Not that there was anything natural about her appearance. He couldn’t make out whether she wore a wig or employed an eccentric hairdresser, and he’d no idea how old she might be. Sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five? Surely not eighty? With extraordinary cunning, she’d made it impossible for anyone to guess.
“Good of you to spare me half an hour,” he mumbled once he’d got his breath back.
“My pleasure, dear Jacob. The very least I can do for a fellow scribe.”
Griselda had written the Clarion’s weekly society column for upward of twenty years. For a newspaper aimed at the working and lower-middle classes, gossip about the idle rich, or what remained of them following the collapse in the stock market, seemed as out of place as a hymn in a pantomime. Yet readers lapped up her accounts of the high life, and Walter Gomersall wouldn’t hear of dropping them. When hard-bitten journalists moaned that Griselda was a joke, he pointed out that they didn’t object to the Clarion’s cartoons. If someone suggested that she made up anecdotes whenever she ran short of material, he said that truth was stranger than fiction, especially when it came to Britain’s upper crust.
“Thanks. Sorry to interrupt your researches.”
Griselda lived in Highgate. On the telephone, she’d announced she was spending every spare moment in the Institute, researching her family background. All he knew was that she’d buried three husbands. Unkind colleagues said they’d died of exhaustion.
“Think nothing of it! I’ve been ploughing through old directories. I’m a Highgate girl, you know, born and bred. My mother was a maidservant, worked in the big villas. I’m trying to decide which of the local masters of the house was my father.”
“Really?” Jacob didn’t know what else to say.
“Goodness me, don’t blush! Surely you knew I was born on the wrong side of the blanket? There’s no shame in bastardy; only prudes think otherwise. A by-blow or two are de rigueur in the best families, don’t you agree?”
Jacob’s experience of the best families was minimal. He nodded helplessly.
“Mamma was a pretty young slip of a thing, I get my cheekbones and the shape of my nose from her, you know. Six months after I was born, she married a potman from the Spaniards Inn, and I grew up as Edna Bratt. Not a name to conjure with, but I’m a romantic at heart. From childhood days, I’ve imagined myself as Griselda Farquharson, scion of one of England’s oldest families.”
“And now you’re trying to discover your roots?”
“In days gone by, dear Jacob, I preferred my fantasies. So much more nourishing than real life, don’t you think? But lately, I’ve begun to wonder. Not that I hope to make any claims on a rich estate, perish the thought. The legal prejudice against children born out of wedlock is a disgrace. I’ll be proud to flaunt a bar sinister on my coat of arms.”
How easy to drown in the flood of chatter. Jacob had never met anyone with such perfect recall of the inconsequential.
“As I said, I’d like to pick your brains about the Dobell family.”
“My pleasure to assist, dear Jacob. Shall we adjourn for tea?”
Griselda and her pink train billowed out of the room, leaving him to trail in her wake. Five minutes later, they were consulting menus in the Misses Williamsons’ tea room on the High Street. She’d greeted the waitress like a daughter, though the woman was fifty if she was a day.
“I have a sweet tooth,” she confided, after ordering a large pot of Darjeeling and a plate of fairy cakes. “There used to be a wonderful little café in Chelsea which served the most divine meringues and marshmallows…”
“About the Dobells,” Jacob said firmly, trying to drive out of his mind an image of Griselda as a human meringue.
“Ah yes. Such an unlucky family.”
“Unlucky?”
“One tragedy after another,” Griselda said brightly. “So very sad.”
“They come from Yorkshire, my home turf. I wasn’t sure you’d know them.”
“Ah, the county of broad acres! Land of the Brontës. Haworth Parsonage, Wuthering Heights! So romantic. Wild and mysterious.” Under the table, Griselda’s plump leg rubbed sociably against Jacob’s. “Not that I’ve ever been that far north, of course.”
“Of course not,” Jacob said. “How did you come across the Dobells?”
A dreamy look came into Griselda’s eyes. “I married very young, Jacob. My first husband, bless his heart, was old enough to be my grandfather. He couldn’t keep up with a young bride. I loved parties, and I mixed with a fast crowd. That’s how I met a charming bachelor called Oswyn Dobell.”
“Oswyn?” Jacob cast his mind back to Felix’s entry in Who’s Who. She must be going back to the seventies.
“He’d come to London to further his ambitions as an artist. Alaric, his father, was an amateur watercolourist before he devoted himself to collecting art. Commissioning Millais and suchlike to paint Yorkshire landscapes. Oswyn shared his love of the pre-Raphaelites, but he loved the ladies even more.”
“And did you love him?”
Griselda gave him a roguish smile, and tapped the side of her nose. “All of us girls did. Cupid’s dart landed on a pretty debutante. When she found out she was expecting, Oswyn did the decent thing, and proposed, but she was a sickly creature. Had a miscarriage, and died in his arms a month before the wedding day. The poor lamb was heartbroken. On the rebound, he married a brigadier’s daughter and took her back to Mortmain. My own husband died six months later. I often think that if things had been different—”
“And Oswyn’s son?” Jacob said. “Did you know him?”
“There were two boys, not one. Maurice and Felix.” The tea arrived, together with two plates piled high with cakes. “Their mother died when they were young. By then I’d remarried, and there was no question of Oswyn and me—”
“About his sons,” Jacob said firmly.
“Ah yes. They were looked after by governesses. Young, winsome girls who looked after Oswyn as well.” She chortled. “The last of them became his secretary. Delightful euphemism, don’t you think? Eventually she became his second wife. That would have been in, let me see, 1900, just before Alaric died.”
“By that time, his sons were grown men. What happened to them?”
“Maurice had left Sandhurst and joined the Grenadier Guards. His mother’s people were all military types. He loved soldiering.”
“And Felix?”
“Artistic boy, softer than his brother. He followed in Oswyn’s footsteps, and moved to London. I came across him once or twice. He got mixed up with an actress, and she gave birth to his baby. She was the neurasthenic type. Prone to hysterics.”
“Ah.”
Jacob didn’t know what else to say. Griselda turned her attention to the fairy cakes. They were chocolate, with a topping of marzipan.
“Felix said he’d pay for Valentine’s upbringing, but marriage was out of the question. Perfectly understandable. The girl was hardly top-drawer. No breeding.”
“Pity.”
“So important that people know their place in the world, don’t you agree? How else can society function? The poor creature was hopelessly unstable. Booked into a hotel in Bloomsbury, and threw herself out of a fourth-floor window. On the very day of Queen Victoria’s funeral!” Griselda polished off another fairy cake. “Hideously selfish, when people simply wanted to pay their respects to Her Majesty. Though in the long run, I suppose it was for the best.”
Jacob couldn’t help saying, “Except for the actress.”
“Perhaps even for her, dear boy. She left a note saying everything had just become too much for her. Thankfully, she had the good grace to make clear that she didn’t hold Felix responsible. Otherwise he might have blamed himself.”
“Perish the thought.” Jacob drew a breath. “About Felix’s marriage…”
“I’m coming to that.” Griselda wagged a marzipan-smeared finger at him. “Men are always in such a hurry. Never rush a lady, Jacob. I remember one rather good-lookin
g young rip—”
“I’m so sorry,” Jacob said with a touch of desperation, “but you’ve got me fascinated by the Dobells. You were talking about their bad luck?”
“It’s very sad.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Poor Oswyn’s second wife died in childbirth, and the baby was stillborn. After that, he pined away. As for Felix, he ran out of money. Alaric disapproved of him, but once he died, the prodigal returned. Like father, like son. He and Oswyn did have a lot in common. The only difference was that Felix married the daughter of the chief constable rather than a brigadier. Haughty woman, Elspeth, but there was money in the family, which was what mattered.”
“So the bohemian artist sacrificed ambition for financial security and rural respectability?”
Griselda sighed. “Dreadfully boring, don’t you think? Felix was a charmer, but rather selfish. Not that he lacked courage. Once war was declared, he joined up straight away. Oswyn was very frail by this time, and Elspeth ruled the roost. With thousands of men being wounded in France, the ordinary hospitals and nursing homes were overwhelmed. Country houses like Mortmain were pressed into service. Elspeth turned the Hall into a military hospital.”
Jacob breathed a sigh of relief. At last she was getting to it.
“The last year of the war was calamitous for the whole Dobell family. An endless sequence of disasters.”
“What happened?”
“Maurice was killed by a sniper’s bullet. That was bad enough, but it was only the start. During his first week in France, Felix’s poor little bastard son suffered shell shock and amnesia. He deserted, and was lucky not to be shot. A coward, you see, just like his mother. Felix was told when he got home on leave, and cut him off without a penny. The boy might as well have died on the front.”
Griselda let out a long, low sigh. “If only Felix had a yellow streak! He went straight back to the trenches, and was blown up for his pains. Next time he came back to Mortmain, he was a husk of a man with just one leg. And that wasn’t all.”
“Surely it was enough.” Jacob was feeling rather shell-shocked himself.
Griselda shook her head. “Just after the news came through that he’d been hurt, Elspeth took ill and died.”
“Spanish ’flu?”
“Gastritis, I believe. Then within a month, poor Oswyn’s heart finally gave way. Can you believe it? As far as Felix was concerned, his whole family had been wiped out. As if there was a curse on Mortmain Hall and everyone associated with it.”
In a hushed, melodramatic tone, Jacob said, “The curse of the Dobells?”
Griselda nodded solemnly. “Felix survived, but nothing was ever the same again.”
“Yet he did find some comfort.” At last he could turn the conversation towards Leonora. “He found a second wife.”
Griselda sniffed. “His nurse.”
“Leonora Slaterbeck.”
“Was that her name?” Griselda wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid I lost track of the Dobells. Not heard of them for years. All that promise, come to nothing. Tragic, I tell you.”
“So you can’t tell me anything about Leonora?”
“Nothing, my dear. She came from plebeian stock, I suppose. That’s what the war did to this country. Turned everything upside down.”
Actually, Griselda had told him something about Leonora. The change of name had worked. She’d kept her secret. If Griselda didn’t know of her connection with the Gee case, nobody else would. Did even Felix know her true identity? And would he care if he did?
Griselda dug him in the ribs. “Here am I, nattering on, and you never told me why you are so interested in the Dobells.”
“Felix’s wife has invited someone I know to Mortmain for the weekend.”
“Goodness, a house party? How wonderful.” Griselda helped herself to the last of the fairy cakes. “Do pass on any snippets I can use in my column. Things are so wretched these days. Nobody has any money, the world is so dreary. People love to be cheered up with a glimpse of the high life.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“And do ask your friend to give my regards to Felix. I don’t suppose he remembers me.”
Jacob mustered a gallant smile. “How could anyone possibly forget?”
*
“Almost there!” Pennington cried cheerily.
He was the adoring owner of a Bugatti 38 tourer, built to fly like the wind. As they drove up to Yorkshire, Reggie Vickers feared they’d be blown to oblivion, such was the speed with which they hurtled round every bend. Pennington boasted that they’d saved more than two hours, but the damage to Reggie’s nerves had shortened his life by a much longer span. He’d found it impossible to doze, what with the bellow of the engine and Pennington harping on about the finer points of the Bugatti’s manufacture. Reggie had no idea what a single overhead camshaft was, far less a triple ball bearing crankshaft.
“Good show,” Reggie said through gritted teeth.
At least he had a game of cricket to look forward to. His superiors’ enthusiasm for the game was the most attractive perk of his job; in fact it was the only one, if you didn’t count the fact that nobody cared how little paperwork he ploughed through each day. He was glad to get out of London, and put Doodle, Lulu, and that wretched Savernake woman out of his mind. As Pennington pressed down on the accelerator, Reggie’s only concern was whether he’d reach his destination in one piece.
“This must be Tunnicliffe!” Pennington braked fiercely, sending a shudder through Reggie. The car turned into an arched entrance beneath a gatehouse topped with a clock tower. “Phew, nearly missed it!”
“Thank goodness,” Reggie said faintly. “I could do with a drink.”
“You’re in luck. I hear our host has a well-stocked cellar.” Pennington chortled. “We’ve made such good time, we’ll be well oiled long before the slowcoaches arrive.”
The sun bathed the grounds of Tunnicliffe as they sped along. A long row of poplars stood on either side of the drive like sentries forming a guard of honour. There was an oval lake, and Reggie glimpsed white cricket sight screens and a cricket pavilion with a thatched roof. The house loomed ahead of them, a vast red-brick pile in the Jacobean style. The former owners had fallen on hard times after the war and sold Tunnicliffe to Sir Samuel Dackins.
The former Sammy Dackins had founded a business which became one of Europe’s biggest soap-making companies. On turning fifty, he’d sold up and retired on the proceeds, exploring the world before buying Tunnicliffe and devoting himself to life as a lord of the manor. As a red-blooded Yorkshireman, one of his first acts was to establish his own team of cricketers, comprised of men who worked on his estate, and appoint himself captain.
He’d been thrilled to accept Major Whitlow’s proposal of a match against the Masqueraders, Pennington said, before adding jocularly: “He’d have bitten off the major’s right hand if he’d had one.”
The Bugatti swerved past an ornate stone fountain and round the final bend in the drive before coming to a juddering halt beneath the porte cochère. Reggie stifled a gasp of relief.
“Made it!” Pennington exclaimed. “Thanks for your company, Vickers. So difficult to get to know a chap properly while we’re beavering away in the wretched office. That’s the beauty of cricket trips. Wonderful for esprit de corps. Good to have the chance of a decent chinwag. Never knew you were such a car fanatic.”
Reggie clambered down and waited as Pennington lifted out their suitcases and cricket gear with nonchalant ease. He was a broad-shouldered six-footer, more at home in a tweed jacket and flannels than in Whitehall pinstripes.
A distant roar shattered the silence.
Reggie clutched Pennington’s beefy arm. “What was that?”
“A lion, I suppose.”
“Pennington, please. We’ve had a long drive, and I’m not in the mood for silly jokes.”
“You should have more faith in me, old man. Dackins is nuts about animals. Cares about them as much as he does about cricket, and that�
��s saying something. Spent years in the Belgian Congo in his younger days. Palm oil concessions for the soap trade, you know. The creature making that racket must be one he’s brought back to England.”
“This isn’t darkest Africa. We’re in Yorkshire. He can’t be keeping a lion.”
Pennington brayed with laughter. “You couldn’t be wider of the mark, old man. And Dackins doesn’t stop at a single lion. He has leopards, giraffes, a whole blasted menagerie. Tunnicliffe has the finest private zoo in the county.”
Another roar came, louder this time. For all the warmth of the evening, Reggie shivered.
16
Jacob had no sooner arrived back in his office than the telephone rang. A messenger had arrived with a special delivery, and insisted on handing the envelope over to Jacob in person.
A solidly built young fellow awaited him in the lobby. If he hadn’t worn plain clothes, Jacob would have put money on his being a police constable.
“Mr Flint?”
“Special delivery? It’s my lucky day. Who’s it from?”
“All I can tell you, Mr Flint, is that I was asked to make sure that it reached your own hands. Nobody else’s.”
The fellow thrust a small buff envelope into Jacob’s hand, and turned to leave.
“Hang on a minute. Who sent you, where do you work?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Sorry, Mr Flint. I wasn’t told to answer any questions. Just to pass you the envelope. Good afternoon.”
“Well,” Maggie said, as the door closed behind the messenger. “Sounds exciting.”
“A private message from a secret admirer.” He grinned and pointed to her engagement ring. “By the way, I see your dinner and show went swimmingly. I hope you’ll both be very happy.”
Back in his office, he slit open the envelope. All it contained was an oblong scrap of cardboard, red with black lettering. It bore an address in Gerrard Street, and looked like a membership card, but lacking a name or number. Jacob was willing to bet that if he’d dusted it, he’d have found no fingerprints. There was no covering message. But he had no doubt where the card came from.
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