“Come on, hon,” I said as the ambulance driver opened the door and I edged across the seat. “This is where we live.”
“Jerusha’s house,” she said, astonishing me. She was still perched on the edge of the seat in the ambulance, seemingly stunned as she stared at the house. “There was a murder here.”
“Perhaps,” I said briskly. “Come on, girl, let’s get on with it.” And I took her hand and gave it a tug.
She swung her legs out the door, long pretty legs, I noticed, though a bit beat-up from the accident. She managed with what seemed a great effort to stand up, wobbling, so I worried whether she had been right to leave the hospital.
“She’s okay,” the driver said. I knew he was an expert because they’d seen everything. “Just a bit shook up. Give her a cup of coffee and she’ll be fine.”
“A martini is more like it,” I said, putting my arm around her waist and walking her to the front door thinking longingly of a tall, cold drink and a comfy sofa.
When my houseman, Alfred, opened the door, the shocked expression on his middle-aged, usually bland face with its high, bald forehead and shaggy gray brows that met in the middle in a concerned frown, made me understand just what a sight the pair of us were.
“Madame,” he exclaimed, rushing down the three wide steps to help me while the nice driver assisted Verity.
“Alfred, this is my friend Verity. We’ll put her in the peony room, I think.” Of course I meant the room with the original peony-print wallpaper, faded with age to a nice pale pink.
“Quite right, Madame, it’s cheerful,” he said, inspecting Verity closely. “And she looks as though she needs cheering up a bit.”
English understatement as always from Alfred. Good servants know their profession and they should never be underrated. It’s a job in which they rightly take pride, as does a good waiter.
But Verity stood still, seemingly rooted to the top step, peering through the wide double doors fashioned from a rare oak felled in a thunderstorm when the villa was built, and with a large heart-shaped brass door-knocker, indicating, it was said, Jerusha’s welcome to her guests. I wished the guests had all felt the same way about their beautiful and generous hostess, Jerusha. Obviously some had not. It puzzled me as to exactly why this was, and I was determined to find out the truth. But truth is elusive when it comes to the past; everyone has their own story and with the passing of time even those become distorted.
We walked into the hall and Verity said, surprising me again, “Jerusha was a friend of my grandmother. I remember seeing her photo on the table next to the sofa in Gran’s boudoir. I always picked it up to look at it because she was so lovely, in a long flowing dress that swept to one side in a train. Glamorous, I suppose she was, though to a child she was simply beautiful. How I wished I could be like her, I remember saying that to Gran and her telling me with a sad look on her face that I should not wish any such thing. She wouldn’t tell me why but she removed the photo, put it away somewhere I suppose because I never saw it again. And of course I never asked why.”
“Well, now you know,” I said. “Jerusha was a killer. Rotten to the core. Seduced men, they said, simply because she could.” Verity stared at me, bug-eyed, and I took pity on her. “Of course, those were only rumors, there are always tales about a woman as lovely and famous as that. You’ve only to look at some of today’s stars, hounded by the press, false stories made up about their goings-on.”
“But that’s so unfair.”
I shook my head, smiling at Verity’s naivety. “Hon,” I said, “that’s life. Anyhow,” I added, remembering our own recent dice with death, “I’ve always wanted to find out the truth, and now you are here to help me. Your grandmother knew Jerusha; she must have told you stories about her.”
Verity looked doubtful. “None that I remember, just her name, and that maybe she killed someone, and about the villa. There was a picture of it, you see. Gran took it herself when she stayed here. You know the kind where all the houseguests are assembled in front of the house, like in a school photo. And now I remember, the king stayed here with Jerusha, when he was still king, before he abdicated and became one of us.”
“Well, not exactly,” I said. “Even though Edward VIII was downgraded to a duke he was not ‘one of us.’ But he was said to have an eye for a pretty woman. Plus he was known to be an entertaining guest so I’m sure Jerusha would have loved him.”
We both turned our heads, hearing the roar of a car’s engine and the spurt of gravel as it pulled to an abrupt stop. A reckless driver, I thought. We heard footsteps approaching on the path, then a man appeared at the doorway, silhouetted against the sun so we could not make out who exactly he was, though I was certain it was no one I knew.