Daughter of Riches (11 page)

‘I'm sorry …' she began but Deborah interrupted her.

‘Louis,' she said. ‘Yes, that photograph is of Louis.' Her voice was strained, determinedly light, but Juliet knew that for the first time since she had arrived she had seen Deborah in less than complete control of herseif.

‘I didn't mean to pry,' Juliet said hastily.

‘Don't be silly, of course you are not prying. It's natural curiosity. He was your uncle, after all.'

‘Exactly. But in many ways it's as if he never existed.'

‘Oh he existed all right!' That was David, his tone deeply bitter. ‘The fact of the matter is my brother was never anything but trouble. He was a strange one – ruthless, selfish, hard as nails …'

‘And very charming.'

Juliet saw the look that passed between them, the lift of Deborah's chin in a gesture close to defiance as she said it, the wary expression in David's eyes and again she was aware of the powerful emotions it seemed Louis could still evoke, almost twenty years after his death. For a moment it seemed as if the very room was holding its breath, then David tossed back his drink impatiently.

‘We don't really want to talk about Louis do we? What sort of a subject is that?' He stood up, loosening his tie. ‘I'm going to bed. I have a busy day tomorrow. Greig wants me to go over the accounts with him and that is trying enough even when I have a clear head. You stay down if you want to.'

‘No, I think I'm ready to turn in too. Juliet?'

Juliet nodded her agreement. But she was disappointed that the subject of Louis had been dropped so unceremoniously and though she went up to her room it was a long time before she was able to sleep. Images set off by the evening's events were chasing through her mind. Sean … half a world away in Australia, loving her, wanting her back; Grandma … looking so shockingly frail suddenly; Viv with her acid tongue; Deborah and David exchanging a look that had totally excluded her whilst appearing almost to challenge one another; even her own parents, defensive and secretive as they had been when she had told them she wanted to visit Jersey. And of course, most of all, Louis … Louis, whose life had clearly had such a dramatic effect on everyone who knew him and whose death was still shrouded in mystery.

What was the truth of it all? Juliet wondered. And would she ever learn any more than the little she knew already? Probably not. Whenever his name was mentioned the family closed ranks, it seemed. And she, as the next generation, was firmly excluded.

Juliet was not the only one unable to sleep. In her beautiful bedroom, decorated in soft pinks and peaches, Deborah lay quite still, arms wrapped around herself, eyes wide open in an attempt to make the nightmare fade more quickly.

It was a long time now since she had had it. Once upon a time it had come almost every night, then gradually less and less often until nowadays months would pass by without a recurrence of those haunting scenes from the past.

It shouldn't be like this, Deborah had sometimes thought. A dream or a nightmare should be just that – fantasy – not a reliving of something that had actually happened. And sometimes it was. Sometimes the same emotions – the fear, the loneliness, the sheer desperation – came in other guises. Not tonight. Tonight she had been whirled back in time to the girl she had once been, Debbie Swift, seventeen years old, with a cloud of back-combed bleached-blonde hair and a pair of bright pink hot-pants, teetering along on three-and-a-half inch heels. Tonight she had known throughout the dream exactly why she was so sad and so frightened and when she had woken at last and raised a shaking hand to wipe away the tears that were filling her eyes she had half expected to feel eyelashes spiky with waterproof mascara instead of soft and lustrous from the nightly treatment with oil and glycerine. Even as reality began to return the aura of that other Debbie remained, reaching out across the years to envelop her. And though she was awake the cameras rolled again before her eyes, showing her glimpses of the night that haunted her.

She knew what had caused this relapse, of course, and it had nothing to do with Sophia's attack, worrying though that was. No, it was the talk of Louis that had sparked it off.

In the darkness a solitary tear welled up in the corner of Deborah's eye and ran down her cheek. She folded her arms around herself more tightly but she could not stop the trembling and soon her whole body was shaking with huge uncontrollable, racking sobs.

Why should she cry for him? God knew he had been nothing but a bastard. But it made no difference. It never had.

Alone in the night Deborah cried as she had often cried before and each and every sob was an echo of his name.

‘Oh Louis … Louis …'

Juliet was awake again very early – the sign of a busy mind, her mother always said, and certainly this morning it seemed to be the case. She had fallen asleep thinking about Louis and the twenty-year-old mystery surrounding his death, now, as she came through the layers of consciousness, it was still there, teasing at her. She eased herself up on the pillows, propping her hands behind her head and trying to force her mind back to her own hazy recollections of the events that had preceded her parents' departure for Australia.

A vague memory of Louis had taken shape on the edges of her mind, an image indistinct as an over-exposed photograph, but she was unsure how much of this was real memory and how much imagination inspired by the snippets of information she had gleaned about him and the photograph beside her grandmother's bed. The memory, if that was what it was, stirred long forgotten emotions, echoes of alarm and anxiety experienced by a four-year-old child who had sensed a threat to the continuance of her secure world in the raised voices behind closed doors, the whispered conversations that ended the moment she entered a room and the strained faces of those closest to her. But there was nothing, no single shred of concrete memory she could get hold of. Each soft focus picture slipped infuriatingly away from her as she tried to grasp it just as a dream slips away on waking.

Juliet pushed her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair, frustrated by her inability to remember. She wanted to know the truth. She wouldn't ever be able to put the past to the back of her mind and get on with the future until she did. But she could not imagine how she could ever get to the bottom of the mystery. Every one of the family was too adept at sliding away from awkward questions. Only an outsider would be likely to tell her something approximating to the truth, someone without emotional involvement. But she did not know anyone and it was all so long ago.

Quite suddenly Juliet's eyes flew wide open and her fingers ceased their abstracted combing of her hair. The advocate who had defended her grandmother – what had Aunt Catherine called him? Dan Deffains, that was it. If she could find him, talk to him, was there just the slimmest chance that
he
might tell her the truth? He might consider it a breach of professional confidence, of course, and she couldn't expect him to reveal anything that had not been made public at the time, but at least she would have the facts.

‘I didn't believe she had done it and neither did Dan Deffains,' Aunt Catherine had said. Perhaps, if she approached him in the right way he might explain just why he had had those doubts. Juliet pushed aside the covers and got out of bed. She was trembling slightly from combined anticipation and nervousness. But her mind was already made up. Somehow she would find Dan Deffains and ask for his help.

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 …?'