The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries) (18 page)

I looked around. There was nothing there.

“It’s probably just a small animal—”

Then the shot fired.

Startled by pain in my shoulder, I collapsed to my knees. Blood seeped onto the cashmere. I closed my eyes and winced. I felt sick and weak.

And then darkness.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“She’s lucky. The bullet missed the collarbone and went out the other side.”

“Oh, look. She’s waking.”

“Yes. I’ve left something for the pain, Mrs. du Maurier. A little laudanum will help her sleep, too.”

“Is it too early to move her? We’d like her take her home to Cannon Hall,” my father said.

“A slow and steady journey will do no harm.”

I opened my eyes. Familiar faces loomed above me, tender and concerned. “Home,” I murmured. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Just for a little while,” pacified my mother, caressing my hand. “Don’t worry. Ellen’s coming, too.”

“Ellen.” I started and seized by pain, fell into the pillows. My head thundered and my throat was dry. I felt as if I’d collided with a motorcar shoulder first. Under the sheets, I examined my limbs. They all appeared to be intact and in good working order. “How long…?” I winced, touching the sling holding my left arm.

“Have you been abed?” My father’s jolly smile did little to appease me. “Two days. Sleeping like a log. Good for healing.”

“This is serious.” My mother sent him a glare.

“It’s deadly serious,” my father replied. “Where’s that fellow meant to protect her?”

“He was hired to protect Charlotte.” Ellen came into the room, looking as if she hadn’t slept in days. “I should have listened to the major. I should have engaged another man to … to—”

“There, there.” My mother embraced her. “Daphne’s fine.”

“But don’t you see? Daphne was wearing
my
coat. That bullet was meant for me.”

I saw my father halt with this news. He’d been conversing with the doctor over some need for eye drops. “What’s this about a coat?”

“It was just before the attack. Daphne was cold and I gave her my coat. It’s one I often wear.”

Gazing at my father, my mother frowned before taking my hand in hers.

“You both must come to Cannon Hall,” my father decreed. “I’ll get a man to look into it. Where’s this fellow you hired for Charlotte? I’d like to speak to him. And Harry, too. He’s handy to have around.”

I heard a knock at the door.

“Is she all right?”

It was Alicia Brickley, Charlotte at her side. Bursting past them, Jeanne carried a tray into the room.

“Tea and cucumber sandwiches,” Jeanne announced. “Nelly’s worried. She’s been talking to herself all morning.”

Touched by their concern, I couldn’t help wishing the major was there. If not at Thornleigh, then at least in the country. A trifle piqued, I sipped my tea and ate the sandwiches. I longed for sympathy and not just any sympathy. I longed for
his
sympathy. Having my parents paw at me wasn’t the same.

“We should let the major know.” Ellen seemed to understand. “The attack could be important.”

On saying this, her glance flew to Charlotte. If they were prepared to strike Ellen, were they prepared to strike a child?

Which left one question.

Who?

*   *   *

I experienced an overwhelming sadness when the gates to Thornleigh closed. How long until our return? I confess to a love affair with the stately old mansion; I didn’t want to part from it.

Ellen looked wistful, too, staring back at the house.

“Mama.” Charlotte nudged her mother’s hand. “Can we go on a sea holiday now? I want to see Grandmama.”

Raising haunted eyes to me, Ellen tried to put on a brave face. “Maybe we will, darling. Winter’s coming.”

Her words faded against the rhythmic hum of the Bentley. In the front seat, Harry adjusted the speed. He knew his cars very well, and no doubt enjoyed driving the fleet Ellen had inherited.

We spoke little on the journey. I, on the best of occasions, refrained from the chitchat I despised, the kind with no meaning or intention, and Alicia Brickley preferred the silence. Ellen sat alone with her thoughts, attempting to amuse the child with a book.

My parents and Jeanne arrived ahead of us. To my disappointment, Angela wasn’t at home. She’d gone to our riverside house in Fowey to write.

Envy burned heavy against my cheeks. I planned to spend all these days composing my novel at Thornleigh and researching the area. And now a faceless villain interrupted those plans, keeping us in London.

“You may stay as long as you wish, dear Ellen,” my mother said as we entered Cannon Hall.

I greeted the dismal mansion of my childhood with a tight smile. The light wasn’t good and the too-familiar surroundings failed to inspire me.

“I long for a seaside holiday, too,” I whispered to Charlotte as we climbed the stairs.

Alicia turned at this comment. She had an odd expression on her face. I couldn’t quite make it out.

“The room will do nicely,” Ellen pronounced from inside. “And Alicia, you’re next door. You can help Charlotte unpack?”

Alicia nodded and resumed her duties with quiet servitude. Since Uncle Teddy’s death, she seemed even more devoted to Charlotte and cared little for her own independence. I wondered how long she intended to stay on as Charlotte’s nanny. Five thousand pounds was a fortune; she might well head on a seaside holiday herself.

Retiring to my room and under Mother’s orders, I drank the sleeping tonic and curled up in bed. My left shoulder throbbed. To focus away from the pain, I closed my eyes and imagined the novel I wished to write.

Some hours later, I joined my father in his study.

“You look pale,” he said, looking up from his desk. “Come and see this new play I’m working on.”

Still in my robe and slippers, I slipped gratefully into the great armchair by the fire and yawned.

“I trust my audience won’t yawn,” my father joked and proceeded to read some of the play. “
The Gaunt Stranger,
by Edgar Wallace—”

“Edgar Wallace.” I blinked. “Don’t I know that name?”

“You should do. He came for dinner last year.”

“The novelist.” I hung my head low. “I remember. He’s so lucky. Published and a great success. His life is so interesting … a reporter in the Boer War, correspondent for the
Daily Mail;
how can I possibly join his rank?”

Joining me by the fireplace, my father tipped his spectacles on the tip of his nose. “Finish the book, Daphne. I have someone who’ll look at it if you do.”

“Really? Who?”

“Finish the book then we’ll see. No promises.”

Excited and inspired, I’d have run upstairs to write but forced myself to listen to my father talk about his play.

“Here’s the rundown of the story: the killer is known as ‘the ringer.’ He’s a master of disguise who continually baffles the police. Young Detective-Inspector Alan Wembury takes over the Deptford police division and is hoping to marry Mary Lenley who has just become Meister’s secretary (Maurice Meister, a lawyer mixed up with the ringer). News comes that the ringer, who had been traced to Australia and reported dead, has returned to London. Meister is his next victim, for he left his sister in Meister’s charge and her body was found floating in the Thames. Soon a gaunt stranger is stalking the frightened lawyer who seeks police protection. Wembury has a hard task complicated by the fact that Mary’s brother, ruined by association with criminals, is jailed for robbery—and Meister knows more than he will admit. Also, the unpopular Inspector Bliss from America is working along his own lines to solve the case. Who
is
the ringer?”

“It’s intriguing,” I said at length, a little dismayed by the theme. Was a gaunt stranger stalking Ellen, and in turn, any who accompanied her? “Who is the ringer?”

Grinning, my father put the pages aside. “Ah, you’ll have to watch the play to find out. Why not take that Jack fellow?”

“He’s gone to Germany.”

“Oh, yes. To secure his inheritance, no doubt.”

“Father … what do you know of the company Salinghurst?”

“Owned by that old stick Salinghurst and his sons. Needed to raise cash. Sold off most of it to Grimshaw and Rutland.”

“Rutland?” I blinked. “The
earl
of Rutland?”

“The very same.”

“But Ellen didn’t mention him at the shareholders’ meeting. She said the other party was a Mr. Prichard.”

“Ah, the erstwhile Mr. Prichard. A Jewish moneylender. Probably put up the money and Rutland loaned his title. Nothing extraordinary there.”

“But why would Scotland Yard want Ellen to attend these meetings? They must suspect someone. That’s why they sent the major to Germany.”

“Great Scott! Everyone’s leavin’ Britannia for Germany these days. I daresay they’re after J.G. Jack Grimshaw. He’s a shady fellow.”

I stared at him aghast. “If you think he’s shady, why would you want me to go out with him?”

“Because he’s a charming chameleon. He’d make a good actor.”

I began to feel ill. “Oh, no … you didn’t ask him to audition, did you?”

My father grinned. “He can do accents, too. I merely suggested it may be a line of work for him.”

“And how did he take that? I don’t think he’s the kind to like work.”

“Ah, but acting is
fun
work. There’s the difference.”

Obviously, the two of them had had several discussions. I asked my father where.

“At the club, where else?”

“Did he say anything about his uncle’s will?”

“He mentioned it once or twice. I advised him to secure his interest. He admitted he had no head for business but that his cousin did.”

“What of Rosalie Grimshaw? Did he mention her?”

“No. Not a word.”

I glanced down into my lap. “The two are lovers, you know.”

To my disappointment, my father elicited no shock and I recalled my own girlish infatuation with my cousin Geoffrey.

“Geoffrey’s in town, by the way. He’s called here a couple of times,” my father said, reading my mind.

“Oh.” My face turned a deeper shade. Two years ago, I mightn’t have been able to face Geoffrey. I had once thought myself hopelessly in love with him.

“Does it bother you to see him?” my father probed.

I shrugged. “Mother needn’t strike him off the receiving list, if that is what you mean.”

“You once said you’d never see him again.”

“That was a long time ago. I was a child, really.”

“And now you are a young woman in love with another man.”

I sensed my face turning scarlet.

“I looked into Browning. It’d make a good match.”

“Not against Lady Lara Fane. She, I think, is determined to have him.”

Grinning, my father searched his desk for something to nibble on. “You’ve never backed off from a challenge, Daph, m’girl. What’s stopping you now?”

“I don’t know.” I heaved a weary sigh. The warmth of the fire, the security of being home, and my close dance with death sent a furor of emotions warring within me. I missed him. I wished he was here.

“I telegraphed the major,” my father murmured. “I asked him of his intentions.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t! How embarrassing … I’ll
die
of mortification.”

“No, you won’t.” Tearing a strip out of his pocket, he read what I needed most to hear. “‘Intentions honorable. Stop. Coming home. Stop.’”

Elated beyond words, I forgot about the pain in my shoulder for at least a minute or two. I just wanted to hug his telegram to me.

“
Gerald.
Is that you down there?”

My mother’s voice found its own way into our sanctuary.

“Yes, dear. We’re turning out the lights now.”

“I don’t feel at all tired,” I confessed.

“Nor do I,” winked my father, helping me out of my chair. “But we’ll both be in trouble if we don’t go up.”

“May I read the rest of this play
The Ringer
?”

“Of course you can but that’s not the title. It’s…” At the door, my father paused to smile, his eyes gleaming with a new idea. “You’ve done it!
The Ringer.
Yes, that’s much better. Shorter, catchy. You’ve got a gift, m’girl. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.”

“Thank you, Papa.” I reached up to kiss him on the cheek, and later that night I dreamt of my book with my name emblazoned on the cover and a title, a title with no name. Yet.

*   *   *

Since I was the last to bed, I was the last to wake.

“Daphne, you’ve missed breakfast. I’ll send to the kitchen. I want a fresh cup of tea anyhow. My, my, you won’t believe what’s in this morning’s paper.”

Yawning, I glanced at the serious faces before me.

“Ellen doesn’t know,” my father began.

“She sent up for breakfast this morning,” my mother informed.

“I knocked on her door,” Jeanne relayed. “Charlotte answered and said her mother was still sleeping.”

“It’s very awkward…”

“And
unexpected
—”

“What is? What’s happened?”

The three faces all lowered their eyes at once.

“It’s Cynthia Grimshaw,” my mother blurted out.

“She’s dead.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“At least Ellen won’t have to worry about the court case now.” My father, adding sugar into his tea, smiled.

“Your quip, Gerald, is in bad taste,” my mother said. “They say she was found dead at the bottom of the staircase.”

“With her neck broken,” my father put in.

I reached for the paper. I could scarcely believe it. Ellen’s nemesis dead. When? How?

“It happened sometime yesterday afternoon. She died quickly. An accident, it seems.”

The newspaper revealed few details. On first impression, it appeared Mrs. Grimshaw misjudged a step and tumbled to her death.

“‘A hotel maid discovered her a few minutes afterward.’” I read from the paper. “‘The police are investigating possibilities…’”

Possibilities. What could have induced Mrs. Grimshaw out of her luxury hotel suite in the middle of the afternoon? “How was she dressed?” I wondered aloud.

“Daphne.” My mother’s stern frown arrested me. “I don’t like you mixed up in any of this affair.”