Death at Wentwater Court

by Carola Dunn

  ‘Perhaps not always,’ Alec said cautiously, ‘but without law there would be no justice, only the strong preying on the weak. And I serve the law.’

  ‘Do you never make exceptions? When you were on the beat – were you on the beat?’

  ‘Yes, all detectives have to spend some time on the beat. No exceptions.’

  ‘Did you never let anyone off with a warning? Under extenuating circumstances, or if you were pretty certain they’d never do it again?’

  ‘Now and then,’ he conceded with a wry grimace. She was doing her best to back him into a corner. ‘But a kid lifting a bar of chocolate is hardly on a par with a killing.’

  ‘Unintentional. To save Annabel from a fate worse than death. Hasn’t she suffered enough?’

  ‘Have you discovered what misdeed Astwick was using to blackmail her?’

  ‘Yes, though I see absolutely no reason to tell you. It wasn’t so dreadful. In fact, Lord Wentwater knew all along and married her anyway, so she suffered for nothing.’

  Alec recalled the sorrowing Madonna, the moon pale from weariness. Yes, Lady Wentwater had suffered. And Geoffrey had gone into exile, a chivalrous knight protecting his fair lady.

  And his victim had been an out-and-out rotter.

  ‘I can’t just ignore the whole thing,’ he said pettishly. His head hurt.

  ‘Can’t you simply say you were mistaken in thinking he didn’t just fall through the ice by accident? Geoffrey, Annabel, and Lord Wentwater are the only ones who know about the axe-marks and that Astwick didn’t drown in the lake. Besides Sergeant Tring and Constable Piper and the pathologist, of course, unless you told anyone else?’

  ‘No, no one. Tring and Piper will do as I say. Dr. Renfrew never expresses any interest in a case once he’s finished cutting up the body.’

  Daisy wrinkled her nose in disgust but said cheerfully, ‘Then you can easily claim it was a skating accident after all.’

  ‘Easily!’ he exploded. He sprang to his feet, wincing as the bump on his brow sent an arrow of pain shooting through his skull. ‘I’m a police officer. I have a duty to uphold the law. I’m going to send a wireless ordering the Orinoco’s captain to turn back to port.’

  ‘Alec, wait!’ She looked at him with concern. ‘Is your head aching? Do sit down for just one more minute. There’s one thing you haven’t considered. If the Orinoco has to turn back so that you can arrest Geoffrey, you’re going to have the shipping line and all the passengers after your blood, not to mention Lord Wentwater, Sir Hugh, and very likely your own Commissioner, who, you may recall, is a friend . . . ’

  He groaned as her voice trailed off. ‘True, but my duty must come first.’

  ‘That’s it! Telephone your Commissioner, tell him everything, and ask him what to do. He’s your superior. If he orders you to drop the case, you will have done your duty, won’t you?’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to stop trying to persuade you,’ she said, disconsolate. ‘At least you can make him wireless the ship, so that no one blames you.’

  Gazing down at her upturned face with its scattering of freckles and the tiny, bewitching mole, he did not doubt that she was genuinely concerned for him. All her efforts to talk him out of chasing down Geoffrey were due to concern for her friends, not herself. She had already forgotten that she was an accessory to the crime. He’d keep her out of this, he vowed, whatever the Commissioner decided.

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ he admitted.

  ‘I expect you can use the telephone in Lord Wentwater’s study. The last I saw of him, he looked as if he’d be busy upstairs for some time.’

  She saw him settled in the study and tactfully disappeared. Alec had less difficulty being put through to the Commissioner than he had expected, because of Sir Hugh Menton’s involvement, no doubt. In guarded terms, avoiding names where possible, he explained the situation.

  He had nearly finished when Daisy reappeared, bearing a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. He smiled at her and continued, avoiding all mention of the fact that Geoffrey’s departure was her idea.

  ‘So you see, sir, we can have the Orinoco turn back, or wait till he reaches Tenerife or even Rio and have him extradited.’

  ‘No need for that, Chief Inspector,’ the Commissioner’s voice boomed down the wire. ‘Send the Coast Guard out and have him taken off.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I hadn’t considered that possibility.’

  ‘All sounds to me like a vast waste of public monies. The boy was protecting a certain lady from rape, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m willing to accept their story, based on what I’ve learned of Geoffrey’s and Astwick’s characters.’

  ‘Hmm. Whole thing was an unfortunate accident. Astwick’s family likely to give us any grief?’

  ‘I doubt it, sir. Lord Brinbury seems to have been anxious only to hear that his brother was underground.’

  The Commissioner’s bellow of laughter rocked his head. ‘What about the coroner. Reasonable man?’

  ‘I’d say he knows his duty, sir – and which side his bread is buttered. He is Lord Wentwater’s solicitor. If you and his lordship were both to advise his directing the jury to find accidental death . . . ’

  ‘Done, Chief Inspector. Accidental death it is. I’ll have a word with Lord Wentwater later but my secretary is pulling faces at me now. Good job. Good-bye.’

  Alec also pulled a face. At least Daisy was safe but . . . Good job? Well, he had been chosen for his discretion. He hung up the receiver and gulped the tea Daisy had poured for him. ‘It’s all settled,’ he said as she refilled his cup. ‘Wealth and rank win again. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth.’

  She regarded him uncertainly. ‘When I came up with the plan I was thinking mostly of Annabel, but I hoped I was solving a problem for you, too. I must say I expected you to be delighted not to have to arrest the son of an earl.’

  ‘Delighted!’

  ‘Well, relieved, at least.’

  She was right, to his chagrin. He was relieved to have avoided running foul of Lord Wentwater and Sir Hugh. Despising himself as a craven toady, he was irritated with her for guessing.

  ‘Are you sure you weren’t simply trying to shield your own kind, people of your own class, Miss Dalrymple?’

  ‘No,’ she said, hurt. ‘Why should I champion a class that includes James and Lord Stephen? I wanted to protect Annabel because she’s become a dear friend and hadn’t done anything really wrong. All the same, I wouldn’t have intervened to prevent a trial if I hadn’t considered Geoffrey’s actions justified.’

  ‘It’s quite possible he would have got off with a warning anyway,’ Alec admitted reluctantly. Her eyes brightened and she beamed at him. She was too pleased with herself, too satisfied with the success of her scheme to outwit the law. He couldn’t let her get away with it so easily, or the Lord alone knew what she’d be up to next. ‘Nonetheless,’ he continued in his most severe official voice, ‘that decision was for police, coroner, judge, and jury to make, not you. You could have been in extremely serious trouble.’

  Her face fell. ‘I know. Thank you for not telling the Commissioner it was my idea.’

  ‘The fewer people who know, the better. And now, if you will excuse me, I must speak to Lord Wentwater, prepare a statement for the press, and write my reports.’ Three reports, he thought with a mental groan, one on the Flatford affair and two for this Astwick mess: one for the records, and the eyes of the Chief Constable of Hampshire; and one for his own superior, the Assistant Commissioner for Crime, who had to know the whole thing, even Daisy’s part in it.

  Filled with regret, he watched her trail despondently from the study. He had dished his chances of seeing her again. Not that there had ever been a future for a friendship between the Honourable Daisy Dalrymple and a common-or-garden police detective.

  Daisy turned towards the drawing-room. Alec had every right to be furious, she thought mournfully. Though everything had wo
rked out for the best, that didn’t make up for her letting him down. She couldn’t blame him for dismissing her so coldly, stern policeman to erring citizen.

  Her reception in the drawing-room bucked her up a bit. Wilfred rushed to meet her, his usual nonchalance abandoned. ‘We heard the police are back,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Everything’s all right,’ she assured him, joining Marjorie, Lady Jo, and Phillip by the tea trolley. She’d been too upset to share Alec’s tea. ‘Mr. Fletcher was going to have the Orinoco called back but instead he telephoned the Commissioner at Scotland Yard and persuaded him that Lord Stephen’s death was an accident.’

  ‘Oh, good egg!’ Wilfred exclaimed.

  ‘I knew he’d come through,’ said Marjorie dreamily. ‘He’s really rather scrumptious, don’t you think, Daisy?’

  Her aunt regarded her with considerable misgiving. ‘A most worthy officer,’ she said repressively. ‘This is good news, Daisy. Now dear Geoffrey will be able to come home again.’

  ‘He might as well stay in Brazil once he gets there,’ said Phillip. ‘All sorts of opportunities for the right sort of fellow, what?’

  ‘I daresay he will,’ Daisy agreed. ‘He always seemed to me the sort to go off to bring civilisation to some benighted tropical country.’ If he had any sense he’d stay, for Annabel’s sake.

  ‘I say, Daisy, does this mean we’re free to leave?’ Phillip asked. ‘The detective chappie doesn’t want to see us again, does he? I’ve already outstayed my welcome.’

  ‘It’s nearly dark. You mustn’t leave until the morning,’ said Lady Josephine, and Marjorie and Wilfred assured him that he was more than welcome at Wentwater.

  ‘Very kind and all that, but after the fuss and botheration with m’sister, I’d better toddle off, don’t you know. It’s stopped raining and the old bus buzzes along quite happily in the dark. Daisy, old girl, can I give you a lift back to town?’

  She was tempted. Driving up to London in his nippy little Swift two-seater, even at night, would be much more fun than going by train. But she wasn’t certain whether she had enough material for her article, and besides, she wanted to make sure Annabel didn’t need her anymore. ‘Thanks, Phil, but my work here has been rather interrupted and I still have quite a bit to do.’

  ‘Work!’ he grumbled. ‘Oh well, right-oh.’

  He went off to pack and to make his farewells to his host and hostess. Daisy went up to her room to try to reacquaint herself with her article before dinner. Seated at the little desk by the window, she read over her notes and the pages she’d already written. Phillip, in his motoring coat, found her there.

  ‘I say, I haven’t got your new address. You won’t mind if I drop round? I haven’t given up hope, you know, old dear.’

  ‘I shan’t marry you, Phillip, but I’ll always be happy to see you.’

  Writing down the address for him, she wished it was Alec who was asking. She wondered whether he had already left Wentwater. She wanted to apologize to him, though she was not sorry for what she had accomplished – but one didn’t apologize to a policeman for breaking the law, did one? To do so would imply that she regarded him as a friend. Which she did, but there wasn’t much chance he reciprocated the feeling after she’d aided his quarry’s escape.

  Gazing glumly out of the window into the deepening dusk, she saw his Austin Seven proceeding down the drive, the police car close behind. They crossed the bridge over the fateful lake and their red taillights disappeared into the woods at the top of the opposite slope. A fat chance she had of ever seeing Alec again.

  Not long after, Phillip’s jaunty two-seater followed them. Apart from Daisy, only a diminished family remained at Wentwater Court. She’d better leave tomorrow, she decided. Her presence would be a constant reminder of the frightful events of the past few days. She drew the curtains and turned back to her work.

  Dinner was more cheerful than any of Daisy’s previous meals at Wentwater. The departure of the police had raised everyone else’s spirits. Marjorie, Wilfred, and Lady Josephine were all buoyant, James’s disgrace forgotten for the moment. Sir Hugh, back from Southampton, was relieved to hear his friend the Commissioner had come to the rescue. He vowed to write a commendation of the Chief Inspector’s common sense and discretion.

  Lord Wentwater looked nearer forty than fifty. His habitual gravity had given way to an air of contentment punctuated by fond smiles, and Annabel positively glowed. To Daisy, their happiness made everything worthwhile.

  They were all embarrassingly grateful to her. She was quite glad to claim pressure of neglected work and retreat to her room after dinner.

  In the morning, a windy day with the sun coming and going between clouds, she went down to breakfast quite early. Only Sir Hugh was before her, ensconced as usual behind his Financial Times. Emerging, he folded the paper to show her a modest headline: FINANCIER DEAD. Underneath, in smaller letters, it said: ‘Astwick dies in skating mishap. Company expected to fail, say experts.’

  ‘There’s a paragraph or two about Flatford’s burglary, too,’ said Sir Hugh, ‘but you’ll find more about it in the other papers.’

  Daisy dashed out to the hall. A selection of daily newspapers was spread on the table by the front door. Alec had made the front page of most of them, under headlines such as: YARD MAN RECOVERS LOOT. Two or three had photographs of him, recognizable only by his dark, thick eyebrows.

  The demise of Lord Stephen Astwick, City mogul and bon viveur, in an unfortunate skating accident was relegated to the inside pages.

  Taking all the newspapers to the breakfast-room, Daisy read every word as she consumed Cook’s homemade sausages, toast, and tea. Though Lord Stephen’s connection with the burglaries must surely come out at Payne’s trial, for the moment the reporters were apparently unaware of the makings of a spectacular story. Alec being discreet again, Daisy thought. He was the hero of the hour, the articles full of gushing quotations from grateful ladies whose diamonds, pearls, and emeralds were to be returned to them.

  Daisy wondered whether he enjoyed being a celebrity. She rather thought it would bring out his sardonic side.

  With a sigh, she went off to the darkroom to sort out her pictures.

  By three o’clock that afternoon, having shot a few more photographs and filled in a few gaps in her information about the house, she was ready to leave. She had sent a wire to Lucy to say she’d be home for dinner. The dark green Rolls stood gleaming at the front door with her luggage already stowed away. In the Great Hall, she took her leave of the family. As they pressed her to visit again soon, she found it hard to believe she had been at Wentwater Court for less than a week.

  They all came out to the front steps to wave good-bye. Jones handed her into the backseat and took his place at the wheel. The Silver Ghost rolled smoothly on its way.

  When Daisy glanced back for a final look as they started down the hill, the Mentons, Marjorie, and Wilfred had gone in. Annabel and the earl still stood on the step, locked in a loving embrace.

  A pang of envy stabbed at Daisy’s heart. With a wistful sniff, she settled back in the seat.

  The sodden countryside was dun and depressing. When they reached the station, Jones and the one-legged porter carried her luggage onto the up-platform. As the Rolls drove off, she waited beside the pile of stuff, gazing down the track towards Winchester, hugging her coat around her. Though the wind had dropped and it was much warmer than the bitter day of her arrival, she felt chilled.

  She heard another car pull up in the station yard but she didn’t turn until a voice behind her called, ‘Miss Dalrymple!’

  Alec! His neck swathed in an orange-and-green-striped scarf, he was leaning on the fence where the crow had huddled. A curl of smoke rose from his pipe, hiding his expression.

  She went across to him, a spring in her step. ‘I thought you’d have gone back to London by now,’ she said.

  ‘One or two bits and bobs to clear up.’

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked a pi
pe.’

  ‘Not when I’m on duty, except in my own office.’

  ‘I suppose you don’t wear that natty scarf when you’re on duty, either.’

  He smiled around the stem of the pipe. ‘Do you like it? My daughter, Belinda, knitted it.’

  ‘Your daughter?’ Her heart sank. ‘What a clever child. How old is she?’

  ‘Nine. Not bad, eh? Listen, will you trust your life to my driving? I know a nice little place in Guildford where we could stop for tea. I telephoned my mother and she’s not expecting me home till after six.

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘She lives with Belinda and me, takes care of us. Here comes the train,’ he said as an approaching whistle sounded. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘A lift? Tea in Guildford? Yes, Chief!’

  ‘Oh no, not Chief!’ He shook his head determinedly. ‘Never again. If our acquaintance is to continue, it will be on a strictly nonprofessional basis.’

  ‘Right-oh, Alec,’ said Daisy.

  If you enjoyed Death at Wentwater Court,

  Read on for a preview of the next book in the Daisy Dalrymple series,

  THE WINTER GARDEN MYSTERY

  www.constablerobinson.com

  ‘So you’re Maud Dalrymple’s daughter.’ Lady Valeria’s tone did not suggest she found any cause to congratulate the Dowager Viscountess on her offspring.

  Under the critical gaze, Daisy wished she had put on her grey frock with its high neckline and left off her lipstick and face-powder. She wasn’t sure the basilisk stare did not penetrate straight through to the frivolous artificial silk cami-knickers she had donned in place of her practical combies.

  At least she should have made sure someone else had come down before joining Lady Valeria in the drawing room.

  She was a professional woman, not a dependent, she reminded herself sternly, taking a seat on one of the fringed, tasselled, antimacassared Victorian chairs. She had no reason to wither beneath that withering eye. No mere imperious presence swathed in imperial purple could cow her unless she allowed it to. Even a voice horribly reminiscent of her headmistress’s was insufficient to reduce Daisy to an erring schoolgirl.