Heirs of the Body(11)
* * *
The last post brought a brief letter from Tommy.
Full of misgivings, Alec watched Daisy as she read it. “Well?”
“He’s decided to ask each claimant whether he’d have any objection to the presence of a representative member of the family, without mentioning beforehand that said representative will be a junior female member. Junior female! What a revolting description!”
Alec couldn’t help laughing. “Accurate, love, you must admit. It sounds like a reasonable compromise.”
“And he says their responses could be revealing. True; what reason could a legitimate claimant have for refusing?”
“None that I can think of,” he said obligingly.
“So, unless they’re too stupid to realise it would look suspicious, I’ll be there.”
He grinned at her. “I never doubted it for a moment.”
FOUR
Ten days passed before Daisy next heard from Tommy. He had an appointment with a Mr. Vincent Dalrymple, who was willing to allow a representative of the family to be present at the interview. He hoped the date and time were convenient, though, Daisy noted, he didn’t offer to change them if not.
She gladly rescheduled a visit to the dentist.
Vincent Dalrymple was fortyish, of medium height, slender, and sleek, with fair hair receding at the temples. He wore a formal dark suit, well cut, with a white shirt and a green-and-white striped bow tie. Daisy thought he looked like either a Harley Street consultant or a high-class maître d’hôtel. He displayed a professional charm that would be of service to either. “Smarmy” was the word that sprang to mind.
“How do you do, Mrs. Fletcher.” With a smile, he bowed slightly over her hand. “May I say how pleased I am to meet a relative on my father’s side, however distant.”
Tommy invited them to sit down. Vincent held Daisy’s chair for her, then took his seat, careful to preserve the creases in his trousers. They both looked expectantly at Tommy.
“Mrs. Fletcher, Mr. Vincent Dalrymple has provided me with certain documents and information which indicate, though they do not prove, that he may well be descended from your great-great-grandfather.”
“That’s a start,” said Daisy, smiling encouragingly at Vincent.
“I suggest,” Tommy continued, “that he himself tell you his story.”
“What a good idea.” Daisy turned towards her presumed distant cousin.
“Should I start from the present and work back, or start with my grandfather? Which would you prefer, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Why don’t you try chronological order. But don’t worry if you get sidetracked, or skip about a bit.” She knew from experience how difficult it was to recount a straightforward narrative. Whenever she found herself mixed up in one of Alec’s cases, he was forever chiding her for wandering or for missing out important details. She took out her notebook.
“Thank you. Well, let’s see.” Vincent frowned in concentration. “My grandfather told us—”
“You knew him? Sorry, I shouldn’t interrupt.”
“No, please do, if anything isn’t clear. I was sixteen when he died. Mr. Pearson has a copy of his death certificate.”
Tommy consulted one of the documents on his desk. “February 1901, in Scarborough, North Riding. Timothy George Dalrymple. Unfortunately, his age at time of death was omitted.”
“Because my father didn’t know it. The family never did much in the way of celebrating the birthdays of adults, and my grandmother died before him.”
“What about his marriage certificate? I remember ours has my husband’s age and mine.”
“Dai—Mrs. Fletcher, could we leave the question of legal papers till the end? I’ll show you what I have then, with Mr. Dalrymple’s permission, of course.”
“Granted.” Vincent glanced from Tommy to Daisy and back, his eyes sharp. He’d obviously caught Tommy’s slip of the tongue and was wondering what, if anything, it portended for him. However, he continued smoothly, “Maybe I’d better start again. My grandfather was born in Jamaica, date unknown. He knew his father was the younger son of a lord, though if my grandfather was aware of the precise rank he never mentioned it, as far as I recall.”
“What was his name?” Daisy asked. Unlike some noble lineages, her family had never gone in for repeating christian names generation after generation, but she was creating another family tree, probably as partial as the first.
“My grandfather was Timothy. His father—I have a vague impression he was Julius, or Julian. I may have dreamt that.”
“Julian,” Tommy said drily. “Son of Julius, Viscount Dalrymple. It’s easily checked in Burke’s Peerage. An unsatisfactory offspring can be struck out in the family bible but not in Burke, though his descendants can be lost track of.”