Helen sucked in a deep breath, straightened up and smoothed down the hem of her T-shirt, obviously pulling herself together. “Yes, Frank, what is it?”
“I just wanted to make sure you were both all right. It’s been kind of a rotten morning.” He laid his hand on top of Helen’s where it rested on the kitchen island. She looked confused. He tried to take Daphne’s hand too. She actively stepped back.
Frank sighed. “All right, all right, I know what you’re thinking. What am I doing? I was never there, I keep whining about what I want and I need. But I am here now and I’m trying, all right?”
“Sorry, Dad,” Daphne mumbled. “You’re right, you are and I . . . it’s just all a great big mess.”
“I know,” said Frank. “But we’re together, yeah? That’s what matters.”
If Emma had one stereotypical English trait, it was the deep-seated desire to not be wherever people were expressing private emotions. She found herself immediately searching for some excuse to make a quick exit. But Genny found it first.
“Well! We’ll just get the bins from the pantry,” Genny said briskly. “We’ll come back later for . . . the other stuff.”
“No,” said Daphne, her attention squarely on Emma. “You don’t want to have to make a second trip.”
“What’s going on?” asked Frank.
Helen was the one who answered. “The du Maurier Society wanted to borrow some of Marcie’s books and things for a memorial at the festival. Emma’s here to help with that.”
“Oh, yes, right,” said Frank. “Good. I’ll take her upstairs, then, shall I?”
“No, I’ll do it,” said Daphne quickly.
“You were going for a run,” said Frank. “You should do that. It will help you clear your head.”
Daphne turned to her mother. Helen hesitated. “You know, I think your father’s right. You go on. We’ll talk more about this later.”
Daphne glared at her mother, but Helen stood firm. There was a determination in Helen’s eyes that had not been there when she walked in, and Daphne felt it, probably even more strongly than Emma did.
“Right. Okay,” said Daphne. “I’m off, then.” She headed out the door and up the steps to the car park.
“Well, okay.” Frank looked to Helen for some explanation, but she just shook her head. He sighed. “Let’s go, then, Emma. Genny? You coming as well?”
“Nah,” said Genny. “I’m going to get the bins loaded. Emma’s got it covered.”
Emma smiled weakly. She didn’t feel like she had it covered. She felt like she wanted to yell at everybody to go away, for the truly ridiculous reason that she needed a minute to talk to her dog.
But Frank was already on the way back into the main house, and everybody else was watching her, so Emma had to follow him, with Oliver in tow.
What else was there to do?
26
Emma, Frank and Oliver reached the beautiful foyer, and Emma found herself looking up at the distant ceiling and the branching chandelier. She tried to imagine what it would be like to live in this dramatic, silent manor house. She expected her inner thirteen-year-old to let out a sigh of envy.
Thirteen-year-old Emma remained surprisingly silent. Adult Emma thought about Marcie, and how this house had been her life’s work, and all the details that would involve.
“How many staff do you normally have?” Emma asked Frank, partly so she could focus on him again. Oliver’s running commentary was making it hard to think straight. He did not seem to have lifted his nose once the entire way here. “Nope, nope. Emma, this is the wrong way . . . Still the wrong way . . .”
“There’s been nothing like you’d call proper staff, not since we were kids, really,” said Frank. “It was all Marcie’s show. There’s a housekeeper, Mrs. Childress—she comes in days, whenever Marcie sends, sent, for her.” He frowned. “We should probably call her. I better find the number.” He pulled his high-end mobile out of his pocket and spoke into it. “Note: find Mrs. Childress.” The machine beeped and Frank tucked it away again. “The gardens are looked after by a service. Marcie had some kind of system for working out which rooms needed cleaning and when. The only time we’ve got a full staff of any kind is during the festival. Marcie had a whole set of high-end people, antique specialists as well as movers come in and get everything into place. We’ve been fielding calls all morning.”
“That’s a lot of work.”
His mouth quirked up. It was not a nice expression. “Oh, don’t think Marcie was doing it out of the goodness of her heart. She got a regular allowance straight out of the estate’s income, just like we do, only more so. Besides, if she didn’t want the responsibility, she could have turned it down, couldn’t she? But she didn’t.”
Frank spoke those last words with a flat finality, but Emma felt the anger underneath them. He started climbing the stairs. Emma, in the interests of keeping pace, scooped Oliver into her arms and followed.
She also took a moment to whisper in his ear. “I hear you, I promise, but I need to do the human things now.”
“I know, I know,” grumbled Oliver. “But we’re wasting time going this way! We need to go the other way!”
“We will,” Emma promised him, and herself. “We really will.” She raised her voice to Frank. “These are beautiful portraits,” she said.
“Ancestors.” Frank waved at the gilt-framed paintings on the walls. “At least, they’re supposed to be. I think some of them may have been adopted later.” He gave her a half-hearted wink. “You know how it goes.”
They reached the first floor. Oliver wriggled in Emma’s arms. “I want to see,” he whined. Which really meant he wanted to give everything a thorough snuffling. Emma kissed the top of his head.
“The family mostly lives in this wing.” Frank gestured toward the right-hand corridor. “My brothers and I have rooms here on the first floor. Marcie took over the top floor. Helen and Daphne are up there too when they come to stay. It’s not really like what you’d think of in a normal house with everybody having their own bedroom, and sharing a lounge and sitter and whatnot. It’s more like a block of flats. Everybody’s got their own en suite, and so on.”
They’d reached the top floor. Frank was puffing a bit. Emma put Oliver down. He scampered ahead, nose to the floor.
Frank watched the zigzagging corgi for a moment, and then turned to Emma.
“So, tell me, Ms. Reed. What are you actually doing here?”
So, this is why you wanted to walk me upstairs. You wanted the privacy.
Emma opened her mouth to repeat the story Helen and Daphne had given out, but then she looked in Frank’s eyes and remembered that here was a man who had lost his sister and who was dealing with the backlash to years of troubled relationships.
“I’m just trying to help,” said Emma.
“Is that all? Really?” Frank took another step toward her. He wasn’t as conspicuously powerful as his brother Bert, but he still outweighed her, and he was doing his best to loom.
Oliver felt the attempted menace too, and Oliver, of course, was not going to leave Emma to handle this on her own. He slipped between her and Frank, plunked down, and laughed at him.
Frank stared, clearly uncertain as to what to do about this cheerfully obstructive corgi.
“I’m here to help,” repeated Emma. “And really, that is all.”
“I want to be very clear, I will not have you upsetting my wife and daughter. They need time to get their heads around what happened.”
Emma cocked her head, aware she now looked a little like Oliver. “I thought Helen was your ex-wife.”
Frank refused to budge, mentally or physically. “You think what you like, but you also remember what I’ve said.”
Emma did not look away from Frank. She did not let herself blink. Oliver clearly felt the tension thicken, because he was on his feet
now, and his hackles were rising.
“I’ll remember,” she said.
“All right then. Come on.”
Frank turned around and started down the hallway, all the way to the door at the end, in fact.
“I do not like how he stands around you,” said Oliver. “He needs to be more careful.”
Or I do, thought Emma.
They’d reached the far end of the hallway. There was another stairway here leading back down. An arched, many-paned window let in the daylight. A closed door waited to the left, with an identical door to the right.
“That’s the office.” Frank nodded toward the door on their right. “Used to be a schoolroom and governess’s quarters, I think. Now, this was the old nursery before Marcie redid it for her suite.”
He opened the left-hand door. Emma stood blinking in a flood of sunlight. Oliver barreled ahead.
As Frank had said, it really was like a flat. In fact, it was nicer than many of the flats Emma had lived in. Marcie had a lounge, a bedroom with both a dressing room and a bathroom attached.
She could see why Marcie had taken these rooms for herself. For one thing, they were much cozier than the showy rooms she’d seen on the first floor. There were three bay windows. Two overlooked the front courtyard. One looked to the side of the house. Each one had a curved and cushioned window seat. Emma could easily imagine Marcie relaxing there with a book or just her own thoughts, looking out across the courtyard and the rolling lawns toward the misty countryside beyond.
Marcie had made these rooms into a comfortable, homey nest. The furniture was all overstuffed and decorated with colorful throw pillows, quilts and afghans that made Emma wonder if she and Marcie were frequenting the same jumble sales. A few landscape paintings decorated the walls, separated by framed movie posters for Rebecca, Jamaica Inn, The Birds and The Scapegoat.
Oliver, as usual, was everywhere at once, determined to get his nose into all the corners and under every piece of furniture. Emma, however, found herself drawn immediately to the bookcases. There were four in all, and they were stuffed to the brim.
Emma smiled. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but it was easy to feel an extra personal presence in front of a shelf of much-loved books. The covers were all battered, the spines all broken. Marcie clearly not only read these, but reread them many times.
It was no surprise that Marcie had favored mysteries, mostly the classics. There was a whole shelf of Agatha Christies, along with the entire run of Dorothy L. Sayers. Less well-known authors like Josephine Tey, Helen MacInnes and John Dickson Carr were also represented. There was a good selection of romances and historicals. Mary Stewart was there, and Mary Renault and Georgette Heyer.
But something was missing.
“Nothing by du Maurier,” she said.
“Eh?” Frank was standing by the fireplace, looking at the photos that dotted the mantel.
“Sorry, I was looking at Marcie’s books, and there’s nothing here by Daphne du Maurier.”
“Oh, oh, right. Yeah. I think they’re in the office. There’s another bookshelf in there. Several, in fact. I’ll show you.”
“Thanks.” Emma looked around for Oliver. He had his paws up on the window seat and his head under the cushion.
“Oliver!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “What are you doing?”
“Investigating!” mumbled Oliver. Oliver pulled his muzzle out and dropped to the floor. “It’s important! Dash told me. But there’s nothing here. Maybe here?” Nose to the floor he trotted to the hallway. “Here, here, here, then where?”
“You can control your dog, right?” Frank stood at the office door with his hand on the knob. “There are some valuable antiques in here.”
“Of course,” said Emma cheerfully. “He’s very well behaved, really.”
Frank looked skeptical, but he did open the door.
The office was a much more dramatic room than Marcie’s suite had been. Flocked, burgundy paper covered the walls. China ornaments filled vintage curio cabinets—Dresden shepherds and Art Nouveau nymphs and jeweled boxes, and delicate wax flowers protected by bell jars. The furniture was all Victorian—heavy dark wood with elaborate carvings. There were brass lamps with painted shades, and the old sconces on the walls still had their etched glass shades. The computer sitting in the middle of the broad, mahogany desk looked jarringly out of place.
“This is it! This is it!” Oliver zoomed into the room, trying, as usual, to be everywhere at once. “This is where the Perfume Lady was!”
“Shhh, yes, Oliver.” Emma bent down and Oliver ran up and put his paws on her knee.
“Dash was right, Emma! He was!”
“I know, I know,” she murmured. “But I need you to be calm now, good boy. We’re guests, yes?” She rubbed his chin and leaned in and whispered. “Stealthy, right? We’re stealthy.”
“Stealth,” mumbled Oliver. “Yes, good. A noble corgi is stealthy.”
Emma stood up. Oliver slid under the desk, almost on his belly, and stuck his nose out toward Frank. Frank stared and shook his head. Clearly the corgi confounded him. Emma hid her smile by turning in place to better take in her surroundings.
Emma tried to imagine sitting down to work here, and found she couldn’t do it. It would be like trying to work in a museum display, right down to the bookcase full of ledgers, each labeled “Inventory.” The one at the top left was stamped 1900.
Wow. And I bet there’s another stash of these somewhere going back further yet.
Marcie, as manager and housekeeper for the grange had clearly kept up the practice of a yearly inventory. The label on the last ledger in the case said it was from two years ago.
Two years ago? Wait a minute. Emma’s thoughts pulled up short. She started for the bookcase, but Frank interrupted her.
“The du Maurier books are over there,” he told her.
Emma blushed. “Oh, yes, right.”
Like in Marcie’s private rooms, the office had three tall, latticed windows, each with its own window seat. Two of them overlooked the back courtyard, the gardens and the solid bulk of the hills beyond. The third overlooked the drive where it curved around the house.
Frank was looking out the window to the drive, hands jammed in his pockets. The expensive gray fabric rippled as he clenched his fists.
Emma turned away toward the bookcases, giving him some space to himself.
Here were all the du Maurier titles she’d missed in the other room. Marcie hadn’t just been a fan, she’d been a serious collector. There was a regular open-fronted bookshelf lined with the editions that were obviously for reading. A quick glance told Emma that if it wasn’t the whole oeuvre, it was most of it, including several short story collections and some of the more obscure titles, like The Glass Blowers. There were biographies, books of literary criticism, and tribute anthologies.
But there were a couple of barrister bookcases as well with glass doors to protect the polished oak shelves. This was where Marcie had kept the valuable pieces.
Inside, the books were opened to display autographs or to the copyright page indicating a first edition. Individual prints of original illustrations were laid out beside them. There were several letters to and from Daphne du Maurier herself.
“Wow,” said Emma.
“Yeah.” Frank was still staring at the window, and the window seat beneath it. “This was Marcie’s passion. She’d spend hours cruising around the Internet, looking for something new.” He shook himself and turned away and deliberately walked up to stand beside Emma. His whole body was stiff, as if he was afraid to make any sudden moves.
He’s trying to get used to being in here, thought Emma.
“Apparently some of the stuff in there is worth a real packet.” Frank peered at the shelves, but Emma wasn’t sure he was actually seeing any of it. “So I’m afraid we can’t let you have any of
that, at least not on the spur of the moment, yeah? But this . . .” He waved toward the reading shelf. “All yours. Have at. Oh, this one especially.” He pulled out the battered, vintage hardback of Rebecca. “That was her favorite.” He handed it to Emma. “But you probably knew that.”
“Thank you,” said Emma. “I . . .”
A phone rang, the classic double-buzz. Frank jerked his mobile out of his pocket and checked the screen.
“Oh . . . blast,” he muttered. “I need to take this. Be right back.”
“No worries,” said Emma. Frank went out in the corridor and shut the door.
Oliver zoomed straight up to her. Emma felt her heart begin to pound.
“Quick, Oliver, you said this is the room where you saw Caite?”
“Yes, yes!” Oliver raced over to the desk. “Right here! Here! But there’s more! Dash said there was and he’s right!” Oliver zoomed back to the window seat.
Emma hesitated. Curiosity dragged her in two directions. She needed to look at the computer. But Oliver was at the window seat, standing up on his hind legs and trying mightily to scramble up onto the cushions. He had found something, or Dash had, and he was sure it was important.
He could be right. He had been before.
Oh, sugarplum fairies!
Emma set the book down on the desk, and made herself walk up to the window. She took a deep breath and looked down onto the drive. This is where Marcie fell, or Marcie jumped. She was normally good with heights. Despite that, she felt briefly dizzy.
It really isn’t that far down, she told herself. As soon as she thought this, a fresh uneasiness gripped her.
It really wasn’t that far down, but that was only part of the problem. Now that she stood here, Emma saw it wouldn’t be that easy to fall, at least, not if you were standing on the floor. The broad window seat put at least half a meter between her and the sill.
Maybe she was leaning over to open the window, maybe she’d already opened it . . . Or maybe she really was standing up on the seat and getting ready to jump.
Oliver grumbled wordlessly, and backed off, and jumped. Emma squeaked, startled. Oliver ignored her. He thrust nose and paws between the cushions. “Here. Right here. It’s bad!” He pawed at the cushion edge. “Bad!”
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 16