by Carola Dunn
“If you have no preference, Mr. Boyle,” said Alec, “I like to clear what you might call the dead wood out of the way. That is, to question the least likely suspects first.”
Foiled! Daisy naturally was much more interested in what the most likely had to say for themselves.
Luckily, so was Boyle. “That’s a good idea, sir. It’s getting late, and it’ll speed things up no end if we split the load, though Lady Ottaline won’t be available till the morning, I suppose. Do you want to stay in here? I’m sure the butler can find one of us another suitable room for interviews.”
For once outmanoeuvred, deliberately or inadvertently, Alec gave in gracefully. “You stay. I take it you want Armitage first? I’ll send him to you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They both looked at Daisy, and then at each other. Daisy wasn’t sure whether each wanted to shuffle her off on the other, or each hoped to retain her services. Whoever kept her would have better notes for the other to read later. She knew where she wanted to be.
“Mr. Boyle has more need of me, darling,” she said. “You’ll want a verbatim report of what the chief suspects say, won’t you?”
“I’m just lending a hand,” he reminded her, “not officially a part of this investigation. But yes, you’ll be more useful here. I’ll ask Armitage to bring his passport and letter of recommendation, shall I, Boyle?”
“Er . . . yes. Yes, I’d better take a look at them. You really think that’s not his real name?”
“I think we ought to have evidence to settle the question. Right-oh, I’m off. The one I really want to see is Lucy—Lady Gerald—whose view of things, I’m sure, is very different from Daisy’s. In her absence, Lady Beaufort first, I think.”
“If you see my sergeant, tell him to buck up. When he comes, I won’t have to trouble Mrs. Fletcher any longer. She can give you a hand.”
“Right-oh.” Alec went out.
Boyle looked glumly at Daisy, then suggested, “You’d better read through Mr. Pritchard’s interview, I suppose.”
DC Potter’s shorthand was much better than Daisy’s. It took her only a couple of minutes to read his notes. “I see why you’re suspicious of Charles Armitage,” she had to admit. “It’s odd about his name, but I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation. Such as it really being his name. Coincidences do happen. I would like to know what drew his interest to the papers here at Appsworth Hall, though.”
“I hardly think that’s relevant to the enquiry into the death of Lord Rydal.”
“You can’t be sure. Alec always insists that any detail may turn out to be significant. And you yourself said you wanted to know absolutely everything I know, hearsay and all, so that you can decide for yourself if it’s important.”
Armitage came in so quietly they didn’t hear him until he said, “Fletcher told me you wanted to see me?”
The inspector waved him to a seat and held out his hand. “Your passport, please.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have it on me.”
“Didn’t Mr. Fletcher tell you I want to see it?”
“Oh yes, but you see, I don’t have it here. I keep a room in London, and I leave it there while I’m travelling. I don’t need it. I’ve never been asked for it before.”
“I daresay. But you do need to keep your introduction from your university to hand, surely. That will do to be going on with.”
“It’s upstairs, in my bedroom, yes,” Armitage acknowledged reluctantly. “But I can’t see how it’s going to help you, Inspector. It doesn’t have a photograph attached, eh, so there’s no proof I’m the person referred to, assuming you suspect I’m not.”
Boyle leant forwards, his eagerness obvious. “Are you admitting that you’re here under false pretences? A con-man, is that it? Lord Rydal was onto you, so you had to put him away?”
Daisy was too horrified to remember she was supposed to be taking notes.
Armitage shook his head wearily. “Nothing so dramatic. I told Mr. Pritchard it was bound to come out. I was willing to help him avoid embarrassment—myself, too, really, but not to the point of being arrested for murder.”
“What the deuce are you talking about? I warn you, everything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence in a court of law.”
Hastily Daisy started scribbling.
“I told you, I didn’t kill Rydal. But you’re obviously not going to believe me. I’d better fetch that letter.” He started to stand up.
“No! You just stay here under my eye if you please.” Boyle looked at Daisy, irritated. “You’re going to have to go and get it, Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Armitage—or whoever you are—tell her where to find it.”
“In my chest of drawers.” Armitage grinned at Daisy. “Top left, under my socks and . . . other things, an ivory envelope with the university crest embossed on the flap.”
His underwear, no doubt, Daisy thought indignantly, but Boyle didn’t seem to have drawn the inference. She could hardly inform him she objected to rummaging through Charles’s pants and vests, especially in search of an incriminating letter she’d prefer not to find. Yet if she refused to go without giving a reason, he might use her unhelpfulness as an excuse to bar her from the investigation altogether.
On her way out of the room, she wondered momentarily whether she ought, for Julia’s sake, to steel herself to the distasteful task and then to destroy the letter. However, its disappearance would probably cause Charles more trouble than whatever it revealed. She decided to ask Barker to send one of the staff. Then she reconsidered. The envelope must be unsealed, because Charles had made use of the letter. If the servant yielded to temptation and peeked, the entire household would have the information in no time.
Daisy resigned herself to carrying out the job.
She had just reached the foot of the stairs when she heard footsteps behind her and turned. A man—to Daisy’s practised eye obviously a policeman—was crossing the hall, carrying a wodge of scraps of paper, all sizes and shapes and of varying degrees of cleanliness.
“Hello, are you DS Gaskell?”
He looked a bit surprised by her glad greeting. “Yes, madam?”
“I’m Mrs. Fletcher, DCI Fletcher’s wife. Mr. Boyle’s been wondering when you’d be finished with the servants’ timetables.” True. “He needs a letter from Mr. Armitage’s chest-of-drawers.” True. “Top left, in an ivory-coloured envelope with a crest on the back.” All perfectly true, if somewhat misleading. But Boyle would undoubtedly have sent the sergeant if he’d been available. “Shall I take those to him?” She indicated the papers in Gaskell’s hands.
He handed them over like a lamb. “They’re a bit confusing. That’s what took me so long, working out what they were trying to say, and then checking the times and places to make sure they didn’t contradict each other. Er . . . Can you tell me where this bloke’s room is? So’s I don’t have to ask that snooty butler?”
Daisy gave him directions and watched him hurry up the stairs. So far so good. Now all she had to do was to present the fait accompli to Boyle in such a way that he wouldn’t be annoyed with either her or Gaskell.
She riffled through the papers, but she couldn’t make head or tail of them at a glance and she didn’t dare delay to study them. They couldn’t help Armitage, in any case. His opportunity to turn on the gas in the grotto had already been established by his own admission.
In Pritchard’s den, Charles Armitage was staring at the floor in gloomy silence, while Boyle read through the papers on the desk. Both looked up and started to rise as Daisy entered. She waved them down.
“I’ve brought the servants’ timetables, Inspector.” She set them before him. “I met DS Gaskell on his way with them. It seemed best that he should go for Mr. Armitage’s letter. Being a police officer, I mean.”
Boyle grunted what might conceivably be approval, or possibly thanks, and started to sort out the heap of scraps: used envelopes; the backs of shopping lists, receipted bills, and notes for the milkma
n; and even a torn triangle of butcher’s paper. Daisy, realising that her presence would be superfluous as soon as Gaskell arrived, found an inconspicuous seat against the wall, in an ill-lit corner, well to one side and slightly to the rear of the desk.
She gave Charles (if Charles was actually his name) an encouraging smile and he smiled back. Insofar as it was possible to judge his mood, he seemed more exasperated than worried. This, Daisy thought, was a good sign, suggesting that his deception had innocent roots.
Nothing to do with murder, at least. What secret could he and Pritchard share that would embarrass both? She was baffled.
TWENTY-NINE
Alec ushered Lady Beaufort into the breakfast parlour, pointed out to him as a suitable location by the butler. He held a chair for her, and she sat down with a sigh. She was a handsome woman still, though a little inclined to embonpoint.
“My dear man, you are a lesson to me.”
Alec opened his mouth, closed it again, then said cautiously, “I am?”
“A lesson already learnt,” she went on, confusing him still further, “but too late, alas. I’m afraid I’m responsible for the shocking occurrences of today.”
Doubtless Boyle would have applied for an arrest warrant instantly. Alec merely blinked and was glad he’d ended up interviewing her on his own. He didn’t for moment suppose she was physically responsible for turning on the gas taps in the grotto.
“Would you please elucidate, Lady Beaufort? Explain,” he explained, when she looked uncertain.
“Of course. Where shall I start?”
“At the start of the events that led to the murder of Lord Rydal.”
“Oh dear, I suppose it all began in my girlhood—”
“Perhaps not quite that far!” Alec said quickly.
“That’s when I was taught to believe in the importance of a girl marrying well, and well meant money and if possible a title. I don’t know how much Daisy has told you about our circumstances?”
“Very little. Nothing, really, except that she and Lucy were at school with Miss Beaufort and you have been living in France.”
“My late husband was a younger son of a baronet, and everyone said he would do brilliantly in the Army, as indeed he did.” Lady Beaufort declaimed somewhat in the style of a Victorian melodrama. Alec suspected she was quite enjoying herself. “He was made a general while still in his forties, and knighted.”
“Admirable,” Alec murmured.
“But the Beauforts, though aristocratic and all too numerous, were not wealthy. George had a little money of his own, but army life is expensive. When he was killed in the War . . .” She paused to dab her eyes with a lace-trimmed but substantial handkerchief. “. . . I found it had all been spent. Julia and I were left in straitened circumstances.”
“So after the War you went to live on the Continent.”
“Yes. And then I came into a small inheritance and decided to use it to make sure Julia never had to suffer such deprivation.”
“Hence Lord Rydal.”
“He was everything I’d been brought up to think was necessary in a husband. Rich, an earl, and he loved her madly into the bargain. He would do anything for her. Almost. I managed to overlook his faults for far too long.”
“I still don’t quite understand how he and the two of you ended up at Appsworth Hall.”
“I’m not surprised,” Lady Beaufort said frankly. “I’m not at all sure Julia didn’t outwit me. We met Mr. Howell at a dinner party at the Wandersleys’. Not that we knew them well. If I’d known then what I know now, we shouldn’t have known them at all, I assure you!”
Accustomed to Daisy’s sometimes convoluted sentences, Alec had no difficulty disentangling this. “But you didn’t expect to meet them here?”
“Not in the least. Julia seemed to get on well with Mr. Howell, so . . . Well, I suppose I had two possibilities in mind, besides the fact that I found London quite tiring. Endless shopping and parties and theatres . . . I expected a week in the country to be restful, to set me up to tackle the rest of the season. Little did I know!”
He brought her back to the subject: “And your two possibilities?”
“Possibilities? Oh, either Julia would see the difference between a manufacturer and a nobleman and come to her senses, or else she’d captivate Mr. Howell and be rich if not titled. At the time, she had recently told me about making the acquaintance of a Canadian in some library or other. It’s quite shocking the way young people fall into conversation these days without waiting to be properly introduced. How did you and Daisy meet?”
“She felt obliged to draw to my attention a murder which was about to be passed off as an accident.”
“No!” Lady Beaufort laughed. “I don’t suppose Lady Dalrymple—. But I mustn’t waste your time in idle gossip. Where were we?”
“Miss Beaufort met Armitage in a library.”
“Yes, well, she’s always been what we used to call bookish.” She sighed. “I daresay a professor will do very well for her. But at the time I didn’t think so. In fact, I didn’t even know he was anything so respectable as a professor. I seized what seemed to be an opportunity to get her out of town and away from him. I cajoled Mr. Howell into inviting us—”
“How?”
“As it has nothing to do with your investigation, Mr. Fletcher, I’m not prepared to reveal my methods. But I will say that I’m quite an expert cajoler when I put my mind to it. It’s a skill necessary to the wife of a general.”
“I can imagine,” Alec said with a grin. “And then you cajoled Rydal into driving you down?”
“That wasn’t necessary. I didn’t expect that it would be. He really doted on Julia, you know, a most determined pursuit. He offered his services as soon as he heard she was going to the country for a week, though not without some grumbling about the idiocy of leaving town at the height of the season. Julia never breathed a word about her Canadian being a temporary resident of Appsworth Hall, the sly thing!”
“When did you come to the conclusion that Armitage is preferable to Rydal?”
“In the grotto, yesterday afternoon. I’m not a great walker. Brin—Mr. Pritchard was keen for me to see it, and I gave in yesterday. Fortunately as it turns out. Not that I did decide in favour of Mr. Armitage, mind you. Merely against Lord Rydal. His behaviour was outrageous.”
“And when did you inform your daughter of your changed opinion?”
“Good heavens, I can’t remember. With all that’s been happening, it’s a wonder that I remember to bring my head with me!”
“Not immediately, though. Why was that?”
“It wasn’t convenient just then. Other people were about. Besides, I was in no more hurry than the next person to admit I was wrong.”
It was reasonable. Still, she didn’t quite meet Alec’s eyes and he was sure she was not telling the truth. Not the whole truth, at least. Odd, but probably not significant, he decided. At this stage in the investigation he couldn’t afford the time to stray down every enticing by-way. Later, too, he might have to try to pin her down as to exactly when she had told Julia of her change of heart. He’d wait and see what Julia had to say on the subject.
He wanted to see Julia next, but Boyle probably considered her a major suspect and therefore wanted to question her himself. With dismay, Alec recognised in himself a disposition to regard her as innocent simply because she was Daisy’s friend.
Julia Beaufort had been out on the downs with Armitage. If he had gone to the grotto, she could hardly have failed to know. She might not have had the slightest idea what he was doing there at the time, but since the explosion she could no longer plead ignorance. If he was guilty, she was concealing evidence, and that made her an accessory after the fact.
She didn’t have much of a motive for killing Rydal, but despite Daisy’s glossing over the relationship, she had the best of motives for protecting the man she loved.
Not for the first time, Alec was going to have to perform a delicate balancin
g act, between leniency because of Julia’s friendship with Daisy and undue harshness because he was afraid of being lenient. He reminded himself with gratitude that this was not his case.
Lady Beaufort was fidgeting under his blank gaze. “Well?” she asked, a challenge in her voice. “Are you always in a hurry to admit when you’ve made a mistake?”
Alec smiled and shook his head. “It depends on the circumstances. In general, I don’t claim to be any more eager than the rest of the world. But if I’ve arrested someone and discover I shouldn’t have, the sooner it’s put right the better for all concerned, including me.”
“Fair enough.”
He liked the lady. He could only hope he wouldn’t have to assist in the arrest of her daughter.
He stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lady Beaufort. That will be all for the moment.”
“For the moment! Next time it will be the local inspector, I suppose. It’s too much to expect that he, too, is a gentleman.”
“More to the point,” said Alec, absorbing the implied compliment without a blink, “Inspector Boyle appears to be a competent officer.”
He escorted her back to the drawing room, thinly populated by Pritchard, Howell, Wandersley, and Bincombe, all with glasses in hand. Wandersley was standing with his back to the fire, apparently holding forth. The other three rose as Lady Beaufort entered. Pritchard and Bincombe in particular looked delighted to see her.
Pritchard came to meet them. “Let me get you a liqueur, dear lady. Crème de menthe, as usual? And a whisky for you, Mr. Fletcher?”
Lady Beaufort sank into a chair. “I think I’ll take something a little stronger tonight, Mr. Pritchard. Brandy and soda would do nicely.”
What the hell, Alec thought. He was unofficial, after all. “Yes, please. With plenty of soda. Mr. Howell, I’ve a couple of questions for you, if you please.”
“Or if I don’t please?” But he spoke mildly, a comment, not a hostile protest. “I was in Swindon most of the day. I doubt I have anything useful to tell you.”