Heirs of the Body (12 page)

“Yes. We inherited it from a great-uncle. My husband’s, not the Dalrymple side. I expect I ought to tell you, Alec’s a policeman, a detective.”

“Oh!”

“An
English
policeman. Prohibition is none of his business. He does know some people over there, though. Perhaps he could put out some careful feelers and see whether he can discover any news of your Sam.”

“I suppose you have to tell him.…”

“Well, I do think he’s due an explanation, don’t you?” They reached the top of the steps. Daisy crossed the porch and opened the front door. “Do come in.”

They had barely crossed the threshold when Elsie appeared at the back of the entrance hall. “Madam—” She stopped when she saw Martha.

“Mrs. Dalrymple is going to be staying with us for a while, Elsie. Please fetch her case from my car.” Daisy could rely on her parlourmaid and Mrs. Dobson to have the bed in the best spare room ready made up and aired regularly.

“Right away, madam.” She gave Martha a curious glance, but she was too well trained to stare. A treasure, Daisy thought warmly. “Madam, Mr. Fletcher telephoned to say he’s going out of town. He’ll be gone tonight and maybe several nights, he said.”

Martha looked relieved. She wouldn’t have to face the bogeyman for a day or two.

That afternoon, when Martha was taking a nap, Daisy rang up Lucy and explained the situation. “So I wondered whether you could help me buy her suitable clothes.”

Lady Gerald was not interested. “Darling,” she protested in her high, clear soprano, “you know I’m always ready to advise you—”

“Keen is the word.”

“All right, ‘keen’ to advise you on your wardrobe, for all the notice you take. But you really can’t expect me to dress a pregnant poor relation.”

“Who might be the next Lady Dalrymple.”

“
Might.
Besides, if your first impressions are correct, she won’t want to be beholden to you for the latest modes, which, unless expensive, are invariably vulgar. I haven’t a clue about preggy clothes, in any case.” Lucy had no children and, as far as Daisy knew, no intention of ever having any. “Take her to Selfridge’s Bargain Basement and buy her something practical.”

“I’d like her to look pretty when her husband arrives.”

“If he does.”

“Of course he will, darling, don’t be such a pessimist. In any case, she’ll have to be decently dressed when we go to Fairacres and she meets the other would-bes.”

“Talking of that gathering, I think your cousin must have run mad to invite them all. They’ll be at one another’s throats. There’ll probably be murder done.”

“What rot! You’re only saying that because I’ve been involved in one or two murder investigations.”

“One or two!” Lucy was the only person other than Alec who knew exactly how many bodies Daisy had somehow managed to stumble upon.

“A few. All right, several. It’s no reason to expect more. These are all respectable people, after all.”

But when Lucy had rung off, Daisy thought, what did she really know about them? Raymond and Vincent were undoubtedly prosperous and respectable, if not likeable. Martha was likeable, though not prosperous; Samuel’s present escapade could hardly be described as respectable. Suppose he turned out to be a ruffian, willing to kill for the inheritance?

And others might yet turn up.

That evening, Martha retired to bed right after dinner, exhausted despite her afternoon nap. Daisy put a soothing record on the gramophone, Paderewski playing Mendelsohn’s
Songs Without Words.
Half listening, she read through the list she and Martha had compiled of everything unpacked from the suitcase brought from Jamaica. It wasn’t long. And most of the things were unsuitable either for English weather, or for London and Fairacres, or both.

Daisy started to make a list of everything they would need to buy.

The telephone rang. Daisy hurried out to the hall to answer it before Elsie started up from the basement kitchen to get it.

“Daisy, it’s Madge.”

“Hold on just half a mo. I’ve got a record on. I’d better stop it or the needle will carve a groove.” When she returned, she asked, “I assume Tommy has told you about the latest applicant?”

“Martha Dalrymple. It was unconscionable for him to land you with the poor girl.”

“I don’t really mind. The children have taken to her already—she has two of her own that she had to leave with her parents, did Tommy tell you? And with a third on the way—”

“What!? He didn’t tell me she’s expecting.”

“Darling, I suspect he didn’t notice. About five months. He probably assumed she was a trifle stout. Her frock wasn’t exactly flattering.”

“She’s bursting out of her clothes?”

“Not quite that bad, though she will be. It’s just that what’s suitable for a Caribbean island is hardly appropriate for London, nor practical for the climate.”

“Tommy didn’t mention that either. Really, men can be so blind. Daisy, I’d love to take her shopping. I have plenty of experience of dressing for pregnancy.” Madge had produced three little Pearsons in four years.

“Would you really? That would be simply marvellous. I hate shopping for clothes and I have a due date creeping up on me. An article due, not a baby! I’ll pay, of course.”

“Oh, that’s right, she hasn’t a penny. I don’t see why you should be out of pocket. Tommy will just have to work out how to charge the estate.”

“I don’t mind. She’s a relative, after all, however distant. If Tommy can pay me back from the estate at some point, well and good. Just don’t go overboard, Madge. Nothing too extravagant.”

Madge laughed, the frothy bubbling laugh that matched her frothy bubbles of blond hair. “I’ll pinch your pennies, don’t worry. Everything?”

“Head to foot, and from the skin out. Cheap cotton undies are all very well here, but I don’t want the maids at Fairacres sneering at her.”

“Heaven forbid, especially if she turns out to be the next viscountess.”

With that load off her mind, Daisy felt much less apprehensive about explaining the situation to Alec—though, considering the matter dispassionately, there was no real reason for her relief.

*   *   *

When Alec came home at last, four days later, Martha had settled nicely into the household, with the beginnings of a new wardrobe for which she promised Sam would reimburse Daisy. He would have plenty of money, from his venture into rum-running.

On that score, Daisy was not sanguine.

Alec arrived just in time for dinner, tired and hungry. He accepted a brief explanation of Martha’s presence without much visible reaction, merely saying he hoped she would enjoy her stay. Martha retired to bed shortly after dinner, as had become her habit. In the sitting room, Alec listened, though apparently more interested in getting his pipe going, as Daisy expanded upon the story. She finished it with: “So you see, Samuel may be in jail or dead.”

“In jail! Daisy, honestly, how do you get into these situations?”

“What situations?” she demanded indignantly. “I’ve never had a relative in jail before. And he may not be now. It’s just odd that he hasn’t been heard from in several months. Darling, you know people in the American police—FBI, is it?—and there’s whatsisname, too, Lambert, our pet Prohibition agent. Couldn’t you find out if Sam was caught?”

“It would be a very good way to draw the wrong kind of attention to him.” Alec puffed contentedly, his annoyance diminished by the accomplishment of his aim. “I’ll think about it,” he conceded.

“Or there’s the Jessups. They have connections among the bootleggers.”

“You may remember Mr. Jessup said the firm was no longer going to ship to America. You’d only embarrass them. Don’t ask the Jessups, please, and, Daisy,
don’t
mention their past connection with the illegal trade to Martha.”

“You read my mind. Oh, all right! I’ve already advised her not to talk to anyone about her husband’s situation. But I shall certainly introduce her to the Jessups. They’d think it very odd if I didn’t, living next door. They’ve already heard she’s come to stay, what with our Elsie being their Enid’s sister. Besides, Audrey’s children must be about the same age as the two Martha left in Jamaica.”

*   *   *

Daisy had run out of ideas for helping Martha. They would just have to wait and see what happened.

Only a few weeks remained before Edgar’s birthday and as yet the succession was very much in doubt. Nor was there any indication that any of the claimants would be able to come up with proof of his descent from Julian Dalrymple by way of eldest son to eldest son.

With no heir declared, the birthday celebration was going to be an uneasy event at best—unless, in the meantime, someone else turned up bearing an impeccable lineage.

Time passed and Tommy Pearson didn’t get in touch with Daisy, though both Miss Watt and Madge rang up every couple of days to make sure Martha was all right and not becoming a burden.

Daisy assured them she was not, which was mostly true. Martha had became quite friendly with Audrey Jessup. She missed her little girls badly and spent much of her time with the twins, in the nursery and on their daily walks, come rain or shine. But if she had any more weepy fits, she didn’t impose them on Daisy, and she continued to retire after dinner, leaving Alec and Daisy in connubial peace.

*   *   *

A brief note came from Tommy just a week before everyone was due to arrive at Fairacres. He had received an even shorter note from Trinidad, from someone signing himself Frank Crowley. All Crowley said was that he was bringing Benjamin Dalrymple to London. The letter had taken quite a while to travel from Port-of-Spain to Lincoln’s Inn. How far behind it Crowley and the latest Dalrymple claimant were following was anyone’s guess.

Would Mrs. Prasad care to analyse the handwriting?

Before telephoning Sakari, Daisy got out the atlas and looked up Trinidad. It turned out to be a tiny island in the Caribbean—not very far from Jamaica, she noted. The map suggested that Benjamin Dalrymple, who could apparently neither write for himself nor travel alone, might just possibly be a legitimate descendant of Julian Dalrymple.

Sakari was delighted to be consulted. She pronounced Frank Crowley to be careless, cheerful, and of an optimistic nature.

“Overoptimistic,” said Tommy gloomily, “if he thinks to pass off some illiterate goodness-knows-whom as the rightful heir to a viscountcy.”

TWELVE

“I’m afraid
you have just missed the Hebrew Character.” Lord Dalrymple came down the steps and shook Alec’s hand warmly as he got out of the big green Vauxhall that had met the Fletchers, Martha Dalrymple, and Nurse Gilpin at Malvern station. “Never mind, quite common and not particularly attractive.”

“One of the claimants is Jewish?” Alec asked, startled. Unlikely—but possible, he supposed, as Jews were matrilineal.

The viscount looked equally startled. He pushed his pince-nez lower on his nose and peered at Alec over the top.

Daisy stepped down from the car with a hand from the chauffeur. “Thank you, Truscott. A butterfly, darling,” she advised Alec, not that he hadn’t already realised, given his host’s obsession. “Or a moth. Or even a dragonfly.”

“Moth. Setaceous Hebrew Character,
Xestia c-nigrum
. Ah,” said Lord Dalrymple triumphantly, “you’re the Large Copper, Daisy’s young man. Butterfly,” he added in parentheses. It was the first time Alec had known him to crack a deliberate joke about his passion.

Laughing, he clarified: “Her husband, sir. Alec Fletcher.”

“Yes, indeed. I believe I attended your wedding? Some time ago, was it not? I had forgotten.”

Alec forbore to remind him that he had given Daisy away and provided a grand reception.

Daisy kissed his cheek, as Belinda appeared from the car with Oliver in her arms, followed by Mrs. Gilpin carrying a wiggling Miranda.

“You remember Belinda, Cousin Edgar.”

“Of course, my dear.” He patted Bel’s cheek. “Small Red Damsel.”

“I’m not small anymore, Uncle Edgar, and my hair isn’t as red as it used to be. It’s getting fairer. Or is that a butterfly?”

“Damselfly.
Ceriagrion tenellum
.” He smiled at her, then peered at Oliver as Alec set him down.

“My brother, Oliver. He was only a baby when we came last year. He can almost talk now. Oliver, say hello.”

“Dada,” said Oliver firmly, reaching out to Alec.

Miranda was more obliging: “Heyo,” she said with a beam.

Lord Dalrymple beamed back. “Heyo, Miranda. Would you like to see some butterflies?”

“Buf’eyes?”

“
I’d
like to,” said Belinda. “I’ll bring them both to your conservatory later, all right, Uncle Edgar?”

“Certainly, certainly. You can help me release the Migrant Hawker.”

“I take it, sir,” said Alec dryly, “that you haven’t imprisoned a wandering pedlar?”

“Butterfly,” said Daisy, “or moth.”

“No, no, dragonfly. It hatched this morning. Pretty dragonfly,” he said to Miranda.

“Dagfwy? Manda pitty.”

“So you are, my dear, so you are.”

“What nonsense, Miss Miranda,” Nurse Gilpin intervened. “Vain as a peacock, that’s what you’ll be. If your lordship’ll excuse us, I’d like to get them settled in the nursery.”

“I have several Peacocks that will probably hatch in a few days.”

“Bird or butterfly?” Alec asked, laughing.

“Oh, butterfly, my dear fellow, butterfly.
Inachis io
, don’t you know. Geraldine was talking about acquiring some peacocks for the terrace, but I can’t abide their screeching. For my taste, it’s too like a rabbit’s scream when a fox or stoat gets it.” On this gruesome note, he stepped forward to greet Martha, whom Truscott was solicitously handing down from the Vauxhall. She looked apprehensive, unsure of her welcome. “And here is the Beautiful Demoiselle.”

“Mrs. Samuel Dalrymple,” Daisy introduced her. “Demoiselle” was hardly appropriate for the by-now distinctly pregnant young woman!

However, perhaps Edgar was not so oblivious as his choice of words suggested. He offered Martha his arm, patted her hand, and said, “I’m very happy to meet you, my dear. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you until your husband arrives.”