by Carola Dunn
“And Lady Valeria?”
“I think she has suspected,” Parslow said slowly, “even before I was sure myself. It would explain why she has hemmed me in since I left school, wouldn’t it? Protecting me from myself. And Grace … I’ve been thinking about what you said, about her bringing my nightcap and the early morning tea. Do you think my mother put her up to it, to try to change me?”
“To try to prove to herself exactly what I imagine you were trying to prove to yourself,” Alec suggested gently. “Grace told Morgan her ladyship encouraged her to seduce you—as did her father.”
“Moss? Just to create trouble for us?” That was too much for Parslow’s new-found equanimity. “Oh Lord!” he groaned, hiding his face in his hands. It was Goodman’s turn to offer comfort. After a moment, the younger man recovered enough to say, “Poor Grace didn’t stand a chance, did she? I liked her, you know, even though I didn’t want her.”
Alec nodded. “I dare say your mother’s doubts explain why she refused to take Mr. Goodman with you to the South of France. She wasn’t just being difficult. I’m only surprised she didn’t dismiss him.”
Goodman said dryly, “To do so would have amounted to acknowledging to herself her son’s nature.”
“Yes, of course. Did anyone else know or suspect?”
“Thomkins, my valet, knew about Grace, not about Ben.”
Ernie Piper hadn’t picked up on that, Alec thought. What else had he missed? Tom Tring would have to have a go at the servants.
The answers to the rest of his questions tended to confirm their innocence of Grace’s murder. Lastly, he asked Goodman when Lady Valeria had told him to dismiss Grace if she returned.
Goodman thought. “It was the next morning,” he said slowly, “when Grace was not there to serve breakfast before her ladyship left for France.”
Before she could possibly have heard the rumour of Grace running off with a commercial—another suggestive point against her ladyship. Otherwise there was nothing new, nothing to incriminate Lady Valeria or her daughter, equally nothing to exonerate. Those two, with George Brown, remained Alec’s chief suspects.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “I’m not about to haul you off to prison, and I see no reason at present to reveal your secret to anyone—even my sergeant—other than Lady Valeria. I assume you’re resigned to confirming her suspicions?”
“It’s inevitable now, and I’ll be glad to have you break the news,” Parslow said candidly.
“However, I must warn you that if you are required to give evidence at a trial, I may not be able to keep it out of my report.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher,” said Goodman, wearily levering himself out of his chair with Parslow’s assistance. “You have been most understanding. I know you’ll do your best for us.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he held out his hand, and Alec shook it without, he hoped, noticeable hesitation on his part. It wasn’t a contagious malady the man suffered from, after all.
Supporting Goodman, Parslow had no free hand to shake, but he too thanked Alec. And, as they turned towards the door, he winked at Daisy, who grinned back.
What the exchange portended Alec was determined to discover, but just now he urgently wanted to see to Lady Valeria. At last he had a lever which might dislodge her from her refusal to speak to him. He rang the bell.
“Lady Valeria?” asked Daisy.
“Yes; or at least I hope so.”
“She won’t let me stay in the room. What a shame! I’d like to see her face when you let the cat out of the bag.” She pondered a moment. “No, that’s not fair. It’ll be beastly for her.”
“I’m surprised Parslow didn’t go to pieces when I said I’d have to tell her. Won’t she hit the roof?”
“Probably, but he’s used to it. That’s the trouble with blowing people sky-high for every little thing. When something big comes along, you have no ammunition in reserve.”
“True, but at the least she’ll surely sack Goodman.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter any … .” She stopped as Moody trudged in.
“Please tell Lady Valeria I’d like a word,” said Alec.
The butler’s face somehow managed to combine triumph and despondency. “Her ladyship has gone to a committee meeting, sir. In Chester. The Bishop’s Crusade against Crime, I understand.”
Daisy collapsed in peals of laughter.
15
“The Bishop’s Crusade against Crime!” repeated Daisy, when the affronted butler had stalked from the Red Saloon, closing the door with rather more force than was butlerianly proper. A last giggle escaped her. “Too, too shocking if you have to arrest the chairwoman for murder!”
Alec groaned. “She’s in the chair?”
“I don’t believe she’d sit on a committee where she wasn’t invited to take the chair. I don’t believe there’s a committee in existence would dare refuse to invite her. Oh, Alec, I’m so glad Ben and Sebastian are in the clear.”
“They aren’t absolutely cleared,” he warned, “though I’m inclined to believe them. I could tell when they were lying before, so I hope I’m right in thinking they’re not now.”
“I’ve remembered something else. When we found poor Grace, I had the impression Ben was relieved, which he wouldn’t have been if he’d done it, or he wasn’t quite sure Sebastian hadn’t. I suppose he’d been afraid Grace might come back and make more trouble.”
“It’s another point in their favour. Goodman certainly doesn’t seem strong enough, and Parslow appears to have relied entirely upon his mother and sister to extricate him from his problems.”
“Yes, but things are going to change,” she prophesied blithely.
“Daisy, what are you plotting now? You needn’t think I didn’t see you whispering to Parslow. Come on, out with it.”
She shook her head, regretful. “I was going to tell you. Then you said you were going to tell Lady Valeria about Ben and Sebastian. It’s nothing to do with Grace, I promise, but you just might decide to use it to persuade Lady Valeria to talk, and the longer she’s kept in ignorance the better.”
“Deuce take the woman! I’d positively enjoy arresting her, Crusade against Crime or no. And if I can’t get anything out of her because of your secret … .” Looking exasperated, Alec ran his fingers through his hair. “Blast it, why didn’t I stick to my own precept? Didn’t I swear never again to have anything to do with you on a professional basis?”
Daisy was hurt. “If I hadn’t phoned you, you wouldn’t even be here,” she pointed out.
“Which would be a great improvement! Oh, I’m sorry, Daisy, but if I’m going to have to explain away another botched investigation to the A.C … .”
“All right, I’ll tell you what I suggested to Sebastian if you still haven’t had any success with Lady Valeria by—say after church tomorrow?” It was time to remind him of her usefulness. She waved her notebook at him. “Shall I type up the notes I just took?”
He gave her a rueful grin. “You’d better, since you claim your version of shorthand is unreadable by anyone else. No, wait a minute.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “I brought this morning’s statements for them to sign. Do you think you could retype them, adding the necessary new bits in such a way that they don’t contradict the previous evasions Piper’s aware of? I don’t want to advertise your friends’ idiosyncrasies unnecessarily.”
“Bless you, Alec!” She suppressed an urge to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. “You’ve been frightfully nice about that. Of course I can do it. I’m a writer.”
“Just remember this is supposed to be fact, not fiction,” he grumbled, then sighed. “Well, failing Lady Valeria and Miss Parslow, I’ll walk down to the dairy to see if Sir Reginald’s remembered anything useful, though the man seems to live in another world.”
“He’d be happier in a world inhabited solely by cows, poor old prune. You did bring an overcoat, didn’t you? And that spiffing green and orange
muffler Belinda knitted for you? It’s cold out.”
Amused by her fussing over him, Alec left her to her typing.
She read the statements typed by Piper. She had been present at the first interviews with Ben and Sebastian, of course, but the only notes had been a few facts scribbled down by Alec. He had gone over the same ground that morning with Piper taking shorthand, and then there were the changes and additions. No wonder Alec had been suspicious! She was glad she’d been instrumental in bringing out the truth.
With hindsight, she laughed at Ben’s response to the accusation that he’d been chasing Grace. Naturally, unwilling women had never been a problem to him!
Moving her typewriter back from where Alec had set it aside, she started typing.
The second carefully edited statement was nearly done when Alec returned. “Nothing,” he reported gloomily. “Sir Reginald greeted me as an old friend and remembered my name but not my job. Lady Valeria’s not back yet. I’m going down to the Cheshire Cheese. Tom may have arrived by now, and I’m hoping going over it all with him will give me some ideas.”
Daisy quickly finished the last paragraph and gave him her work, for which he was properly grateful. “My best to Sergeant Tring,” she said as he turned to go. “Will you be back later?”
“I can’t be sure. It depends on what I hear about George Brown. If I’m not off chasing him, do you think tomorrow morning would be a good time to catch Lady Valeria?”
“She won’t go anywhere before church,” she assured him, “and she’s not the sort to get up only just in time for the service. Gregg told me breakfast is served at eight thirty on Sundays.”
“Perhaps she’ll be feeling pious and ready to confess,” he said hopefully.
Alec left. Daisy returned to her article on Occles Hall. It was coming along nicely when Moody entered, still even stiffer than usual with outrage over her laughter, to call her to the telephone.
“What-ho, old thing.” Phillip was on the line. “I say, I wondered if you’d care to go to the pictures tonight. They’re showing Robin Hood in Whitbury. Douglas Fairbanks, don’t you know. He’s usually a pretty reliable chappie.”
“I’d love to, Phil, but it would look awfully as if I’m abandoning a sinking ship.”
“Come on, you’re abandoning them on Monday anyway.”
“True. And I am pretty keen on Douglas Fairbanks. I’ll tell you what, it won’t look so mouldy if I invite Sebastian to go with us. Ben’s not well enough.”
“And a bally good thing, too. I mean, I’m sorry he’s ill and all that, but dash it, Daisy, you know how little space there is in the old bus.”
“I don’t mind squeezing into the dickey. It’s not going to snow, is it?”
“Shouldn’t think so. The clouds are just about gone. Fearfully cold later, I expect. We’ll go to the early show, if you can be ready in time, old thing. Better borrow a few rugs.”
“Then I’ll definitely have to invite Sebastian. One simply can’t just nab people’s rugs like that.”
He agreed, and they arranged the time. Daisy went to find Sebastian, who was delighted with the idea.
“Ben has taken a bromide and gone to bed,” he said. “With any luck we’ll get away before the mater comes home.”
“I hope so. Will you warn Moody we shan’t be in to dinner? And round up some rugs, or we’ll freeze. I want to finish my article.”
She enjoyed the evening thoroughly. It was fun having two handsome escorts, even though one was a childhood friend and the other preferred men to women. Douglas Fairbanks was at his swashbuckling best. They bought fish and chips afterwards and ate it out of the newspaper, Phillip and Daisy laughing at Sebastian’s pleasure in the vulgar, forbidden treat.
It was nearly half past nine when the hardworking Swift carried them up the drive of Occles Hall. They rounded a bend to see red tail-lights ahead of them.
“By Jove,” said Sebastian, “that’s not the Daimler. It’s a bit late for the Chief Inspector to call, isn’t it? No, by Jove, it’s the Morris! Bobbie’s come home!”
The red lights disappeared towards the stables. Phillip drove on to the front door. Sebastian extricated his long legs from the front seat, helped Daisy scramble from the cramped dickey seat, and invited Phillip to come in for a drink.
“No,” said Daisy firmly. “Your mother’s probably already primed to explode because you went out, and on top of that Bobbie has returned. An outsider—another outsider—is the last thing Lady Valeria will want. You realize this means Bobbie didn’t clear out because of Grace? Phillip, go and tell Mr. Fletcher at once.”
“Righty-ho,” said Phillip, obliging as always.
Their arms full of rugs, Daisy and Sebastian went into the house. “Do we tell the mater about Bobbie?” Sebastian asked anxiously, as they dumped the rugs on a chair in the Long Hall. “She’ll be a few minutes putting the car away.”
“It depends how noble you feel. Telling her at once will probably deflect her annoyance from you; or we could wait here until Bobbie joins us and beard the lioness together; or we can go in and let her expend some of her energy on your minor offence—and mine, I suppose—before Bobbie has to face her with a real shocker.”
“All right, let’s go in.” Sebastian squared his shoulders and strode towards the drawing room, spoiling the effect at the last moment by saying plaintively, “We don’t have to tell her about the fish and chips, do we?”
He submitted to his scolding like a little boy. As Daisy might have expected, Lady Valeria’s wrath was focussed not on the straying lamb but on the one who had led him astray. However, Sebastian deflected her vituperation by breaking in with an account of the film.
Sir Reginald said quietly and wistfully to Daisy, “Thank you, my dear Miss Dalrymple, for giving the boy a bit of fun.”
Sebastian didn’t have to enthuse over Robin Hood for long. Bobbie came in, square and solid in a motoring costume, looking tired but excited.
And behind her came the long-haired poet.
“Mummy, this is Ferdinand Wilkinson,” she announced. “Dodo, old pippin, my mother, Lady Valeria, and that’s Daddy, and my brother Sebastian, and Daisy Dalrymple. You remember, I told you about Daisy.”
Mr. Wilkinson favoured the assembled company with a gentle smile and bowed slightly to Lady Valeria. “How do you do,” he said. “I’m happy to meet Roberta’s family, and any friend of hers is a friend of mine.”
His sentiments were perfectly proper, his voice well bred, well modulated though not noticeably poetical. Lady Valeria only noticed his use of her daughter’s Christian name.
“Roberta?” she said icily, looking him up and down from unkempt head to scuffed toe by way of maroon-patterned fawn Fair Isle pullover and shabby plus-fours. She turned to Bobbie. “Just who is Mr. Wilkinson?”
“His people have a place in Derbyshire. I met him last summer when I took the Guides hiking in the Peak District. We hit it off right … .”
“And what is Mr. Wilkinson?” Lady Valeria’s tone dripped contempt.
“Dodo’s a poet, Mummy. Don’t worry, not the soppy, sentimental kind, all drooping damsels. He’s written a beautiful poem to me as Boadicea, the warrior queen!” Too starry-eyed to care for her mother’s purpling face, she took Mr. Wilkinson’s hand. “We’re going to be married.”
“And how do you propose to live?” Lady Valeria triumphantly played her ace. “You needn’t look to me to support you.”
“Bobo has found a job,” said Mr. Wilkinson, gazing fondly at his fiancée, apparently oblivious of the bombshell about to burst over their heads.
For once, Lady Valeria was too flabbergasted to emit more than a squeak.
“That’s why we went away,” Bobbie hastened to explain. “It was a sudden chance I couldn’t bear to miss. There was an advert in Town and Country, Daisy’s magazine, for a games mistress at a girls’ school near Cheltenham. Not Cheltenham Ladies’ College, a smaller place. Waybrook, it’s called.”
“Never
heard of it!”
Bobbie ploughed on. “The advert was in The Times, too, so I knew the job hadn’t been taken. They needed someone urgently—the last games mistress dropped dead on the hockey field—and they offered a cottage on the school grounds, so I rang up. They asked me to go right away for an interview and they’ve hired me! Isn’t it spiffing? To start as soon as possible. I couldn’t tell anyone where I was going because I knew Mummy would have forty fits.”
“Impertinence!” Lady Valeria’s fuse went from fizzle to flare and detonated the delayed explosion. “A job! My daughter working like any shoddy shopgirl! Like a tawdry typist.” She turned on Daisy and howled, “This is all your fault. Weaselling your way into a happy household with your monstrous modern manners, driving a daughter to disobey her mother and marry a penniless poet … .”
“Admirable alliteration,” said Mr. Wilkinson, not quite sotto voce.
His mother-in-law to be glared at him, but Daisy intervened before Lady Valeria could begin to dissect his morals, his habits, his dress, his prospects, and his family tree.
“You flatter me, Lady Valeria,” she said sweetly. “No daughter of so strong-minded a mother could possibly possess such a weak character as to let me drive her where she didn’t want to go.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t encourage her to rebel with your independence piffle!”
“If I did, it was only by example.” Daisy tried to recall just what she had said to Bobbie. More sympathy than encouragement, she thought, but she didn’t want to explain that to Lady Valeria. “I hadn’t the foggiest Bobbie was looking for a job. Actually, when I saw she’d been reading Town and Country, I rather hoped she was admiring my article … .”
“Your article! You don’t imagine I shall let you publish whatever rubbish you have been scribbling about Occles Hall, I hope!”
“Occles Hall belongs to Daddy,” Bobbie pointed out, speaking over her father’s shoulder. Sir Reginald was simultaneously kissing her cheek and shaking Mr. Wilkinson’s hand, after which Lady Valeria was going to find it difficult to complain that the poet hadn’t asked his permission to marry his daughter.