The Cavendon Women (49 page)

Once they were alone, and had greeted each other, Dulcie looked at Cecily, and cried, “Tell Diedre! Get her opinion, Ceci!”

“Tell me what?” Diedre asked, noting the excitement on Dulcie's face, the sparkle in her eyes.

Cecily told her about Cora O'Brian and what had happened at the shop in the arcade, and the young woman's connection to Meldrew, and his financial woes.

Diedre listened attentively, surprise flashing across her face. She was as startled as they had been earlier. “Without knowing it, this young woman has handed you vital information about Meldrew. It would be fatal if it does leak to the press. Financial ruin is bad enough, but public humiliation is also a killer.”

“
We
could leak it!” Dulcie exclaimed, sitting down on a sofa.

“We could, but I don't think we will,” Diedre replied. “Papa would be appalled at us.”

“But Clarissa would be highly embarrassed. Also, she's going to need money, since Lord Meldrew, her horrible father, is out of cash.”

“Seemingly so, according to Cora O'Brian. But perhaps he isn't. Men like Meldrew usually have money hidden, often in foreign countries, and especially in Switzerland. Money that would be hard to find,” Diedre explained. “Men who specialize in financial finagling usually anticipate possible consequences, and provide for the future,
their
future. Anyway, when is this situation going to become public?”

Cecily said, “I don't think Cora knows; at least she made no mention of it.”

“Let's not forget she was quoting the chauffeur, Bert Robinson,” Dulcie reminded Cecily, and added, “Maybe the authorities aren't onto him yet.”

“That's quite possible,” Diedre agreed. “What we know is only what the chauffeur told her, plus the fact that Meldrew has left her, and refuses to keep her in style any longer, or pay her bills. He might just want to get rid of her.”

“Well, yes, that's true. However, I think Meldrew is the kind of man who could easily be a financial wheeler-dealer, as Miles would say.”

“Have you told Miles yet?” Diedre asked.

“I can't tell him. He's on the train to London at this moment. He'll be arriving in a couple of hours.”

“Good. Having this information does give him the means to bargain with Clarissa Meldrew, if he decides to tell her it might get into the newspapers.” Diedre laughed dryly. “That sounds like blackmail, in a way, but why not? I'm only worried about Inghams, not Meldrews. Miles has been treated very badly by them. And Clarissa's attitude is unconscionable.”

“I think Miles should do that,” Dulcie announced, and then exclaimed. “Oh my goodness, what a wonderful portrait of DeLacy over the fireplace. It's the one by Travers Merton, isn't it?”

Diedre nodded. “I thought I would give it to DeLacy; she should have it. And incidentally, how have you been doing with the paintings Travers left her in his will? Have you sold any yet?”

“Several. Although she was so reluctant to let go of them at first, she changed her mind when I said Cavendon needed the money for the restoration work. That convinced her. She said Travers would have approved because his grandfather had loved Cavendon.”

“You can have anything you want from here, Dulcie,” Diedre said, needing to move things along, get home to Robin. “There are some very good paintings by well-known artists, and there are more upstairs. And you can have all of the art objects as well, if you wish.”

“Normally, I wouldn't touch her stuff with a barge pole,” Dulcie answered. “But when they're sold, the money will go to Cavendon. Shall we wander around together and pick out the best?”

“Let's do it,” Cecily said, looking at her watch. “I want to be at the flat when Miles arrives.”

*   *   *

“Well, well, well,” Miles said when Cecily told him about the encounter with Cora O'Brian, and gave her a huge smile. “It doesn't actually solve my problem, but it does give me a certain amount of leverage, don't you think? With Clarissa.”

“I do,” Cecily replied, moving closer to him on the sofa. The two of them were sitting in front of the fire in the living room of her flat, and drinking a cup of tea. Miles had asked for it ten minutes ago when he had arrived from King's Cross railway station.

“You will go and see her, won't you? And as soon as possible, Miles?”

He nodded, and looked at his watch. “Too late to get in touch with her now. I shall give her a ring tomorrow morning, and try to set a date for a meeting.”

“Won't she ask why you suddenly want to see her?”

“I expect so,” he replied, looking suddenly reflective, staring into the flames roaring up the chimney. “I shall be honest, and say I need to discuss something very private, which I can't talk about on the phone. Leave it to me—I know she likes intrigue.”

“I will, but I don't mind going to see her, you know.”

He chuckled. “I can't let that happen, my love. You'll make mincemeat out of her. Or antagonize her. I have to think of something to hook her … perhaps I'll say I heard a rumor about her father having certain problems, and is there something I can do to help him…” His sentence floated away as he put his arm around her and drew her even closer. “I'm suddenly quite optimistic. You'll see, 1929 is going to be our year, Ceci. Our good luck is just around the corner, darling.”

 

Fifty-eight

“That was a very special piece of roast beef, love,” Howard Pinkerton said. “I think I enjoy Sunday lunch better than any other meal of the week. Except for your duck on Christmas Day. And your Yorkshire pudding is the best in the world.”

“Well, it better be, Howard, I come from there.” Dorothy laughed, and picked up his plate. “And I have your favorite dessert. Apple crumble.”

“Spoiling me, that you are, Dottie. And with warm custard, I've no doubt.”

“That's right. I'll only be a moment.”

Howard sat back in his chair, staring at the window. It was a cold December, and snowing outside, the flakes sticking to the glass panes, making little patterns. Intricate, like fancy lace. Life was intricate. And complex. And sometimes he couldn't help shuddering when he thought of the duplicity and evil in this world, and the bad men, wicked men who committed all kinds of sins and crimes. On the other hand, there were good men too. Brilliant men. Like that wonder boy who'd flown the Atlantic in a wispy little airplane last year. Charles Lindbergh, his name was, and he had become quite the hero, not only in America, and France, where he'd landed, but here in England and around the world. And Mr. Henry Ford, one of his favorites. Howard enjoyed his Ford cars. And one of their own, James Brentwood, the country's greatest classical actor, a man of decency and integrity.

Then there were men like Lawrence Pierce.
He
stuck in Howard's mind. He thought of him often, convinced that he had murdered Travers Merton. And that he might have been intent on murdering his wife, Felicity Pierce. The night he was on his way home from his club, and obviously got nabbed by somebody who was an enemy, there had been a bottle of potassium chloride in his jacket pocket. An overdose of that was lethal. And who was it intended for that night, if not for his unsuspecting wife? But he had never made it home and a life had been saved.

And then there were men like John Meldrew. Unscrupulous, duplicitous, and clever swindlers who took money from ordinary people, lined their own pockets with it. Those were the worst buggers … stealing from the poor to make themselves rich.

“Here we are, Howard, apple crumble and custard,” Dorothy said, putting a plate in front of him.

Before he could thank her she had disappeared again, gone to the kitchen. A few seconds later she was back with her own plate, and sat down at the dining table with him.

The apple crumble was delicious, and he didn't speak as he ate it slowly, savoring it. But he was going to talk to her shortly. She was troubled, had something on her mind, he knew that. After all, they'd been married for a long time. He knew his Dottie inside and out, and upside down.

It was over coffee in the sitting room that Howard finally spoke out. After a few sips of his coffee, he put the cup down in the saucer, and said, “You've been very preoccupied all weekend, love. You have something on your mind, I just know it. Perhaps talking to me might help?”

Dorothy let out a really long sigh, but remained silent. She sipped her coffee, puzzling out what to do. To confide in Howard or not? She made the decision. She was going to ask him if he knew about Lord Meldrew, and when he was going to be arrested. Cecily and she needed to know what was going on. Ceci wanted to be in control of her own destiny.

Looking at him, giving him a slight smile, she said, “One of our clients came to the shop earlier this week, Howard, and she was very upset. Her name is Cora Ward, and she—”

“She was in Cecily's shop, was she? Well then, you no doubt know that she's been dropped by Lord Meldrew.”

Dorothy nodded, leaned forward eagerly. “Is it your case, Howard?”

“No, it's not. It's being handled by the fraud people, the police who deal with financial crime. But Matt Praeger, the head of that division, is an old friend. I know his chaps have been gathering information on Meldrew for some time. He'll eventually go to trial, and to jail, no doubt in my mind about that.”

“Is it imminent? His arrest, I mean?”

“Not sure. I think they're still gathering evidence, as I just said. They need a watertight case. I understand your interest, Dottie. His daughter is the estranged wife of Miles Ingham. She's the one who's keeping Ceci and Miles apart. Why was the young woman in the shop?”

“She couldn't pay her bills, and couldn't take the new dresses. She broke down, sobbed out her tale of woe. She's nice enough, trapped in a bad situation. He's cut her off financially, taken back the jewelry, told her to leave the flat he was renting for her. We all felt sorry for her. I got her a job at Madame Arlette Millinery. That was the best I could do, and Ceci doesn't want us to get too involved with her.”

“Don't!” he exclaimed, a little sharply for him.

Dorothy stared at him. “Have I done the wrong thing, Howard?”

“No, you haven't, everything's all right. I doubt it, but she could get called, become a witness in court. A witness for the prosecution. We don't need her mentioning any names we know, now do we?”

“No, we don't. That's right. Would Richard Bowers know anything more? When the case is coming up?”

“No, he wouldn't. It's not his department. And even though he's now married to Vanessa, I can't go to him. He wouldn't like it, Dottie, he really wouldn't.”

“I just wanted to help Ceci. I want her to get married to Miles.” There was a moment's hesitation, and she was about to confide something else. But she changed her mind, kept her thoughts to herself. After all, she wasn't sure of her facts. Not yet.

Howard said, “As soon as I hear something important I'll let you know, Dottie. And I will say this, I think Miles has a better chance of negotiating his divorce now, because Meldrew's daughter is soon going to be penniless.”

*   *   *

On Sunday afternoon, Miles dialed the house he owned in Kensington for the sixth time. There had been no answer for days, and he had gone to the house three times. It was locked up, the draperies drawn. The last time he had been there he had seen the milkman on his rounds, and asked him if the family was away. The milkman had nodded. “Gone on holiday, I think, sir.”

He was about to hang up again, when the phone was answered. “Ingham residence,” a young voice informed him.

“Could I speak to Mrs. Clarissa Ingham, please?” he asked, realizing he was speaking to the young parlormaid, Molly.

“I'm afraid Mrs. Ingham is away, sir.”

“I assume you mean out of London?”

“I do, sir.”

“Oh, I see. Do you have a telephone number for her?”

“No, sir, she went to Switzerland for the Christmas holidays.”

“Ah yes, of course. And when is she returning?”

“In early January, sir.”

“Do you have an address for her?”

“No, I don't, Mr. Ingham.”

“Thank you, Molly,” he said, and hung up. Turning around he said to Cecily, “She's in Switzerland for Christmas.” He then explained, “That was the parlormaid, Molly. She recognized my voice. Once more we are at Clarissa's mercy.”

Cecily shook her head. “No, we're not. We are going to be back here at Cavendon for Christmas, and we're going to enjoy it. We've waited this long, what's a few more weeks, Miles? I know now that you will get a divorce. Eventually.”

He jumped up, went and sat on the arm of the chair where she was sitting, smoothed his hand over her hair. “There's no one like you, Ceci, and I'm so glad you are mine. And yes, you will be my wife one day. I promise you.”

 

Fifty-nine

“I've come for the inspection,” Daphne said, standing in the doorway of Hugo's dressing room, just off their bedroom.

He swung around at the sound of her voice, and his breath caught in his throat. She looked so stunning. She wore a long sheath of greenish-blue silk, simple but stylish, the cut superb, like all of Cecily's clothes. Unlike many other modern women, Daphne had never favored the sleek bob hairstyle, and tonight her blond curls were piled up on top of her head.

“You look gorgeous,” he said, walking toward her. “And the sapphire earrings I gave you, when we were married, match your eyes. Gosh, wasn't I clever to think of that,” he finished, chuckling.

Daphne laughed with him, and said, “Well, do I pass muster?”

“I'll say you do, darling. Everyone else will be left standing in the shade tonight.”