Chapter 4 #2
“I’m sorry about that. It slipped out before I realised it might give him information he didn’t already have. Do you think he’s a fraud?”
“At this stage, I’d need a crystal ball—”
“I think he’s real, though he may turn out not to be the eldest. I mean, his grandfather may not have been Julian’s eldest son. Show me his papers. Perhaps they’ll spark an idea.”
“Heaven preserve me from your ideas,” Tommy muttered.
Daisy pretended not to hear. She pulled up her chair to the desk and Tommy set the documents before her. There were four: three certified copies of entries in the national registry at Somerset House, and a letter in French, in crabbed, elderly handwriting.
The first was the notice of Vincent’s birth, at the Castle Cliff Hotel in Scarborough in 1885. His baptismal names were Vincent Vallier. His father was George (also known as Georges) Vallier Dalrymple, his mother Amanda Rosemary Dalrymple, formerly White. George’s profession was given as hotelier.
“So far, so good,” Daisy observed, picking up the second paper.
It was George and Amanda’s marriage certificate, Scarborough, 1883. George had been twenty-two, Amanda twenty-seven at the time, assistant hotel manager and hotel housekeeper respectively. George’s father was Timothy Dalrymple; Amanda’s, Frederick White, both hoteliers.
“Gosh, all the family are really dedicated to the hotel business! What’s this?
Timothy’s death notice. 1901, age: ‘elderly’!
I wonder why he wouldn’t tell his son how old he was, or do you think he genuinely forgot?
It must have been fearfully disorientating being sent away from home, from Jamaica to France.
I wonder whether he even spoke French when he arrived.
He could have learnt from his mother. Perhaps the Valliers didn’t care about his age, just put him to work. ”
“We’re unlikely ever to know the attitude to birthdays of the Valliers of the time, though we may eventually find out his date of birth. Here’s Vincent’s marriage certificate.”
“1912, to Laurette Vallier. Some sort of cousin presumably, keeping the business in the family. What’s this?” She peered at the last document. Her knowledge of French wasn’t bad but the handwriting looked a bit like her own shorthand hieroglyphics. It had an impressive seal, though.
“A notarised affidavit from the present clergyman of the church where Timothy Dalrymple married Jeanette Desrochers, and George was baptised. It’s a small Protestant church that was badly damaged in 1870.
Vincent got the present Valliers to dig through the remains of the old records.
They were pretty well scorched, but books don’t burn easily.
Enough of it is readable, apparently, to be certain that they actually were married, but that’s about all.
The rest is gone. George’s legitimacy is proven, at least.”
“Aren’t there civil records?”
“A large part of the Paris civil registry was destroyed when the Jerries invaded.”
At least the family tree for this branch was slightly less sketchy:
Julian m. Marie-Claire Vallier
Timothy George Dalrymple (d. 1901) m. Jeanette Desrochers
George Vallier Dalrymple m. (1883) Amanda Rosemary White
Vincent Vallier Dalrymple (b. 1885) m. Laurette Vallier
Two girls, one boy.
“How will you ever find out for sure? About Timothy being Julian’s legitimate son? Or not, as the case may be.”
“The best chance is Jamaica, obviously. But the chap I had checking the registry in Spanish Town, the old capital, didn’t find any records of Dalrymples before 1882, as I told you before.”
“So, in fact, we may never know for sure who’s the rightful heir? What if we can’t?”
“That’s another bridge to be crossed if we come to it.
It’s possible,” the lawyer admitted grudgingly.
“I told you, Daisy, conditions were chaotic at times: slave revolts, tidal waves, plantations abandoned, much of Kingston burnt to the ground. If Julian and Marie-Claire lived in an out-of-the way corner of the island, communications would have been difficult.”
“But it’s not a very big island, is it? As big as Ireland?”
“About a third the size. That’s the comparison that occurred to me, and I looked it up.
But much of Jamaica is mountainous jungle.
Before I get in touch with the Dalrymples of Kingston and raise their hopes, perhaps for nothing, I’m hoping to discover a solid connection with Julian. It can’t wait much longer, though.”
“I wonder what sort of a viscount Vincent would make. It sounds as if he must be a competent manager, capable of running the estate, unless the title goes to his head and he and his wife go gadding about. Mother’s bound to have forty fits anyway.
A teacher’s bad enough. An innkeeper would be the last straw! ”
“Don’t cross your bridges. Even if he does turn out to be the heir, he’ll be heir presumptive, not heir apparent. If Edgar were to have a child—”
“Come off it, you’ve met Geraldine.”
“Should Lady Dalrymple die, Lord Dalrymple might remarry, a younger woman.”
“Only butterflies interest him, and I don’t mean the social kind.” Daisy suddenly stopped. “Tommy, I’ve had a perfectly frightful thought. You don’t think Vincent will want to turn Fairacres into a grand country hotel, do you? Horrors! Could he, legally?”
“I don’t propose to investigate the legal ramifications unless the contingency arises. But I suspect the act of 1925 would make it possible.”
“What act?”
“The Administration of Estates Act.”
“Why, what does it say?”
Tommy went over to his bookshelves and selected a volume. “Let me read you a selection. ‘(1) With regard to the real estate and personal inheritance of every person dying after the commencement of this Act, there shall be abolished—’”
“That seems clear enough.”
He continued as though she had not interrupted, “‘(a) All existing modes rules and canons of descent, and of devolution by special occupancy or otherwise, of real estate, or of a personal inheritance, whether operating by the general law or by the custom of gavelkind or borough english or by any other custom of any county, locality, or manor, or otherwise howsoever; and (b) Tenancy by the curtesy and every other estate and interest of a husband in real estate as to which his wife dies intestate, whether arising under the general law and (c) Dower and freebench and—’”
“Stop! All right, I concede. Forget about it unless it turns out to be necessary.”
“Thank you.” He returned the volume to its place. “If and when, I shan’t lift a finger without taking the advice of counsel. Speaking of which—”
Tap tap. Miss Watt appeared. “Mr. Pearson, sorry to interrupt but you’re due in court in quarter of an hour.”
“I’m on my way.” He picked up his briefcase and ushered Daisy to the door, grabbing his hat from the hatstand on the way. As they walked down the stairs together, he said, “I must warn you, less acceptable claimants than Vincent may appear.”
Daisy sighed. “No doubt. Just keep them from Mother as long as you can. But you will let me know what’s going on, won’t you? And let me talk to them before they go to Fairacres?”
“I don’t know, Daisy. If you’re going to make them a present of information that could bolster their claims—”
“Must you harp on that? It was a mistake. I’ve apologised. And I promise to be more careful.”
It was Tommy’s turn to sigh. “I suppose it will be all right. You have given me one or two ideas.”
“That,” said Daisy, “is what Alec always has to admit.”