Arsenic For Tea: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery (A Wells and Wong Mystery)

by Stevens, Robin

  ‘But—’ Daisy began.

  ‘Daisy!’ whispered Beanie, outside. ‘Daisy! Hazel! Kitty says she’s getting out!’

  Quick as a flash, Daisy piled everything back into the handbag. It went in higgledy piggledy, and I was only glad that it had been in such a mess in the first place. Miss Alston – Miss Livedon – might never know it had been searched. Daisy seized my hand and we scuttled out. Beanie was bouncing up and down in an agony of fear, while Kitty stood with her hands pressed to her mouth. She let out a rush of breath when she saw us. ‘I thought you’d never come out!’ she hissed.

  The bathroom door opened, and Miss Alston emerged, hair damp and wearing a robe. She looked around at us all – at Beanie, trembling, at Kitty, all red in the face, and at Daisy and me, both trying desperately not to look at her bedroom door. Had we closed it properly?

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘Hurry downstairs to breakfast at once. Beanie, I think your father will be able to come for you and Kitty today.’ And she swept into her bedroom and shut the door behind her.

  ‘Come on!’ cried Daisy, and she went rattling down the main stairs like a dynamo.

  ‘What did you find?’ gasped Kitty as we dashed along behind her. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Miss Alston is a policewoman!’ I said. ‘On a secret mission to catch Mr Curtis! She can’t have done the murders!’

  ‘But . . .’ said Kitty. ‘If she’s a policewoman – there are only two suspects left!’

  ‘I know,’ I said, and my heart sank horribly. ‘Uncle Felix . . . and Daisy’s father.’

  2

  Daisy stopped on the first-floor landing. ‘Aren’t we going to breakfast?’ I asked, because even though exciting things were going on all around me, I couldn’t stop my stomach wanting toast and marmalade.

  ‘NO!’ said Daisy loudly. ‘The police will be here any minute. We must speak to Chapman again quickly, and make him tell us what he’s hiding.’

  Chapman was tidying Uncle Felix’s room, and he looked up as we went in.

  ‘Miss Daisy!’ he said. ‘Girls! What are you doing here?’

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ said Daisy. ‘We’ve got something we need to ask you. It’s important! We heard you speaking to Daddy yesterday – we know what he said to you. You saw something – something he did at Saturday tea – and now he’s making you keep quiet about it because he thinks that it’ll get him into trouble, and you believe him.’

  Chapman put his hands down on Uncle Felix’s dressing table. He had gone quite grey in the face. I had that sick feeling in my stomach again, worse than ever. I wanted to get out – of the room, of Fallingford, of the whole case, from beginning to end. I wanted to go home.

  ‘But, Chapman, you know Daddy! He never understands how important something really is, and he never knows what’s good for him. Only remember last year, when he thought that he could make a saving by ordering kippers in bulk and then he ate five at once and they were off and he nearly expired? This is just like that. I’m sure that whatever you saw didn’t really have anything to do with Mr Curtis getting murdered. If you only told us what it was, we could tell the police that he’s innocent. Otherwise they might suspect him!’

  ‘No!’ said Chapman, and he thumped his hand down so that Uncle Felix’s cufflinks rattled. ‘Miss Daisy, I can’t. What I saw – it proves that he is guilty.’

  ‘What?’ said Daisy faintly. She clutched at my elbow, and I squeezed her arm hard. Next to us, Beanie and Kitty were gasping.

  ‘You can’t tell the police,’ said Chapman, and he turned round and grasped Daisy by the shoulders. His fingers were all bent and knotted, but they seemed awfully strong. ‘On your honour as a Wells, you won’t say a word.’

  Daisy bobbed her head, looking pale. At that moment Chapman was truly menacing.

  ‘At the tea, I stood away from the table, as Lady Hastings had told me to. I saw the cups of tea being handed out. I heard Lady Hastings asking for a cup of tea for Mr Curtis. And then I saw Lord Hastings pouring something into the cup. He thought no one had seen him, but as you know, Lord Hastings has never been very subtle. Then he gave that cup to Mr Curtis. Mr Curtis did not eat or drink anything else before he was taken ill. Nothing else could have been to blame. The tea was fresh when it was handed to your father. Lord Hastings is guilty of Mr Curtis’s murder.’

  ‘No,’ whispered Daisy. ‘It can’t be! He— It must have been a mistake. How could you, Chapman? Let me go!’

  She flung herself out of the room, and Chapman groaned and covered his face with his hands. I glanced back at him: his wrinkles were all heavy and his white hair downy-soft. He looked very small and sad, not at all like the smart, capable butlers in books.

  I wanted to keep on believing Daisy – but despite what she said, the evidence was truly beginning to mount up against Lord Hastings. I didn’t know what to think any more.

  Out onto the landing we went, and then I realized that there were new noises in the house. Heavy feet and deep voices, a whole lot of them – one with an ironic tone to it that I recognized from both my bad dreams and my better ones. My heart jumped.

  ‘It’s the police!’ I breathed. ‘Inspector Priestley’s here at last!’

  ‘Oh!’ said Beanie. ‘Now we’ll be safe!’

  All of a sudden I was simply dying to go downstairs. It made my fingers tingle. As soon as I saw his coat, I thought, and the back of his head, I would know that we were all right. Nothing bad could happen with Inspector Priestley there.

  But Daisy was looking paler than ever. ‘I won’t have us going to him,’ she said quietly. ‘I won’t see him! If we simply go running down to the hall and pour out everything to him, we shall look like a lot of silly schoolgirls, and while we may technically be schoolgirls, we are certainly not silly. That is the point. He must come to us. After all, he has consulted us before. If he has any sense, he’ll do it again. He knows who I – who we are, and this time more than ever, we are important. This is my house and my Detective Society.’

  ‘But, Daisy,’ I said, ‘if we don’t tell him what we’ve found out so far, he’ll work it out anyway. He’s clever.’

  ‘That may be,’ said Daisy, ‘but – I can’t just dob Daddy in as though he was anyone. You must see that, Hazel.’

  I looked at her. The crease at the top of her nose was scrunched so deep that it looked as though she had cut it. There were two little spots of red on her cheeks and she was biting her lip so hard it almost hurt me.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘We won’t speak to Inspector Priestley. But, Daisy . . . promise, whatever happens – you won’t blame me?’

  ‘Hazel,’ said Daisy solemnly, ‘I would never blame you for anything. Unless, of course, it’s your fault.’

  I made a face at her. There was something comforting about the fact that Daisy Wells, even in such a desperate situation, could still make a joke.

  3

  Then out of his bedroom came the one person I had been hoping we wouldn’t meet.

  ‘Daisy?’ said Lord Hastings, frowning and patting down his jacket. ‘Are you all right? You appear to have been upset by something. Here – I have my handkerchief somewhere – oh dear, no, that’s a sweet wrapper. And that’s string. And that’s—’

  ‘Daddy!’ said Daisy with a sob. ‘You’re an idiot!’

  Lord Hastings looked much discomposed. ‘Daisy,’ he said, patting at her hair in much the same way as he just had his jacket. ‘Daisy! Goodness me! What’s all this then?’

  ‘Mr Curtis!’ gasped Daisy. ‘Daddy, this is serious. You’re in the most awful trouble.’

  And then Inspector Priestley came striding up the stairs.

  I remember once, a long time ago, thinking that Inspector Priestley looked like a biblical angel coming to save us. But at that moment the stairway shadows fell on the planes of his face and the tails of his coat (he never seems to take off that coat, no matter where he is) and made him look rather wicked. He saw us, and his forehe
ad wrinkled up. ‘Miss Wells and Miss Wong,’ he said. ‘Why am I not surprised that you are mixed up in this? And this time you’ve brought your friends.’

  ‘Erm . . .’ said Lord Hastings, twitching and staring about wildly – at the Inspector’s feet, at the space above his head and at the banister . . . ‘Erm, good morning, Inspector. I hope . . . that is, if you need any help, I’m sure you know where to find my wife. I must just excuse myself, however – things to attend to on the estate. Pardon me . . .’ And he made a dive down the stairs. I heard his voice in the hall saying, ‘My goodness, what a lot of you there are! Pardon me, I must get by—’

  ‘No one is to go in or out the house, sir,’ said a deep voice respectfully. ‘Chief’s orders.’

  I felt sick. There was no getting out for any of us now. We had to see it through to the end. Poor Lord Hastings! Poor Daisy!

  We were alone on the landing with the Inspector. Daisy was refusing to look at him, but Beanie was gaping up at him in awe, and Kitty was considering him quite admiringly. I realized that he was looking at me.

  ‘The Detective Society certainly seems to have increased in size since the last time I saw it,’ said Inspector Priestley. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ve been keeping your noses out of police business this time?’

  ‘We don’t have anything to say to you.’ Daisy glared over at the stuffed owl on its plinth. ‘Apart from to remind you that we solved the murder last time, not you, and you should be grateful.’

  ‘I am grateful,’ said the Inspector. ‘It’s only that murders are quite dangerous, and I don’t think your parents would like to lose you.’

  That made us all think of Lord Hastings, of course.

  ‘Parents!’ cried Daisy. ‘Much you know about it! Oh, go away. I wish you had never come.’

  ‘I come when I’m called, even through fire and flood,’ said Inspector Priestley, and gave us a wrinkled-up smile. ‘I don’t mean to upset you. But if you do know anything, now’s the time to say it. My men and I will be interviewing everyone this morning. We shall soon get to the truth.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t!’ said Beanie.

  ‘Beans!’ said Kitty, and kicked her shin.

  The Inspector raised his eyebrows. ‘I take it that you do know something, then?’ he asked. ‘Something not very nice?’

  ‘None of your business,’ said Daisy – quite rudely, I thought. ‘We shan’t say anything more. And we shan’t be helping your investigation this time. You can’t make us!’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of making you do anything, but I am beginning to have a good idea of what is going on.’ The Inspector’s eyes went to the stairs down to the hall, and of course I knew exactly who – and what – he meant.

  ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Don’t. Please.’ I wasn’t quite sure who I was pleading for, Lord Hastings or Daisy.

  ‘Unfortunately, the law is the law,’ said the Inspector. ‘It can’t be stopped because someone asks me to, no matter who that someone is.’

  I stared into his face, long-nosed and serious. Then – ‘Come on, everyone,’ said Daisy. ‘We’re going upstairs. Let’s leave the Inspector to his investigation.’

  4

  We sat in the nursery, miserably silent. Downstairs I could hear the police at work. There were loud footsteps, doors opening and slamming and heavy voices. ‘Get Rogers to do it!’ I heard. ‘No, the fingerprints . . .’

  Fingerprints, photographs, measurements and statements – all the things the police could do, and we could not. What was the point of the Detective Society?

  Daisy was sitting with her face to the wall, refusing to look round even when I poked her. Kitty and Beanie were leaning together, looking as exhausted as I felt. I wondered whether they were glad to be part of the Society now.

  The nursery door opened, and we all jumped. ‘Come downstairs, girls,’ said Miss Alston. ‘The police want to see you.’

  ‘Kitty and Beanie can go,’ said Daisy, still not moving. ‘But if they know what’s good for them they won’t say anything. Hazel will stay here. We’re protesting.’

  Miss Alston raised her eyebrows – but she didn’t argue. Kitty and Beanie went. I stayed. Hetty, looking distracted, brought us up a late breakfast on a tray. I ate mine, and then, when she didn’t move, Daisy’s as well. It would only have gone to waste otherwise.

  I lay on my back on my hard lumpy bed and stared up at the peeling paint on the nursery ceiling. I felt horrible – wiggly and wrong – but all the same I could not help poking away at the case in my mind. It was like having a tooth that aches every time you prod it with your tongue – it hurts, but somehow you cannot stop doing it. I thought about Miss Alston being a policewoman, hired to catch Mr Curtis. I thought about Mr Curtis’s nasty little book, with a record of everyone he had stolen from. And of course, I thought of Lord Hastings – shouting at Mr Curtis on Saturday morning, handing him that teacup on Saturday afternoon, and standing on the stairs on Sunday, looking down at Lady Hastings lying on the floor. Had he really done it? It was him or Uncle Felix. There was no one else.

  The nursery clock chimed midday, and all of a sudden I couldn’t stay still any longer. It was a very Daisy-ish feeling to have – but Daisy wasn’t being very Daisy-ish at the moment, so I had to take her place.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Daisy. ‘Get up.’

  ‘Go away,’ Daisy said.

  I took hold of her shoulder – not very gently – and dragged her backwards off her bed. She tipped over with a yelp and a rather unladylike word. ‘Hazel!’ she said. ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ I said. ‘Sitting here, waiting. Can’t we at least do something?’

  ‘There’s nothing to do,’ said Daisy. ‘But . . . Oh, very well.’

  We went out onto the landing, and saw that the door to Bertie and Stephen’s room was open. Because that distraction was as good as anything, we peered inside and found Bertie huddled up on his bed, tinkling away on his ukulele. Stephen was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Oh,’ said Bertie when he saw us. ‘It’s you. I’ll play you a song. Look. Wiiith my little—’

  ‘I don’t want a song,’ said Daisy.

  ‘No,’ said Bertie, stopping mid-jangle. ‘I don’t much, either.’

  I could tell that Bertie was almost as upset as Daisy. I had never heard him being so nice before. ‘Where’s Stephen?’ I asked.

  Bertie waved his ukulele vaguely. ‘Downstairs. Being interviewed, I think. Rotten weekend for him. Brought up bad memories. You know his father killed himself?’

  I nodded.

  ‘His mother took up with some filthy scoundrel who ran off in the middle of the night with half the things from the house. Jewels and paintings and so on. When Mr Bampton lost his job in the crash, they had no money to fall back on and . . . well, Stephen and his mother were left to pick up the pieces. Stephen thinks his father was some sort of wronged hero, but I don’t know. Bad form, I say, leaving your family like that,’ said Bertie, with a flare of his usual temper. ‘A Wells would never do it.’ Then he jumped and looked guilty, as though he’d just heard what he had said. ‘Er . . . sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ Daisy said, scowling. ‘I don’t care. Everything’s ruined.’

  There was a noise downstairs – shouting. We all stiffened and pretended we couldn’t hear it. I looked around the room desperately for something else to fix on – and then I saw, sitting on the battered old chest of drawers next to Stephen’s empty bed, a book. It was a thin, cheap volume of poetry, and I went over and flicked through it. I was hardly even glancing at the words – until my fingers stumbled over a torn page.

  When, from behind that craggy steep till then

  The horizon’s bound, a huge peak, black and huge,

  As if with voluntary power instinct,

  Upreared its head. I struck and

  The rest had been ripped out. I put my hand in my skirt pocket and pulled out the piece of paper I’d been carry
ing about all weekend. I put the two pieces together.

  struck again,

  And growing still . . .

  It was a perfect match.

  All the things in my head – the jumble of nearly right details that had all been fighting against each other and refusing to add up – suddenly trembled and spilled over and came back together again in a perfectly neat line, like the right answer in an exercise book.

  ‘Bertie,’ I said very quietly, ‘whose book is this?’

  ‘What?’ asked Bertie, distracted. ‘That? Oh, that’s Stephen’s. The rubbishy poetry we’re studying next term. Did he tear out a page? He must hate it even more than I do. He’s usually boringly careful with his things.’

  I didn’t even need to look over at Daisy to know that she had frozen. My heart was beating fast, fast, and I could hardly breathe. The page. The page the murderer hid the poison in before they tipped it into Mr Curtis’s cup. It was a page from one of Stephen’s books.

  ‘Bertie,’ said Daisy, ‘does Stephen use the servants’ staircase? And does he know about the keys in the umbrella stand?’

  ‘Eh?’ asked Bertie. ‘You say the oddest things sometimes.’

  ‘Bertie, you prize idiot, will you answer me? Have you shown him the way down the back stairs?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ he said. ‘I showed him as soon as we arrived. He can get down like a cat. He knows about the keys, too – I used them to get into the kitchens last Wednesday night, after the rest of you were all asleep.’

  I remembered how we’d ruled Stephen out of the second crime. We had heard him come clattering down the creaky front stairs from the nursery floor – but of course, of course, he could have crept down to the first floor on the servants’ staircase. They come out just opposite the main stairs, so he could have come up behind Lady Hastings without her noticing, pushed her and then, in those ten quiet seconds, slipped upstairs again, before coming back down the front way, loud enough for everyone to hear. I felt sick. Could it really be? Stephen was so nice, and kind, and good – and his father had killed himself because his mother ruined them. She took up with a scoundrel who stole all their things. I remembered what he had said to me last night. You’re quite safe. Bertie and I – we won’t let anything happen to the four of you. I can promise that.