“Whereas,” Alec smugly pointed out, “she has at least acknowledged the value of having a policeman in the family. Although she seems a little confused about the function of the various branches of the law. Pearson would have every right to resent my poking my nose into his business, supposing I were inclined to interfere, which I’m not.”
“But you must admit it’s an intriguing situation. Gruntled or not, I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Besides, Bel and the twins will enjoy seeing their cousins, and you’ll have time to spend with them, darling.”
“I can’t say intriguing is the word I’d use.” The word he’d use was not to be pronounced in feminine company. “Still, I expect you and Pearson will sort them out before we get there. How difficult can it be to tell the fake heirs from the real one?”
THREE
On a warm, damp morning in early May, Daisy took the number 63 bus from Hampstead to the City. She disliked driving in central London, especially in the rain.
Not that it was exactly raining. The air was heavy with lilac-scented moisture. It was neither falling in droplets nor visible as mist, but she knew from experience that as it settled on the windscreen it would obscure her vision even worse than actual rain.
Though Alec kept telling her she ought to take taxis, the years of penny-pinching between her father’s death and her marriage had taken their toll. Why waste money on a cab when the bus would take her within ten minutes’ walk of Lincoln’s Inn? Besides, she needed to think; in a taxi the inexorable tick of the meter always distracted her with worry about whether she had enough change in her purse.
She had to marshal her arguments. A chat with Madge had dispelled her impression that Tommy was enthusiastic about including her in his initial interviews with the claimants. Apparently he’d had second thoughts about Geraldine’s sensible suggestion and would have to be persuaded.
Daisy had put on her navy costume, the plain one she wore for calling on editors. The skirt reached below the knee, which had been a businesslike length when she bought it, though now it was fashionable. A silk blouse in a blue paisley pattern and a speedwell-blue cloche brightened it up. She didn’t want to look like an ordinary shorthand typist.
Come to think of it, though, looking like a secretary for the interviews wasn’t such a bad idea. She would put it to Tommy.
The bus duly deposited her at Ludgate Circus. She always enjoyed walking along Fleet Street, feeling herself a small part of the great machinery of news gathering and disbursement, even if “news” wasn’t quite the word for her largely historical articles. Like the reporters dashing in all directions around her, she dealt in words and information. The offices of Town and Country magazine, her English publishers, were tucked away in the labyrinth of alleys, courts, and lanes to the north of the bustling street.
Fleet Street became the Strand. Rising ahead was a Victorian Gothic building holding a different kind of court, the Royal Courts of Justice. Just before reaching it, Daisy turned right into Bell Yard. Now the figures passing her were barristers in black gowns and white wigs, and solicitors in dark suits and bowlers or—among the elderly—frock coats and top hats.
In these surroundings, no wonder Tommy had grown staid. Had he become too old-fashioned to let a woman have her say in legal matters?
As he had advised, she entered the precincts of Lincoln’s Inn by the Carey Street gate, an elaborate archway with two coats of arms above and fanciful wrought ironwork supporting a gas lamp below. She confirmed his directions with the porter.
“Number 12, New Square, madam? Pearson, Solicitors? Straight on. You’ll pass two passages with a bit of a garden between them, then it’s the second door on your right.”
Daisy thanked him and went on into New Square. On three sides of a wide stretch of lawn and trees stood terraces of four-storied brick buildings. Most had regular rows of sash windows, with the symmetry beloved of the Georgians. As she approached numbers twelve and thirteen, Daisy saw they were obviously older, their windows odd sizes and misaligned, very likely replacements for the original mullioned casements.
The interior matched, Daisy found when she entered after ringing the bell, as instructed by a small sign. The entrance hall boasted centuries-old carved oak panelling and stairs—and electric lights.
The rattle of typewriters halved in volume and a girl came out of a room to one side. She escorted Daisy up to the second floor, to a small room gloomily lined with shelves of black deed boxes, where she presented her to Tommy’s secretary. Miss Watt had steel-grey hair set in steely marcel waves. Her plain costume was steel-grey, the skirt four inches below the knee, worn with a severely plain white blouse. Her eyes, examining Daisy over half-spectacles, were also steel-grey. Daisy suspected they could be as cold and sharp as steel if required to guard her employer from unwanted intruders.