by Carola Dunn
“I’m glad, but … Ben, you know I have to tell Mr. Fletcher?”
His eyes were full of weariness and pain. “I know,” he said quietly. “But he’s a clever man, your detective. He’ll find out anyway, and I’d rather you told him than I.”
“I’m sure he won’t … . No, I can’t be sure,” Daisy admitted, downcast. “I think Alec’s broadminded enough not to make things more difficult for you just because of that. If it weren’t for Grace’s murder … .”
Ben nodded. “As it is, you have no choice but to tell him.”
“I’ll try to persuade him not to tell anyone else,” she promised.
Sebastian was in better form than Ben now. His cheeks had regained their colour and the signs of tears were fading. “Why do you want to know about Bobbie’s letter, Daisy?” he asked curiously.
“Because it seems highly unlikely that if she had killed Grace she’d write you a letter which might well bring you home into the middle of a murder investigation. She couldn’t know so soon that it was safe. Therefore she didn’t kill Grace, not that I believed for a minute she did.”
“Anyway, the mater refused to come home. Jove!” Sebastian clutched his dishevelled golden locks and groaned. “I suppose that makes it look even more as if she … .”
Heavy footsteps outside the door silenced him. In an instant he sprang to his feet and sat down again on the sofa beside Daisy. When Lady Valeria clumped in, the three were discussing Greek architecture—and Daisy had just had a brilliant idea.
For the moment she had to keep her idea to herself. Lady Valeria stayed with them until they all moved to the dining room for lunch. Besides, though as an afterthought, Daisy decided she’d better hold her tongue until Alec was convinced of Ben and Sebastian’s innocence of Grace’s murder.
She wondered whether he’d be frightfully shocked by her discovery about them. No, a policeman was not so easily shocked; but she hoped he wouldn’t be disgusted. Slightly to her own surprise, she found she liked Ben as much as ever, and Sebastian was nice enough when he pulled himself together. They obviously cared deeply for each other.
Surely Alec would not arrest them? Even if he wanted to, he’d have to have proof of “misconduct,” not just an admission of feelings, wouldn’t he? But she refused to believe he was a bigot.
It wasn’t something she could discuss over the phone. If he didn’t return to the Hall soon, she’d walk down to the inn.
Alec returned to the inn sooner than he had intended. The only remarkable thing about Grace’s funeral was that her father had attended wearing greasy dungarees and a surly scowl. Stan Moss did not accompany his daughter’s coffin to the graveside, as Alec realized very nearly too late. When he reached the street the blacksmith was revving up a small, dilapidated motor-lorry.
Over the noise of the engine, Alec bawled, “I’d like a word with you, Mr. Moss.” He reached through the glassless window to present his credentials. “Scotland Yard.”
Moss glowered but he took his foot off the accelerator. The roar diminished to a loud rumble. “Ruddy Lunnon busies think you know better’n the local coppers? That Taffy done it.”
“Did you see him?”
“Di’n’t get home till late that night, did I?”
“Then what makes you think Morgan killed your daughter?”
“Bloody obvious, innit! She got a bun in the oven and whether ’twere his or not he’d cause.”
“You knew she was having an affair with young Parslow.”
“Mebbe I did and mebbe I di’n’t.”
“I understand you encouraged her to seduce him.”
Moss’s sullen face crimsoned. “It’s a bloody lie!” he bellowed. “Look here, mate, I can’t stop here chatting all the ruddy day. I got business.” He revved again and released the brake.
“I’ll need to see you again,” Alec shouted, hastily removing his hand from the door and jumping back.
The lorry roared off down the hill, leaving Alec certain the blacksmith was lying. He had pushed his daughter into the affair. However, far from making him a murderer, that gave him every motive to keep her alive for his unpleasant purposes.
Annoyed, Alec walked back to the church for a word with the vicar. He felt a spark of hope when Mr. Lake told him Wednesday was choir practice night. However, the practice ended at nine, a good hour before Grace was last seen alive. Another dead end.
On the point of leaving, Alec turned back. “Owen Morgan isn’t in the choir? The Welsh are known for their singing.”
“And for their Methodism, Chief Inspector. I believe Morgan often walked into Whitbury to Chapel on a Sunday. A good lad, by all reports, and I’m glad you have reopened the case.”
A charitable man as well as a bold one, Alec thought.
Stan Moss, on the other hand, seemed absolutely convinced the police had already arrested his daughter’s murderer. He might change his mind if he realized his enemy, Lady Valeria, was now a suspect. Alec wanted to talk to him again.
Not nearly as badly, however, as he wanted to talk to Lady Valeria Parslow, and Miss Roberta, and George Brown.
Back at the Cheshire Cheese, he reread the scanty reports of the local police. He noticed Ben Goodman had said at the inquest that Lady Valeria told him to sack Grace if she returned. When had she so instructed him? Either her ladyship reckoned the girl’s running off removed any claim against Sebastian, or she knew Grace would not be seen again. Which? Alec wondered.
He telephoned Sergeant Shaw to clarify one or two points. Ernie Piper came in with his typed report and clarified a couple more points. Grace’s belongings were still in her bedroom at the Hall, he announced, but since they consisted only of her parlourmaid’s uniforms no one had wondered at it.
Something curious about that caught Alec’s attention, but before he could chase down the thought, Piper continued. “And the chauffeur swears no one took a motor out the night of December 13th.”
“He’s quite certain?”
“Yes, Chief. His room’s right over the garridge, an old hayloft it is, the garridge being part of the stables. He was there all evening, having to drive to London next day.”
“Any witnesses? Any sign he was interested in Grace?”
“No witnesses, Chief, but he’s engaged to a girl in Whitbury, which he don’t want her ladyship to know about. I got her name and address, case we need to check.”
“Well done, Ernie. Let’s go and eat before you leave for Crewe. I’ll go over your report later.”
They had the dining room to themselves. Petrie had gone off to call on a distant, elderly cousin at his mother’s behest.
“It’s odd, Chief, that long-haired bloke not being here. I mean, with Miss Parslow gone missing and all.”
“Great Scott, I’d forgotten. You said they knew each other.”
“I only remembered acos of typing up my notes, Chief,” Piper said modestly. “D’you think he went with her?”
“It’s a possibility I shouldn’t have overlooked. Everyone’s hunting for a woman on her own, not a couple. Mrs. Chiver,” he said to the landlady as she brought in their soup, “has our resident poet left?”
“Mr. Wilkinson, sir? He’s booked another three nights and left one of his bags. Said he might be gone a night or two. You don’t think he’s skipped, sir, without paying?” she asked anxiously.
“I don’t suppose so,” he soothed her, “but I’d better take a look at that bag, make sure it’s not empty.”
“After lunch, I hope, sir. The cutlets are browning nicely.”
“I wouldn’t want them to spoil. The bag won’t run away.” And if Mr. Wilkinson had run away, he’d not get much farther in half an hour. The landlady left and Alec said to Piper, “If the bag’s empty, or full of rubbish, I’ll add him to the wanted notice, but all he has to do to make himself unrecognizable is cut his hair. Chances are, though, he’s just dodged the bill and his departure has nothing to do with Miss Parslow.”
The small portmanteau turned o
ut to be full of books, surprisingly neatly packed shirts, and a cheap but respectable lounge suit. Alec had a feeling that Wilkinson was a red herring, his acquaintance with Miss Parslow probably distant and certainly nothing to do with Grace. Lady Valeria was sufficient reason for any air of conspiracy surrounding their meetings.
He set off to walk up to the Hall, Piper having already left in the Austin to meet Tom Tring’s train at Crewe. The light overcast had taken on a yellowish tinge which, together with a distinct chill in the air, threatened snow. Alec hoped it would hold off until his precious motor-car was safely back in Occleswich.
Despite the chill, well-muffled children played in the front gardens of several cottages. Most ran to the fence to stare as he passed, and one bold little girl waved. He waved back, which sent her and her companions giggling and shrieking into the house. The shop and post office were closed on Saturday afternoon, so few adults were out and about. One or two of those he met nodded and smiled, others ignored him.
The smithy looked deserted, and no one answered the door when he knocked. Out of curiosity he walked right around it, picking his way between the piles of rusting junk. The yard behind the cottage was also paved, with a considerable area clear of rubbish. Moss must keep his lorry here, and perhaps do such mechanical work as he obtained. In fact, a farm tractor standing near the back door of the forge was obviously being worked on, and a decrepit harrow had a shiny, newly forged bar holding it together.
No sign of the blacksmith, however. Alec walked on.
By the time he reached the Hall, an icy wind had sprung up and begun to disperse the clouds. He was glad to be admitted to the comparative warmth of the house.
“Miss Dalrymple requests a word with you, sir,” said Moody grudgingly, “before you see anyone else. Miss is in the Red Saloon, if you’ll please to come this way.”
Before Moody opened the door, Alec heard the rattle of typewriter keys under vigorous attack, punctuated by the ping of the carriage return warning. Daisy sat at a Regency writing-table, a silhouette against the window, bashing away at her machine. She paused and peered across the gloomy room.
“Alec? Give me half a jiffy to finish the paragraph.”
The butler had vanished on silent feet. Alec dug in his pocket for a box of matches and lit a couple of gas-lights. The painting above the mantelpiece sprang to life, a gruesome scene with guns blazing and the bodies of British soldiers and half-clad natives bleeding all over the place. Alec turned his back on it.
“Isn’t it ghastly?” Rolling the paper out of the typewriter, Daisy gave him a rather strained smile.
“Frightful, but frightfully heroic, I expect.”
“Probably.” She came around the desk. “If we sit here and turn our chairs just a little, we needn’t look at it.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?” He took out pipe and tobacco pouch as she shook her head. “What’s wrong, Daisy? It’s not Victorian gore that’s upsetting you.”
“Oh no. It’s just that I have something to tell you and it’s rather difficult. Would you turn off your searchlight gaze for a bit?” she begged.
“Sorry. Copper’s bad habit.” He busied himself with filling his pipe and trying to persuade it to light. “It’s Goodman, isn’t it?” he asked between puffs.
“How did you guess!”
“Because you’ve taken him under your wing, as you did Lady Wentwater, and because I know he’s hiding something.”
“It’s nothing to do with the murder, Alec, honestly. He’s … You know about men who don’t like women?”
“Great Scott, so that’s it! Goodman and Parslow? Of course! No wonder the poor lad’s been in such a rotten funk.”
“They love each other. You don’t have to arrest them, do you?”
“People are arrested for actions, not inclinations, and I’ve no evidence of misbehaviour. You do realize this gives them both excellent motives to get rid of Grace? Goodman must have been jealous, and Parslow wouldn’t dare risk being forced to marry. Parslow was the father? Trying to prove he is what he is not?”
“Yes,” said Daisy mournfully, “and I know it looks bad for both of them, but I really think the only thing they were hiding was … that.”
“Neither has an alibi for ten to eleven,” Alec pointed out, running through their statements in his mind. “Unless … yes, that would explain quite a lot … unless they were together. But I can’t accept either’s testimony about the other, and if they were together they may have been committing murder together. I must see them both—together.”
“Let me stay, Alec, if they don’t object. I’ll take shorthand notes for you.”
He pondered a moment. “All right. Highly irregular, but they have already confided in you, and this isn’t something I’d want Piper to hear unnecessarily. Anyway, he’s meeting Tom at Crewe.”
“Sergeant Tring’s coming?” She beamed. “I’m glad. I like him.”
As he rang the bell by the fireplace, he wondered at her ability to find pleasure in little things even in the midst of upheaval. Joan had been the same, cheered by a daffodil in the middle of a Zeppelin raid.
Moody shuffled in and was sent to fetch the two men. Daisy went to the desk to get her notebook and pencils.
“Why aren’t you in hysterics?” Alec enquired, following her and moving her typewriter aside. “I’d have thought most women of your class wouldn’t know such unnatural tendencies existed. I’m sure the middle classes don’t; my mother, for instance.” He sat down behind the desk.
“Well, public schools, and having a brother—one can’t help hearing things. And I live in Bohemia, remember.”
“Still, I’m amazed at your calmness when you’ve just discovered a friend to be that way inclined.”
“It was a bit of a shock, actually. But after all, they’re still the same people they were before. I don’t believe they can help it, so you can’t really say it’s unnatural, can you? It’s like blaming someone for a squint, or for going prematurely bald.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “All the same, I’m glad you’re not going bald yet.”
“Yet!” he said in mock outrage, and they were laughing when Parslow and Goodman came in.
Both men looked disconcerted. Goodman limped forward, saying sardonically, “I take it you’re not about to haul us off to prison, Chief Ins … .” His words were swallowed up in a raw, painful cough which doubled him up.
Parslow hurried to him and took his arm. “It’s the cold wind,” he explained anxiously. “Draughts everywhere. Come and sit by the fire, Ben.”
“Yes, do,” said Alec, regretfully abandoning his pipe, which had just caught and emitted a curl of smoke undoubtedly injurious to gas-corroded lungs. The reminder of Goodman’s war service shattered the shards of contempt he had carefully hidden from Daisy. Also he was surprised and impressed by the young Adonis’ care for his crippled companion. The relationship was not at all as one-sided as he had imagined.
Daisy had hurried to help Parslow settle Goodman in a chair by the fire. With dismay, Alec noted the determined light in her eye. She whispered something in Parslow’s ear. He looked in turn startled, enlightened, entranced, and then her determination was reflected in his eyes. Alec nearly groaned aloud. What on earth was she up to now?
He ought to send her away before whatever it was went any further. Instead, subjected to a blue, appealing gaze, he found himself saying, “You don’t mind if Miss Dalrymple stays to take notes?”
“Not at all,” said Parslow firmly. He took a leather-covered flask from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and held it to Goodman’s pale lips. A few sips brought a tinge of colour to the wan cheeks, but Goodman leaned his head back on the high back of the chair and made no attempt to speak. Pulling up a straight chair, Parslow sat down beside him, one hand laid comfortingly on his arm.
Alec took a seat opposite them as Daisy retreated to the desk. “Right,” he said, “we’ll take what Miss Dalrymple has told me as read and go on from there. Do you wish to amend your
statement in any particulars, Mr. Parslow?”
“Yes. Ben and I were together most of the time between ten and eleven o’clock on December 13th. I went to the library and … . It was the first time we’d really talked about … things. About what we mean to each other,” he amended, raising his chin.
“Why didn’t you tell me each of you could give the other an alibi?”
“My fault, Chief Inspector.” Goodman’s fragile voice was rueful. “I thought it more important to conceal our … desire for each other’s company than to provide alibis, since neither of us killed Grace. My encounter with Inspector Dunnett didn’t prepare me to expect intelligence, let alone perspicacity, in a police officer.”
Alec nodded impassively in response to the compliment.
“I muffed it,” said Parslow. “I couldn’t remember whether we’d agreed not to mention my going to Ben’s room later to tell him what the mater said. That must have made you suspicious.”
He seemed unworried, even confident, no longer a frightened, easily upset boy. It looked to Alec as if his terrors had all been connected with the fear of exposure of his relationship with Goodman, nothing to do with Grace’s death. The exposure had come, and was not half so terrible as he had expected. His present lack of fear reinforced Alec’s admittedly unfounded belief in the mutual alibi.
The self-confidence was another matter. That had come since Daisy’s whisper. What the devil had she said?
“As far as I can see,” he said with a sigh, “you’re both out of it. However, I must ask you not to leave Occles Hall without informing me.”
“We shan’t go.” Parslow grimaced. “One runaway in the family is more than enough. By Jove, I wish I knew where Bobbie went, and why. It can’t be anything to do with Grace, Chief Inspector. I’m sure it can’t!”
“Does your sister know about you and Mr. Goodman, sir?”
“No, not a thing. Bobbie’s a thoroughly good sport, but she’s too straightforward to see anything that’s not shoved right under her nose. Like my father, only he’s still more so; he manages not to see things even when they are shoved under his nose. But Bobbie didn’t guess about Grace until I told her.”