by Carola Dunn
“Indignant at Rhino?”
“Yes, but not violently. In general he’s cool, calm, and collected. He rejoices in what you might call an orderly brain. In fact, he’s one of the most rational people I’ve ever met. I can think of much more likely motives for Mrs. Howell to try to get Pritchard arrested.”
“Such as?”
“It boils down to simply getting rid of him. She may have enough money to be independent of him, but she likes being chatelaine of Appsworth House. I’ve heard him talk about letting women have their own way in the house, for the sake of peace, but in actual fact, as far as I can see, everything is run his way. He invites whomever he chooses, his favourite food is served—and his unfavourite not served—”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s a fishy tale, darling, that’s completely irrelevant. I’ll tell you sometime. Suffice it to say, they don’t get on at all well. He teases her and she carps at him—. Oho, more fish! I’ll have to tell Lucy and Julia.”
“Daisy!”
“Sorry. The important thing is that Owen inherits the house, I gather, as well as everything else, including Pritchard’s interest in the company. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, but obviously if Appsworth was his, his mother’s position would be much enhanced. She could even consider herself safely ensconced for life, because he’s not the marrying kind.”
“How on earth do you know?”
“For a start, he’s forty and unmarried. And he appears to appreciate Julia’s looks, but doesn’t follow her about with his tongue hanging out, like Rhino and . . .” Bother! She didn’t want to draw attention to Charles Armitage’s passion for Julia.
“And?”
“And I’ve never seen him show the least sign of jealousy. He’s far more interested in explaining the latest technological improvements in the safety of water heaters than in Julia being beautiful and in need of a wealthy husband.”
“The safety of water heaters? Was it a water heater that blew up out there?”
“Probably. But, if I’ve got this right, it couldn’t have been a steam explosion because—let’s see—because the gas can’t be turned on before the water is. Or something of the sort.”
“I’m going to have to talk to Howell and Pritchard about the technical aspect of the explosion. Or rather, Boyle is. I suppose I’d better bring him up to date on Mrs. Howell’s rant.”
“You don’t believe her, do you?”
“Great Scott, no! Too many inconsistencies in her story, not to mention her manner. But all the same, as you’re well aware, I don’t know nearly enough to cross Pritchard off the list.”
Daisy sighed. “I like him. I can’t believe he’d destroy his beloved grotto just to get rid of an irritating guest who was leaving soon anyway. But I know you and your precious list.”
“ ‘You know my methods, Watson.’ Can you spare a sheet from your notebook, or shall I pinch some of Pritchard’s paper?”
“He wouldn’t mind, but if you feel it’s inappropriate for a policeman to misappropriate his host’s stationery, here you are.” She tore off a blank page and handed it over. “What’s it for?”
“Just a note for Boyle. I don’t want to send a verbal message and have it published to the world before it reaches him. Ring for a servant, would you, love?”
The little maid Rita scurried in a very short time later, as flustered as ever.
“Have you been promoted to parlourmaid, Rita?” Daisy asked her.
“Oh no’m. That Mr. Boyle’s asking Lily questions, and Mr. Barker said I was to come.” She scurried off again with Alec’s note, but some time passed before Boyle appeared. While they waited, Alec asked Daisy what she had really been going to say when she’d stopped herself after comparing Lord Rydal’s pursuit of Julia with Howell’s lack of interest. She should have known he wouldn’t miss her hesitation. She managed to fob him off with the fish story, which made him laugh, but she knew the reprieve was temporary.
Boyle arrived before he could press her. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. The girl only just gave me your note. She didn’t want to interrupt. What’s up?”
“The lady of the house has accused her brother-in-law of blowing up the grotto.”
“Wonderful!” the inspector said acidly. “I can’t possibly get a warrant at this time on a Saturday evening.”
“Not so fast. Wait till you’ve heard what she said. Daisy?”
Daisy read her notes aloud. She had written them recently enough to be able to decipher them without difficulty. Mrs. Howell’s ranting didn’t sound quite as mad in her own prosaic voice, but it was still pretty mad.
“Well now,” Boyle said doubtfully, “that’s not good enough for a warrant, agreed, but Mr. Pritchard’s going to have to account for himself. What was he doing trotting off through the gardens towards the grotto at that time in the morning?”
“I think it’s pure fabrication,” said Daisy. “He told me he had a few things to do in here before he gave me a tour of the house, and I bet he was right here the whole time.”
“Why should Mrs. Howell fabricate a story to incriminate her brother-in-law?”
“You’ll have to explain, Daisy.”
“But it’s all speculation, darling. With a bit of hearsay mixed in, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
In spite of his naturally inexpressive features, Boyle’s look spoke louder than words. “If you recall, Mrs. Fletcher, I told you I want to hear everything.”
So Daisy repeated the arguments she had already given to Alec.
“Sounds reasonable,” Boyle conceded. “All the same, sir, we’ll have to ask him about it.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. However, I don’t consider it urgent. But it’s your case,” Alec apologised.
“Maybe we’d better change that, put it on a formal footing. In the morning I’ll ring up my super and ask him to put it to the Chief Constable—”
“Great Scott, no! The more informal we can keep it, the happier I’ll be. You may have to remind me now and then, though, Inspector, that I have no standing whatsoever in this case. I am merely a consultant.”
“Well, sir, if you insist. For the present at least. Suppose I was to want to consult you right this minute. What’d you say’s the most urgent item on the agenda?”
“First, did you get anywhere with the servants? I’m sorry I interrupted you, but it seemed to me that, being in charge, you’d have had every right to be annoyed if I hadn’t let you know immediately about Mrs. Howell’s claim.”
“Even though you don’t think it’s important. I would’ve been. I found out what we wanted to know. The parlourmaid, Lily Inskip, she overheard Lord Rydal and Lady Ottaline last evening, arranging a rendyvoo. She was in the drawing room, seeing everything was put straight after Mrs. Howell went up to change for dinner, when those two came in from the grotto. That right, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes, most of us went to the grotto after tea. Lady Beaufort hadn’t seen it yet. Lady Ottaline said she was getting cold and Pritchard suggested Lord Rydal should escort her back to the house. He didn’t want to but Julia made some remark about being ungallant so he went. We were all glad to see the back of both of them.”
Boyle nodded. “Miss Inskip, she says they looked like they’d been arguing. They didn’t see her at first. As Lady Ottaline stepped in through the French window, she turned and said to him, ‘The grotto, at two tomorrow, if you know what’s good for you. No one will be there then.’ His lordship muttered something the maid didn’t hear. Then they saw her and shut up. Then—and this is the most interesting bit, to my mind—Sir Desmond came in. Miss Inskip had left the door to the hall open to make it easier to carry out ashtrays for cleaning, so she didn’t hear him arrive and can’t say if he heard what Lady Ottaline said.”
Alec nodded. “Sir Desmond has by far the most obvious motive.”
“But he’s a bigwig, and if he didn’t do it, we don’t want to have given him cause to bring a hor
net’s nest about our ears.”
“Very true. Did you find out who else knew about the planned meeting?”
“Miss Inskip went straight off to have a good gossip with the housekeeper and the cook, and one way or another all the indoor servants got to hear about it. The visitors’ servants, too. Miss Willett told Lady Beaufort and Miss Beaufort when she went to dress them for dinner—not this afternoon, like you said, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I didn’t! I said Julia told us this afternoon that Willett had told her. I didn’t know when.”
“You gave me the impression—”
Alec intervened. “Who else among the household and guests was told?”
“Most of ’em,” Boyle said morosely, “one way or another. There’s not a one I can say for sure didn’t know.”
“You obviously didn’t have much difficulty getting them to talk.”
“The butler, Barker, said right off he wasn’t going to gab about anything he hadn’t seen for himself, and for a moment I thought they were all going to go bolshie on me. But most of ’em were dying to talk, and the housekeeper said it was their duty to help the police, so after that it was plain sailing. Barker never did come round though. Said it wasn’t his business to gossip about his employer’s household or guests. Very high and mighty, is Barker,” he said with considerable resentment.
“A cross between Jeeves and the Admirable Crichton,” Daisy observed. “Even Rhino, though he was forever moaning about the failings of servants in general and his own in particular, never complained about Barker. You’d almost think Barker had a hold on him, like Lady Ottaline.”
Boyle stared at her, mouth open, as if struck by a coup de foudre. “What if Lord Rydal—him being a ladies’ man—what if he once seduced Barker’s daughter, or sweetheart, or even his wife? What if the butler did it?”
TWENTY-FIVE
“No,” said Daisy.
As though summoned by the monosyllable, Barker entered in his stately manner. He didn’t look at all like a man who had just taken violent revenge on the noble ravisher of his beloved.
He addressed Alec. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, sir, but Mr. Pritchard wishes to know whether you will be free to dine with the company.”
Alec turned to Boyle. “What do you think?”
Boyle glanced at Daisy, then said firmly, “Yes, you’d better.”
“Then I shall.”
“Thank you, sir. Dress will be informal.” The butler turned to Boyle. “A tray will be brought to you here,” he said with severity and no “sir.”
Bland and impassive, Boyle said. “That’ll do me nicely, thank you. All you servants working on those timetables I asked for, are you?”
“Insofar as it is compatible with preparations for dinner.” He bowed to Daisy and departed in good order.
“Snooty, bloody-minded s—. If you’ll excuse the expression, Mrs. Fletcher. What did you mean by ‘No’?”
“I can’t believe the butler did it.”
“It’s hard to see Barker as an explosive sort of chap,” Alec agreed, “though I’m sure he’d do it very efficiently if he set his mind to it. But something less violent, poisoning for instance, would be more his line, I’d say.”
Daisy agreed. “But it’s not only that. My impression of Rhino is that it’s dashing ladies of the smart set who appeal to him, not ruining innocent servants and shop girls. Lucy would know if there are any rumours to the contrary.”
“And Lucy’s in London. Still, I wouldn’t put Barker high on my list. You know, Inspector, while timetables are going to be useful, we’re not going to get far until we have some idea at what o’clock the trap must have been set. If I remember correctly, a certain proportion of gas in the air is a necessary condition for an explosion.”
“How the deuce are we going to work that out? Wouldn’t we need to know the volume of the room for a start? Well, it hasn’t got a volume any longer.”
“No,” said Daisy, “but I bet Mr. Pritchard knows, or could work it out. Look at that cabinet, darling. Aren’t those deep, shallow drawers meant for plans and technical drawings? Blueprints? I can’t see why he’d have stuff from Pritchard’s Plumbing at home. It’s far more likely to be the plans for the grotto.”
Boyle jumped up and went to open the top drawer. “Yes! Appsworth Grotto it says. Good thinking, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Daisy preened. “I have my uses on occasion,” she said modestly.
“I can’t read ’em, can you, sir?”
“Not me. There’s gas pressure to be considered, too. We’d better have Pritchard in and ask him to explain the whole thing.”
“Howell at the same time, d’you think? He must know a lot about gas, if not the grotto itself.”
“At the same time? What do you think, Daisy, if Pritchard tried to mislead us, would Howell back him?”
“How would I know? But no, I don’t think so. He has too much respect for matters technical. He came back from Swindon, I take it?”
“Yes, he and Sir Desmond, while I was talking to the servants.”
“Well, I don’t suppose Howell would outright contradict his uncle, but he’d probably argue.”
“That’s my feeling,” Boyle agreed. “These engineering types can’t stand it if everything’s not spot on.”
“Let’s get them in here, then,” said Alec, “and get that sorted out before we—you—start asking them questions that will upset them.”
“I’ll ring for Barker.” Boyle reached for the bell.
“Don’t bother,” said Daisy. “If you can spare me, I’m off. It’s no good asking me to take notes of what they say. Technical stuff sends me to sleep. I’ll tell them you want to see them.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. Don’t tell them what we want them for, please. Would you mind writing up what notes you’ve already taken so that they’re . . . available when my men arrive?”
“Legible, you mean. Right-oh.”
Daisy went to the drawing room. There she found Pritchard and Howell, as well as Julia and Lady Beaufort, Charles Armitage, and Gerald. Pritchard and Howell had their heads together. When Daisy gave them the message, Howell said, his tone congratulatory, “You were right, Uncle. Good job we’ve got it straight in our heads. Won’t take half a moment to look up the numbers for them.”
“Now don’t you go giving them the impression we can provide an exact answer,” Pritchard said as they headed for the door. “There’s too many variables. We don’t know how many gas taps were—” The door cut him off.
So much for not telling them what they were to be asked, Daisy thought. No doubt Boyle would blame her, though he had seemed to be softening a little.
“Daisy, what the deuce is going on?” Gerald asked. “Miss Beaufort says Lucy’s dashed off back to town with a copper in tow, to develop some photos the police need. It’s not like Lucy to go out of her way to help the police, not even Fletcher. What does she have up her sleeve?”
Daisy was in a quandary. It seemed only fair for Gerald to know what his wife was up to, but it wouldn’t be fair to Lucy to spoil her surprise. She glanced at Julia and Armitage, who both looked amused, so they had presumably worked out what was going on.
“They want her pictures of the grotto,” she said at last, “and she doesn’t trust them not to spoil her plates. Neither Alec nor the inspector saw it before the explosion so they don’t really have an idea of what it was like.” She turned to Lady Beaufort. “How is Lady Ottaline?”
“Uncomfortable. Her back is considerably bruised and she has a headache from a knock on the head, but no concussion, the doctor says, and no broken bones. He’s given her some powders. He says she should be up and about in a couple of days, though moving stiffly.”
“No! Don’t tell me Dr. Tenby actually managed to utter so many consecutive words.”
“Far from it. The information was conveyed in a series of grunts. After living so long in France, I’m quite good at interpreting incomprehensible utterances.”
> “Mother, your French is as good as mine.”
“More than one of the Dinard tradesmen spoke in grunts, you must admit, my pet, and French grunts at that. But I shouldn’t be joking when poor Lord Rydal is lying dead and Lady Ottaline in great discomfort.”
“Is Sir Desmond with her?” Daisy wondered aloud.
“Yes. He’s very much shocked at what happened in his absence. One must hope,” Lady Beaufort said doubtfully, “that the disaster will bring them closer together.”
“Should’ve put a stop to her nonsense years ago,” Gerald muttered.
Lord Gerald Bincombe being almost as devoted to taciturnity as Dr. Tenby, Daisy hadn’t considered him as a source of information. “You know Sir Desmond, Gerald?” she asked.
“Only to nod to at the club.”
“But you’ve known about Lady Ottaline’s . . . activities for years?”
“M’father warned me to steer clear when I first went up to town,” he said uncomfortably.
“You’re older than Gervaise, though younger than Alec, so she was already notorious before the War. Sir Desmond must have known she was apt to stray. The only question is, did he know specifically about Rhino?”
“Look here, Daisy, it’s not the sort of thing a chap likes to talk about in the drawing room!” He glanced at Lady Beaufort.
“Let’s go somewhere else, then.”
“Don’t mind me,” said her ladyship robustly. “I lived with the Army too long to pay any heed to what’s fit to discuss in a drawing room. If there’s someone else with a better motive for doing Rydal in than Charles Armitage, I want to know about it.”
Julia gaped at her. “Mother!”
“I’m not blind.”
“But you don’t want me to marry him, so why should you care—”
“I changed my mind when I discovered Lord Rydal’s character. A woman is permitted to change her mind, I believe.”
“Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”
“That’s my business.”