Styx and Stones

by Carola Dunn

  He went off to the library.

  “He’s nice, isn’t he?” Belinda remarked. “Aunt Daisy, was Professor Osborne really murdered?”

  “I’m afraid it looks like it, darling.”

  “Oh well,” said Belinda philosophically, “Daddy’s coming and he’ll soon find out who did it. I’ve got to go back to the nursery, now. I promised to read Peter a story before he lies down.”

  Daisy went to replenish her supply of nuts, thinking what a pity it was that being nervous made her eat more instead of destroying her appetite. Inspector Flagg did not leave her long on tenterhooks. He reappeared in a couple of minutes, with Johnnie at his heels.

  “You’ll be happy to hear, Miss Dalrymple,” said the inspector, his face stolid but a gleam in his eyes, “that young Master Derek confirms Miss Belinda’s account. He’s quite certain the angel had fallen before … he climbed the gate.”

  “Before I had time to get anywhere near it, you mean,” Daisy corrected him tartly. “I’m no more a fool than you are, Inspector.”

  “I’m aware of that, ma’am. That’s why I didn’t consider your sending for the police and the doctor to be evidence of your innocence. You would have realized … Still, that’s all water under the bridge. You and Lord John appear to be out of the running.”

  “I’m glad you realize that, Inspector,” Johnnie said sourly, but Daisy noted Flagg’s “appear to be,” and recalled Alec’s reluctance to cross anyone off his little list.

  “I hope you’ll let bygones be bygones, ma’am.”

  “Being engaged to a detective,” said Daisy dryly, waving him to a chair, “I accept that you were only doing your duty. I take it you want to know the other recipients of anonymous letters.”

  “If you please, ma’am.” His meekness was undoubtedly put on, though Johnnie seemed satisfied that the upstart was cowed.

  “I’m only certain of two others,” Daisy said, “and I don’t think Johnnie has any need to hear about them.”

  “No, but I shan’t desert you,” her brother-in-law said stoutly, and he moved to the far end of the room.

  “Mrs. LeBeau got one while I was with her,” Daisy told Flagg in a low voice, “and she told me she’d had several. I ought to mention that I warned her I’d be reporting them to the police.”

  “Did you, now? And what was her reaction?”

  “Isn’t that hearsay, Inspector, or something of the sort? Oh, well, she was naturally dismayed, but she didn’t try to stop me. The other person I’m sure of doesn’t know I know. I saw an envelope, exactly like the ones Johnnie described and Mrs. LeBeau showed me, addressed to Dr. Padgett.”

  “Padgett! Isn’t he the doctor who first examined the body?”

  “Yes. I know it’s a pity,” Daisy excused herself, “but I was in a bit of a state and hadn’t worked things out yet. I still thought it was the vicar. Besides, Padgett was the closest doctor and I couldn’t very well have told the children to try to find someone else.”

  “No, no,” said Flagg soothingly, “you did the best you could in the circumstances. But that reminds me …” He glanced at his watch. “Dr. Soames, the police surgeon, will be waiting for me, and he’s not a patient man. I must be off. Those you think may have had letters, and those, other than the professor, who you think may have written them, can wait until tomorrow. Thank you for your cooperation, ma’am, my lord.”

  Not waiting for the butler to be summoned to show him out, the inspector loped to the drawing room door. There he paused and, turning his head, said in a grim voice, “Be so good as to inform Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher I’d appreciate a word with him.” With that, he departed.

  “Whew!” Johnnie made an elaborate show of wiping his forehead, then finished his whisky in one swig. “I quite expected the fellow to haul one or the other or both of us off to prison. I’m most frightfully sorry to have put you through that, Daisy. I ought never to have asked you to investigate.”

  “I didn’t have to accept,” Daisy pointed out. “Admittedly I wasn’t expecting to be suspected of murder, but nor were you, and no doubt it’s good for me to be on the other side of the fence for once. I dare say Alec will say so, anyway.”

  “I’m afraid Flagg’s not awfully pleased about Fletcher coming down.”

  “Oh, Alec will spin him a yarn about only coming to stop me meddling. Which is probably true, whatever he told Vi about worrying about Belinda. Gosh, look at the time. We’d better go and change for dinner.”

  Motoring through the Kent countryside, newly rainwashed and lit by the evening sun, Alec was conscious only of gladness. He was looking forward to four days with Daisy and Bel, and if there was a murder in the offing, it was entirely someone else’s responsibility.

  His host and hostess, Lord and Lady John—to call the former Frobisher was easy enough, but could he bring himself to address Daisy’s sister as Violet?—he had met only briefly, at the crowded engagement party. He was accustomed to summing people up quickly, though, and had approved of what he saw. Lady John—Violet—seemed a quiet, self-contained woman, quite unlike both her spirited sister and their sharp-tongued mother, and with a charmingly friendly smile. Frobisher was a decent country squire. Though not particularly quick-witted, nor was he a red-faced, view-hallooing booby, thank heaven.

  They were kind to Belinda. Alec knew Daisy was fond of both of them, and he was quite prepared to like them, too.

  So as to take advantage of daylight while it lasted, he did not stop to eat until he reached Ashford. After plaice with fried potatoes and runner beans, and a pint of an excellent local beer, he returned to his Austin Seven. He almost managed to convince himself he was not tempted to call in at the police station to find out what was going on.

  Temptation successfully resisted, he drove on. Though it was now full dark, Lady John’s directions were clear and easy to follow. Less than half an hour later, he turned in between the iron gates of Oakhurst.

  For once he was greeted by a butler to whom he was merely a guest, with no taint of Law and Order. Mitchell probably knew, in the omniscient way of butlers, that Mr. Fletcher was a policeman, but such was not his present function.

  “Miss Belinda left a message, sir, asking you to go up to say goodnight, but she’ll be long asleep by now.”

  “I’ll go up anyway.”

  “Very good, sir. The family are taking coffee in the drawing room, sir, if you care to join them afterwards.”

  Mr. Fletcher cared. “You need not wait about. I’ll take myself in.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll inform her ladyship of your arrival.”

  Bel was fast asleep, not stirring when he kissed her. He went down again and through the door Mitchell had pointed out.

  Daisy sprang up, flew to him, and hung on to him, rather tight. As his arms closed around her, he remembered that though the murder was none of his business, she had suffered the horror of finding the body.

  “Oh, Alec,” she whispered, “I’m most frightfully glad you’re here, darling. It was beastly, but we won’t talk about it now, please, for Violet’s sake.”

  He gave her a quick, fierce hug, then went to say his how-do-you-do’s. Violet—it was quite easy after all to use her christian name—poured him coffee. Frobisher added a glass of cognac. They talked about how the children had occupied themselves since Belinda’s arrival. To Alec, the Frobishers praise of his daughter was even headier than the smooth old brandy.

  After a while, the conversation somehow moved on to tractors and other modern farm machinery. Alec knew nothing of the subject, but he found Frobisher’s well-considered views on the effects of mechanization interesting. It was Violet who noticed that Daisy’s head was nodding.

  “The poor dear has had an exhausting day of it. Come along, Daisy darling, we’ll go up and leave the men to their reapers and binders and hop-pickers.”

  So Alec had no opportunity that evening to talk to Daisy in private. He and his host went out to the terrace to smoke their pipes, chatting
casually. Frobisher did not refer to the murder except for voicing, as they parted for the night, a rather incoherent apology for Daisy’s involvement.

  “Oh, and,” he added, “ah, Inspector Flagg hopes you can spare him a few minutes tomorrow. ’Night, Fletcher.” With that, he disappeared into his bedroom.

  Thus, when Alec awoke early next morning, he had no more knowledge of the business than he had gained in yesterday’s two brief telephone calls, when he had spoken only to Violet and the children.

  It was too early for breakfast, too early even for early morning tea, but he did not feel like staying in bed. Outside the sun shone. He bathed and dressed, and went to the nursery where breakfast was by then in progress. Belinda was delighted to see him, Derek thrilled. Peter fixed him with an unwinking stare, said “Hello,” when prompted, and then returned his full attention to excavating his boiled egg.

  The main thing on Belinda’s and Derek’s minds was what Derek was to call Alec. That settled in favour of “Uncle Alec,” to everyone’s satisfaction, the day’s plans had to be discussed. Alec accepted an invitation to play cricket but declined one to help restore their dam, breached in the rain.

  Yesterday’s disquieting events seemed utterly forgotten. Much relieved, Alec went down to find his own breakfast.

  A young footman directed him to a pleasant, sunny breakfast room. Frobisher was alone there, methodically disposing of a plateful of eggs, sausages, and muffins, while scanning The Times. On Alec’s entrance, he looked up with a friendly greeting but laid aside his newspaper with scarce concealed reluctance.

  “Good morning,” Alec responded. “Don’t let me interrupt your reading.”

  “Oh, well, if you don’t mind. Somehow I never find time for the paper later in the day. You’ll find one or two others on the sideboard there.” He waved. “Help yourself, and to breakfast, of course.”

  “Thank you.” Alec selected ham and eggs, coffee, and the Daily Chronicle, and seated himself at the table.

  Apparently feeling obliged to make some sort of show of polite conversation, Frobisher said, “Violet doesn’t come down to breakfast at the moment. She’s … er, hm …” He flushed.

  “Oh, is she?” Alec said hastily. Pregnant, he assumed. Funny that a farmer, who presumably discussed cows and bulls, ewes and rams, with the best of them, found it impossible to speak openly of his wife’s condition.

  “Looks as if Daisy’s sleeping in this morning,” Frobisher went on. “She’s usually an early riser, but yesterday took it out of the poor girl, I’m afraid.” He ducked behind his newspaper again.

  Alec would have liked to ask for details of yesterday’s events, but he could not proceed in the face of his host’s evident disinclination. He applied himself to breakfast and the Chronicle. Professor Osborne’s death had not yet reached the national press, he discovered.

  He was still eating when Frobisher folded the Times and stood up.

  “You’ll excuse me, my dear fellow. There’s a gelding out in the stables I’m a bit worried about, seems to be going lame. Make yourself at home,” he said with a vague gesture encompassing house and lands, and he departed.

  Not five minutes later, the footman came in, looking excited. “It’s Inspector Flagg, sir, from the police. Detective Inspector, he said to be sure and say. Wants a word with you, he says. He questioned me yesterday, sir, acos I helped Miss Dalrymple down the church.”

  “Did you? Thank you … Arthur, isn’t it? Yes, I’ll see the inspector. If it won’t disturb the rest of the household, you can show him in here.”

  Alec girded his loins for an awkward interview. The whole situation was extremely irregular, from his original telephone call to the Ashford police, to his presence here. Local police often resented Scotland Yard’s official appearance in their cases. Flagg had every excuse for resenting Alec’s unofficial arrival.

  “Detective Inspector Flagg, sir.”

  A beanpole of a man came in—a flagpole, Alec thought, wondering if the inspector suffered under that nickname. Flagg’s knobby face wore a wilting moustache and a carefully noncommittal expression. His blue eyes were wary.

  Standing up, Alec offered his hand. “From the Ashford C.I.D.,” he observed perhaps a shade too heartily. “We spoke yesterday.”

  “I am the Ashford C.I.D., sir. We don’t get much in the way of crime that a uniformed constable can’t handle.”

  “Lucky man.” Definitely too hearty. “Take a seat, Inspector. May I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  “I don’t mind if I do, sir.”

  Alec poured coffee and hot milk, passed the sugar. “Look here,” he said, deciding there was no point beating about the bush, “I came down because I was worried about my daughter and Miss Dalrymple. You can sympathize with that, I’m sure. I’m on leave. I’ve no right to interfere in your case, and no intention of trying, I promise you.”

  “Ah,” said Flagg ruminatively, strongly reminding Alec of Tom Tring. He stirred his coffee, sipped, and set down the cup before he spoke further: “I’m glad you said that, sir. Because if you hadn’t … But there, you have, so I’ve no scruples about asking your advice on one or two points.”

  Honest enough to acknowledge he would have hated to be shut out completely, Alec was yet dismayed at the prospective disruption of his precious free days. “I don’t see how I can help you, Flagg,” he said. “I know damn all about the affair.”

  The inspector proceeded to enlighten him. “The deceased was … I’m afraid the only possible word is squashed,” he said distastefully, “by a falling monument in the form of an angel. Dr. Soames, our police surgeon, says he would have died instantly of a broken neck, if not of the other massive injuries. I haven’t spoken yet to Dr. Padgett, the first medico on the scene.”

  “I imagine Padgett will be able to narrow the time of death.”

  “Not by much, sir, if at all. You see, a number of women would have taken the path through the churchyard on their way to a meeting at the Parish Hall, which began at half past two. I haven’t questioned any of them yet, either, but our local man confirms that. They couldn’t possibly have avoided seeing the corpse if it was already there. And Miss Dalrymple says she looked at the church clock a minute or two after discovering the body, and it was then five to three. I hope you’ll understand, sir, that I had to consider the possibility of Miss Dalrymple having done it.”

  “Great Scott!” Alec yelped. “Yes, I dare say you did. I sincerely trust you have been able to clear her by now?”

  “On the children’s evidence, sir,” Flagg said cautiously, “and taking into account certain further information she has volunteered, I can say I consider it highly unlikely she is implicated.”

  “That will have to do for the present, I suppose. What information?”

  “I’ll come to that in a minute, if you don’t mind. First you ought to know that there seems to have been at the outset some question as to whether the vicar or his brother, the professor, had been … ah, struck down by the angel.” The inspector explained the close resemblance of the two, the question of the hat, the academic gown, and the vicar’s eventual arrival, which confirmed Daisy’s identification of the deceased.

  “So the murderer may have caught the wrong man,” Alec said thoughtfully. “It’s quite certain the angel didn’t fall by accident, is it?”

  “It doesn’t seem possible, sir, though there’s tests to be done. It took four men to raise it off the body, tilting it not lifting it straight up, but the damn thing—if you’ll excuse the expression—is so top-heavy it wouldn’t have taken much of a push to topple it. You’ll be wanting to see it.”

  “Not me!” Alec disclaimed. “This is your case. I don’t want to get mixed up in it. Any dabs?”

  Inspector Flagg quickly covered a grin with his hand, smoothing his ochre moustache. “None, sir, and the granite’s polished, would have taken them a treat. Gloves, or wiped off.”

  “Pity. I don’t imagine you’ve had time yet to dig for possible moti
ves.”

  “No, but that’s where Miss Dalrymple’s information comes in. She has it all worked out.”

  “Oh, does she!” Alec said grimly.

  “Inclined to theorize, is she?” Flagg asked, his face bland. “Well, now, she’s her wits about her, no doubt of it, and I’m obliged to take her notions seriously, for the information behind ’em has been confirmed by an indisputable source. I can see you aren’t aware, sir, that Lord John Frobisher invited Miss Dalrymple down here to investigate some anonymous letters he’d been getting.”

  “He what?” Wrath warred with disbelief. He must have misunderstood!

  “What the Yankees call Poison Pen letters. I don’t know why his lordship should have decided to consult his sister-in-law …” Flagg’s voice made it a statement, but his eyebrows rose interrogatively.

  Discomfited, Alec said, “I assume he thinks she’s a competent detective because he’s heard that she got herself involved in one or two of my cases—much against my will, I need not tell you.”

  “Of course, sir. So Miss Dalrymple agreed to help. Her choice and very obliging, too, but I must say I’d not be best pleased to have one of my little girls mixed up in this sort of business.”

  “No.” What the dickens did Daisy mean by bringing Belinda along?

  “Still, it can’t be denied Miss Dalrymple was making progress. She gave me the names of two more she knows received these letters, and there’s others she suspects of getting or writing ’em. I didn’t have time last night to get a list, which is another reason, besides seeing you, why I came to Oakhurst this morning.”

  “What’s the connection with the murder?”

  “Oh, didn’t I explain? She’s got it taped coming and going,” Flagg said admiringly, and recounted Daisy’s reasoning. “I told her there’s more likely some commonplace motive, but the more I think about it, well, it’d be quite a coincidence. Rotherden’s measure in the way of crime is mostly poaching, and now and then a bit of a barney outside the Hop-Picker after closing of a Saturday night.”