Heirs of the Body (7 page)

“As if Cousin Edgar would care!”

Sakari sank majestically into her chair. “Daisy, will you be so kind as to cut me another slice of this delicious-looking cake? I adore strawberries and cream.”

“Of course. Will you have some, Tommy?”

“I beg your pardon?” Apparently lost in thought, the lawyer had absentmindedly demolished the rest of the sandwiches.

“Cake?”

“Oh, yes, please. Our present cook isn’t much of a baker. Thank you.”

Daisy gave him a big piece, and cut a smaller one for herself. For a few minutes the only sounds were contented murmurs and the song of a blackbird in the garden.

Mellowed by the cake, Tommy showed Sakari a couple of lines of the letter, comprising
Dear Sir, A friend has shown me your…,
the rest carefully covered with a sheet of paper.

She took one glance and said, “Young, unsophisticated, lacking self-confidence.”

“Exactly what I said.”

Tommy snorted—luckily not with a mouthful of tea. Daisy thought she heard a mutter of “Piffle!”

“She is a simple person.”

“Simple-minded?” Tommy exclaimed, aghast.

“No, no, that is not what I said, Mr. Pearson. Uncomplicated. Without guile. And this is cheap paper—She is not well off.”

“That much I had worked out for myself.”

“Well taught, but not well educated.” Sakari handed the letter back to him.

“What do you mean?”

“I am sure you understand me. Her writing is clear and her English is good—as far as I, a mere foreigner, am able to judge. Nonetheless, she has no notion of the formal language a lawyer surely expects.”

“Believe me, we get letters in all sorts of language.”

“But you judge the writer thereby.”

“Touché. You are a shrewd woman, Mrs. Prasad. I grant you all you have said of her education and her means, if not necessarily of her character. Have you thought that perhaps she might be illiterate and have had someone else write it for her?”

“It is, of course, possible. However, is not the usual practice to mark an X for the signature in such cases? Is the letter signed with an X?”

“No, with her name in full. Possibly her signature is the only thing she’s able to write.”

“Is it in the same handwriting as the rest of the letter?”

“Yes,” Daisy intervened. Listening to Tommy and Sakari matching wits was entertaining, but enough was enough. “Tommy, argument may be your métier but you’re not going to best Sakari, not in a million years.”

Sakari laughed.

Tommy protested, “I’m a solicitor, not an advocate. I deal in facts, not in arguments.”

“There you go again, darling. We’re agreed—aren’t we?—that Martha is not strikingly knowledgeable or accomplished, and that she’s short of money. And we know her husband, who may be the missing heir, is away from home and apparently out of touch for the foreseeable future.”

“Mrs. Prasad didn’t know that until you just told her.”

“She does now. The question is, should you ask her to come here right away—”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Or should you request any information she has about Samuel’s family, to be sent to you or given to your representative there. Or should you just advise her to do nothing till Samuel turns up, which for all we know could be after Geraldine’s house party. Being late wouldn’t invalidate his claim, would it?”

“No—unless, in the meantime, the College of Arms had declared someone else to be the rightful heir. But they’re never in a hurry. No, more likely, to my mind, is that he won’t turn up at all.”

“What would happen in such a case?” Sakari asked.

“Nothing, if one of the others proved his claim. But if it turns out that Samuel is descended through eldest sons from Julian, we might have to wait until he’s presumed dead.”

“Why shouldn’t he turn up?” Daisy demanded.

“I just think it’s odd that he’s been completely out of touch for so long. His grandfather’s death certificate gives the cause of death as cirrhosis of the liver. Perhaps Samuel is subject to the same weakness. He may be down-and-out in some Caribbean port, with no means or no intention of going home.”

“Facts,” Sakari reminded him tartly. “Lawyers are not supposed to have premonitions.”

“You’re quite right, Mrs. Prasad. Nor should I have mentioned Alfred Dalrymple’s unfortunate disorder in your presence. I trust you will disregard it.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“He seems to have been employed by a rum distillery in Kingston.” Tommy shrugged, as if to say cirrhosis was a natural, if not inevitable, result of the job. “Unfortunately, my informant is unable to trace the family before 1882. I expect no better of Mr. Raymond Dalrymple, due to arrive shortly from South Africa. Julian’s branch of your family, Daisy, had an unfortunate penchant for settling in turbulent regions of the world.”

SEVEN

On his
arrival from South Africa, Mr. Raymond Dalrymple went to stay at the Savoy. Rather than writing to request an appointment with Tommy, he sent for him to come to the hotel.

Somewhat miffed because, after all, his client was the estate, not Mr. Raymond Dalrymple, Tommy had nonetheless heeded the call. Because he was miffed, he afterwards told Daisy all about the interview. He took her to lunch at the Old Cheshire Cheese.

“Raymond’s a businessman,” he told her. “A partner in Pritchard and Dalrymple, a member of the De Beers cartel.”

“Diamonds!”

“Buying and selling diamonds,” Tommy confirmed. “He was coming to Europe on business anyway, leaving his cousin and his son to run things in South Africa.”

“How old is he? I don’t know why I assumed he was a young man.”

“He’s in his early sixties and the son, Stanley, is in his late thirties. He presented me with their birth and marriage certificates right away, very businesslike. His credentials, he called them.”

“Early sixties…” Daisy attempted the mental maths while she started scribbling down a family branch. “His father must have been Julian’s son, then?”

“Yes, Henry by name.”

“Surely Raymond must know whether Henry was Julian’s eldest.”

“He didn’t even know his grandfather’s name, just that he was the son of an English lord. His father, Henry, was born in Jamaica, quarrelled with
his
father, possibly Julian, and emigrated to Cape Colony, as it was then. Henry married the daughter of a settler, Alice Pritchard. He and his brother-in-law went prospecting together, and he was killed in a brawl—”

“He told you that? I’m surprised that he’d reveal such a discreditable blot on the would-be escutcheon.”

“‘Brawl’ is my interpretation. He sounds like a thoroughly quarrelsome chap. To be precise, Raymond said the two were attacked by rival prospectors.”

“Claim jumpers. It sounds like the Wild West.”

“They were out in the wilds somewhere. No death certificate.”

“How old was Raymond when Henry died?”

“Just five. He was brought up by his mother’s family.”

“So he hardly knew his father, and if he was told anything about his grandfather he could well have forgotten.”

“His mother used to say his great-grandfather was an English lord. That’s really all he knows. Raymond’s baptismal certificate names his father as Henry Herbert Dalrymple of Jamaica, giving no age, no profession.”

“It sounds as if he was in search of a profession when he died.”

“You could put it that way. Once again, the earlier certificates aren’t what they might be. The church where Henry married Alice and Raymond was baptised, by an itinerant preacher, burned down in one of their wars or uprisings, and bureaucracy didn’t hold much sway in the wilds in those days.”

“So once again there’s no proof. Most unsatisfactory.” Daisy frowned at the family branch:

?Julian

Henry Herbert Dalrymple m. Alice Pritchard

Raymond m.?

Stanley

“Raymond’s beginning to sound a lot like Vincent,” she said.

“Oh, far superior. In his own estimation, at least. The brother-in-law struck a vein of diamonds, or a pipe, or whatever they call it. The family went into the diamond business and prospered mightily, including Raymond, whom his mother’s family more or less adopted. He’s not here in hope of becoming viscount, he’s here to find out whether the estate is worth his while bothering to enter the lists. He wanted me to describe Fairacres and provide information about income and expenses.”

“What cheek! Did you tell him about the other claimants?”

“Only that there are others. When I refused to give him the financial details he asked for, he said he would motor down to Worcestershire and call on Lord Dalrymple, so as to see Fairacres for himself. I’ve written to warn them.”

*   *   *

Somewhat to Daisy’s surprise, she received a letter from Lady Dalrymple begging her to go and stay at Fairacres for the weekend.

Raymond Dalrymple had written to announce that he would call on Saturday afternoon. Cousin Geraldine wanted Daisy’s advice and support in meeting him.

If Geraldine had simply summoned Daisy, she might have refused in spite of her curiosity about Raymond. She couldn’t resist a plea for help, however, especially as she was dying to meet Raymond. He had already managed to annoy her by not giving permission for her to attend his meeting with Tommy.

Besides, June was her favourite month in the country, when trees and fields still wore their fresh spring green.

The weather was beautiful, so she decided to drive rather than be stuck in a stuffy train. It was a pretty route, through the Chilterns and the Cotswolds, though negotiating the streets of Oxford in between could be tricky.

She set out on Friday morning. The A-40 from London to Oxford was quite busy but all went smoothly. She managed not to run over any undergraduates—or dons, come to that—in the streets of Oxford. Beyond the city the traffic thinned out, and she was able to enjoy sailing through the countryside in her sky blue Gwynne Eight.

After stopping for a picnic lunch, she came in midafternoon to a high point with a view over the Vale of Evesham. Just over the crest, a convenient gateway in the drystone wall offered a place to pull over. She got out and, shading her eyes, gazed over the fruitful valley of the Severn to the Malvern Hills and the distant, hazy-blue line of the Brecon Beacons beyond.

Once that sight had meant she was nearly home. Now she was a visitor.

“Brace up,” she told herself firmly. If it weren’t for the war, if Gervaise had not been killed, he would have married, perhaps someone she disliked. She would have married Michael.… Best not to dwell on that. One way or another, Fairacres would have ceased to be her home.

Sighing, she turned back towards the car. The right front tyre was flat.

“Blast!” Hands on hips, she glared at it.

Alec had made her learn how to change a wheel, but she had far rather not. She belonged to the RAC, and this was a main road; perhaps a patrolman would come by soon. Or if she sat on the running board looking disconsolate, perhaps a helpful motorist would stop to give her a hand. If she took the spare wheel off the back of the boot and leant it against the car, it would be obvious what the trouble was.

She glanced at her watch. She had written to Geraldine that she’d arrive at teatime, so there was no hurry. On this glorious day, to sit hopefully in the sun for half an hour, listening to the song of larks and the bleat of sheep, would be no hardship.

Besides, trying to do it herself and making a mess of it might take far longer than waiting for an expert to come along.

With a bit of a struggle, Daisy managed to unbuckle the spare wheel. She was examining with dismay the black marks on her driving gloves when a vast, gleaming car purred over the hill and down towards her.

It slowed as it came alongside. The smartly uniformed chauffeur, in the open front, turned towards her. “Trouble, miss? Puncture, is it?”

In the enclosed rear, a khaki-clad figure leant forward and rapped on the dividing glass with the handle of a stick or umbrella. “Get on, get on!” snapped the passenger impatiently, his voice muffled by the closed windows.

Her would-be gallant rescuer rolled his eyes, shrugged, and mouthed, “Sorry!” as he changed into first gear. With a soft, expensive hum, the bronze Daimler slid away down the steep hill.

“Brute!” Daisy exclaimed indignantly. Khaki—a high-ranking army officer? But the chauffeur’s uniform was not military. Whoever the passenger was, he was a rotten cad.

Contemplating the wheel without enthusiasm, she reminded herself that she was a modern, competent woman. It didn’t help. She just plain didn’t want to tackle the job.

However, the trickle of vehicles she had encountered before seemed to have dried up entirely. She could at least show willing and make a start by getting out the jack from the tool chest. That was easy. Alas, having accomplished it, she realised she had forgotten how to use the blasted thing.

This bar obviously fitted into that hole, but what next?

The drone of a motor caught her ear. Something was coming up the hill, so it couldn’t be going fast. Daisy decided she was jolly well going to stand in the middle of the road and force it to stop.

As she stepped forward, a blue motorcycle came round the bend. Beholding the blue and white RAC insignia, Daisy breathed a sigh of relief.

The blue-liveried patrolman pulled up and saluted. “Puncture, ma’am? A chap in a Daimler told me you needed help.”

“The passenger?” she asked, surprised.

“No, the shover.”

“That sounds more likely. Yes, a puncture.”

“You’ve got the spare all ready, and the jack, I see. Won’t take a jiffy.”

And it didn’t. Which made the Daimler passenger’s refusal to stop all the more egregious.

“Don’t forget to get the tyre repaired before you go much farther, ma’am.” Her saviour pocketed a tip, saluted again, hopped onto his bike and buzzed off.

Daisy drove on, passing north of Bredon Hill. Soon the pepperpot bell tower at Upton-upon-Severn came into view. Reaching the drawbridge just as it opened, she watched a brightly painted narrowboat chug through the gap. She refrained from the childish pleasure of waving to the boatman and his wife.