Heirs of the Body

by Carola Dunn

  He exchanged glances with Tom and Ernie. “Daisy, I said we’d take care of it. Leave it to us, will you? And don’t for pity’s sake talk about it.”

  “I wasn’t going to.” As an exit line, it could have been bettered, but it would do. Daisy duly made her exit. If they needed her to explain the evidence to them, they could jolly well come and find her.

  She still hadn’t dealt with the frock she wanted to wear. Hot and sticky, she plodded up the stairs yet again.

  On her way to the bedroom, she had to pass Martha’s room. She decided to pop in to say hello to Violet and see how things were going. When she knocked, to her surprise she heard rapid footsteps coming towards the door.

  “Come in!” Vi sounded desperate. She flung the door open before Daisy could turn the knob. “At last—Oh, Daisy! I rang for a maid. Thank heaven you’re here. Martha’s bleeding and having cramps.” She laid her hand on her abdomen. “Like contractions. I’m afraid.… Please, please, go and ring the doctor!”

  “Of course, darling. Right away.”

  “I want Sammy!” Martha’s wail followed Daisy.

  This time she ran, sliding her hand down the banisters to keep her balance. Halfway down the second flight, she remembered Dr. Pardoe’s presence. A doctor in the house was worth two in Upton, she thought, slightly hysterical. Dr. Pardoe was the police surgeon and pathologist, but presumably he knew a bit about difficult pregnancies as well as dead bodies.

  She sped to Edgar’s den and burst in without knocking. “Dr. Pardoe, I’m afraid my cousin Martha is having a miscarriage. Will you please come quickly!”

  “I’m not really … But of course I’ll come. Have someone fetch my bag from my car, and you’d better ring up her GP. Symptoms?” he queried, following Daisy from the room.

  “Bleeding and cramps. I don’t know how bad. My sister is with her.”

  When they reached the entrance hall, a maid was scurrying down the stairs, looking frightened. Daisy told her to show Dr. Pardoe to Mrs. Samuel’s room.

  By then Ernest had appeared. “Go and get the doctor’s bag from his car,” Daisy directed, “and take it to him.”

  “At once, madam.”

  “Half a mo, do you know where Mr. Samuel is?”

  “He said just a minute ago he was going down to the river, madam, to try for a breath of cooler air.”

  “Thanks. Be quick now.”

  He dashed off.

  The operator put Daisy through to Dr. Hopcroft right away. He was in the middle of his evening surgery, but he said he had only a couple of patients waiting, neither of whom he expected to occupy him for more than a few minutes. “Then I’ll come straight to Fairacres,” he promised, “though I have every confidence in Dr. Pardoe.”

  Hoping that was true, not just professional courtesy, Daisy went to look for Sam.

  No one in the drawing room, no one on the terrace. Entering the alley, she could see all the way to the end: no sign of Sam. As she entered the wood the path curved and at last, through the trees, she glimpsed movement.

  “Sam!” she called. There was no response, but she was breathless and the trees and undergrowth were in between. Sam—or whoever it was—might not have heard her.

  Panting, she rounded the bend. Ahead, just about to disappear round the next bend, was a man’s back.

  Daisy drew a deep breath so that this time he’d hear her. Before she could shout, a figure darted out of the bushes. From the woods came a yell: “Uncle Sam!”

  A stray ray of sun glinted on a knife blade as it rose and fell. The second man plunged back into the bushes. The first man cried out and fell, face down.

  Sam—villain or victim? Daisy ran.

  THIRTY-TWO

  No sooner had Daisy flounced from Edgar’s study, not quite slamming the door behind her, than Alec had spread Vincent’s jacket and shirt on Edgar’s desk. He and the sergeants bent over them, studying the pattern of cuts.

  Dr. Pardoe joined them. “This is significant, Chief Inspector?” he queried. “You were rather cavalier with … Mrs. Fletcher, was she?”

  “I just want to keep my wife out of this affair, Doctor. She has a talent for complicating matters.” He pretended not to see Tom Tring’s grin and shake of the head. “These clothes may or may not be material—Sorry, pun unintentional. Not material evidence of wrongdoing. But certainly indicative.”

  Tom put it in the vernacular: “Fishy.”

  “Blood on the shirt.” Ernie Piper held it up to show Pardoe. “None on the jacket. And it doesn’t line up.”

  “Are you saying someone was wearing them at the time they were damaged, Sergeant?” Pardoe examined the jacket. “At a superficial glance, anatomically impossible.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher is always right. Almost always.”

  “She’s right enough this time, Chief.” Tom’s rumble had a questioning note.

  “Mea culpa. I was in a hurry to hunt for the knife, and then I just plain forgot about them. Not that—” He looked round as the door was flung open without ceremony.

  Daisy took two hasty steps across the threshold. Urgently she begged Dr. Pardoe to come and see Martha, who was showing signs of miscarrying her baby. The doctor strode out. Without another word, Daisy dashed after him.

  “Sounds like an emergency,” said Tom.

  “Not one we have to deal with, thank heaven,” said Alec. “Now, where were we?”

  “‘Anatomically impossible,’” Piper quoted. “I’d say that just about confirms your hunch, Chief.”

  “Yes, I think so. It disposes of the biggest stumbling block, the supposed attacks on Vincent. Did you finish reading the reports from Scarborough and the Sûreté, Ernie?”

  “The next to last page from Paris is an affidavit from the Valliers affirming that they sent copies of the letters to Vincent a couple of months ago.”

  “Don’t tell me you read the affidavit, laddie,” Tom scoffed.

  The young detective sergeant grinned. “Not me. I don’t parley-voo frog. The last page was a translation.”

  “Ah!”

  “And Scarborough?”

  “Not quite on their uppers: The Castle Cliff Hotel is doing well. But Vincent’s father took out a whopping loan against the property towards the end of the war, when business was bad. It falls due next year. Vincent works like a dog, as both manager and maître d’, and his missus is housekeeper and consy-urge.”

  “Then Vincent isn’t exactly leading a life of leisure, as he claimed! He said the place is run by a hired manager.”

  “Not so, Chief. He does have a part-time undermanager, who’s taking care of the place while they’re here.”

  “What about the kids? Prep school and governess is what they talked about.”

  “The boy goes to a small private day school. The daughters’ governess is a French relative who also helps in the hotel. Paid a pittance because she came over to learn English as much as to teach the girls. She’s taken them—the boy too—to stay with her family in Paris. The French coppers missed that.”

  “So much for the holiday on the Continent.”

  “Ah.” Tom ruminated for a moment. “You reckon he killed Raymond and pretended to be attacked himself to divert suspicion? But the fake attacks on the kiddies, what were they supposed to prove? I still don’t get what his purpose was.” He took out a blue-and-white chequered handkerchief and mopped his shining dome of a head.

  “Just to sow confusion, I think,” Alec said. “And he certainly succeeded. I still can’t be sure that Belinda’s accident wasn’t just that. We don’t even know that he caused Raymond’s fall. We haven’t got any evidence that’d hold up in court even for a manslaughter charge. Or any other charges, come to that.”

  Tom grinned. “Wasting police time?”

  “We’re wasting time, all right. What we do have is Lord Dalrymple’s permission to search the house, and that includes the Vincent Dalrymples’ bedroom. Time to lay down the law. Come on.”

  Alec knew his way about the
more populated part of the house, though he didn’t expect ever to master all its passages and stairways, nooks and crannies. He led the way up the stairs.

  Though Tom trod lightly for his size and Ernie was slight and barely regulation height, three pairs of tramping feet made quite a racket. Alec wasn’t concerned about the noise alerting Vincent to their approach. Earlier, politely requested to answer a few questions, Vincent and Laurette had refused to open the door, let alone come down to the study or even let Alec interview them in their room. He doubted they’d bolt, and if they did they wouldn’t get far.

  The three men had to pass Martha’s bedroom to reach Vincent’s. Alec was about to tell the other two to go singly, quietly, when the door opened and Dr. Pardoe came out, leaving it ajar.

  “I thought I heard … Fletcher, Mrs. Dalrymple has been drinking pennyroyal tea. She told me it was peppermint, and it is a variety of mint, but the smell is quite distinctive. It’s an abortifacient, you know.”

  “Great Scott, is she—has she—will she lose the baby?”

  “Doubt it. The oil can be effective, an infusion rarely, especially after the first three months. And before you ask, in my opinion she is not responsible.”

  “Daisy said Martha had complained about the taste.”

  “It could be an accident,” the doctor suggested. Alec, Tom, and Ernie exchanged glances. Another accident? “But I wondered if it could somehow be connected to whatever this business is you’re investigating here.”

  “Chief,” said Tom, “I told you the servants said Vincent and his wife—and Raymond, come to that—had been poking their noses all over the house the first few days they were here. What I didn’t mention is that Mrs. Vincent was in and out of the pantry and the larder. The cook caught her opening jars and tins to see what was in them.”

  “Get down there right away, Tom, and bag anything that might have contained mint tea. With a bit of luck we might get a fingerprint. Doctor,” added Alec as Tom hurried off and Pardoe turned back towards the door, “would you kindly tell Sam I’d like a quick word with him?”

  “The husband? He’s not here. Went out for a breath of air, I’m told. Lady John has been sitting with Mrs. Dalrymple. It was she who sent Mrs. Fletcher for a doctor. And she has been helping me very ably, I might add.”

  “Good,” Alec said absently. “Let’s go, Ernie. I should have foreseen this possibility. If Martha has a boy…”

  He passed a couple of doors and stopped at one that had a small table beside it. On the table was a tray with a teapot, plates, and cups and saucers, all used. He knocked.

  No response. He stepped back and gestured to Ernie, who put his ear to the door. After a minute’s silence, Ernie shook his head, then knocked again, saying loudly, “Police! Mr. Dalrymple, please open the door.”

  “Who is that?” Laurette’s voice sounded thin and strained.

  “Detective Sergeant Piper, madam. From London. Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher would like—”

  “Ce salaud!” she spat out. “Why does he not discover who attacked Vincent?”

  “That’s one thing he wants to talk to you about, madam.”

  “He is of the family. It is perhaps a plot to lure us out—”

  “Mrs. Dalrymple,” Alec said sharply, “that’s nonsense. We have Lord Dalrymple’s permission to search the house. If you or your husband refuses to open the door, we’re coming in anyway.”

  Ernie took from a pocket a gadget reminiscent of a dentist’s instrument of torture. As he inserted it in the lock, they heard swift footsteps inside, moving away from the door.

  Always neat and quick, Ernie had the door open in a few seconds. They burst into the room. Laurette was fumbling with a key at a connecting door in the wall to their left.

  Alec went to her, took the key from her shaking hand, and led her to the window overlooking the terrace. “Sit down.”

  Without a word, she slumped into one of the two wing chairs.

  Meanwhile, Ernie glanced under the bed, in the wardrobe, and behind the curtains. “Must be in there, sir,” he said, waving at the connecting door.

  “Check.” Alec tossed the key to him.

  The door was not locked.

  “Police!” Ernie flung the door open. “Bathroom. No one here, sir. But there’s a door in the opposite wall.… It’s bolted on this side.” The bolt snicked. “And locked.”

  “Try the same key. Hotels may have a different key for each bedroom, but these country houses usually don’t.”

  “Got it. Nothing but a corridor.”

  “So he’s been coming and going at will! That’s torn it.”

  “Three doors opposite. One looks like back stairs.”

  “Don’t bother with them. Lock the door and bolt it, then come through and lock that door. Mrs. Dalrymple, I can’t spare the time for you now. I’m going to leave you here, locked in.”

  “Mais—”

  “For as short a period as possible. And in case you have any other keys, I’m stationing a constable at the corner where he can watch both corridors. Come on, Piper. Lock the door behind you.”

  Ernie obeyed. As they strode along the passage towards the main stairs, he enquired, “Which constable would that be, Chief? The one you set to follow Crowley or the one guarding Miss Belinda and her cousins?”

  “One of the six others I should have asked for. No use crying over spilt milk. We have to find Vincent or Sam, or both. In a hurry.”

  * * *

  Half aware of children’s voices and a dog’s bark, Daisy knelt beside Sam. A dark red patch was spreading across his shoulders. Groaning, he tried to push himself up.

  “Keep still! You’ll make it worse.”

  “Yes, ma’am! Bloody hell, it hurts.”

  “I can’t get you out of your jacket to see how bad it is. I’m going to put pressure on, to try to stop the bleeding.”

  “Mummy, is Uncle Sam dead?” Belinda’s quavering call came from the depths of the woods.

  “No, just injured.” Just? “Are the boys with you?” They had better be! “Derek, Ben, come here. I need your shirts.”

  “We can’t, Aunt Daisy.”

  “Why not?” Daisy peered into the gloom of the woods. The attacker—Frank or Vincent?—in fleeing had beaten down a trail straight through the undergrowth. Fifty feet in—

  “We’re sitting on him.”

  So they were. Daisy couldn’t make out much of the figure on the ground but Derek’s face was a pale blob at one end, Belinda’s at the other, and Ben’s a dark blob between them.

  “The nettles are stinging our legs.”

  “But he’s got his face in them.” That was Derek, deeply satisfied.

  “How—?”

  “Nana tripped him.”

  “On purpose!” Belinda claimed proudly.

  “If we get up he’ll get away.”

  “Who?”

  “Uncle Vincent,” they chorused.

  “That bastard!” Sam sounded quite vigorous but didn’t make another attempt to get up. “He tried to kill me!”

  “Mrs. Fletcher!” Ernie Piper came pounding down the path.

  “Thank goodness! Sam’s bleeding, and the children have bagged Vincent.” Afraid to lift a hand from Sam’s back, she nodded towards the woods.

  Already half out of his jacket, he stared, a grin spreading across his face. “Well done, young ’uns! All under control? Here, Mrs. Fletcher, use this.” He handed her his shirt. “I’d better go—Ah, here comes the bobby that was supposed to be keeping an eye on ’em.” Snorting, he knelt down to help Daisy staunch the flow of blood.

  In the wood, a bulky figure lumbered towards the children, trailing brambles.

  “He’s too big to burrow through the undergrowth after them. I bet they were playing Indians. I’m not surprised he lost them.”

  “Unggggh,” groaned Sam as Ernie’s hands took over the pressure from Daisy’s. “Let up a bit, mate!”

  “Sorry. Better than bleeding to death. Don’t
think that’s likely, though. The bleeding’s slowing down already. You were lucky!”

  “Luck, nothing! Belinda called my name so I started to turn that way and I caught a glimpse of the bastard. I started dropping to the ground before he struck. I’m a ship’s officer. Something moves that shouldn’t, you duck. It gets to be instinctive. Could be a broken spar or a loose hatch cover or a disgruntled seaman. Ouch, enough, dammit!”

  Daisy stood up, leaving Sam to Ernie’s capable hands. In the wood, the children were all talking at once. The large constable, his voice a basso continuo, bent over Vincent.

  Then, through a sudden silence, came the click of handcuffs.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Thursday midday. Outside, a soft, steady drizzle fell.

  Alec returned to Fairacres from Worcester, having taken his prisoners there the previous evening and stayed overnight. He had spent the morning tying up his investigation before seeing off Tom and Ernie at the station. Tommy Pearson came with him, having travelled from London by the ten-to-one train. Bill Truscott had fetched both of them from Worcester.

  At lunch, held back half an hour as a result of Tommy’s wire announcing his coming, the lawyer had excused himself for having failed to respond to Geraldine’s urgent summons.

  “I was called to prepare a client’s deathbed will at the other end of nowhere,” he said. “A country house in northern Lincolnshire—four trains, each slower than the one before, then ten miles in a pony trap. When at last I reached the place, the old gentleman had just breathed his last. By the time I returned to town and discovered your message, Lady Dalrymple, it was far too late to set out. A thoroughly unsatisfactory business. I can only present my apologies for my tardiness.”

  “You are clearly not to blame, Mr. Pearson,” Geraldine assured him.

  “Thank you. And now, perhaps, someone will explain to me just what was going on here that required my presence several days early.” He looked—rather accusingly, Daisy thought—at Alec. “Fletcher has given me the barest hint.”

  “No no, my dear fellow,” said Edgar. “Bad for the digestion. After lunch, if you please, we’ll have a general disclosure. I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. Would you believe I saw a Peach Blossom this morning, before the rain started?”