by Dunn, Carola
“So there must have been some correspondence, at least to inform her family.”
“Presumably. Even before the epidemic, times were hard in Jamaica, he told us. I suppose they had other priorities than writing letters. My grandfather settled in with the Vallier family, worked in the family business—”
“What was that? I beg your pardon, I’m insatiably curious. You don’t have to answer.”
“It’s no secret. They’re hoteliers, as I am.”
Tommy ostentatiously consulted his wristwatch. “Mrs. Fletcher, if you want time to look at the papers…”
“Not another word, I promise.”
Vincent gave her a look of sympathy. “To make a long story short, my grandfather married. My father, George, was born in 1861. In 1870 the Germans invaded and when their army approached Paris, my grandfather brought his wife and children to England. He still had a British passport, you see. The Valliers had friends in the business, in Scarborough, who helped him find work. In fact…” He hesitated. “This may not please you, Mrs. Fletcher. He changed his name to Vallier. Not legally, but in everyday use.”
Daisy pondered. “I can’t see why I should have any objection. Because of his mother being rejected by the Dalrymples? Wait a bit.” She glanced at her notes. “This is Timothy we’re talking about, not George?”
Tommy cleared his throat meaningly.
“He asked me!” said Daisy, indignant. By implication, at least.
“Indeed I did.” Vincent sounded like a maître d’hôtel discreetly smoothing over a minor dispute between guests. “Yes, Timothy, my grandfather, Mrs. Fletcher. Exactly what was in his mind I can’t say, but a French name can be an advantage in the trade. Besides, he’d been well taught by the Valliers. He obtained a position as undermanager of one of the finest hotels in Scarborough, rose quickly to manager, and then became a partner. My father married his partner’s daughter, his only child, and eventually they inherited both shares of the Castle Cliff Hotel. My parents left it to me, so I’m now the sole owner, with a hired manager responsible for day-to-day business.”
Daisy was touched by his obvious pride in being not merely manager but proprietor of a good hotel in a seaside resort. It was, indeed, a notable accomplishment on the part of his immediate forebears. Timothy had presumably arrived in Paris with little more than the clothes on his back. Then the refugee from cholera had become a refugee from war, yet he had built a prosperous life for his family.
There was something admirable about this branch of the Dalrymples. What was more, if Vincent was the heir, the ownership of the hotel could be useful when it came to death duties. He could sell it and pay with the proceeds, rather than depleting the estate. And whether he turned out to be the next viscount or not, his son might find himself in a position to call himself a gentleman.
“Have you any children?” she asked.
“A boy and two girls. My son is at a prep school. My daughters have a French governess. Speaking several languages is useful in the business. Not that my girls will need to work,” he added hurriedly.
As Tommy didn’t make any ominous noises, Daisy ventured to comment, “Of course! Your…” She paused to work it out. “Your great-grandmother must have taken the post with the Petries to learn English.”
Vincent hesitated, darting a quick glance at Tommy. “The Petries … Yes, of course.”
Tommy glared at her, then turned to Vincent. “As you’ve so kindly brought us up to the present, Mr. Dalrymple, I don’t believe we need keep you any longer. You have other business in London, I gather.”
“Nothing more important than this.” Vincent rose reluctantly. “If you have any more questions, Mrs. Fletcher—”
“They can wait until you meet at Fairacres in August,” Tommy interrupted. “Should you receive further documents from your relatives in France, Mr. Dalrymple, no doubt you’ll be in touch, and naturally I’ll let you know of any developments that affect your position. Thank you for sparing the time for this meeting.”
“Oh, my time’s mostly my own these days. Good-bye, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Daisy smiled at him and offered her hand. “Good-bye, Cousin Vincent. I look forward to seeing you at Fairacres.”
He flushed—with gratification, she hoped—but before he could speak, Tommy bustled him out.
Returning, Tommy closed the door firmly behind him and hissed, “‘Cousin Vincent’! There’s no proof that he’s descended from Julian Dalrymple.”
“I can always uncousin him,” said Daisy, unrepentant. “Anyway, if he turns out to be a fraud, I won’t be seeing him again.”
“It’s going to be that much harder to prove fraud now that he can trot out the Petries! He’d obviously never heard of them.”
“I’m sorry about that. It slipped out before I realised it might give him information he didn’t already have. Do you think he’s a fraud?”
“At this stage, I’d need a crystal ball—”
“I think he’s real, though he may turn out not to be the eldest. I mean, his grandfather may not have been Julian’s eldest son. Show me his papers. Perhaps they’ll spark an idea.”
“Heaven preserve me from your ideas,” Tommy muttered.
Daisy pretended not to hear. She pulled up her chair to the desk and Tommy set the documents before her. There were four: three certified copies of entries in the national registry at Somerset House, and a letter in French, in crabbed, elderly handwriting.
The first was the notice of Vincent’s birth, at the Castle Cliff Hotel in Scarborough in 1885. His baptismal names were Vincent Vallier. His father was George (also known as Georges) Vallier Dalrymple, his mother Amanda Rosemary Dalrymple, formerly White. George’s profession was given as hotelier.
“So far, so good,” Daisy observed, picking up the second paper.
It was George and Amanda’s marriage certificate, Scarborough, 1883. George had been twenty-two, Amanda twenty-seven at the time, assistant hotel manager and hotel housekeeper respectively. George’s father was Timothy Dalrymple; Amanda’s, Frederick White, both hoteliers.
“Gosh, all the family are really dedicated to the hotel business! What’s this? Timothy’s death notice. 1901, age: ‘elderly’! I wonder why he wouldn’t tell his son how old he was, or do you think he genuinely forgot? It must have been fearfully disorientating being sent away from home, from Jamaica to France. I wonder whether he even spoke French when he arrived. He could have learnt from his mother. Perhaps the Valliers didn’t care about his age, just put him to work.”
“We’re unlikely ever to know the attitude to birthdays of the Valliers of the time, though we may eventually find out his date of birth. Here’s Vincent’s marriage certificate.”
“1912, to Laurette Vallier. Some sort of cousin presumably, keeping the business in the family. What’s this?” She peered at the last document. Her knowledge of French wasn’t bad but the handwriting looked a bit like her own shorthand hieroglyphics. It had an impressive seal, though.
“A notarised affidavit from the present clergyman of the church where Timothy Dalrymple married Jeanette Desrochers, and George was baptised. It’s a small Protestant church that was badly damaged in 1870. Vincent got the present Valliers to dig through the remains of the old records. They were pretty well scorched, but books don’t burn easily. Enough of it is readable, apparently, to be certain that they actually were married, but that’s about all. The rest is gone. George’s legitimacy is proven, at least.”
“Aren’t there civil records?”
“A large part of the Paris civil registry was destroyed when the Jerries invaded.”
At least the family tree for this branch was slightly less sketchy:
Julian m. Marie-Claire Vallier
Timothy George Dalrymple (d. 1901) m. Jeanette Desrochers
George Vallier Dalrymple m. (1883) Amanda Rosemary White
Vincent Vallier Dalrymple (b. 1885) m. Laurette Vallier
Two girls, one boy.
“How will you
ever find out for sure? About Timothy being Julian’s legitimate son? Or not, as the case may be.”
“The best chance is Jamaica, obviously. But the chap I had checking the registry in Spanish Town, the old capital, didn’t find any records of Dalrymples before 1882, as I told you before.”
“So, in fact, we may never know for sure who’s the rightful heir? What if we can’t?”
“That’s another bridge to be crossed if we come to it. It’s possible,” the lawyer admitted grudgingly. “I told you, Daisy, conditions were chaotic at times: slave revolts, tidal waves, plantations abandoned, much of Kingston burnt to the ground. If Julian and Marie-Claire lived in an out-of-the way corner of the island, communications would have been difficult.”
“But it’s not a very big island, is it? As big as Ireland?”
“About a third the size. That’s the comparison that occurred to me, and I looked it up. But much of Jamaica is mountainous jungle. Before I get in touch with the Dalrymples of Kingston and raise their hopes, perhaps for nothing, I’m hoping to discover a solid connection with Julian. It can’t wait much longer, though.”
“I wonder what sort of a viscount Vincent would make. It sounds as if he must be a competent manager, capable of running the estate, unless the title goes to his head and he and his wife go gadding about. Mother’s bound to have forty fits anyway. A teacher’s bad enough. An innkeeper would be the last straw!”
“Don’t cross your bridges. Even if he does turn out to be the heir, he’ll be heir presumptive, not heir apparent. If Edgar were to have a child—”
“Come off it, you’ve met Geraldine.”
“Should Lady Dalrymple die, Lord Dalrymple might remarry, a younger woman.”
“Only butterflies interest him, and I don’t mean the social kind.” Daisy suddenly stopped. “Tommy, I’ve had a perfectly frightful thought. You don’t think Vincent will want to turn Fairacres into a grand country hotel, do you? Horrors! Could he, legally?”
“I don’t propose to investigate the legal ramifications unless the contingency arises. But I suspect the act of 1925 would make it possible.”
“What act?”
“The Administration of Estates Act.”
“Why, what does it say?”
Tommy went over to his bookshelves and selected a volume. “Let me read you a selection. ‘(1) With regard to the real estate and personal inheritance of every person dying after the commencement of this Act, there shall be abolished—’”
“That seems clear enough.”
He continued as though she had not interrupted, “‘(a) All existing modes rules and canons of descent, and of devolution by special occupancy or otherwise, of real estate, or of a personal inheritance, whether operating by the general law or by the custom of gavelkind or borough english or by any other custom of any county, locality, or manor, or otherwise howsoever; and (b) Tenancy by the curtesy and every other estate and interest of a husband in real estate as to which his wife dies intestate, whether arising under the general law and (c) Dower and freebench and—’”
“Stop! All right, I concede. Forget about it unless it turns out to be necessary.”
“Thank you.” He returned the volume to its place. “If and when, I shan’t lift a finger without taking the advice of counsel. Speaking of which—”
Tap tap. Miss Watt appeared. “Mr. Pearson, sorry to interrupt but you’re due in court in quarter of an hour.”
“I’m on my way.” He picked up his briefcase and ushered Daisy to the door, grabbing his hat from the hatstand on the way. As they walked down the stairs together, he said, “I must warn you, less acceptable claimants than Vincent may appear.”
Daisy sighed. “No doubt. Just keep them from Mother as long as you can. But you will let me know what’s going on, won’t you? And let me talk to them before they go to Fairacres?”
“I don’t know, Daisy. If you’re going to make them a present of information that could bolster their claims—”
“Must you harp on that? It was a mistake. I’ve apologised. And I promise to be more careful.”
It was Tommy’s turn to sigh. “I suppose it will be all right. You have given me one or two ideas.”
“That,” said Daisy, “is what Alec always has to admit.”
FIVE
“You’re just in time for tea, darling.” Daisy gladly abandoned her battle with the recalcitrant household accounts. She always tried to cope with them herself but, as usual, she would have to ask for Mrs. Dobson’s help. “I’ll join you. Or would you rather have breakfast?”
“Mrs. Dobson’s making me a combination breakfast-high tea, bless her.” Alec had just got up. After leaving for work at the usual time yesterday, he hadn’t come home until the birds were breaking into their dawn chorus. “Then it’s back to work.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just one thing after another, culminating in a nightclub stabbing just as we thought we were done for the day. All the witnesses and suspects are night owls, so we are, too, perforce.”
In the dining room, Elsie was setting the table with an eclectic selection of tableware. “You’ll take your tea in here, madam?”
“Yes, please, Elsie.” Daisy waited till the ever-efficient parlourmaid finished her task and whisked out. “Alec, I simply must tell you the latest from Tommy.”
“You’ve heard from him again? It’s been a couple of weeks since you made the acquaintance of your Cousin Vincent, hasn’t it? But it’s your family’s business, not mine, thank goodness.”
“I was hoping for your advice, but if you’d rather tell me all about the nightclub stabbing—”
“Great Scott, no. I’ll be getting back to that soon enough. All right, go ahead. Has Pearson turned up an heir, or just another new cousin?”
“Another cousin, Raymond. He’s already on his way from South Africa.”
“South Africa!”
“When Tommy got the letter saying he was coming, he wired back immediately to tell him it might well be a waste of time and money, but by then he’d sailed from Cape Town. He’ll arrive in Southampton at the end of next week.”
“That doesn’t seem to call for my advice.”
“No, it’s the letter Tommy enclosed. The copy of a letter, rather. He wants to consult me before replying to it.”
“What on earth makes you think I have anything helpful to contribute?”
“You probably don’t. Talking about it may help me to work out whether I do.”
Sighing, he nodded acquiescence, but he cheered up when his meal arrived. Mrs. Dobson had cooked for Alec’s mother before he and Daisy were married. She was well aware of the needs of a hungry policeman and the tastes of her employer. A ham omelette with fried potatoes was flanked with bread and butter, salad, and a plate of cold roast beef. Rhubarb-and-strawberry tartlets, almond biscuits, and dark, moist gingerbread completed the spread, with a pot of coffee for Alec and tea for Daisy.
“Aaah!” breathed Alec and dug in.
Pouring herself a cup of tea, Daisy surveyed the offerings. It would be much easier to drop a few pounds if Mrs. Dobson wasn’t so good at baking as well as accounts. She took a thin slice of gingerbread and, to make it last, started talking.
“The letter is from a Mrs. Samuel Dalrymple in Jamaica. Her husband is a first officer in the Merchant Navy.”
Alec swallowed a mouthful and translated: “Mate of a freighter, since the war at least. He’s not illiterate, then, if he got his mate’s papers.”
“Illiterate? Why should he be?”
“I just wondered why she’s writing for him.”
“Because he’s off on a voyage, according to Tommy, and she doesn’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Must be a tramp steamer. No wireless? A small, elderly tramp steamer.”
“Pure speculation,” Daisy teased. Tit for tat: He had said it to her often enough.
“Not at all. Pure deduction.”
Daisy considered. “Oh yes, I suppose
it’s reasonable.”
“What’s worrying Pearson?”
“Not really worrying. You see, Mrs. Samuel—Martha’s her name—wrote as soon as the advert was brought to her attention, because she wonders whether her husband is descended from Julian and Marie-Claire.”
“Obviously.”
“Yes, but the thing is, she was worrying that another man might be coroneted before anyone was aware of Samuel’s existence. She wrote because she didn’t dare wait for him to come home before notifying Tommy. And she asked him whether she ought to come to England right away. That’s what’s got him fussing. He doesn’t think she should travel on her own—he’s rather old-fashioned that way—and he doesn’t know what to do with her when she arrives. Given Samuel’s occupation, Tommy’s pretty sure she hasn’t got enough money for what he’d consider a suitable hotel for a lady on her own.”
“Given Samuel’s occupation, is she a lady?”
“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?”