A Death in Devon Read online

  Although crestfallen at my lack of silver screen connections, he nonetheless did his duty by me and my luggage, ushering us both inside. The lobby was small and carpeted in a wild, floral pattern of burgundy, pink, and gold which made me a little dizzy if I stared at it too long. George led me straight to the mahogany registration desk where a balding man with a bulbous nose peered over his gold-rimmed spectacles at me.

  “Mr. Dix, this is Miss Martin,” George said cheerfully. “She’s come from America to stay with us.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Dix who wasn’t impressed in the least, if his snooty tone was anything to go by. “Welcome, Miss Martin. Have you a reservation?”

  “Yes, it was made for me by my aunt’s solicitor, Mr. James Woodward.” Suddenly I was nervous. What if something had gone wrong and somebody had forgot to book the hotel for me? Or perhaps they hadn’t paid for it? Wouldn’t that be wacked out.

  Mr. Dix riffled through a rectangular metal box. “Ahh... yes, here it is.” He pulled out an index card. “You’ll be staying with us for a week, is that correct?”

  “Yes, I think so. I guess it depends on how long it takes to settle my aunt’s will.”

  Mr. Dix looked bored. He pointed at the open registration book and the fountain pen next to it. “Sign here.”

  I did as instructed while he turned around and perused a selection of cubby holes. Some held mail or messages. Others were empty. And a few had shiny tags dangling from them. At last he selected one of the tags and withdrew a brass skeleton key which he handed to George.

  “Here you are. Room six on the first floor.” He pointed up, which confused me.

  I’d no time to question him about it as he’d turned away. George was already ushering me toward elaborate Art Deco doors, my suitcases tucked under his arms.

  “Isn’t this the first floor?” I asked, as he stopped in front of the doors.

  “No, Miss. We have to take the lift up. This is the ground floor. Isn’t that what it’s called where you’re from?”

  “We call it the first floor. And I guess what you call the first floor is what we refer to as the second.”

  “How dashed odd!” His eyes were wide, and he was obviously thrilled to be learning about our strange American ways.

  “I guess it is.” I laughed as the doors to the elevator—lift—swooshed open and we stepped inside. “Ground floor. It makes sense, I suppose.” I eyed him, wondering if he’d been here during the war. Maybe he’d seen Sam. “Did you serve?”

  “Serve what, Miss? Oh, you mean as a soldier. No, Miss. Too young. I was only fourteen when it ended. Spent the whole thing out near Bath with my auntie. Mum said London was too dangerous.”

  “She was probably right.” I was strangely relieved that this bright, cheerful boy hadn’t had to face the horrors of war. Perhaps it was silly of me, but if I could have waved a magic wand and created peace on Earth, I’d have done it. And Sam would still be with me—

  I shoved that thought aside immediately. Sam was never coming back, and while I missed him, his voice had faded from my mind and even his image had grown hazy. All I had was a photograph and memories, and you can’t build a life on that now, can you.

  Onward! As Mama would say. Life is for the living, and I planned to live mine to the fullest.

  My room proved to be quite small with a single bed and a narrow window overlooking a grim and gloomy alley. It was, however, clean, neat, and comfortable. The bathroom was at the end of the hall, and I had to share it with everyone else on the floor, which I found a little strange. Admittedly I hadn’t stayed in many hotels, but I once stayed in a motel at the Oregon Coast, and each of the rooms had their own bathrooms.

  Ah, well. When in London!

  I gave George a tip, and he went on his merry way.

  I sat down on the bed to review the documents Mr. Woodward had sent me. Along with my ticket and hotel instructions was an itinerary for my first day. Since I would be arriving near luncheon, it was recommended that I dine at a cafe two blocks from my hotel. At precisely two in the afternoon, a car would arrive at the hotel to collect and deliver me to the offices of Woodward and Woodward, Solicitors. There I would meet with Mr. Woodward to discover at last the terms of my aunt’s will.

  I realized that my stomach was rumbling with hunger so, after a quick freshen up, I left my bags to unpack later and set out for the cafe. It was a little nerve wracking being alone in a strange country, but after a few fits and starts—the cars were all facing the wrong way, which I found confusing—I finally managed to get myself headed in the right direction. The café was on the ground floor of an Edwardian-era brick building that had escaped the ravages of the Blitz. There was a long counter behind which hung a blackboard marked with the daily specials. A number of small Formica-topped tables were scattered about, each with two uncomfortably rickety chairs. It wasn’t exactly bright and cheerful, and I worried the food would match.

  I found a seat near the window and ordered a bacon and cheese sandwich. I admit to being stunned at what I got. The bacon was more a fat-edged ham than anything resembling bacon, but the cheese was both sharp and nutty and the bread was homemade and delicious. Despite being ravenous, I only managed to eat half.

  Returning to the hotel with my leftover sandwich and a bag of potato chips (The young woman behind the counter had called them crisps.) hidden in my handbag, I had plenty of time to unpack and hang my clothes in the wardrobe. Hopefully the wrinkles would come out, but for now they were not suitable for going out. My green suit would have to do, even if it was a bit travel worn and I was in dire need of a bath. I made do with a quick sponge-off and a spritz of Vent Vert perfume. I was sure the solicitor would understand.

  When I reached the lobby, it was empty. No one behind the desk. No George hovering by the door. Suddenly I felt a tiny flutter of trepidation. I realized like never before that I was in a foreign city, an immense one compared to what I was used to, and I didn’t know a soul. Unless you counted Mr. Woodward whom I’d never met. I didn’t even know what he looked like!

  I turned to glance at the clock perched above the elevator. The car was two minutes late. My nervousness only increased. What if they’d forgotten me?

  “Buck up, Sugar,” I muttered to myself.

  “Pardon?”

  The deep, masculine voice from behind startled me so badly I dropped my purse. The contents spilled across the carpeted floor, my lipstick—a lovely shade of matte red in a luxurious gold tube bought just for this trip—skittered beneath a chair. Both my compact and coin purse popped open, the now crumbled powder spilling onto the carpet along with an array of coins. I could have wept. Now I’d have to replace the powder, and I could ill afford to do so. I didn’t turn around to chastise the newcomer, though you better believe I wanted to! Instead, I knelt and quickly gathered my things.

  “So sorry.” The voice was startlingly close to my ear this time.

  I glanced over to find a man kneeling next to me. He wore a tidy navy-blue suit with a blindingly white shirt and a navy tie with a neat little gold and sapphire pin. Simple, but expensive. He was handsome in a bland way, with pale blond hair neatly slicked back into a small wave. The style was about five years out of date, but still perfectly acceptable and certainly attractive on him. His eyes were a grayish blue, his nose a little over large but perfectly straight, lips wide but thin, chin and jaw strong. And he smelled divine. I had no idea what cologne he was wearing, but it was no doubt expensive. I felt a strange, unexpected little flutter somewhere beneath my breastbone—something I hadn’t felt since Sam—and repressed it ruthlessly. I wasn’t here for romance. Not that he’d indicated in any way he was interested. I was being ridiculous.

  “Here.” He held out my lipstick which he’d fished from under the chair.

  “Thank you,” I said, suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment. I shoved my other items back into my purse and stood so quickly we nearly locked bumpers. I hadn’t realized he’d also risen. “Sorry. I seem t
o be a bit clumsy today.” Were my cheeks really on fire, or did they just feel that way?

  “No worries.” He didn’t smile or even look sympathetic. His face was an expressionless, almost arrogant mask. “May I assume you are Miss Euphegenia Martin?”

  My spine stiffened. “You may not assume any such thing! However, you may tell me who you are.” The nerve of this strange man.

  He cleared his throat. “John Chambers. I was sent by Woodward and Woodward to collect Miss Martin.”

  “Oh.” It sounded lame even to my own ears. “You’re late.” I almost winced at my rudeness, but discomfort in social situations often makes me blurt out things I probably shouldn’t.

  It seemed as if his cheeks darkened a bit, and his jaw may have clenched, but it was hard to tell. “My apologies, Miss Martin. You are Miss Martin.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. Yes I am.”

  “If you will accompany me. I’ve a car outside.”

  “Alright then.” I lifted my nose ever so slightly in the air as I’d seen actresses do in the movies when they were trying to show a man he meant very little in the grand scheme of things. I wasn’t entirely sure I pulled it off. Especially when I stumbled to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Martin?” Mr. Chambers asked as he held open the car door for me.

  “Ah, no. Not at all.” I eyed what I was absolutely positive was a Bentley, based on the little symbol stuck on the hood. I could hardly believe they’d sent such a fancy car for little old me. Sugar Martin of Portland, Oregon in a Bentley! The only time I’d ever seen a Bentley had been on a shopping trip downtown with Mama when Frederick Leadbetter drove by in his. Let me tell you, that was something I’d never forget.

  I tried to behave as if I rode around in fancy cars all the time, but I think my wide-eyed stares and startled exclamations as we rode through the streets of London in style didn’t fool anyone.

  As the car swept along with a mighty purr of its engine, rain spat lightly against the windowpanes. The sky had gone from gloomy gray to downright grimly black. Still, I didn’t let it deter me from enjoying the sights of elegant buildings standing like soldiers along the streets and the flash of green from little parks tucked away in back corners. And those little red calling boxes! I wanted desperately to make a phone call just so I could say I’d been in one.

  At last we entered a section of town called Belgravia. I knew that not because Mr. Chambers told me—he’d been silent the entire ride, although he would occasionally cast a glance my way—but because I could see it on the plaques attached to each corner building. A few moments later, the driver stopped in front of an imposing white stone building very similar to my hotel, but quite a bit larger. And instead of a glass front door, it was solid wood painted red with a brass doorknocker in the shape of a lion. Next to the door was a brass plaque engraved with the name Woodward and Woodward Solicitors, Est. 1705.

  1705? Good heavens! They’d been around for ages.

  Mr. Chambers showed me inside a rather impressive lobby. Certainly much more hoity-toity than my hotel lobby. The floors here were marble. The front desk was manned by a young gentleman in a brown suit with dark hair neatly pomaded into much higher waves than those Mr. Chambers sported. A crystal vase overflowing with tulips sat on the corner of the desk. Against one wall were a pair of leather club chairs and a low coffee table sitting on a blue Aubusson carpet, and the walls were hung with heavy oil paints of the English countryside.

  “Is he in?” Mr. Chambers asked the young man without preamble.

  “Yes, sir. Go on up.”

  “This way.” Mr. Chambers indicated the staircase which wound upward around the oval wall.

  As we ascended, I glanced up. The staircase continued up for four or five floors, leaving a sort of central atrium. Right above it was an oval skylight which let in watery gray light from above. I imagined on a sunny day it was quite lovely. Although it could use a few plants around to liven the place up.

  We took the stairs all the way to the first floor, where Chambers rapped upon an unmarked door.

  “Come.” The voice was deep and masculine like that of Mr. Chambers, but it was also older and a bit hoarser, as if the owner had smoked a great deal.

  Mr. Chambers opened the door and ushered me in first. A man sat behind a massive oak desk backlit by a window that took up nearly the whole back wall and overlooked a park. The trees outside where blindingly green with fresh, young leaves, or bright white with blossoms. Spots of color dotted the lush green lawn where flower beds had been planted.

  After I’d been shown a seat and Mr. Chambers had been sent to obtain tea, I took a moment and let my eyes adjust. Mr. Woodward was more or less as I’d pictured him. Fit, handsome for an older gentleman, with a shock of white hair, dressed in a tailored black suit. He was precisely the sort of sophisticated person one expected in a lawyer. Or, in this case, solicitor. I wasn’t entirely clear on the difference.

  “Welcome to England, Miss Martin. I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, feeling instantly at ease in his presence.

  “And you’ve settled into your hotel?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s very comfortable, thank you.”

  “Right, then I suppose we should get down to business.” He picked up a pair of reading glasses and perched them on the end of his long nose.

  I nodded. “That would be nice, yes.” Nerves had crept in now, and I felt suddenly hot and prickly.

  Before Mr. Woodward could say anything further, Mr. Chambers returned with tea. Once he’d poured us cups, Mr. Woodward said, “Would you please go and get Miss Martin’s inheritance?”

  Mr. Chambers nodded and once again exited the room.

  “It’s here?” I asked. “I expected to have to go to the bank or something.” Or perhaps he was going to get a key. I’d inherited a house! Or a car! What would I do with a car?

  “Your aunt was an unusual woman, Miss Martin,” Mr. Woodward said. “She had no children of her own and no other relatives save those in America, the descendants of her sister. She chose you because you bore her name.”

  Which I’d more or less figured out on my own. What other reason would there be? “It’s very kind of her.”

  “Indeed. And rather risky. So she made certain stipulations. It’s complicated you see—”

  The door once again opened, and Mr. Chambers reentered holding a leash on the end of which was... a dog. A short, fat, fluffy dog with perky ears and a long tail.

  I stared at it. It stared at me with one blue eye and one gray, pink tongue lolling from its mouth.

  “What is that?” I blurted.

  Mr. Woodward almost seemed to squirm. “That, Miss Martin, is your inheritance.”

  Chapter 3

  “Excuse me?”

  I stared down at the mutt. It stared back at me, tongue lolling, gaze baleful. There was something inherently discomfiting in its mis-matched gaze.

  I cleared my throat. “I thought I heard you say this... animal... is my inheritance.”

  “That is correct.” Mr. Woodward said, albeit a little uncomfortably. He shuffled some papers on his desk. “Miss Graves has left you her dog, Tippy. He’s a Welsh Cardigan corgi.”

  What on earth? Dreams of a city apartment or a pile of cash went up in smoke. I straightened my spine. “I think you’d better explain.”

  Mr. Chambers handed me the leash, which I took reluctantly. I swear a smile twitched his lips. Mr. Chambers’ lips, not the dog’s. It wasn’t that I disliked dogs. I liked them well enough, but other people’s dogs. I’d never had any desire for one of my own. They always seemed so... unhygienic.

  “Miss Graves was inordinately fond of animals,” Mr. Woodward continued. “She was never without canine companionship throughout her long life—she was ninety-eight when she died. Despite her love of dogs, she had decided not to get another after her last one, Reginald, passed.”

  Reginald? Who n
amed a dog Reginald?

  “However, she fell in love with Tippy the moment she saw him. She decided that since she would likely outlive Tippy, she needed to make arrangements for him after her passing.” He rustled the papers. “Hence her unusual will.”

  “Which I am still waiting for you to read,” I said tartly.

  Tippy whined and licked his lips. I guess he was getting impatient. Well, that made two of us.

  “Very well, Miss Martin, the terms are fairly simple. Meeting them... that might be more difficult.”

  Wonderful. “Go on, Mr. Woodward.”

  “Miss Graves, while not wealthy, was comfortably off. She had a nice savings and a cottage in Devon, all of which she left to Tippy.”

  I blinked. “She left her estate to a dog? Is that even legal?”

  “It is, I’m afraid. To you she left the conservatorship of Tippy for the term of his natural life. During which you will receive a small monthly stipend to pay for his keep and the upkeep and taxes on the house. When he passes, you will receive whatever is left of the money, as well as the cottage. Should Tippy die of other than natural causes, or if you fail to give him the proper care, you will forfeit both the money and the property.” He laid the papers on the desk. “Any questions?”

  So many. “I have to take care of this dog for the next ten or twenty years and then I’ll get, what? A few hundred dollars and some rundown property? No thanks.” I rose, intent on storming out. Although I’d no idea where I’d go. The plane ticket had been one way. I’d assumed because it might take some time for whatever legal processes were required, and I’d have the money to buy a return ticket when I was ready.

  “It’s more than a few hundred dollars.” Mr. Woodward interrupted my intended exit. He mentioned a sum that nearly made me swallow my tongue. “And the cottage, while small, is quite lovely with a view of the sea.”

  A view of the sea? I’d always wanted a view of the sea. I cursed myself for being weak as I sank back down in my seat. “It’ll be difficult to get a dog through customs.”