Heirs of the Body: A Daisy Dalrymple Mystery (Daisy Dalrymple Mysteries)

by Dunn, Carola

  “The twins will invent games for it,” she said as they turned away.

  “I suppose they’ve provided barrels somewhere for rubbish?”

  “Don’t throw it away! That looking glass has provided increasing sums for good causes at least since I was a child. If you give it to the vicar’s wife, she’ll see that it goes back among the white elephants at the next jumble sale.”

  Raymond shook his head in wonderment. “If you say so!”

  “Mummy!” Belinda hurried up to them. “Hello, Uncle Raymond. Mummy, I’m glad I found you. Derek and Ben are having a go at the archery. They say girls aren’t allowed. Will you come and make them let me?”

  “I’ve done some bow hunting,” Raymond said unexpectedly. “I’ll go with you. On the veldt, most women know how to shoot in case of necessity. I don’t see why you shouldn’t try your skill with a bow and arrows.”

  “All right, pet?”

  “Oh yes, Mummy. They’re bound to listen to Uncle Raymond.”

  They left Daisy to contemplate Bel’s lack of confidence in her stepmama’s persuasive ability. She also gave some thought to Raymond’s sudden show of an amiable side to his nature, hitherto invisible. She couldn’t believe he’d been concealing a liking for young people. Perhaps he just wanted to show off, though she would have thought he considered himself too superior in every way to need to demonstrate the fact.

  SIXTEEN

  After chatting with several people, Daisy decided she’d better go and check on Martha.

  Martha was knitting. “A scarf to start with,” she said proudly, holding up a pale blue square. “Purl as well as plain. Mrs. Latchett says I can keep the needles and this ball of wool.”

  “Very nice.” Knitting was another skill Daisy had never attempted. “Are you ready for a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please. Mrs. Latchett, I can’t thank you enough for teaching me.”

  “Anytime you want another lesson, bach, just you have Bill Truscott run you down to the shop—Latchett’s, in the main street.”

  “It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Latchett,” said Daisy. “I’ll have someone bring you a cup of tea.”

  “That’s all right, thank you, madam. Someone’ll soon be taking over for me here.” She chuckled. “And thank you for making Mr. Raymond buy the looking glass! It’s all over the fair.”

  They made their way to the tea tent. Daisy was pleased to see her sister sitting at a table to one side.

  “Vi, you remember Martha. Mrs. Samuel.” They had met at lunch the day before.

  “Yes, of course.” Violet smiled her gentle smile. “Do come and sit down, Mrs. Samuel—”

  “Martha, please, Lady John!”

  “As you wish. We’ll make Daisy fetch your tea. John’s getting mine.”

  “Is Mother here?”

  “Come and gone, like a whirlwind. The gardener was sent to spy for her, to let her know as soon as Geraldine left. She had a word with Edgar. I don’t know what was said. Then she departed, in case Geraldine should come back. Martha, you’re one of the family, so I know you’ll be discreet.”

  Martha blushed with pleasure. “Oh yes, Lady John.”

  “Violet,” Vi told her, smiling, just as her husband arrived with a tray of tea and pastries.

  “Hello, Daisy. Hello, Cousin Martha. Just let me empty this tray and I’ll go back—Oh, here’s Owen. Be a good chap, and fetch tea for Mrs. Fletcher and me, will you?” He gave the dowager’s gardener a handful of coins. “And keep the change.”

  Owen grinned. “Right away, m’lord.”

  “Milk and sugar not optional, I’m afraid,” John said, passing a thick white cup of muddy liquid to Martha and one to his wife. “Have you seen Derek about, Daisy?”

  “Belinda told me he and Ben are taking a turn at archery.”

  “Bows and arrows?” Violet exclaimed. “Oh no! John, remember what happened last time Derek got his hands on bows and arrows? Will you go and—?”

  “Darling, he was only seven when he put an arrow through the butler’s best bowler. Jolly good shot, too, and Mitchell wasn’t wearing it at the time. But I’ll track him down and see what he’s up to as soon as I’ve had my tea. Here it comes.”

  Seeing that Vi was really worried, he drank his tea quickly, excused himself, and departed. Violet and Martha started talking about their children, subjects that had been thoroughly covered with each of them separately by Daisy. She was happy to see them getting on well together, but she had little to add.

  Violet’s concern had to some extent infected her. She doubted that Derek was not by now to be trusted with a bow and arrows, but what about Ben? Was Frank keeping an eye on him or still helping Alec with the twins? He seemed to have a genuine liking for children. No doubt he would make as excellent a father as he was stepfather if Ben was the sought-after “heir of the body” and Frank was able to marry his Carlotta when he returned to Trinidad.

  Ben as viscount—had there ever been a black peer? If so, no doubt Lucy would have the details at her fingertips. Daisy knew only of Lord Sinha, who was Indian, not of African descent.

  Across the crowded marquee, Daisy saw Vincent standing in the line at the tea urns. He still favoured his left leg, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

  Reminded of his accident, Daisy wondered again how accidental it had been. Had someone attacked him? A disgruntled hotel employee? Or someone who wanted to put Vincent out of the running as heir? Raymond? Frank—surely not! One thing was certain, not Martha. Unless her Sam was actually in England, known or unbeknownst to her.…

  Because she liked Martha, Daisy had been assuming that Samuel Dalrymple was a pleasant man, but he was—at least in American terms—a criminal. Though rumrunning and bootlegging had a touch of the romantic allure of Robin Hood, some of those engaged in the illegal trade were violent ruffians. She must not forget that.

  She watched as Vincent shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Then he limped past the queue to speak to the women dispensing the tea and cakes and collecting payment sixpences. Daisy couldn’t hear what he said over the general chatter and clatter, but she saw him making authoratitive gestures, like a bobby on point duty.

  Vincent got results. The three volunteers and a couple of people from the queue started moving cups and saucers and plates and trays around. In no time the table was set up in a much more practical way, more like what Mr. Arbuckle, the American automobile magnate, would call an assembly line.

  Balancing his own tray with the skill of a practised waiter, Vincent went to join Laurette. In no time, the queue was down to four people. One might not like the man, but his efficiency was undeniable.

  On the other hand, everything now moved so smoothly that people were standing about waiting for somewhere to sit down, and the more considerate among those already seated were eating and drinking hastily to make room. Though Vincent had doubtless created the ideal conditions for a restaurant that wanted to keep its patrons moving so as to seat and feed as many as possible, the result was less satisfactory for leisurely country folk.

  However, the ladies in charge were also leisurely country folk. By the time Vincent and Laurette left, a few minutes later, the usual muddle was restored.

  “Don’t you think so, Daisy?” asked Violet.

  “What? Sorry, my mind was wandering.”

  Vi and Martha burst out laughing. “I told you so,” Vi said to Martha.

  “She hasn’t heard a word we’ve said.”

  “And ate and drank without tasting a morsel.”

  Daisy was pleased to see them so much in sympathy. She had no qualms about leaving them together. She was feeling a bit anxious about Belinda having taken Raymond to the archery. John had gone to make sure Derek was being sensible and careful. No doubt he’d do the same for Ben—and for Belinda, come to that—but he wouldn’t be watching for an attack on Ben.

  A surreptitious attack, made to look like an accident. The archery range seemed like an ideal spot. A demonstration shot from Raymon
d, going astray? Or someone concealed nearby and shooting from hiding.…

  Suddenly Daisy was in a great hurry to inspect the setup, to make sure it was not a convenient spot for an ambush.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go and see what Belinda’s up to.”

  “Do,” said Vi. “If you happen to see my younger ones, tell Nanny she can come and leave them with Martha and me for a few minutes while she has a cup of tea.”

  On her way out of the marquee, Daisy crossed paths with the local GP coming in. Dr. Hopcroft was a slight, rather shy man. She had met him and his tubby wife two or three times as dinner guests at Fairacres, though she had never had cause to call for his medical advice.

  “Hello, Doctor,” she greeted him. “Are you here in your professional capacity?”

  “Strictly speaking, no.”

  “And leniently speaking? Your services have been called upon?”

  “Just a broken toe. A young fellow won a coconut, tossed it in the air, and failed to catch it.”

  “Good gracious, I never thought of the coconut shies as dangerous. I’m just on my way to the archery butts to find my daughter. Do you happen to know where it is?”

  “Over at the foot of the hill. They have straw targets set up with the slope behind them, so that if anyone overshoots the arrows hit the ground rather than supplying me with patients.”

  He looked mildly pleased when Daisy laughed at his little joke. He obviously missed the note of uneasiness in her laughter, but she heard it herself and was anxious to be on her way. “Then I hope your enjoyment of the fête won’t be spoilt by any further accidents,” she said fervently.

  “We medical men must always be prepared. You’d be surprised how many people fall over guy ropes at these affairs. I keep my bag in the fortune-teller’s tent.”

  “And the fortune-teller is the district nurse. Most appropriate. I must be going. Please give my regards to Mrs. Hopcroft in case I don’t come across her today.”

  “I’m supposed to meet her in here.” He scanned the still-crowded marquee.

  Daisy hurried on her way. The hill, so-called, was the low, shallow ridge between Fairacres and the Dower House. The drive from the lane to the mansion curved around the southern end. Some quirk of geology had created on the west side a short stretch of steep slope which was ideal as a backing for the targets. However, the slope was not too steep to support a fair number of hazel and hawthorn bushes, ideal for an ambush.

  She passed several acquaintances with a smile and a wave. When she reached the butts, Belinda was fitting an arrow to the bow under the guidance of Raymond. The boys were nowhere to be seen. As Daisy watched, he helped her pull back the string, aim, and loose the arrow. It hit the edge of her target.

  “I did it! We did it. Thank you, Uncle Raymond.” Turning towards him, she saw Daisy. “Mummy, did you see? My first five arrows didn’t even reach the target. Derek said I should do press-ups to make my arms stronger. He has to do them at school. But at least I got one arrow in the target.”

  “Well done, and thank you, Raymond.” Did the diamond magnate have a soft side after all? “Where are Derek and Ben, pet?”

  “They’d nearly finished when I got here. You get six arrows for sixpence and they didn’t want to do it again. Besides, it was time for the three-legged race. Come on, if we hurry maybe we can see them finish.”

  The three-legged race—behind schedule as events at the fête always were—was just about to begin in the meadow by the lane. Unlike the other children’s races, which were mostly watched by parents of participants, it garnered a crowd of spectators. Belinda wormed through to the front. The people she passed, glancing back, parted to let Daisy follow her.

  Kneeling on the grass behind a row of cross-legged small children, Bel pointed. “There they are, Mummy.”

  The starting pistol cracked. Eight pairs of boys, aged from about eight to fifteen, started to stagger down the fifty-yard course. Cheers, jeers, laughter, and cries of encouragement emanated from the crowd.

  Derek’s right leg was bound with a scarf to Ben’s left. They were better matched than most, about the same height and weight, and fiercely determined. They only fell three times, while some gave up after a few feet and others fell with practically every step. However, an older pair had obviously been practising. They stumbled but caught themselves up and won by twenty yards.

  Derek and Ben made it across the line in second place, to shouts of “Well done, Master Derek! Well done, Blackie!”

  Oh dear, Daisy thought. She had noticed the curious glances at Ben, the people who stopped talking when they saw him and muttered together after he passed. No one had spoken to her openly about his colour. Most of the villagers must have known by then that he might conceivably be the next viscount and owner of Fairacres. She’d hoped the possibility would protect him against slights.

  Afraid that he must be upset, Daisy made her way through the throng as quickly as she could, trailing Belinda by the hand.

  The contestants had been separated from their partners. The winners already sported blue ribbons, and a half-crown first prize was tucked safely in each youth’s pocket. Edgar was pinning red rosettes on Derek’s and Ben’s lapels. He shook their hands, said, “First next year, eh?” and turned to the third place pair, the only others who had completed the course.

  Alec was there. While Belinda commiserated with the boys on not winning—it turned out that she had come in second in the egg-and-spoon race, so they were even—Daisy said to Alec, “You took the babies back to the house?”

  “They were getting a bit fractious. But as it happened, Mrs. Gilpin ran us down and insisted on removing them for their nap. You’re looking a bit frazzled, love?”

  “I was worrying about the potential for accidents with bows and arrows. But they seem to have come through unscathed. Bel says they’re racing donkeys in half an hour or so.”

  Alec laughed. “The poor beasts are far too small to cause any serious accidents. I would have said they’re too small to carry kids the size of Bel and the boys. The owner claims they’re quite capable of bearing an adult, only people don’t like to see them with such a load. A Gypsyish chap, unless he dresses up à la Gypsy for the occasion.”

  “He’s probably the same man who brought donkeys to the fête when I was a child. His son, perhaps. Not, I trust, the same donkeys! He takes them round the country fairs to give rides, but his chief business is, or used to be, hiring them out to farmers. That business is probably not doing very well. Most farmers seem to have tractors these days.”

  “Let’s go and look them over. You grew up with horses. You’ll be able to tell whether they’re likely to collapse under the weight of our three.”

  “Darling, I always avoided riding as much as I possibly could. Father and Gervaise were neck-or-nothing hunters, of course, and Vi enjoyed going to a meet on horseback, in a ladylike way, though she never followed the hounds. Mother never went near horses if she could help it. They’re so big! Come to think of it, not riding is probably the only thing she did support me in. Although I did used to enjoy my pony, which, I suppose, was about the size of a donkey.”

  “Small but sturdy. Yon donkeys have a lean and hungry look.”

  “Well, the Ides of March are long past.”

  “My concern is for the donkeys, not the children! Come and see them. They’re over that way.”

  Daisy slipped her arm through his. They walked back past the starting post of the racetrack, where a group of hefty young men were about to run a hundred yards with their sweethearts—some almost equally hefty—on their shoulders.

  The half-dozen donkeys were trudging round a well-worn circle with children on their backs, the first led by an olive-skinned, sharp-featured man in a colourful shirt and a leather jerkin. They were scrawny beasts, but one was ridden by an extremely fat child who couldn’t possibly weigh less than skinny Belinda. It didn’t appear any more overburdened than the rest.

  “They look all rig
ht,” Daisy said dubiously. “They must be sturdier than they look, though I can’t picture any of them actually racing.”

  “Derek might get his moving. He’s done some riding, hasn’t he? Bel’s only been on a similar creature at the seaside.”

  “She’s been on a pony a couple of times, staying with Violet and John. I don’t know about Ben, but it doesn’t seem likely he’s had riding lessons.”

  “Oh well, it’s not far to fall if they slide off. We’ll come back to watch. Let’s go and get a cup of tea. I haven’t had a chance yet, with the twins on my hands.”

  “I’ve had mine, but I’ll come with you.”

  At the entrance to the tea marquee, they met Bill Truscott. “Her ladyship sent me to see if Mrs. Samuel would like a lift back to the house,” he said. “Someone told me she’s in here.”

  “She was last time I saw her, and she didn’t look as if she was thinking of going anywhere. Yes, there she is, with Lady John. Alec, I’ll go and have a word while you get your cuppa.”

  Violet decided to go with Martha back to the house, to call on Geraldine without the dowager’s oppressive presence. Truscott escorted them out.

  Alec had barely time to gulp his tea before they had to hurry back to the donkey track. Of course, the race was nowhere near beginning. The donkeys were no longer patiently plodding round the circle, but their owner was fiddling with saddles and bridles and lengthening stirrup leathers.

  Belinda and the boys were there, gazing at the donkeys and apparently discussing them, with Derek posing as the expert to judge from his gestures. Nearby were another three youngsters of about the same size and age. Two looked like lads from the farms. The third was a sulky-faced girl in newish jodhpurs and a hard hat, carrying a whip. A man in good tweeds was talking earnestly to her. Daisy, with a pang of sympathy, suspected the girl was getting a lecture just like the ones she herself used to get from her father when she balked at mounting a horse. Perhaps he thought riding a donkey would accustom her to the idea.