Dankworth had almost relaxed, sitting as he was, at the far end of his desk, practically up against the wall.
“What about the gardener, Silas? Have you heard of him?”
“Heard of him but never met him. He seems to be a complainer though. Madge is always telling me how she’s going to get rid of him, but I don’t think she will. So long as he keeps showing up and doing the work, I don’t think she’ll find anyone who can take her abuse or the paucity of pay she’s offering.”
“Well, Kenyon, you’ve been terribly kind with your time and I shan’t keep you any longer. Do you have any questions of me?”
Dankworth stood up as Frances stood up and shook his head.
“No, but I do urge you to keep your mind open to the possibility that Madge might have something to do with all this nonsense herself.”
He shook Lady Marmalade’s hand and then Alfred’s and ushered them out the door, and as he did so he picked up the ashtray and held it under his hand, his palm covering it.
“Please take care of this, Peggy,” he said, handing her the ashtray as they entered the reception area. Frances and Alfred looked over to where Peggy was sitting at her desk, typing up a letter written by Dr. Dankworth that lay on the table. They couldn’t read it, but they could make out his signature. The words were small and tight.
Frances and Alfred showed themselves out and when they had exited onto the street, Frances turned to Alfred.
“I wonder why he smokes if he can’t stand the smell.”
“I suppose some habits are harder to break than others.”
He held open the door to Eric’s 1939 Aston Martin 15/98 that Frances sometimes used when she was feeling sentimental. It was a fast and sporty car, but not the most comfortable. But she always remembered the first time Eric had driven her in it. Driving much too fast, the two of them laughing like youngsters. Eric gripping the steering wheel with his brown leather driving gloves and glancing over at her occasionally through his racing goggles.
Alfred climbed in next to her and started up the engine.
“Where to, my Lady?”
“Home, Alfred, and through the park,” she smiled at him. “I want to telephone Inspector Pearce, there is a piece of the puzzle I forgot to mention to him.”
“And what would that be my Lady?”
“Michael. I want to see if he can’t find out whatever happened to the little boy Michael. I think that somehow he might be at the center of all of this.”
“I don’t follow, I’m afraid.”
“The sins of the father. Perhaps the sins of his father, or he is now the father sinning. Somehow, I think Michael plays a role in all of this mess.”
“Anything else?”
Frances looked at him and smiled.
“A visit to Harry Beckenswidth might be in order, too.”
ELEVEN
Chapter 11
NOT far from Regent’s Park in St. John’s Wood is a lane of stately townhomes. Built with bright rust colored brick and white stone trim, this area of London has long been sought after. It was just after seven p.m. and Lady Marmalade hadn’t felt like taking the Aston Martin this evening, as much as she was reminiscing about Eric. Tonight, she sat in the back of her white Rolls Royce Phantom III, as Alfred drove up and found a parking spot in front of Mr. Beckenswidth’s home.
It was an expensive area in London to live. Not as much as Kensington/Hyde Park area where Marmalade Park was, but you had to be extremely well off to live here. And Lady Marmalade hadn’t a clue as to how Harry Beckenswidth made his fortune, if indeed he had a fortune worth knowing about.
He had been agreeable and very friendly on the telephone and insisted that Lady Marmalade join him and his wife for dinner. Ginny was in the midst of preparing dinner when Frances had called so she politely declined. She was coming over for tea and dessert.
Alfred opened the back door for Lady Marmalade and held her white gloved hand as she got out. She was dressed in a white and black dress suit with white shoes and she wore a white hat with a black veil. She wasn’t sure why she had dressed up so much, it wasn’t usually like her, but she had a feeling that dressing the part when visiting Harry was going to pay off.
“You look simply marvelous, my Lady, if you don’t mind me saying,” said Alfred.
Frances smiled at him through red painted lips. Along with the dress and gloves, she had spent a bit of time doing up her face. Although she was a small woman, she had always kept herself trim and at sixty years of age, she could still turn the heads of men decades younger.
They walked up to the main door and Alfred knocked on it thrice. From inside the house they heard footsteps coming towards the door. It was opened from within without having been unlocked.
A man of average height opened the door. He was well fed. Exceptionally well fed, with a ruddy complexion and spidered nose. He was likely in his late sixties. He smelled as if he had rolled out of an oak wine barrel where he had been living for the past twenty years. He wore brown pants and brown shoes with a brown checked sweater. His hair was short but curly, still the brown of his youth, thanks to the miracle of modern science.
His cheeks were thick, like putty stuck onto his face and his eyes twinkled like wet gray stones. His eyebrows were well groomed and trimmed, painted with the same brush that most likely painted his hair the brown of his youth. Cracked, broken red veins, like small insect legs floated on his cheeks, commiserating with those on his nose.
He smiled broadly and his thick baritone voice was as strong and as well polished as a brass bell. He extended his hand.
“What a treat,” he said. “It isn’t often I’ve had the pleasure of a Lady in my home. I hope you enjoy port, we’re just opening the best one in the house. A 1912 Niepoort Colheita.”
“Sounds marvelous,” said Frances.
“Forgive me, I am Harry Beckenswidth. I gave my butler the day off for a family emergency.’
“Lady Frances Marmalade. Frances, if you prefer.”
“Why of course. I’ve heard so much about you and of course your husband, Lord Marmalade, was very well known.”
“Kind of you to say.”
Harry shook Alfred’s hand.
“Alfred Donahue,” he said. “I am Lady Marmalade’s butler...”
“And my dear Watson as well,” said Frances smiling at Harry.
“Please, do come in. Gladys is dying to meet you. She’s never met a Lady before.”
Frances and Alfred walked in after Harry and he closed the door behind them. He led them into the living room where a woman in her mid forties sat. She got up when Frances and Alfred entered. She wore a red dress and white cardigan over white blouse. She was about Harry’s height and her face was made up carefully. She looked good for someone in her forties, when the light was subdued and the faculties numbed by wine. Her hair was platinum blonde and her nails long and painted the same color as her dress.
She held out her hand and Frances shook it.
“Gladys Beckenswidth, Harry’s wife. So nice of you to visit. I’m just tickled pink,” she said.
She was a very self conscious woman who spoke through thin lips hardly showing any teeth. The teeth that could be seen were as yellow and crooked as a farmer’s fence. She shook hands with Alfred, too, and showed Frances and Alfred to a couch that ran perpendicular to the one she had just got up from.
Harry went over to the bar and brought back the bottle of port which was empty, and the decanter which now held the tawny liquid. Harry went back and returned with four port glasses. As he settled down onto the couch the housekeeper came into the living room with a tray of four individual servings of strawberry Savarins, drizzled with strawberry puree.
“Thank you, Madeleine,” said Harry as she lay the tray down and returned to the kitchen. “She’s the finest housekeeper I’ve found. French, too. Makes the absolute best desserts. I think you’ll love these.”
“My figure couldn’t afford a French housekeeper and all that marvelo
us French cuisine,” said Frances smiling at the two of them.
“I know, I have to exercise extreme judgment,” said Gladys. “But Harry loves it and it keeps him happy.”
Gladys tucked her hand around his elbow and leaned in to give him a squeeze. He beamed back at her.
“She’s one of a kind. My life was empty before I met her,” he said.
Frances smiled at them.
“That’s so nice to see. All the world could use a little more love nowadays it seems.”
“I know, this war is dragging on terribly. I wish it would just end,” said Gladys.
“Well, we are fortunate not to have any more bombings for over three weeks now, right Alfred?” said Frances looking at him.
“If we get through tonight it’ll be 23 days my Lady.”
“Really, I fear it feels like only a few days. Mind you, I’ve only been back in London for what, two months?” said Gladys, with her arm still around Harry’s.
“Just about three months, my dear,” said Harry.
“There you go, I can’t keep track of time.”
“I urged her not to come,” said Harry, “I thought it much safer for her to be up in Aberfoyle where we have a small cottage in the park.”
“But I’ve been listening to the wireless, and I knew the bombings have been quite intermittent since The Blitz,” said Gladys, “I’ve missed him so, and he’s had a bunker built under here to keep us safe, so I don’t fear for my life.”
Gladys was looking at Harry adoringly. Frances smiled in the glow of their love. It seemed genuine and unforced. They made a happy couple and that was all the Frances would wish for them. Harry poured himself a splash of port. Swirled it around in the glass and then stuck his nose into to smell.
“Hmm,” he said, quite pleased. He took the cup to his mouth and sipped. Letting the port coat his mouth for several seconds before swallowing.
“If I don’t mind saying so myself, this is the best port I’ve tasted in some time.”
Harry poured a glass and handed it to Lady Marmalade. Then he poured one for his wife, a third for Alfred and lastly he topped up his own. They all sat silently together for a moment sipping on the port.
“That is very good, Harry. So kind of you to open this bottle to share with us, tonight,” said Frances.
“Only the best will do for nobility, my Lady,” he said.
Feeling more comfortable with Harry and Gladys, and having had the chance to size them up Frances requested that he call her by her first name. Gladys reached for the plates of Savarin and handed one each to Frances and then to Alfred. She handed them forks, too, and Frances took a bite before putting the plate back down on the table next to her port.
“I had such a wonderful dinner tonight,” said Frances, “that I feared I might be too full for dessert when you offered me over, but I must stay, this Savarin is divine, and I’ll be determined to enjoy it all.”
Harry chuckled and raised his glass. Frances and Alfred picked theirs back up.
“To new friends and those missing.”
“Hear, hear,” said Alfred.
“Agreed,” said Frances and they all leaned in to clink together and sipped more port. The nutty, sweet, and warm flavor with a body much like honey was pared remarkably well with the Savarin’s buttery lightness.
“This Savarin,” said Alfred, “and I can’t remember the last time, if ever, I’ve had a Savarin, goes remarkably well with the port. I wouldn’t have expected such.”
“There are snobs, Alfred, and then there are those of us, and you seem to be in the latter like I am, who just enjoy the bounty that life has to offer. I like to experiment with pairings. Though I don’t often enjoy port with my dinner, who says it has to be savored only as a dessert wine?”
Alfred nodded his head.
“I quite agree. If something is pleasant, then why let formality stop you.”
Frances took another bite of her Savarin and set the plate back down.
“You had mentioned that you had wanted to come speak with me about Madge,” said Harry.
Frances looked at him and smiled, just having finished her mouthful.
“Yes, quite right, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure how well you’d take it.”
Harry nodded and chuckled before speaking with his warm baritone and looking at Frances through his twinkling eyes.
“Probably, because I assume that Margaret didn’t have very nice things to say about me.”
He smiled at Frances and she smiled back, nodding ever so slightly.
“That woman, I still get upset at how poorly she treated my dear Harry,” said Gladys.
Harry put his hand on her knee and tapped it gently.
“She was difficult, agreed.”
Gladys looked at him.
“Difficult, Harry, she practically ruined you and your business.”
Harry looked down at his plate of Savarin, picked it up and severed a large chunk with his fork and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly and finally swallowed.
“What did she say about me, exactly?” he asked.
“Not a great deal, but she made it plain that she thought you were a cad for running off with your secretary.”
Harry nodded and smiled. Gladys looked a little upset.
“That’s not exactly how it happened, is it dear?” she asked him.
He looked over at her and smiled.
“No, it isn’t.” Then Harry looked over at Frances. “You’ve met her, I assume.”
Frances nodded.
“She’s not the nicest woman. We were married from 1919 to 1922. Just after the Great War. Everyone was happy and joyful and full of hope in those days. So perhaps we made a poor decision.”
“And Lula was with Madge by that time?” asked Frances.
“Yes, her mother, Celia, died in the Spanish Flu, the year before. Lula was, is, such a sweet young woman. Painfully shy though, and I can’t blame her, living with her grandmother who is quite overbearing.”
“And how old was Lula at that time?”
“She must have been five. She was born in 1914.”
“So you didn’t have a chance to meet Lula’s mother, Celia?”
“No, I didn’t. And the odd thing is that Margaret never spoke of Celia much, didn’t keep pictures around. I couldn’t quite understand, still don’t. And in some ways I think she begrudged her dying and leaving Lula in her care.”
“Why do you feel that way?”
“It’s nothing concrete, just the way she’s short tempered with Lula. But not just her though, with everyone, really. Margaret, I now realize in hindsight, is just a deeply unhappy woman. At first I thought it was me.”
“It’s not you darling,” said Gladys, “you make me as happy as can be.”
Harry looked down at her and smiled.
“Yes, I realize that now. But at the time, I thought perhaps it was me, that somehow, I was the cause of her unhappiness.”
“That’s a short time to be married,” said Frances.
Harry laughed.
“Yes, looking back it is. But at the time, I felt like I was eternally stuck in Dante’s inferno. Without trying to exaggerate, those three years were perhaps three of the worst years of my life. And I don’t mean to speak ill of Margaret.”
“If I might probe,” said Frances, “how and why did you and Madge divorce?”
“She withdrew from me and the last year we were nothing short of boarders. In fact it was worse than that. She was mean spirited and couldn’t be bothered to find a kind word to say about me at all. Naturally, I slowly gave up on the marriage myself and as it happened I found myself drawing closer to Gladys who was the kind of woman whom I had been seeking all my life.”
Gladys squeezed his arm and smiled like a proud schoolgirl.
“Madge said you ran off with your secretary,” said Frances.
“Grr, that’s not how it happened, at all,” said Gladys. “That woman just loves drama and putting the blame on everyo
ne else.”
Harry patted her knee.
“What Gladys says is true. I didn’t run off with my secretary, though the last part is true. Gladys was, at the time, my secretary. And it must be known, that Gladys and I never committed any sin. I was faithful to Margaret until the last day of our marriage.”
“So, how exactly did it end?”
“I sought divorce in the summer of 1922 and by the end of the year it was finalized. That’s when I proposed to Gladys. Yes, it might seem sudden, but for the year previously, Margaret and I had been estranged. And Gladys and I were never ‘together’ until after we got married. That’s important to know. I like to think I’m an honorable man.”
Frances nodded.
“It does paint a very different picture than the one that Madge painted.”
“Yes, well, as I said, I think she’s a deeply unhappy woman.”
“Do you have any idea why?”
“Not really, in all the time we were together she never opened up to me. But she was young when she had Celia. Seventeen I believe and the father left soon after, so I imagine that she struggled a bit until her grandmother passed and she got a bit of money.”
“A bit,” said Frances, looking up at him with an arched eyebrow. “She received almost three hundred thousand pounds.”
“Good grief no. Nowhere near that. I don’t think it was even one hundred thousand pounds.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m very sure. Her grandmother passed in 1905, quite some time before we met, but in the beginning when things were good she told me she had received almost one hundred thousand pounds.”
“I wonder why she would have said three hundred thousand pounds?”
Harry took a sip of his port and placed his glass down again.
“Well, I do know that I gave her two hundred thousand pounds. There wasn’t any other way, not if I wanted a fairly quick divorce.”
Frances nodded.
“But the home she lives in was her grandmother’s was it not?”
Harry nodded.
“Yes, that’s true. Her grandparents were quite successful in the last part of the nineteenth century. But through some bad bets in the early nineteen hundreds, they had practically ruined themselves.”
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