Heirs of the Body (6 page)

“Whatever she is now, she’ll be a lady if her husband turns out to be the heir presumptive. In the meantime, she must be treated as such.”

“Why doesn’t he just tell her to stay in Jamaica and wait for Samuel’s return?”

“He probably will. The thing is, he’d like to get his hands on whatever information she can provide, as soon as possible.”

“Didn’t you say he’s had someone in Jamaica looking into the family history? Can’t he talk to her?”

“That’s a good point, darling. I’ll suggest it, though I’d be surprised if Tommy missed it. Perhaps the man is good at searching records but isn’t the type who’d be any good at interviewing.”

“Could be. We have plenty of those at the Yard.”

“So what should he do?”

“He could try to employ someone more appropriate—not easy at such a distance, I imagine. Or he could wait for his information until Samuel arrives. Or he could write to her asking for details, which might or might not produce useful results. Does her letter give any reason other than his name to believe her husband is a legitimate descendant of whatsisname—the black sheep?”

“Julian. No, the letter’s very short.”

“Well, that’s about all I have to contribute.” Alec finished off a tart, gulped the last of a second cup of coffee, and stood up. “I must be gone. Reports to be written and read before we go off in search of the creatures of the night. I’ll see you when I see you, love.”

Daisy went out to the hall with him to see him off, then returned to the office to reread Martha Dalrymple’s letter—or rather the copy typed by Miss Watt—in the light of Alec’s comments.

It was written in perfectly correct English, but not the formal language people usually use when addressing a solicitor. Either she had worded it herself, or with the help of someone equally unsophisticated. It was very short, conveying no more information than Daisy had passed on to Alec.

She found the appropriate family tree in her notebook and added Martha:

Julian Dalrymple m. Marie-Claire Vallier

                 
?

        
Alfred d. 1900

        
James d. 1917

             
Samuel m. Martha

It was still more of a branch than a tree.

Turning to Tommy’s letter, Daisy considered its content from the point of view of Martha, rather than the lawyer’s convenience. He was very likely right that she wouldn’t be comfortable staying alone at a London hotel, even if she could afford it. Come to that, could she afford the passage? Would the estate pay the fare without a better reason than his residence in Jamaica for believing Samuel might be directly and legitimately descended from Julian?

Had Martha failed to provide information about her husband’s ancestry because she hadn’t thought of it, because she didn’t know of any, or because there was none? If there was none, if Samuel was not a legitimate descendant of Julian and Martha was aware of the fact, why would she have responded to Tommy’s agony column notice?

The only answer Daisy could think of was that she—or they—contemplated an attempt at fraud.

What nonsense! The possibility would never have dawned on her if she hadn’t spent so much time associating with policemen. All the same, she had a lot of questions, and she really wanted to see the original letter from Martha. Though she thought the more esoteric claims of graphology were akin to spiritualism, she did believe handwriting could sometimes provide a clue to character.

She dashed off a quick note to Tommy, saying she would like to talk to him. Having wrested the twins from Mrs. Gilpin’s custody, she took them and Nana to post it, along with a couple of other letters. With Bertha, the nurserymaid, pushing the double pushchair, they went down through the garden in the centre of Constable Crescent and by the footpath to Well Walk. When they reached the pillar-box, Oliver had to be lifted up to push the envelopes through the slot.

Then Miranda had to be lifted to touch the beasts in the crest above the slot. “Look, Mama. Lion, ’corn, King George.”

“
Uni
corn, darling.”

“I
not
’corn. I Manda!”

“So you are, Miss Miranda,” said Bertha, “and don’t you let anyone—not even your mum—tell you other. You’re not a nasty old unicorn, which from what I hear ain’t even a real animal! Begging your pardon, madam. Now then, Master Oliver, you naughty boy, you climb right back in this instant!”

Words failing to do the trick, Bertha picked up the child, put him in his seat, and strapped him in.

Daisy knew she was lucky to have such admirably competent servants, and all good-natured except Nurse Gilpin. Even Nurse, while always ready to thwart her employers, was firm but fair with the children. Other people seemed constantly to complain about their inability to find good servants. Years ago, Daisy had started writing an article on the “servant problem” from the servants’ point of view, but what with one thing and another it hadn’t progressed very far.

She was glad she didn’t have to cope with a staff the size necessary to run a place like Fairacres. Why, she wondered, would anyone be eager to take on the job, unless the alternative was penury?

Such might be the case for Samuel and Martha, but Vincent seemed to be comfortably off. What was more, he knew the difficulties of dealing with a large staff, if his hotel was as superior as he claimed. Then there was the mysterious South African, so keen to be the missing heir that he sailed for England without waiting to hear from Tommy.

While Daisy mused, they had strolled back along Gayton Road and Well Walk. When they reached the garden, Nana was released from her lead and the twins from the pushchair. Naturally they all headed straight for the fountain in the middle. A quarter of an hour later, Daisy cravenly let the nurserymaid take the damp twins upstairs to face Mrs. Gilpin’s wrath.

“Tell her it’s my fault, Bertha. It’s such a warm afternoon, they can’t possibly come to any harm.”

She took Nana round to the alley at the side of the house and let her through the gate into the garden. The dog would soon dry off there. She was good about staying out of flower beds and not digging, though the thrice-weekly gardener had had to fence off the vegetable plot to keep her from eating his prized tomatoes as soon as they ripened.

As Daisy entered the house, her thoughts returned to Edgar’s heir. Edgar, she was sure, wouldn’t care who it was as long as he was left in peace to pursue his lepidoptera. Geraldine would fuss whoever it was, but probably wouldn’t make a great to-do about it unless he and his family chose to take up residence at Fairacres. Would he be legally entitled to move in? Another question for Tommy.

The one who was absolutely certain to cut up rough, no matter what the result, was the dowager viscountess. Daisy sighed. A hotelier or a freighter’s officer—it made no odds. Her mother would find something to complain about if the angel Gabriel himself came down to Worcestershire to take over Fairacres.

SIX

The following
morning, Miss Watt rang up to ask if it would be convenient for Mr. Pearson to drop in that afternoon after calling on a client in Highgate.

“Yes, certainly,” Daisy assured her. “Do make sure he brings Mrs. Samuel Dalrymple’s letter, will you, please, Miss Watt?”

“I’ll remind him that you’d like to see the original, Mrs. Dalrymple. In fact, I’ll slip it into his despatch case, so that he can’t possibly forget it.” Her tone was conspiratorial.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” Daisy felt she had gained an ally—not against Tommy, exactly, but against the sort of footling obstacles men tend to raise against any mild unorthodoxy when proposed by a female.

If some professional nicety made him reluctant to show her Martha’s letter, the secretary’s ploy made it difficult for him to claim to have accidentally left it at the office.

No sooner had Daisy hung the receiver on its hook than she remembered Sakari Prasad was coming to tea. She nearly rang back, but there was no knowing when Tommy’s busy schedule would allow him to save her the trouble of going to Lincoln’s Inn. Besides, Sakari was a close friend who wouldn’t take offence if Daisy deserted her for a few minutes to speak to Tommy.

An inveterate attender of lectures and classes, Sakari had written an essay encouraging others to do likewise. She wanted Daisy’s opinion as to whether it was worth submitting to
Time and Tide,
the liberal, feminist, literary magazine.

Comfortably settled in the small sitting room at the back of the house, Daisy read the article while Sakari poured tea and started to make inroads into the supply of watercress sandwiches, three kinds of biscuits, and a sponge filled with whipped cream and strawberries. Mrs. Dobson thoroughly approved of Sakari, who appreciated good food. Saris—such as the gold-embroidered scarlet she was wearing—were forgiving as to fit, Sakari said, so she had no inhibitions when it came to her waistline. Besides, her chauffeur, Kesin, had become a welcome visitor in the kitchen.

Sakari’s article, with a subject that could have been as dry as dust, was delightful. Daisy should have known that her friend’s forthright sense of humour would shine through. She found herself chuckling, and a most unladylike snort escaped her just as she took a sip of tea.

“Oh dear, I’ve sprayed the page. I’ll type the whole thing for you, darling. It’s wonderful, and it may have a better chance if it’s typed. You must definitely send it in.”

“I am glad you like it, Daisy. Do you think I should use a pen name?”

“No, definitely not. I’m sure Lady Rhondda, the proprietor, will be tickled pink to have an international contributor. Now I’ll finish my tea before I finish reading.” She picked up her cup.

“Eat a sandwich also. You will fade away!”

“Not I, alas.” But she ate one of the small crustless triangles, then emptied her cup and went back to the article. Turning to the next page, she exclaimed, “You went to a lecture on graphology? I don’t remember you talking about it.”

“A great deal of nonsense was spoken,” Sakari said severely.

“You didn’t believe any of it?”

“A little, perhaps, but to read a person’s entire history in a few scribbled words—balderdash.” The last word she pronounced with the relish she always took in her infrequent use of colloquialisms.

“All the same, I’d like you to look at the letter Tommy Pearson’s bringing to show me.”

“The lawyer? What letter is this?”

Daisy explained. “He already sent me a copy, but I want to look at the handwriting, just in case it can tell me something about the writer. There’s the doorbell now. That will be Tommy.”

A few moments later, Elsie came in to announce Mr. Pearson’s arrival. “He’d like a word with you, madam.”

“Ask him to join us, will you, Elsie?”

Tommy came in wearing his lawyer face. He greeted Sakari politely but unenthusiastically, and turned to Daisy. “Could we go to your office? I’m sorry to interrupt your revels but this won’t take a minute.”

“There’s been a change of plan.” Daisy smiled at his irritated expression. “Elsie, another cup, please. Do sit down, Tommy.”

“Daisy, I haven’t got time for a tea party.”

“But darling, I’ve just discovered that Sakari is an expert graphologist. She’s going to take a look at Martha’s letter and tell us her entire history.”

Sakari shook her head, laughing. “Nothing of the sort, Mr. Pearson. However, the handwriting may tell us a little about the character. May I propose that you show the letter to Daisy while I powder my nose? She will give you her opinion and then I will give you mine. Should they coincide—”

“Coincidence, Mrs. Prasad, sheer coincidence!”

“Possibly. It can do no harm to try, can it? I need to see only one line, so the letter will remain confidential.” Seeing him unconvinced, she heaved herself out of her armchair. “I will go, and you may decide when I return.”

Reluctantly, Tommy produced the letter from his briefcase. “I wondered why you wanted to see it. Surely you don’t buy that superstitious nonsense?”

“No more than Sakari does.”

“It’s no better than astrology!”

“Darling, I have friends who are quite convinced that their fate is written in the stars. I suspect there’s a bit more substance to graphology. Let me see the letter.”

He passed it to her and turned with obvious relief to the cup of tea Sakari had poured him before departing for the cloakroom.

The handwriting was round and schoolgirlish, suggesting that Martha didn’t write often enough to have formed her own style. She was probably young, not well-off, facing an unprecedented situation in her husband’s absence, not knowing when he would return to deal with it or what he would want her to do.

Daisy sympathised.

“She’s young, and probably naïve. Unsure of herself.”

“And so she should be, providing not the slightest hint of what her husband’s claim may rest on, apart from the name.”

“And he lives in Jamaica. We know Julian went there.”

“His offspring seems to have spread all over the world,” Tommy grumbled.

“You must admit this Samuel is very likely one of them who stayed put. Your investigator in Kingston is still investigating?”

“Yes, but he’s not getting any further.”

Daisy found the family branch in her notebook. “Samuel’s father, James, he was the one lost at sea?”

“That’s right. His ship was sunk by a U-boat. Samuel’s ship was torpedoed, too, but he survived. He even turns out to have been something of a hero; he saved the lives of several of the crew. In fact, he was decorated after the war, when they got round to the Merchant Navy.”

“Tommy, you can’t just ignore them and hope they’ll go away!”

“I’ve no intention of doing so,” he retorted looking, harassed, “but what am I supposed to do when the man seems to have vanished? He sailed from Kingston weeks ago.”

Sakari appeared in the doorway, winked at Daisy, and advanced into the room in her stately way. “Have you decided, Mr. Pearson, whether I am to be trusted to see the letter?”

Tommy stood up, slightly flustered, turning towards her. “Of course I don’t distrust you, Mrs. Prasad. However, I have a duty to my client, who, in this case, is Lord Dalrymple—or the estate, rather—not Daisy.”