I’ve been lucky, she thought, and then heard her mother’s voice echoing in her head. “Hard work, Ceci, and talent. And just a bit of luck.” Hard work indeed. Six years, seven days a week. But work had been her savior and she loved her profession.
A gentle knocking brought Cecily to her feet. When she opened the door she was taken aback to see Genevra standing there.
“’Scuse me, Miss Cecily,” the Romany girl said, a smile flickering in her dark eyes. “I come ter say thank yer. For them frocks yer gave me. They fit.” She did a small curtsy, holding out the sides of the frock, which was an old one of Cecily’s, and had been given to her by Mrs. Alice.
“I’m glad you like them,” Cecily said. “I’ve still got my piece of bone, you know, and so does Miles. We treasure them. Our lucky charms.”
“Aye, that they be,” the gypsy said. “You be well, liddle Cecily. And thank yer again.”
Before she could answer, the Romany had hurried away, as she usually did.
Fifty-five
Lawrence Pierce left the Ritz Hotel looking extremely pleased with himself as he set out to walk to White’s, his club in nearby St. James’s Street. He had just spent a glorious afternoon and early evening with his new woman, one he had made his mistress after knowing her for only a few days.
She was an American with the rather common name of Mattie Lou Brown, but then her money was not at all common. It was all-powerful. She was a few years older than him, but good-looking and voluptuous.
Widowed and childless, she had inherited a vast railway fortune from her third husband. Her one aim in coming to London, she had told him at their first meeting, was to party, mix with the right social crowd, and have plenty of hectic sex, as she called it.
After their first session in bed, in her suite at the Ritz, she had told him she had never experienced such wonderful sex as she had with him. Seemingly he was the only man who had ever satisfied her. And so their long sexual afternoons and evenings had begun.
She constantly flattered him, praised his looks, his prowess in her bed, gave him expensive gifts, and kissed his “golden hands,” as she called them. And then yesterday afternoon she told him she had decided to marry him. She wanted him. “Forever, honey,” was how she put it. Having said that, she gave him a piece of paper and told him to read it.
He did so, and was staggered. She was mind-bogglingly rich, was planning to give him a large chunk of her fortune as a wedding gift, and a life of ease and comfort. She had a yacht, a house in California, and a triplex apartment on Fifth Avenue. “All yours to share, honey bunny,” she had added. “And I want an answer tomorrow.”
He knew Felicity would never agree to a divorce. But he had to have Mattie. She was sexually voracious, which pleased him, and she was so bloody rich he could live in splendor, never wield a scalpel again as long as he lived.
This afternoon, after one of their marathons, he had accepted her proposal of marriage. She had been thrilled.
Thinking of this and her anxiousness to board her yacht in Nice, Lawrence had gone to the hospital this morning and picked up a few things. He patted his pocket now as he walked along, smiling to himself. He had the tools he needed to make himself a free man. He would marry Mattie, and they would sail from France to Italy and his life would begin again.
* * *
Sex usually made him hungry, and tonight was no exception. Lawrence had a hearty dinner with two of his old cronies, and they laughed a lot, imbibed some great wines, and talked about their sexual escapades with fancy women. None of them talked about their mistresses. Or their wives. That was verboten.
They drank cognacs and coffee for several hours and puffed on their cigars, but finally his two friends left. Lawrence sat alone in the gentlemen’s club where he had been a member for years. It had been founded in 1693, and was a club for men only. It was always a relief to be away from women for a while. On the other hand, he couldn’t do without them.
Eventually Lawrence knew he must leave, go back to Charles Street and do what he must do. He had sobered up after all those cups of black coffee, and he decided to walk home to Mayfair.
* * *
They got him on the corner of Berkeley Square, at the bottom of Hay Hill. A black van pulled up just as he turned to go across the square. The window rolled down as the van stopped, and a face appeared. “Which way ter Bond Street, Gov’nor?” the man asked.
Lawrence said, “Go around—” A blow to the back of his head felled him before he finished his sentence. “He’s down and out,” a man’s voice said.
Two other men jumped out of the van, pressed a chloroform-soaked cloth against his mouth. Picking him up, they threw him into the back of the van.
“Not a bleedin’ copper in sight, thank God,” the driver of the van said. He headed toward the docklands and the empty warehouse which was waiting for them. They were going to teach this bugger a lesson he’d never forget.
* * *
It was the fifth of June, a lovely Sunday afternoon, and Dulcie had chosen this day for the opening of her gallery, so that James could be there. He was starring in Henry V at the Old Vic, and this was his day off.
James stood next to her, greeting their guests, smiling and chatting and being his usual charming self. As for Dulcie, she was in high spirits, looking more beautiful than ever, if that was possible.
She was proud of the gallery, had called it the Dulcie Ingham-Brentwood Gallery, and it was on Bruton Street in Mayfair, where most of the family lived. She and James were still in his flat near Claridge’s, but were looking for somewhere else a bit larger in this part of London, which they all liked.
Lady Gwendolyn was hosting the party for the opening of the gallery, and now she floated up to them, a huge smile on her face.
“Everyone is here,” she said, beaming a huge smile at James. “And that really pleases me. So do the placements of my paintings, Dulcie. What a wonderful eye you have, and you’ve hung them particularly well.”
“I want to thank you for the paintings and the jade pieces, Great-Aunt Gwendolyn,” Dulcie replied. “I know they will sell, and you will get your share very quickly.”
“I think Cecily’s idea of giving my profits to the Cavendon Restoration Fund was a wonderful idea. I believe Charles is doing the same thing.”
“Yes, he is,” James said, winking at Dulcie, and then at Lady Gwendolyn. “My hat’s off to my beautiful bride. I’m glad I was with her when she raided all of your attics. She was like Attila the Hun, the way she plowed her way through.”
“I agree,” Miles said, coming to join them with DeLacy and Cecily. “Papa and Charlotte will be a few minutes late. But they’re on their way. And they wish the three of you to come to supper.”
The gallery was soon overflowing with people—many of James’s acting friends; Ruby and his other two sisters; Felix and Constance Lambert; Michael Alexander, the theatrical producer; and most of the Inghams.
“The whole world is here,” DeLacy said as she strolled around with Miles.
* * *
One of the last to arrive was Dorothy Swann, along with her husband, Inspector Howard Pinkerton. The two of them walked around the gallery, admiring the paintings and sculptures. Dorothy was proud of Dulcie and her determination to have a gallery.
When Cecily spotted them, she hurried over to greet the couple. Once the pleasantries were over, Howard said, “Let’s walk over to that quiet corner, Cecily, shall we? I have something to tell you.”
Cecily threw him a quick glance. He had sounded very serious. “Is something wrong?”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” Howard said, steering the two women across the room. “I was on duty earlier and a case landed on my desk. A bit of a mystery in some ways, actually. However, it concerns Lawrence Pierce.”
“Pierce,” Cecily repeated in a low voice. “What has he done now? Something probably awful.”
“He’s probably done a lot of awful things in his life, but he won’t do any more. He�
�s dead.”
Cecily stared at him. “My God! How? When?”
“As to when, I would say Friday night. He was found on the steps of his hospital on Saturday evening. He was still alive, just barely, but died later of his head wounds. He had been beaten up badly, his face was almost pulp. The worst wounds were to his hands. I went over to the hospital to view the body, and one of the doctors told me they looked as if they had been stamped on by hobnail boots. If he had lived, he would have never operated again.”
Cecily was pale when she asked, “Does his wife know?”
“She does, yes. Anyway, here’s the thing. When he was found he was fully clothed, and in his jacket pocket there was a full bottle of potassium chloride. Do you know what potassium chloride can do, Cecily?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
“An overdose by injection stops the heart. In other words, it mimics a heart attack. Within minutes the heart simply stops. It’s impossible to trace, because the heart muscle tissue releases large amounts of potassium into the bloodstream when it’s damaged. So a doctor would say it was a heart attack.”
Cecily gaped at him. “You’re thinking of Travers Merton, aren’t you, Uncle Howard?”
“Yes, I am. Because they were friends. I know that from Lady DeLacy. And then they fell out. Badly, I believe.”
“Can you investigate further, Howard?” Dorothy asked. “Regarding Mr. Merton, I mean?”
“No, it’s all too late, I’m afraid. But somebody who had a reason got to Pierce. I would call it retribution.”
Part Four
ANGELS IN DISGUISE
December 1928–September 1929
There shall be no evil befall thee,
neither shall any plague come
nigh thy dwelling. For he shall
give his angels charge over thee,
to keep thee in thy ways. They
shall bear thee up in their hands,
lest thy dash thy foot against a stone.
—Psalm 91
The angels keep their ancient places;
Turn but a stone, and start a wing:
’Tis ye, ’tis your estrangèd faces
That miss the many splendored thing.
—Francis Thompson
Fifty-six
“What an odd year 1928 has been,” Dorothy Swann said, shaking her head as she sat opposite Cecily in the office upstairs at the main shop in the Burlington Arcade. “So much has happened. Bad things, too.”
“Mostly for other people,” Cecily replied. “Not for me, not for us, actually. Still, the Inghams have had their bellyful, haven’t they?”
“They have indeed. They all were sorrowful about Lady Lavinia’s death last spring, most especially Mark Stanton and Lady Gwendolyn. And her sister, of course, Lady Vanessa.”
“I know,” Cecily murmured. “Because they really loved her. The others were regretful and sad, too, but also feeling a bit guilty because of that rift. Miles admitted this to me. He wasn’t overly enamored of his aunt Lavinia, mostly because she hadn’t treated Uncle Jack in a very nice way.”
“So Dulcie said.” Dorothy looked at the clock. “I’d better go downstairs and see how she’s doing. She insisted I come up here to look at her sketches, told me she could easily try on coats by herself.”
Chuckling, Cecily said, “Well, she can. Anyone can. I’ll go downstairs with you in a minute.” Reaching for a folder on her desk, she opened it, took out a drawing, and handed it to her aunt. “This is just fantastic. Dulcie came up with the idea of brooches to be worn on hats, then said they could also work for lapels if someone wanted. But they are large. She’s calling the three she’s designed Duet Pins. She’s even come up with a line for the advertising: Let the man who adores you buy you the Duet Pin, or words to that effect.”
After studying the sketch for a moment, Dorothy said, “It’s beautiful … a curling diamond feather. Where did this idea spring from? Did she tell you?”
“Oh yes. And she says it has to be called Paul’s Feather, because Lady Gwendolyn’s late husband, Paul Baildon, designed that brooch, had it made for her as a wedding gift, telling her it was a feather for her cap. She gave it to Diedre.”
“How lovely.” Dorothy smiled at the sentiment behind the brooch, and handed the drawing to Cecily. “It’s an elegant pin, and I like the way it sort of curls at one end.”
“So do I. The original sketch Dulcie did was an exact copy, but then she gave it her own touches. This has more of a flourish.” Passing Dorothy another drawing, she went on, “This is a gold swan, as you can see, and Dulcie is calling it Swan Song.”
Dorothy exclaimed, “This is beautiful. Very beautiful. What a talent for drawing Dulcie has.”
“She actually does. However, the swan was minutely copied from an existing brooch also. It’s another one from Aunt Gwendolyn, which she gave to Aunt Charlotte. As an engagement present.”
“I’d love to see the actual pieces, Ceci.”
“I don’t have them, Dottie. We don’t own them. Aunt Charlotte and Diedre showed them to me, and then to Dulcie, and they gave us the right to copy. They’re not part of the Cavendon Jewelry Collection by Cecily Swann, but will be under the name of Cecily. They don’t want any money … this was their way of saying thank you for what I did last year. Profits are all ours.”
Dorothy nodded her understanding, and gave the sketch back to Cecily. “And what is the third pin?”
“Here it is.”
“Oh my goodness, this is unique. Was this another borrowed from Charlotte?”
“No, Dulcie designed it herself. As you can see, it’s an oddly shaped golden heart, slightly crooked.”
“It looks as if it’s been wrapped in a bit of red lace.”
“I know, that was the intention. It’s lace made of small rubies. And she’s calling it the James Brentwood Heart.”
“And he’s agreed?”
“Absolutely. You know he adores her. In fact, he helped her design it.”
There was a knock on the door, and Dulcie looked into the room. “You have a client downstairs, Cora Ward. And she’s very upset, sobbing. I tried to calm her. But you’d both better come.”
* * *
The three women went downstairs to the next floor, where the two dressing rooms were located, one at each end of the room. The middle of the floor was furnished simply, with a few chairs, and in the center, there was a platform where the client stood for fittings.
Cecily was alarmed at the sobbing which emanated from the dressing room at the far end. She hurried to it and tapped on the door. “Mrs. Ward, it’s Cecily Swann. May I come in?”
“Yes,” Cora Ward answered, between sobs.
Opening the door, Cecily stood there looking at her. “You’re awfully upset. I would like to help you if I can. Do you have a problem? Or are you ill?”
The young woman lifted her head, gazed at Cecily, and shook her head.
Cecily had always thought her rather beautiful, with a mass of glorious auburn hair; dark brown eyes, almost black; and a pure white skin. Black Irish, Cecily thought yet again, as she had in the past. Descended from one of those Spanish sailors whose ship had sunk in the Irish Sea during Elizabethan times, and the Spanish Armada invasion.
“Come and sit with us out here, Mrs. Ward. Dorothy will make us some tea. And then perhaps you can tell me what’s wrong, if I can help you in some way.”
Nodding her head, Cora stood up, and followed Cecily to the grouping of chairs. Turning to Dorothy, she said, “I didn’t try the clothes on, Miss Dorothy. I didn’t want to get them soiled. You see, I can’t have them.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Dorothy answered. “Just sit down and talk to Miss Swann and Lady Dulcie. They’re very good listeners. Do you like milk and sugar in your tea?”
“Please,” the young woman said, and sat down in a chair. For a moment she was silent, biting her lip.
Dulcie took the chair next to her. “Do you have a problem wit
h your husband about the clothes, Mrs. Ward? Sometimes men do get a bit tired of paying large sums…” She purposely let her sentence trail away, and looked at Cecily, raised a brow.
Cecily took over, and said in a kind voice, “If that is the case, please don’t worry. The clothes were made for you, but your size is fairly standard. Someone else will buy them. I certainly won’t force you to take them.”
“Thank you, Miss Swann,” Cora said. She stood up, hurried over to the dressing room, came back with her handbag. Lowering herself into the chair, she opened her bag, took out a handkerchief, and patted her eyes and her face.
“I’m so sorry I’ve upset everyone, made a scene here,” she said. “But things just suddenly overcame me. I just—” She struggled not to start crying again, swallowed hard and pulled a sheaf of papers out, clutched them to her.
“These are the last bills from you. He won’t pay them … I can’t. You see, he took the jewelry he’d given me.”
Her black eyes pooled with tears, and she jammed the handkerchief against them, pushed back the sobs rising in her throat.
“From what you’re saying, Mrs. Ward, I have the feeling that perhaps your husband may be having financial difficulties. I do understand your problem. Let’s not worry about the last bills for the moment. I’m sure things will straighten out for you, and when they do you can pay them at that time.”
“Thank you,” Cora said, and put the bills back in her bag. “You’re being extremely nice, Miss Swann.”
A moment later Dorothy came in carrying a tray of tea. Placing it on a table, she filled four cups, added milk and sugar, handed them around.
After sipping her tea, and calming herself, Cora said in a less agitated voice, “I will get a job, Miss Swann, and pay what is owed. Over time. Because he won’t. He can’t. You see he’s lost all his money; things have gone wrong for him.” There was a pause, and she cried angrily, “He’s thrown me away, like he has other women in the past…” Feeling the tears rising inside her, Cora paused and drank the tea. She was shaking inside, and hurt. He’d abandoned her without a second thought.
The Cavendon Women Page 36