Death at Wentwater Court

by Carola Dunn

  Coffee, brandy, and liqueurs were served in the drawing-room. Everyone was present, perhaps feeling there was safety in numbers.

  Lady Josephine, her colour high, said defiantly, ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a quiet rubber of bridge.’ She looked around for players.

  ‘Do you play bridge?’ Daisy asked Annabel.

  ‘Badly.’

  She lowered her voice. ‘Do you like to play?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s the sort of thing a hostess can’t always escape.’

  Daisy took her arm. ‘Then quick, come over here and tell me about the gardens in Italy. Are they all as formal as what we call an Italian garden? Patterns of square box hedges and dreary cypresses like ninepins?’

  Annabel smiled. ‘I take it you play bridge but hate it.’

  ‘I wish I’d never learned,’ said Daisy with a shudder.

  They sat down on a sofa at some distance from the fireplace. Sir Hugh, Phillip, and James joined Lady Josephine at the card table; Wilfred chatted brightly with Fenella, the taciturn Geoffrey sitting with them though not taking part in the conversation as far as Daisy could see; Lord Wentwater sat by the fire reading The Field.

  Daisy kept an eye on them all as Annabel described the garden of the ramshackle villa near Naples where she had lived. A wilderness of pink oleanders, purple bougainvillea, pale blue plumbago, and scarlet hibiscus, it had been anything but formal.

  ‘It was gloriously colourful, and Rupert loved to paint it,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but I missed forget-me-nots and daffodils.’

  ‘Rupert was an artist?’

  ‘Yes. He wasn’t at all like what the detective seemed to think. He was gentle, and vague, and not very enterprising, and he didn’t care about money, which was just as well as he hadn’t much. My aunt – the aunt who brought me up – deeply disapproved of him and refused to let me marry him.’

  ‘So you ran away with him?’

  ‘He had a weak chest and he was advised to go to a warmer climate. I couldn’t bear never to see him again, so I went too.’

  ‘How often I wish I had taken the bull by the horns,’ Daisy exclaimed bitterly. ‘Even if we had only had a few days together . . . ’ Her throat tightened and she blinked hard.

  Annabel laid a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Your parents disapproved of the man you loved? Or his circumstances?’

  ‘Oh, his income was adequate and his family socially acceptable, but he was a Quaker, a Conscientious Objector. Instead of doing the proper thing and getting blown up in a trench, he joined a Friends’ Ambulance Unit and got blown up with his ambulance.’

  ‘My dear, I’m so sorry.’

  Daisy was unused to wholehearted sympathy. ‘You don’t despise him?’ she asked.

  ‘Despise him! He laid his life on the line to help others, so his physical courage was as great as any soldier’s, and besides that he had the moral courage to stand up for his beliefs. How could anyone despise him?’

  ‘It’s obvious you’ve been living abroad. People still speak sneeringly of conchies and some of them were in prison for years. There were over a thousand in Dartmoor, shut up with the worst felons.’

  ‘That makes their courage the greater,’ Annabel said gently.

  ‘My parents didn’t see it that way. We decided to wait until the War was over in the hope that . . . ’

  ‘More brandy, anyone?’ James had pushed back his chair from the card table, where Phillip was dealing in the methodical way Daisy remembered from childhood games. ‘Benedictine or Drambuie? Whisky?’

  ‘Benedictine, please, dear boy,’ said Lady Josephine, handing him her liqueur glass. Daisy asked for the same. Under Phillip’s stern eye, Fenella shook her head, and Daisy saw the wheels turning in Phillip’s head as he decided he needed to keep it clear for the card game. Sir Hugh requested a brandy and soda. Geoffrey’s brandy glass was barely touched, unless he had at some point replenished it himself.

  ‘Father?’ James enquired.

  ‘Yes, a drop more brandy, please, neat. Annabel, my dear, what will you have?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you.’

  ‘G-and-t for me, old bean,’ said Wilfred as his brother passed behind his chair on the way to the drinks cabinet. He turned back to Fenella. ‘No, I’d not do anything so dashed uncomfortable as bashing ice about in the middle of a bitter winter’s night,’ he said, obviously continuing what he had been saying, ‘if I wanted to do away with someone, which of course I don’t.’

  James stopped beside Fenella. ‘There’s only one person here who had good reason to want to do away with Astwick,’ he said loudly, with venomous intensity, staring at Annabel. ‘What better motive than to rid oneself of an importunate lover?’

  ‘Shut up!’ Geoffrey rocketed from his seat, his left arm swinging as his solid length unfolded. James stepped back, but Geoffrey’s fist caught him on the side of the jaw, staggering him. He tripped and fell on his back, and Geoffrey was upon him, grabbing his shoulders and banging his head on the floor while he, dazed, feebly tried to push his brother off.

  ‘Here, I say!’ Wilfred jumped up, seized the back of Geoffrey’s collar and hauled ineffectively.

  Fenella screamed. Phillip sprang to his feet, sending the card table flying, and rushed to help Wilfred.

  ‘Stop it!’ Lord Wentwater’s cold, incisive voice cut through the bedlam.

  Geoffrey’s shoulders slumped. He stood up and brushed vaguely at his clothes. With Wilfred’s aid, James sat up, clutching his head.

  ‘Geoffrey, go to your room. James, to my study, and wait for me.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ Geoffrey turned to his father, pleading, hands outstretched. ‘He’s lying. You mustn’t believe him. Stop him saying such things!’

  ‘You may leave me to deal with your brother.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ His head bowed, Geoffrey trudged towards the door, cradling his left fist in his right hand. His face was pale and to Daisy’s eyes he looked utterly exhausted.

  As he neared her, his steps hesitated. He raised his head and shot a glance of heartrending entreaty at Annabel, before he plodded on out of the drawing-room.

  Daisy realized that Annabel was quietly weeping, huddled in the corner of the sofa with her hands over her face. Sitting down, for she too had jumped to her feet, Daisy took Annabel in her arms. She glared at James as he stumbled after his brother, tenderly feeling the puffy red swelling on his chin.

  Quietly Lord Wentwater apologized to his guests and thanked Wilfred and Phillip for their intervention.

  Wilfred brightened, then visibly braced himself. ‘It was nothing, sir, but I say, Geoff was right. Jimmy shouldn’t keep spouting off like that, not quite the article, don’t you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Wilfred, I do . . . Annabel!’

  Annabel, who had been sobbing on Daisy’s shoulder, had broken free and was hurrying from the room. Her husband’s appeal failed to slow her pace. He strode after her.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Lady Josephine, and turned to Sir Hugh, her plump chin trembling.

  With Sir Hugh comforting his wife, Phillip comforting his bewildered sister, and Wilfred righting the card table, Daisy decided she had had enough for one evening. Even her promise to Alec to keep watch was insufficient to detain her in the drawing-room.

  ‘I believe I shall go to bed now,’ she announced and, receiving no response, did a bunk.

  Yet she was too het up to concentrate on her neglected writing, or even to read, let alone to sleep. Instead, she went to the darkroom-scullery. Though it was absolutely freezing, at least concentration on the mechanical process of printing her photos kept her mind off the Beddowes and their problems.

  She was astonished when a knock on the door presaged the arrival not, as she half hoped, of a kitchen maid offering hot cocoa, but of Lord Wentwater.

  He apologized again for the scene in the drawing-room.

  ‘How is Annabel?’ Daisy asked. She refused to enquire after James, and thought it unwise to enquire after Geof
frey.

  ‘She is asleep. I persuaded her to take half of one of the bromide powders Dr. Fennis left for Marjorie.’ Standing there with unfocussed eyes fixed on her pictures, he said absentmindedly, ‘You are very diligent, Miss Dalrymple.’

  ‘I haven’t worked on my article all day.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. The policeman didn’t believe me, did he?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, startled.

  ‘Chief Inspector Fletcher.’ The earl’s harrowed gaze met hers. ‘He thought I was lying when I told him I didn’t believe Annabel was Astwick’s mistress. It’s true. I know her. I trust her. But she’s keeping something from me.’

  Obviously the secret Astwick used to threaten her, Daisy thought. Did he imagine she knew it, or that she’d tell if she did? Did he even know Annabel was being blackmailed? Daisy wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. ‘I’m glad you trust her,’ she said. ‘I like her, very much.’

  ‘She needs a friend.’ He hesitated, then went on sombrely, ‘I expect you feel I’ve handled everything badly. Besides the sheer impossibility of demanding Astwick’s departure, I never realized – I swear I did not realize! – that James was behaving so abominably.’

  Reflecting on the past two days, Daisy said, ‘No, as I recall he always did his worst when you weren’t there. Geoffrey told you what he’s been up to?’

  ‘Yes. It is true, then? I find it so very difficult to credit that my own son could be so cruel.’

  ‘I can’t honestly blame Geoffrey for attacking him.’

  ‘Nor I, though it’s past time he learned that fists are rarely an effective solution.’

  ‘He’s the strong, silent type. He takes after you.’

  ‘After me?’ Lord Wentwater exclaimed, startled. ‘Good Lord, is that how you see me?’

  ‘Not resorting to fisticuffs,’ Daisy hastily assured him.

  He shook his head, frowning. ‘Perhaps I have been too silent, and not strong enough. Since their mother died I’ve not had much interest in society or entertaining. I have divided my time between estate business and the House, leaving my children very much to their own devices. I suppose I relied on their schools to form their characters, and on Josephine to chaperon Marjorie after she left school.’

  ‘Marjorie’s no sillier than a hundred other debutantes with nothing to occupy their time or their minds but their amusements and their emotions. I must say I jolly well admired Wilfred when he stood up for Geoffrey this evening.’

  ‘Yes, possibly Wilfred is not without redeeming traits.’

  ‘If you ask me, they both need an occupation,’ she said severely, then bit her lip. ‘But you are not asking me. I beg your pardon, Lord Wentwater.’

  ‘There’s no need.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve been rattling on at you about my troubles, so how can I resent your advice? I can’t imagine why I’ve disburdened myself into your patient ears. It’s for me to beg your pardon.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Daisy decided it would be untactful to tell him that he was by no means the first to confide in her.

  ‘No doubt you will feel obliged to repeat what I’ve said to the detective.’

  ‘Not unless it’s relevant to Lord Stephen’s death. If you wish, I’ll tell him you really do trust Annabel.’

  The earl put on his mask of hauteur. ‘He chose to disbelieve my statement. Reiteration will not make him believe.’

  ‘Probably not,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll have to tell him about Geoffrey, though I’m sure he’d hear about it one way or another even if I didn’t.’

  ‘And James’s filthy accusations?’

  ‘Didn’t you know? James himself made Mr. Fletcher a present of those.’

  Lord Wentwater looked stunned. Then, his jaw set, his mouth a stern line, he strode from the darkroom.

  He had had three purposes in coming to her, Daisy realized: to assure her of his trust in Annabel, to find out whether what Geoffrey told him of James’s conduct was true, and to persuade her not to repeat James’s accusations to the Chief Inspector. But any damage James could do was done.

  Suddenly exhausted, Daisy cleared up the darkroom. Heading for bed, she was returning along the servants’ wing corridor when a footman came through the green baize door from the Great Hall.

  ‘Oh, miss, I was just coming to find you. There’s a telephone call for you, a Miss Fotheringay.’

  Hurrying to the hall, Daisy picked up the apparatus from the table in the corner and sat down in the nearest chair.

  ‘Lucy? Hello, is that you, Lucy? Darling, how too heavenly of you to ring up. Are you in a call box?’

  Lucy’s voice came tinnily over the wire. ‘No, I’m at Binkie’s flat and he’s treating me to the call so we can blether on forever. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly proper, Madge and Tommy are here too. We had supper at the Savoy. Daisy, darling, you sound positively desperate. Is Lord Wentwater too frightfully stuffy for words?’

  ‘Good lord, no!’ ‘Stuffy’ was now about the last word she’d think of applying to the earl, but she couldn’t possibly tell Lucy all that had been going on. Quite likely a switchboard-girl or two was listening in, but in any case, what she had learned in confidence was not to be betrayed even to her dearest friend. ‘The earl’s been quite friendly,’ she said lamely.

  ‘And what about that mysterious new wife of his? Who is she?’ Though living independent of her family, Lucy was inclined to dwell on family trees.

  As far as Daisy knew, Annabel had no noble connections. ‘Annabel’s a dear,’ she said. ‘Guess who’s staying here. Phillip Petrie.’

  ‘Oh yes, his sister’s marrying James Beddowe, isn’t she? Has Phillip taken up the pursuit again?’

  ‘In a desultory way. He’s fearfully disapproving of my writing. But Lucy, I’ve met a simply scrumptious man.’

  ‘Darling, how spiffing! Who is he?’

  Too late she realized the trap she had dug for herself. ‘He’s a detective.’

  ‘A ’tec? An honest-to-goodness Sherlock Holmes? My dear!’

  ‘No, a Scotland Yard detective.’

  ‘A policeman! Surely not a guest at Wentwater?’

  ‘He’s investigating Lord Flatford’s burglary. You must have read about it. The people here were at the New Year’s ball.’ Daisy congratulated herself on telling the truth without giving away the real reason for Alec’s presence at Wentwater.

  ‘Too, too exciting, but there must be something wrong with the line. I thought you said the policeman was scrumptious,’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘But Daisy darling, isn’t he frightfully common? I mean, people one knows simply don’t go into the police.’

  ‘He’s not at all common,’ she snapped, then sighed. ‘But for all I know he has a wife and seven children tucked away in some horrid semi-detached in Golders Green.’

  ‘Cheer up, darling.’ Lucy sounded relieved. ‘I’ll find someone for you yet. Just a moment – yes, Madge, I’m coming. I have to go, Daisy. Madge and Tommy are giving me a lift home. They send their love, and Binkie, too. When will you be back?’

  ‘I’m not sure, I’ll send a wire. Thanks for ringing, Lucy, and thank Binkie for me. Toodle-oo.’

  ‘Pip-pip, sweet dreams.’

  Daisy hung up the receiver and put down the set. Talking to Lucy had brought a welcome reminder of the outside world, but had done nothing to dispel the day’s tensions.

  She went up to bed. Tired as she was, she lay awake for what seemed hours, memories, doubts, and speculations racing through her mind. The drama in the drawing-room that evening played itself out on the screen of her closed eyelids. Why had Geoffrey violently attacked his own brother in defence of his stepmother? Why had he begged his father not to believe James? The anguished look he had cast at Annabel as he left the room suggested an all too reasonable answer.

  Geoffrey was in love with his beautiful young stepmother. Nor was it a selfish infatuation such as Marjorie had felt for Astwick. The quiet youth doubtless saw himself as a
chivalrous knight, worshipping his lady from afar yet always ready to rush to protect her.

  Which added Geoffrey to the list of those with excellent motives for wishing Astwick harm. Moreover, he might well have considered a ducking sufficient punishment and warning, without seeing any need to dispose permanently of his beloved’s persecutor. Yes, if Astwick’s death was the result of mischief gone wrong, Geoffrey was definitely a suspect. Who else?

  Lord Wentwater? Impossible to imagine a haughty gentleman, so bound by convention that he refused to ask an unwelcome guest to leave, doing anything so undignified as wielding an axe on the lake at midnight. The earl had confessed himself stymied, unable to deal with the situation, yet he seemed too dispassionate to resort to such desperate measures.

  Phillip? Daisy couldn’t believe it. If he knew he’d been defrauded, Phillip would grumble ineffectually and convince himself that the next silver mine he invested in would turn into a gold mine. If he did go so far as to hunt out an axe and cut a hole in the ice, he’d have been there to see no serious accident occurred. Surely not Phillip!

  Marjorie? Wrapped up in her emotions, the silly girl would never consider the possible dire consequences. Marjorie had to be considered a likely suspect.

  The Mentons? Dismissing Lady Josephine and Sir Hugh out of hand, Daisy plumped up her pillow and turned on her other side. James was really the most satisfactory villain, she thought drowsily. She wouldn’t mind at all if James went to prison for manslaughter for a few years.

  Sleep still evaded her as the image of Lord Stephen’s drowned body came to haunt her. That frightful gash on his temple – if it hadn’t been for that he might have pulled himself out. What was it Alec had said? Something about a romantic tryst by moonlight and Annabel biffing him on the head – the weather kiboshed that – no, it was Daisy herself who had said perhaps the manservant met him and biffed him, but he wouldn’t have been wearing skates. Whatever had happened to his blasted boots, he must have drowned when he went down to skate in the morning.