Sea of Lost Love Read online

  Celestria Montague, twenty-one years of age and no longer balancing precariously on the edge of womanhood, crawled between her own sheets, pulling the covers over her head in order to blot out the world about her, and sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  She awoke six hours later to the insistent ringing of the telephone in her mother’s bedroom next door. Where was Waynie? she thought grumpily, waiting for her to pick it up. The ringing continued. With a groan she rolled over and placed the pillow across her ear. It was too early to face Aidan. Besides, she didn’t know how she felt about him. Better not to feel anything yet. I’ll think about it later, she thought and drifted back to sleep. At 11:25 A.M. she was awoken again by the telephone. It rang and it rang. Oh, Lord, he’s keen, she complained, unable to ignore it this time. Dragging her sleepy body out of bed, she staggered into her mother’s bedroom and picked up the receiver. To her amazement, the great booming voice of Richard W. Bancroft II shouted down the wire. “Fox? I’ve been telephoning you all morning.”

  “Grandpa?” she replied, stunned. “Fox” was the nickname he had called her since childhood.

  “No, Santa Claus! Who else?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Claridge’s.”

  “You’re here!” It was as though she’d been injected with a shot of adrenaline.

  “Would my granddaughter do me the honor of having lunch with me today at the Ritz?”

  “This is such a surprise.”

  “A good one, I hope. From what I gather, you’ve had a rather nasty one recently.”

  “To put it mildly.” She laughed huskily.

  “You can tell me all about it over lunch. Twelve-thirty prompt.”

  “Have you spoken to Mama?”

  “That’s how I knew where to find you, Fox. Hiding up here all by yourself. Thought you could do with a bit of company. Don’t be late!”

  She heard him chuckle and imagined him sitting in the splendor of his suite at Claridge’s, puffing on a cigar, wrapped in his burgundy dressing gown with silk lapels. Around him would be photos of him playing golf with Eisenhower, opening a city library with Bernard Baruch, kissing Maria Callas after a show in Rome. Her grandfather was the last of the robber barons, an oil king. An American who loved Britain so much he had bought the most extravagant Scottish castle he could find and decorated it to the hilt. He traveled with his own crystal and silver cutlery, and his rooms at Claridge’s were adorned with pale orchids and lilies in advance of his arrival. Richard W. Bancroft II was not a man to do things by halves. He liked to surround himself with beautiful things, and only the highest quality would do.

  Celestria sank onto her mother’s bed, trying to unscramble the muddle in her head. She felt as if she had a ball of wool instead of a brain. She looked at her watch: eleven-thirty. She had less than an hour to bathe and dress, and she knew that for her grandfather, Fox had to look her very best.

  As she submerged herself in the bath and let the bluebell-scented water wash over her, cleansing her body of the previous evening’s wickedness, she began to feel the enormous relief of her grandfather’s presence. At last, he had arrived to look after her. She could tell him everything, and he would listen with those wise gray eyes. What was not right, he would put right, because Richard W. Bancroft II was a man of great power and wealth. He might not be able to bring her father back, but he would rescue them from impending poverty. She might even go and live with him in New York, find a nice rich American, and live in Manhattan and have a holiday home in Nantucket. That thought appealed to her enormously. By the time she had slipped into a pale summer skirt and yellow twin set, lustrous pearls around her neck and on her earlobes, she was feeling almost completely restored. Her hair was pinned up at the sides, falling in waves over her shoulders and down her back, mascara and lipstick carefully applied. On her way out she glanced at her reflection in the mirror in the hall and wondered whether she looked different now that she was a real woman, having laid bare the mysteries of sex. Or maybe her sudden metamorphosis was due to her mother’s crimson lipstick and pearls.

  Celestria arrived at the Ritz by taxi. As she alighted onto the pavement she felt a frisson of excitement at the sight of the shiny red Bentley that had drawn up at the door, purring like a very grand cat. An immaculately dressed chauffeur in black hat and gloves stepped out and opened the rear door with the help of two uniformed doormen from the Ritz, pink cheeked with excitement, for Richard W. Bancroft II was not only a very important guest, but a famously generous tipper. Celestria stood and watched in amusement as Rita, her grandfather’s assistant, stepped briskly out of the front passenger door as her boss climbed carefully out of the back, greeting the Ritz doormen with characteristic aplomb. As thickset as a bear, he stooped at the shoulders and walked with the slow stride of a man forced to concede to the ravages of age and time. However, he had thick silver hair, sharp intelligent eyes, and the vital wit of a man many years his junior. He raised his hand to thank the chauffeur and proceeded up the steps. Rita, who accompanied Mr. Bancroft everywhere, stalked on ahead to alert the manager that Mr. Bancroft had arrived. She needn’t have bothered. Mr. Windthorne was already standing in the entrance hall to receive their esteemed guest.

  Celestria followed the party through the doors, wondering how long it would take them to notice her. She was a regular guest at the Ritz and knew most of the staff by name. While Mr. Windthorne shook her grandfather’s hand he happened to glance over his shoulder, his attention momentarily distracted by the beautiful blond girl who hovered in his peripheral vision. “Mr. Bancroft,” he said with a flush of pleasure, “Miss Montague has arrived.”

  Richard Bancroft turned around slowly and grinned at his granddaughter. “On time and as radiant as ever!” he exclaimed in a thick American accent, holding his arm out for her to slip in and kiss him. Celestria embraced him with affection, pressing her face to his with a delicious sense of sailing into harbor from a choppy, uncertain sea.

  “You smell of bluebells, and it’s not even spring,” he said with a chuckle, suddenly feeling a great deal younger. She slipped her hand through his arm, and he patted it fondly.

  “Good morning, Miss Montague,” said Rita a little frostily. Having worked for Mr. Bancroft for the last fifteen years, she never liked to see him close to other women, especially his granddaughter. When he was with Celestria, he almost forgot Rita existed. “Mr. Bancroft would like to go straight to his table,” Rita informed Mr. Windthorne importantly, stalking ahead on precariously high heels.

  “In the most beautiful dining room in London we won’t have any reason to move until late afternoon,” Mr. Bancroft added, proceeding down the corridor towards the restaurant. “Glad to see nothing’s changed in a year, Mr. Windthorne.”

  Celestria caught sight of herself in the large gilt mirrors as she passed and thought what a handsome pair they made. She envisaged walking down the aisle of the Catholic church in Farm Street on the arm of her grandfather. At least she still had someone to give her away.

  “Now, Fox, what the hell is going on?” Richard Bancroft looked straight at his granddaughter, his expression grave. Rita and Mr. Windthorne had retreated, leaving Mr. Bancroft to enjoy his granddaughter and the excellent wine at the discreet round table in the far left corner of the dining room by the window.

  “Papa has supposedly committed suicide,” she replied. “A note was found in a bottle in his boat with the words Forgive me written on Uncle Archie’s writing paper. They also found his pocket watch in the boat, and a pair of shoes washed up on the rocks, though how a pair of lace-up shoes could come off on their own is a mystery to me! If you ask me, he was murdered.”

  Richard Bancroft chuckled and took a sip of Bordeaux. “Full-bodied. I like it,” he commented appreciatively. The sommelier filled their glasses. “Now let’s not run before we can walk, Fox. A good detective studies all the facts before making a judgment like that.”

  “Well, we went to see the solicitor, who told u
s that Papa hasn’t had a job for two years and that his business went bankrupt. Meanwhile, he’s been traveling ‘on business’ all over Europe. What business can that be? I ask myself.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Not only had he gone through his own money, but Mama’s as well.”

  “I see.” Richard Bancroft narrowed his eyes and a shadow passed across his face in spite of the sun that shone with brilliance through the tall glass doors. “Go on.”

  “He’s spent my inheritance, Grandpa. Mama, Harry, and I have nothing to live on. We’re as poor as church mice.” Her grandfather laughed and shook his head.

  “You talk a lot of nonsense!”

  “Aren’t you appalled?”

  “Finish the story.”

  A waiter hovered by the table, ready to take their order. Without consulting his granddaughter, Richard Bancroft ordered for both of them.

  “You need something nourishing; you’re as pale as death,” he said to Celestria. “A little red meat is what this doctor orders. And have some wine; it’ll put the color back into your cheeks.” Celestria took a halfhearted sip in order to please him. She felt she had drunk enough wine the night before to last her a month. “So far it’s looking bad,” he said. “Tell me more.”

  Celestria continued, grateful to hand the mystery over to someone better qualified to deal with it. “I couldn’t stand being down at Pendrift another moment. Mama has taken to her bed, complaining that Poochi is having a nervous breakdown with all the stress. I found the atmosphere claustrophobic. Without a body there’s no funeral. There might never be a body. Then what do we do? When will it all be over?”

  “So there’s no evidence, beside what the solicitor told you, of Monty’s unhappiness?”

  “None whatsoever. In fact, I’d say he was the happiest man alive!”

  Richard Bancroft nodded thoughtfully. “But there’s more, isn’t there?”

  “I found a box of rubbish in the pantry at home. Waynie said that Papa had tidied out his study before coming down to Cornwall.”

  “So, what did you find, Sherlock?”

  “I found a love letter from a woman called Freddie, who lives in a convent in Puglia, as far as I can tell. It contained a photograph of Papa, looking incredibly pleased with himself. There was no date on the letter. Then I found bank statements that showed enormous amounts of money being sent out to Italy. Where did it all go to? I wanted to know. So I went to the bank, only to be told that it was all confidential information. But…”

  “You used your charm, didn’t you, Fox?” He grinned lopsidedly, clearly impressed.

  “I found out the name of Papa’s assistant, though she claimed to be his partner. Countess Valonya, who is the most frighteningly grotesque woman one could possibly meet. She’s the one who deals with the bank and Lord knows what else. I tracked her down through the Hungarian Club in Hampstead. She lives in this odd mews house covered in bushes and birds. She’d make a fascinating fairground attraction. She refused to tell me anything. The most ridiculous part is that she tried to convince me that she had seen Papa alive recently. Of course I didn’t believe her. She was clearly drunk. She thought it was a ploy of mine and Mama’s to stop her seeing him, as if she were his secret mistress or something. I’d like to think Papa had better taste than that. Judging by the outpouring of grief from half the women in Pendrift, he certainly had a wealth of choice, had he been so inclined.”

  “He was a ladies’ man, that’s for sure,” said her grand-father. “There’s no crime in that.” Celestria reached for her bag and delved inside for the bills. She placed then on the table in front of her grandfather.

  “I found these in her sitting room. She’s addicted to morphine, clearly. She was drinking, too, out of a bottle of gin, neat. Must have been disgusting. This Salazar person obviously pays her bills, perhaps a salary, too, and what’s more, he lives in Puglia, the same place as Freddie. Coincidence? I don’t think so. He’s the one Papa was sending all that money to. I want to know why, and I want the money back. It’s our money. Do you think he was blackmailing Papa? Perhaps Papa was paying to keep him quiet about something. The point is, I think this Salazar creature is the person responsible for Papa’s death. Maybe he was having an affair with this Freddie and paying Salazar to keep quiet. One thing is very clear—Papa didn’t want us to know any of it.”

  Richard Bancroft studied the papers for a while, lost in thought. He sipped his wine, then leaned back in his chair to allow the waiters to place a plate of foie gras in front of him. Celestria looked down at her own dish of veal scallops and felt her stomach rumble with hunger. She hadn’t eaten since the night before. Her spirits rose, thanks to the reassuring presence of her grandfather, and she merrily tucked in.

  “Well, Fox-Holmes, I now know for sure that your best qualities you’ve inherited from me.”

  “And my worst qualities?” she asked with a smile, for she already knew the answer.

  “From your mother.” Celestria would have laughed heartily, had she not suddenly remembered her mother’s fight with her father the night he disappeared: “He said the sooner you married, the better, because you were only going to turn out like me, driving him insane with your demands.” Her grandfather’s joke was no longer funny.

  “Do you agree that it all sounds rather suspicious?” she asked.

  He shrugged, handing her back the bills. “You’re the detective. It might be nothing, but on the other hand, it might be a great deal.”

  “I want to go to Italy and track down this Salazar creature.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  He took her hand and his wise old eyes looked at her with understanding. “Perhaps, but you’re never wrong to follow your instincts. Where would I be today if I hadn’t followed mine?”

  “Did you start with a hunch, Grandpa?”

  “I started with a hunch, just like you. You don’t realize where I come from. You wouldn’t believe what I have done to get to where I am today.” He considered his empire. From coal mines in Pennsylvania to oil in California, newspapers in Chicago, and the ski resort he was building in Colorado. “I would have achieved nothing had I not followed my instincts. Gone with the hunch.” He paused and smiled the smile of a gambler. “I’ll fund your investigation, Fox.”

  “You will?” she exclaimed brightly. “What will I tell Mama?”

  “As little as possible. You’re taking a holiday. You need to get away from it all.”

  “I knew you’d look after us, Grandpa,” she said happily.

  “What? Going to Italy? Whatever for?” Pamela was indignant.

  “Grandpa says I need a break.”

  “Your whole life is a break,” said Pamela, feeling a stab of jealousy. Her father wasn’t sending her to Italy.

  “I need to recover from Papa’s death.”

  “Don’t we all? It’s hell down here. We’re all in a dreadful limbo. I’m longing to come back to London next week and put darling Harry in school. He’s out all day with David and the boys. Thank God for David. I don’t know what I’d do with Harry if David weren’t around to distract him. I’m suffering the most terrible headaches. The shock of it has done me in.”

  “Grandpa will look after us. We’re not going to be poor.”

  “Money can’t heal the sense of betrayal. I feel cut to the quick. The man I loved, with whom I shared the best years of my life, has lied to me and squandered my fortune. I thought I knew him. You have no idea how that feels. Lord, he’s shared my bed for over twenty years. So when are you planning on leaving and where are you going to stay?”

  “I’m going next week.”

  “You’re not going before I’ve seen you. Anyway, why the rush?”

  “Why not? London’s dead at the moment. There’s no one around. It’s frightfully dull.” She thought of Aidan asleep on the sofa and wondered whether he’d been trying to call her while she was out having lunch with her grandfather.

  �
�Where are you going to stay?”

  “In Puglia.”

  “Puglia? Where is Puglia?”

  “Southern Italy. Down on the heel.”

  “Why don’t you go somewhere civilized, like Tuscany? I’m sure your grandfather has friends you can stay with.”

  “He has friends in Puglia who live in the Convento di something or other, I can’t remember. Apparently, it’s very beautiful there and cut off, which is what I need. It’s by the sea.” She bit her lip, hoping her mother wouldn’t catch her out.

  “So is Pendrift,” said Pamela dryly. She sighed heavily. “Who’s going with you?”

  “No one. I can go alone.”

  “You certainly cannot. I’m not having my twenty-one-year-old daughter traveling across the world on her own. You’ll be abducted or something.”

  Celestria’s heart sank. “Who could come with me?”

  Pamela hesitated. For a terrible moment Celestria thought her mother might suggest herself. “Waynie,” she said finally, clearly pleased with the idea. “You can take Waynie. I don’t think she’s had a holiday in years.”

  “But she’s never been farther than Yorkshire!”

  “She’s the perfect chaperone. No greasy Italian will get past Waynie.”

  “She can’t read or write!” Celestria protested.

  “What difference does that make? It’ll all be in Italian.”

  “Suppose she won’t come?”

  “I pay her salary.” Pamela hesitated, remembering she had no money. “Your grandfather can pay for her to take a holiday, too. She can consider it a bonus!” Celestria visualized Waynie getting in the way of her investigation and felt her enthusiasm deflate.

  “How long is Grandpa staying at Claridge’s?” Pamela asked, changing the subject.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “I’ll probably see him before he goes up to Scotland, then.” She didn’t sound too excited by the idea. “Maybe now I’ve lost my husband, I’ll get my father back.”