by Carola Dunn
“I was remembering getting Lady Ottaline back to the house after her ducking, because even soaked and freezing, she managed to delay us. Julia had a torch she’d taken from Charles’s pocket. Barker put it on a shelf by the side door—back door, whatever you want to call it. The one in the passage next to the drawing room. I suppose it’s kept there with the lamplighter’s pole, for whoever goes out at night to light the lamps in the grotto—”
“I’ll check there first.”
“And for daytime, an electric lantern behind a nymph at the back of the first cave. Rhino probably knew about that and counted on it, but I don’t see how Sir Desmond could know about it. The only time he went was at night.”
“Oh hell!” Shrugging into his dinner jacket, tie untied, Alec dashed off.
Running down the stairs, he wondered what Boyle would say if Daisy’s belated stroke of genius meant bringing all his men back to search the grotto, the area of the explosion, and the gardens for an electric torch. He would have to do it, on the slim chance of finding incontrovertible evidence—not only the torch but Wandersley’s fingerprints on it.
Unless . . .
The dining room door stood ajar, and Alec heard a sound of movement within. He looked in to find, as expected, the butler straightening a fork here, giving a glass an extra polish there, making sure his domain was in perfect order for dinner.
“Barker, I need your help.”
“Sir? Your tie, sir. Allow me—”
“Devil take my tie. You keep a torch near a side door to the terrace, Mrs. Fletcher tells me?”
“Yes, sir. If you take the passage on your left as—”
“Show me. I may need a witness.”
“Certainly, sir. This way if you please.”
The passage was too narrow to be called a hall, too wide for a mere corridor, just wide enough not to be obstructed by one of those curious pieces of furniture, that combine a pair of umbrella stands, hat and coat pegs, a looking-glass, a small cupboard, and a shelf. One umbrella stand contained three umbrellas, the other a lamplighter’s pole, but Alec had eyes only for the chromed-steel torch on the shelf.
“Here it is, sir.” Barker reached for it.
Alec gripped his wrist. “Don’t touch it!”
“Very good, sir.”
“May I?” He whipped from the butler’s shoulder the snowy napkin with which the man had been buffing up silver and glasses. With the cloth enveloping his hand, Alec picked up the torch by the lens end and held it up to the none-too-bright electric light, turning it this way and that. “Fingerprints!”
“Indeed, sir!” The butler looked quite put out. “The third housemaid is required to polish it daily.”
“Thank heaven she didn’t. I’d like a word with her.”
“So,” muttered Barker grimly, “would I. In the circumstances, sir, perhaps you had better come to my pantry.”
Alec had dealt with enough butlers to appreciate the honour of this invitation. “Thank you, that will do very well.”
Bearing the torch, he followed Barker through the green baize door.
The third housemaid was the child who had reported Gregg’s threat against Rydal’s eyebrows. Rita came in eyes wide with apprehension, summonses to the butler’s sanctum being associated with reprimands too severe for the housekeeper to handle. Her eyes flew to the torch, displayed on the napkin on the table where Barker was wont to do his serious silver-polishing.
Alec got his question in before the butler’s rebuke could frighten her out of her wits. “Rita, when did you last polish this torch? It’s the one from the hall stand by back door.”
She addressed her reply to the butler anyway. “Oh, Mr. Barker, I tried and tried but I just cou’n’t get ever’thing done what wi’ the p’lice an’ all, the way they kep’ coming back.”
After a pregnant pause, Barker said judicially, “It has been a trying time for all of us. Be a good girl and answer Mr. Fletcher’s question.”
“Oh, sir, I reckon it must ’a’ bin yes’dy morning, like every day ’cepting today.”
“What time, do you know?”
Barker answered. “The ground floor rooms are supposed to be finished before the master finishes his breakfast.”
Long before Wandersley finished his, Alec thought. There was something to be said for an old-fashioned household. It was still possible that Sir Desmond had used some other torch and thrown it into the bushes on his way back to the house, but who else had had need of a torch since early yesterday morning?
“And what I need now is a telephone,” said Alec.
Twenty minutes later he dashed back upstairs to find Daisy waiting for him. While she tied his tie and made sure he was in all respects respectable, he told her about finding the torch.
“Boyle’s sending a sergeant to fetch it and to get statements from Barker and me. He’s as convinced as I am that the fingerprints on it must be Wandersley’s.”
“I hope that means we can go home tomorrow,” said Daisy as the dinner-gong rang through the house. “Come on, we’re going to be late. I’m dying to see the babies. I feel as if I’ve been away for weeks.”
Hurrying down the stairs, Alec said, “Yes, everyone’s free to go. You’ll undoubtedly be called at Lady Ottaline’s trial, but Boyle’s promised to do his best to do without my appearing in person as a witness. He’s not a bad chap, but I must say I’ll be glad to shake the dust of this place off my feet.”
“And out of your hair.”
Alec grinned. “And out of my hair.”
“I don’t expect Mr. Pritchard will manage to have the grotto rebuilt before we come back.”
“Come back? I’ve no intention of ever returning to Appsworth Hall!”
“Darling, you can’t possibly miss the triple wedding.”
“Great Scott, Daisy, what—?”
“I had a feeling you weren’t really listening at tea-time. Julia and Charles, and Lady Beaufort and Pritchard—”
“What? So that was her secret!”
“Yes. She wouldn’t tell Julia she’d given up on Rhino because then it would have looked very odd if she hadn’t decided to return to town at once. I’d guess she needed time to make sure she and Pritchard were really thinking along the same lines.”
Alec grinned. “To bring him up to scratch.”
Daisy gave him an old-fashioned look. “To continue: and Howell and his ladylove. They’re all going to tie the knots en masse, before Julia and Charles leave for Canada, and we’ve already been invited.”
“Great Scott!” Alec repeated. “Church or Chapel?”
“I don’t think that’s been decided yet,” said Daisy, opening the drawing-room door as the last reverberations of the gong died away.
Pritchard stood up with a smile. “We were just wondering—”
His sister-in-law interrupted him. “Since Lady Ottaline isn’t here to come down late for dinner,” Mrs. Howell said acidly, “I suppose I should have expected that someone else would follow her example. I’m sure I don’t know what the aristocracy are coming to!”