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

by Dunn, Carola

  “Experienced in the Severn’s moods, at least. My brother and I used to do quite a bit of boating.”

  “Ah.”

  “Thanks, Daisy. I’ll probably be asking you to go back over your impressions of the other incidents, but Raymond’s being the only death—”

  “So far.”

  “The only death, I trust. We’re concentrating on it for the moment.” Alec stood up and the others followed suit, so Daisy reluctantly accepted her dismissal and left them to their cogitations.

  The all-knowing Ernest told her the kids had set up a badminton net on the lawn. Bel and Derek were teaching Ben and Frank to play. Daisy went upstairs to tell Martha that Dr. Hopcroft would call after lunch.

  Sam was in their bedroom, reading poetry to Martha. She looked a bit brighter, whether because of the poems or the attention.

  “John Masefield,” Sam announced cheerfully. “Lady Dalrymple recommended him. Do you know Sea Fever? It’s a cracking good poem.”

  “Does it begin, ‘I must go down to the sea again’?”

  “Seas, with an s.”

  “Very appropriate for you, Sam. How clever of Geraldine to think of it. I always liked that one.”

  “It’s pretty,” said Martha, clutching Sam’s hand, “but I don’t want you to go to sea again till the baby’s born.”

  “I can’t promise, sweetheart, but I’ll do my best.”

  Daisy told them about the doctor, which made Sam look anxious. He went with her to the door and whispered, “Do you think she’s really ill?”

  “No, not for a minute. I just think it won’t hurt to have him take a look. Perhaps she needs a tonic or something like that.”

  Satisfied, he returned to Martha’s side. Daisy went down to the garden. She waved to the badminton players, but went straight on down the lawn to the river. The comparative coolness of the air near the water made her realise how hot the day was growing.

  Though the river was well below the banks, swirls and eddies in the brown torrent made it too dangerous for a small rowing boat with kids at the oars. A narrow boat was barely making way upstream, the boatman standing in the bow with a boat hook to fend off floating branches, while his wife steered. She waved to Daisy. The superstructure was painted with the usual cheerful, colourful roses and castles, but Daisy thought it must be a hard life. She couldn’t imagine living in such a tiny space.

  She returned to the house via the backwater. The skiff looked spruce, either undamaged or repaired earlier. Clouds of midges danced about Daisy. She fanned her face with her hand to keep them away.

  The winding path through the wood, along the little stream, was shady. Daisy peered into the brambles and nettle beds as she passed, not that she expected to spot a blade where Alec and his minions had failed. All the same, she walked a few yards along some of the narrow paths made by rabbits and foxes and badgers, hoping to see a glint of metal.

  The soft leaf mould underfoot changed to gravel when she reached the laburnum alley. Dappled sunlight filtered through the close-woven, well-leaved vines overhead, with their dangling pods full of poisonous seeds. She must remind Nurse never to bring the little ones here in search of a shaded place to run.

  Coming to the break in the alley, with the footpath leading across the park on her left and the lawn on her right, Daisy paused before stepping out into the full sun.

  This was where Vincent had been stabbed. As he left the deep gloom under the laburnums for the sunset twilight, or as he moved back into the shadowy continuation of the alley? Laurette had babbled about it but Daisy couldn’t remember.

  It was really an odd place to choose for a stroll at dusk. Very little light would have penetrated the dense foliage above.

  She looked about, trying to envisage exactly what had happened.

  The attack must have occurred as Vincent and Laurette moved out of the shelter, as Daisy was about to now, because if the attacker had been lurking ahead, outside the laburnums, they might well have spotted him. Vincent had been on Laurette’s left, because the cut had been on his left side. The attacker would not risk waiting on the right, the lawn side. At the time, Alec and Daisy had been walking there, where the kids and Frank were still busy with shuttlecock and battledore.

  So Vincent was on Laurette’s left. He had heard a sound and turned towards it.…

  No, he had been stabbed from behind, not from the side, not in the shoulder or upper arm. It only made sense if he had mistaken the direction of the sound and swung to his right.

  Unless, perhaps, the crunch of the couple’s footsteps on the gravel had covered the sound of the attacker’s steps, and Vincent had just happened to turn slightly towards Laurette at the moment he was struck. It wouldn’t be surprising if they had been flustered enough to persuade themselves they had heard the attacker.

  The attacker was certainly not a very effective murderer. Frank? Sam? Daisy had been almost convinced of Raymond’s guilt until he became a victim. That demonstrated the peril Alec was always warning her about, of assuming someone one liked could not possibly be a villain, and vice versa.

  Now the list of suspects had shortened to Sam and Frank.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The atmosphere at lunch was uneasy.

  Alec, Tom, and Ernie Piper ate in Edgar’s den. Vincent and Laurette persisted in their resolution not to leave their room.

  “Has a tray been taken to them?” Geraldine asked Lowecroft when he delivered this news.

  “Naturally, my lady.”

  “At least they trust my staff, it would seem! Martha’s not coming down, Samuel?”

  “She’s feeling rotten, my l—Cousin Geraldine. Not hungry, but I made her promise to try to eat a bite or two.”

  “I rang Dr. Hopcroft,” Daisy put in. “He’s going to call this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Daisy. Lowecroft, I wish to speak to the doctor after he’s seen Mrs. Samuel.”

  “I shall inform him, my lady.”

  The children were present. Belinda asked anxiously, “Will Aunt Martha be all right, Mummy?”

  “I’m sure she will, darling. Dr. Hopcroft will know how to make her more comfortable. Remember how he stopped your nosebleed?”

  “And it didn’t even swell up at all,” Ben reminded her.

  The children were satisfied. Raymond’s death and the Vincent Dalrymples’ absence from the scene hadn’t made much impression on them. None of the three had asked about the stabbing so Daisy assumed everyone had had more sense than to tell them about it. She hoped Alec wouldn’t want to question them.

  They had reached the pudding course—a fluffy lemon mousse, sweet and tart and perfect for a hot day—when Alec came in.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Cousin Geraldine. I wanted to catch you all together.” He glanced round the table. “Where are Vincent and Laurette?”

  “Barricaded in their room still. Servants-only admitted.”

  “They’ll admit me. As you’ve all doubtless heard by now, my two detective sergeants have arrived from London. Geraldine, DS Tring will be talking to the servants. Would you be kind enough to instruct them to cooperate?”

  “Lowecroft, you heard Mr.… um…”

  “DCI.”

  “DCI Fletcher. Please see that everyone gives DS Tring full cooperation.”

  “Certainly, my lady.”

  Alec continued, “I’d like to ask all of you to stay within easy reach, as I may want to speak to you again this afternoon.”

  Edgar’s face brightened. “I’ll tell Wharton I can’t go with him to inspect the home farm!”

  “Thank you, sir.” Alec preserved a straight face except for a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  “I presume coffee on the terrace is acceptable,” Geraldine said.

  “By all means.”

  Edgar brightened still further. “Then I may go to the conservatory?”

  “Anywhere in the house, sir, except that I’ll beg the continued use of your study. Outside, please stay close enough to be
easily visible.”

  Even in the shade, it was as hot or hotter on the terrace, though less stuffy than in the house. No sign of thunderclouds, just the sun beating down. The air above the lawn shimmered.

  Lowecroft and Ernest brought out a jug of iced coffee as well as the usual coffeepot. The children tried it but didn’t like it. Edgar soon bore them off to the conservatory—or vice versa. Sam went up to see Martha, returning to say she was snoozing. A maid had told him she ate scarcely a mouthful of lunch but drank several cups of mint tea.

  Geraldine went inside to write letters. Daisy was sure she ought to be writing letters, but she was too limp and lethargic to remember to whom. Frank and Sam asked whether she’d mind if they deserted her for the billiard room.

  “Of course not. I’m going up to see the twins in a bit, after their nap.” She moved to the wicker chaise longue.

  Ernie Piper came out. “Whew, is it ever hot. You happen to know where Mr. Crowley or Mr. Samuel Dalrymple have got to?”

  “They said they were going to play billiards, just a couple of minutes ago. Ernie, what’s going on? What’s Alec up to? Has he received any news from Scarborough or Paris? Has he any ideas about what’s going on here?”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. All I’m allowed to say is the police are making progress in their investigation.”

  Daisy sighed. “I hope that’s true. It’s not at all comfortable having one’s relatives attempting to do each other in.”

  “Happens in the best families,” said Ernie. “I mean—You know what I mean.”

  She smiled at him. “I do.”

  He left. Daisy leant back against the cushions and closed her eyes against the glare.

  She awoke to the sound of the grandfather clock in the drawing room striking three. Groggy, disoriented, she blinked at the sun-drenched world. She had a crick in her neck. Afternoon naps never agreed with her, and it was hotter than ever.

  Pulling herself together, she struggled to her feet. Time to go up to the nursery. She was not looking forward to climbing the stairs.

  “Mama!”

  “Mama!”

  With shrieks of glee, Miranda and Oliver scampered across the lawn towards her. Running to meet them, Daisy saw Mrs. Gilpin in the shade of the great chestnut, seated stiff as a dressmaker’s dummy on a kitchen chair Ernest must have carried out for her.

  Playing with the twins, Daisy managed to forget for a while that even the best families may harbour a felon.

  At Nurse’s decree, playtime ended at last. Daisy held Miranda’s hand up the endless stairs, carrying her up the last flight. Oliver, doggedly determined, reached above his head to hold the banister rail and made it all the way on his own.

  Daisy read them a story, then went down to see how Martha was doing.

  Sam opened the door. He told her Dr. Hopcroft had already called. He had been very soothing. Nothing was seriously wrong, Sam assured Daisy, sounding as if he was reassuring himself. Martha should take it easy, continue to rest with her feet up and stick to small quantities of bland foods until she felt better. She must make herself eat, because though she wasn’t hungry, the baby was. Nibbling a dry biscuit should quell her nausea. Plenty of liquids, he advised, particularly in this hot weather. Milk was best, most nourishing, if she could stomach it.

  A plate of Marie and Bath Oliver biscuits, a dish of junket, a glass of milk, and a teapot showed that cook and housekeeper were doing their part to tempt the invalid. One biscuit showed signs of nibbling. The milk was down half an inch from the creamy ring that showed the original level.

  “Maybe you can persuade her to eat?” Sam said anxiously.

  “I’ll try. I’ll sit with her for a bit, at least, if you’d like to stretch your legs.”

  Daisy managed to persuade Martha to finish the nibbled biscuit and swallow most of the junket, in spite of continuing nausea. Half a cup of mint tea seemed to make her feel worse. Daisy removed the pot to the top of the chest of drawers, out of the way, so that Martha wouldn’t drink more without thinking. She put a glass of water on the table.

  Martha was very hot and sweaty—Daisy’s nanny would have been horrified by the adjective: “Horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, ladies glow” had been one of her favourite maxims. But there it was, Martha was hot and sweaty. Daisy brought a basin of cold water and a flannel and helped her wash face, neck, and arms.

  She wondered whether Alec wanted to question Martha but she didn’t mention it, or talk about murder. The poor girl needed to be cheered up, not depressed.

  Sam returned. “Tea on the terrace, Daisy,” he said. “I’ll stay with Martha till your sister … Oh sweetie, you’ve had a bite to eat. I’m so glad.”

  Down on the terrace, she found Geraldine alone, presiding over the tea tray. “Really, Daisy,” she greeted her, “your mother!”

  “What now?” Daisy accepted a cup of tea and piled a plate with cucumber and watercress sandwiches and a slice of sponge cake.

  “She rang up. Now it’s my fault Raymond died and reporters are swarming round the Dower House.”

  “They are?”

  “Truscott and a bobby were keeping them out of Fairacres, so they’re trying to wring further information from the Dower House instead. As if I could do anything about it!”

  “I can’t imagine what she expects of you.” Daisy hoped Violet would be able to get away. She wasn’t up to the walk across the park on a hot day.

  Frank came out, looking disgruntled. “The same questions over and over again,” he grumbled, swigging a cup of tea standing, then holding out the cup for a refill. “After a bit, you want to make up different answers, just for a change.”

  “Better not,” Daisy advised.

  “Oh, I didn’t. Yet. At least I’m now allowed out of sight of the house. Lady D, would you mind if I pop down to the Wedge for a pint in a while?”

  No longer a suspect, Daisy wondered, or given enough rope to hang himself? No doubt someone would be keeping an eye on him. Tom Tring, perhaps—Tom was as good in pubs as he was with servants, genial, chatty without giving anything away, picking up all sorts of information without upsetting people.

  Pepper and Nana arrived, followed by Edgar and the children, all chattering happily about a Purple Emperor that had hatched today in the conservatory. They had released it in the woods, where it flitted straight to the brambles, its caterpillars’ favourite food.

  “It’s a butterfly,” Ben told Daisy when she enquired. Carefully he added, “Apatura iris. Is that right, Uncle Edgar?”

  “To the letter, my dear boy.” Edgar beamed with fond pride.

  Still no sign of Vincent and Laurette. When Ernest brought out more hot water, Daisy drew him aside and asked whether Alec had been to see them in their room. He had.

  Alec was being utterly infuriating. He wasn’t usually quite so determined to keep her at arm’s length from his investigations, once she was involved. And this one concerned her own relatives, her family! Or perhaps that was why he was keeping her in the dark, now that he had Tom and Ernie’s help?

  Sam arrived. “Your sister’s with Martha,” he told Daisy.

  “I’ll go up, then, and see if Violet has any ideas for making Martha more comfortable.”

  And while on the subject of comfort, it was past time she changed out of the skirt and blouse she had been wearing all day. She had a sleeveless linen frock, a pretty blue-and-green pattern, that would be cool and suitable for dinner, as they weren’t dressing. It was sure to be creased, though. Changing course, she made for her and Alec’s room, to get it out and ring for a maid to iron it.

  The frock was at the back of the wardrobe. As she reached down the coat hanger, she noticed in the corner below it Vincent’s slashed shirt and jacket, roughly folded, where she had deposited them.

  Had Alec forgotten them, amidst the flood of information he was collecting? Abandoning the frock, she took them out and draped them over the back of a cane chair. In his haste to go and look for the weapon, he had given
them only a cursory examination. Perhaps she could find something significant about them and worm her way back into the case.

  She fetched a matching chair and set it side by side with the first, then dressed them, one in the shirt, one in the jacket. She looked. She frowned.

  It was no good saying it couldn’t have happened, because clearly it had happened. Therefore it was not impossible. But she couldn’t understand how a single blow could have caused both cuts. The one in the jacket was just under the armpit, barely missing the seam. The rent in the shirt, spotted with blood that Daisy carefully avoided touching, was considerably longer, lower down, and further back, matching the graze on Vincent’s back.

  Daisy tried to picture the sequence of events that could have produced this result, and failed. It just wasn’t possible.

  She had to tell Alec at once. It was not just a ploy to insinuate herself into the investigation. She took the jacket off the chair—and in doing so noticed a nick in the artificial silk lining, high up inside the front of the sleeve, just where a blade entering from the back would catch it—if no arm was in the way.

  With the shirt folded inside the jacket, cuts hidden, down the stairs she trudged again. After all this exercise, she ought to be slim enough to please even Lucy. In the hall she met the ubiquitous Ernest.

  “Is Mr. Fletcher still in the study?” she asked. “Is anyone with him at present?”

  “Yes, madam, and no, not if you mean any of them you might call suspects. There’s a Dr. Pardoe, him that came to take a look at Mr. Raymond in the garage.” He gave Vincent’s jacket a knowing glance but didn’t comment.

  Daisy knocked on the study door and went in without waiting to be invited. Alec, sitting at the desk as usual, looked up in annoyance. Tom, Ernie, and the doctor stood up.

  Alec rose likewise, saying, “Daisy, what—”

  “Look!” She held up the clothes. “Vincent’s, that he was wearing when—”

  “All right, I’d forgotten them,” he admitted. He took the bundle from her. “Tom and Ernie haven’t seen them. We’ll take a look,” he said dismissively. “Thanks.”