by Carola Dunn
“I wonder what you said to amuse Grandfather?” she said. “He’s been feeling under the weather lately, I’m afraid. We are a little anxious for his health. I only hope laughing won’t overtire him. I’d better see if he wants to go in and lie down.”
“A good laugh’s more likely to do him good, if you ask me,” asserted a woman Daisy didn’t recognize. “I’m Angela Devenish, Mrs. Fletcher. How d’ye do? It was splendid to hear my great-uncle laughing.”
Lady Eva’s spinster granddaughter looked to be in her early thirties. Even in her youth, Daisy thought, she could never have been anything but plain. Her boyish figure was skinny rather than svelte. Her jumper was grubby and the hem of her tweed skirt had all too obviously been turned up to the newly fashionable knee length by an amateur seamstress—probably herself, and probably with more regard to convenience than fashion. Her boots suggested she had been a Land Girl during the War. A small dog of undistinguished parentage lurked at her heels.
Her grin was infectious. Daisy smiled at her and held out her hand to the dog. “It looks a bit like our Nana.”
The dog cowered.
“Tiddler’s been badly treated,” Angela Devenish said gruffly, and added in a slightly belligerent tone, “I work for the RSPCA.”
“Good for you. It must be rather upsetting at times.”
“You can’t imagine. Not fit for tea-time conversation, my mother would say.”
“No, I expect not. But I’d like to talk to you about it sometime. I’m a journalist. Maybe I could write an article that would encourage people to help.”
Angela beamed. “Jolly good show. Anytime.”
Daisy exchanged a few more words with her before resuming her pursuit of Lucy’s parents, who had moved to the other side of the terrace. Sally, she saw, was bending solicitously over Lord Haverhill, who waved her away, looking irritable. Lord Fotheringay was contemplating a stone urn of geraniums and lobelia, plainly bored by such commonplace plants.
Lucy stood at bay by the balustrade, surrounded by a swarm of giggling girls, cousins no doubt. She shot Daisy a look of desperate appeal. Daisy altered course. This, after all, was why she had been invited.
“Lucy, come and reintroduce me to your parents. I haven’t seen them in such ages.”
“Coming! Daisy, these are my cousins Julia, Alice, Erica, Mary, Ursula. My bridesmaids. Girls, my friend Mrs. Fletcher.” Linking arms, she hurried Daisy off with no time to respond to the chorus of “How do you do.”
“I’ll never remember which is which,” Daisy said.
“They’re interchangeable. Were we ever so silly?”
“We never had the chance, darling. At that age, you were busy being the most elegant girl in the Land Army, and I was busy in a hospital office because I couldn’t face being a nurse on the wards. I expect we’d have managed to be just as silly if we hadn’t been otherwise engaged.”
“I might have. I doubt you would. Darling, thank you for rescuing me, but you don’t really need me to help you tackle the parents.”
“Of course not. It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment when I saw you were drowning. Who is that heading our way?”
Lucy glanced round at the approaching woman and groaned. “Aunt Josephine. Lady Devenish. Great-aunt Eva’s daughter-in-law.”
“Angela’s mother?”
“That’s right.”
It was possible to imagine Lady Devenish in youth as a pretty, doll-like creature, but the years had added flabbiness to her short figure and discontent to her round face. “I’ll leave you to her,” said Daisy.
“If you must. She’s bound to ask me yet again to give Angela a few hints about dressing decently. She simply can’t believe the poor fish doesn’t care two hoots. Angela won’t spend a penny on clothes. It all goes on her wretched animals.”
Lucy turned away to intercept Lady Devenish, and Daisy at last caught up with Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Fotheringay. They thanked her for coming to support Lucy.
“I simply don’t understand her,” said Mrs. Fotheringay in bewilderment. “A girl’s wedding should be the most wonderful day of her life, but Lucy is utterly offhand about the whole thing. I’m trying to make it perfect for her, but nothing I do seems to be right.”
Daisy did her best to soothe the poor lady. Lady Haverhill came to join them, and Daisy found herself having to defend “the modern young woman.”
Meanwhile Oliver Fotheringay wandered off to chat with his brother, Aubrey. Lord Fotheringay had descended the steps to the rose garden and was on his knees poking at the soil. Angela Devenish should have been Lord Fotheringay’s daughter, Daisy decided. They would have understood each other.
Mrs. Oliver and her mother-in-law agreed to blame the Germans for the shortcomings of the modern generation.
“Look at my grandson Rupert now,” said Lady Haverhill. “In my day, a young man was proud to be an officer in a Household Regiment, but since the War Rupert finds it boring. Haverhill won’t let him quit and live in town, doesn’t want him to turn into a useless drone like Montagu. Of course, he could come home and help take care of the estate, but apparently that’s equally boring. I’d say there’s no moral fibre there, but the boy did have a ‘good war,’ as they say. Medals and so on.”
“Timmy and George did their bit, of course.” But Mrs. Oliver was not presently in the least interested in her sons, far less her husband’s nephew. She reverted to Lucy’s unaccountable behaviour, for which Lady Haverhill had no patience.
“In my day, girls were brought up to do as they were told,” she said tartly, and departed, leaving Daisy to take up the soothing where she had left off.
One of the girls who had been brought up to do as she was told drifted up to them. Lady Ione Fotheringay, Lord Haverhill’s spinster daughter, was a vague, drab creature whose mind usually seemed to be otherwhere. According to Lucy, in youth Lady Ione had fallen in love with an unsuitable young man but meekly acquiesced when her father forbade the match. She lived at Haverhill, dowdy and dull, disregarded by all. Her time was spent knitting lumpy garments to give to ungrateful relatives who had never been known to wear them.
Her dismal example was one reason Lucy had reached for independence with both hands and set up as a photographer.
The crowd on the terrace was dispersing. Among the younger and more energetic, Sally Fotheringay was rounding up a foursome for tennis and others were heading for croquet or to walk to the folly. Jennifer Walsdorf came to take Daisy to the nurseries to see her daughter.
It was a relief to Daisy to talk pregnancy and babies instead of Lucy’s vagaries. Emily Walsdorf was a blond cherub about the same age as Sally and Rupert’s little boy, Dickie, much too young to be a bride’s train-bearer even if Lucy had wanted him. Also present, Lucy’s brother Timothy’s children were the right sort of age. At present they were far too busy pestering their nursemaid to take them down to the lake to care about being excluded from the ceremony.
After half an hour in the nursery admiring children and half an hour in the conservatory admiring orchids and hibiscus and rare palm trees, Daisy went to take a much-needed bath before changing for dinner.
Several more relatives arrived in time for dinner, most unknown to Daisy. At the long mahogany table, she was seated beside Sir James Devenish, a brawny, red-faced man with a bristling moustache. A thoroughgoing hunting-shooting-fishing country squire, he was not at all in sympathy with his daughter’s views on the treatment of animals. He confessed he’d only turned up early for the wedding because he wanted to fish Lord Haverhill’s stream.
His incredibly boring recital of every detail of his angling day required no more of Daisy than an occasional “Not really?” She was happy to be able to give most of her attention to the excellent meal.
The Haverhills were truly splendid hosts, she thought with a replete sigh as the ladies withdrew via the Long Gallery to the crimson-and-gold drawing room. If it weren’t for Lucy’s troubles, she’d be looking forward with pleasure to a pea
ceful and relaxing few days in the country.
After a good night’s sleep, Daisy was enjoying a warm, comfortable drowse when a maid brought morning tea, with two Bath Oliver biscuits. Since the end of her morning sickness she always woke ravenous. Before she even sat up in bed, she reached for a biscuit and bit into it.
So her mouth was full of crumbs when the screaming started.
3
Daisy scrambled out of bed, reaching for her dressing-gown. A crumb went down the wrong way and the subsequent choking cough brought tears to her eyes. Unable to locate her slippers, she hurried out to the passage barefoot.
The housemaid who had brought her tea stood in a doorway further down the hall, facing into the room. Her hands were clapped over her ears as if to drown out her own shrill screams.
Daisy had been quick off the mark, but now doors started opening and heads popping out. Several people emerged a few steps from the safety of their rooms. From one room came another housemaid, an older woman. She marched up to the screaming girl, swung her around and slapped her face. The girl started sobbing.
“She’s dead!” she gasped. “Murdered!”
The head housemaid glanced into the room, turned pale, and swayed. As Daisy hurried towards them, the elder visibly pulled herself together. She shook the younger by the shoulders.
“Go and tell Mr. Baines,” she ordered, giving the girl a shove towards the back stairs. “Get along with you, right this minute.” Head averted, she fumbled behind her for the doorknob and pulled the door to, scraping shards of broken china into the corridor.
Montagu Fotheringay, massive in a crimson silk dressing-gown, advanced from the opposite direction. “What the deuce is going on?” he demanded. “That’s Eva’s room.”
Lady Eva! Of course, Daisy thought, if anyone in this house was going to be murdered, it would have to be Lady Eva Devenish, the collector of secrets. But perhaps the maid was mistaken. Perhaps the old lady was merely ill.
“Who screamed?” That was Nancy, Lucy’s sister-in-law, pattering down the stairs from the second floor. “Is someone hurt, Daisy? I was a VAD nurse in the War.”
“It’s Lady Eva. I don’t know … . The maid seemed to think she’s dead.”
“Her ladyship’s dead,” the elder maid confirmed grimly, still very pale. “And if you’ll excuse me, madam, I’m going to sit down for a minute.” She sank to the floor beside the table where a tray of tea things awaited distribution to the bedrooms.
Nancy knelt beside her and forced her head between her knees. “Breathe deeply, Merton,” she advised.
Montagu, frowning, reached for the doorknob. “I’m going to—”
“No.” Stopping him was rather like tackling a tank but Daisy managed to hold him back. “You mustn’t go in there, Mr. Fotheringay. Nancy, would you take a look at Lady Eva and make sure there’s nothing we can do for her? No, Mr. Fotheringay, you really must not. I’m afraid the girl spoke of … of murder.”
“M … m …” Montagu’s mouth opened and closed but he couldn’t get the word out.
Stepping over the smashed tea things, Nancy Fotheringay slipped past him into the room. She came out again after a few seconds, very white about the mouth. “No question of it. Daisy, the police will have to be sent for.”
Obviously Lucy had told at least some of her family about Daisy’s involvement with several of Alec’s cases, Daisy realized with resignation. Now she was going to be expected to deal with the police. Well, she wasn’t going to ring them up without being sure of her facts. It was too late to worry about fingerprints after the two maids and Nancy had all touched the handle. She opened the door Nancy had shut and peeked in.
For a moment all she saw was a snowstorm. A pillow had been ripped and feathers were all over the place, a few floating in the draught between the door and the open window. Amid the drifts, Lady Eva sprawled on her back, head and shoulders hanging over the side of the bed. Her face was purple, her tongue sticking out, eyes glaring. One hand was at her throat, as if plucking at something tied around it.
Feeling sick, Daisy turned her back on the dreadful sight. What she wanted to do was sit down beside the maid and put her head between her knees, but she knew from unhappy experience that action was the best antidote. She took the key from the inside of the door, closed the door again, and locked it. “I’ll ring the police. Absolutely no one must go in there till they come.”
She was not prepared to trust the stricken Montagu with the key, but several more people had arrived by now. Among them she saw Nancy’s husband, the Reverend Timothy Fotheringay, in a brown flannel dressing-gown over blue-and-white pyjamas. His arm around his wife’s shoulders, he was listening gravely to her quiet explanation. Daisy had always thought of him as stodgy; surely he would be reliable.
“Tim!” Her voice cut through the growing clamour of questions. “Timothy, will you look after the key?”
“I think you should keep it, Daisy.”
“Oh no! People will say I’m taking altogether too much upon myself, and rightly so. I’m not family, after all.”
“Precisely.”
“No!” Did he not realize that his great-aunt’s prying extended far beyond her family? As soon as the local police heard about Lady Eva’s proclivity, Daisy was going to be as much a suspect as anyone else. “Oh, here’s Baines. I’ll give the key to him.”
The butler surveyed the scene with unmistakable disapproval. He himself, not expecting to be on public display at this hour of the morning, was in his shirtsleeves and baize apron. The head housemaid was seated on the floor, surrounded by a gabbling crowd of ladies and gentlemen who ought to know better.
“The key, madam?” he enquired austerely.
“To Lady Eva’s room.” Daisy handed it to him. “Didn’t the maid tell you?”
“I gathered through the girl’s hysterics, madam, that something untoward had occurred. As you see, I came with all due haste.”
“Good for you. Lady Eva has been … has met with an accident. I’m going to telephone the police but until they come the room must remain undisturbed.”
“The police, madam!” Baines was aghast.
“Yes, and I’d better ring up the local doctor, too, though I’m afraid it’s too late for his help. What’s his name?”
“Dr. Arbuthnot, madam.”
“You understand that absolutely no one is to go in?”
“Indeed, madam.” The butler pocketed the key. “I’ll send a footman to stand at the door.”
“Good idea.” With one last glance around the assembled relatives, Daisy fled. Let the Reverend Timothy deal with them. Perhaps she ought to stay and watch the effect on them and on later arrivals on the scene, but the local police were unlikely to be interested in her impressions. How she wished Alec had come with her!
Not till she reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto the cold marble floor of the hall did she realize that she was still barefoot. She hesitated, then went on to the library, where she knew there was a telephone.
To her surprise, she found John Walsdorf there, already fully dressed at this early hour and busy at his desk at the far end of the long room. He stared at her in astonishment and dismay, not unnaturally, considering her half-clad, dishevelled state. Slipping the paper he had been writing on under the blotter, he rose courteously, and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. You wish a novel to read? May I be of assistance?”
“No, thanks. Sorry to disturb you but something dreadful’s happened and I have to ring the police.”
“The police! This is not for a lady to do.” As he spoke, Walsdorf moved a chair to the desk for her. “Tell me what is to be reported and I will telephone.”
“Will you really?” Daisy dropped into the chair. “I’d far rather not.”
“If there is urgency, I must warn you, the village is nearly two miles distant and Constable Fritch bicycles very slowly.”
“Then we had better get in touch with the Cambridgeshire police directly.” What Dai
sy really wanted was a good excuse to ’phone Scotland Yard and talk to Alec. None came to mind. “It’s murder.”
“Murder!” Paling, Walsdorf hesitated as if afraid to ask. “Who … ?”
“Lady Eva.”
A flicker of relief crossed his face. Daisy wondered whether he had something discreditable in his past—or present—that Lady Eva might have discovered.
“How?” He picked up the telephone.
“Strangulation.”
For a moment his command of English faltered. “Please? Strangu … Ah, she was strangled?” Unhooking the receiver, he clicked the hook up and down to summon the operator. “Put me through to the county police headquarters, miss. It is urgent.”
Daisy listened with one ear to Walsdorf’s half of the ensuing conversation. She was trying to picture the group who had gathered in the hallway when the maid’s screams shattered the morning peace. Montagu Fotheringay had been there of course, apparently stunned by his sister’s death; Lucy’s brother Tim and his level-headed wife, thank heavens; Lucy’s parents? Just her father, Daisy thought.
The rest were a blur of four or five faces, but she was fairly certain the Haverhills had not turned up, nor Lord and Lady Fotheringay. Fortunately their rooms were in another wing of the house. Daisy didn’t want to contemplate the effect of murder in the family on the aged earl and countess and their weak-hearted son, but at least it could be broken to them gently—by someone other than herself.
Other guests were sleeping in distant parts of the house, but one person who should have put in an appearance was missing: Lucy. Her room was closer than Daisy’s to Lady Eva’s, so she must have heard the commotion. Why … ?
“Mrs. Fletcher, it is quite certainly murder I am reporting?”
She nodded. “I saw her,” she said reluctantly.
One glance at Lady Eva’s face would be enough to convince the most hardened sceptic. At least Daisy didn’t have to waffle about unnatural death and try to persuade the police there had been foul play. Of that there is no manner of doubt, No probable, possible shadow of doubt, No possible doubt whatever—the tune from The Gondoliers ran through her head, almost obliterating the awful sight from her mind’s eye.