by Carola Dunn
As they came to the end of the walk and were about to turn right into the knot garden, a policeman appeared from the left, around the corner of the Winter Garden wall.
All three stopped abruptly. Bobbie clutched Daisy’s arm.
Saluting, the policeman looked interrogatively from one to the other. “Miss Dalrymple?”
“I’m Miss Dalrymple. This is Miss Parslow, who lives here. You must be the sergeant Inspector Dunnett said would take my statement?”
“That’s it, miss. Sergeant Shaw. I’ve been taking statements from the gardeners. If I might ’ave a word with you now, miss, and I’ll be needing to see the secretary gentleman.”
“I’ll find him for you. Daisy, tell Moody to show you to the Red Saloon.” With that, Bobbie hurried on towards the house.
Daisy and the sergeant followed more slowly. He was a heavyset man, though not as stout as Alec’s sergeant, Tring, but Tom Tring walked as soft-footed as a cat whereas Sergeant Shaw lumbered along at Daisy’s side like a hippopotamus. On the other hand, Shaw’s uniform was a definite improvement over Tring’s deplorable taste in loud checks.
Daisy liked Tom Tring, and she was prepared to like Sergeant Shaw, despite his charmless superior. At least he began on a more amiable note than Inspector Dunnett.
“Nasty business, this, miss. Murder’s bad enough, but murdering young girls is what I don’t ’old with.”
“It was murder, then?”
“Looks like it, miss. Dr. Sedgwick says she were ‘it on the ’ead with a blunt instrument. ‘It from be’ind ‘ard enough to crush ’er skull.”
Daisy shuddered, feeling sick. “She would have died at once?”
“Died instant, miss. Never knew a thing.”
“I’m glad.” At least not buried alive, thank heaven. One nightmare receded.
“It’s that young furriner I’m sorry for, miss.”
“Foreigner?”
“The gardener, Owen Morgan. It’s knocked ‘im for six all right. Seems ’e was walking out with ‘er.” Sergeant Shaw puffed up the steps to the terrace. “’Course, it could be they ‘as a tiff and ’e up and biffs ’er one.”
“Surely not!” Her heart sank. From the first she had felt a deep sympathy for the unhappy Welshman. “He was fearfully upset when he found her.”
“Well, ‘e would be, miss, wouldn’t ’e, ‘aving to dig ’er up and all. Stands to reason. There’s more murders is done for love nor money, mark my words, miss.”
Moody awaited them, and directed them to the Red Saloon with an air of such reproachful despair that Daisy actually felt guilty. By now all the servants must know what had happened. Moody, like Lady Valeria, seemed to hold her responsible. She hoped the rest of the staff were more reasonable.
As a change from panelling, the small room was papered in a dark red, with a thin gold stripe that did nothing to lessen the oppressive feel. Over the mantelpiece hung a grim Victorian painting of a battle scene dripping with gore. Daisy hurriedly turned her back on it.
Bobbie must have chosen the room because of the convenience for the policeman of the elegant antique writing-table under the window—if, indeed, she had been compos mentis enough at that moment for a logical choice, which Daisy wasn’t at all sure of.
Suddenly weary, she sank onto the chair Sergeant Shaw placed by the desk for her.
“You won’t mind if I takes the weight off me feet, miss? It’s easier for writing.” Sitting down with a sigh of relief, he took his notebook from his jacket pocket. His tone became fatherly. “Now, not to worry, miss. It’s all a matter of routine. Just tell me what you told the Inspector. I’ll write it down; summun at the station’ll type it up; then you’ll be asked to sign that we got it down right what you said. If you’d spell your name for me first, please, miss.”
Laboriously he wrote it down. Daisy repeated her brief story, pausing between phrases as the sergeant’s pencil crawled over the paper. Mr. Goodman had told Owen to show her the garden; she had noticed the dead bush; Bligh had told Owen to dig it up; she had returned from the house just as Owen uncovered the girl’s face and identified her as Grace Moss.
“And ’e was upset, would you say, this Owen Morgan?”
“Dreadfully.” She didn’t want to recall the young gardener’s terrible grief. “Mr. Goodman arrived then and asked me to telephone the police, so I came away. After I spoke to Inspector Dunnett, I sent a note to Sir Reginald … .”
“Mr. Dunnett says there’s no cause to trouble the family,” said Sergeant Shaw hastily. “This ‘ere Mr. Goodman can tell us all we need ’bout the deceased. Right, miss, that’s it.”
“Will I have to give evidence at the inquest?”
“Prob‘ly not, miss, seeing you didn’t know the deceased and there’s other witnesses saw the same as what you did. And ’ere’s the last of ’em now,” he added as Ben Goodman opened the door and looked in. “Come on in, sir. Thank you, miss, that’ll be all.”
Dismissed again, Daisy departed. Holding the door for her, Mr. Goodman smiled, but he looked grey with fatigue. She hoped her tour of the outside of the house had not made him ill.
She hesitated outside the room, not sure what to do next. Though she shied away from thinking about the gruesome murder, curiosity gnawed at her. She didn’t want to believe Owen Morgan had killed the girl he loved, but who else could it have been?
Money as a motive made no sense at all, parlourmaids not being noted for affluence. Nor did Grace sound like the sort of girl to make people hate her. Ted Roper, who surely had no axe to grind, had described Grace as fun-loving, and Sir Reginald had called her a cheerful child. Daisy wondered what her fellow-servants had thought of her.
Perhaps among them Owen had had a rival for Grace’s affections.
If Daisy were investigating, she’d start by talking to the servants. Inspector Dunnett didn’t appear to have any intention of doing so. No doubt he was afraid of calling down Lady Valeria’s wrath on his head.
If Daisy were investigating … . Alec’s voice sounded inside her head: “Stay out of it, Daisy.”
The warning voice was drowned by her rumbling stomach. She had missed morning coffee and she was ravenous. It must be nearly lunchtime. She’d go up to her room to wash her hands, and if she just happened to meet the ladies’ maid, Gregg—well, it would be unfriendly not to have a word with her about the sad end of Grace Moss.
A few minutes later she sat at the dressing-table in her bedroom brushing, re-coiling, and pinning up her hair. She had noticed it loosening when she climbed down from the urn on the terrace, but then she’d forgotten about it and it must have been drooping ever since. No wonder Inspector Dunnett had looked at her askance. Perhaps she really would have it bobbed when she went back to town. Short hair was much more practical, especially for a photographer.
She hadn’t bothered with powder or lipstick this morning and she decided not to now. Bobbie hadn’t for dinner last night. Quite likely she didn’t even own any. The trouble was, Daisy thought, wrinkling her nose at herself in the glass, those freckles made her look so frightfully young. And there was the tiny mole by her mouth, but then powder never covered that properly anyway.
“Miss?” Gregg came in. “Is there anything I can do for you?” The maid’s eyes were red and her face blotchy.
“Not at present, thanks. You’ve heard about Grace Moss, I take it? I’m so sorry. You must have known her well.”
“Yes, miss, she was at school with my sister, and then working here at the Hall. A merry creature, she was, always looking on the bright side of things. There wasn’t an ounce of harm in Gracie, for all Mr. Moody says she was a flighty piece and he wasn’t surprised when she run off.”
“Flighty? I know she was walking out with Owen Morgan, but she didn’t run off after all.”
“To think she was lying dead all this time!” Gregg sniffed and wiped her eyes.
“So you can’t very well call her flighty.”
“Well, it’s true she had an eye to t
he young master. I’m not saying there was anything in it, mind.”
“A girl would have to be blind not to have an eye to Mr. Sebastian,” said Daisy uneasily. Did Owen have still another rival? Had Sebastian been a passive object of admiration, or had he played a more active part?
“He’s handsomer than any film actor, isn’t he, miss? And him going to be Sir Sebastian one day. No wonder if poor Gracie had her head turned. Oh, there’s the lunch gong, miss. Shall I show you the way?”
“I think I can find it now, thank you, Gregg.” As the distant vibrations died away, Daisy gave her hair a last pat, smoothed her skirt, and set out for the dining room with a hollow feeling inside that was not entirely hunger.
Lady Valeria had returned. Her husband, her children, her husband’s secretary, and her unwanted guest were all subdued by the tragedy, but Lady Valeria was angry.
“I met a reporter at the gates,” she announced, as Moody ladled Scotch broth and the tiptoeing maid handed it round. “A man from the local paper. I sent him off with his tail between his legs but doubtless others will follow.”
“My dear,” said Sir Reginald mildly, “would it not be better to make a brief statement? They may invent stories to amuse the public if they don’t know the truth.”
“Truth! Those troublemakers don’t know the meaning of the word. Give it them and they’ll only twist it. I have already told Moody that any servant who speaks to them will be instantly dismissed. Naturally none of us here will pander to their nosiness, except … .” She scowled at Daisy. “Of course I can’t stop you tattling to your colleagues, Miss Dalrymple.”
“They aren’t my colleagues, Lady Valeria,” Daisy said coldly. “I’m not a reporter. I write for a magazine, a most respectable magazine, not a newspaper or scandal sheet. Nor am I in the habit of tattling to anyone. You may be sure that as a guest at Occles Hall I shan’t discuss your affairs with the Press.”
Lady Valeria’s sour look assured Daisy her words had hit their mark. “As a guest” she’d shun the Press, so her hostess was not likely to continue to press her to cut short her visit.
She found something else to fume about instead. “Our affairs? The fact that it was on our property the silly girl died does not make it any affair of ours.”
From the corner of her eye, Daisy thought she saw Sebastian’s hand move in what might be a gesture of protest, but when she glanced at him, he was languidly eating his soup. He seemed apathetic, as if in the aftermath of an emotional storm, though she had no way of knowing if that was the case.
What had his relationship been with the dead girl?
“I have spoken to that little man from the police,” Lady Valeria went on, “Inspector Rennet or whatever his name is. He quite understands that the family have nothing to contribute to his investigation. I see no need for any of us to attend the inquest, though unfortunately Mr. Goodman and two of the gardeners are required to give evidence.”
“I was told I may be called,” Daisy said, interpreting the sergeant’s “Prob’ly not” the way she chose.
“A distressing prospect for any lady.” Cheered by this dig, Lady Valeria changed the subject. The steak-and-kidney pie and the apple charlotte which followed were enlivened by a blow-by-blow account of her triumph over her incompetent fellow—committee members.
The rest spoke scarcely a word.
After lunch, Ben Goodman offered to show Daisy over the interior of the house. She thought he still looked tired, and as the sun still shone she wanted to photograph the courtyard and the back of the house, so she declined.
“Tomorrow morning?” she proposed.
His lips quirked. “No hurry, since you’ve persuaded Lady Valeria to let you stay indefinitely.”
Daisy managed to take her pictures without climbing on any more urns. Last of all, as the sun sank in the west, she returned to the Winter Garden and shot a few more snaps of Boreas. Not ideal conditions but not too bad, she hoped. Even the most respectable magazine in the world might be glad to print a photo of a most respectable statue which happened to stand in a garden where a brutal murder had occurred.
She kept her back to the trench.
When she went in for afternoon tea, only Bobbie was there. They talked about photography. Daisy had the impression that Bobbie was on tenterhooks. Once or twice she seemed on the brink of confiding whatever it was that disturbed her, but she drew back at the last moment.
Daisy suspected she was giving the same impression. She was dying to talk about Grace, but her chief interest was in Sebastian’s dealings with the dead girl. It wasn’t the sort of subject one could put to a protective sister.
After tea, Bobbie said she had some letters to write. Daisy decided she ought to write to her mother, her sister, and Lucy in case they were worried by the reports that were bound to be in the newspapers tomorrow. She finished just in time to change for dinner.
When she went down to the drawing room, Ben Goodman was alone there. “I’ve been notified that the inquest will be tomorrow afternoon,” he told her, “in the Village Hall.”
“They didn’t inform me, so I suppose Inspector Dunnett doesn’t want my evidence, but I shall go anyway.”
“I’ll be glad to escort you, Miss Dalrymple.”
“Daisy, please. Thanks, I’d like to go with you. I’ve never been to an inquest. It’ll be interesting, though I must say I’d have liked to give evidence.”
“What an unusual young lady you are, Daisy!”
“Young woman. I have it on the best authority that any lady must find such a prospect distressing.”
Ben smiled. “It’s good to see someone who isn’t cowed by Lady Valeria.”
“I don’t have to live with her,” Daisy said diplomatically.
Now she was on Christian-name terms with him, she considered asking him about Sebastian and Grace. After all, he was an employee, not a member of the family. But Lady Valeria came in just then and the moment passed.
As far as Lady Valeria was concerned, the subject of Grace Moss was closed. Her name was not mentioned once.
By the morning Daisy had changed her mind about consulting Ben. It would be unfair to ask him to be disloyal to his employer’s family. Also, his anxiety about Sebastian’s reaction to Grace’s death suggested he was as concerned as Bobbie was to shield her brother—which, in turn, suggested there was a reason to shield him.
Somehow she’d find out, Daisy vowed, since Inspector Dunnett had cravenly relinquished his duty to investigate. Not that she suspected Sebastian of murder, but so brutal a crime must not go unpunished and no clue could safely be neglected.
She neglected the whole affair that morning, however. Ben had dug up enough anecdotes to make the unexciting history of the house entertaining, and she wrote reams of notes. Then after lunch they set off together to walk down to the inquest.
As they passed the smithy, two men hung with equipment were photographing the piles of scrap metal. The Press had arrived. When she saw the crowd around the entrance to the Village Hall, Daisy was glad of Ben’s company, but no one took any notice of them. The centre of attention was a burly man, not tall but brawny, in oil-stained mechanic’s dungarees. Waving his arms, he was ranting about titled blood-suckers who robbed a man of his livelihood and his children.
“Stan Moss,” murmured Ben.
The blacksmith was surrounded by eager reporters. Village people stood about watching and listening, some scandalized, some nodding agreement, and not a few both. In one group Daisy saw Ted Roper.
Ben and Daisy slipped past and entered the barnlike wooden building with a stage at the far end. The village bobby, P.C. Rudge, directed Ben to the front row and pointed out the public benches to Daisy. She went with Ben anyway and sat beside him on a hard chair not designed for human anatomy. Bligh and Owen Morgan were already there, at the far end of the row. The old man looked stolidly ruminative, Owen forlorn, his face drawn and unhappy. Daisy’s heart went out to him. She would have gone to speak to him if it weren’
t for Sergeant Shaw planted in the middle of the row, his bulk blocking the way.
At a table on the left side of the stage sat a small, grey man in a grey suit, presumably the coroner. He was talking to Inspector Dunnett and a plump gentleman Daisy recognized as Dr. Sedgwick. On the right side of the stage, the jury benches began to fill with a solemn array of villagers, farmers, and tradesmen.
The crowd from outside had been drifting into the gloomy, draughty room. Daisy glanced back and saw the “gentlemen” of the Press rush in to squeeze into the back two rows set aside for them. Stan Moss came down the aisle as the doctor and Inspector Dunnett descended from the stage, and all three found places at the front. The coroner rapped on the table. The room quieted.
The first witness called was Stan Moss. He identified the deceased as his daughter Grace and admitted he hadn’t seen her since the second week in December. No, he hadn’t reported her missing.
“Thought she’d gone orf to make ‘er forchin in London, din’t I,” he justified himself. “Never satisfied, the young uns these days, allus grumbling. Good luck to ’er, says I. Getchaself out from under them as thinks acos they calls themselves gentry they can … .”
“Thank you, Mr. Moss, that will be all,” said the coroner sharply. The blacksmith sat down, his sullen face resentful. Daisy couldn’t blame the coroner for preventing a tirade, yet she wondered if he was as anxious as the police to avoid involving the Parslows. For all she knew, he was their solicitor.
“Arthur Bligh.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “I have here your statement to the police,” he said as the old man rose, shoulders hunched, his hat clutched in rheumatic hands. “You are head gardener at Occles Hall? You ordered your assistant, Owen Morgan, to dig up a border in the Winter Garden? And you were present while he dug and when he unearthed the deceased?”