by Carola Dunn
“But what conceivable motive could anyone have for murdering Aubrey?” Grieved and bewildered, the earl was now unmistakably an old man, his voice quavery. “He was the mildest, most inoffensive of men!”
“I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him yet. Presumably he saw or heard something which could give us a clue to Lady Eva’s death, possibly something he didn’t recognize as significant. Or the murderer may simply have feared he’d seen something.”
“No, not Aubrey!” Lady Fotheringay sobbed.
Sally Fotheringay patted her mother-in-law’s shoulder. “It was probably just a heart attack, all the same. It could have been, couldn’t it, Dr. Arbuthnot?”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Fotheringay, quite possibly.”
“Lady Fotheringay,” Sally corrected him. “I’m Lady Fotheringay now.”
Lady Haverhill, pale and drawn but still very upright and steadfast, said sharply, “It is usual to wait until after the funeral to assume a new title, out of respect for the deceased.”
Sally flushed. “I’m sure no one could respect Rupert’s father more than I did. I didn’t mean to upset anyone. I’m so upset myself I don’t know what I’m saying.”
A smart young woman Alec couldn’t place said, “Oh, pull yourself together, Sally, or go back to bed till Rupert arrives to hold your hand. Mr. Fletcher, if you truly have reason to believe Father may have been murdered, I for one will do anything in my power to help you find out who did it.” She bit her lip as if struggling to hold back tears. “He was a dear. I’ve never found another to match him.”
“Oooh,” wailed Lady Fotheringay.
The young woman—Flora?—crossed to her side. “Come along, Mumsie darling, you ought to be in bed. Doctor, can you give her something?”
Flora and Dr. Arbuthnot supported the weeping widow from the room, followed by a silent young man in a clergyman’s collar.
Alec turned back to Lord Haverhill. “I’m sorry, sir, I hope I haven’t given the impression that I’m certain your son’s death is not natural. But nor am I asking your permission to investigate it as murder. If it is so, it can hardly fail to be connected with your sister’s. I am in charge of the case, and Sir Leonard agrees that I must continue as I see fit.”
The Chief Constable, hovering unhappily in the background, nodded and muttered, “Terrible business, terrible business.”
“We are extremely grateful to you, Mr. Fletcher,” said the earl, “are we not, my dear? I shall make sure everyone under my roof understands that they are to give you the utmost cooperation. I only wish your first visit to Haverhill had been under happier circumstances.”
“Believe me, sir, so do I!” A relaxing country weekend, Daisy had promised him.
Alec went back down to the conservatory. The police surgeon had arrived. A young man, he sprang up from his crouch beside the body with enviable ease.
Tom introduced him. “Dr. Philpotts, Chief.”
“No external trauma,” Philpotts said briskly, “barring slight signs of contusion from when he fell forward out of his chair. He was as good as dead when he hit the floor. Either a heart attack or you’re looking at a case of poisoning, I’d say.”
“That was my feeling.”
“I recognized two poisonous plants as I came in here: datura and oleander.” He glanced around. “And I believe that’s another, over there: poinsettia. I can’t say I’m up on the symptoms; have to go look them up. But the garden’s bound to be full of deadly stuff too, foxgloves, lily of the valley, narcissus, rhododendrons, autumn crocus, hydrangeas, you name it. I have to warn you, I haven’t the facilities for detecting exotic poisons.”
“No, I think this is a case for Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the Home Office pathologist. Great Scott, Tom, what happened to the teapot? Bincombe said the victim was drinking tea when he died.”
“None here when we came in, Chief. Miss Lucy was more concerned to get the doctor here and it was a while before Mrs. Fletcher decided we ought to take a look.”
“But there was someone here all the time. What happened to the tea-pot? And he said Lord Fotheringay’s cup broke. Where the deuce have they gone?”
“Only person I can think of could take ’em away and no one ’d notice is a parlourmaid.”
Alec groaned. “Damnation! The pot will have been washed out by now. We’ll have nothing to give Sir Bernard.”
“They’ll have thrown out the broken cup. May be some dregs left. I’ll go see what I can find out.”
“Do that, Tom. In the meantime, all these plants seem to be labelled, Doctor. Would you mind making a list of all those you know to be poisonous, and another of any you are not sure about.”
“Willingly, Chief Inspector, but the second list may well be a long one.” Dr. Philpotts turned to a fresh page of his notebook. “I have little knowledge of tropical plants, of which this conservatory holds a great many.”
“It will be something for Sir Bernard to begin with. Incidentally, did my sergeant tell you Bincombe tried artificial respiration when Lord Fotheringay fell and he could find no pulse? Schafer’s method, I understand. Would you consider that appropriate?”
“Certainly; in the case of simple cardiac arrest he had a chance—however remote—of resuscitating the victim.” As he answered, the doctor stooped to peer at plant labels and scribbled on his notepad. “If it was in fact poison, induced vomiting might have been more useful. But that depends on the poison, and if Lord Fotheringay was already dead it would be impossible in any case. In the circumstances, I’d say Bincombe acted with commendable common sense.”
“Thank you.” Alec was relieved to have one less reason for suspecting Lord Gerald of doing in his fiancée’s uncle. In fact the only reason he was aware of was the young man’s presence on the spot. “I take it you haven’t done the autopsy on Lady Eva yet, or you’d have mentioned it.”
“No. The cause of death is pretty obvious, though.”
“Is the stocking still around her neck? I’ll need that. For pity’s sake don’t throw it away, and send over any rings she’s wearing, too. Now I’d better go and put in a call to Spilsbury. Thank you, Doctor.”
He spread over the corpse the sheet Philpotts had drawn back to make his examination, then made for the library to telephone. With any luck Sir Bernard would prove quickly and indisputably that Lord Fotheringay had died a natural death. Alec didn’t need any more complications to the already complicated investigation of Lady Eva’s murder.
Daisy went to the library to wait for Alec. She wanted nothing more than to be told she was an idiot for suggesting Alec ought to look into Lord Fotheringay’s death. Of course it wasn’t another murder. People simply didn’t go around doing in the members of a noble family, however recently ennobled.
But if they did, who was next?
Before she had time to follow up this horrifying train of thought, Alec came in. Striding towards the desk he didn’t notice her until she said, “Darling?”
“Daisy! Wait a moment.” He sat down, pulled the telephone closer, and clicked impatiently until the operator responded, when he asked for a London number. “Yes, I’ll hold the line. What is it, Daisy?”
“I just wondered. About Lord Fotheringay.”
“No answers yet. The local man doesn’t feel competent to do the autopsy so I’m trying to get hold of Sir Bernard Spilsbury.”
“Then you think he was murdered? Someone’s decided to do in the Fotheringays, one by one?”
“If it’s murder, which I don’t yet know, I’m sure it’s because he knew something which might lead to Lady Eva’s murderer. For pity’s sake don’t go putting it into people’s heads that someone has it in for Fotheringays in general.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling. But Inspector Crummle is putting—” She stopped as Alec held up his hand.
“Hello?” He spoke for some time, waited, impatiently told the operator that yes, he’d have another three minutes, spoke again, and finally hung up. “Between the interest of the case
and the lure of the peerage, he’s agreed to do it as soon as we can get the body to him.”
“I think I saw the mortuary men waiting in the hall.”
“Yes, hold on just a minute.” He went to the door, which opened as he reached it. “Tom, you’ve got something already?”
“Easy, Chief. Seems Lord Fotheringay told Mr. Baines he’d take his tea in the conservatory today, and the parlourmaid carried in the tray at a quarter to five and then went to help in the drawing room, where the rest had theirs. She set it on the table near the garden door, in the middle there. His lordship was off at the far end messing about at his potting bench.”
“So the teapot was sitting there for up to a quarter of an hour before Bincombe arrived on the scene and found him drinking.”
“She said sometimes he was so busy with his plants he let it grow cold. She usually went in after a bit to see if he needed more hot water, but she had to take up a tray to Mr. Montagu too, then service in the drawing room kept her running, there being so many guests. Later, she went to clear up Lord Fotheringay’s tea-things, just like normal. That’s her job, she says, and that’s what she did, though extra quiet and quick seeing he was lying there dead. That was before Mrs. Fletcher started wondering if it was suspicious and came and told us.”
“I dare say there was a bit of morbid curiosity in it.”
“Likely. But just because he was dead, she didn’t see why she shouldn’t dump the tea-leaves on his plants, like he always said to do. Seems it’s good for ’em. And she showed me which plant she dumped them on and I took a look. There’s some cut-up leaves that don’t look like tea to me. Dr. Philpotts thinks it could be oleander.”
“You’ve taken a sample?”
“Sealed in one of them nice little jars with a label they put in the Murder Bag. Didn’t I always say we needed something like it? Just over a month we’ve had ‘em and how many times have we used ’em already?”
“You were dead right, Tom. Now give the jar to those mortuary men and I’ll leave you to persuade them they have to take it and the body to London post haste. Spilsbury’s agreed to do the autopsy this evening.”
“Right, Chief.”
Alec came back. “What were you saying about Crummle, Daisy? What is he putting where?”
“Not where. He’s busy putting the wind up all and sundry.”
“Damnation! Sorry, love. What is it Arbuckle used to say? Tarnation! All the man is supposed to be doing is checking everyone’s whereabouts at tea.”
“He seems to be leaving people with the impression that there’s a homicidal maniac about, or alternatively that they’re about to be hauled off to the police station to be grilled. Dire warnings in all directions. Sir Leonard’s madly trying to pour oil on the troubled waters.”
“Oh … heck! Useful language, American. I’d better go and see what … Piper!”
Detective Constable Ernie Piper came into the library with a jaunty step, waving his notebook. “Got the goods, Chief. I’d’ve been here ages ago but the car that met me had a burst tyre. Afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Piper. Let’s hope you can at least narrow the field of suspects!”
“Off with you, Daisy. This is not for your ears, remember. Go and help Sir Leonard with the soothing oil.”
“Right-oh,” said Daisy reluctantly.
In the hall, Tom Tring was arguing with two men in white coats, who held respectively a roll of canvas and two poles. Daisy lingered, lurking beside a pillar, to listen, in case she might be able to put in a decisive word.
“Who’s a-goin’ to pay for the petrol, that’s what I want to know,” said the man with the canvas in the voice of one repeating himself for the umpteenth time.
“Us come to fetch a corpus to the morgue in Cambridge,” said the other obstinately, “not Lunnon.”
“Plans have changed,” said Tom with monumental patience. “Your orders—”
“My orders is what the guv’nor told me afore us set out.”
“May I be of assistance, Sergeant?” Sir Leonard came out of the antechamber where Crummle was interrogating and infuriating Fotheringays and Devenishes and twigs of their family trees.
“Mr. Fletcher has arranged for Sir Bernard Spilsbury to do the post-mortem, sir. Lord Fotheringay’s body must be taken to London. These gentlemen are concerned about having the proper authorization to go so far beyond their usual bounds.”
“What I want to know,” said the man with the canvas, “is who’s a-goin’ to pay for the petrol?”
Taking out his note-case, Sir Leonard said, “I am the Chief Constable of this county. I authorize and order you to follow Detective Sergeant Tring’s instructions. Here, take this.” He handed over a five-pound note. “I shall want an accounting.”
“Us’ll be on the road come supper-time,” said the man with the poles suggestively.
“A shilling apiece for supper,” spluttered Sir Leonard, “after you make your delivery. Be off with you before I change my mind!”
The stretcher-bearers scuttled away.
“Thank you, sir,” said Tom.
“I suppose this mean Mr. Fletcher is convinced of foul play?”
“No, sir, this is to find out. I understand the local police surgeon feels the determination is beyond his resources.”
“I’m afraid my people are letting you down right and left,” said Sir Leonard, pulling a rueful face. “I’ve just removed Inspector Crummle from the case. I really can’t have him upsetting so many people of standing. Luckily HQ rang through with news of a new case I was able to transfer him to.”
“Most fortunate, sir,” said Tom blandly.
“It’ll mean more work for you and Mr. Fletcher, I’m afraid, but I’ll leave you several constables.”
“I’m sure Mr. Fletcher will be very grateful, sir. As it happens Detective Constable Piper has just joined us, so Mr. Crummle’s … ah … assistance is no longer of such importance.”
“Excellent, excellent. I have all Crummle’s notes with me here, so I’ll just hand them over to Mr. Fletcher now, then I’m off home for dinner. In the library, is he?” The Chief Constable limped towards the library.
Following the mortuary men, Tom winked at Daisy. He’d known all the time she was there, of course. Nothing much escaped Tom Tring’s small, brown, twinkling eyes.
Giving him a wave, she was about to head for the drawing room when the wicket in the great front door started to open.
Curious as to who would come in that way without ringing the bell and waiting for a servant, Daisy paused. In stepped a very smart middle-aged woman, her hair marcelled beneath a cockaded cloche Lucy would not have disdained, her face unobtrusively but perfectly made-up. Her navy linen costume, piped in pale yellow and worn over a pale yellow pleated blouse, was the last word in elegance. Beneath a hem barely covering her knees, slim legs in skin-toned stockings ended in navy glace shoes with Cuban heels.
A wedding guest, Daisy assumed, and one sufficiently closely related to the family to walk in unannounced. John Walsdorf must have failed to reach her with the message about Lady Eva.
Reluctantly, Daisy decided it was up to her to break the horrible news before the newcomer dropped a brick. She moved towards her.
The woman met her with an amused smile. “Don’t you recognize me, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Daisy stared. She felt her mouth drop open and closed it abruptly. “Good heavens,” she said, “Lady Ione?”
“In the flesh, and a lot of new clothes.”
“Lady Ione Fotheringay,” said a loud male voice, “it is my duty to warn you that—”
Crummle! Daisy swung around. “Don’t be an ass, Inspector. Lady lone has returned, hasn’t she?”
“Wanted for questioning,” said Crummle doggedly.
“By Alec—the Chief Inspector—not you. I believe you have been urgently summoned to take over a new case.”
He scowled. Without another word, he stalked to the front door. Daisy heaved
a sigh of relief as he disappeared, with luck for good. Alec would get on much better without him.
“Thank you,” said Lady lone gaily. “I suppose he wanted to arrest me for Aunt Eva’s murder?”
“I’m not sure that he was actually contemplating an arrest, but you must admit it looked a bit fishy when you departed so abruptly. Especially after your pronouncement at breakfast.”
“Yes, when you put it like that, I can see I ought at least to have told someone where I was going. When one is suddenly and unexpectedly released from prison, one rather loses sight of common sense. I should have held my tongue in the first place.”
“You’d have had to give Alec some explanation in any case. Of your transformation, I mean. He’d hardly credit that it’s unconnected with the murder.”
“Alec?” Lady Ione’s cheerful insouciance began to give way to uneasiness.
“My husband, Detective Chief Inspector Alec Fletcher. Of course, you don’t know, your father had Alec called in to head the investigation.”
“He won’t think I killed her, will he? Just because I went shopping?”
“Not exactly ‘just because,’” Daisy pointed out.
“I didn’t do it, you know. After twenty-five years, why should I choose this moment?”
“If you didn’t do it, you have nothing to worry about, but you must see you’ll have to explain.”
“I can’t! For twenty-five years, I’ve danced to Aunt Eva’s tune to stop her telling! How can I turn around now and bare my soul to a policeman?”
“Well,” said Daisy doubtfully, “I dare say he doesn’t actually need the details. You could try just saying she knew something you didn’t want broadcast to the world. Not that he’d broadcast it if he did know. Policemen have to be frightfully discreet.”
“And policemen’s wives likewise, no doubt. Oh, they’re taking her away. The endless nightmare is really over.”
Daisy looked round. The stretcher-bearers had put their canvas and poles together and were stolidly carrying their burden across the hall under Tom’s vigilant eye.
“Oh, that’s not Lady Eva,” she said. “Gosh, I forgot, you don’t know about that, either.”