Death at a Country Mansion Read online

  The doorbell rang, loud and clear.

  Floria, who was standing directly beneath it, nearly jumped out of her skin. “I swear, my shattered nerves.”

  It was only the forensic technician, a slim but good-looking lad wearing fashionable, black-rimmed spectacles and dressed in protective overalls, complete with gloves and booties. He carried an enormous metallic case containing his forensic equipment.

  “I’m here for the painting,” he gushed, his cheeks flushed with excitement.

  “Floria, what on earth is going on down there?” came a frail voice from upstairs. Daisy looked up to see Sir Ranulph in his pajamas, standing on the landing. He was clutching the banister like he was afraid to fall over.

  “It’s okay, Dad. Nothing to worry about. I’ll be up in a jiffy.”

  She glanced at Daisy. “I’d better go and tell him what’s happening. He doesn’t even know we’ve found the Modigliani yet.”

  “I’ll show him to the pantry.”

  Daisy beckoned to the technician to follow her. He beamed, picked up his case, and followed her like an eager puppy. If he had a tail, it would be wagging profusely.

  “It is really a Modigliani?” he asked in a reverent tone, as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

  She smiled at his enthusiasm. “That it is.”

  Collin was in raptures at the discovery and had to be frog-marched out of the kitchen by a stony-faced DI McGuinness, who wanted nothing more than to get rid of him before he contaminated the scene. “Let’s let the forensic technician do his work,” he said firmly as he pushed him in the direction of the stairs. “I’ll call you to let you know when you can have it back.”

  “I’m going to have a drink,” Collin said defiantly. “This is still my house.” And he marched off in the direction of the library.

  Paul joined Violeta and Daisy in the kitchen while the gloved technician carefully removed the painting from its hiding place and wrapped it in cling film to keep any potential fingerprints intact.

  “Righto, I’m going to put this in the van,” he said, carrying it past them to the front door. A fine layer of white flour covered his overalls. The painting was still in its frame and looked to be undamaged, although the plastic wrapping obscured the detail.

  “I’ll give you a hand. It’s time I got going too.” Paul fetched the forensic kit from the pantry.

  “Cheers, mate.” The technician threw him a grateful grin.

  Daisy and Floria walked with them to the front door.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Inspector,” said Floria, shooting a quick glance at Daisy. “I hope I didn’t mess up your evening too much.”

  Paul grunted. “It’s my job, Miss Levanté.” He hesitated, then said, “Do you mind if I stop by tomorrow after the memorial service to have a word with your sisters? It shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Of course. Do whatever you need to.” Floria retreated to the kitchen, leaving Daisy to see DI McGuinness out.

  “We’ll have to take a rain check on the pizza,” he said softly, hovering on the doorstep.

  She smiled. “Maybe once you’ve solved this case.”

  He gave a curt nod, switching back to his businesslike self. “Then let’s hope we find some prints on that painting.”

  “Fingers crossed,” she called as he strode to his car and climbed in, but at the back of her mind she was thinking that that would be far too easy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Daisy watched the limousine pull up outside Brompton Court. It was a lovely, bright summer’s day without a cloud in the sky, and the limousine, polished to a high shine, glistened like a sleek, black stallion.

  “Floria!” she yelled for the third time. Her friend had tried on all the clothes in her closet and still couldn’t settle on something to wear. Eventually, Daisy had given up and left her to it, preferring to wait downstairs in the parlor with Sir Ranulph.

  “She’s so good at organizing everyone else, but no good at organizing herself,” said Sir Ranulph with a little shake of his head. “Three hundred people at a garden party doesn’t faze her, but this memorial has quite undone her.”

  “I expect it’s because she’s about to meet her sisters,” said Daisy, wondering how on earth he could have forgotten that fact. Floria’s indecision wasn’t so much about what to wear as the impression she wanted to give her sisters. She was so nervous to meet them that nothing she put on would be good enough.

  “Ah, yes. The prodigal daughters return.” He looked toward the portrait of Serena hanging over the stairs. “I suppose it’s as it should be.”

  Daisy frowned. The limo driver hooted the horn.

  “Floria!” she yelled again.

  Thankfully, Floria appeared on the landing in a black Hobbs dress with a matching blazer. On her head was an elegant fascinator made with black feathers and beading.

  “I look awful,” she said, her face flushed from pulling on and off various outfits. “Black is so unforgiving, and I’ve put on ten pounds since I last wore this, but it’s the most appropriate thing in my wardrobe.”

  “Well, it’s too late to change now,” said Daisy, marching up the stairs to the landing. She took her friend’s hand and led her down the stairs. “We have to go. The limousine is waiting.”

  “You look lovely, dear,” said her father. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. No one’s going to be looking at you when your mother’s illegitimate offspring are making their debut. Stephen Springer from The Star has been phoning me all morning for an exclusive. He goes to my club.”

  “What did you tell him?” asked Floria, appalled. “We can’t have the press at the reception; the girls will be overwhelmed enough as it is.”

  “I told him to bugger off, and he knows me well enough not to argue.”

  Daisy smiled. Sir Ranulph wasn’t one to be pushed around. It was one of the reasons why he’d been such a successful music producer in his day. He’d managed Serena for over a decade, orchestrating her rise to fame, a feat many others had subsequently tried but failed to emulate.

  Floria was very quiet as they drove to the church.

  “Relax.” Daisy squeezed her hand. “They’re going to love you. It’s all going to be fine, you’ll see.”

  She got a tremulous smile in response. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous.”

  “The traffic is dire,” said the driver, slowing to a crawl. “The road to the church is completely blocked.”

  “I knew this would happen,” said Floria. “That’s why I went in earlier this morning. The church looks incredible, by the way. The florist really outdid herself with the arrangements.”

  “You always make sure everything looks amazing,” she said loyally. Floria really did have a gift for this kind of thing.

  They crawled along for a few minutes before coming to a complete standstill. Daisy pushed the button to wind down the window. The approach road was bumper to bumper with taxis, BMWs, Mercedes-Benzes, Bentleys and Jaguars. All Serena’s famous friends had turned out to say farewell, including the ones who were coming to ogle her illegitimate daughters, all of whom, it was understood, would inherit large fortunes. There was much speculation about Dame Serena’s wealth, some saying she’d squandered her millions, others saying she was still worth a fortune, but Greg, Serena’s solicitor, had been annoyingly tight-lipped about it, which didn’t do anything to assuage the rumors.

  Sir Ranulph leaned back and opened The Times. “There’s no rush, Harry. It’s not like they’re going to start without us.”

  Daisy supposed that was one way of looking at it.

  Eventually, they got there, and Harry opened the door for Sir Ranulph.

  “Christ, what a crowd,” he said, looking out, and for a moment Daisy thought he might duck back inside the car and ask to be taken home.

  Floria took his arm. “Come on, Dad. We have to set a good example.”

  He didn’t reply, but let his daughter lead him up the cobblestoned path to the church. T
he freshly mowed lawns on either side were packed with a dark sea of bodies, all dressed in somber funeral attire.

  “I’ve never seen such an enormous turnout for a funeral,” a gruff voice murmured in her ear. DI McGuinness stood beside her, smartly dressed in a black suit complete with silver cuff links. His sergeant wasn’t with him. Daisy surveyed the crowd. There were easily several hundred people there, most of whom didn’t have invitations to the church service, but who would listen outside, thanks to Floria’s stroke of genius in installing loudspeakers.

  “It’s a memorial service, not a funeral. You need a body for that.” It had been an annoyance on Floria’s side that the medical examiner had refused to release the body until more tests had been done.

  “Touché.” He gave a little nod. “The ME says next week.” Then the family would have a private burial, far from the prying eyes of the rest of the world.

  Daisy said wistfully, “Dame Serena Levanté had millions of fans. Floria wanted anyone who knew and loved her to be able to pay their respects.”

  “And catch a glimpse of the illegitimate daughters,” added Paul sardonically. They both knew he was right. That was primarily why the press was here. They knew a human-interest story when they saw one, and Dame Serena’s three secret daughters welcomed back into the family fold after her mysterious death fit the billing to perfection.

  “Did you manage to track down Carmen?” Daisy asked as she watched the vicar come outside and greet Sir Ranulph.

  He shook his head. “Nope, but I can confirm she is here. I didn’t think it was appropriate to question her before her mother’s memorial service.” He glanced at Daisy. “But I will corner her afterward at Brompton Court. I believe you’re all going back there for lunch, before the reception?”

  “Yes. Floria thought it would be a good idea for all the family to get together before the guests arrive.”

  “You’re not family,” he said slyly.

  Daisy sniffed. “Close enough.”

  “Shall we?” Paul nodded toward the vicar who, flamboyant in purple robes, beckoned them in. The service was about to begin. Paul took a seat in the back pew, where his sergeant was waiting, fanning himself with the program. “I can shift over,” he offered, but Daisy shook her head.

  “I’ve got a seat reserved at the front.”

  He tilted his head. “See you later, then.”

  Daisy slipped into the second pew, behind the one reserved for the family. She had to admit the church looked beautiful. Pale flowers and candles adorned the altar, with little bunches on the end of every pew. Serena’s Best of album played softly on repeat, serenading the guests as they filed in and took their places. Those without invitations to the service stood outside in the churchyard, listening over the loudspeakers. The press had set up camp across the road.

  Daisy studied the Levanté sisters. From her position in the pew behind, she could only make out their profiles. Clutching a violin and looking extremely elegant in a black shift dress with a satin overlay was Donna. She held her head high, but nibbled her lower lip, a sign she was anxious. Next to her, sporting a defiant expression, was Mimi. The wild hair shot through with silver gave it away. Her shoulders were rigid and she jutted out her jaw as if to say, Stare all you want; I don’t care. Then there was Carmen, who’d refused to sit in the family pew. The vicar, acting on Floria’s instructions, approached her to ask if she wanted to join them, but she shook her head.

  Not interested.

  Daisy couldn’t see her face, but her shoulders were stiff and unmoving, and like the others, she held her head high and stared straight in front of her, refusing to look at anyone. A hat with a delicate lace veil covered most of her face; only her chin and part of her cheek was visible.

  Eventually, when the congregation was seated, the vicar began the proceedings. He waxed lyrical about Serena for a full five minutes before launching into a short sermon on how death wasn’t the end—which nobody believed—before calling for the soloist. The congregation watched in breathless anticipation as Carmen rose out of her seat and made her way to the front of the church. So this was Serena’s eldest, the opera singer who, if rumors were to be believed, had a voice to equal that of her mother.

  Daisy heard a stricken Sir Ranulph whisper, “Oh, Lord. It’s her.”

  It was true: Carmen was the splitting image of Serena, only younger and, if possible, more beautiful. Her dark hair hung in a silken shroud down her back, and now that she’d removed her hat with the lace veil, her olive skin and exquisite bone structure was revealed.

  She turned and stared at the congregation through Serena’s slanting, green cat eyes, heavily kohled, with a curious mixture of hostility and mirth. Daisy wondered why she was so antagonistic toward the rest of the family. Was her hatred of her biological mother so great that she couldn’t bring herself to associate with her half sisters? And if so, that would give her the perfect motive for murder. The neglected eldest child . . . denied her birth right . . . would inherit on Serena’s death. She made a mental note to talk to Paul about checking Carmen’s flight details, although she was pretty sure he already had.

  Carmen took a deep breath, composed herself and began to sing. “Amazing Grace” had never sounded more passionate or more heartfelt, and Daisy was certain she wasn’t the only one whose skin prickled with goose bumps. Carmen held the audience captivated as her clear, iridescent soprano echoed through the church and out onto the village green, where members of the public listened in stunned silence. When she finished, there was a moment’s pause before the congregation broke into thunderous applause. Outside, the clapping and cheering continued for a full five minutes.

  And so a star is born, Daisy thought, meeting Floria’s gaze and knowing she was thinking the same thing. With all the classical music producers, managers and other bigwigs in the congregation, Daisy was sure Carmen would be inundated by offers before she left the church.

  The vicar could hardly speak, he was in such raptures. After a reading from Collin, he called on Floria to deliver the eulogy. Daisy felt sorry for her friend. Floria’s relationship with Serena had been difficult, to say the least, and she knew how hard it had been for her to come up with flattering things to say about her mother. In the end, she’d settled for comments by friends and family, and those who had respected and revered Serena.

  The remaining hymns were sung with rare gusto, no doubt inspired by Carmen’s exquisite performance, and Donna, violin positioned neatly under her chin, accompanied them. As her slender fingers gripped the bow, her body moved with a fluid, forceful motion that was quite mesmerizing. Another musical talent, thought Daisy, impressed. She noticed Greg never once took his eyes off her. The solicitor was clearly smitten.

  Then it was over. The guests trickled out of the church, Floria making a beeline for Carmen. “Come on. I’ve got to advise her not to commit to anyone before she gets besieged,” she whispered as they fought their way through the crowd.

  As expected, Carmen was surrounded by music industry professionals, all vying for her attention and shoving their cards under her nose. Daisy watched as Floria swept in and calmly took charge. This was pretty much what she did for a living, so she knew how to handle the scouts. Carmen, who had the terrified look of a deer in the headlights, sighed in relief as Floria fielded questions and offers, but accepted all business cards and let everyone know Carmen would call them back in due course.

  “Nicely done,” said Daisy as Floria led a bewildered Carmen down the path toward the waiting limo. Harry, the driver, had already shepherded Mimi and Donna into the air-conditioned vehicle where they waited for the others to join them.

  “Thank you,” breathed Carmen, still clutching her program. Daisy noticed her hands were shaking. “I never expected that.”

  Floria smiled. “It’s an indication of how talented they think you are.”

  Carmen sniffed, her shoulders stiffening perceptibly. “Or because I’m her daughter.” She couldn’t even bring herself to s
ay Serena’s name.

  Floria, who didn’t have an aggressive bone in her body, turned Carmen around to face her. “Listen, they wouldn’t approach you if you didn’t have potential no matter whose daughter you were. And if you want my advice, pull every string you can, because this is a tough business and if you want to make it, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  Carmen stared at her, then shrugged. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “You should. It’s what she does,” Daisy said softly.

  Carmen’s eyes narrowed. The wall was back up.

  “Excuse me,” said a soft voice behind them. They all turned in annoyance at another interruption. A lanky, young man held up his hands in a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry to disturb you and I’m sure you’ve already been inundated with offers, but I’d like to represent you. My name is Jet Anderson. I work for Allegro Consulting.”

  “Allegro?” Floria, who was bustling Carmen into the limousine, paused. Daisy recognized the name. They were an up-and-coming music management company whose impressive portfolio was growing by the day.

  He held out a card to Carmen. “Please, call me. I’d love to speak with you.” He had mahogany eyes and dark, wayward hair, but his most striking feature was his height. He was easily two inches taller than Carmen, who had Serena’s commanding six-foot height and was wearing stilettos.

  Carmen took the card and flashed him a rare smile. In fact, Daisy hadn’t seen anything other than haughty contempt on her face since she’d arrived. Even Floria raised an eyebrow, but nodded her consent. “Come on, we’ve got to go. The press are coming.”

  Carmen ducked into the limousine.

  “Just a minute, Miss Levanté, if I may . . . ?” An elderly man hurried down the path toward them. Floria turned, closing the car door behind her so her sisters were out of sight. Daisy helped Sir Ranulph, who’d been chatting to the vicar, into the vehicle from the other side. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Jet Anderson move away, a confident smile on his face.