by Carola Dunn
“Assuming this is about what I assume it’s about, he’s already granted his approval.”
The cautious lawyer came to the fore. “Oh? I wouldn’t have expected … But that’s not my affair. Let’s set a date and time, and Madge will get in touch about a business-free date for dinner.”
Daisy checked her diary and suggested the following afternoon. Tommy was going to be in court all day.
“There’s no hurry,” he assured her. “This is going to drag on for months.”
“Jarndyce and Jarndyce?” she asked forebodingly.
“No, no. There’s no question about the will, or rather the letters patent.”
“Letters…? No, don’t tell me!”
“It’s just a matter of carrying on until we’re as certain as possible that we’ve heard from all claimants and discovered the proper heir.”
“More like the Tichbourne claimant, then. That dragged on for years, didn’t it?”
“We’ll just have to hope it won’t come to that.”
They made an appointment for the following week. Daisy returned to her office. Having decided to give famous people precedence over monarchs, she now had to write about Mrs. Aphra Behn, who died in 1689 and whose monument, according to Daisy’s notes, read Here lies a Proof that Wit can never be Defence enough against Mortality. She didn’t remember learning about Aphra Behn at school. She turned to Nelson’s Encyclopædia, Volume 3, B-Ble.
A spy for Charles II and a successful professional playwright, making her living by her writing in the seventeenth century! Daisy wanted to know more, but the encyclopædia entry was quite short. Reminding herself that all she needed was a snippet for a travel article, she moved on to Sir Isaac Newton.
His monument was much grander, with a much longer inscription, which unfortunately was in Latin. Her school had considered the study of Latin to be too much of a strain for the brains of young ladies. Science, also, and higher mathematics, so she didn’t understand Newton’s work any better than she understood his epitaph, but good old Nelson—the encyclopædic one, not the sailor—came to the rescue.
Elsie brought in tea and biscuits. “Lemon jumbles, madam. Mrs. Dobson made ’em because Miss Belinda does like ’em so. Only she rang up just now, Miss Belinda did, and said not to disturb you, madam, but Mrs. Prasad’s invited her to stay the night and could you please ring back.”
Daisy rang and talked to Sakari, who was dying to know all about Lord Dalrymple’s search for his heir. She’d picked up hints from Belinda, of course.
“I’d better not talk about it, darling,” Daisy apologised. “One never knows when legal business might turn out to be confidential. Don’t let Bel be a nuisance or overstay her welcome.”
“Belinda is never a nuisance, Daisy. But the zoological gardens are utterly exhausting! I confess, after half an hour I retired to the tearoom with a book and let the girls escort themselves.”
“I don’t blame you,” Daisy said, laughing. “Though I’m looking forward to taking the twins when they’re a little older.”
* * *
That evening, for once, Alec escaped from the Yard on time. He had spent a boring day on paperwork and meetings, with no interesting new cases on the horizon. Looking forward to spending some time with his children, he was disappointed to find Belinda away from home for the night.
A visit to the nursery and a romp with the twins cheered him up a bit. Having changed out of his suit, he played horsie and they took turns riding on his back.
Mrs. Gilpin was scandalised. “Fathers ought to command awe,” she told him, not for the first time. “How can they respect you, sir, when you let them—”
“They’re only babies. Down you get, Manda. Your turn, Oliver.”
At dinner, over Lancashire hotpot and broad beans, Daisy reported the second part of Cousin Geraldine’s letter. “Edgar wants the whole family to turn out to celebrate his birthday and to meet the three heirs—or rather, I presume, as many as haven’t been debunked by then.”
“Sounds like a jolly party,” Alec grunted. “More Geraldine’s idea than Edgar’s, I’ll be bound.”
“Oh yes, she loves playing Lady Bountiful, whereas August must be a prime season for moths and butterflies, don’t you think? Edgar will want to be out in the fields with his nets and jars.”
“If that’s where he wants to be, that’s where he’ll be, after gently agreeing with his wife that his place is with his guests. So this grand gathering is to be at Fairacres in August?”
“Yes, the first week. From the thirtieth of July, actually. His birthday is the sixth of August, but the first is August bank holiday and the village fête. There’s plenty of time for you to arrange to take a few days off.”
“Me! I’m not family, and I don’t want anything to do with games of ‘debunk the heirs.’”
“Darling, of course you’re family. Geraldine specifically says you’re expected, and the children, too. Johnny and Vi will be taking all three of theirs.”
“You mean they’ve already accepted? They were invited before us?” Alec pretended outrage.
“Idiot! As though you cared. No, Geraldine just says she’s inviting them. But Violet’s bound to accept. She’ll see it as a family obligation. And I have to agree, actually.”
“Your family. No, sorry! I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“I should hope not,” Daisy said severely. “Edgar may be obsessed with lepidoptera but he’s a sweetie, and I wouldn’t dream of spoiling his birthday by refusing, even if the celebration is really Geraldine’s idea.”
“You’re right. You know I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try to get a few days off for it.” With any luck, he’d be unsuccessful, he thought. He’d much prefer to go to the New Forest with Daisy and the children.
“They owe you a holiday. You’re so often late for dinner that Mrs. Dobson never makes anything that can’t be eaten cold, unless it wouldn’t suffer from being kept hot or reheated! Not to mention last summer: We were supposed to have a week on the Isle of Wight and they called you back after three days.”
“It was an emergency.”
“It always is. Anyone would think you were the only detective chief inspector in the CID. Not that I’m not proud of you for being indispensable, but there ought to be a limit. I don’t suppose Mr. Crane would be impressed by Edgar’s title?”
“I’ve no intention of using it to impress him. On the other hand,” Alec went on thoughtfully, “if I told him my mother-in-law insists on my presence and I’m terrified of her…”
Daisy laughed. “What bilge, darling!”
“Not at all. Your mother can be very intimidating. Besides, can you think of any words more likely to strike fear into the average male breast than ‘mother-in-law’ and ‘dowager’? The Super would credit it.”
“I’m not at all sure whether Mother is planning to take any part in the affair. She still hasn’t forgiven Edgar for inheriting Fairacres, though he had no choice about it. One couldn’t describe her as being on neighbourly terms with them, even if the Dower House is all of half a mile away.”
“But she’s bound to want to vet the next heir, or claimants to heirdom, don’t you think?”
“I certainly do. It’s an intriguing situation. But you never can tell with Mother.” Daisy grimaced. “I’d better see if she has anything to say on the subject. I’ll open her letter after dinner.”
“You haven’t read it yet? Coward!”
Daisy wrinkled her nose at him. “I am,” she acknowledged, “when it comes to Mother. You deal with her much better than I do.”
“So that’s why you’re so determined to get me down to Fairacres?”
“She’s going to be breathing fire at these poor people Tommy’s digging up. Not that I’m too keen on them myself.”
“I don’t know why you want to go,” Alec grumbled, “when you’re already prejudiced against them.”
“I’m not!”
He merely raised his eyebrows,
well aware that the simple change of expression always had the devastating effect of making her examine her conscience. It had much the same effect on suspects and recalcitrant witnesses, though for them he put enough ice in his stare to intimidate; some claimed he froze the marrow of their bones. With Daisy, he was laughing at her—usually.
“I can’t dislike them when I haven’t even met them yet. But I resent them,” she admitted. “I resent anyone who might take Father’s and Gervaise’s place. When it happened before, I didn’t have a chance to think about it beforehand so … it came as a shock but I didn’t have to participate. I expect it sounds silly, but I feel disloyal.”
“Not silly at all, love. Very natural.” Reluctantly he resigned himself to doing his best to be there to support her. “But if we’re committing ourselves to staying for several days, I hope you’ll try not to show your dislike.”
“I don’t dislike them, truly. I’m just a bit disgruntled.”
“Well, gruntle yourself, love, or I’ll conjure up an emergency at the Yard and go back to work.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I might.”
“You will come, then?”
“If I can wangle the time off, yes. I take it you’ve decided not to participate in Pearson’s interviews with the claimants.”
“Of course I shall. I’ve already made an appointment with him to talk about it. It’ll be easier to cope with meeting them one at a time, rather than facing a horde of strangers at Fairacres, don’t you think? And I might be able to help weed them out so there isn’t a horde by then.”
“‘A consummation devoutly to be wished,’” said Alec.
After dinner, when they were settled with coffee in the sitting room, Daisy picked up the Benares brass letter opener and attacked the dowager’s cream linen paper envelope.
“At least it’s short,” Alec remarked, as she took out a single sheet.
“Mother can pack a lot into a few pithy sentences when she tries. Ah, I might have guessed. It’s all Edgar’s fault. He was unforgivably remiss not to ascertain the identity of his heir as soon as he had appropriated the title.”
“Appropriated? Is that the word she uses?”
“I told you she’s by no means resigned to dowagerdom. Dowagership? Dowagerhood?”
“All the same, she has a point about his being remiss.”
“Remember, the poor man wasn’t brought up to the business of being a lord.”
“Lordhood, as it might be.”
“To do him justice, though he must be glad not to be surviving on a schoolmaster’s pension, he doesn’t care two hoots about the title. So, not having any children, why should he care who gets it next? Mother does, however. Wouldn’t you think she’d have learnt that she has no say in the matter?”
“Your mother considers herself a law unto herself.” And her younger daughter occasionally followed her example, as he’d discovered the very first time Daisy had interfered in one of his investigations.
“Anyway, she intends to keep a close eye on things, since Edgar has neither the common sense nor the breeding to.… Yes, well, we’ll skip the invective. Aha, here we are. She expects me to bring you down to Fairacres, because if a policeman can’t sort out the impostors from the real heir, what’s the use of having one in the family? She’ll be very disappointed in me if—As if that was an inducement! She’s disappointed in me whatever I do.”
“Whereas,” Alec smugly pointed out, “she has at least acknowledged the value of having a policeman in the family. Although she seems a little confused about the function of the various branches of the law. Pearson would have every right to resent my poking my nose into his business, supposing I were inclined to interfere, which I’m not.”
“But you must admit it’s an intriguing situation. Gruntled or not, I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Besides, Bel and the twins will enjoy seeing their cousins, and you’ll have time to spend with them, darling.”
“I can’t say intriguing is the word I’d use.” The word he’d use was not to be pronounced in feminine company. “Still, I expect you and Pearson will sort them out before we get there. How difficult can it be to tell the fake heirs from the real one?”
THREE
On a warm, damp morning in early May, Daisy took the number 63 bus from Hampstead to the City. She disliked driving in central London, especially in the rain.
Not that it was exactly raining. The air was heavy with lilac-scented moisture. It was neither falling in droplets nor visible as mist, but she knew from experience that as it settled on the windscreen it would obscure her vision even worse than actual rain.
Though Alec kept telling her she ought to take taxis, the years of penny-pinching between her father’s death and her marriage had taken their toll. Why waste money on a cab when the bus would take her within ten minutes’ walk of Lincoln’s Inn? Besides, she needed to think; in a taxi the inexorable tick of the meter always distracted her with worry about whether she had enough change in her purse.
She had to marshal her arguments. A chat with Madge had dispelled her impression that Tommy was enthusiastic about including her in his initial interviews with the claimants. Apparently he’d had second thoughts about Geraldine’s sensible suggestion and would have to be persuaded.
Daisy had put on her navy costume, the plain one she wore for calling on editors. The skirt reached below the knee, which had been a businesslike length when she bought it, though now it was fashionable. A silk blouse in a blue paisley pattern and a speedwell-blue cloche brightened it up. She didn’t want to look like an ordinary shorthand typist.
Come to think of it, though, looking like a secretary for the interviews wasn’t such a bad idea. She would put it to Tommy.
The bus duly deposited her at Ludgate Circus. She always enjoyed walking along Fleet Street, feeling herself a small part of the great machinery of news gathering and disbursement, even if “news” wasn’t quite the word for her largely historical articles. Like the reporters dashing in all directions around her, she dealt in words and information. The offices of Town and Country magazine, her English publishers, were tucked away in the labyrinth of alleys, courts, and lanes to the north of the bustling street.
Fleet Street became the Strand. Rising ahead was a Victorian Gothic building holding a different kind of court, the Royal Courts of Justice. Just before reaching it, Daisy turned right into Bell Yard. Now the figures passing her were barristers in black gowns and white wigs, and solicitors in dark suits and bowlers or—among the elderly—frock coats and top hats.
In these surroundings, no wonder Tommy had grown staid. Had he become too old-fashioned to let a woman have her say in legal matters?
As he had advised, she entered the precincts of Lincoln’s Inn by the Carey Street gate, an elaborate archway with two coats of arms above and fanciful wrought ironwork supporting a gas lamp below. She confirmed his directions with the porter.
“Number 12, New Square, madam? Pearson, Solicitors? Straight on. You’ll pass two passages with a bit of a garden between them, then it’s the second door on your right.”
Daisy thanked him and went on into New Square. On three sides of a wide stretch of lawn and trees stood terraces of four-storied brick buildings. Most had regular rows of sash windows, with the symmetry beloved of the Georgians. As she approached numbers twelve and thirteen, Daisy saw they were obviously older, their windows odd sizes and misaligned, very likely replacements for the original mullioned casements.
The interior matched, Daisy found when she entered after ringing the bell, as instructed by a small sign. The entrance hall boasted centuries-old carved oak panelling and stairs—and electric lights.
The rattle of typewriters halved in volume and a girl came out of a room to one side. She escorted Daisy up to the second floor, to a small room gloomily lined with shelves of black deed boxes, where she presented her to Tommy’s secretary. Miss Watt had steel-grey hair set in steely marcel waves. Her plain costume was steel-grey, th
e skirt four inches below the knee, worn with a severely plain white blouse. Her eyes, examining Daisy over half-spectacles, were also steel-grey. Daisy suspected they could be as cold and sharp as steel if required to guard her employer from unwanted intruders.
However, Daisy met with Miss Watt’s approval. “You’re a few minutes early, Mrs. Fletcher, but I believe Mr. Pearson can see you immediately. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Tommy appeared at once to usher her into his office, and she remembered to address him as Mr. Pearson. She had met him and Madge at the military hospital in Malvern where Madge had been a VAD nurse and Tommy a patient after one of his more perilous exploits. Daisy herself had squeamishly stuck to working in the hospital’s office, but she’d become good friends with the older girl, a friendship that had continued after both she and Madge married.
“Will you be needing me, Mr. Pearson?”
“No, thank you, Miss Watt. No interruptions.”
The office was a further example of mixed eras. The panelling, especially the ornately carved mantelpiece, was certainly older than the large Victorian rosewood desk, with its silver inkwell, and the leather chairs. Shelves bore row after row of legal books, the older bound in calf, the newer merely clothbound. The window, open at the top, looked out over New Square.
Daisy sat down in front of the desk, Tommy behind it. “I’ve been reconsidering,” he said, steepling his fingers.
Though she had been expecting this, Daisy was annoyed. “I do think you might have let me know. I needn’t have—”
“Reconsidering,” he repeated, “not decided against. But it would be most irregular to allow anyone other than the head of the family to attend the interviews.”
“The head of the family would be worse than useless. Apart from his lack of interest in anything other than moths and butterflies, Edgar didn’t grow up as part of the family and never heard the stories—”
“Ah, the stories! Those are what you expect to trip up any false claimant? You do realise it’s close to a hundred years since Julian Dalrymple ran off to Jamaica?”