by C. G Oster
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Vivian’s voice was heard. It was a little gruff with sleep. “Look who the cat dragged in.”
“Vivian,” Richard said brightly. “How are you?”
Richard seemed to be just as keen on Vivian as he was with his sister. “Good. About to head off to a party at Archie Wilshire’s villa.”
“Archie? I didn’t know he was here. Haven’t seen him since Oxford, second year. I thought he went to work for the Colonial Office. I know they call this a colony, but that’s a bit of a stretch.”
“Things didn’t work out so well there, it seems. Too soft to put his foot down.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Vivian replied.
Standing there, Dory felt like she was eavesdropping, but it hadn’t been her intention to. With her head up, she made her way to the salon where everyone had gathered.
Vivian looked no worse for wear from the evening before, but little seemed to dampen his overall golden glow.
“I wish Livinia could be a little more like you at times, Dory,” Richard stated. “You never linger in bed all day.”
“That’s because she’s used to getting up at the crack of dawn,” Vivian said dismissively and walked over to the tea service.
Dory smiled tightly. Oh, it was going to be a lovely day—a full day of bearing the brunt of Vivian’s jibes.
“Be nice, Vivian,” Lady Pettifer chided.
“I’m always nice, aren’t I, Miss Sparks?”
Dory didn’t bother answering and Vivian grinned.
Chapter 14
A rchie Wilshire had a lovely house built in art décoratif style, entirely white with large, sweeping rooms and enormous windows. It might be the most modern house Dory had ever seen. The furniture was exquisite as well, dainty with beautifully inlaid wood paneling. Dory spent her first moments in the house simply looking at everything. It was a world away from the two up, two down joined house she grew up in, and even miles away from the staid, old elegance of Wallisford Hall. This was a house of jazz and ideas—a complete rejection of all traditions. Dory loved it.
Vivian was immediately greeted by all and sundry. Everyone seemed to know him, but mostly from England rather than any time spent here on the coast. It seemed all the people of his class knew each other—or at least knew Vivian.
A few of the gathered party was dressed in tennis whites, so Dory guessed that part of the afternoon would involve tennis. A large, covered veranda overlooked a pool and the gardens beyond. With a smile, Dory could imagine how much Lady Pettifer would disapprove of this house, with its showy glossiness and blatant self-assurance.
Livinia was alive in this setting, adored by the people and loving being part of her group. She was practically bouncing on her feet as she walked.
“Archie,” she said, greeting their host, whom Dory understood was married to an elegant woman who wore silk blouses with long strands of fat pearls. Meredith was her name and she had polished black hair and a small mouth, accentuated by red lipstick.
In this crowd, Dory couldn’t help feeling frumpy. As much as she didn’t care about being accepted, and the center of attention as Livinia did, she also couldn’t muster the self-confidence that this group seemed to thrive on.
“And you remember Dory, of course,” Livinia said to the gentleman wearing a cream linen suit. It cut a lovely line on him, but it wrinkled. Still, comfort in this heat was important. “We wanted her to come along. I hope you don’t mind.”
With gritted teeth, Dory smiled. When she’d agreed to come, she hadn’t realized her presence would be hoisted on the host as a favor.
“No, of course not,” he said gregariously. No sign of imposition could be seen on his face and Dory liked Archie more for it. “Do you play tennis, Dory?”
“Two left feet,” she said. “I will spare everyone the pain of having to watch me chase a ball.”
“You and me both,” Meredith agreed, taking a sip of an iced drink from a long, slim glass.
With that, the attention was off Dory and they moved onto discuss what they had done over the last few years. Archie was an ardent sailor, and apparently Meredith could watch him out at sea from the cool of the veranda.
If Archie wasn’t so very foreign to Dory, she dared to think she would muster a crush on him. He was kind and generous, and smiled a great deal—but he was also so different from her, she wasn’t entirely sure she read him right. Could he really be that nice? Everything about him seemed perfect. His dress was perfect, his manners were impeccable and there didn’t seem to be a dark thought in him. By the look of him, he was simply happy to be there with all his friends.
Maybe it was the idea of happiness that seemed so foreign. Dory wasn’t sure she trusted it. At no point had she ever seen Vivian happy. Livinia was only happy when she wasn’t stuck with her own company. Lady Pettifer was content. But Archie looked happy and bright. Dory watched as he leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. A rush of envy bubbled up and she pushed it down. Happiness should be encouraged in the world, not begrudged.
The group moved out onto the veranda, where the pool glittered enticingly. Again, Dory was struck with how far away she was from her station in life. Could she even describe this to her mother? Some of the things she’d experienced, she’d actually omitted from her mother’s letters, fearing her mother warning her she was getting above herself. There was a hint in her mother’s letters saying so. Their lifestyle was not hers, and she couldn’t forget that.
Slowly, the group spilled down the sweeping stairs to the pool below, where a few of the girls sat down along the edge and cooled their legs. Dory stayed back. The truth was that she didn’t connect with the girls. They tolerated her presence, but were never friendly beyond politeness. In saying that, they were never overtly unkind, which Dory was grateful for. But she suspected they took their cue from Archie’s behavior towards her. They were gracious because he was kind. If he was something other, they would be too.
There was a bar set up by the pool. “Champagne, Dory?” Archie called.
“That would be lovely,” Dory answered. He brought over a bulbous glass with the bubbling, slight honey-colored liquid. Dory liked champagne. Before coming to the coast, she had only tasted it after her cousin’s baptism. Here there was no occasion that didn’t justify popping a cork. Maybe she was getting a little used to life above her station.
Two of the men grabbed racquets and headed across the lawn over the next few minutes, the whole group seemed to gravitate toward the courts. The tennis courts were down in elevation from the house, set amongst orange trees dotted with fruit that were still green. They provided lovely shade for anyone watching the game.
As Dory sat down on one of the benches a little away from the others, she watched Terry Wilcott. He had a very open face with slightly slanting eyes, giving him a perpetually bored look. If she had to guess, she would think he was around twenty-seven. Leather shoes were slightly scuffed as if he didn’t care for them properly.
“Your inquisition is going gangbusters,” Vivian said wryly. “So far you’ve only managed to hack a stammering hello to Archie. If you’re going to play detective, you actually have to speak to people.”
The urge to argue was flaring inside her, but she couldn’t. “I just haven’t got around to it.”
“Too distracted watching Archie on the court?”
Pairs of men had taken to the court, the ball in sharp percussions between them. Archie was one of them. What was this incessant focus on Archie? Perhaps she had been watching him a little. Annoyingly, Vivian pounced on anything she did that indicated the remotest degree of interest, as if he were in cahoots with her mother to ensure she got no ideas above her station. Well, if Vivian was going to point it out, she wasn’t going to cower. “I like Archie,” she said pointedly. “He’s a very kind man. I find kindness very compelling—intriguing. It makes you wonder about a person, who can afford to be so kind.” For a moment, Dory felt a flare of panic, wondering if Vi
vian would from now point out how intriguing she found Archie every moment of the day. It would be utterly juvenile. She didn’t, after all, have a crush on Archie. She just liked how kind he was, and how comfortable he seemed in his own skin. That was it—his self-assurance didn’t seem put on, and that really was intriguing.
Vivian was silent for a moment, running his finger along the top lip of his glass. The liquid inside was brown, so he was obviously starting with liquor fairly early in the day. Whiskey, probably. He seemed to like whiskey.
“Don’t confuse kindness for pity.”
Dory’s breath stopped in her chest. It was a cruel statement, maybe even the cruelest he’d imparted on her. Was it designed to erode any comfort she felt being there? It had to be designed to do something. She turned to him. “I think that’s the point, Vivian. It isn’t pity I feel from him, it’s just a plain welcome without any underlying need to prove something.”
“To prove what?”
“You tell me,” she said, refusing to look away.
“All I am saying is that you’re not going to prove a great detective if you are always cowering in a corner.”
That wasn’t what he had been saying at all, and they both knew it. Dory had faced him down and she’d won. She felt it in her bones. A lightness washed over her, but she didn’t know exactly what or why.
His gaze lingered for a moment, then he looked away. “Terry, come here,” he called and Terry looked up from across the other side of the tennis court. Getting up, he walked around until he reached them.
“Vivian,” he said in acknowledgement as he reached them. “What’s the urgency?”
“Miss Sparks here wishes to speak to you.”
Surprise registered on Terry’s face. “How can I help you, Miss Sparks?”
Drink in hand, Vivian walked away.
Chapter 15
U ncomfortably, Dory shifted in her seat.
“How can I help you, Miss Sparks?” Terry repeated.
“Uhmm,” she started, not quite knowing how to proceed. She wasn’t actually assisting a policeman here; she was doing this because you felt she needed to. “I was hoping you could tell me a little about Baron Drecsay,” she said and noted his surprise. “Actually, Lady Pettifer has asked me to talk to you. She is well acquaited with his family.” Hopefully that would give her some legitimacy in questioning people about this murder.
“He doesn’t have any family,” Terry stated.
“He has some relations in England.”
“Only distantly.”
Why did it matter, Dory wondered. “Yes.”
With a sigh, he sat down on the bench next to her. “What do you want to know? I don’t know who murdered him. Livinia was the one who found him, but I guess you’ve already spoken to her.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“I already told the police this.”
“And from what we hear, they attributed guilt to some cuckolded husband, but no one has been arrested.”
“Perhaps they’re still gathering evidence.”
Dory refused to be deterred, remembering how nothing would sway DI Ridley from his line of questioning. “Do you know who they suspect?”
Terry looked as if he was about to speak for a moment, but then paused. “I don’t, actually.”
“You were good friends.”
With a shrug, Terry crossed his arms. “I suppose you could say so.”
“And he didn’t tell you about any married woman he was congressing with?”
“Congressing?” Terry said with a smile. “No, he didn’t, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Drecsay liked women, particularly since the countess’ death. I suppose you heard about his relationship with Countess Tirau?”
“I understand she was very generous to him.”
“I think the old bat liked to think someone like Drecsay was actually enamored with her. They’re all like that, secretly, wanting to know young, handsome men find them fascinating. Granted, Drecsay could charm any girl out of her knickers, particularly rich ones.”
“And he was interested in Livinia, wasn’t he?”
“Livinia’s a smashing girl. Anyone who manages to set a ring on her finger would be set, wouldn’t they? Looks and money. Some would say that’s a winning combination. Maybe Drecsay was trying his luck. I don’t know; he didn’t tell me. But I do know he was seeing some floozy on a regular basis—some French girl. Not the kind you build a future with, if you know what I mean.”
“Charming,” Dory said dryly.
Terry stood up. “Maybe something related to this girl is responsible.”
Unlikely, thought Dory, as the murderer had been invited to Lady Tonbridge’s party.
Turning back to her, Terry continued. “Just because he looked like a saint didn’t mean he was one. In fact, he left a lot of people on the coast out of pocket. Not too careful with paying people back. Guess he didn’t have to be. Countess Tirau eventually took care of everything after some pleading and earnest declarations of devotion.” Terry snorted, then smiled. “The guy was a piece of work. You have to give him that. He was fun to know, provided you weren’t stupid enough to line his pockets. They guy did as he pleased. It’s not a surprise that someone offed him; it was bound to happen sooner or later. Maybe all the better for Livinia.”
Picking a speck of dirt off his shirt, Terry gave her the slightest nod before walking away. Dory watched him go, and slip back amongst his friends.
What had she learned that was new? The account of Drecsay’s character was consistent with what other people were saying, except for Livinia, who was obviously under the assault of this man’s charm. Everyone said he had been charming. And again, the countess with their ‘mutually beneficial’ relationship. What was new, however, was the mention of a girl he was seeing, a French, local girl—a floozy, Terry had called her.
The way Terry had said it, Dory expected that this girl had been a feature in his life. Prince Barenoli hadn’t mentioned her, but then Dory suspected there were plenty of things he hadn’t mentioned. Perhaps she needed to go see him again, but she wasn’t sure he would agree to a second meeting.
And who was this girl? Was she in some way responsible? The circumstances suggested not, but then she could well know more about what was going on in Drecsay’s life around and prior to his murder. But how in the world was she supposed to find this girl? If she had his address book, things would be so much easier. No doubt, the police had it. Surely, they wouldn’t be careless enough to overlook such a vital piece of evidence. Could she go and ask to see it? She could well imagine the unimpressed look from the inspector if she did.
Address book aside, the police would not have gathered everything, so his effects would still be somewhere—perhaps even at the hotel he was staying at. It wasn’t far away.
A tennis ball flew past her, breaking Dory out of her concentration.
“Sorry, Miss Sparks,” Richard said as he passed by her bench in search of the ball. A tight smile fleeted across her lips. The purpose of her visit to this party had been completed with her discussion with Terry—interview, it was in reality. Maybe she would even go so far as to call it an interrogation, she thought with a chuckle.
Now, she was stuck here for hours. Livinia and Vivian were not going to want to return home anytime soon and her coming along had been complicit with their schedules—not her own. Hours of this stretched in front of her. But then Nice was only a short drive away, wasn’t it? She could simply pop over and be back well before anyone wanted to go home.
The possibility of doing something useful sat brightly in her chest when she rose from her bench. She decided to tell Livinia instead of Vivian. It seemed her relationship with Vivian had reached a new low and she didn’t want a second round of his jabs just at the moment.
“Livinia,” she said lightly as she approached where Livinia sat with a group of girls around a table. Livinia looked over guardedly. It was obvious that Livinia was wary of being inclusive, no doubt find
ing Dory that bit ‘not right’ for her group of friends. “I thought I’d quickly pop over to Nice. Back in a tiff.”
The expression on Livinia’s face showed relief. Dory hadn’t realized she was quite such a burden for Livinia, which made her want to escape this company more than ever.
“Alright. Have a good time,” Livinia said, not even a bit curious as to why Dory would go to Nice.
Dory almost ran back up the stair toward the house. Meredith looked up as she reached the veranda, where she was arranging the table. There was going to be a meal at some point, Dory realized. “Need to pop out for a bit.”
With a gracious smile, Meredith continued with her task. Dory wasn’t sure she had ever felt quite so foreign here on the coast, and not foreign in the sense that she was from England, but foreign to the people who lived here. In a way, she told herself off for caring. DI Ridley wouldn’t care. He had a job to do and she needed to approach things the same way. He certainly didn’t have a crisis of identity every time he investigated a crime. Maybe it was time she grew a backbone and got on with the job.
Her sense of purpose renewed, she went to the car and started it. The engine rumbled to life and it whined as she backed up to make her way down to the coast road. The wind in her hair, she felt wonderful—a little like Vivian’s judgment and persecution was lifted off her.
This trip to Drecsay’s hotel could be a complete waste of time, but it could also provide some vital clues. In addition, she wondered what had happened to Drecsay himself, his body, she meant. Was he still here? According to Prince Barenoli, he had no family, so what had happened to the body? Had he been returned to Hungary? Was it even possible to return a body to Hungary? It could travel along Italy and Yugoslavia, she supposed. But if he had no family, who was to arrange his travel? Were his distant British family stepping in and offering to help? Nothing about that had been mentioned.
