by Carola Dunn
“Aye, miss,” Bligh said sadly.
“Perhaps I can sow some doubts in his mind. At least I must make sure he realizes the body was only discovered because Owen drew attention to the dead azalea.”
“That’s what I wor trying to say to yon crowner, him making out digging wor my notion.”
“I thought so. Anyway, I’ll do what I can. Thanks for your help, Mr. Bligh, and for the tea.” She stood up.
“Here, you’ll need a lantern to light your way.” He took down a hurricane lamp from a hook by the door, lit it, and adjusted the flame. “You’ll tell me if there’s owt I can do for the lad, missy?”
“I will, I promise.”
Lamp in hand, Daisy walked swiftly towards the Hall. Though the night air held a threat of frost before morning, it wasn’t only the cold that made her shiver. She was afraid of Lady Valeria’s ability to thwart any scrutiny of her family’s involvement with Grace. Her ladyship wouldn’t care if a mere gardener was wrongfully condemned as long as her darling Sebastian was safe. Perhaps he had nothing to do with the murder, but the dastardly Dunnett wasn’t even going to try to find out.
The villagers didn’t care about Owen, the “foreigner.” Any of them who knew anything would keep his mouth closed rather than risk offending Lady Valeria.
They’d talk among themselves in the pub, though, about the commercial traveller if not about Sebastian. The traveller, supposing Ted Roper hadn’t invented him, might prove of vital importance. Had Phillip taken seriously her request to listen in the bar tonight?
She was very tempted to go down herself to the Cheshire Cheese after dinner. The trouble was, even in this modern age a woman walking alone into a pub was looked at askance. Besides, since the inquest everyone must know of her connection with Occles Hall, so her presence would make them wary. No, it simply wasn’t on.
She went up to her room and spent half an hour typing out the morning’s shorthand notes before changing for dinner.
As she covered the typewriter and straightened her papers, Bobbie came in. “Owen Morgan’s been arrested,” she said gruffly.
“No, only taken in for questioning.”
“Arrested and charged. The Inspector just phoned.” She moved to the chest-of-drawers and fidgeted with Daisy’s brush and comb. “They must have found evidence that he did it, mustn’t they?”
“I don’t believe it!” Daisy was on the point of asking straight out what had gone on between Sebastian and Grace when Bobbie interrupted with the obvious intention of changing the subject.
“Ben says a friend of yours is staying in Occleswich?”
“Yes, Phillip Petrie.” A pang of guilt struck her. “Gosh, I’m afraid I’ve rather treated the Hall as a hotel this afternoon. Too rude, especially when your mother’s dying to see the last of me.”
“That’s all right, Mummy doesn’t know. The inquest was bound to delay your work so she won’t expect you to leave in the morning, and Daddy’s still frightfully keen on showing you the dairy. Is Mr. Petrie a particular friend?”
By the time Daisy had explained that Phillip was a childhood rather than a “particular” friend, they had to rush to change. Another chance to question Bobbie was lost.
Dinner was another uncomfortable meal, with Lady Valeria holding forth on the undesirability of hiring other than local servants, and Daisy holding her tongue with difficulty. She didn’t want to have an outright row with her hostess so that she had to leave Occles Hall.
After dinner, she went to the telephone cubby and rang up Phillip. “Have you heard anything useful?” she asked eagerly.
“Dash it, old thing, I’ve just finished eating. Jolly good cheese your Sir Reginald makes, don’t you know.”
“Blast Sir Reginald’s cheese!”
“Oh, right-ho, I did catch a word or two before dinner about your … .”
“Don’t say it on the phone.” Remembering how quickly the Press had arrived on the scene after her call to the Chester police, Daisy didn’t trust the local exchange. She couldn’t simply ring up Dunnett with her information. “Will you drive me into Chester tomorrow morning? I simply must … um … buy a new ink-ribbon for my typewriter.”
“You and your writing!” Phillip sounded vaguely bewildered by what he evidently regarded as an abrupt digression. “Yes, I’ll take you.”
“Thanks, old dear. And you’ll go on listening this evening?”
Reluctantly he agreed, and Daisy returned to the drawing room for coffee. Lady Valeria asked how her work was going.
“Quite well,” Daisy said. Crossing her fingers under the table, she went on, “Unfortunately I find I need a new ink-ribbon for my typewriter. A friend who happens to be in the area has offered to drive me into Chester in the morning to buy one.”
Suspicious of this fortuitous friend, Lady Valeria pursued enquiries with a zeal Inspector Dunnett would have done well to emulate. Her doubts were laid to rest when Daisy explained that, far from being a reporter, Phillip was a younger son of Baron Petrie of Malvern. “You may invite Mr. Petrie to dine with us tomorrow,” she said graciously. “I know his mother.”
Next morning, Phillip groaned when Daisy relayed this invitation. “I suppose I’ll have to accept. The mater’ll consider it treason.” The Swift raced down the drive.
“Don’t tell her. And there’s no need to drive as if some frightful fiend does close behind you tread. I’d like to reach Chester in one piece. Well, what did you learn last night?”
“I wish you’d drop that bally business.” He slowed for the gates, turned into the lane, and picked up speed.
“Then why are you taking me to Chester?”
“For a typewriter rib … . To see the police?” He groaned again. “Hang it all, that’s a rotten trick to play on a fellow.”
Soothing his lacerated sensibilities, Daisy managed to extract his bar gleanings. Grace had definitely talked at length with a commercial traveller shortly before her disappearance. He had treated her to either a half of shandy or a port-and-lemon, a subject of some controversy among patrons of the Cheshire Cheese. Not one of the regular, well-known suppliers of the village shop, he was thought to be a Londoner.
“And that’s all,” said Phillip. “I’ll be hanged if I’ll go sleuthing to the point of asking nosy questions, even for you.”
“That’s enough,” Daisy exclaimed. “Bless you, Phil. Even Dunnett will have to sit up and take notice.”
“I can’t think how you failed to twist him round your little finger in the first place,” he grumbled.
“I might have if he wasn’t scared stiff of Lady Valeria.”
“Speaking of whom, a fellow in the bar-parlour last night was asking me about her. One of these long-haired poet chappies, but it turned out his brother is a man I know in the City. A downy bird, not like this fellow. He seemed a bit put out when I gave him the goods on Lady Valeria.”
“How odd. You’ll come in with me to see the Inspector, won’t you? He may pay more attention to you than to me.”
“Right-ho,” Phillip agreed in a doubtful voice.
When they reached Chester, they found a photography shop and Daisy left a film to be developed and printed.
“It has the pictures Ben took in the Winter Garden,” she explained. “I want to see how they come out before I try to interest Inspector Dunnett in them. I’ll develop the rest in Lucy’s darkroom when I get home.”
They went on to the police station. The desk officer turned them over to Sergeant Shaw, who led them upstairs and along a corridor.
“Is it true Owen Morgan’s been arrested?” Daisy demanded.
“That’s right, miss. So you’ve got new information, ‘ave you? Can’t say as the Inspector’s going to be ’appy. You wouldn’t think to look at ‘im ’e was a himpulsive man, but ‘e tends to jump the gun a mite. Inspector Been and Gone and Dunnett we calls ’im.”
Phillip snorted with laughter. Daisy was not amused. “Very appropriate. He’s made a real bloomer this time,�
�� she said.
“You won’t tell ’im I told you, miss?”
“Of course not.” She smiled at him. “But I’m glad to know.”
Sergeant Shaw became confidential. “What I ‘ear is, the Super’s raving mad and the Chief Constable’s none too ’appy. I mean, it don’t look any too good going round arresting people without enough evidence, and motive ain’t evidence. Trouble is, neether of ‘em fancies a set-to with ’er ladyship, and ‘oo can blame ’em, says I? ’Ere we are.”
He ushered Daisy and Phillip into a small office and made himself scarce. Behind a cluttered desk Inspector Dunnett rose to his feet, hanging up his telephone. He was in plainclothes, a funereal black suit and navy blue tie. Daisy guessed he had worn his uniform to Occles Hall because its official nature stiffened his backbone to face the gentry.
“I gather you want to change your statement, Miss Dalrymple,” he growled.
“Not so much change it as add to it, Inspector.” Daisy tried to be tactful. “I suppose I was in a state of shock and may have inadvertently misled you by omission. Also, I’ve made one or two discoveries since then.”
An expression of dismay crossed his long face, then he scowled and snapped, “One thing at a time.” With a curt gesture he invited them to sit down. “What is it you failed to tell my sergeant?”
“First, long before we came to the dead bush, Owen told me the girl he hoped to marry had gone off. He was desperately unhappy.”
“He was getting his story in before you asked about the bush.”
Clenching her fists, Daisy kept her voice even. “But he could have told me it would bloom later in the spring. He was the one who said it was dying and insisted on calling in Mr. Bligh. And if he hadn’t said his spade was hitting something, the body wouldn’t have been disinterred.”
“I’m afraid, miss, you don’t understand the way a murderer’s mind works,” said Dunnett, with a cold sneer. “As often as not, they can’t resist returning to the scene of the crime and poking around. And likely he’d be glad of witnesses to give him just the excuse you’ve provided.”
“But he was horribly upset when he found her!”
“You can be sorry someone’s gone even if you bashed her head in.”
Daisy shuddered. Phillip leaned forward, angry. “Look here, my good man,” he said, “Miss Dalrymple’s come forward to help the police. The least you can do is treat her politely and take her statement.”
“Yes, sir.” The Inspector’s tone was wooden. “I’ll have a new statement typed up and Miss Dalrymple can sign it if you’ll be good enough to return in an hour or so.” He began to stand.
“I’m not finished!” Daisy wasn’t going to let herself be dismissed yet again. “I’m pretty sure Grace Moss was having an affair with Sebastian Parslow, and the baby was his, not Owen Morgan’s.”
Dunnett paled, but he said sarcastically, “‘Pretty sure,’ miss?”
“You can hardly expect me to provide proof. You’ll have to investigate and find out for yourself.”
“I’ll thank you not to try to teach the police their business, miss. That sort of thing is hearsay, not admissible evidence. Still, Morgan may have believed it, which gives him another excellent motive: jealousy. Now, if that’s all … .”
“It’s not.” She almost spat the words out. “Lots of people saw Grace in conversation with a stranger, a commercial traveller, at the village inn on the day she disappeared. They thought she had run off with him. You’ll find plenty of witnesses if you can be bothered to ask.”
“Heard ’em talking about it myself,” Phillip loyally confirmed. “You can’t ignore that.”
“Naturally we shall have this man traced, sir,” said Dunnett, stiff with annoyance, “if he exists. No one else has mentioned him, but I’ll get the Occleswich constable onto it.” Reaching for his telephone, he paused. “Unless you have any more startling revelations, miss?”
“Not yet, Inspector.” Daisy glowered at him as she stood up. “But you may be sure that I shall not allow anything I find out to be swept under the carpet!”
In fuming silence she marched along the passage and down the stairs, and swept out of the police station, Phillip trailing at her heels. On the pavement she stopped and turned to him.
“I need a phone,” she announced. “I’m going to ring up Alec. Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard won’t kowtow to Lady Valeria Parslow!”
7
Alec Fletcher’s office in New Scotland Yard had a window overlooking the Thames. He rarely had time to admire the view, but today, after snatching a quick sandwich lunch in the canteen, he felt entitled to treat himself to a soothing thirty seconds of river and boats. In the past two days he had cleared up two major cases, a dock warehouse robbery gang he’d been working on for weeks, and a particularly nasty attempted murder.
Of course, in the meantime the paper had been piling up on his desk, and on Sergeant Tring’s, at right-angles to his own. Tom Tring, mountainous in vivid blue and green checks, regarded the neat stacks with unmitigated loathing. With a sigh, Alec turned to his overflowing in-tray. He recognized the importance of paper-work but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
The telephone on Tom’s desk rang and the sergeant picked up the receiver. As he listened, his eyebrows rose towards the shining dome of his head.
“Put her through,” he said. “Hullo? Yes, miss, Tom Tring here. What can I do for you?”
Again he listened. His little brown eyes began to twinkle and his luxuriant grey walrus moustache quivered.
Now what was amusing him? The distant, tinny female voice sounded vaguely familiar to Alec, but he couldn’t make out the words. Sighing again, he initialled the paper in front of him and passed on to the next.
“Yes, miss,” said Tom in a grave voice, “I do think that’s worth disturbing him for. Half a minute, I’ll put you through.” Openly grinning, he pressed the button that transferred the call to Alec’s apparatus, and put a meaty hand over his own mouthpiece. “Miss Dalrymple, Chief. Got a job for us.”
Alec groaned. He might have known Daisy couldn’t find a murder on her doorstep without intervening. But this morning’s headlines had reported the murderer arrested. What was she up to?
As he lifted the receiver, he saw Tom switch his phone to an internal line and start talking. Then Daisy’s voice was in his ear.
“Alec? Hullo, Alec, are you there?”
“Yes, Miss Dalrymple, Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher speaking.”
“Alec, don’t Miss Dalrymple me. Oh, is Sergeant Tring in your office with you? Not that he’d care. But never mind all that, I haven’t got an endless supply of sixpences. Alec, you simply must do something. They’ve arrested the wrong man.”
“In the Occles Hall case? That’s Cheshire police business. Just hold your horses a moment and remember I can’t interfere unless we’re called in by the Chief Constable.”
“I know, I know. You needn’t think I’ve rung you up on impulse. I was going to phone an hour ago but Phillip made me wait and think about it until after we’d had lunch.”
“Phillip?”
“Phillip Petrie. He read about the Occles Hall murder in the papers and drove up here because he thought I might need protection.”
“Brave man,” said Alec, who was of the opinion that Daisy was more in need of protection from herself than from anyone else.
“Well, you know what a sweet old chump he is. He doesn’t understand I can look after myself. But he does agree that Inspector Dunnett isn’t investigating properly.”
“Does he, indeed?” Of course, it took a strong man to stand out against Daisy’s persuasive ways.
“Yes, he does. And Dunnett’s sergeant told us neither his Superintendent nor the Chief Constable is satisfied with the arrest,” she said triumphantly.
“I still can’t butt in.”
“And I’ve convinced Dunnett he has to trace a commercial traveller who’s probably a Londoner so they’ll be force
d to ask for your help.”
With considerable sympathy for Inspector Dunnett, Alec said, “It sounds as if they’re doing everything they can.”
“Oh no, they’re not. They’ll never ask the most important questions because they’re all scared to death of Lady Valeria Parslow. That’s why I want you to come. She won’t frighten you.”
“I see.” In spite of recognizing the persuasive wiles aimed now at him, Alec was gratified by her confidence in his ability to withstand pressure exerted by the upper classes. And after all, she had sorted out the Wentwater Court affair, though the result had been decidedly unorthodox.
“Alec, there’s an innocent man in prison! Blast, I’m running out of change.”
“All right, Daisy, you win. I can’t promise anything but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Angel! I’ll see you soon, Chief,” she said, and rang off.
He hung up the receiver, his face growing hot under Tom’s quizzical gaze. “Don’t say it,” he warned.
“She’s got her head screwed on right,” the sergeant reassured him, adding slyly, “even if she can talk the hind leg off a donkey. Been seeing a bit of her since Wentwater, eh, Chief?”
Alec attempted nonchalance. “Once or twice, just to make sure she’s all right. That was a nasty business for a delicately bred female to be mixed up in.”
“Delicate, ho!” Tom scoffed. “She’s mixed herself up in a much nastier one this time. Pregnant parlourmaid got her skull stove in by her boyfriend, only our Miss Dalrymple don’t believe it was the boyfriend, right? So whoever done it’s still on the loose and she’s in the thick of it. Seems to me, Chief, she needs someone up there to keep an eye on her.”
“I can’t just barge in,” said Alec irritably, telling himself he couldn’t possibly be jealous of that ass, Petrie.
“I reckon we can wangle it. I just rang down and a request’s come in from Cheshire to trace a commercial, name of George Brown, would you believe it! You’re the Super’s blue-eyed boy right now … .”
“All right, all right, I told her I’d give it a try. I’ll have to go upstairs to the A.C. though, because it means asking the Cheshire C.C.’s permission to invade his manor. Great Scott, what am I getting myself into?” He groaned but reached for the telephone. “At least Daisy—Miss Dalrymple claims the C.C.’s not happy with the arrest.”