An International Crime Mystery Book Series
Heirs And Descendants by Daniel Kemp
Series Excerpt
Number 12 Chester Square was a nineteenth-century, five storeys plus basement residence in one of London’s most sought-after areas. Melissa moved in the day after the Spencers had vacated Iverson Hall without once thinking of them or their plight. From an agency she engaged a cook, a housekeeper, a maid, and a chauffeur-cum-butler-cum-everything else she could think of. She knew nothing of London, but that would not hinder or dampen her determination to fit in and stamp her mark.
In her home town she had never made friends, nor did she at university. Not be-cause she was diffident around people, but because they were inessential to her, an excess not to be indulged. Shy she certainly was not, nor meek, nor timid, be-ing totally preoccupied with herself having no time to recognise peculiarities in order to adapt or see them in others. It would be true to say that she seldom acknowledged that there were in fact others and when she did, those recognised were for her own selfish pleasure not theirs. She was not a virgin, having lost her virginity the first month at university with neither passion nor satisfaction. She collected other sexual partners to rectify those deficiencies and on a few occa-sions was successful. Sex was another thing that was not essential to her, but the power of her sexual attraction was paramount! The world in which she existed was occupied by only one; herself. Now, having lost both parents, there was no need for Melissa to change and there was no one to rein her in on her perilous journey.
One month to the day after her occupation of the house in Chester Square, Phil-ip, the agency chauffeur, parked her black and burgundy Rolls Royce in front of the row of fashionable boutiques, furniture shops and food halls in Ebury Street, a few minutes’ walk from her house. Her unmistakable figure was coming to be recognised in this area, and her money more so.
In David Linley’s, a very chic, upmarket furniture emporium, she purchased some home furnishings whilst chatting amicably with the affable owner for half an hour or more during which time many people entered the premises to browse or make inquiries. Melissa noticed one or two of these and later, when she was setting up a delivery account in a recently opened Italian delicatessen a few shops further along, she was not surprised when approached by a man who had seen her inside Linley’s furniture shop.
“You seemed to be getting along with David as if you were old friends, but I’ve never seen you before in his company. Had I of done then I can assure you that I would certainly not have forgotten you. I’m Richard Stanhope, David’s partner in the business. And you are?” He offered his outstretched hand by way of a greeting.
“Melissa Iverson,” she said as she gently placed her hand in his. “But I’m afraid I don’t know this person David,” she replied decorously.
“The owner of the furniture emporium you were just in. He’s the Queen’s nephew and the next Lord Snowden. It looked as though you and he were very chummy, but I can’t place you! If I’m mistaken then I won’t apologise, as it could be my lucky day. I’ve seen you a few times around here, Melissa. Are you one of our neighbours so to speak?”
“I moved into my late family’s house in Chester Square a month ago. I’ve been busy rearranging the furniture since then. This is a very nice part of Lon-don, although having said that, I’ve not been further than Harrods and Harvey Nicks. Building up my courage to venture into the West End.” A suggestive smile nestled easily on her lips as she replied.
“You need no courage, Melissa. All you need is me as your escort.” He checked his watch then brushing away a lock of blond hair from his forehead said,
“I have an hour free before a boring business meeting I must attend. Let’s get your man to drive us around for a bit and I’ll show you the shopping high-lights nearby. What do you say?” If a lion was to smile before its attack then Stanhope’s smile was exactly the same.
There was no intimacy on the journey but Melissa felt aroused on the two occa-sions Richard leant across her to point out a couple of places that she might find interesting. There was no touching apart from the gentle sway of the motorcar as it turned corners when their shoulders were in brief contact. Finally the car stopped outside an office block in Knightsbridge.
“I will not allow your beautiful company to escape me for long, Melissa. We must meet again. But tell me about you. Where did you learn to be so ele-gant?” he asked seductively.
Melissa blushed slightly, having only known the hackneyed lines used as a ‘pick-up’ by students of her own age, never having been confronted by a man in his mid-thirties or so well versed around women.
“I grew up in Yorkshire where my father owned several factories and I spent all my time there,” she replied demurely.
“I always believed that nothing good came from the north. Please don’t tell me that all the young ladies of Yorkshire have the same delicious eyes and are as desirable as you. But I’m intrigued, do tell me more. How did you lose the ac-cent?” he begged.
“There’s not much to tell. I had elocution lessons when very young so as to lose any northern dialect that may have developed. As to my family, they have all passed on now. Father died quite recently. I’m left on my own to make what I can of life.”
“That’s tragic, I must say. Terrible for someone so young! And a heavy re-sponsibility on such perfect shoulders,” he said as he touched her arm in a gentle comforting manner. Melissa returned his smile as her calculating mind clicked on a beat.
“But, hey look, as you are new around here and obviously need to get out and about a bit to make new friends, I have a suggestion. There’s a party tonight at a friend’s place south of the river. I could pick you up and carry you off to my place where you could select something suitable for me to wear. I’m useless without a woman in charge. Or, if you prefer, we could just stay at mine and dis-pense with clothes all together and then do what comes naturally. What do you think?” he asked beguilingly with a lascivious smile.
He was handsome, immaculately dressed, probably rich, with persuasive charm delivered in a lyrical voice. Did it matter if he was married or not? He knew the Queen’s nephew! Who else would he know and what doors could he open that would otherwise be closed? Entranced as Melissa was by his sexual appeal and obvious experience, there was only one outcome, and it didn’t included a crowd-ed party.
“Why don’t I come back and pick you up after that meeting. Why wait for tonight, Richard? I’m free all day and if there is a better way to spend it then I can’t think of one.”
“Great, how refreshing to meet someone who knows exactly what she wants! We’ll get a couple of bottles of Italian and some olives and we’re away!”
“I’ll put them on my account at that Italian deli. It will be a memorable way to start that account going.” Richard Stanhope didn't argue. It’s always pointless to disagree with fools.
That night was spent at Richard Stanhope’s Cheyne Walk address in Chelsea, from where she returned to Chester Square in the early morning hours, merely to change clothing then away to his country house in West Sussex for the Saturday and Sunday. In the afternoon of the Monday, Melissa and her new housekeeper were in Jane Asher’s premises at Chelsea Green ordering cakes for a proposed party the following weekend. It was her way of trying to ingratiate herself with the immediate neighbours, building up to the succession of hoped-for party invi-tations she would receive for the Christmas season, when a comely lady of about forty-five years of age approached and introduced herself.
“I’m one of your admirers, you know. Let me introduce myself before you think I’m collecting for charity: Samantha Rodgers. I live almost opposite you at Number 17. I must say you made quite an appearance with that cavalcade of re-moval lorries and then the liveried delivery trucks. I’m envious of what you must have hidden away inside Number 12. Have you travelled far and are you fa-mous?”
Melissa extended her hand in friendship but the gesture was ignored as Samantha brushed past it, hugging her near neighbour, enthusiastically kissing her on both cheeks as though they were being reunited after some painfully long time apart.
“Number 12 was my family’s London home, and no, I’m not famous. For the moment, that is. I wouldn’t mind becoming so though,” Melissa explained as she withdrew from the embrace.
“The Iversons come from Yorkshire. I’m Melissa, by the way,” she replied, somewhat embarrassed and flustered.
“So, Melissa, what brings you to relocate to wicked London in the beauti-fully appointed Chester Square? Family argument, or something scandalous and worth gossiping about? Oh I do hope so. There’s been no good scandal doing the rounds for simply ages.” Her chubby, rounded smiling face shone like a star in the middle of the night as she enquired of Melissa.
“Sorry, no scandal, not yet anyway.” Melissa returned her smile with affec-tion.
“My father died a month or so ago following on closely to my mother’s death. I had no wish to stay and manage the family’s factories, so I’m selling the family estate to pay the death duties and taking over Number 12 as my perma-nent home. I’ve got to settle in of course, but I’m throwing a house party on Sat-urday to get know my neighbours. I was going to do the rounds later tonight and tomorrow with all the invitations. You will come, I hope! You will be the first that I’ve asked.”
Both women were smiling broadly, which in turn was mirrored by the two assis-tants in the shop, which Jane, on one of her unexpected visits, remarked on as she drifted past on her way to her office—Nice to see, ladies. Smiling faces are happy faces and happy faces make closed purses open and spend money!
“No wonder you ran away from smelly factories,” Samantha remarked. “What woman wouldn’t! A party you say, just try keeping the Rodgers away. I’m dying to see all the furniture you brought with you, plus what came out of the Harrods lorry that was unloading for an hour or more.” Melissa was wonder-ing if charm was a prerequisite to being a resident of the area, but she never reached a conclusion on that matter as Samantha continued. “I can bring some of the others who live around us without you having to go knocking! We have quite a collection of the famous living in the square, you know.”
“No one notorious, I hope,” Melissa replied with that uncommon smile fixed to her face.
“Mick Jagger with Marianne Faithful used to live next to me, but they have moved out now. Apart from him there are a few questionable occupants still around. Questionable in the nicest possible way of course,” and again her face shone brightly with laughter, but this time she remarked about it.
“You are damaging all my good work, young lady. The beauty treatment I’m having to take away the laughter lines around my eyes will be ruined if I keep going at this rate.” She tried to keep a straight face, but failed. “Shall I spread the word of your party to all, regardless of good and wholesome reputation? I’ll throw in some of the less reputable as well. That could lead to a fun night.”
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