The Charmers by Elizabeth Adler Read Free Book Online

thinking longingly of a tall, cold drink and a comfy sofa.
    When my houseman, Alfred, opened the door, the shocked expression on his middle-aged, usually bland face with its high, bald forehead and shaggy gray brows that met in the middle in a concerned frown, made me understand just what a sight the pair of us were.
    â€œMadame,” he exclaimed, rushing down the three wide steps to help me while the nice driver assisted Verity.
    â€œAlfred, this is my friend Verity. We’ll put her in the peony room, I think.” Of course I meant the room with the original peony-print wallpaper, faded with age to a nice pale pink.
    â€œQuite right, Madame, it’s cheerful,” he said, inspecting Verity closely. “And she looks as though she needs cheering up a bit.”
    English understatement as always from Alfred. Good servants know their profession and they should never be underrated. It’s a job in which they rightly take pride, as does a good waiter.
    But Verity stood still, seemingly rooted to the top step, peering through the wide double doors fashioned from a rare oak felled in a thunderstorm when the villa was built, and with a large heart-shaped brass door-knocker, indicating, it was said, Jerusha’s welcome to her guests. I wished the guests had all felt the same way about their beautiful and generous hostess, Jerusha. Obviously some had not. It puzzled me as to exactly why this was, and I was determined to find out the truth. But truth is elusive when it comes to the past; everyone has their own story and with the passing of time even those become distorted.
    We walked into the hall and Verity said, surprising me again, “Jerusha was a friend of my grandmother. I remember seeing her photo on the table next to the sofa in Gran’s boudoir. I always picked it up to look at it because she was so lovely, in a long flowing dress that swept to one side in a train. Glamorous, I suppose she was, though to a child she was simply beautiful. How I wished I could be like her, I remember saying that to Gran and her telling me with a sad look on her face that I should not wish any such thing. She wouldn’t tell me why but she removed the photo, put it away somewhere I suppose because I never saw it again. And of course I never asked why.”
    â€œWell, now you know,” I said. “Jerusha was a killer. Rotten to the core. Seduced men, they said, simply because she could.” Verity stared at me, bug-eyed, and I took pity on her. “Of course, those were only rumors, there are always tales about a woman as lovely and famous as that. You’ve only to look at some of today’s stars, hounded by the press, false stories made up about their goings-on.”
    â€œBut that’s so unfair.”
    I shook my head, smiling at Verity’s naivety. “Hon,” I said, “that’s life. Anyhow,” I added, remembering our own recent dice with death, “I’ve always wanted to find out the truth, and now you are here to help me. Your grandmother knew Jerusha; she must have told you stories about her.”
    Verity looked doubtful. “None that I remember, just her name, and that maybe she killed someone, and about the villa. There was a picture of it, you see. Gran took it herself when she stayed here. You know the kind where all the houseguests are assembled in front of the house, like in a school photo. And now I remember, the king stayed here with Jerusha, when he was still king, before he abdicated and became one of us.”
    â€œWell, not exactly,” I said. “Even though Edward VIII was downgraded to a duke he was not ‘one of us.’ But he was said to have an eye for a pretty woman. Plus he was known to be an entertaining guest so I’m sure Jerusha would have loved him.”
    We both turned our heads, hearing the roar of a car’s engine and the spurt of gravel as it pulled to an abrupt stop. A reckless driver, I thought. We heard