Barry mounted his bicycle. ‘She’s only doing her duty, doing what Uncle Bernard wanted.’ He gave her a straight look. ‘She’s been very good to both of us,’ he reminded her. ‘She’s always treated us fairly and kindly. And she doesn’t take decisions about us on her own, everything has to be agreed between her and Mr Purvis.’
Ah yes, Mr Purvis, Verity thought. Her expression lightened as she waved Barry off. She’d been forgetting Mr Purvis, the Dalton solicitor. She set off briskly for her little flat, in a surge of renewed optimism.
Elmhurst, home of the Dalton family for over a century, stood in extensive grounds, sixty acres and more, on the outskirts of a village close to Cannonbridge. Over the last thirty years, developers had turned hungry eyes on the Elmhurst land, rapidly becoming a prime site as the town advanced steadily nearer. More than one entrepreneur, with plans for a high-class development in mind, had approached the local authority to discover its views. Planning permission would undoubtedly be granted and would be welcomed locally.
Bernard Dalton had received a number of offers. The figures mentioned rose as time went by, occasionally making spectacular leaps. But Bernard had never for one moment contemplated selling, and his widow was of precisely the same mind.
Grace Dalton had been a spinster of forty-six when she married Bernard. She had worked for the firm since leaving secretarial college; she had been Bernard’s personal assistant for several years. She had never had a boyfriend but kept house for her widowed schoolmaster father until his death, two years before her marriage.
Bernard had consulted neither his son nor his daughter when he contemplated remarrying; he would have been astonished at such a suggestion. Nor would his children have dared to voice any contrary opinion they might have felt.
The second marriage had been highly successful. Grace had continued to play a significant part in the affairs of the firm until Bernard’s retirement. She had also served as a magistrate and parish councillor and had taken an increasing interest in charitable work. But she had been forced to give up these activities after being laid low two years ago by a serious heart condition, complicated by other health factors. She had made a fairly good recovery but had suffered a setback the previous autumn. She had been strongly advised to take things very easily indeed in future, and was conscientiously obeying orders. ‘With care, she could live another two or three years,’ her doctor had recently told Matthew Dalton. ‘But, there again, she could go at any time.’
With the very quiet life Grace led nowadays, the Elmhurst staff, indoor and outdoor, was greatly reduced from what it had been in the days before Bernard’s retirement. The gardens, though far from neglected, were no longer kept up to the same high standards, everything now being geared to simplicity and ease of maintenance. The head gardener, Gosling, managed these days with the help of a couple of stalwart village lads; he even acted, when required, as Grace’s chauffeur, though that was rarely necessary now, when she went out so little.
Gosling’s father-in-law had looked after the Elmhurst gardens before him. He was an old man now, widowed, living with the Goslings in their cottage in the grounds. Mrs Gosling had been born in the cottage. She had worked in the house from leaving school, continuing after her marriage, whenever her family duties permitted. Now that her children had grown up and left home, she put in a few hours most days, as she was needed.
When it became clear to Grace two years ago what her future would be, she moved out of her first-floor bedroom and took over instead a downstairs room with glazed doors leading on to a patio, sheltered and secluded, where she could sit out in warm weather. A small adjoining room was converted into a bathroom. On this fine Monday morning, the February sun, though cheering to the spirits, was nowhere near strong enough to permit the pleasure of sitting out.
Shortly before noon, Dr Surridge called to see her. It was a measure of her sustained progress that he called now only once a week, putting her name by no means first on his list. Grace had a good deal of faith in Dr Surridge, a genial man in his middle fifties, with a calmly reassuring manner. He had been her doctor since taking over the practice three years ago, on the retirement of old Dr Wheatley.
Today Dr Surridge was well pleased with his patient. As they sat talking after his examination, Grace lay on her sofa, comfortably propped against a pile of cushions, the position she always adopted now when resting or sleeping. She still retained her air of command. Her steel-grey hair, long and thick as ever, was carefully dressed, high on her head; her blue eyes still sparkled, her pink and white skin was still soft and smooth.
‘I rang Dr Wheatley yesterday evening,’ Dr Surridge told her. ‘He’s all set to take over in ten days’ time.’ Dr Surridge and his wife were shortly flying off to Australia for three months. Their schoolteacher son had gone out there some time back on a year’s exchange. He had met an Australian girl, married her, decided to settle out there. Their first child had been born a few months ago.
Dr Wheatley had been happy to act as locum for Dr Surridge during shorter holidays in each of the three years since his retirement and was greatly looking forward to this longer spell. He was a childless widower whose work had been his whole life and he often found the long hours of unaccustomed leisure hung heavily.
And Grace was looking forward to seeing him again. He had been not only her doctor but her good friend, as he had been also to Bernard and Bernard’s first wife.
When Dr Surridge left Grace’s room at the end of his visit, he found the housekeeper, Dorothy Nevett, waiting for him in the hall, to ask how he had found Mrs Dalton. Dorothy was a native of Cannonbridge, a stockily-built spinster a few years from sixty. She was highly competent at her job, a woman to be reckoned with, as might be seen in her determined countenance, the stubborn set to her jaw. Her greying brown hair, short and straight, was cut without concession to fashion. She had worked at Elmhurst since leaving school, starting out as a kitchen maid in the time of Bernard’s first wife.
Dr Surridge gave her his report. He had a high regard for Miss Nevett’s nursing ability. She had helped to nurse the first Mrs Dalton, and later, Bernard, in his last illness. The doctor believed she could have taken up nursing professionally and been very successful at it.
‘Would it be all right if I went off for a day or two this coming weekend?’ Dorothy asked as she walked with him to the door. ‘I haven’t spoken about it yet to Mrs Dalton, I thought I’d check with you first. I feel I could do with a break. I thought of leaving on Friday morning and coming back Monday afternoon, I’d get back before supper. Mrs Gosling would be in charge – and of course, Jean would lend a hand.’ Jean Redfern was a girl of twenty who acted as a general help to Grace, carrying out a variety of duties. The tone in which Miss Nevett referred to her displayed a certain coolness.
No, Dr Surridge had no objection to Dorothy going off for a few days. ‘You’ll be going to the caravan?’ he asked chattily.
She nodded. ‘My friend will be there for the weekend.’ Dorothy owned a little caravan by the coast in Dorset, in conjunction with her lifelong friend, Alice Upjohn, a spinster like herself. The caravan was kept on a small farm. ‘It’s in a sheltered spot,’ she added. ‘It should be very pleasant down there just now, if the weather holds.’
As soon as the sound of the doctor’s departing car reached Grace Dalton’s ears, she touched a button on the console she had had installed when she moved into the room; it enabled her to summon assistance, day or night. One press for the housekeeper, two for Jean Redfern. She pressed it twice.
In a very short time, Jean came along with her customary swift, noiseless tread, from the garden room where she had been doing the flowers. A quiet girl with an unassuming manner, pretty enough in an everyday fashion, nothing in any way striking about her appearance. She was the illegitimate child of a woman named Redfern who had worked as a maid at Elmhurst from leaving school until five years ago when she had married an American widower she had met on holiday