The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries) (24 page)

I counted the months since the day.

Running my fingers over the headstone, I whispered: “What happened to you? What happened?”

“Are ye mad, miss?”

I jumped at the voice.

There was old Haines, the grave digger. He came out from behind the tree.

“I’m fine. I don’t usually talk to myself.” What brought him to the gravesite? “Don’t you wonder, too, what happened?”

He guarded the grave like a soldier. “An accident, miss, that’s what happened.”

“‘An accident,’” I echoed, looking down at the grave. “Strange for a man on his wedding day … you don’t think he was murdered?”

He blinked, and I sensed he knew something he didn’t want to tell me.

“My Mary says accidents befall us all … it’s in the good book. Even rich fellows die. Money can’t buy life.”

“And how is your Mary? Nelly says she’s been feeling poorly lately.”

A shadow passed over his face. “She took a cough last winter. Spends most days indoors now.”

“Oh, that’s sad. It’s such a beautiful season. Perhaps I’ll stop by later and bring the outdoors to her?”

Haines was surprised. “That’s awful kind of ye, miss.”

After giving me directions to their cottage, he bid me good-bye and left the site, whistling away to himself. He lived on the estate and occasionally helped out with grounds work.

One fact remained clear. Grave diggers did not return to the site unless there was a reason.

But what reason?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I wasted no time in making good my word.

Filling a basket of flowers from the Thornleigh gardens and taking great pleasure in the collection: pure white snowflakes, arum lilies, and traditional Cornish anemones, I set off in the early hours of the afternoon.

The house was very quiet when I went down, ghostly almost. Slipping out the servants’ entrance through Nelly’s kitchen (who insisted I carry a tonic and half of a freshly made date cake to Mary), I followed the line of trees to the dirt path.

Ten minutes later, I ambled down to the cluster of farming cottages gracing the eastern part of the estate. I paused to appreciate the scene greeting my eyes. Grass, green and luxurious, like a thick carpet clothed the grounds where fattened cows grazed, chickens roamed free, and children played while curious sheep looked on from the hillside.

Stepping into this real-life painting, I located Mary’s cottage without any difficulty. The first on the right, Haines had said.

Relieved to see no sign of him, I knocked on the door and was bidden entry.

“Oh, Miss Daphne. He said you’d come and so ye have.”

Confined to a wheelchair, Mary Haines was a short, large woman with ginger-gray hair and a lively face. It was only when she coughed that the wheeze betrayed her ill-health for otherwise she talked on and on about village affairs and how she missed the use of her legs.

Devouring the cake, she gave her own rendition of the recent tragic events.

“That poor girl. As if she hadn’t suffered enough and then he dies on their weddin’ day! Folk say it ain’t a good sign.”

“Surely they don’t believe Miss Ellen is guilty?”

“No! Not of murderin’ her husband, though that’s what his other side say, don’t they? Oh, I’ve been readin’ the papers. I keep up with it all. Looks like the daughter’s goin’ ahead with her claim. Wants more money. Followin’ in her mother’s footsteps. I ‘spose it can’t be helped, can it?”

“Mrs. Haines, what do you mean?”

Wiping crumbs off her chin, she gave me a toothless grin. “Death. Death at Thornleigh. This is the second funny one. Things come in threes.”

Her words chilled me and I hastily gulped my tea. “Are you talking of Mr. Xavier? But he died during the war…”

“No, not him. Lady Gertrude. Ellen’s mother. It was all hush-hush at the time but I always found it odd, her dyin’ so quickly. She weren’t a nice woman; it was more her than Mr. Hamilton in threatenin’ to disown poor Miss Ellen. Fancy such hardness with the war and losin’ Mr. Xavier and all.”

“Is that why I found your husband at Teddy Grimshaw’s grave, Mrs. Haines?”

She nodded. “My Jem’s a good man. Ever loyal to the Hamiltons.”

“But this is the second grave he’s dug with a funny death. Ellen’s mother died of an overdose, didn’t she? Self-administered?”

“Humph. She the last kind to take herself off. If she’d had her way, she’d have plagued Miss Ellen’s life forever. She were one of those kinds who never die. They just stay old and ill and cranky. She’d have made Miss Ellen’s life a misery.”

“But nothing was said at the time? If anyone suspected, they should have told the police.”

“Oh, it was them crazy war days. Everybody was actin’ out of sorts. Probably why they never picked it up.”

I stared at her, beginning to feel very uneasy. “Picked up what, Mrs. Haines?”

Her eyes widened, and she looked at me as if I were daft. “The murder, Miss Daphne.”

“The murder of Lady Gertrude.”

*   *   *

“Hello, Mother. Can you please post down my letter cache? You’ll find it in my third drawer and the key is in the pocket of my gray coat in the closet.”

“Letters?” my mother echoed, her voice sounding distant on the telephone. “Why do you want them for?”

“Inspiration,” I lied. “I need them for my book.”

A little white lie, I justified. I had intended to get them out while we were in London but the days slipped away. It was something I did every once in a while. Read through old letters. I loved it. It was insight into my life at the time, and into the lives of those who had written me.

In particular, I now burned to find the letters from the time when Ellen’s mother died. It seemed a blur looking back; there was so much tragedy.

Mary Haines’s gnarly voice persisted in my ear.
Lady Gertrude. It was all hush-hush at the time but I always found it odd, her dyin’ so quickly. She were one of those kinds who never die …

Murder, Mary Haines said. She had mentioned no suspects but for the veiled insinuation. Who else stood to benefit from the old cantankerous woman’s death? Ellen. And Ellen alone.

I refused to believe it. Though she despised how her parents had treated her, she wasn’t the kind to murder. Ellen was the sort who would have allowed her mother to make her life a misery, fetching and carrying, always grateful that her mother had accepted her back and she and Charlotte had a place to live.

*   *   *

“Look, Daphne. Andrew has bought an old church spire. We’re going to mount it on the new roof.”

Eyes brightening, Ellen went on to say what a bargain it had been and that the spire survived a bombing during the war. “It’ll look marvellous on the tower, don’t you think? And we’ll see it from miles away.”

Sharing her excitement, I agreed to go and view the piece.

It was larger than I expected. Seven and a half meters high, its stone fretwork imitated the grand medieval masonry spires back in fashion with the Gothic revival. I reached out to touch a piece of the stonework, admiring the intricate artistry.

“Thank you, Andrew.” Ellen nodded to the builder and he covered the piece. “It’ll take a few men to lift it. The work is dangerous but Andrew assures me it can be done.”

“He’s a smart builder.”

We were standing out in the front lawn. Keen to start work, Andrew and his men had descended upon the place like ants.

“Two years to restore her,” Ellen said to me on the way to breakfast. “Then Thornleigh will be the most magnificent mansion this side of England. It’s been the dream of the Hamiltons for as long as I can remember.”

I thought it was a good thing for her to focus on after the death of her husband.

“Daphne,” she paused, “do you think it’s wrong of me to resume works? I don’t have a choice, really. Andrew wrote a report for Teddy. Without the proper repairs to the roof and certain parts of the house, it will decay. I can’t let that happen … not when I can prevent it.”

Collapsing in a parlor chair as we entered the house, she hid her face from me. “I know what they’ll write next. That I’m not grieving him … but I am, in my own way. It was our dream together to restore Thornleigh.” A little smile tempered her lips. “I remember when Teddy first saw the place. He had no idea I came from a family grander than his. I never told him, you see. What was the point? We met during the war. Who we were didn’t matter then. A prince could marry a pauper and nobody would look sideways.”

“When did he find out?”

“When he came back to London. Do you remember? I wrote you about it. ‘I’ll take you to my country home,’ I told him. ‘Where I spent my childhood.’”

“Had he not asked about your family before?”

“Oh, yes, and I just made the usual reply: ailing parents at home. Brother Xavier in the war like us. If I mentioned the town, he didn’t remember for on the drive, he thought I was directing him to Penzance.”

“Penzance?”

“He’s American.” She smiled. “
The Pirates of Penzance
? It’s famous. Well, they wouldn’t know Fowey and Truro and Newquay, would they?”

“Was he shocked when he saw Thornleigh?”

A mischievous glint danced through her eyes. “His reaction was priceless. Oh, you should have seen it! I kind of led him to believe we lived in a small community, which we do, but he was prepared for a tiny cottage.”

“Did he guess when you entered the estate?”

“No. Even then he thought I lived
on
the estate in a humble dwelling.”

“How long did you make him wait?”

“Until he stopped the car and I handed him the key. ‘Here, darling,’ I said. ‘Our home. I hope you like it.’ He was astounded, to say the least. Not many could render Teddy Grimshaw silent but I did that day.”

“He must have wondered why you remained silent?”

“Yes and I told him. I was pregnant, my parents had practically disowned me, and all my letters to him went missing. I thought he had abandoned me. Why mention I belonged to a grand English mansion and a noble family? All of that didn’t matter. Though,” she reflected, “I did relish when he later informed his relations of my family and my inheritance. Here they thought he was marrying some young penniless woman making a claim on him!”

I recalled the Americans arriving at Thornleigh and admiring it. Who wouldn’t admire it? It was magnificent.

“So, you see, even though he’d spent his whole life making money, all he wanted to do was to restore Thornleigh. He loved the history of the place. He was determined to make his mark here, but somebody cruelly stole that from him. Someone who benefited from his death.”

“Some say
you
benefited from his death.”

“Though Thornleigh needed attention, the estate is worth a fortune. Of course, my last resort would be to sell but I made ends meet. My mother hated it when I came back and worked from the sweat of my hands growing and selling vegetables. Who cares if we dirtied our hands? But she cared. She
hated
it. She once came out in her nightgown and ordered me to stop.
‘Stop mixing with that class! I forbid it!’
She didn’t understand. There was no money after Papa died. We all expected Xavier to come back a hero and rescue us.”

“If your mother had lived, would she have accepted Teddy Grimshaw?”

“Who knows,” she rolled her eyes, “but she would have appreciated his millions. Her father was a duke; she knew how important money is to families like us.”

Since she wanted to talk, I couldn’t help myself. “Ellen, what happened the night your mother died? I know you wrote me of it, that night, how horrid it was, and how scared you were…”

“Scared?” She seemed surprised. “I think I was
shocked
more than anything. Mother was always fastidious with her medicines. The doctor prescribed her laudanum to help her sleep. She always insisted on mixing it herself.”

“Who found her?”

“Edith, her maid.”

“And you called for the doctor?”

“Yes … but he was late in coming. In those days doctors were scarce. He looked Mother over, inspected the bottle, and concluded she had taken a fatal dosage.”

“What was her mood like the previous day?”

“The same. Grumpy. She yelled at Charlotte for making too much noise. Ordered poor Edith around; nothing unusual.”

“Why didn’t you insist on an investigation?”

Meeting my candid gaze, she lifted her shoulders. “Frankly, I was relieved she died. I may sound heartless but she was an unlovable woman. The only one she ever cared for was Xavier and when he died, the world stopped for her. Maybe she decided to end her life that night and join him. I don’t know. She left no note.”

I nodded, and suggested we better have breakfast before we missed out. “You are aware,” I said on the way in, “that some people still think your mother was murdered. That it was an odd death?”

Her eyes arrested mine. “Who have you been talking to?”

I didn’t want to betray Mary Haines so I made up a story of overhearing maids talk.

“Servants,” Ellen dismissed, “they’re always fanciful. When Teddy died, they were the first to scream murder! Murder. I don’t think he was murdered now. It’s curious. I have a strong feeling about it.”

I waited for her to explain, but since Alicia and Charlotte were in the breakfast room, the conversation changed.

I buttered my toast and ate it with a smile; however, the gnarly face of Mary Haines rose up to haunt me.
It’s death. Death at Thornleigh.

And things come in threes …

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“There’s a shipbuilder’s family in Polruan. I read about them in the evening post.”

“Great. I’ll make a trip there. I might visit Angela, too … she’s at our house in Fowey. That is, if I have time. I might get sidetracked.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Tommy’s voice was full of tender humor.

Receiving a phone call from the major had seen me climb down from my self-appointed office in the library in record time. Opting to take the call in the study instead of the main hall, I arrived, naturally, a little breathless.

“How many pages have you written this week?”