Sheer Folly

by Carola Dunn

  “Odd! I wonder why he wants to see me first.” Daisy didn’t expect an answer, far less the one she got.

  “It was Mr. Pritchard, madam. He told the inspector he ought to talk to you before anyone else.”

  Daisy didn’t know whether to be flattered, affronted, or dismayed. She felt rather as if Pritchard had thrown her to the wolves, but why?

  She thanked the girl and proceeded to the den, wishing it was interrogation by Alec she was going to face.

  Without knocking, she went straight in and announced baldly, “I’m Mrs. Fletcher. You wanted to see me?”

  “Ah, yes, Mrs Fletcher.” The man behind the desk rose and came round to offer her a chair. His face gave away nothing of his thoughts, neither irritation at having been told by Pritchard what to do, nor gratitude for her compliance, but he said, “Thank you for coming. I’m Detective Inspector Boyle of the Wiltshire police, and this is Detective Sergeant Thomkin.”

  “How do you do?” Daisy sat down. “What exactly makes you think I’m the best person to help you get started?”

  “Mr. Pritchard told me you’re a straightforward sort of person, madam. I’d say his judgement in that is already borne out. He also said he believes you to be observant, clear-sighted and unbiassed.”

  Even as Daisy stored up these compliments to relay to Alec, she felt herself blushing as she made a couple of mental reservations: She was not so unbiassed as to credit for a moment that Lucy or Julia could have anything to do with the explosion. “That’s a lot to live up to,” she said guardedly.

  “We shan’t hold his words against you, if he was—ah—exaggerating a little,” said Boyle with apparent solemnity.

  “I should hope not! What is it you want to know?”

  “I gather you and Lady Gerald have been here several days. Tell me about the people who were here when you arrived. Let’s keep it simple: make it in order as you encountered them. I’ll probably interrupt with questions.”

  “Right-oh. The first person we met was Lord Rydal, the victim. He had fetched our suitcases from the station, as no one else was available.”

  “He was a friend of yours?”

  “Lucy—Lady Gerald—knew him slightly, just because they both move in the same circles of society. I’d never met him before. I’d heard of him, but only because my brother was at school with him.”

  “A friend of your brother’s, then.”

  “I don’t think he ever was, but in any case, not for the past several years. Gervaise was killed in the War. I rather doubt Lord Rydal had any real friends. One way or another, he managed to insult practically everyone.”

  “Including you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  Daisy frowned in thought. “To tell the truth, I can’t remember any specific incident. He was just so generally objectionable, there was no point in taking it personally. Half the time he didn’t even realise he was upsetting people, perhaps didn’t realise other people have feelings to be hurt. I think—I have children, you know. Do you, Inspector?” Boyle nodded, and she went on, “I think little children have to be taught to consider the feelings of others, and perhaps Rhino never was. He went through life like a blind bull—or rhinoceros—in a china shop, never noticing the destruction he wreaked.”

  Boyle nodded again, but gave no other sign that he understood what she had tried to explain. “Rhino was his nickname?”

  “Thick-skinned, and pots of money.”

  “Who’s his heir?”

  “Good heavens, I haven’t the foggiest! Do you suppose his heir could have followed him here and somehow found out he was going to—”

  “I don’t know enough yet to suppose anything. He made enemies of everyone in the house?”

  “ ‘Enemies’ is a bit strong. Umm . . .” She reflected on the past couple of days. “I can’t actually name anyone he wasn’t rude to at some point,” she confessed. “But people don’t go about murdering people just because they were rude.”

  “It’s not unknown,” Boyle said dryly. “Let’s continue with your arrival. What induced Lord Rydal, not a personal friend and so generally disobliging, to fetch your and Lady Gerald’s bags for you?”

  Daisy hesitated. But if she didn’t tell him, plenty of others would. “Julia. Miss Beaufort. He believed himself madly in love with her.” No need to explain that Julia had more or less invented the errand to get rid of him for a while.

  “Miss Beaufort told you Lord Rydal was in love with her?”

  “Gosh, no. Julia isn’t the sort to boast of something like that.”

  “Boast?”

  “Well, however appalling he is—was—there’s no denying he was an earl and a very well off one. She would have been a rich countess.”

  “So Miss Beaufort was eager to marry Lord Rydal?”

  “On the contrary, she couldn’t stick him at any price. It was her mother who thought he was a great catch.”

  “Her mother.” Boyle consulted a list. “Lady Beaufort was pressing Miss Beaufort to accept the suitor she hated, and lo and behold! The suitor is murdered.”

  “Bosh! Nowadays girls don’t let their mothers choose husbands for them. Besides, Lady Beaufort changed her mind. I heard her say so.”

  “To her daughter?”

  “Who else would she tell?” Daisy hoped he wouldn’t notice the evasion, but his next question suggested he was well aware of it.

  “Miss Beaufort is an old—let me rephrase that—a friend of yours of long standing.”

  “She was at school with Lucy and me, but I hadn’t seen her in years before we came here. Let’s see, who did we meet next? It must have been Barker, the butler. A very superior sort of butler. And then Mr. Pritchard.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Neither of us had ever met him before. He invited us because he liked the idea of his grotto being in our book.”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever had much to do with house-parties,” the inspector said severely, “but this seems to me a very odd one.”

  “It is,” Daisy agreed. “You have to remember that Lucy and I are here on business, and Sir Desmond, too, and our being here is the only reason Alec and Gerald and Lady Ottaline came.”

  “Business?”

  “Sir Desmond’s on government business. Something to do with slum clearance, I believe, but you’ll have to ask him.”

  “And you and—uh—Lady Gerald? What’s your business?”

  “I told you, our book. Nothing to do with plumbing or gas or explosions. It’s about follies and—. Oh, gosh, I’ve just thought. Perhaps our publisher won’t want to include the Appsworth grotto now it’s in ruins and someone’s been killed in it! I wonder if Lucy—”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, could we please get back to my business?”

  “Do you want to go back to the order in which I met people? Because Sir Desmond didn’t come into it till much later.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No, he and Lady Ottaline—”

  “Never mind! We’ll get to them in their proper place. Let’s see, you’d reached Mr. Pritchard, who you’d never met before.”

  “That’s right. He came out to the hall to greet us. He took us into the drawing room, where Lady Beaufort and Julia—”

  “Half a mo. Didn’t you tell me about them already?”

  “Only because you asked about the baggage.” Daisy was beginning to feel as confused as Boyle sounded. “This always happens when Alec wants everything in order from the beginning. It’s all interconnected, but more like a web than a chain.”

  “Always?”

  “Always?”

  “You said ‘This always happens . . .’ ”

  Daisy felt the blood suffuse her cheeks. Twenty-eight years old and still blushing like a schoolgirl! It was downright humiliating. “I’ve . . .” Assisted? Better not, Alec might deny it. “I’ve been involved in a couple of his cases.”

  Boyle’s face went blanker than ever. “No doubt that would explain why he . . .” He didn’t voice the remai
nder of his thought, so Daisy was sure it must be uncomplimentary, but whether to Alec or herself she couldn’t be sure. Which was probably just as well.

  “I’ll keep going with our arrival,” she said hurriedly. “It was tea-time. Lady Beaufort and Julia—Miss Beaufort—were in the drawing room. So was Mrs. Howell. She’s Mr. Pritchard’s sister-in-law and she lives here, though they don’t seem to get on very well together. Let’s see, I think Mr. Howell had come home by then. He’s her son, Mr. Pritchard’s nephew, or rather his late wife’s, if you want to be precise. He runs their factory. Fortyish, and a confirmed bachelor to all appearances, but I haven’t talked much to either of the Howells. I think that’s all—. No, Mr. Armitage was there, too. And Lord Rydal came in after us.”

  “Armitage? Who’s this Armitage?”

  “He’s staying here, but for a while, not just visiting for a few days as we are.”

  “For a while?”

  “I don’t know exactly how long he’s been here or how long he intends to stay. You’ll have to ask him, or Mr. Pritchard. I don’t know much about him except that he’s Canadian.” And madly in love with Julia, but let Boyle find that out for himself. “Oh, and he’s a historian. He was very helpful in giving me information for my article.” After a still unexplained initial reluctance.

  “Article? I thought you and Lady Gerald were writing a book.”

  “I’m writing and she’s taking photographs for a book. I’m also writing an article.”

  DI Boyle’s inexpressive face actually contrived to brighten. “Lady Gerald has taken photographs of the grotto?”

  “Of the two outer caves, at least. I don’t think she took any of the bit that blew up. It wasn’t very interesting. But they’re not snapshots, they’re plates, and she’ll want to develop them herself.”

  “I would remind you, Mrs. Fletcher, that this is a murder investigation.”

  “You don’t need to remind me. It’s Lucy you’ll have to convince that your investigation is more important than her art. Irreplaceable art, what’s more. We need those pictures. Lucy—”

  “Do I hear my name being taken in vain?” Lucy drawled from the doorway. “Rumour reached us, darling, that you were all on your lonesome being interrogated. Julia thought we’d better come and make sure you’re holding your own.” She sauntered into the room.

  Her words implied that Lucy herself was not at all concerned about Daisy’s ability to stand up to a policeman or two. As usual, she was cool, calm, and collected, unlike Julia, who followed her in.

  But of course, whichever way you looked at it, Julia had a great deal more to worry about. Not that Lucy’s calm was destined to last very long.

  Inspector Boyle stood up. Daisy introduced him. “Darling,” she continued, “Mr. Boyle is sure your photos of the grotto are going to prove very useful to him.” She sat back to enjoy the fireworks.

  “My photos?” Lucy sounded as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “My photos? The ones I’ve spent the last three days getting absolutely perfect? You can’t be serious!”

  “Absolutely serious, Lady Gerald. All I have is a rough sketch plan. Your photographs may be vital in working out exactly what happened.”

  “What happened is that some benefactor of humanity turned on the gas and let Rhino blow himself up. You don’t need my plates to work that out. And you’re not getting them.”

  “Lady Gerald, you are obstructing the—”

  “I’ve obstructed the police in the course of their duties before, and no doubt I’ll do it again!”

  “Well, now, what have we here?” Alec came in, looking much more himself, though either his dark hair had greyed a bit while Daisy wasn’t watching or he still had chalk dust in it. “Three little girls from school. I do beg your pardon, Miss Beaufort. We’re not well enough acquainted for me to—”

  “Really, Alec!” said Lucy in disgust. “That is not at all helpful. This person wants me to hand my photography plates over for some incompetent nincompoop to ruin, after I—”

  “I’ll get a warrant if I have to, sir. They may—”

  “Now just calm down, both of you. No, Lucy.” He held up his hand. “Hear me out. Boyle, is there any reason Lady Gerald should not develop her own plates and provide you with prints?”

  “I suppose not,” Boyle admitted grudgingly. “But we don’t have our own darkroom in Swindon. I’ll have to make arrangements.”

  “Saturday evening,” Daisy pointed out. “You won’t find a commercial photographer open till Monday.”

  “It seems to me,” Lucy said, a waspish note in her voice, “if I have to do it, it’ll be quickest and easiest if I dash back to town and use my own darkroom. I don’t know how Gerald’s going to like leaving a couple of hours after he arrived, having spent the interim digging.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Lord Gerald yet,” the inspector said doggedly. “I need him to stay, as a witness to finding the victim. Or victims.”

  “I’m quite sure my husband will have nothing to add to what Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher can tell you.”

  “Nonetheless, I need to hear his description. And if you were thinking of staying in London, I’ll be needing you to come back as soon as the photos are ready. I’ll send Detective Sergeant Thomkin with you,” he added with a reckless air. “Leave your notes with me, sergeant.”

  Thomkin looked alarmed—even though he was ignorant as yet of Lucy’s driving habits.

  Lucy was furious. “For pity’s sake, Inspector! You expect me to drive off into the night with that . . .” She glanced for the first time at Thomkin. “. . . With such a dashing young man? My husband would definitely not approve.”

  Daisy and Alec exchanged a glance. Gerald might be a rugger Blue and a financial wizard, but he’d never had a determining influence on Lucy’s actions.

  The sergeant protested incoherently, whether at being sent to London with Lady Gerald or at her imputation of dashingness was impossible to disentangle.

  “On the other hand,” said Lucy, amusement abruptly taking the place of annoyance, “did you want prints of all the pictures, Inspector? Every single one?”

  “Certainly. It’s for me to decide which are important.”

  Lucy heaved a deep, dramatic, and undoubtedly spurious sigh. “If you insist, I suppose I have no choice. Come along, what’s your name, no time to waste. You can carry the plates down to the car for me.”

  “Yes, your ladyship. Thomkin, your ladyship.” He gave his superior a reproachful look and his notebook, then followed Lucy out.

  Inspector Boyle turned to Julia. While he explained to her that he would take her statement later and she had no need to stay at present, Alec said to Daisy in a low voice, “What the deuce is Lucy up to?”

  Daisy had an inkling of what was in Lucy’s mind, but she gave him a wide-eyed, misleadingly ingenuous look as spurious as Lucy’s sigh. “Up to, darling? What makes you think she’s up to something?”

  “I know Lucy,” said Alec grimly.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Now I have no one to take notes,” said Detective Inspector Boyle gloomily. “I’ve got some men coming over from Devizes, but it’ll take them a couple of hours to get here. Swindon can’t spare anyone on a Saturday night, what with the railway works and all.”

  “I’m very good at taking notes,” Daisy said at once. “Aren’t I, Alec?”

  “I’ve known worse.”

  “You write shorthand?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  “If you don’t mind that she’s the only person who can read it.”

  “Darling, must you be so damping?”

  “It’s only fair that Mr. Boyle should know what he’s getting himself into, if he decides to get.”

  “Am I to assume, sir, that Mrs. Fletcher has taken notes for you in the past? In a police investigation?”

  “Often,” said Daisy.

  “Occasionally. She has never to my knowledge suppressed information she has written do
wn in the course of an interview.”

  Daisy was about to protest against his “to my knowledge,” when Boyle, passing over that derogatory caveat, pounced on the rest.

  “Are you saying Mrs. Fletcher is liable to suppress information otherwise acquired, sir?”

  “I’ve been told so often that hearsay isn’t evidence,” Daisy told Boyle, “that I don’t report it, or gossip, unless it’s of vital importance.”

  “And just who decides what’s of vital importance?”

  “Who decides what’s hearsay?” Alec put in. “You must admit, love, that you’re not altogether certain of the definition.”

  “Even the courts don’t seem able to decide on that,” said Boyle. “All right, Mrs. Fletcher, I’ll accept your kind offer to take notes, but I’d appreciate it if you’d allow me or the chief inspector to determine what’s allowable evidence and what’s not. Come to that, even inadmissible evidence can lead us in the right direction. Now, where were we when we were interrupted?” He opened Thomkin’s notebook, turned to the last written-on page, and stared at it blankly.

  “May I?” Daisy asked, reaching for it. “Perhaps I don’t write the clearest shorthand in the world but I’m an expert at deciphering it. Besides, what he wrote is what I told you.”

  Reluctantly Boyle handed the notebook over. “You’d better read it out loud from the beginning. Mr. Fletcher missed it.”

  Daisy had no difficulty reading the detective sergeant’s shorthand. She found her description of residents and guests at Appsworth transformed into indigestible officialese, so she transformed it back, in the process glossing over certain aspects. After all, her worry about the publisher refusing to include the scene of a murder in the folly book was not relevant. Alec wouldn’t want to hear her philosophising about Rhino’s upbringing and the twins. And she had exaggerated Julia’s dislike of Rhino, giving Boyle the false impression that it could have led to murder. No need to repeat his words to Alec, who would much prefer to draw his own conclusions.