then February, I told Charles that we had to attend to the bathrooms, bring in extra plumbers. At the time, it was two. Then it grew, the repair work I mean. To cut a long story short, Ted suggested we call in some reputable surveyors, and so we did. I asked Charles’s permission to do this, explaining it was a precaution; that it was nothing too dramatic.”

  “But it is, isn’t it?” Cecily asserted, grasping the problem now.

  Charlotte could only nod. She took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “The melting snow, the terrible rain lately, have wreaked havoc, and so have many, many years of neglect. Today I received the written reports from the surveyors. They’re horrendous, terrifying. I dread to show them to Charles. They are devastating, those reports.”

  “The surveyors think the entire house needs a major overhaul, is that it?” Cecily suggested.

  “Yes, it is, Ceci.”

  “And it’s going to be costly. I’m correct, aren’t I?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Vast. And it’s money we don’t have.”

  Cecily sat back on the seat, thinking hard. She looked at her watch. “It’s almost four.
Do you think you can get through tea without displaying any emotions or being upset, Aunt Charlotte?”

  “I think so. But why?” Charlotte’s voice was a bit steadier.

  “I want to formulate a thought I have, turn it into a plan,” Cecily told her. “A plan that might help a bit.”

  Charlotte stared at her. Doubtful though she was that anyone could save them, she nevertheless listened to her niece. “What is the plan?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you that until later. Who’s coming to tea?”

  “DeLacy, Great-Aunt Gwendolyn, you and Miles, and Charles and myself. I don’t know whether you know, but Hugo took Daphne to Paris for a week. She’s been longing to go for ages, and she worked so hard all these years—” Charlotte’s voice broke.

  She looked at Cecily and saw the determination on her face, the steely glint in her lavender-gray eyes. There was a toughness in her niece that Charlotte had always recognized, had even admired. And great brilliance as a businesswoman.

  “Can’t you tell me something, Cecily? Just to give me hope.”

  “No, I can’t. Because it might be false hope. Where are the surveyors’ reports?”

  “Upstairs in my underwear drawer,” Charlotte replied.

  “This is what I think you should do. Go home, go to your dressing room, make yourself look beautiful. Tidy your hair and face and put on a great frock of mine. Then go downstairs to tea, and be the Countess of Mowbray. Tell Miles I’ll be a few minutes late. And be prepared to make an announcement when tea is over. Tell them, us, that you have to have a family meeting.”

  “When would the meeting be?”

  “Right there and then. Once Hanson has cleared the tea things. That is when you will have the meeting.”

  “And is that when you want me to give them the bad news? Is that it?”

  “It is. But by then I think my plan to give you some help might have been formulated in my head.”

  * * *

  After Charlotte had left, Cecily remained seated in the rose garden. Taking a small notebook out of her satchel, she made several lists, closed the pad, and put it away. And then followed on the heels of her aunt.