by Carola Dunn
“No, thanks. Mrs. Maple gave me cocoa earlier, which was just what I needed.”
“Oh, good. Good night, then.”
Bolting the door after Jennifer, Daisy noticed that she had dropped the paper of bromide powder on the little table by the door. She picked it up. “Better not take this, darling.”
“I wasn’t going to. But I must say, she didn’t appear to be frustrated at being deprived of the opportunity of slipping oleander into your bedtime drink.”
“No. I quite like Jennifer.”
“She’s all right. She was a fool to marry a penniless foreigner.”
“Oh, Lucy, don’t be so narrow-minded! You don’t like Alec because he’s a policeman and not out of the top drawer, and—”
“I do like Alec, Daisy, now that I know him.”
“I dare say you’d like John Walsdorf if you got to know him. Does he still have family in Luxemburg?”
“I’ve no idea. Why?”
Daisy was thinking of the letter she’d seen in the library. “I just wondered,” she said. “There’s something frightfully romantic about those little tiny countries like Luxemburg—Andorra and Liechtenstein and Monaco.”
“Ruritania,” agreed Lucy, who had adored Ramon Novarro in The Prisoner of Zenda.
“Transcarpathia.” Daisy giggled, remembering the fiery young ex-Grand Duke she had met last year. “Only that’s part of Russia now. Maybe I could persuade an editor to pay me to go and write about the others, the real ones. The Walsdorf family could be a useful connection.”
“I doubt it. If they were anybody, he’d have talked about them.”
“True.” But she didn’t care if they were “anybody” or not, and it would give her an excuse to ask Walsdorf about them. “We’d better get on with our lists. Alec will be sending someone to pick them up.”
“With Mummy jawing away at me, I didn’t really notice anyone else.”
“At least that lets Aunt Vickie out! Picture the scene, yourself sitting there, Aunt Vickie—”
“And Daddy. Poor Mummy, she’s having a rotten time of it. I wish someone would come and tell us how Binkie is!”
“Gerald.”
“Gerald. It’s a nice name, isn’t it? But he’s always been Binkie, I’ll never remember.”
“Do concentrate on your list, darling. This isn’t a game. It may help Alec catch whoever hit Gerald.”
“That horrible brat Erica was sitting near us, smirking. I’m sure she was listening to every word of Mummy berating me for spoiling my chances.”
“Write her down.”
“I’d rather Alec gave her a hard time.”
“Write her down.” Daisy buckled down to her own list.
Entering the drawing room after dinner, Daisy had seen Jennifer already pouring coffee. Daisy had talked to Lady lone for some time, and she remembered watching Sally and Flora. On her way out to meet Gerald, when Aunt Vickie stopped her, she’d noticed Oliver in the background in confab with his brother Henry. Then Sally had caught her and drawn her attention to Jennifer, still busy at the coffee-pot.
Whom had she not seen?
Sir James Devenish had not been there; of that Daisy was sure because out in the hall had been Lady Devenish, lurking in a most suspicious manner. Would she go so far as to hit Gerald over the head to save her beloved Teddy? Because Teddy had the best of all possible alibis for that particular attempt at murder.
Angela had been out in the garden. True, she had apparently saved Gerald’s life, but could that have been to divert suspicion from both herself and Teddy? Suppose she had killed her grandmother for the money, done in Lord Fotheringay because he knew something dangerous to her, then attacked Gerald although he knew nothing, just so she could then save him? Daisy didn’t believe she had so misjudged Angela, but she’d better suggest the far-fetched possibility to Alec.
She hadn’t noticed the Carletons or the Bancrofts in the drawing room, but she hadn’t particularly looked for them. Not evidence, Alec would say.
She read over her short list and comments with dissatisfaction, then glanced at Lucy’s, which was no longer. About to suggest comparing them, she was interrupted by another knock on the door.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Montagu, Mrs. Fletcher.” He was wheezing slightly, as if he’d come up the stairs in a hurry. “Could I have a word with you?”
Daisy and Lucy exchanged looks and both shook their heads. Lady Eva’s brother was on neither list. The last time Daisy had seen him, he was still eating dinner while Rupert, irritated by the defection of most of the men, poured a brandy for Gerald. Assuming Gerald had waited until they all quit the dining room before he came to signal to Daisy, Montagu Fotheringay could easily have watched him go and nipped back to the conservatory to lie in wait.
“Uncle Montie?” breathed Lucy.
Daisy shrugged. “It’s possible. I wish I’d had a chance to ask Alec who’s still on his list!”
Lucy reached for her faithful poker. Daisy went to the door.
Uncle Montie stood there, a massive figure in his crimson dressing-gown. Daisy recalled Lucy’s telling her that the doors between the house and the servants’ wing were kept locked because of his depredations among the housemaids. Was his wheezing caused by excitement, not exertion? Had he nonlethal designs upon her person?
At least, beneath the dressing-gown, he had on all his clothes except for dinner jacket, black tie, and shoes. His loose, bunion-bulged carpet slippers looked most inappropriate for a seduction scene.
“Er, beg you’ll excuse the undress,” he said with obvious embarrassment. “Just came to me a moment ago, perhaps you can give me a hint.”
“A hint, Uncle Montie?” Lucy sauntered to join Daisy, the poker hidden behind her.
“Oh, you here, Lucy?”
“As you see. What sort of hint are you after?”
“Advice. Call it advice.” He gave a hunted look back into the passage and added in a hoarse, urgent whisper, “Not out here, don’t you know!”
“Come in,” said Daisy, resigned.
Lucy slipped around behind him and stuck her head out into the hall. “All clear,” she reported. “Your reputation is safe, Daisy.”
Her great-uncle turned on her an affronted stare. “Nothing of that sort, dash it! Thing of it is, Mrs. Fletcher, the Chief Inspector seems to think I had a hand in doing in poor Eva. Assured him I wouldn’t have harmed a hair of her head, but I can’t say I’m sure he believed me.”
“I’m afraid the police can’t go by what they believe or disbelieve. They have to have evidence.”
“What did Aunt Eva have to say about you in her notes, Uncle?”
“Dash it, Lucy, that’s none of your business! Nothing,” he added without conviction.
“So what advice did you want from Daisy?”
“Thought she might be able to give me a hint about how to persuade Fletcher I was dashed fond of Eva. But if it’s proof he’s after, there’s nothing to be done.” His shoulders slumped despondently, he turned to leave.
Daisy bolted the door after him. “The trouble is,” she said, “when they see you standing guard over me, they have to abandon whatever plans they may have for biffing me on the head, so we can’t tell if they actually had plans.”
“Shall I go back to my room and pop through now and then to see if you’re stretched lifeless?”
“You wouldn’t know who did it. No, but next time someone knocks you could hide in the bathroom with your poker, keeping watch.”
“I might not be quick enough. It’s all very well putting a name to the murderer, but I’d rather you survived the experience.”
“There must be a way—” Daisy started, only to be interrupted again by a knock on the door. “Who is it?”
“Tring, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Tom’s rumble was infinitely comforting. Daisy opened the door, to find the sergeant staring after the Hon. Montagu. “What’s up?” she asked.
“Wearing his dressin
g-gown over his clothes, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, thank heaven.”
“So if a maid took a tea-tray to him in his room and saw him in his dressing-gown, he could be out and about in a few seconds.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“You’re labouring under a misapprehension, Sergeant,” Lucy drawled. “It couldn’t happen that way. All the maids have strict instructions not to enter Uncle Montie’s room alone.”
“Ah!”
“She’d leave the tray outside, knock on the door, and tell him it was there, then buzz off.”
“And when he’s done?”
“He’d put it out to be fetched.”
“So all the while he’s thought to be taking tea in his room, he could quite well be nipping downstairs to mess about with Lord Fotheringay’s tea!”
“I can’t picture Uncle Montie ‘nipping,’” said Lucy, “but otherwise, you’re absolutely right.”
“Ah,” said Tom profoundly. “What about after dinner? Was he in the drawing room?”
Lucy shook her head. “If so, I didn’t notice him.”
“Nor did I,” said Daisy. “He was still eating when everyone else except Gerald and Rupert left the dining room. He’d been with you and Alec, remember. Gerald was going to wait until everyone was gone before he came to the drawing room to fetch me, so … Oh, no, I’d forgotten, he had to wait till the servants had finished clearing up, too. But that would have given Montagu time to go round by the corridor to the conservatory to lie in wait for Gerald.”
“But anyone who left earlier and didn’t come to the drawing room had plenty of time,” Lucy pointed out.
“True. Montagu knew he wouldn’t have to hang about too long, though.”
“I’ll pass it on to the Chief, anyway,” said Tom. “Have you ladies finished your lists?”
Daisy handed them over. “Can you tell me who’s still under suspicion, Tom? It’s rather anxious-making not knowing.”
“Easier to tell you who’s not, but aside from Miss Lucy here and Lord Gerald of course, the earl and countess, and Lady Fotheringay, there’s none I can think of we’re absolutely sure of, because of the possibility of conspiracy. These lists of yours may clear some, and we’ve just got to check that the Reverend and his missus were up with the Haverhills to clear them. Time is what we haven’t had enough of!”
“I know. We won’t keep you any longer. Just tell us how Gerald is.”
“Not good,” said Tom gravely. “Not good at all. And still unconscious.”
Daisy was bolting the door behind him when Lucy said, “I’m going to bed. If anyone else wants to consult you, you’ll just have to talk through the door.”
“Darling!”
“I’m not a nurse. I can’t help him, any more than you can. Good night.” She turned towards the bathroom door, then swung back as another knock sounded. “Oh, hell! Why can’t they leave us alone?”
“Mrs. Fletcher? It’s Adela Carleton.”
“What can I do for you, Lady Carleton? I’m just going to bed.”
“Oh, please, you simply must make your husband let us take Ursula home!”
“I’m sorry, I have absolutely no influence over his investigation. Wouldn’t he let you send her home with your chauffeur?”
“I couldn’t do that. She’s at just the age when girls fancy themselves in love with chauffeurs and footmen and … and that sort of person.”
“Your maid—”
“We only brought one between us, and I can’t possibly spare her.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. Good night, Lady Carleton.” Daisy moved away from the door.
Lucy was still in the room. “I can’t think why Mummy insisted on my having that brat for a bridesmaid,” she said waspishly. “Ursula’s only a second cousin, like Julia and Erica. They needn’t have been invited at all.”
“I seem to remember someone falling for the art master when we were sixteen or so.”
“He was a jolly good photographer, even with the ghastly equipment available then. He taught me a lot.”
“And that’s why you kept sneaking off to the Art Room?” Daisy held up her hand as Lucy opened her mouth to retort. “No, I’m sorry, don’t let’s quarrel. Things are bad enough without that.”
“It’s been an absolutely foul day altogether, hasn’t it? Tomorrow can only be an improvement. ‘Night, darling.”
Lucy went through to the bathroom and closed the door. Daisy sank into one of the easy chairs. She felt she had let Lucy down, not understanding her feelings about Gerald, not knowing what to say to help. She hadn’t been much help to Gerald either, she thought mournfully, nor even to Alec. And now she was too weary even to think about the case.
Before she could fall into a decline, there came yet another knock on the door. Daisy heaved herself to her feet and went over. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Sally.”
Sally couldn’t possibly have hit Gerald. She had been under Daisy’s eye in the drawing room all the time. On the other hand, Daisy was tired and she didn’t like Sally. “What is it, Sally? I’m just going to bed,” she said through the door.
“Oh, I’m sorry to disturb you, but Rupert’s grandfather is awfully disturbed about what’s been going on.”
“Understandably.”
“Yes, of course, but would you mind awfully coming to tell him how the investigation is going, reassure him that everything’s being done that can be done?”
“I don’t know how it’s going. Alec doesn’t tell me what he’s doing.”
“But you were there when—”
“I’ve told Alec all I know, which is practically nothing, and he’s told me practically nothing, which is all I know.” Did that make sense? “But you can tell Lord Haverhill I’m quite sure everything’s being done that can be done. I’m sorry, I really am too tired now. Say I’ll come and see him in the morning.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel …” Sally sounded offended.
“It is,” Daisy said bluntly. “Good night.” Ungracious, she supposed, but even if she had been up to date with Alec’s investigation, she honestly wasn’t up to a harrowing account of the horrors of the day, not even for the Earl.
Any subsequent knocking on her door went unheard. Within a very few minutes she was in bed, and she didn’t have time before she dropped off to wonder whether she’d be able to sleep.
21
Tom came into the library while Ernie Piper was reading back to Alec his shorthand notes of the two doctors’ comments on Lord Gerald.
“You’re doing very well with the medical terminology,” Alec said with approval.
“Once I’ve got it straight, I don’t forget it, Chief. ‘Sides, it’s the same things over and over, isn’t it? Not the oleander poisoning, but strangling and bashing people on the head. Pity more people don’t have heads as hard as this bloke’s.”
“You can say that again,” Tom agreed, setting two sheets of writing paper on the desk. Alec recognized Daisy’s handwriting on one.
“A thick skull seems to be the only thing that saved Bincombe from instant death,” he said. “I wonder … Ah, there you are, Doctor. I was just wondering if you’d completed the post-mortem on Lady Eva before we called you out again.”
Dr. Philpotts entered the library at a brisk stride, followed by Sir Leonard. “All but tidying up. Death was by strangling, of course, by means of that stocking I sent you. She was, as you surmised, half suffocated first with a pillow. I found a few small feathers in the trachea and lungs, which she must have inhaled gasping for breath after the pillow tore. You noted the thread caught in her ring?”
“Yes. With a magnifying glass, it appears to match the pillow ticking.”
“I cut off a snippet and made a microscope slide. If you can let me have a bit of the ticking, I’ll make sure of the match. Not that there can be much doubt.”
“It’s up in her bedroom. Here’s the key, Piper.”
Ernie
dashed off.
“How is the latest victim, Doctor?” asked Sir Leonard.
Philpotts glanced at Alec, who gave a tiny shake of the head. The fewer people who knew of the police surgeon’s comparatively hopeful prognosis, the better.
“In a bad way,” Philpotts answered. “We’ve tucked him up in a makeshift bed in the anteroom near the front door. Mrs. Fotheringay—Mrs. Reverend Timothy, a highly competent woman—is to sit with him until Arbuthnot’s night-nurse arrives.”
“And Constable Stebbins is on guard outside the door until his relief arrives,” Alec added.
“Yes, yes, I telephoned for four fresh men. I’ve spoken to a number of people, Fletcher, impressing on them that they must not retire until you have interviewed them and asking them to spread the word. I suggested they should gather in the drawing room, where you can find them.”
“Excellent, sir.”
“I told the butler to direct people there, also. I thought I’d go and sit with them, show willing, don’t you know, and keep an eye on things, as it were.”
“That will be most helpful, sir.”
“And I’ve just been up to see Lord Haverhill. He’s shockingly distressed, of course. He asked whether you might spare him just a few minutes. I know you’re pressed for time, but I think it would be a good idea if you had a word him, assure him the police are doing their best, and all that sort of thing.”
“I’ll go up to him at once. There are one or two questions I must put to him, anyway. Sergeant Tring, you can make a start on collating those lists and deciding whom we should call in first. After Mrs. Oliver—I see no reason why we shouldn’t take her first.”
“She’s on both lists, sir, Mrs. Fletcher’s and Miss Lucy’s. Out of the picture.”
“Good. Piper can help you when he gets back, but I shan’t be long.”
Alec, Sir Leonard and the doctor went out to the hall, where Sir Leonard made for the drawing room. As Alec turned towards the stairs, the doctor put his hand on his arm.
“Just a moment, Fletcher.” He waited till the Chief Constable had nearly reached the drawing room door before continuing softly, “The palm tree left a bruise on the victim’s back. It was definitely not the cause of the head injury. I kept my mouth shut in front of Sir Leonard …”