Chapter 4
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 ma?tre d’h?tel.
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.”
“Burke’s Peerage, did you say?” He took out a pocket diary and a gold fountain pen. “I’ll make a note of that. I’d better look up my illustrious ancestry, eh?”
Daisy couldn’t tell whether he was being disingenuous or had genuinely never heard of Burke before. “Do go on,” she urged. “I’m dying to hear why Timothy Dalrymple left Jamaica and went to Paris.”
“He left to escape the cholera. There was an epidemic in the island around the middle of the last century. Several of the family fell ill. For safety, he was sent to his mother’s family in France.”
“Oh, that’s right, I keep forgetting she was French. Timothy was the only one sent to France?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure of that.”
“Eldest? Youngest? Favourite? Only one not ill?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t talk about it. Not to me, at least. I wasn’t particularly interested in my grandfather’s early life. Not till now.”
“Did any of the others survive?”
Vincent spread his hands and shrugged, a very French gesture. “By the time I was old enough to wonder, the old man had lost touch. His mother died of the cholera, that much I know.”
“So there must have been some correspondence, at least to inform her family.”
“Presumably. Even before the epidemic, times were hard in Jamaica, he told us. I suppose they had other priorities than writing letters. My grandfather settled in with the Vallier family, worked in the family business—”
“What was that? I beg your pardon, I’m insatiably curious. You don’t have to answer.”
“It’s no secret. They’re hoteliers, as I am.”
Tommy ostentatiously consulted his wristwatch. “Mrs. Fletcher, if you want time to look at the papers…”
“Not another word, I promise.”
Vincent gave her a look of sympathy. “To make a long story short, my grandfather married. My father, George, was born in 1861. In 1870 the Germans invaded and when their army approached Paris, my grandfather brought his wife and children to England. He still had a British passport, you see. The Valliers had friends in the business, in Scarborough, who helped him find work. In fact…” He hesitated.
“This may not please you, Mrs. Fletcher. He changed his name to Vallier. Not legally, but in everyday use.”
Daisy pondered. “I can’t see why I should have any objection. Because of his mother being rejected by the Dalrymples? Wait a bit.” She glanced at her notes. “This is Timothy we’re talking about, not George?”
Tommy cleared his throat meaningly.
“He asked me!” said Daisy, indignant. By implication, at least.
“Indeed I did.” Vincent sounded like a ma?tre d’h?tel discreetly smoothing over a minor dispute between guests.
“Yes, Timothy, my grandfather, Mrs. Fletcher. Exactly what was in his mind I can’t say, but a French name can be an advantage in the trade.
Besides, he’d been well taught by the Valliers.
He obtained a position as undermanager of one of the finest hotels in Scarborough, rose quickly to manager, and then became a partner.
My father married his partner’s daughter, his only child, and eventually they inherited both shares of the Castle Cliff Hotel.
My parents left it to me, so I’m now the sole owner, with a hired manager responsible for day-to-day business. ”
Daisy was touched by his obvious pride in being not merely manager but proprietor of a good hotel in a seaside resort.
It was, indeed, a notable accomplishment on the part of his immediate forebears.
Timothy had presumably arrived in Paris with little more than the clothes on his back.
Then the refugee from cholera had become a refugee from war, yet he had built a prosperous life for his family.
There was something admirable about this branch of the Dalrymples.
What was more, if Vincent was the heir, the ownership of the hotel could be useful when it came to death duties.
He could sell it and pay with the proceeds, rather than depleting the estate.
And whether he turned out to be the next viscount or not, his son might find himself in a position to call himself a gentleman.
“Have you any children?” she asked.
“A boy and two girls. My son is at a prep school. My daughters have a French governess. Speaking several languages is useful in the business. Not that my girls will need to work,” he added hurriedly.
As Tommy didn’t make any ominous noises, Daisy ventured to comment, “Of course! Your…” She paused to work it out. “Your great-grandmother must have taken the post with the Petries to learn English.”
Vincent hesitated, darting a quick glance at Tommy. “The Petries … Yes, of course.”
Tommy glared at her, then turned to Vincent. “As you’ve so kindly brought us up to the present, Mr. Dalrymple, I don’t believe we need keep you any longer. You have other business in London, I gather.”
“Nothing more important than this.” Vincent rose reluctantly. “If you have any more questions, Mrs. Fletcher—”
“They can wait until you meet at Fairacres in August,” Tommy interrupted.
“Should you receive further documents from your relatives in France, Mr. Dalrymple, no doubt you’ll be in touch, and naturally I’ll let you know of any developments that affect your position.
Thank you for sparing the time for this meeting. ”
“Oh, my time’s mostly my own these days. Good-bye, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Daisy smiled at him and offered her hand. “Good-bye, Cousin Vincent. I look forward to seeing you at Fairacres.”
He flushed—with gratification, she hoped—but before he could speak, Tommy bustled him out.
Returning, Tommy closed the door firmly behind him and hissed, “‘Cousin Vincent’! There’s no proof that he’s descended from Julian Dalrymple.”
“I can always uncousin him,” said Daisy, unrepentant. “Anyway, if he turns out to be a fraud, I won’t be seeing him again.”
“It’s going to be that much harder to prove fraud now that he can trot out the Petries! He’d obviously never heard of them.”