Heirs of the Body by Carola Dunn Read Free Book Online Page B

the copy typed by Miss Watt—in the light of Alec’s comments.
    It was written in perfectly correct English, but not the formal language people usually use when addressing a solicitor. Either she had worded it herself, or with the help of someone equally unsophisticated. It was very short, conveying no more information than Daisy had passed on to Alec.
    She found the appropriate family tree in her notebook and added Martha:
    Julian Dalrymple m. Marie-Claire Vallier
                      ?
             Alfred d. 1900
             James d. 1917
                  Samuel m. Martha
    It was still more of a branch than a tree.
    Turning to Tommy’s letter, Daisy considered its content from the point of view of Martha, rather than the lawyer’s convenience. He was very likely right that she wouldn’t be comfortable staying alone at a London hotel, even if she could afford it. Come to that, could she afford the passage? Would the estate pay the fare without a better reason than his residence in Jamaica for believing Samuel might be directly and legitimately descended from Julian?
    Had Martha failed to provide information about her husband’s ancestry because she hadn’t thought of it, because she didn’t know of any, or because there was none? If there was none, if Samuel was not a legitimate descendant of Julian and Martha was aware of the fact, why would she have responded to Tommy’s agony column notice?
    The only answer Daisy could think of was that she—or they—contemplated an attempt at fraud.
    What nonsense! The possibility would never have dawned on her if she hadn’t spent so much time associating with policemen. All the same, she had a lot of questions, and she really wanted to see the original letter from Martha. Though she thought the more esoteric claims of graphology were akin to spiritualism, she did believe handwriting could sometimes provide a clue to character.
    She dashed off a quick note to Tommy, saying she would like to talk to him. Having wrested the twins from Mrs. Gilpin’s custody, she took them and Nana to post it, along with a couple of other letters. With Bertha, the nurserymaid, pushing the double pushchair, they went down through the garden in the centre of Constable Crescent and by the footpath to Well Walk. When they reached the pillar-box, Oliver had to be lifted up to push the envelopes through the slot.
    Then Miranda had to be lifted to touch the beasts in the crest above the slot. “Look, Mama. Lion, ’corn, King George.”
    “ Uni corn, darling.”
    “I not ’corn. I Manda!”
    “So you are, Miss Miranda,” said Bertha, “and don’t you let anyone—not even your mum—tell you other. You’re not a nasty old unicorn, which from what I hear ain’t even a real animal! Begging your pardon, madam. Now then, Master Oliver, you naughty boy, you climb right back in this instant!”
    Words failing to do the trick, Bertha picked up the child, put him in his seat, and strapped him in.
    Daisy knew she was lucky to have such admirably competent servants, and all good-natured except Nurse Gilpin. Even Nurse, while always ready to thwart her employers, was firm but fair with the children. Other people seemed constantly to complain about their inability to find good servants. Years ago, Daisy had started writing an article on the “servant problem” from the servants’ point of view, but what with one thing and another it hadn’t progressed very far.
    She was glad she didn’t have to cope with a staff the size necessary to run a place like Fairacres. Why, she wondered, would anyone be eager to take on the job, unless the alternative was penury?
    Such might be the case for Samuel and Martha, but Vincent seemed to be comfortably off. What was more, he knew the difficulties of dealing with a large staff, if his hotel was as superior as he claimed. Then there was the mysterious South African, so keen to be the missing heir that he sailed for England