by Carola Dunn
“That’s what we’ll find out.” He took the glass Pritchard proffered. “Thank you, sir.”
Howell was already at the door. As they walked towards the breakfast parlour, he said, “You’ve saved yourself some work. Much longer stuck with Sir Desmond’s funny stories about politicians and I’d have up and strangled him. You’d have had another murder on your hands.”
“On DI Boyle’s hands, not mine. You’d have done his arrest statistics a bit of good. I take it Wandersley is better to do business with than to entertain, if that’s the right word.”
“If only he wouldn’t insist on being entertaining. In the circumstances, it’s a bit much.” Entering the room ahead of Alec, he sat down at the table. Alec took a chair opposite him. He continued, “As for business, I can’t complain. He’s going to recommend that we get the contract. Contracts, rather. It’s for local governments to make the purchasing decisions, but with a recommendation from the ministry, most are not likely to want to spend the time and money to vet other companies.”
“Congratulations. What is it you would complain about otherwise?”
“Oh, just that he’s wasted a good deal of my time. These bureaucrats keep very short working hours. It’s incredible that they ever get anything done. I’m a businessman. If I made a habit of starting work at eleven o’clock, the firm would be bankrupt by now.”
“You didn’t get going till eleven this morning?”
“Nearer quarter past. Wandersley came down late to breakfast for a start. We still could have left for Swindon at a reasonable hour if he wasn’t such a—a hearty eater.”
“Pig?” Alec proposed with a grin.
“You said it, not me. I got tired of watching him stuff his face and left him in here.”
“Alone?”
“No, several other people were still here.”
“Do you recall who?”
“Let me see. My uncle had already gone. Mrs. Fletcher and Lady Gerald left with me. Lady Gerald said something about sorting out her unused photographic plates. She was going to take some interior pictures of the house for Mrs. Fletcher, I gathered. That would leave Miss Beaufort, Armitage, and the abominable Rhino.”
“Where did you go?”
“To Uncle Brin’s den, to have a word with him about—”
“How long after he left this room was that?”
“Quarter of an hour. Perhaps twenty minutes.”
“And how long were you with him?”
“No more than five minutes, I’d say.”
The exact length of time didn’t matter. Pritchard had had at most half an hour or so to get to the grotto, turn on the gas taps, and return to the house to be waiting in his den for Daisy and Lucy. That was the bare minimum necessary. If Owen Howell had spoken with him during that period, he was out of the picture.
Except that Alec was pretty sure Howell would lie for his uncle, especially in what he might consider a good cause. He’d do it well, too. Men of business, like policemen, were on the whole adept at hiding their thoughts and emotions.
“The abominable Rhino, you called him.”
Howell shrugged. “I can’t think of a better word for him. He was abominably rude to my mother. There was no point having it out with him, though. He just didn’t seem to understand why people got upset with him. I put up with it, in the certain knowledge that he wouldn’t be here forever. I’m a peaceable sort of chap. More important matters on my mind than squabbling with an aristocratic ass.”
“A very sensible attitude. But how did your mother feel about it?”
He hesitated. “I’m afraid Mother was dazzled at first by having a living, breathing earl under her roof. Well, under Uncle Brin’s roof, but she tends to regard it as her own. All the same, I can’t see how she can go on living here after what she’s said about him.”
“He told you? Or she did?”
“He told me Mother went to the police—to you and the inspector both, was it?—and accused him of blowing up the grotto.”
“So you expect him to ask her to leave Appsworth Hall.” Alec felt for him. He had twice had to ask his mother to move out, because of clashes with both his first wife and Daisy.
“Uncle Brin? Good lord no! He wouldn’t do a thing like that. I’m trying to work out what’s best for all concerned. For a start, I think when she’s well enough to travel, she must go away for a rest cure—Bournemouth, or Harrogate, Switzerland even.”
He didn’t sound like someone with a guilty secret, whether his own or Pritchard’s. He didn’t seem very interested in Rydal’s demise at all. Mrs. Howell’s behaviour was monopolising his thoughts. That his mother herself might have been responsible for the explosion didn’t appear to have crossed his mind.
“I’m afraid she won’t be allowed to go abroad until Inspector Boyle has cleared up this case.”
“It’s probably better if she stays in England, in any case. Less agitating than foreign travel . . . and fewer Papists,” he added with a wry grin. “How long—? No, that’s a stupid question. I suppose you’ll want to interview her tomorrow.”
“I’m sure Boyle has a few questions for her.”
“I don’t want to teach the inspector his job, but you’d upset her less than he would. And get more answers from her.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but it’s his call. Just one more point: What did you do this morning after leaving Mr. Pritchard in his study?”
“I went to my room to check some figures, to save time when we got to the works. One of the maids came to tell me when Sir Desmond was ready to leave. That must have been about half past ten. By then I was fretting and fuming, I can tell you! Half the morning gone.”
“It often amazes me that the Empire survives, run by bureaucrats,” Alec agreed dryly. “That will be all for now, thank you, Mr. Howell. Would you mind asking Sir Desmond to come and see me?”
“Running shy, are you?”
“I suspect he’ll kick up less of a dust if the request comes through you, rather than directly from me.”
“We won’t have any data for comparison, but all right, I’ll do your dirty work for you!”
As with Lady Beaufort, Alec didn’t think Howell was Rydal’s murderer and he hoped not to see the man’s nearest and dearest arrested. The hope was not as strong as in the lady’s case, however. If Julia Beaufort was guilty of anything it was because she had fallen in love with a jealous young man, whereas Mrs. Howell had bitten the hand that fed her.
An enormous yawn caught Alec by surprise. He was very tired, he realised. He had got up early to finish reading and writing reports at the Yard, so as to be able to join Daisy for a couple of lazy days in the country. Instead he’d spent several hours digging in the rain, a level of physical exertion he wasn’t accustomed to these days. Here he was enmeshed in a case that wasn’t even his own, that could bring him no kudos yet might very well get him into trouble if his informal part in the investigation ever came to official ears.
For once he couldn’t even blame it on Daisy. It was entirely his own fault.
Ah well, involved he was, so he’d better see that it came to a satisfactory conclusion. With a sigh, he extricated from a pocket the sheets of writing paper he’d filched from Pritchard’s desk and scrawled a few details of his interviews with Lady Beaufort and Howell.
THIRTY
DS Gaskell entered Pritchard’s den with an ivory-coloured envelope held by one corner between finger and thumb, as if he expected it to be covered with useful fingerprints.
“Mrs. Fletcher said—”
“Yes, yes, put it down here.” Boyle gestured at a bare spot on the desktop, and then at the scatter of notes covering most of the rest. “I hope you can explain all this muddle to me.”
“Yes, sir. Like I told Mrs. Fletcher, that’s what took me so long, sorting it all out with them so’s it makes sense.”
“Good. You can write it all out neatly for me later, but first, tell me what they had to say about whatsisname, Lord Rydal’s
chauffeur.”
“Gregg, sir. Not strictly speaking a chauffeur, more of a valet. His lordship preferred to drive himself, but required his manservant to be able—”
“All right, all right, I don’t need to know the details. Not yet, at least. What were his relations with his employer?”
“For a start, he’d only been with him a couple of months and wasn’t planning on staying, from what he told the others. The fellow before him wasn’t there more than six months, neither. Gregg told them he never kept servants long. If you done something wrong and get sworn at, that’s one thing, he said, and par for the job, but getting blasted all the time for what can’t be helped is more than flesh and blood can stand.”
“Did anyone know he hadn’t left Appsworth?”
Daisy stopped listening. She wasn’t interested in the hapless Gregg. She didn’t believe for a moment that he had anything to do with the explosion, apart from getting caught in it. No one could be so stupid as to set a trap of such magnitude and then hang about to see what happened. Whatever he had been up to, it wasn’t turning on gas taps.
Nor did she believe Boyle was so stupid as to suspect Gregg of murder. The inspector was trying to rattle Charles Armitage, who so far was far too blasé about his fateful secret. The envelope lay there on the desk between them, an innocent rectangle of ivory paper, waiting to explode.
Or was it fateful? More likely, as he had claimed, merely embarrassing. Nonetheless, Daisy was dying to know what the contents would reveal.
Armitage took his tobacco pouch and pipe from his pocket and started to stuff the bowl. Getting a pipe going was a wonderful cover for nervousness—or irritation. Daisy thought he was more irritated than nervous as he tamped down the tobacco and took out matches.
He was striking the third when Julia marched into the room. Armitage leapt to his feet.
“What’s going on?” she demanded militantly. “Charles has been in here for hours.”
“Darling, it’s quite all right. They’re not giving me the ‘third degree.’ ”
“What’s the third degree?”
“Strong-arm methods the American police are known to use sometimes in interrogating suspects.”
“Strong-arm . . . You mean hitting?” Julia was appalled.
“Not the English police,” the inspector protested, scarlet with indignation.
“I should hope not! But you’re not a suspect, Charles. You were with me the whole time this morning. I know you didn’t go into the grotto.”
“I don’t,” Boyle pointed out.
“You’re saying I’m lying about it? Why should I tell a lie?”
Boyle looked significantly at Armitage, whose arm Julia was holding, and back at her. She wilted into the nearest chair.
“Perhaps you’re not aware, miss, that it’s a felony to conceal evidence from the police.”
“I haven’t! We didn’t go anywhere near the grotto entrance, just walked over the hills.”
“That’s for you to know and me to find out.” The inspector picked up the envelope and tapped with it on the desk, looking again at Armitage.
“Julia, you’d better go back to your mother and let Mr. Boyle get on with his finding out. He can’t find out that I was responsible for the explosion, because I wasn’t.”
“I’m staying,” Julia declared, no longer militant, but determined. Glancing from Boyle to DS Gaskell, she caught sight of Daisy. Her eyes widened.
Daisy frantically but fractionally shook her head. If Julia addressed her, she was sure to be sent out. It was touch and go for a moment whether Julia herself would be expelled, whether by the police or her beloved, but both subsided.
Julia watched, obviously puzzled, as Boyle untucked the flap of the envelope, pulled out the letter, and opened it. He started reading.
His jaw dropped and he said incredulously, “Appsworth?”
For a moment, Daisy felt as blank as Julia looked. Then she had to bite her lip, hard, to stop herself laughing aloud. Appsworth! Was Charles a long-lost son of the family?
“What do you mean, Appsworth?” Julia said crossly.
Boyle gestured at Armitage/Appsworth. “Ask him.”
“It’s my name,” Charles explained, rather flushed. “That’s why I’m interested in the old family papers. It’s—or more accurately, it was—my family. Mr. Pritchard asked me not to use the name down here. He was afraid it would start all sorts of rumours flying, people saying there was something fishy about his buying the house and I ought to have inherited it.”
“And is there something fishy?” Boyle enquired. “Should the place be yours?”
“Good lord no! My great-grandfather was a fourth son. He emigrated to Canada and lost touch with the family. To tell you the truth, I think he started out as a bit of a ne’er-do-well, but he made good. My grandfather made a fortune in wheat, in Alberta. So we’re a junior branch at best. I suspect the senior branches have died out, though I haven’t finished tracking down the details. There have been a number of distractions.” He smiled at Julia, who was still looking somewhat bemused.
“So you may be the Appsworth heir,” the inspector persisted.
Daisy couldn’t see why he was interested. After all, it was Rhino who had been blown up, not the usurping Pritchard, who might conceivably have been a target to Charles. But she wanted to know the whole story—and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself—so she didn’t interrupt.
“Good lord no! I’m not even an eldest son of an eldest son. If any of my immediate family were the heir, it would be my uncle, and since all my cousins are girls, my father after him, followed by my older brother. But the entail was broken long ago. My uncle may be able to call himself Lord Appsworth, but he has no rights in the estate whatsoever. It was left jointly to the two daughters of the then holder of the title, failing male heirs-of-the-body. When the younger died, the elder was perfectly at liberty to sell the place lock, stock, and barrel. She retired to a cottage in Dorset, I believe.”
“We must look her up, darling,” said Julia, “and make sure she’s all right.”
“Yes, I’d intended to, before I go home. Before we go home.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes.
Boyle broke up this picture of love’s young dream with a loud cough. “Yes, that’s all very well, but it’s got nothing to do with my investigation.”
“At least you know now that my presence at Appsworth Hall isn’t a long-laid plan to do away with Lord Rydal.”
“That’s as may be. I’ve got plenty more questions for you, Mr. Arm—Appsworth, so—”
“Inspector, as long as you’re not about to arrest me immediately and need my right name to do so, would you mind continuing the fiction? The possibility of embarrassing Mr. Pritchard continues.”
“I suppose it doesn’t make much odds,” Boyle grumbled. “Gaskell, you’re to write down Appsworth, though, whatever I say. In the meantime, I’ll thank Miss Beaufort to take herself off until I send for her. I promise not to engage in any strong-arm tactics.”
At this point, an enormous yawn overcame Daisy. It drew the attention of both Julia and Charles, and Boyle turned his head to see what they were looking at.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, his tone resigned. “All right, I don’t need you, either, now Gaskell’s here to take notes. Perhaps Mr. Fletcher can avail himself of your services.”
“Right-oh.” Daisy was actually quite willing to leave now that she knew Charles’s secret.
Julia was not. “But I don’t see why I shouldn’t—”
“Come on, darling,” said Daisy. “It’s no good arguing with a copper in full cry. You’ll get your turn, never fear.”
“But what am I going to tell Mother about who you really are, Charles?”
“Don’t tell her anything until you’ve warned Pritchard that my alias is blown. See what he says, but I should think he’ll want to keep quiet about it as long as possible—with your cooperation, Mrs. Fletcher? Inspector?”
>
Daisy nodded. “Of course. Except Alec.”
“I was going to say,” Boyle said, “except Mr. Fletcher. It’s all the same to me. At present, at least. I can’t see your name has anything to do with your committing murder.”
“Thank you,” Charles said ironically.
“Though it does show a talent for deceit.”
Julia wasn’t going to let that pass. “For Mr. Pritchard’s sake!”
“Don’t worry, Julia. Just think what a story we’ll have to tell our grandchildren when we’re old and grey.”
Daisy managed to get her friend out of the room without any further outbursts. “Darling,” she said, “you really must stop showing yourself so partisan. You make it less and less likely that Boyle will believe anything you say about Charles.”
“It’s already too late. He thinks Charles turned on the gas when we went out, and I’m aiding and abetting him. After all, apart from Pritchard and Howell, Charles knows about the gas supply in the hermitage better than anyone.”
“Bosh! Anyone who’s been in there knows about all the lights and the fire. I expect there’d have been enough gas to blow up without using the geyser, but anyway, we were all there when Pritchard was talking about it. Most of us. Let’s see, who was actually there?”
“Charles and I,” Julia said gloomily. “And Rhino.”
“Lady Ottaline and Sir Desmond. Carlin. Lucy and I. And Pritchard and Howell, of course, but the gas was no news to them. Mrs. Howell didn’t come, nor your mother.”
“Nor the doctor and his wife. They came to dinner, remember? But I think they’d gone home by the time we got back to the house. It all seems so long ago. Whatever became of Carlin? Oh, Daisy, you don’t think he’s out there under the rubble?”
“Heavens no! Didn’t you hear him at breakfast? He was engaged to play in a golf tournament tomorrow so he went back to town by train. Does—did Rhino play golf?”
“No. He called it a footling occupation for fools who had nothing better to do with their time. Why?”