by Carola Dunn
“Much better. The taxi will be here any minute to take them to Liverpool Street. Patrick’s going to see them off, to help Audrey cope with children and Nanny and luggage and all at the station. She’s dreading the journey.”
“I’m sure it takes a good deal of coping, even if she wasn’t expecting.”
Mrs. Jessup seized on this remark. “That’s another reason to go right away, while she’s feeling well and not showing yet.”
“I travelled quite a bit while I was pregnant, but I haven’t tried it with the twins yet.”
“It’s a difficult journey anyway, changing trains twice. I just hope they don’t miss any connections.”
“How nice that your Patrick is home to give her a hand at this end at least. When did he—”
Her question was interrupted as Elsie came in with the coffee tray. While dispensing coffee and biscuits—the flapjacks were all gone, but as Mrs. Dobson had said, the biscuits from the tin were perfectly good—Daisy pondered the situation.
Alec would be unhappy to have potential witnesses scattering to all corners of the kingdom, but there wasn’t anything Daisy could do about it. In any case, many of the residents of Constable Circle must have departed about their lawful occasions before the police got things organised out there.
On the other hand, most of them had probably gone no farther than the City, whereas Audrey was bound for the rural fastnesses of Lincolnshire. Daisy wondered whether she ought to suggest that Audrey wait until she had talked to the police.
Daisy was sure she had only to drop a word in Piper’s ear and he’d stop the taxi leaving, but he might get into trouble for it. Also, it would make Audrey’s journey even more difficult, if not impossible. Imagine having to start all over again tomorrow, getting the children ready for travelling—it didn’t bear thinking of.
If Alec wanted to know why she hadn’t attempted to foil their departure, she’d tell him it was his own fault for not giving her more information.
The unknown Patrick was going only to the station and back, so he would be available for questioning. Daisy wondered exactly what time he had arrived. Not that she knew the time of the murder.
“You must be happy to have your son safe at home again,” she said.
“Yes, I was a little worried, I confess. He’s not been gone so long on his own before, and it’s hard to recognise that he’s an adult now. He’s still my little boy.”
“When did he—”
“Listen!” Mrs. Jessup held up one hand. The chimes of the grandfather clock in the hall were heard. She rose. “I didn’t realise it was so late. They’ll be leaving as soon as the luggage is loaded into the taxicab, and I must be there to say good-bye. Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Fletcher. It was very bad of me to interrupt your morning just for the sake of vulgar curiosity. I know you write in the mornings.”
“Not today.”
“No, I dare say not. Well, vulgar or not, my curiosity remains unslaked.” She moved towards the window and glanced out. “I hope you’ll pass on any account of the police activity out there that you glean from your husband. He surely must give you some sort of explanation!”
“I can’t count on it.” Daisy laughed. “He’s quite capable of leaving me entirely in ignorance if it suits him. I’ll pop out with you to say good-bye to Audrey and the children.”
“Oh no, don’t do that. It looks to me as if it’s going to pour with rain again any moment. I’ll tell Audrey you sent your best wishes.”
“Please do, and bon voyage.”
Daisy accompanied Mrs. Jessup to the front door. A taxi was just pulling up next door. As the cabbie climbed out, Mrs. Jessup hurried down the steps to the pavement. Both of them started up the Jessups’ steps together.
Daisy would have liked to watch, perhaps to manage a word or two with Audrey. Mrs. Jessup might call it vulgar curiosity, but Daisy had long ago accepted that, like Kipling’s Elephant’s Child, she was cursed with “satiable curtiosity.” She had a hundred questions.
Had her friend really been crying, as the servants reported? If so, what about? Had she quarrelled with Aidan, or was she unhappy because they were to part for an unknown period, or was she merely overtired from preparing for her trip? Pregnancy could be exhausting, too, even right at the beginning. Daisy remembered morning sickness all too clearly.
Where had Patrick been, and exactly what time did he arrive home? Daisy wanted to meet him. What was he like? Adventurous, his mother had said, yet with the patience and coolness to be a good cricketer.
He sounded interesting, more interesting than Aidan. Surely Audrey wasn’t in love with him, was she? It would explain his long absence, her distress coincident with his return, Aidan’s sudden departure, followed by hers…. But Mrs. Jessup would never let Patrick accompany Audrey to Liverpool Street if such were the situation.
What was more, Daisy remembered Audrey saying that once Patrick came home, they could all be comfortable again. That didn’t sound like an illicit passion. No, once again, she realised, she was wandering in the realm of pure speculation.
Any moment, the Jessups would come out and see her standing there staring. Besides, it was cold on the doorstep, though no sign of impending rain was apparent.
She went in, pausing on the threshold for one last backward glance. The sun gleamed palely through thinning clouds.
The twins should go out for an airing before it disappeared again. All nannies agreed on the health-giving effects of fresh air on children. Nana ought to go out, too. If Daisy managed to get Mrs. Gilpin to hurry, they could all take a walk before either the rain or Alec returned. In the latter case, she might get a chance to talk to Ernie Piper.
Her timing was perfect. As the group set out towards the path to the Heath, Ernie backed out of the bushes, took off his hat, and shook the drips from it. It was natural for Daisy to wave the others onwards while she stopped to speak to him.
“Good morning, Mr. Piper. Any luck?”
“Morning, Mrs. Fletcher.” He paused to respond to Nana’s rapturous greeting. They were old friends. “I haven’t found anything, and I expect Ardmore or Warren would’ve shouted if they had.”
“What exactly are you looking for? ‘A weapon’ is a bit vague.”
“That’s what we don’t know, Mrs. Fletcher,” said DC Warren, joining them. His face, eyebrowless and scorched red, was gloomy. He had indeed been struck pink, Daisy thought. It was lucky he hadn’t had a moustache. He would have got flames up his nose, assuredly a horribly painful experience. “Could be a stick or a stone or some weird African knobkerrie like in the detective stories.”
“You read too many of those.” Ardmore had arrived. “Dr. Ridgeway should be able to tell us what shape we’re looking for.”
“Doesn’t much matter what shape,” Piper pointed out, “seeing none of us has found anything that could be it. Leastways, I don’t see either of you carrying a life preserver or a crowbar or even a heavy walking stick.”
“Whatever it is,” said Warren, “it’s not in the pond. No need to call in divers. It’s less’n a foot deep and there’s nothing in it bigger’n a twig.”
“The children drop toys in regularly,” said Daisy, “but the nannies always fish them out. If it’s a walking stick, I can’t see how you’d ever find it. I mean, the murderer could just have walked off with it and stuck it in an umbrella stand somewhere, or thrown it in the river.”
“Prob’ly has done just that,” said Warren.
“It’s not that bad,” Piper insisted. “This here’s a private garden, isn’t it, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes, sort of. Not belonging to one family, but to all the residents of Constable Circle.”
“Not like a public park at any rate. You don’t get Tom, Dick, and Harry using it. It’s not by way of being a shortcut either, is it? I looked at a map before I came.”
“No, not really. There are footpaths to the Heath up here and to Well Walk down there, but they don’t really cut corners for anyone not
living here.”
“Right. So chances are, if the victim wasn’t a resident, which he prob’ly wasn’t, or the Chief’d’ve recognised him, then he was somehow connected to a resident. These houses here, they’re big houses and you can bet they all have servants. It’s not likely he could have called on anyone without being seen by someone else, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find out which house he was connected with. And chances are, it was someone in that house that killed him, and chances are, he just went home afterwards and stuck the walking stick in the umbrella stand, like Mrs. Fletcher said,” Piper concluded triumphantly.
“Always s’posing it was a walking stick he used,” Warren said sourly.
“Whatever it was, he’d have trouble getting rid of it this morning,” Ardmore put in. “He’d’ve looked funny carrying anything but a brolly.”
“Whatever it was,” said Daisy, “it probably doesn’t have nice helpful fingerprints on it. Last night was so cold and wet, no one would have gone out without gloves.”
“True.” Warren sank still further into gloom.
“Might the weapon have been chucked down into an area?” Daisy proposed. “That would be a quick and easy way to get rid of it without going far.”
Piper nodded. “It’s a thought. Only thing is, it must have been heavyish, would have made a noise landing. Unless the servants were listening to the wireless or something … but still they’d’ve found it this morning.”
“Might not think anything of it,” said Ardmore. “Not enough to call it to our attention anyway. It needn’t be very big. Dr. Ridgeway was pretty sure it wasn’t getting clobbered that killed him.”
“Really?” said Daisy. “What killed him?”
All three men looked at her. She realised at once that she had inadvertently stepped over an invisible boundary. She had reminded them, even Ernie Piper, that they ought not to be discussing the case with her, even though she was the chief inspector’s wife. On his own, Ernie might have answered her question, but not with the other two as witnesses.
“Gosh,” she said, “Nurse and the babies are out of sight! I’d better catch up with them. Come along, Nana. Good luck!”
Hurrying along the footpath, she pondered what she had learnt and found herself impressed by Piper’s chain of logic. Unfortunately, it led to the inescapable conclusion that one of her neighbours was a murderer.
TWELVE
“Mackinnon, you give Mr. Tring the details, please.” Alec started skimming through the papers on his desk, but as he initialled some and put them on a new pile, and set others in a third pile to be read more thoroughly, he was listening intently.
He wanted to know whether the young detective sergeant understood and remembered all the information they had gathered so far and what conclusions—if any—he had drawn. It was also possible that he had picked up something Alec himself had missed.
Tom Tring listened with appropriate gravity, making a note now and then. His amusement every time Daisy’s name came up was apparent to Alec, but sufficiently discreet to evade Mackinnon’s notice. His moustache, the magnificent hirsuteness compensating for the vast baldness of his head, twitched occasionally as Daisy and her red umbrella wove their way through the narrative.
Tom was very fond of Daisy, and vice versa. In fact, he was Oliver’s godfather. But his fondness didn’t make him consider her an infallible oracle, as Ernie Piper did.
Mackinnon’s view seemed to be somewhere in between. He was a fervent admirer, but he failed to believe she was always right.
His exposition brought out one fact that Alec had failed to enquire after. “Constable Norris didn’t recognise the deceased,” Mackinnon said. “He was pretty certain he’d never seen him about. As he pointed out, though, he’s been on the early-morning beat for several weeks, so unless the Yank was an early riser, he could well have missed him.”
“We’ll give the local station a copy of the photo,” said Tom, “and make sure everyone takes a look at it. You want to circulate it elsewhere, Chief?”
“Not yet. Go on, Mackinnon.”
“Well, sir,” Mackinnon said tentatively, “Norris did say a different American has been seen aboot the area, a laddie that was known to be staying with you and Mrs. Fletcher, it seems.”
“Lambert. He left us some time ago.”
“But he’s still aboot, sir, according to PC Norris.”
“The devil he is! I wonder what bee he has in his bonnet now. Two shady Americans haunting Hampstead—it’s not quite beyond the bounds of coincidence, but …” Alec sighed in exasperation. “I can’t see Lambert as the murderer of his fellow countryman, but he may conceivably have useful information for once. Next time he’s spotted, or if they can find out where he’s lodging, he’ll have to be brought in.”
Tom made a note. “You have a picture of him, Chief?”
“No. The embassy does, and may even know where to find him, as he’s supposed to be on official business, but for heaven’s sake, let’s not get them involved yet.”
“Mrs. Fletcher’ll be able to identify him for us,” said Tom with an innocent expression.
Alec scowled at him. “For heaven’s sake, let’s not get Daisy involved, if we can possibly avoid it.”
Tom made no attempt to hide his grin. “We’ll do our best, Chief.”
Mackinnon continued to brief Tom, laying out the known facts without attempting interpretation.
When he finished, Tom asked, “Mrs. Fletcher didn’t actually view the body, then?”
“I believe not, Mr. Tring. Sir …?”
“No.” Alec abandoned the papers with relief. He hated desk work. “At most, she saw the outstretched hand, gloved.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Chief. It’s an odd business, for sure. This empty holster now. I’ll be blowed if I can think of any reason he’d go out wearing it without a gun, bloody uncomfortable as they are. So what was he doing walking about London with a gun? And where is it now?”
“They’re looking for it in the garden, for a start,” said Mackinnon, “along with whatever was used to bash him over the head.”
“Ah.” Tom ruminated for a moment. “Now that’s another odd thing. Just supposing the victim started this whole bit of bother by drawing his gun. Hitting him on the head could have been self-defence. But the business with the pressure on the arteries, that’s plain cold-blooded murder.”
“That’s what it looks like,” Alec agreed. “We’ll have to wait for the autopsy to be certain of the cause of death.”
“Why go so far as murder when the chap’s out of it and you could just run away?”
“Because you were afraid he’d come after you?” said Mackinnon, hazarding a guess. “When he came round, I mean.”
“Which makes it sound like it’s the victim that’s the real villain.”
“Cold-blooded murder,” Alec reminded them. “You can speculate to your hearts’ content on your way to Hampstead. I’ve got this damn report to finish and an irate AC to placate. Tom, between the two of you, can you work out what questions you need to ask my neighbours in this preliminary round?” Alec was being tactful. He knew Tom was perfectly capable of doing the job, but he wasn’t sure of Mackinnon. Now, Tom would instruct the young sergeant under the guise of a discussion.
“I reckon so, Chief. Let me just get the times straight. The doctor saw the body about eight o’clock this morning and said he’d been dead twelve to twenty-four hours?”
“That’s right.”
“So he was killed before eight in the evening. Sounds like the body must have been pretty much out in the open before it was moved, so not before dusk, probably. Say around five o’clock. Between five and eight.”
“Close enough, for the present. They should have finished photographing that passport by now, and made a couple of quick prints for you to take with you.”
“D’ye want us to drop the passport—the original—off at the American embassy, sir?”
“Ah,” Tom said weightily.
“We’ll give ’em the number and a copy of the photo in a couple of days?”
“Depending on how our enquiries proceed.”
“Right, Chief. Any questions you want to ask Mr. Fletcher before we go, Mr. Mackinnon?”
“I canna think of any,” Mackinnon said hesitantly.
“If there’s anything we can’t work out between us, there’s always the telephone. Let’s be off, then.”
Alec had a sudden thought. “Hang on a sec, Tom. Do you happen to recall the name of that chap at the British Museum who was a cryptographer in the War? The one who helped us round up the Gloucester Customs raid gang last year? Poplar, Pollard, something like that.”
“Peplow? I couldn’t swear to it, Chief, but young Piper will know. Or if there’s no hurry, you could always ask Records, but don’t hold your breath. Why?”
“His job at the museum is actually deciphering palimpsests.”
“And what may a palimpsest be when he’s at home?”
“Another useful word to add to your dazzling vocabulary. It’s a used parchment that’s been scraped clean and written on again. Often the obliterated text is of more interest than the overwriting. This chap—Popkin? Yes, I believe it’s Popkin—he’s an expert at making out the original writing. Perhaps he can get the victim’s name from the passport.”
“Worth a try,” Tom agreed.
“Will he need the original, sir?” Mackinnon asked. “I doot a photograph will do as well.”
“Good point. I’ll deal with it when I’ve dealt with the AC.” He turned to his report at last as the two sergeants went out.
By the time Daisy and her entourage returned homeward from the Heath, the sun was shining. The change in the weather, as much as the change of scene and the passage of several hours, made the murder in the garden seem like a bad dream, or at least an event that had taken place aeons ago.