Heirs of the Body(35)

“A few. All right, several. It’s no reason to expect more. These are all respectable people, after all.”

But when Lucy had rung off, Daisy thought, what did she really know about them? Raymond and Vincent were undoubtedly prosperous and respectable, if not likeable. Martha was likeable, though not prosperous; Samuel’s present escapade could hardly be described as respectable. Suppose he turned out to be a ruffian, willing to kill for the inheritance?

And others might yet turn up.

That evening, Martha retired to bed right after dinner, exhausted despite her afternoon nap. Daisy put a soothing record on the gramophone, Paderewski playing Mendelsohn’s Songs Without Words. Half listening, she read through the list she and Martha had compiled of everything unpacked from the suitcase brought from Jamaica. It wasn’t long. And most of the things were unsuitable either for English weather, or for London and Fairacres, or both.

Daisy started to make a list of everything they would need to buy.

The telephone rang. Daisy hurried out to the hall to answer it before Elsie started up from the basement kitchen to get it.

“Daisy, it’s Madge.”

“Hold on just half a mo. I’ve got a record on. I’d better stop it or the needle will carve a groove.” When she returned, she asked, “I assume Tommy has told you about the latest applicant?”

“Martha Dalrymple. It was unconscionable for him to land you with the poor girl.”

“I don’t really mind. The children have taken to her already—she has two of her own that she had to leave with her parents, did Tommy tell you? And with a third on the way—”

“What!? He didn’t tell me she’s expecting.”

“Darling, I suspect he didn’t notice. About five months. He probably assumed she was a trifle stout. Her frock wasn’t exactly flattering.”

“She’s bursting out of her clothes?”

“Not quite that bad, though she will be. It’s just that what’s suitable for a Caribbean island is hardly appropriate for London, nor practical for the climate.”

“Tommy didn’t mention that either. Really, men can be so blind. Daisy, I’d love to take her shopping. I have plenty of experience of dressing for pregnancy.” Madge had produced three little Pearsons in four years.

“Would you really? That would be simply marvellous. I hate shopping for clothes and I have a due date creeping up on me. An article due, not a baby! I’ll pay, of course.”

“Oh, that’s right, she hasn’t a penny. I don’t see why you should be out of pocket. Tommy will just have to work out how to charge the estate.”

“I don’t mind. She’s a relative, after all, however distant. If Tommy can pay me back from the estate at some point, well and good. Just don’t go overboard, Madge. Nothing too extravagant.”

Madge laughed, the frothy bubbling laugh that matched her frothy bubbles of blond hair. “I’ll pinch your pennies, don’t worry. Everything?”

“Head to foot, and from the skin out. Cheap cotton undies are all very well here, but I don’t want the maids at Fairacres sneering at her.”

“Heaven forbid, especially if she turns out to be the next viscountess.”

With that load off her mind, Daisy felt much less apprehensive about explaining the situation to Alec—though, considering the matter dispassionately, there was no real reason for her relief.

* * *

When Alec came home at last, four days later, Martha had settled nicely into the household, with the beginnings of a new wardrobe for which she promised Sam would reimburse Daisy. He would have plenty of money, from his venture into rum-running.

On that score, Daisy was not sanguine.

Alec arrived just in time for dinner, tired and hungry. He accepted a brief explanation of Martha’s presence without much visible reaction, merely saying he hoped she would enjoy her stay. Martha retired to bed shortly after dinner, as had become her habit. In the sitting room, Alec listened, though apparently more interested in getting his pipe going, as Daisy expanded upon the story. She finished it with: “So you see, Samuel may be in jail or dead.”

“In jail! Daisy, honestly, how do you get into these situations?”

“What situations?” she demanded indignantly. “I’ve never had a relative in jail before. And he may not be now. It’s just odd that he hasn’t been heard from in several months. Darling, you know people in the American police—FBI, is it?—and there’s whatsisname, too, Lambert, our pet Prohibition agent. Couldn’t you find out if Sam was caught?”

“It would be a very good way to draw the wrong kind of attention to him.” Alec puffed contentedly, his annoyance diminished by the accomplishment of his aim. “I’ll think about it,” he conceded.