The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries) (12 page)

“Tonight.” He grinned.

“For dinner?”

“Yes, for dinner.”

My heart sank. I had hoped he’d stay here for dinner. Facing another night alone with Ellen and Jeanne seemed depressing.

“But I shall travel with you to London tomorrow.”

I was immediately suspicious. “You want to be there for the will reading, don’t you? You just have to be first to know everything.”

Instead of answering me, he pushed back his chair and examined me as if I were a naughty schoolgirl.

“Well?’ I prompted.

“You are not in possession of the full facts.”

“I am in possession of certain facts,” I retorted, crossing my arms. “Are you aware that Jack and Rosalie are lovers? I saw them in the woods on the day of her father’s funeral.”

This caught the major’s attention. His jaw dropped open. “What?”

“Yes, so you see, I have my uses.
I
am willing to share information, but you are not. And please don’t say it’s your job.”

“It
is
my job. But because you have proven trustworthy and because you are close to Ellen, I will say this:
never leave her alone.
I do not offer my escort tomorrow out of idle curiosity.”

“No? Then why?”

“Because she is in danger.”

“‘Danger,’” I echoed, sitting down again as Jeanne entered the room bearing a huge smile and a tea tray. “Is Harry still driving us?”

“No. I am. We’ll leave at seven sharp to make the train.”

*   *   *

I rose early and went up to Ellen’s room. Meeting her maid on the landing, she confirmed the mistress was “up and gettin’ ready.”

Still dark and dreary outside, I shivered in my woollen coat. Choosing comfort over fashion, I had put on a plain dress, stockings, and sensible shoes. The only concession I made was over my hair, having set it in curlers the night before. Fixing the curls around my face, I added a small turquoise-studded comb and a little rouge to my cheeks. My face had the horrendous habit of appearing white and drawn on occasion, especially in the morning.

Ellen had also decided to dress sensibly, though her clothes were infinitely finer than mine. A black dress and a black fur coat completed her ensemble. With her hair, she’d simply dressed it in a French bun at the nape of her neck. She wore no jewelery, except her gold wedding band and diamond engagement ring.

“I am terribly nervous,” she confessed to me as we climbed into the major’s motorcar. “I shall feel so much better when we are able to return to Thornleigh.”

The major loaded our bags into the car. I didn’t know how long we’d be staying in town, possibly a night or two. Alicia promised to take care of Charlotte and Jeanne in our absence.

A mist drifted over the grounds of Thornleigh and the neighboring countryside. Beautiful and silent, it curled at the base of the trees, at the mouth of the river, and around the stout village houses alongside the road.

Tightening my scarf, I let the cool air assail my cheeks. The train station resembled a graveyard. Spotting one or two lonely travelers, I patted my dripping nose with a handkerchief. It seemed a crime to travel so early and I thought longingly of my warm bed.

Silence reigned throughout the journey. Ellen continued to stare out the window, her trembling fingers clutching her handbag.

Major Browning read the paper. I read a book.

On reaching London, we took a taxi to Hanover Square.

A line of newspapermen and photographers awaited us. Grasping my hand, Ellen took a deep breath and exited the car.

Following close behind, the major helped us through the onslaught. “Say nothing.”

“It’s difficult,” Ellen breathed to me when a reporter lashed out at her with: “Mrs. Grimshaw! Mrs. Grimshaw! Did you poison your husband?”

“I can’t bear it,” Ellen whispered once safely inside the building. “All these allegations and presumptions. They are wrong … totally wrong.”

After locating a chair, Major Browning insisted she rest for a moment. “You stay with her,” he said to me, charging off to find what level of the building we were to go.

Standing beside Ellen I had the best vantage point so I saw her first. Rosalie burst through the door, her mother directly behind her, and a moustached man I didn’t recognize.

Sallying past Ellen, the ex-Mrs. Grimshaw hissed some vulgar term.

Ellen’s face turned white. She was going to let it pass but I didn’t. “You pathetic, ill-bred, pernicious woman,” I retorted, standing as tall as I could muster. It helped my cause that at that moment Major Browning returned to our side of the wall. His sardonic face questioned the ex-Mrs. Grimshaw, poised for battle.

“Come on, Mother.” Rosalie tugged her mother’s sleeve.

Reluctantly, the older woman withdrew.

“What a snake,” I hissed at her ensuing spluttered curse.

“Daphne, Daphne, don’t defend me,” Ellen pleaded. “It’s my fight, not yours.”

“But I’m your friend. What are friends for if not to defend one another?”

She smiled. “It’s sweet of you to say so. Isn’t it, Major?”

The major gave me a stern frown. From it, I knew he didn’t approve of my waging war against my friend’s enemies. Did he expect me to remain neutral then?

I seized the first opportunity to find out and asked him forth right as we moved along.

“It’s not that I don’t approve … however, fights between women rarely accomplish any good.”

“You speak from your extensive experience, no doubt.”

He shrugged. “Well, yes. Yes, I do.”

My gaze narrowed. “Do you mean sisters or mistresses? Or women in general?”

“Women in general,” he replied, nonplussed. “Ah, here we are. Level four. And the Henderson room is down that corridor.”

Leaning against the corridor wall and smoking, Jack Grimshaw saluted us. I shuddered. The vision of him and Rosalie in the woods was too fresh in my memory.

“I’ll wait outside,” the major offered, but Ellen, fortified by his presence, asked him to accompany her.

The three of us entered the Henderson room, Ellen and I on either side of the major’s arms. Eyes scathed every part of us, as the major was quick to find a seat for Ellen.

Most of the family were seated. Standing near the door, Jack Grimshaw adjusted his jacket and spoke in low tones to Dean Fairchild. The tension in the room increased with every passing second. How long must we wait? I prayed not any longer for I foresaw daggers drawn. I purposely avoided the eye of Cynthia Grimshaw and Rosalie.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” The younger of the two solicitors commenced the meeting. “If you are not already seated, please sit down. Mr. Morton will read out the last will and testament of Terrence Bradley Grimshaw—”

“Excuse me,” Cynthia Grimshaw interrupted. “Is this the new will or the will he made a few years ago?”

Mr. Morton, seated at the desk behind his young associate, looked at her through his spectacles. “These are Mr. Grimshaw’s last instructions.”

“But I don’t think it was witnessed properly, was it?”

“It was witnessed,” Mr. Morton said, grave and despotic. “If you wish to contest the will, Mrs. Grimshaw, you will have to take it to the courts. Now, Frankton, proceed.”

Clearing his voice, Frankton appealed to all in the room. “Mr. Morton and I will endeavor to answer your questions at the end of this reading. If you could please hold your questions until then, I would appreciate it.

“‘Last Will and Testament of the deceased: Terrence Bradley Grimshaw, dated this day of May the twenty-seventh, 1927. I do hereby leave the bulk of my estate, my worldly goods, cash, and possessions to my fiancée, Ellen Mary Hamilton. I stipulate that after we are wed, Ellen continues the renovations to Thornleigh. I also wish for my daughter, Charlotte, to grow up on that estate, though, if I die, I would like my daughter to make the journey to America once every two years to visit her grandmother (my mother, Phyllis Enid Grimshaw, of Sevenoaks, Boston).

“‘As for my other daughter, Rosalie Lilybette Grimshaw, I do leave an inheritance sum of twenty thousand pounds, and the—’”

“It has to be the house.” Cynthia Grimshaw nudged her daughter. “It has to be the house.”

“‘—allotted sum of shares (forty percent) for the Gildersberg business.’”

“That’s outrageous!” Cynthia hissed. “What about the house in Boston? That’s ours! It
has
to be ours!”

“Please be quiet!” Tapping his desk, Mr. Morton gave her a severe frown.

“You may ask any sort of question at the end,” Frankton soothed, finding his place to resume the reading. “‘As regards Gildersberg, I do hereby leave a further share of (thirty percent) to my nephew, Mr. Dean Fairchild, and I also leave the final share of (thirty percent) to my nephew, Mr. Jack Grimshaw. The fate of Gildersberg I leave in your hands to do with what you will. Mr Dean Fairchild is aware of my plans for the company and I wish those plans to proceed. I am therefore allocating a trust fund of thirty-five thousand pounds in the hands of these solicitors, Morton and Frankton. The amount is to be used solely on the business and any withdrawal out of this investment by the directors of the company is disallowed.’”

Frankton paused, making sure that if he was to be interrupted it was now and not midsentence.

Cynthia Grimshaw openly seethed across the room. Equally incensed, Rosalie glared at Frankton, waiting to hear the rest.

“‘The house in Boston shall be sold.’”

“It’s yours.” Cynthia Grimshaw put her arm around her daughter.

“‘The house in Boston shall be sold,’” Frankton repeated, “‘and the proceeds, less the sum of fifteen thousand pounds, are to go in a trust fund I have set up for the restoration of Thornleigh. Five thousand pounds I bequeath to my niece, Miss Alicia Brickley and a further five thousand pounds I do hereby bequeath to my daughter, Rosalie Lilybette Grimshaw, upon her marriage.’”

“The bastard!” Cynthia Grimshaw roared. “He’s done it to cut me out.”

Her face turning pink at her mother’s outburst, Rosalie blinked in pure disbelief. It was obvious to all she expected to receive a great deal more than her father left her.

“Don’t worry, honey.” Springing out of her chair, Cynthia Grimshaw seized her daughter’s hand. “We’ll fight this in the courts. You’ll get your money.”

They flounced to the door where Jack Grimshaw stood. Opening the door, he murmured, “Rosie, looks like you’re practically disinherited.”

Rosalie flung her hair over her shoulder. “The rest of the money is
mine.
I’ll get it back one way or another.”

Closing the door behind them, Jack Grimshaw crossed his arms. “Anything for me in there, old boy? Or are we boys cut out of the will?”

Mr. Morton frowned at him. “Mr. Grimshaw, you were never in the will to be cut out of it. Your inheritance, along with your cousin Mr. Fairchild, is the shares in the company. It was Mr. Grimshaw’s plan that you work for a living.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” he snorted, displeased. “Rosie’s out to pasture, too, I see. Ha. Smart old man. Never liked us loitering about, did he, Ellen?”

Ellen tensed. His calling her Ellen instead of “Mrs. Grimshaw” was an evident slight.

“No offense intended,” he added, quick to heal the breach. “I suppose I have to ask you for a loan now, don’t I, Aunty Ellen?”

“Now’s not the time, Jack.” Dean Fairchild pulled him away.

“No, it’s not,” Dean’s mother backed her son. “Your father, rest his soul, would be ashamed of you.”

“Well, I damn well expected
something
. Even a share in the house in Boston. Uncle Ted knew out of all of us I spend more time there than anyone else.”

“I agree with Jack,” Amy Pringle spoke up. “Rosalie should have got the house.”

“It was Uncle Teddy’s decision to make,” her cousin Sophie reminded her.

“Well how come he gave five thousand pounds to Alicia and not to us?”

“Because we have our own dowries, Amy. Poor Alicia has nothing.”

“It’s not our problem her father left her nothing. I can see what this is. We should have danced more on attendance with Uncle Ted. Now we’re all disinherited. It’s not fair.”

“It’s been a tiresome morning,” Dean Fairchild said, taking on the male responsibility for the family. “I think we ought to retire. No doubt Mrs. Grimshaw will wish to talk to the solicitors in private.”

“Thank you,” Ellen whispered to him as he passed her. “For all your kindness.”

He smiled. “Let me apologize for them.”

“Don’t bother. I can understand their … objection. As for the threats, I hope they won’t come to pass.”

“I shall do my best to persuade Rosalie and her mother to accept things as they are,” he promised. “No harm can actually befall you.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” Ellen whispered. “There was murder in their eyes, didn’t you see?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hanover Square loomed before us like a minefield.

“Follow me.”

Tagging behind the major’s curt order, we weaved through the desperate reporters and photographers.

“Say nothing.”

I admired Ellen’s tenacity. Though she gripped my hand tighter, she refused to let them lure her into answering such taunts as “husband-killer,” “married him for his money, did you?” and, the worst: “whore.”

Once inside the taxi, she burst into tears.

“Ignore it and don’t take it as a personal offense,” was the major’s advice. “They have a living to make. It’s called sensationalism.”

“I know, I know,” she breathed. “But it’s difficult. They label me as a murderess and it’s not true. I can’t even grieve for Teddy because—because—”

Sliding my arm around her, I appealed to the major. I wasn’t sure what I had in mind but he seemed to understand.

“The hotel won’t be a good place to go now. Driver, take us to the … Tower.”

My brows rose.

“Well, there we should be unremarkable among the tourists.”

He was right, of course.

He was right about most things.

Ellen didn’t care where we went. She said that she wanted to brood alone.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Grimshaw, but it isn’t safe.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “When will it ever be safe? I feel like a hunted rabbit.”