whether Geraldine’s spirited defence, Edgar’s bedraggled appearance, or Raymond’s unmitigated presumption weighed more heavily in the dowager’s scales.
“Shall I close the windows, your ladyship?” the footman asked, having deposited the tray. “Looks like the rain won’t hold off much longer.”
“Yes, do.”
The clouds hanging above Fairacres had darkened to near black. Somewhere to the west there must have been a break, though, because the landscape was illuminated by a lurid, eerie, ominous light. Every tree and bush stood out distinctly. Thunder rumbled not far off, and a few seconds later lightning briefly blazed. Still not a drop of rain fell.
Geraldine shivered. “Someone’s walking across my grave,” she said.
TEN
A month passed before Daisy heard any more from Tommy about the heirs. Then came a cry for help.
Miss Watt rang up at half past ten that morning. “Mrs. Fletcher, Mr. Pearson wondered whether you could possibly come in to chambers right away. We have … ah … something of a situation here.” She sounded uncharacteristically flustered.
“What on earth…? Can’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s a bit complicated. But if—”
“Never mind. I’ll come. About an hour?”
“ Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve had to clear Mr. Pearsons schedule. He’ll be very relieved.”
Daisy was rather annoyed. She was in the middle of drafting a proposal for an article about Hampton Court for Mr. Thorwald, her American editor. The result was always smoother if she did the whole thing in one sitting. If she drove into the City, she’d just have time to finish the section she was working on. It wasn’t raining, and now that she had seen Lincoln’s Inn she knew where she would be able to park the car.
Perhaps Mr. Thorwald would be interested in an article on the Inns of Court, too, she thought.
End of paragraph, full stop: Leaving the paper and carbons in the typewriter, she hurried upstairs to change her summer frock for a more sober costume. Half an hour later, she left the car in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and walked under the impressive arch of the early Tudor main gate, into New Square. Tommy’s chambers were on the opposite side. As she approached, she wondered what sort of emergency Tommy imagined she might be able to help with.
Miss Watt came out of her room to meet Daisy on the landing, closing the door behind her.
“I’m so glad you came, Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Pearson asked me to apologise and to explain.”
“He doesn’t need me after all?” Daisy asked indignantly.
“Oh yes.” She lowered her voice. “But there’s a person—a young woman—in my office.”
“Not the one from Jamaica?”
“Yes. Mrs. Samuel Dalrymple.”
“Didn’t he advise her not to come?”
“Yes, but she’s come anyway.”
“And Tommy doesn’t know what to do with her?”
“Exactly. Mr. Pearson would like to consult you. Unfortunately, it’s necessary to pass through my room to get to his, so he asked me to warn you of her presence. After you have talked to him, he’ll introduce her to you if appropriate, depending on what’s decided. Will you see him?”
“Since he’s haled me down here…” Not that she wasn’t dying to meet Mrs. Samuel Dalrymple. Martha, she remembered.
Martha Dalrymple sat in a chair against the wall of shelved deed boxes. She wore a cheap cotton frock, flowered, a bit shabby, with a light cardigan. Her bowed head let Daisy see pale blond hair—natural blond, Daisy thought enviously, her own shingled locks being light brown. Martha’s was pulled back into a knot at her nape. The style was severe, but when she raised her head, she revealed a round, youthful face, woebegone, with a hint of tears in her blue eyes.
She looked little more than a child. Daisy smiled at her, and she gave a tentative, rather wobbly smile in return.
Miss Watt swept Daisy onward into Tommy’s office, then returned to her own, closing the door with a firm
“Shall I close the windows, your ladyship?” the footman asked, having deposited the tray. “Looks like the rain won’t hold off much longer.”
“Yes, do.”
The clouds hanging above Fairacres had darkened to near black. Somewhere to the west there must have been a break, though, because the landscape was illuminated by a lurid, eerie, ominous light. Every tree and bush stood out distinctly. Thunder rumbled not far off, and a few seconds later lightning briefly blazed. Still not a drop of rain fell.
Geraldine shivered. “Someone’s walking across my grave,” she said.
TEN
A month passed before Daisy heard any more from Tommy about the heirs. Then came a cry for help.
Miss Watt rang up at half past ten that morning. “Mrs. Fletcher, Mr. Pearson wondered whether you could possibly come in to chambers right away. We have … ah … something of a situation here.” She sounded uncharacteristically flustered.
“What on earth…? Can’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s a bit complicated. But if—”
“Never mind. I’ll come. About an hour?”
“ Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve had to clear Mr. Pearsons schedule. He’ll be very relieved.”
Daisy was rather annoyed. She was in the middle of drafting a proposal for an article about Hampton Court for Mr. Thorwald, her American editor. The result was always smoother if she did the whole thing in one sitting. If she drove into the City, she’d just have time to finish the section she was working on. It wasn’t raining, and now that she had seen Lincoln’s Inn she knew where she would be able to park the car.
Perhaps Mr. Thorwald would be interested in an article on the Inns of Court, too, she thought.
End of paragraph, full stop: Leaving the paper and carbons in the typewriter, she hurried upstairs to change her summer frock for a more sober costume. Half an hour later, she left the car in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and walked under the impressive arch of the early Tudor main gate, into New Square. Tommy’s chambers were on the opposite side. As she approached, she wondered what sort of emergency Tommy imagined she might be able to help with.
Miss Watt came out of her room to meet Daisy on the landing, closing the door behind her.
“I’m so glad you came, Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Pearson asked me to apologise and to explain.”
“He doesn’t need me after all?” Daisy asked indignantly.
“Oh yes.” She lowered her voice. “But there’s a person—a young woman—in my office.”
“Not the one from Jamaica?”
“Yes. Mrs. Samuel Dalrymple.”
“Didn’t he advise her not to come?”
“Yes, but she’s come anyway.”
“And Tommy doesn’t know what to do with her?”
“Exactly. Mr. Pearson would like to consult you. Unfortunately, it’s necessary to pass through my room to get to his, so he asked me to warn you of her presence. After you have talked to him, he’ll introduce her to you if appropriate, depending on what’s decided. Will you see him?”
“Since he’s haled me down here…” Not that she wasn’t dying to meet Mrs. Samuel Dalrymple. Martha, she remembered.
Martha Dalrymple sat in a chair against the wall of shelved deed boxes. She wore a cheap cotton frock, flowered, a bit shabby, with a light cardigan. Her bowed head let Daisy see pale blond hair—natural blond, Daisy thought enviously, her own shingled locks being light brown. Martha’s was pulled back into a knot at her nape. The style was severe, but when she raised her head, she revealed a round, youthful face, woebegone, with a hint of tears in her blue eyes.
She looked little more than a child. Daisy smiled at her, and she gave a tentative, rather wobbly smile in return.
Miss Watt swept Daisy onward into Tommy’s office, then returned to her own, closing the door with a firm
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