Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A nother week passed; the winter began to close in round Highbridge. Cold winds rushed down the dale, tearing the last dead leaves from the trees, and long sleety showers made the shoppers on the High Street dash between the storefronts. Even Lassiter Court took on a rather grey appearance, as if hunching its shoulders.

Grace had got her wish. Something had happened, but whatever intellectual jolt Nikolai had supplied, it had not been enough to get her working. The pages on her desk remained either empty, or filled with aimless doodles. Then Jack had come home, fizzing as if he’d spent the whole afternoon drinking champagne, and announced he had a new assistant and apparently she was absolutely marvellous.

Lillian and Nikolai spent the next day at the theatre, and returned to join in the chorus praising Miss Chisholm’s work and her efficiency. On her second day she had found a large uncashed cheque, and worked her way through enough of the accounts to assure Jack that Mrs Briggs could have a new girl to help with the cleaning. Jack’s stirring of rumours about the rivalry of the leads in the new play had led to what he referred to as a ‘tasty’ boost to the box office of The Two Ladies of Grasmere , and he was confident the second week of the play would do even better than the first. Grace had smiled, and gasped at the stories of Miss Chisholm’s brilliance and initiative, and felt spectacularly miserable. She reluctantly admitted to herself she had been hoping Jack would relent and let her return to her old job. No chance of that now that Miss Chisholm had arrived to warm every winter’s day with sunshine. She also knew that feeling sulky about the new arrival was no better than Jack feeling sulky about Nikolai. She had the unpleasant feeling of being hoist with her own petard.

A car horn sounded outside, and Grace got up and looked through the window, expecting to see Nikolai and Lillian returning from their latest outing.

The car approaching at high speed down the gravel drive was not Lillian’s tourer, but a bright red Bugatti. It was approaching at breakneck speed when the driver wrenched the wheel sideways and stood on the brakes at the same moment, narrowly avoided the stone lions guarding the turning circle and swung to a stop, spraying gravel in all directions.

Grace walked into the hall as Hewitt opened the door, and Stella Stanmore, star of the West End stage, who had made her name performing in Riviera Nights , Grace and Ruby’s first triumph, swung herself out of the driving seat and, moving almost as quickly out of the car as she had within it, ran towards Grace. She looked as if she was dressed for a nightclub rather than a drive, in a sheer silk evening dress with a white fur coat over her shoulders, and gold high heels.

‘Grace, darling! I’ve come for a visit. I am welcome, aren’t I?’

Grace opened her arms and received the embrace. ‘You’re always welcome, Stella, but what on earth are you doing here?’

‘Oh, I decided I was desperate for some country air.’ She turned her most show-stopping smile to the butler. ‘Hewitt, dearest, I have a few things in the boot.’ She threw her car keys in his direction and Hewitt, without moving a muscle more than necessary, grabbed them out of the air and handed them to the maid at his side.

‘Please fetch Miss Stanmore’s things and take them to the Blue Room, Gladys. Would you like some tea, Miss Stanmore?’

‘Haven’t you got anything stronger?’ Stella glanced around her. ‘Oh, it’s morning, I suppose.’

Grace still had her arm around Stella. ‘Darling, you’re freezing! Have you been driving all night?’

‘Yes, I . . . It was rather spur of the moment.’ Gladys was removing two cases from the tiny boot of the sports car. Knowing the amount of luggage Stella normally thought essential for even the briefest of stays, Grace thought they looked rather inadequate. ‘I should have told you I was coming. I’m a goose. I shall go away again.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Grace said, worried now. ‘Hewitt, I think eggs and toast for Miss Stanmore, please, and one of those astonishing hot brandy drinks Mrs Young always makes me have when I have a cold. A large one.’

‘Very good, Mrs Treadwell. On a tray in the drawing room, perhaps? The fire is lit.’

Hewitt stepped aside, and Grace guided Stella up the stone steps and into the hall, keeping hold of her arm until they were in the drawing room and Stella was deposited in an armchair in front of the fire.

‘I’m sorry just to charge in like this,’ she said, ‘but I was terribly bored with London. Night after night and all the same faces, and I thought, what on earth am I doing? Lillian said I’d always be welcome at Lassiter Court, and perhaps Jack and Grace would like to see me and I could sit in your lovely sitting room, Grace, and read a few books. I’m told reading is wonderful once you get the taste for it. Do you have horses? Perhaps I could ride one. And shooting things?’

Hewitt arrived with a steaming glass and a tray with a domed lid over it. Grace mouthed her thanks, but Stella hardly seemed to notice him.

Grace picked up the brandy toddy and put it into Stella’s hands.

‘Stella, you can do all the riding and shooting you want to, though I don’t think you’d like it very much, but please do tell me – what on earth is wrong?’

Stella folded her thin hands around the glass and drank. A little spot of colour came back into her cheeks. Then she curled forward and began to weep. Hewitt discreetly replaced the silver dome over the eggs to keep them warm, and withdrew while Grace pulled out her handkerchief and put her arm around Stella.

‘Oh, Grace, it’s an absolute horror.’ Her voice quivered. ‘There was a girl, and the newspapers are saying I killed her!’

It took nearly an hour before Grace managed to get an idea of exactly what had happened. As she pieced the story together from Stella’s random and distracted utterances, she persuaded her friend to finish the toddy, eat some of the eggs and get into a hot bath in her private bathroom. As Stella warmed herself in the huge, free-standing tub, a soup of soapy bubbles and misery, Grace sat on a stool beside her, and occasionally passed her the second half of the second toddy.

‘So this girl Tasha was a nightclub dancer, Stella?’

‘Yes.’ Stella wiped her eyes and trailed her hand about in the water. ‘At The Manhattan, then at The 43. It isn’t one of the nicest clubs, but they let us in there at all hours, and she sat at our table once and we started chatting. She was a sweet little thing. She hadn’t had much luck, but always tried to be cheerful about it.’

Grace passed her the toddy. She drank.

‘Poor Tasha,’ Stella went on, passing it back. ‘She would fling herself at everyone involved in the theatre.’ Stella wafted the bathwater around with her hand. ‘I realised she was taking cocaine to help with staying up all night.’

‘Cocaine, Stella?’

‘Oh, it gives you the most terrific energy boost!’ She sank lower under the water again. ‘But one has to be careful. And Tasha wasn’t.’

‘And she had a heart attack?’

Stella was weeping now, perfect tears running down her cheeks as she talked. ‘I think so. Found dead in the bathroom at her boarding house on Sunday afternoon, the poor thing. They had to break the door down. The police came and found her stash. She had a whole bottle of the stuff and was making it into packets to sell. They gave the news and her picture to the newspapers and, of course, they thought it was Christmas . “Nightclub dancer in sordid tragedy.”’

‘But why, Stella, is anyone accusing you?’

‘Oh, I’m turning into a prune. Pass me my robe.’

Grace got to her feet and fetched the robe from the back of the door. If Stella had a robe, she hadn’t packed it, but Hewitt had put one of Grace’s on the back of the bathroom door. Stella stood up, her back to Grace. She was so slight, but the lines of her shoulders and steep curve of her waist made her look powerful, rather than weak. A dancer’s body, and full of so much talent and just a little wildness. Grace held out the robe, and Stella took it and slipped it over her shoulders as she stepped out of the bath.

‘We were friends. I took her to lunch a couple of times, and I suppose most theatre people knew we were friendly.’

Grace put her arms around her friend and rested her cheek on her shoulder.

‘I’m so sorry, Stella.’

‘It was the one thing the newspapers needed to really make the story pop,’ Stella said, gently freeing herself and taking a towel from the neat pile on the stool beside her, then throwing it over her damp hair. ‘One of the greasy monsters was at the stage door when I came out last night. Set off his flash bulbs before I even knew he was there, then shouted at me about corrupting a poor innocent girl. “Was it you who gave her the drugs, Stella?” That sort of thing. It was horrible.’

She paused and turned to look out of the window. Grace simply watched and waited.

‘The first editions came through when we were in Argyll Street, recovering. I’m afraid I rather fell apart and I—’

‘Leapt into the car and drove up here?’

Stella nodded. ‘Do you think Lillian will mind terribly?’

‘Of course she won’t. Did you talk to anyone else? Your agent, or the police?’

Stella shook her head, her eyes large and frightened. Grace sighed. ‘Stella, go to bed and sleep. Lillian is at the theatre with Jack, and I’ll call your agent and tell her where you are.’

‘I am tired as hell.’ Stella walked out of the bathroom and threw herself down on the bed. The wintry light from the high windows fell across her, the shadows of the panes slicing her into little pieces.

‘Don’t worry, darling. We’ll look after you.’

Grace left the room and closed the door softly behind her. Stella was crying again, but more quietly now. Grace rested her fingers on the door for a moment, then sighed and made her way down into the hall. The incomparable Hewitt was waiting for her.

‘Hewitt, I shall call Miss Stanmore’s agent, and perhaps we’d better call the theatre and see if we can find Jack and let him know what’s happening. Has The Times come this morning?’

‘I’ve put it on the desk in the morning room, Mrs Treadwell,’ Grace could see from his expression that he had read it. He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Young and I are fond of Miss Stanmore. Is there anything she requires?’

Grace sighed. ‘I’m guessing from her packing she’ll probably need quite a lot. Ask Gladys to raid my wardrobe for a few things suitable for country living, will you?’

Hewitt nodded and withdrew, and Grace returned to the morning room, pushed her page of foolscap aside, and unfolded the newspaper.