Daughter of Riches (13 page)

‘Probably.' She wasn't going to commit herself but already she knew in her heart that she had made up her mind. Nervous though she might be of starting down this road she wasn't going to let that stop her. Perhaps the rest of the family could live comfortably with a lie and shelter behind her grandmother's courage, she could not. She wanted to know the truth. Then, and only then, would she be able to decide what to do with it.

As Juliet's car turned the corner of the street Dan Deffains went back into the house. Adrenalin was pumping through his veins, lifting him to a state of heightened awareness he rarely experienced these days. That had been one of the good things about being a policeman, he thought, there had been plenty of moments like this. But there had also been the dead times, the frustrations, the irritations. And finally the uncaring impersonal bureaucracy which had thrown him onto the scrapheap just when he had most needed to feel there was still some meaning to his life.

In nightmares Dan still relived the disbelief he had felt at first when he had been told quite bluntly that he would have to be prepared to do a desk job for the rest of his service – ‘light duties' they called it – or be invalided out of the force.

‘You do understand we can't have disabled officers on the streets,' the chief had said and Dan had blown a fuse.

You can't do this to me – it's my life! he had wanted to say, but it sounded too trite for words, and instead he had pointed out in very colourful language indeed that he did not consider himself disabled, that he was still more mobile than a great many so-called fit men, and he would run himself into the ground to prove it. The chief had been unmoved. He was sorry for Dan, he understood how grief-stricken he must be at Marianne's death and he was sorry to lose one of his best men but that was neither here nor there. He had a job to do and regulations were regulations. Dan would just have to grin and bear it for the time being anyway.

Dan had been in no mood to grin and bear it. He felt sickened and totally let down by the service to which he had given his life and it had not occurred to him that grief might be causing him to over-react. In a fury he had slammed out of the chief's office and out of the police force.

For a while depression had settled on him like a thick fog. The girl he had loved and married was dead and although he knew it was irrational he could not help blaming himself. Now he was out of a job too. Finished at the age of twenty-seven. Christ, there was no point left in living!

When the depression could take him no lower Dan had begun to bob up like a cork in a barrel of water. And the main reason was that he had got hold of a story.

Dan had always had a way with words. Years of report writing had dulled his gift, yet in black moments he took refuge in scribbling about all kinds of things that captured his imagination and much to his own surprise he had managed to sell one or two of them. So when the drug smuggling story presented itself to him he knew exactly what he was going to do with it.

Drug-smuggling was rare in Jersey but not unknown and it was a contact he had made whilst in the police force that set him on the trail of one of the island's most flamboyant characters, a newcomer with a good deal to hide. The resulting exposé made Dan's name as an investigative journalist – not that he wrote under his own name. Instead he used the nom de plume Harry Porter. This was a prudent move – on an island the size of Jersey it did not pay to advertise the fact that a former policeman, son of a prominent advocate, was interested in knocking down icons and sniffing out frauds, dishonesty and less-than-salubrious dealings. There were those, who knew, of course, it would have been impossible to keep his identity totally secret, but at least the pen name afforded him a little privacy.

Finding new material was not always easy, however, and the moment Dan had read through the file on the Langlois case whilst clearing out his father's office he had sensed that here was a really big story. Not only did it have all the ingredients to fascinate and compel – wealth and power, scandal, a family dynasty split apart by the quarrels of its members then welded together again so that the cracks barely showed, but also it had the smell of an unsolved mystery. Dan knew his father had gone to his grave convinced of Sophia's innocence and the question had teased him – if Sophia did not kill Louis then who did? And why had she insisted that she was responsible? Was she shielding someone – and if so why? Or had she simply lost her mind through grief and honestly believed herself responsible?

The case had never been investigated properly, Dan was sure of that. For all the reasons he had outlined to Juliet it had suited Ivor Fauval to accept Sophia's story. If he could get to the bottom of it there was a book in it without a doubt, a big humdinging bestseller, and how he would enjoy writing it, combining his writing talents with the interest in criminology that had been born and bred in him! If there was a tiny nugget of spite buried deep in Dan's motivation then he did not consciously realise it. He only knew that his instincts were telling him someone had slipped up badly over this one; if whoever had slipped also happened to be a member of the force which had treated him so heartlessly then he was certainly not going to lose any sleep over it.

But Dan's initial investigations had all drawn blanks. There was simply not enough in the file to give him a single new lead – his father had after all been defending Sophia from the position of her admitted guilt. The statements concerning the movements of the other members of the family on the night Louis died, for instance, were vague and uncorroborated, mentioned only as they pertained to Sophia herself.

‘She told me not to drag up private family business,' Dan remembered his father once saying when talking about the case. ‘She told me she hadn't hired me to play Perry Mason.'

And so Sophia's secrets had remained hidden and Dan had had no more brief to dig them out than his father had twenty years earlier. He had thought of talking to old friends at police headquarters, calling in a few favours and trying to get access to old files, but he had hesitated to do this too soon and perhaps waste a golden opportunity because he did not know what he was looking for. After a few abortive early enquiries, Dan decided to bide his time and keep an ear to the ground. Sooner or later, he thought, he would come up against somebody who might be in a position to answer some of the questions and once he got that initial lead then he could begin to ferret out the truth. A year had gone by and he was beginning to think he was going to have to break cover and admit an interest in the case.

And then, like a gift from the gods, had come the phone call from the granddaughter. When she had told him who she was his pulse had begun to race. Here was someone as interested as he was in learning the truth – and she was an insider!

For the first time in his life Dan had blessed the fact that he had been christened after his father. All the petty irritation that had come from feeling his parents had denied him his own identity, all the times when having the same name had caused silly confusion, were forgotten. If his name had not been Daniel the chances were she would never have found him at all.

Dan went back into the lounge. He felt exhilarated, alive. The interview had not been easy but he thought he would be hearing from Juliet Langlois again. Briefly his conscience pricked him and he wondered if he should have told her the truth about his interest in the case and that he believed Sophia had been covering up for someone close to her. But he had been too afraid that if he told her she would walk out and not come back and he would lose a chance of the best story he was ever likely to unearth. Investigative reporting, like police work, could be a dirty business. It was something he had to live with and he wouldn't lose any sleep over it. Briefly his mind returned to the doubts he knew had haunted his father over the years. He had a feeling it would please the old man if after all this time justice could be seen to be done. If he needed any sop for his conscience, that was it.

Dan tested the coffee pot. Warm, but not hot. He considered reheating it, then changed his mind and-poured himself a whisky instead. A bit early for it really, but he felt like celebrating. Dan raised his glass and silently toasted the Langlois case.

That afternoon, when she had eaten a hearty lunch of lamb chops, new potatoes and mint fresh from her garden, Catherine Carteret got into her car and drove over to La Grange to visit her sister Sophia. Catherine liked to have her main meal in the middle of the day. It was a habit she had got into during her years of supervising school dinners and now she maintained that eating in the evening gave her indigestion.

The trouble was that eating in the middle of the day tended to make her sleepy. When she had nothing better to do Catherine liked to indulge in a half-hour's nap, but today she had decided she really should go and see Sophia, and she fought off the drowsiness that was tugging at her eyelids, stifled a yawn and made up her mind to the fact that today there would be no luxurious ‘forty winks'.

At La Grange she was surprised and alarmed when Deborah told her that Sophia was still in her room, explaining that she had had ‘a bit of a turn' the previous evening and was taking things easily. Catherine passed the time of day with Deborah and Juliet, who were going through an album of old family photographs, and hurried up the stairs to Sophia's room, opening the door without knocking and simply announcing her presence with: ‘Sophia! It's me! Are you awake?'

She was answered by a short laugh.

‘Of course I'm awake, Catherine. We don't all sleep the afternoons away!'

Sophia was seated in her rose-pink boudoir chair overlooking the drive. To Catherine's relief she looked her normal self, a little pale perhaps, but fully, if casually, dressed in well cut navy blue slacks, a cream shirt and sweater in emerald green and navy.

‘Deborah told me you'd been poorly!' Catherine said accusingly.

‘Oh I had a giddy fit last night – you know what I'm like,' Sophia said lightly. ‘I'm fine now but Dr Clavell thought I should take it easy for the day – you know what a fusspot he is.'

‘I do indeed,' Catherine said with feeling. Dr Clavell had insisted on a series of costly and time-consuming tests for her last year when she had happened to complain to him about her indigestion. The results had all failed to show anything wrong with her and Catherine had not been able to decide whether to be relieved or annoyed at all the wasted effort. She would be very careful what she said to Dr Clavell in future, she had decided.

‘I've been sitting here enjoying the sunshine and reading,' Sophia continued, putting her book down on the table beside her. ‘ Well – to what do I owe this visit? Did someone telephone and tell you I was unwell?'

‘No. I didn't find out about that until I arrived.'

‘What then? It's unlike you to give up your afternoon nap to come calling on me.'

‘Sophia – will you stop insinuating I do nothing but sleep! I do lots of things in the afternoons. My gardening, for one thing. And when the weather wasn't fit to get out I did some stencils on the wall in my downstairs loo.'

‘Stencils?'

‘Yes – you know, very like we used to do as children. Only this one came from Laura Ashley Mail Order. I'm very pleased. It's really brightened up the old emulsion having bunches of cherries all over it. And it was great fun.'

Sophia shook her head in disbelief. ‘ How old are you, Catherine? Sixty-one. Will you never grow up?'

‘Probably not,' Catherine said cheerfully.

‘Anyway, you haven't answered my question yet – why have you interrupted all this fascinating activity to visit me?'

Catherine pulled a face. ‘If you are supposed to be resting and recuperating I'm not sure I ought to tell you.'

‘Why not, for heaven's sake? I feel perfectly fine now.'

‘I doubt if Dr Clavell would approve.'

‘I thought we had agreed Dr Clavell is a fusspot. Anyway, you can't stop now. I shall work myself back to being ill again wondering what on earth it can be you are being so mysterious about.'

‘I could tell you it's some lovely juicy scandal – the latest marriage break-up or illicit love nest.'

‘But you won't because I'd know you were lying.' Sophia's face grew serious. ‘My guess is that it's something fairly important.'

‘Not important exactly.'

‘What then?'

‘All right. I'll tell you. I just thought you ought to be warned that Juliet has been asking questions about … well, about things we would probably rather forget. It seems Robin and Molly have kept her in the dark all these years and now naturally she is curious. I don't want to upset you, Sophia, I just thought you should know, that's all.'

Sophia nodded. ‘I admit I suspected as much. She made a comment last night that led me to believe it's on her mind. And as you say, I don't think we can blame her for that.'

‘No. We can't. But I wanted to warn you.'

For a moment the sisters sat in silence. For so many years the subject had been a taboo that it was almost impossible to break it now. Catherine had said what she had come to say. Now the conversation would move onto less dangerous ground.

‘Are you going to stay and have some tea?' Sophia asked.

‘I might as well, mightn't I? It'll be too late to do any gardening by the time I get back.'

‘And too late for your nap.'

They both laughed. For the moment the ghosts had been laid once more.

Sophia sat in her boudoir chair looking out into the gathering dusk. She had enjoyed seeing Catherine – in small doses she was great fun and laughing together never failed to make Sophia feel young again. As promised Catherine had stayed for tea and for that Sophia had disobeyed doctor's orders and gone downstairs so that they could share the shortbread and chocolate brownies with Deborah and Juliet – not that Deborah, ever mindful of her figure, had eaten anything!