A Mourning Wedding

by Carola Dunn

  Admittedly, since the War eligible young men did not grow on trees, but Lucy had not lacked for other opportunities. In fact, she hinted that she had proposed to Binkie when that diffident young man muffed it for the third time. Why the change of heart?

  “Here we are, madam.” Baines knocked on a door and opened it. “Mrs. Fletcher, my lord.”

  The family sitting room Daisy entered was a complete contrast to the public rooms below. Instead of heavy Victorian stateliness, it was all cool green and silver accented with daffodil yellow, light and airy, modern without being faddish. Charmed, Daisy wondered whether Flora had designed it, but she had no time to study her surroundings.

  “Daisy, darling!” Lucy came to meet her. “Come and tell Grandfather how to set about getting Alec here. I told him he mustn’t telephone the Home Secretary and requisition him.”

  Lord Haverhill stood on the hearth with his back to a lively fire. His face was grave, but he didn’t seem unduly disturbed by his sister’s beastly death. Of all the people Daisy had seen this morning, only Montagu was really upset. Had no one else been truly fond of Lady Eva?

  “My dear Mrs. Fletcher, I shall welcome your advice,” said the Earl. “I confess I do not care for the idea of our local force infesting the house and pestering the family. Lucy assures me I shall prefer to be interrogated by your husband.”

  “It’s up to the Chief Constable to call in Scotland Yard, Lord Haverhill. He won’t want to do it unless his own men feel they can’t cope with the case and ask for help. Alec says they’re reluctant to go over the heads of their people. It makes for disgruntlement, as you can imagine.”

  “I see.”

  “The other possibility is when a case involves more than one police jurisdiction. But you’re right in the middle of Cambridgeshire here so that won’t work.”

  “Aunt Eva lived in London, though,” Lucy pointed out. “All her notes—”

  “Lucy!” Age had robbed the Earl’s tone of none of its authority.

  So Lady Eva had not relied on her memory, Daisy thought. Whatever Lord Haverhill hoped for in the way of concealment, the police would find her memoranda sooner or later.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher, for your advice,” he went on. “I feel certain your husband is the man for the job. I’m acquainted with our Chief Constable. I’ll have a word with him on the telephone and see what can be arranged.”

  He moved stiffly, even a little unsteadily, holding his faltering body together with an effort of his still strong will, towards an open connecting door. In the next room, Daisy could see a big rosewood desk with a reading lamp, inkstand and telephone. Beyond this a leather easy chair was visible, and part of a marble mantelpiece.

  “Oh blast!” she said to Lucy in an undertone. “I wish you hadn’t talked him into this. Alec will kill me.”

  “Not literally, I hope, darling. Yes, Baines?”

  The butler had reappeared, the imperturbability unshaken by mere murder now visibly shaken. “The police, miss. My lord,” he raised his voice.

  Lord Haverhill turned back, frowning, steadying himself with a hand on the back of a chair.

  Baines continued, “I regret that one of the footmen was so ill-advised as to direct this person to find your lordship here. Meeting him upon the stair, I instructed him to return below to await your lordship’s pleasure in the library, but I fear he persisted in following me. Inspector Crumble, my lord.”

  “Crummle, that’s Detective Inspector Crummle,” said the policeman irritably. He was a plump man with a pale, doughy face from which incongruously large, wintry blue eyes regarded the world with suspicion. They should have been small and black like currants in a suet pudding, Daisy felt. “Pursuant to a report of murder, my lord, I proceeded here with my men, who are waiting below.” He spared a glare for Baines. “Before instructing them to proceed with their duties, I wished to inform your lordship of my arrival and to ask whether you have any information which may enable me to bring this investigation to a rapid conclusion.”

  “No.” Lord Haverhill’s curt monosyllable cleft the tide of the policeman’s verbosity.

  “Then I shall proceed about my duty. I shall need a room in which to conduct my enquiries, preferably with a telephone.”

  “You may use the library, Inspector.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Crummle bowed, subjected Daisy and Lucy to a rapid inspection, and departed.

  “I am going to telephone the Chief Constable,” Lord Haverhill said grimly. He went through to his study.

  “Not a good start,” said Daisy. “How is your grandmother taking it, Lucy? And your Uncle Aubrey and Aunt Maud?”

  “Grandmama and Aunt Maud are too busy fussing over Uncle Aubrey to get the wind up. You’d think they’d be really rattled with murder in the family. I suppose it must have been one of the family who did her in?”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. One of the servants, perhaps?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. As I told you, she wasn’t interested in the peccadilloes of the lower classes. Besides, the doors between the servants’ wing and the rest of the house are locked at night—a frightfully Victorian precaution against the sons of the house philandering with housemaids.”

  “How on earth do you know that?”

  “I heard Rupert sniggering about it once, years ago, not that I understood then what he was talking about. He said it was directed against Uncle Montie but now it was dashed inconvenient for him—for Rupert himself.”

  “Oh, was he in that line?”

  “Just big talk, I suspect. As far as I remember, he was only about fifteen.”

  “All the same, I wonder whether Lady Eva had him written down as a womanizer.”

  “He’s not much use as a suspect, darling. He wasn’t here last night. Manoeuvres on Salisbury Plain, perfectly grim! He won’t be here till tomorrow. But with the servants out of things, no doubt the rest of us are for it.”

  “Yes, sir, a request from the Chief Constable of Cambridgeshire, chap I’ve worked with in the past, Sir Leonard Crowe.”

  “A request specifically for Fletcher?” growled the Assistant Commissioner (Crime).

  “I’m afraid so,” apologized Superintendent Crane.

  “You don’t need to tell me, that woman is at it again!”

  “Not exactly,” said Crane cautiously. “The sister of the Earl of Haverhill, Lady Eva Devenish, was murdered last night at his lordship’s home, also known as Haverhill. My information is that his lordship’s granddaughter, a Miss Lucy Fotheringay, advised him to send for Fletcher. Now it happens that I remember Miss Fotheringay from Fletcher’s wedding reception … .”

  “There, I knew it! If she’s not an intimate friend of the former Honourable Daisy Dalrymple, I’ll eat my hat. What’s more, I’ll bet you a fiver, Superintendent, that Mrs. Fletcher is on the spot.”

  “No takers, sir.”

  “What the devil made me suppose that marrying her would allow Fletcher to keep her out of mischief?”

  “He would if he could, sir,” said Crane, “but he can’t.”

  5

  Daisy and Lucy were alone in the dining room when the summons came. Lucy had suddenly realized she was ravenous and, most unlike her usual abstemious self, had taken two sausages to go with her toast and coffee. Just to keep her company, Daisy had another cup of coffee and a piece of marmaladed toast. After all, she was eating for two.

  An elderly uniformed constable with squeaky boots came in. “Mrs. Fletcher? Inspector Crummle wants to see you first, ma’am, in the liberry.”

  “Me?” Maybe the unpromising Crumble had some sense after all and would listen to her suggestions.

  “Well, ma‘am, not strictly first, seeing he’s talked to Mr. Walsdorf as ’phoned up the station. But Mr. Walsdorf says it was you as told him to ring up us instead of the local chap, and the Inspector says all right then he’ll see you first.”

  “Right-oh,” said Daisy, swallowing a last bite of toast.

  “Darling, d
o you want me to come and hold your hand?” Lucy asked anxiously.

  In front of the constable, Daisy didn’t care to point out that she was quite used to being questioned by detectives. She had never actually confessed to Lucy just how often she inadvertently stumbled into police cases. If Lucy were present, she wouldn’t be able to speak freely about the family, so she said, “Thanks, darling, but they’re not allowed to use the ‘third degree’ à l’américaine. I’ll be all right. Why don’t you ring Binkie? You really mustn’t put it off any longer.”

  Lucy pulled a face. “Yes, I’d better, though he’ll be at the office so I shan’t be able to talk to him properly. Right-oh. Good luck, Daisy.”

  Accompanying her, the constable walked as if his feet hurt him.

  “New boots?” Daisy asked sympathetically.

  “Bought ‘em last week. They pinch something chronic. I were just getting the old pair wore in nicely when the Inspector up and said they’re a disgrace to the Force. And me retiring in a year and a half!” The constable was indignant. “Won’t hardly have time to wear ’em in.”

  “Maybe you’ll be able to use them for gardening.”

  “Now there’s a thought! The missus has been on about getting an allotment when I retire. The price of cabbages and taters has gone up something shocking since the War. Here we are, madam.” He opened the library door and ushered her in. “Mrs. Fletcher, sir.”

  Detective Inspector Crummle did not so much as glance up from the papers he had scattered across Walsdorf’s usually neat desk. Daisy decided she was being put in her place.

  She wondered whether Lord Haverhill had persuaded the Chief Constable to get in touch with Scotland Yard. Lucy was right: Alec would be more acceptable to her family. What she probably had not considered was that he would also be better able to cope with them. They might intimidate Inspector Crummle, but not Chief Inspector Fletcher.

  Daisy went over to the desk, sat down on the chair Walsdorf had placed for her earlier, and waited. This did not bode well for her intention of helping Crummle. She realized the poor man was bound to feel rather out of his depth among lords and ladies, but being discourteous wasn’t going to help him.

  At last he looked up from his notebook.

  Before he could speak, she asked kindly, “What can I do for you, Inspector?”

  Disconcerted, then affronted, he snapped, “I’ll ask the questions, madam. I understand you discovered the deceased?”

  “Gosh, no! One of the maids was taking round morning tea. She started screaming murder and most of the people in the bedrooms on that passage came out to see what was up. Another maid looked in and said Lady Eva was dead. Mr. Montagu Fotheringay, Lady Eva’s brother, wanted to go in but I stopped him. I asked Nancy—Mrs. Timothy Fotheringay—to go in and check, because she was a nurse during the War. She confirmed that Lady Eva had been murdered.”

  “So you didn’t even seen the cor—the deceased?”

  “I did take a quick look before I went to telephone. I didn’t want to be responsible for a false alarm. When I saw—well, I imagine you’ve seen for yourself. There’s not really any question as to whether she was murdered, is there?—I locked the door and gave the key to the butler, Baines. Then I came down here to telephone.”

  “You seem to have taken a great deal upon yourself, Mrs. Fletcher.” The inspector scowled at her. “I understood from Mr. Walsdorf that you’re a guest at Haverhill, not a member of the family. Yet you took charge and everyone followed your instructions?”

  “Not exactly.” Daisy hesitated, extremely reluctant to explain her unorthodox credentials to the touchy detective. Apparently the desk officer who took John Walsdorf’s call hadn’t told Crummle about Alec. With luck—lots of luck—he’d never have to find out. “I suppose they turned to me because I’m not one of the family, so I’m able to view the tragedy with a clearer head.”

  “Hmph.” His pale blue eyes held nothing but scepticism.

  More to stop him pursuing that line of thought than for any other reason, Daisy said, “There’s one more thing I ought to tell you. Lady Eva was an inveterate collector of gossip and scandal. I believe she kept records at her place in London of all the information she gathered.”

  “London!”

  “Have to ask the Yard for help, sir,” observed the constable with malicious satisfaction.

  Crummle looked as if he’d rather die the death of a thousand cuts. Daisy awaited his response with interest and a certain trepidation, but it never came. The door opened, a breezy voice said “No need to announce me,” and a short, thin man limped in.

  The inspector jumped to his feet. “Sir!”

  “Sit down, my dear chap, sit down. I see you’re hard at work already?” He looked at Daisy.

  “This is Mrs. Fletcher, sir. She’s helping me with my enquiries.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Fletcher. Fletcher? Aha! Crowe’s the name, Sir Leonard Crowe. I’m the Chief Constable of this county. You won’t mind if I just interrupt for long enough to give the good inspector a bit of news?”

  “Not at all, Sir Leonard.”

  “Excellent!”

  Daisy read complicity in his regard and knew what was coming. “Perhaps I should leave?” she said hopefully.

  “Oh, no, no, no, dear lady. Quite unnecessary.” Turning back to Crummle with a guilty air, Sir Leonard hesitated.

  The inspector beat him to it. “It is my duty to inform you, sir, that Mrs. Fletcher here claims the deceased was a blackmailer.”

  “I never said anything of the sort!”

  “Pardon me, madam, but I have it down here in black and white.” He studied his notebook. “Here: ‘veteran collector of scandal. Kept records.’”

  “Yes, but I’m sure she never used them to extort money. I can’t think of anything less likely.”

  “Good gracious, no!” The Chief Constable was horrified. “My dear Inspector, a lady of the unhappy victim’s social standing simply doesn’t stoop to extortion.”

  “There’s other kinds of blackmail,” Crummle said obstinately, “like making people do what you want. And there’s just plain mischief-making, like telling a wife her husband’s been seen in Brighton with a chorus girl. And I’ve known them that’ll tell a person they know something just to enjoy watching them squirm.”

  In spite of his curious syntax, the Inspector was making sense. “But I don’t think it was any of those,” Daisy said. “I think she just enjoyed knowing. It gave her a feeling of power, though she would never use the knowledge.”

  “Ah, you can say Lady Eva wouldn’t stoop to it, madam, but you can’t be sure. And no more could the people she found out about be sure she wouldn’t tell. And to my mind, that’s motive enough for murder, sir.”

  Sir Leonard sighed. “You may be right.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher here says the deceased kept her records at her house in London, sir. I’ll have to send a man up to take a look.”

  “Can’t spare anyone,” Sir Leonard said with suspicious promptitude. “Look here, my dear chap, we’d have to notify the Metropolitan Police before intruding upon their bailiwick. Why not just ask them to see what they can find at Lady Eva’s? And once they’re involved, why not ask ’em to give you a hand down here?”

  “I’ve got everything well in hand,” Crummle protested, with no great conviction.

  “What you’ve got is a whacking great house full of important people any number of whom may turn out to be suspects. They’re not going to take kindly to being questioned. Now wouldn’t you rather they vented their spleen at some London chappie, not at you?”

  “You can be sure I’ll do my duty, sir, without fear nor favour.”

  “Naturally, naturally. I don’t mean to suggest otherwise.” A note of desperation entered Sir Leonard’s voice. “The fact is, my dear fellow, I’m bound to take Lord Haverhill’s wishes into account. As long as they don’t run counter to my duty, of course! I hardly think a request for a detective from Scotland Yard can be regarded
as beyond the pale.”

  “His lordship wants a Yard man on the case?” Crummle demanded angrily.

  “’Fraid so. No reflection on your competence, Inspector, no reflection at all. But as a matter of fact, I’ve already been on to a chap I know, Superintendent Crane, and he’s sending us one of his best men, a chief inspector.”

  Sir Leonard had funked mentioning the chief inspector’s name, Daisy noted. Or perhaps he was being tactful not mentioning it in her presence. With luck, Crummle would finish with her before he found out her husband was to take over his case.

  Sir Leonard was making soothing noises about how much the London DCI would appreciate Crummle’s groundwork as a strong basis for the investigation. “Fingerprints, I suppose, and photographs and all that. Dr. What’s-his-name, the police surgeon, never can remember his name, he’s been already, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” grunted Crummle, unsoothed. “Dr. Philpotts.”

  “Good, good. Right you are. Now, who’s going to telephone London and tell them about these mysterious records of Lady Eva’s? Like me to do it, would you, my dear chap?”

  “You’d better, sir, seeing I don’t have your connections at the Yard. You’ll be wanting me to assist this DCI, will you, then?”

  “Yes indeed. He may bring down a sergeant, but they’re bound to need your help.” Sir Leonard waved his hands at the spread of papers on the desk. “All the information at your fingertips, eh? That’s the stuff. I expect you have a list of everyone in the house?”

  “Not yet,” Crummle admitted grudgingly.

  “I expect Mrs. Walsdorf can tell you, Sir Leonard,” Daisy suggested. “She’s Lady Fotheringay’s niece but most of the business of running the household seems to land on her shoulders.”

  “Sounds like a German name. Married a Jerry, eh?”

  “No, he’s from Luxemburg. He’s Lord Haverhill’s secretary.”