The Villa of Death: A Mystery Featuring Daphne du Maurier (Daphne du Maurier Mysteries) (8 page)

In any case, I refused to consider it today. I intended to enjoy the day.

As we turned into the tiny seaside village, it started to rain. I’d been watching the clouds form above us, hoping beyond hope that it’d hold. At least until this afternoon when I returned to Thornleigh. It could rain all it liked at Thornleigh but now, no, please not now, I begged the sky.

The sky stared down at me, dark and full. “Oh no,” I said, “I’ve forgotten my umbrella
again
.” What had gotten into me lately? I used to be so prepared, always an umbrella within my reach.

“Will this do?”

Reaching over to the backseat, he pulled out a raincoat. “That will keep you dry until we go inside.”

I put on the raincoat. The sleeves were far too long but that didn’t matter. “What about you?”

He laughed, pulling the hood up over my head. “I’m about to take a morning bath.”

And he wasn’t far from the truth. What had begun as a medium downfall turned torrential. “Maybe we should wait?”

“No.” He encouraged me out of the car. “Head straight for the green door and knock loudly. She’s a little deaf.”

Tucking my bag under the raincoat, I opened the door and hurried down the path to the green door. Only a few meters from the street, the quaint stone cottage beckoned me. A lone plant swung by the painted green door and in the plant rested a little green frog with big eyes.

“She loves knickknacks,” the major murmured, adding one loud thudding knock to my own. “Her house is full of them.”

“I hope she answers soon,” I said, “or we’ll both be drenched.”

As I finished saying it, the door rattled and after a succession of turned locks opened to reveal a middle-aged black-haired woman of extraordinary feature. Ushered inside, I had a chance to study her better as she and the major engaged in an excitable witty repartee. Evidently, she hadn’t seen him for a long time, her strong brow and square jawline softening as she laughed. I liked the sound of her laugh; it was mischievous and engaging and from her short stub nose and probing blue eyes under a thick wedge of ebony hair, she looked and acted like a European aristocrat. It was a classically handsome face more than beautiful.

She smiled when this observation of her looks tumbled out of my mouth.

“And you must be Daphne.” She kissed me on both cheeks. “Welcome, Daphne, to my little house by the sea. You are quite clever. Dare you hazard a guess at which country I come from?”

“Italy?”

“Germany.” Her smile faded. “Of course, Germans are not very popular in England and if it weren’t for my good husband Wilhelm, we might not have survived the war.”

Not caring to elaborate upon this fact, she invited us into her little house by the sea. The darkened corridor lined with a vine wallpaper led us to the heart of the house, a large rectangular room overlooking the ocean. One shuttered window banged open and the sea air drifted up my nose, fresh and exhilarating.

The major went to close the window while I followed his graceful godmother into the tiny kitchen on the right.

“It is small,” she said, “but it suits me. Ah, you see I have a passion for copper. Copper everything and books. That is my life. When Wilhelm was alive, we restored books together. He received his first English commission five years before the Great War. We were in London when war broke out and for our safety we came here.”

“When did Wilhelm die?” I asked, keeping my voice soft and low. Something about this place inspired quiet and solitude. It was a house of peace and reflection.

“He died in the spring.”

Her mouth shut on the subject and I didn’t press her. Had he suffered under English oppression, I wondered, recalling how many of my countrymen harbored animosity against anything German.

“Does coffee suit you, Daphne?”

“She likes it strong.” The major came into the kitchen, plucking three green clay mugs off copper hooks on the wall. “Susanna makes the best coffee.”

“With my tiny little Italian pot.” She beamed. “It is good, if I say so myself. And I have meat pasties and almond seed cake for luncheon.”

“Susanna
le chef,
” joked the major affectionately.

“I bake and cook a little. My neighbor dines with me. He is a widower also.”

“Ah, a light o’ love?”

Susanna shook her head. “Tommy, you are always thinking along those lines and you have never brought your light o’ loves to me before so this girl must be special.”

She said it so matter-of-factly it brought fresh color to my face. I busied myself carting out the coffee tray to the main room and offering to pour the coffee. To lessen the secretive smile forming on Susanna’s lips, I asked where she kept her books.

“In the reading room,” she replied. “I will take you after, but first I want to know all about you and your family, how you met my Tommy, though he has told me some of it.”

My face turning red, I concentrated on sipping my coffee. He was right. The coffee was excellent. And I liked his strange worldly wise godmother very much. She didn’t miss a thing, taking careful note of all I had to say about myself.

“You have a taste for adventure, no?” she said at the finish. “Ah, you remind me of me when I was young. I used to go riding in the woods for hours and hours. My parents did not approve. But then, they did not approve of much.”

“Susanna’s family disowned her when she married Wilhelm,” the major put in. “She came to England as a bride.”

“My family did not want me marrying a book restorer,” Susanna explained. “Even though he’d received great commissions from the universities to preserve manuscripts and rare books, he was still poor when I married him.”

“Naughty Susanna,” the major clicked his tongue, “you ought to have wed the fat count.”

“Helmut.” Susanna laughed. “How well you remember everything I tell you. He has a brain for storing knowledge,” she said to me, “perhaps you have encountered it?”

“Once or twice.” I smiled, gazing out the window. I could just see the jutting point of Tintagel Castle stretching out to sea. The rain obscured part of my vision but I longed to go out there. It didn’t look like we’d have time today and for once, I did not care. Susanna interested me far more.

After luncheon, when she took me into her reading room, I thought I’d found a piece of heaven. I’d seen many libraries in grand houses in my time yet none of them matched the simplicity and elegance of Susanna’s book room. From floor to ceiling, the room oozed charm, all decorated in warm plum hues. Thick carpet warmed the floorboards and was slightly faded through use, as was the upholstery on the twin set of library armchairs. Solid oak shelves graced two sides of the wall where an antique oval desk with its own embossed green leather writing surface stood empty.

“That is where Wilhelm used to work … it is a pity, I have little use for the desk now.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, touching it before turning to run my fingers along the many titles stacked on the shelves. I loved the desk. I wanted to draw out the chair and pen something upon it while looking out the narrow window to the sea.

“Daphne is a writer.” The major sashayed around, biting into another piece of Susanna’s delicious almond seed cake. “She’s published.”

“Not novel length,” I added, my face burning.

“Is that what you wish? To become a fiction novelist? What do you like to write about? Drama? Intrigue? Romance?”

“Oh.” At Susanna’s invitation, I tried one of the library chairs. “I don’t know exactly. I love history and I love old houses. I also like books with a darker theme, exploring emotions which aren’t often recorded in popular fiction.”

Lifting a brow, Susanna grinned at the major. “You have chosen well, Tommy. She’s smart. I like her. I like her very much and I do hope you will come and visit me again, Daphne?”

“Yes, I will,” I promised, not realizing how the time had slipped away.

“You are most welcome to come and stay and write on that desk,” Susanna said on parting, the invitation so invitingly warm I thought I just might accept one day.

CHAPTER EIGHT

We arrived back to Thornleigh half an hour late.

“Ellen is very punctual.” I sighed, exasperated with him for he refused to share information with me.

“She’s in mourning,” he murmured, slipping out of the car to open my door. “The world changes when one is in mourning.”

It was true. Ellen’s words haunted my steps to her room.
How can I go on without him? How can I?
“She loved him and he loved her. The age difference didn’t signify at all. It’s a cruel twist of fate that his heart should have failed him at this time.”

The major said nothing, indicating he knew something. I’d come to know by the slight telltale serration on the left side of his face. It flexed whenever he wished to avoid my inquiries.

Ellen received us in her private study. Thornleigh had two studies, one for the master and one for the mistress. The master’s adjoined the library whereas the mistress’s overlooked the gardens at the back of the house. It was bright and sunny, like a morning room, and Ellen liked to come here in the mornings because the light warmed the room.

As we entered, I could not help comparing Ellen’s study to Susanna’s tiny library. Spacious, one large Geroge III desk with floral inlay and complete with numerous drawers stood in the center, with two small plain cushioned chairs before it. Yellow drapes framed the windows, matching the upholstery of Ellen’s chair and the sunflower painting on the wall. There was also a smaller Victorian ladies’ writing desk in the far corner but it was just for show, not for use.

Ellen rose from her desk. “Do sit down. Do you care for coffee? Tea?”

I saw an empty tea tray on her desk. “No, we’re fine and I’m so sorry we’re late. It was the—”

“Traffic,” the major put in. “Dastardly this time of year.”

Ellen looked from him to me. Her face registered mild surprise since last she knew I hated him and refused to spend a minute in his company. I longed to explain matters. I didn’t want her to think me a weak-willed woman.

“Well.” Ellen resumed her seat wearily.

The question remained in her eyes. I’d gone to invite the major to come at three, not to spend the day with him. But she didn’t know why I’d gone with him. I’d gone with him because I suspected he knew something, something he wished to keep private between himself and Ellen.

“The business I have is private,” he began, “I think it best if we discuss it alone.”

Ellen glanced up from her desk. There were great dark shadows under her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep last night. My mind, you know. I was thinking of Teddy’s tombstone and what he’d like upon it. Of course, I know he’d prefer to be buried in America but I can’t bear the thought of him going home cold on that ship. I’ve had a terrible row about it with his sisters. They insist he goes back but I can’t let him go. Is that wrong of me?”

“Unless there is monetary gain, everybody loses in the business of death,” the major murmured, then reiterating the need for privacy.

“No, I want Daphne here,” Ellen replied firmly, leaving her desk to walk to the window. She stood there a moment, her slim frame silhouetted by the pale afternoon glow. “I’ve had two house calls today. Teddy’s accountant and solicitor. I knew he was wealthy but I had no idea of how complicated his businesses are. There.” She indicated to a box on the floor full of fat blue folders. “It’s only a start. Mr. Berting, that’s Teddy’s accountant, has tried to put things simply but I can’t understand it. I wonder if you might help me, Major Browning? If both of you might help me? Apart from my daughter, I have no family and even fewer that I trust. Harry is here, of course, but he manages Thornleigh for me; he has no business head and nor do I.”

“Employing a proper business manager might be better,” advised the major.

“Teddy loved his businesses. They were like pets to him and as his widow, I feel it my duty to look after these pets, particularly when there are many wolves at large.”

Her gaze fell upon a couple walking outside in the garden. I strained my neck so I could see who it was. Dean Fairchild and cousin Jack.

“Your husband,” the major began, “was involved in two major deals in the last year. Such business brought him to England.”

“Yes. That’s true.”

“And you contacted him when he arrived?”

“Yes, that’s also true. I confronted him with Charlotte. He was astounded by how the child looks like him and offered me money. I refused. He started then to make amends with regular visits and taking us out to dinner.”

“During that time, did he ever talk about his work? The two deals?”

Ellen thought back. “A little. I remember the names … Salinghurst and Gildersberg. Teddy said he had an interest in those two companies.”

“More than an interest. He holds a forty-percent share in Salinghurst and recently acquired one hundred–percent holding in Gildersberg.”

“He owns Gildersberg then?” A slight crease showed on Ellen’s brow. “What does this have to do with his death?”

“Read the headlines.”

Ellen blinked at the newspaper thrust into her hands.
“Gildersberg’s share prices collapsed this morning with the news of its director’s passing, a Mr. Teddy Grimshaw, of Boston, Massachusetts. It is reported that Mr. Grimshaw had ambitious plans for the German food chain company…”

“Salinghurst and Gildersberg are competitors,” the major explained. “I suspect your husband bought Gildersberg and intended to acquire the sinking Salinghurst shares so he would have full control over the market.”

“Salinghurst wins?”

“You have a forty-percent share in that company now. It is my belief they will attempt to buy you out.”

“So they have full control of the market?” Ellen finished for him.

“I strongly suggest you refuse that offer.”

Ellen paused. “Is it your suggestion that I do so, Major Browning, or is it Scotland Yard’s? I know you work for them. Daphne told me.”

I turned scarlet. I had said so in confidence. To my relief, the major appeared unconcerned.

“We believe some kind of skullduggery is at play between these companies, the central figure being your late husband. If you sell out of Salinghurst, we have no way in to monitor that company.”