The Winter Garden Mystery

by Carola Dunn

  That didn’t sound like the answer of a murderer, Alec thought, as the tea arrived, slopped in the saucers. He sipped from his cup. It was stewed, tepid, and over-sugared, and white flecks suggested the milk had seen better days. He abandoned it, but Morgan drank his thirstily.

  Alec waited till he had finished before he said, “Tell me about Grace.”

  Silent tears began to course down Morgan’s face. He scrabbled in his pocket, came up empty-handed. Alec moved around the desk and gave the boy his handkerchief, hoping his mother, a quick-packing expert, had remembered to put in a spare. He perched on the corner of the desk.

  “You saw her on the day she disappeared?”

  “No, sir. Busy all day she wass. After tea at the Hall, her evenings off, she’d go down to the fillage to make her pa’s tea.”

  “And then to the Cheshire Cheese. You didn’t go with her?”

  “Saving to be married I wass.”

  “You didn’t mind her chatting with other men at the pub?”

  “I loved her,” Morgan said with a defiant air. “It’s not I will tell tales on her.”

  “You can’t hurt her now,” Alec said brutally. “Everyone knows she was expecting a child. The only question is, whose?”

  “Not mine, but gladly I’d haff giffen the babe my name.”

  “You knew before the inquest that she was pregnant?”

  “She told me.”

  “And she told you the name of the father?”

  “No need. Wassn’t she in love with the young master, and him promising to marry her?”

  Alec glanced from the corner of his eye at Piper, to make sure he hadn’t broken the leads of all three pencils at the wrong moment. “The young master?” he probed.

  “Mr. Sebastian.”

  “Sebastian Parslow.”

  “Aye, him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Didn’t she tell me everything? How her ladyship wass always after pushing her at him and … .”

  “Wait a minute. You’re saying Lady Valeria encouraged her parlourmaid to chase her son?”

  “Grace told me,” said Morgan stubbornly. “Her ladyship ordered her to take up Mr. Sebastian’s early morning tea, because the housemaid was a silly girl who embarrassed him with her giggling. And his whisky nightcap, too, when he rang for one, which Mr. Moody ought to haff done, or Mr. Thomkins, who’s so careless and lazy he cannot be relied on to answer the bell.”

  “Good Lord!” Alec said, flummoxed. The only explanation that came to mind was that Grace had made up the story to excuse herself to her suitor.

  The boy was in full flood now, reticence forgotten. “And Grace thought it meant her ladyship liked her. She wouldn’t believe me when I said her ladyship’d neffer let her precious son marry a servant, whateffer he promised. You can’t blame her, sir, with her pa after her too.”

  “You mean she told you her father also encouraged her to … ah … sow her wild oats?”

  “All he cared about wass making trouble for her ladyship,” said Morgan bitterly.

  That at least was more explicable than Lady Valeria’s behaviour, if hardly paternal. According to Daisy, Stanley Moss had a virulent grudge against Lady Valeria. He’d expect his daughter’s affair with her son not only to cause trouble but possibly to lead to a monetary settlement.

  On second thoughts, maybe Lady Valeria felt the same way about Grace’s fall bringing trouble on her father. Had the girl’s reputation—and eventually her life—been sacrificed to the unforgiving malevolence of two cold-blooded egotists?

  “But you said Grace was in love with Mr. Parslow.”

  Morgan shrugged his thin shoulders in a gesture of helpless incomprehension of the mind of woman. Thereafter he responded in miserable monosyllables and Alec learned nothing new. The unhappy gardener was conducted back to his cell.

  Had Lady Valeria and Stanley Moss between them pushed Grace into Parslow’s bed? Alec was inclined to believe Owen Morgan, but most of what he’d said was pure hearsay, repeating what Grace had told him, and Grace was as far beyond human enquiry as she was beyond human judgement.

  The Parslows, however, were not. Daisy was right, as usual. He was going to have to tackle Lady Valeria.

  9

  Piper drove the Austin back to Occleswich while Alec pondered the meaning of Morgan’s revelation. For a father to try to wipe out the shame of a promiscuous daughter by doing away with her was uncommon but not unknown, yet if Moss drove Grace to seduce Parslow he had no cause for outrage. Bang went his already weak motive. As Daisy had mentioned, he had lost her pay and his free housekeeper by Grace’s death.

  As for her ladyship, Alec needed to know far more about her family before he could begin to untangle motivations.

  He turned to the local police file on the murder. By the end, he shared Daisy’s opinion of Inspector Dunnett. The report of the inquest gave the impression that the coroner, too, had done his best to cut off any witness who might point to evidence distressing to Lady Valeria.

  He glanced at Daisy’s photographs. Wrapped in a mud-sodden sheet, the body could have been an Egyptian mummy. Only the face was visible, well-preserved, protected by the sheet and the winter’s cold according to the doctor, recognizable to those who knew her well. To a stranger the slackness of death and time robbed it of all individuality. Grace was not there.

  Back at the Cheshire Cheese in time to order a late lunch, Alec sent Piper to the village constable’s one-room police station with a note. He himself telephoned Occles Hall and asked for Daisy.

  “The lad confirms most of what you’ve told me,” he said, remembering her warning about the local exchange.

  “I knew it.” Her voice was triumphant, not unnaturally. “Did you get him out?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But … .”

  “Just listen a minute, will you? I liked him and I think he’s telling the truth, but he’s not out of the wood yet. We still have only his word for it. Besides, he’s no unhappier there than anywhere else, and he’s sure he’s lost his job.”

  “Oh dear, I expect he’s right. I’ll have to write to a few people and see what I can arrange.”

  “Do.” With luck that would keep her out of trouble for a while. “I’m coming up after I’ve had a bite to eat. Is everyone at home?”

  “No, you’re in luck, she’s popped off to one of her committees. I don’t believe there’s a committee in the county she doesn’t run. She’s not expected back till teatime and the more you can do by then the better. Oh, and my friend is out, too. She didn’t come in to lunch.”

  “But the person I want most to see is there?”

  “Yes.” The crackling sound coming over the wire might be a sigh. “I quite like him, you know, in spite of everything.”

  “Daisy, someone did it,” Alec expostulated.

  “I know. I shan’t interfere.”

  “Good. I’ll see you later, then, to bring you up to date. Cheerio.”

  He hung up as Piper returned to report that P.C. Rudge was expected to return soon from his bicycle rounds. Mrs. Rudge promised to give him the note when he came in.

  They sat down to oxtail soup, an excellent cauliflower cheese, and a couple of pints of mild. No one else was in the dining room, so Alec was able to give Piper the instructions Tom Tring would not have needed. The young detective kept his notebook open beside his plate.

  “When we get to Occles Hall, I want you to talk to the servants,” Alec said.

  “You won’t need me to take notes, Chief?” Piper asked, disappointed.

  “It’s more important to get to the staff before Lady Valeria realizes what we’re up to and forbids them to speak to us.”

  “That’d be obstructing the police in the course of their duties.”

  “Something tells me that will cut no ice with her ladyship. As it is, they may not be willing to talk about young Parslow or the rest of the family anyway, but see what you can do. What I want to know is what they were doing
that evening, family and servants both, and whether anyone saw Grace up at the Hall after she left here. With times, of course. Do we know what time she left?”

  “Round about ten o’clock, Chief,” Piper answered while scribbling reminders to himself. “The barmaid noticed because if Grace came at all, she always used to stay till closing time—half past. She didn’t have to be back at the Hall till eleven.”

  “Hmm. Why did she leave early that night? She needn’t do so to meet anyone resident at the Hall. Had she arranged to meet someone in or near the Winter Garden? I wonder what the weather was like.”

  “Summun’ll know.”

  “There’s always the Meteorological Record. Even if it was too cold or wet for an outdoor rendezvous, perhaps someone walked her home, Morgan or maybe George Brown. We’ll ask this evening whether he or anyone else left the bar at the same time she did.”

  “I should’ve asked at breakfast, Chief.”

  “Never mind, you can’t think of everything. Let’s see: other servants may have had the day or evening off and gone down to the village. If so, ask whether they saw Morgan or any of the family, or Grace walking up the hill, alone or in company.”

  “It’s a long time to remember,” Piper said doubtfully.

  “Your barmaid remembered the time, didn’t she? With luck it would stick in their minds because Grace vanished, especially if she was seen with someone other than the stranger she was later reported to have left with. They’ll surely at least remember whether she came in. So far we have no evidence as to whether she died soon after leaving the pub or later that night. Incidentally, ask whether she made a practice of returning to the Hall on time, by eleven that is, and what time the doors are locked. Perhaps we can narrow down the time still further.”

  “Right, Chief.”

  “Also, try to find out whether there were rivalries and jealousies between the girl and her fellow-servants.” Alec frowned. That was the sort of thing Tom was so good at ferreting out. He wished he hadn’t left him behind. “Do your best, Ernie,” he said.

  “Of course, Chief.” The detective constable sounded injured. “What about the outside men?”

  “Good point. If you have time, see the head gardener. You may have to hunt about the grounds for him.”

  “It’s raining again.”

  “Then try potting sheds and greenhouses, though I imagine gardeners are out in all weathers, like policemen. Ask the same sort of questions, especially whether any of his underlings had an eye to Grace, and more particularly whether he saw or heard Morgan going out that night.”

  “Right, Chief.”

  “Oh, and you’d better find out whether Grace went to work at Occles Hall straight from school. It’s always difficult at first to work out what we need to ask about. After today’s enquiries we’ll have a better idea of what line to follow, unless Miss Dalrymple is all at sea and Morgan turns out to be the obvious culprit.”

  “She wouldn’t never go that far wrong, Chief!”

  “Well, we wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t inclined to trust her judgment,” Alec agreed, amused. “This evening we’ll see what we can pick up in the bars, from the village people. I’d rather not go door to door if we can help it.” He turned his head as heavy footsteps entered the room behind him. “Ah, Constable Rudge, I presume?”

  “Yes, sir, Chief Inspector, sir.” The man saluting was the epitome of the country bobby as seen in innumerable melodramas, farces, and music-hall skits. Middle-aged, ponderous, with a round, red, bovine face, he’d have got a laugh simply walking on stage at the Palladium, before the audience heard his slow voice and thick local accent.

  Such men were the backbone of the law, Alec was well aware. Rudge would know everyone in his district, at least by sight. A stolen chicken, a pub brawl, a Peeping Tom—ninety-nine times out of a hundred he’d resolve the matter without recourse to the courts. But to put him on a murder enquiry was ludicrous.

  “Thank you for coming so promptly, Constable. I didn’t want to trespass on your patch without informing you.” Alec introduced Piper.

  “Owt I can do to help Scotland Yard, sir.” Rudge remained rigidly at attention.

  “I take it Chester let you know we’ve been called in on the Moss murder. I’m hoping you might have observed the movements of some of the people we’re interested in on the night in question.”

  “Nay, sir. I looked it up in me book for yon sergeant from Chester. On the night in question, sir, I were out to Oakwood Farm. Mr. Simpkins’s head cowman, he … .”

  “So you saw nothing in the village?” Alec hastily interrupted.

  “Not a blessed thing, sir,” the constable admitted with a heavy sigh, “but owt else I can do to help … .”

  “What was the weather like?”

  “Dry, sir, and mild for the time o’ year. When you rides a bicycle, you notices.”

  “Yes, thanks. Have you got a typewriter? D.C. Piper may need to borrow it. That’s all for now, but I may well call on you later.”

  “Aye, sir. The wife gen’rally knows whereabouts I be, sir.”

  Alec dismissed him, entertained by Mrs. Rudge’s obviously essential share in his work, whereas he himself felt guilty every time he discussed a case with Daisy. Of course, he wasn’t married to Daisy—nor ever likely to be, however friendly she was. The daughter of a viscount, even if she did choose to earn her own living, and a middle-class copper, ten years older, a widower with a child … . Forget it, he told himself, swigging down the last drop of ale.

  Piper followed suit and they went out to the Austin. A light but steady drizzle forced Alec to open the upper half of the windscreen to see the way as he drove up the hill. Nonetheless, as they passed the forge, the seats of two pairs of damp and oily dungarees presented themselves, the wearers’ heads invisible beneath the bonnet of a silver-grey Swift two-seater.

  Petrie consulting Stan Moss. Daisy described the bereaved father as a frightful brute; either a mutual interest in things mechanical made up to Petrie for any defects in Moss’s character, or else more than a missing nut ailed the Swift.

  At some point Alec would have to speak to Moss, though at present it was more urgent to see Parslow before his mother’s return. It might be useful to have Petrie on good terms with the blacksmith.

  The high, spiked gates to Occles Hall were closed. Alec honked his horn and an aged gatekeeper appeared at the door of the half-timbered lodge.

  “No reporters,” he announced and turned away.

  “Police,” said Alec loudly. “Scotland Yard.”

  The old man gaped. “Oh lor’, what’ll her la’ship say?” he moaned, but he scuttled through the rain to open the gates.

  As they approached the house, Alec could see why Daisy had wanted to write about it, and especially to photograph it. The Tudor half-timbering was as splendidly fanciful as the much better known Little Moreton Hall. His particular interest had been the Georgian period, but that didn’t stop him appreciating this.

  “Cor,” said Piper, “talk about jazzy!”

  Laughing, Alec pulled up alongside the rain-wrinkled moat. They walked across the bridge into the tunnel under the gatehouse and Piper rang the front-door bell.

  After a considerable wait, the door was opened by a bilious-looking butler who regarded them with dispirited disdain.

  “Scotland Yard.” Alec knew how to deal with obstructive butlers. He moved inexorably across the threshold as he presented his identification card. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher. I’m investigating the murder of your parlourmaid, Grace Moss. Your name?”

  The butler stared in dismay at the notebook and pencil which had appeared in Piper’s hands. “Moody, sir. I can’t take it upon myself to … .”

  “Detective Constable Piper will be talking to the staff. I shall interview the family, beginning with Mr. Sebastian Parslow.”

  “If you’ll be so good as to wait here, sir, I’ll see if Mr. Parslow is at home.”

  Ignoring this, Alec and Piper f
ollowed Moody across the small, panelled room and into another. The butler glanced back at the sound of their footsteps. His thin lips pursed but he made no demur.

  He led them to a long room with windows all down one side and a multiplicity of doors leading off it. Stopping before one of these, he opened it and announced in doom-laden tones, “A policeman to see you, Mr. Sebastian.”

  Thereupon he beat a hasty retreat, with Piper at his heels.

  Alec stepped into a pleasant sitting room. Above waist-high wainscoting the walls were hung with a golden yellow brocade which made the room seem sunny. A small table in front of the fireplace bore a game of backgammon in progress, with Daisy seated on one side, smiling at him, and on the other … .

  Why the hell hadn’t Daisy warned him that Sebastian Parslow was a Greek statue come to life? No wonder Grace Moss had bestowed her favours. The wonder was that she had needed her father’s and his mother’s encouragement. No wonder Daisy “quite liked him in spite of everything.” What woman could resist him?

  There they sat at backgammon like Ferdinand and Miranda over their game of chess—and Alec had less than no right to be jealous. He was going to have to be extraordinarily careful to treat the young man fairly.

  The colour in Parslow’s face drained, leaving in truth the cold white perfection of marble, save for blue eyes and golden hair. He pushed back his chair and stood up, leaning with one hand on the table.

  “Yes?”

  “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, Scotland Yard. I have one or two questions to ask you, sir, regarding the death of Grace Moss.”

  “I’d better go,” said Daisy, rising with visible reluctance.

  “No,” Parslow said unexpectedly, his voice uneven, “do stay, Daisy. I don’t suppose this will take long, and then we can finish our game.”

  How the deuce did she do it? Alec could have asked her to leave, but when she looked at him with her head cocked like a robin hoping for a worm, he hadn’t the heart. She wasn’t wearing powder or lipstick, he noticed. The tiny mole which looked like an eighteenth-century “Kissing” patch was unmasked. He liked her that way.

  If Parslow thought her presence would forestall awkward questions, he was in for a shock.