Ellen rose from her desk. “Do sit down. Do you care for coffee? Tea?”
I saw an empty tea tray on her desk. “No, we’re fine and I’m so sorry we’re late. It was the—”
“Traffic,” the major put in. “Dastardly this time of year.”
Ellen looked from him to me. Her face registered mild surprise since last she knew I hated him and refused to spend a minute in his company. I longed to explain matters. I didn’t want her to think me a weak-willed woman.
“Well.” Ellen resumed her seat wearily.
The question remained in her eyes. I’d gone to invite the major to come at three, not to spend the day with him. But she didn’t know why I’d gone with him. I’d gone with him because I suspected he knew something, something he wished to keep private between himself and Ellen.
“The business I have is private,” he began, “I think it best if we discuss it alone.”
Ellen glanced up from her desk. There were great dark shadows under her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep last night. My mind, you know. I was thinking of Teddy’s tombstone and what he’d like upon it. Of course, I know he’d prefer to be buried in America but I can’t bear the thought of him going home cold on that ship. I’ve had a terrible row about it with his sisters. They insist he goes back but I can’t let him go. Is that wrong of me?”
“Unless there is monetary gain, everybody loses in the business of death,” the major murmured, then reiterating the need for privacy.
“No, I want Daphne here,” Ellen replied firmly, leaving her desk to walk to the window. She stood there a moment, her slim frame silhouetted by the pale afternoon glow. “I’ve had two house calls today. Teddy’s accountant and solicitor. I knew he was wealthy but I had no idea of how complicated his businesses are. There.” She indicated to a box on the floor full of fat blue folders. “It’s only a start. Mr. Berting, that’s Teddy’s accountant, has tried to put things simply but I can’t understand it. I wonder if you might help me, Major Browning? If both of you might help me? Apart from my daughter, I have no family and even fewer that I trust. Harry is here, of course, but he manages Thornleigh for me; he has no business head and nor do I.”
“Employing a proper business manager might be better,” advised the major.
“Teddy loved his businesses. They were like pets to him and as his widow, I feel it my duty to look after these pets, particularly when there are many wolves at large.”
Her gaze fell upon a couple walking outside in the garden. I strained my neck so I could see who it was. Dean Fairchild and cousin Jack.
“Your husband,” the major began, “was involved in two major deals in the last year. Such business brought him to England.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“And you contacted him when he arrived?”
“Yes, that’s also true. I confronted him with Charlotte. He was astounded by how the child looks like him and offered me money. I refused. He started then to make amends with regular visits and taking us out to dinner.”
“During that time, did he ever talk about his work? The two deals?”
Ellen thought back. “A little. I remember the names … Salinghurst and Gildersberg. Teddy said he had an interest in those two companies.”
“More than an interest. He holds a forty-percent share in Salinghurst and recently acquired one hundred–percent holding in Gildersberg.”
“He owns Gildersberg then?” A slight crease showed on Ellen’s brow. “What does this have to do with his death?”
“Read the headlines.”
Ellen blinked at the newspaper thrust into her hands. “Gildersberg’s share prices collapsed this morning with the news of its director’s passing, a Mr. Teddy Grimshaw, of Boston, Massachusetts. It is reported that Mr. Grimshaw had ambitious plans for the German food chain company…”
“Salinghurst and Gildersberg are competitors,” the major explained. “I suspect your husband bought Gildersberg and intended to acquire the sinking Salinghurst shares so he would have full control over the market.”
“Salinghurst wins?”
“You have a forty-percent share in that company now. It is my belief they will attempt to buy you out.”
“So they have full control of the market?” Ellen finished for him.
“I strongly suggest you refuse that offer.”
Ellen paused. “Is it your suggestion that I do so, Major Browning, or is it Scotland Yard’s? I know you work for them. Daphne told me.”
I turned scarlet. I had said so in confidence. To my relief, the major appeared unconcerned.
“We believe some kind of skullduggery is at play between these companies, the central figure being your late husband. If you sell out of Salinghurst, we have no way in to monitor that company.”
“Me?” Ellen seemed confused. “But what I can do? I know nothing about running a company.”
“The principle shareholders are entitled to attend a company meeting once a month. Scotland Yard wishes you to go to these meetings and report what you see and hear. In simple terms, Mrs. Grimshaw, we wish you to stand in your husband’s place.”
“Teddy agreed to spy for you?”
There was a pause before the answer came. “He refused; doubtless for reasons of his own.”
Ellen sunk into her chair and spun it around. She turned very pale and I knew she was thinking about those threats Teddy had received in the mail.
“I suppose, Major Browning, you can’t tell me exactly what all this is about, can you?”
“No.”
“Can’t you give me some kind of encouragement? Before Teddy died, we were looking at simplifying our lives, not making things more complicated.”
I watched the major’s face. He didn’t want to give out details, any details. Perhaps he thought such details compromised the case. A case of high-class company fraud?
“We believe,” the major conceded, casting a surreptitious glance in my direction, “your husband was murdered.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Murdered?”
“Of course we have yet to receive the official verdict of death but I’d wager my best fishing set against it.”
Turning white, Ellen’s shaky hand reached for a glass of water. “I feel ill … so Teddy didn’t die of a heart attack?”
“So it appears, however, certain poisons are known to produce such a reaction.”
“Poisons?” Now Ellen turned completely white. “Who would want to poison Teddy? Would his business competitors stoop so low?”
“That’s why we want you to be our eyes and ears at Salinghurst. The first meeting is scheduled on the twenty-eighth. They won’t be expecting you—”
“Fine. I will go.” Rising to her feet, she rang the bell. “Fetch Harry,” she said to the maid, “tell him I will meet him on the green.”
After the maid bobbed and left, Ellen picked up her shawl. “They release the body tomorrow. I had thought to have him interred in the parish grounds, but we have an ancient graveyard here, under the yew tree near the woods. Once when we walked by, Teddy joked they ought to put a new ‘straight’ headstone there to counteract the disorderly ones. Ironic now that they are erecting such a one, isn’t it?”
“Oh.” She stopped at the door, examining us both. “I am trusting you with Teddy’s files and since Scotland Yard is asking me to spy, I think the least they can do is lend me a manager until I can find a replacement. Are you, Major Browning, equipped to handle these matters?”
“I can fill the position for the time being,” came the major’s smooth reply, a slight smile etching the corners of his mouth, “but I shall need an assistant, a secretary, one equipped with shorthand and dictation.”
“Daphne.” Ellen touched my shoulder. “Will you help the major? I must go … I have things to do.”
The door shut, leaving us alone.
“I have a huge desire for a cigar,” the major confided, stretching out his long legs.
“Your best fishing set, hmm? Do you
really know what you are doing?”
“Not in the slightest. That’s why I need a cigar.”
This rare display of humility warmed me to him. Normally I’d have a sarcastic reply ready but sensing the inadequacy behind his heavy frown I laid my own hand on his shoulder. “I’ll help you.”
At my soft murmur, his hand covered mine and drew me to him. The suddenness of the action caught me unawares and before I knew it I was in his arms.
“This working closely appeals to me by the minute.” He laughed.
My heart racing, my rebellious mouth sought his. I didn’t care if it might be considered forward or even wanton. I wanted him.
“Oh.” Nanny Brickley burst into the room. “I was looking for Ellen.”
I sprang to my feet, blushing furiously. Had I forgotten that in the world’s eyes he belonged to another woman?
“She went outside to meet Harry,” the major said, calm, amused, charming as ever. “I daresay it’s about the gravesite.”
“Yes, of course, yes…”
Alicia Brickley could scarcely look at me. And I couldn’t look at her, either.
“Oh, the shame of it!” I cursed under my breath when she left.
“Shame?” He chuckled, unaffected. “What shame?”
“You forget you’re an engaged man. What if she tattletales?”
“What if she does?”
“Aren’t you concerned with the feelings of your fiancée?”
“Not in the slightest. It’s a business arrangement.”
“Lady Lara might see it differently. She must be on the hunt for a husband, this being her fifth season.”
“Oh, she’s had plenty of offers,” the major replied, taking out the files from the first box.
“Was there none to her father’s liking?”
“None to her liking is more like it. Lara has…” he paused, thinking, “particular tastes.”
“And you’re to her taste?”
I hadn’t meant to sound angry.
He shrugged. “It doesn’t signify if I am. You’re my girl.”
His casual statement caught me off guard. Something sang inside me and I sank to my knees on the floor beside him. Somehow it seemed so natural to do so. “What do you want me to do?”
“Sort those out first,” he said, handing me a pile of papers. “In date order.” Moving to Ellen’s desk, he began reading, his eyes narrowing in the bad light.
“Why don’t we use the study?” I suggested. “Or the library? The light is good there.”
My suggestion appealed to him and twenty minutes later we were on our way to the library when Angela ran into us. Her hostile stare bespoke her thoughts as she pulled me aside.
“What is going on with you and the major? One minute you hate him, the next Nanny Brickley catches you in his arms. He is engaged, you know, and Megan was present when Brickley told me. What if she tells Lady Lara?”
We were standing outside the library and I prayed nobody overheard Angela’s furious whisper. Drawing her away from the closed door (for I imagined the major lingered on the other side, curious as to my sister’s “urgent business”), I endeavored to make atonement.
“I can’t fully explain but he is … I am…”
“He is. You are … what? Lovers?”
“No!”
“Then why are you creeping around like a pair of schoolchildren? Stealing kisses behind doors?”
Nanny Brickley had wasted no time in spreading gossip. I suppose she, like my sister, scorned my weakness. My friends had supported me against the major, consoled me during dark moments, and now couldn’t make sense of my defection.
Nor could I. “He is working on something important and I’ve been asked to help him. Believe me, if Ellen hadn’t asked me personally, I wouldn’t do it. I know our being together will generate rumors.”
Angela examined me squarely, putting on her older-sister face. “Lady Lara Fane isn’t one you want to draw swords with. And you should know the American cousins are dining at Rutland House tonight.”
“Then whatever tale they take is their business. As it is, the major and I are working on Ellen’s finances. Scotland Yard is involved. I can’t say how; I am sworn to secrecy, but don’t be surprised if there’s a shock in the next day or so.”
Angela picked up my insinuation. “It’s murder, isn’t it?”
I shrugged, slipping back toward where we had left the major. I’d given her enough to keep her occupied and off my back for the present. I knew she’d not run to our parents. Since Somner House, we shared a special bond of trust.
However, later that evening my father said over his pipe: “Heard Browning came here today.”
“Oh?” I feigned mild surprise.
“And he came without his fiancée.”
“Ooh.” I lowered my gaze so he couldn’t read the truth in my eyes.
My father continued smoking. “Thought you’d be interested.”
“Why?”
He grimaced. “So as to avoid the man.”
“Ah.” I pretended to keep reading my book, hoping Angela stayed longer downstairs. If she’d heard our father talking this way, she’d probably say something about it. Glancing across the room to my mother and Jeanne listening to a story on the radio, I breathed an inward sigh of relief. At least, they knew nothing about my sojourn with the major.
He’d decided to take the files back to the inn and asked me to resume our work there the day after the funeral. I had my reservations, working with him unchaperoned.
“Then we can remain in visible view,” he said on parting, leaving a light kiss on my cheek. “Good night, sweetheart.”
Good night sweetheart. I treasured the memory of those words and the manner in which they’d been delivered. Familiar and fond, a verbal intimacy my father and mother often shared. Dare I hope it led to so much more?
He couldn’t be thinking of marriage, could he? I didn’t want to trust myself to think upon it, though I lay restless in bed throughout the night. What future did we have? How long did he have to keep his public engagement to Lady Lara? When could we make our romance public?
My father might refuse. I hadn’t considered this very real aspect before and now shuddered. Sir Gerald could be a formidable person when he wanted to be. He also exercised great authority and acted the faire l’important personage.
And a man like Major Browning had his pride. Assuming he presented himself at my father’s door and asked his permission to court me, what outcome dare I expect? I thought of Elizabeth Bennett and her father’s grave concerns when Mr. Darcy showed up at his door. She had to defend him. She could do so whereas I could not. I was not privy to certain details and the fact maddened me. I’d sooner prattle out the man’s cologne fragrance than where he grew up and in what kind of family environment or how he’d come to work for Scotland Yard or even his current living situation.
“Excuse me,” I said to the mirror the next morning. “How much do you earn per year? Do you own a house? Can you expect a legacy from a soon-to-die relative?”
The callousness and yet urgency of such matters plagued me as I dressed for the funeral. Instead of the local church, Ellen had decided to have the service outside by the yew tree.
The day was sunny and chilly. As we made our approach across the green, I picked out black dots arriving from all directions. For a man who didn’t belong to this country, the turnout was remarkable.
During the service, I scanned the faces. Relatives, business associates, longtime friends of Ellen’s family, neighbors, nosy locals, and an unexpected late arrival: Rosalie and her mother.
I saw Ellen tense as they approached, a large black umbrella shielding their faces from the sun.
“Behold the witch,” my father whispered.
Though wrapped in a lush ermine coat, it didn’t hide the plumpness of Cynthia Grimshaw’s belly or her short stature. Beneath frizzy blond hair, the woman’s face, much older than Ellen’s, remained fixed and hard. Holding
her daughter’s hand tightly, they moved to and stopped by the Fairchild family.
“… we hereby commit thy body to the ground from whence we came. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Silence accompanied the shining coffin to its final resting place. Glimmers of sunlight danced on the bronze handles as they lowered it, down and down into the cool ground. Ellen and Charlotte stepped forward to place their wreath on the coffin; however, Rosalie broke free from the crowd and hurled hers down first.
Astonished whispers echoed all around. Even the priest looked offended and frowned. He quoted some further bible verse to dissolve the incident while Rosalie returned to her mother, triumphant.
I glanced at Ellen. Shaking with grief and anger, she seized Charlotte’s hand and turned from the gravesite, my mother steering her away.
“Yes, go,” Rosalie urged, completely unabashed. “We don’t want you here, do we, Daddy?”
The upper croûte of English society frowned. She’d committed a great faux pas without any remorse whatsoever. Slightly embarrassed by her outburst, her American cousins had the sense to take her from the scene. The other attendees soon followed suit, each leaving their token flowers.
Having walked a few yards from the site, I returned to fetch my mother’s shawl. She often left it lying around here and there and in her haste to support Ellen, it had slipped to the ground. And, at any rate, I’d seen Cynthia Grimshaw linger and wanted to catch her expression.
The expression had hardened, noticed upon arrival. And then, in the crevice of her mouth the tiniest smile emerged as she stared down at the filling grave.
Shocked, I stepped back onto a dried leaf. Cringing at the loud crackle, I met Cynthia Grimshaw’s icy stare.
“Ellen’s little friend, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, holding my head high.
The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries) Page 7