The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries) (16 page)

“What do you say, Jeanne? Do you fancy me as a brother-in-law?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered and we both laughed.

“She’s brutally honest,” I warned him. “Angela will be thrilled, but of course we can’t tell her yet.”

“We must ask you to keep our secret, Jeanne. Can we trust you?”

She couldn’t say no to him. He could have asked her to take away his dirty laundry and she would have done it. Holding his hand, I felt myself glowing. This was love. The romantic love I’d often written about but never experienced.

“This calls for a celebration!”

Ellen appeared at the door with a bottle of champagne and glasses.

“Please, no, humor me. It’s a special occasion and you mustn’t blame Daphne, Major. She never breathed a word, I promise.”

At her smile, he agreed to stay the hour. “But only the hour,” he whispered to me, his tone firm, yet gentle.

Half an hour must have passed before Alicia discovered us.

Drawing my hand away from the major’s, I heard her excuse for the interruption, something to do with Charlotte who was having a nap. Her doe-brown eyes missed nothing, and continued to survey us with quiet, unobtrusive contemplation.

“You must join us, dear.” Ellen extended the invitation to her.

“She’s a perfect replacement.” The major, to my dismay, prepared to leave. “Duty beckons, alas. I hope you don’t mind Daphne escorting me to the door?”

I blushed when Ellen winked at his smile. I was certain Alicia hadn’t missed that, either.

I was right.

Upon my return, still warm and flushed from our lingering farewell kiss, she mentioned it was a great pity the major had concluded his business at Thornleigh.

“Oh, he’ll be back,” Ellen said.

Alicia’s thin eyebrows rose.

“His fiancée resides in the area,” Ellen added, and I thought how clever of her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“It’s monstrous.”

Flinging the newspaper across the room, Ellen marched to her bedroom window and heaved a long sigh.

“Why do they have to bring that up, now? Have they no sense of decency?”

Shepherded to her room at such an early hour, I’d forgotten to put on my slippers and so shuffled closer to the fire, picking up the discarded paper on my way. “What am I looking for?”

“Oh, you’ll see. The torn page.”

“Oh …
Oh.
”

Now I understood. Under the bold headline
MURDER FOR MONEY
the article read:

After the shocking recent news of millionaire Mr. Teddy Grimshaw’s death, new allegations made by Mrs. Cynthia Grimshaw have led to an ongoing investigation.

“What man dies on his wedding day? He was murdered,” Cynthia says. “He was murdered by his bride for his money.” It is public knowledge now that Mr. Grimshaw died of heart failure and also that traces of poison hemlock were found on his person. Inspector James has no comment at this time except to say, “They are investigating all aspects of the death.” When pressed for a list of suspects, the inspector referred to his sergeant, who says, “We are still working on it.”

Mr. Grimshaw was an extremely wealthy man. It is possible foul play is at play here since the surprising details of Mr. Grimshaw’s will became public.

“The will’s a forgery,” Cynthia Grimshaw maintains, and says she has hired a lawyer to ensure her daughter’s succession.

It is still not known what Miss Rosalie Grimshaw was left of her father’s estate. The bulk of it, attests Cynthia, has gone to the “murderess,” Mrs. Ellen Grimshaw (formerly Hamilton of Thornleigh). “My husband left me for her. They had an affair during the war. She (Ellen) broke up our marriage and disinherited our daughter. I will remain in London until everything is restored to how it should be in his real will.

Miss Rosalie Grimshaw has no comment.

One can only wonder what is next in this Thorny affair…”

“It’s not true.” Tearing around the room, Ellen’s breath shortened. “It was
she
who had the affair that destroyed their marriage. When I met Teddy, he was
divorced.
Or just about to be. How can she lie without a backward blink?”

“Because she has no morality,” I answered, putting down the newspaper.

“What am I to do? Call her out? Will she ever stop?”

I had little advice. I suggested she talk to my father about organizing a counterattack. “He’s knows a few newspapermen. Perhaps one of them can interview you over the telephone.”

“That’s a good idea.” Ellen joined me by the fire. “Oh, I’m a horrid friend! You don’t even have slippers on. Your feet must be freezing.”

“They are. But the drama was worth it. Promise me you’ll put this aside until we speak to my father?”

“You’re right.” She smiled. “And you must keep me in check. I don’t want Charlotte mixed up in all of this. Already she has questioned me about the will.”

I paused. “Charlotte? Have you told her anything?”

“Only a little. That her father left her money and houses.”

“What did she question you about?”

“She asked whether Rosalie got money and houses, too. I said she got money but not a house. She asked why. I said I wasn’t sure but that most likely their father felt that if the house had been left to Rosalie, she would have sold it and not preserved the family tradition.”

“That must have been awkward. Did she understand?”

“I think so. That conversation was her first real acceptance that her daddy’s dead and he won’t be coming back.”

I did not envy her and tried to picture myself in her shoes. A rich widow. Hunted and targeted by all. Her very reputation in question because of circumstance and money. It didn’t matter whether she was innocent in the reporter’s eyes; what mattered was that the case attracted great interest and sold newspapers so poor Ellen was destined for discriminatory criticism.

My father confirmed this when we telephoned him after breakfast.

“Ellen, m’dear, you’re best to keep your head out of this. They’ll be chasing you for a statement after her claims but don’t give in to them. You’re best to talk to this fellow I know and let him write a report about you. When are you next in town?”

Ellen mentioned the shareholders’ meeting.

“End of the month. Good. We’ll talk then.”

Ellen put down the receiver. “He wants to talk to you, Daphne.”

I picked up the receiver.

“How’s my little authoress? Written much of the book?”

“A little.” I smiled, heartened by his faith in my ability. “I want to research some shipping towns, though. Middle-class families are my focus.”

“Have you wheels down there? Is MB still around?”

“No.” My heart sunk thinking of the major and I ached to confide in my father. “He’s left for Germany.”

“Germany!”

“It’s to do with the case.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s gone. I won’t have him upsetting my little girl. And besides, you’ve got a book to write.”

“Yes, I do,” I echoed, “but it’s difficult … you understand…”

“And Jeanne? Is she behaving herself?”

“Yes,” I was quick to confirm. “We’re off exploring tomorrow. I was thinking of taking Jeanne with me. Is she allowed?”

“Wait. I’ll ask your mother.”

I heard my parents discussing it in the background.

“The verdict is yes,” my father relayed. “As long as you keep a firm hand on her and don’t go wandering off into fairyland.”

“I promise I’ll take care of her.”

“What’s that? Wait a minute, Daphne … your mother invites Ellen to stay when she’s next in town. She’s planning a special dinner party.”

That sounded interesting. I said I’d pass on the invitation. “Good-bye, Papa. I love you.”

“Love you, too, darling.”

After getting off the telephone, homesickness overcame me. I missed my parents. I missed my bedroom, and above all, I missed my typewriter.

Handwriting proved slow and I had little patience. I devoted the morning to my story idea, researching in Ellen’s vast library. Upon finding a few books on local towns, I spread them out on the floor, flicking to various pages. In one of the books entitled
Country Estates
there was a section dedicated to Thornleigh and the Hamilton family. There was a photograph of Xavier before he left for the war, and a snapshot of Ellen outside a London club. The caption halted me:

Ellen Hamilton and friend.

Behind Ellen stood faithful Harry in much smarter dress than I’d seen him in around here. A handkerchief folded in his dark striped suit and on the date of the photograph he wore a moustache and dressed his hair short and to the side. In such attire, he scarcely resembled the estate manager and gardener of Thornleigh today.

I asked Ellen about the photograph.

“Oh, you found that! How funny … that’s years ago.”

“When you came back from France?”

She nodded, a fondness creeping into her face. “Dear Harry. He’s changed a lot, hasn’t he?”

“What did you say he did then? Worked at the club?”

“Yes … he made introductions; connected people.”

“He looks comfortable in the smart clothes,” I remarked.

“Harry’s just as comfortable in garden gloves and overalls. He loves great houses. He always wanted to work on one … so he came to Thornleigh with me.”

“After your parents died?”

Her lips tightened. “Let’s not speak of the past. It upsets me.”

I left my questions there. She didn’t want to talk about the past or Harry and I wondered why.

What did she—or Harry—have to hide?

I went to see Harry about the car.

“He has an office down the hall,” Olivia said, pausing with her duster as I ventured into that part of the house.

“Near the morning room.”

Near the morning room.
Well, I knew where
that
room was; how could I forget? The room where the major first kissed me in this house. I blushed when thinking of it. I blushed when thinking of him.

Fortunately, I spied Harry working at his desk.

“Hello,” I greeted, inviting myself in and sitting opposite him. “We haven’t really met properly but I feel I know you.”

“Oh?”

He seemed suddenly on guard.

“Ellen and I have been pen-friends for years.” I hoped my blithe explanation put him at ease.

His hazel eyes flickered, calculating, I thought, what might have been said over the years. “It’s nice to have a supportive male friend. Last winter I made such a friend and I’m determined to keep him.”

Crossing my fingers under the table, I guessed sharing a little may encourage him to talk.

“Do you write to this friend?”

“No!” I laughed. “Sir Marcus despises that sort of thing. He’d rather we meet at house parties. He believes in living life as if it’s a party, it being so short and all. Were you in the war?” I lowered my eyelashes at this blunt question. “I don’t remember Ellen saying so.”

“I served two years as a bombardier,” he replied. “When my plane went down, I was the only survivor.” He indicated the scar near his hairline on the left side of his head. “The recovery was slow.”

“You met Ellen at the hospital, didn’t you?”

At my relaxed poise, he continued to chat to me.

“Yes … she came back to work there awaiting the birth.”

“Were you shocked she was pregnant and so young?”

“Not in the least. This was war. Many crazy things happened.”

“And you became friends. You were there for her during the birth.”

“Yes.” He chuckled faintly. “The raids were going all night. We couldn’t get her to the hospital so she gave birth to Charlotte in a barbershop.”

“Amazing.” I shook my head. “She has amazing fortitude. I couldn’t have done it.”

“Yes, you could have. When there isn’t an option, you have no choice.”

I agreed, and decided to leave our little tête-à-tête there. I had no wish to sound like an interrogator. He may become suspicious of me then and I wanted to keep him communicative.

After mentioning in passing a town I wanted to visit, he said he’d drive.

“I’m happy to. I love this country and motorcars are like horses, they need exercise. When do you want to leave?”

We settled on an early start to make the most of the next day.

I showed him the map I’d drawn.

“There’s also an old church along this road … and a seventeenth-century pub. Shall we have lunch there?”

Our plans concluded, Jeanne and I spent a quiet evening with Ellen, Charlotte, and Alicia. Since her father’s death, Charlotte no longer wanted to take meals in her room. She wanted her mother, so Ellen obliged and Charlotte sat with us. By nine o’clock she tired, though, and we all soon sought out our beds.

“I’m getting bored,” Jeanne announced when we retired.

“Tomorrow will be fun,” I promised. Jeanne was not one to entertain herself. She relied on friends to do that and she had no friends in the area. “You could make new friends,” I added. “We’ll go to church on Sunday. You might find someone there your own age.”

She seemed appeased with that idea and put on a smile for Harry the next morning.

“I don’t want to be stuck at ruins all day,” she had advised me while we dressed.

“There are shops in the town; and we’ll have ice cream at the quay.”

Out of the three of us, Jeanne loved to do feminine activities like shopping and making calls. Always surrounded by people at Cannon Hall, she was unused to the quiet.

She chatted most of the way, asking Harry all kinds of innocent questions like, “Why aren’t you married?” “Were you ever married?” “Never found a girl you liked?” “Would you like to get married?”

Good-natured Harry laughed off her attempts. He was an attractive man in his forties. He replied he’d had a few relationships but none that eventuated into marriage.

“Ah,” Jeanne teased, “there’s a local girl. There must be.”

Shrugging, Harry turned into the street of our first stop. “Yes, there is someone. Thornleigh. She’s my mistress.”

Thornleigh’s my mistress.

I thought it a curious expression. Ellen referred to Harry as a friend. But had Harry ever entertained ideas of becoming her husband and thus master of Thornleigh? In turn, could Harry have murdered Teddy Grimshaw?