by Carola Dunn
“I should think so. No time afterwards, not if the fireworks covered the sound of the shots, which they must have, mustn’t they?”
“That’s our assumption. How did he behave?”
“I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. At least, he looked as normal as one can with a blue face. The missing rockets—or rather, the ones that didn’t go missing—showered down green and blue sparks to represent rain, to make the tree—”
“Great Scott, Daisy!”
“Sorry. What was I . . .Oh yes, Jack sounded normal. But he said only a few words before he noticed something wrong with the rockets and got upset and went down.”
“So the missing rockets could have been a very convenient excuse to cover the real reason for his being in a state of nerves.”
“I suppose so,” Daisy admitted reluctantly.
“I gather you were one of the last to return to the house.”
“I’d seen the supper buffet earlier and knew they weren’t going to run out of food, so I stayed to watch the bonfire blaze up. I sort of assumed at the time, without really thinking about it, that Gooch and Miller hung back because they weren’t entirely comfortable with the company. But Gooch was probably hoping to see his wife as she went in, and Miller may have been waiting till Gwen finished helping Babs hand out sparklers to the children. Anyway, we all went in together and we were at the end of the line. By then, I was—”
“Ravenous.”
“I was going to say ‘famished,’ ” Daisy said with dignity. “And my toes were getting frostbitten. I know you don’t want to hear about my toes, but every little bit helps me remember exactly what happened. You’re always saying any detail may prove significant.”
“It may. I don’t want to rush you. It’s just that I can’t recall an investigation when I’ve had so many interviews cut short in the middle, and I was hoping we might get through the whole story before we’re interrupted. But you’re right. Tell it your own way, love.”
As if on cue, there came a knock on the door.
“Come in!” called Alec, exasperated.
A maid peeked nervously around the door. “Telephone, sir, if you please, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Jennings didn’t say, sir, just that it’s for you, sir.”
Alec slammed his hand down on the table. The maid jumped. “See what I mean?” he snarled, eyebrows meeting above his nose. “I must say I never before appreciated what a difference a good butler makes to a household like this.”
“I’ll write down everything I can remember,” Daisy said diplomatically as he strode to the door. “I hope it’s someone ringing with information you desperately need.”
But she’d venture a bet on its being Struwwelpeter, eager to reassert his claim to “his” county.
Less averse to being disturbed than Alec, Daisy took her writing things down to the drawing room. Not that she was positively courting interruptions, she assured herself, or she would have stationed herself in the front hall, with its acknowledged resemblance to Piccadilly Circus. She just didn’t want to appear to be avoiding the family in their time of trouble.
The drawing room was deserted. With nothing to distract her, Daisy soon wrote down all she could recall up to the point where Jack returned from the study to report the shooting. She was wondering whether she need go any further, when Miller wandered in. His disconsolate face brightened at the sight of her.
“Mrs. Fletcher! I was hoping I might come across you. But you’re busy. . . .”
“I’m just about finished. Do sit down. What can I do for you?”
He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, half offered it to Daisy, then drew back. “No, you don’t, do you? Half the girls seem to smoke these days.” To her relief, he returned the packet to his pocket without lighting up. “Do you mind if I ask your advice?”
“Not at all. I can’t promise to be able to give you any. At least, I can’t promise it’d be good advice.”
“Of course not. But you know how people like the Tyndalls think. What’s good form and what’s bad form and that sort of thing. It’s sometimes a bit mystifying to an ordinary bloke like me.”
“I know what you mean,” Daisy agreed. “I’ll try to help.”
“The thing is, I wonder if I ought to buzz off after all, after I’ve fetched the sergeant from the village. The only subject on Jack’s mind is who he really is. He’s not going to be making decisions about his future till that’s sorted out. I can’t even help him by being there for him to talk to. He went riding. I’ve never been on a horse in my life. He’s my host, and for all I know he’s wishing me away but too polite to tell me.”
“Yes, I see your difficulty.”
“I’d stay for Gwen, only I’ve hardly seen her since that wretched Australian crashed his motor. She’s too busy nursing him to—”
“Not any longer. A couple of professional nurses turned up. Didn’t you know? I made Gwen go and lie down. She’s exhausted. But wasn’t the last you saw of her when Jack asked you to explain about Mrs. Gooch’s letter? It seems to me they both need you here, even if they’re rather leaving you to your own devices at the moment. I shouldn’t cut and run if I were you.”
“But what about Lady Tyndall? She wasn’t too happy with me coming here in the first place. I wouldn’t be surprised if she blames me for everything that’s happened.”
“For shooting Sir Harold and Mrs. Gooch?” Daisy asked, astonished. “Why on earth should she think you did it?”
“Oh, not that, exactly,” Miller said gloomily. “But it was for my sake Jack wanted to go down to the Ravens. If we hadn’t gone, he’d not have met the Gooches and invited them to the house.”
“You might as well blame me for suggesting inviting them to our table. Alec’s half inclined to think it’s all my fault.”
“Is he really? I’m sorry I told him about that.”
“Not seriously. I’d have had to tell him myself, so don’t worry about it. But to get back to your original concern, I doubt if Lady Tyndall has the slightest idea that your preference for beer led to the visit to the pub. And I don’t see how your presence could possibly be as disturbing to her as ours—mine and Scotland Yard’s—not to mention Gooch’s. Who knows, she may even be glad you’re here because you’re someone else outside the family for Alec to suspect.”
Miller smiled wryly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Anyway, you see, it’s as much my fault as yours, but if you ask me, the Gooches would have found some other way to meet Jack.”
“Perhaps not one that would lead to murder.”
“Perhaps not,” Daisy had to acknowledge. “The fireworks were perfect cover for the shooting. I wouldn’t be so sure, though. That letter was pretty incendiary.”
“Do you think it’s true? That Jack is not Lady Tyndall’s son?”
Daisy hesitated. “The letter is awfully convincing.”
“If they made a practice of writing blackmailing letters, I suppose they’d have got pretty good at it.”
“The trouble is, it doesn’t matter so much whether it’s true or not. It’s whether Mrs. Gooch told the story to Jack and either convinced him, or he thought her claim might convince other people.”
“Eh?” After a moment’s confusion, Miller sorted it out. “Oh, I see what you mean. So you believe Jack killed them?”
“I don’t believe anything,” Daisy said crossly. “I’m waiting for Alec to find out. Isn’t it time for tea yet?”
Alec took the telephone call in the study, which had been cleaned since the removal of the bodies. Bloodstains were still visible—they would never completely disappear; the desk and carpet would doubtless be replaced as soon as the family had leisure for such niceties—and a slight sickly smell hung in the air, overlaid with acrid whiffs of carbolic disinfectant. But it was preferable to either battling the butler for the use of his pantry or forgoing privacy in the hall.
He picked up the telephone appara
tus and sat down in the desk chair, pushed back a bit from the damp desk. Unhooking the receiver, he said, “Hello? DCI Fletcher speaking.”
“Dryden-Jones here, Chief Inspector.” The voice was pompous, with an undertone of complaint.
For a moment, Alec couldn’t think who the hell Dryden-Jones was. Ah, Daisy’s Struwwelpeter, alas, alias Sir Nigel’s stuffed orangutan, not to mention Lord Lieutenant of Gloucestershire. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Perhaps I didn’t make it clear, Chief Inspector, that I expect to be kept up-to-date with your progress in the enquiry into this horrible crime in my county.”
Though his position gave him absolutely no right to such information, he had been helpful over the search warrant, and there was no sense in antagonizing him. “Sorry, sir. The usual enquiries are proceeding.” Useful phrase, that. “But this is a very early stage in the investigation. With the able assistance of the Gloucestershire police force, we have interviewed every guest at the party. Unfortunately, none of them appears to have observed anything helpful. I’m very grateful for your assistance in obtaining a warrant—”
“Yes, yes, man, and what came of it? That’s what I want to know.”
“Nothing as yet. My detective constable is serving it as we speak. I shall, of course, be in touch with your chief constable as soon as I have anything to report, and he will no doubt keep you up-to-date. I’m expecting a vital telephone call, sir, so if you don’t mind . . .”
“Of course, of course, I’ll clear the line. Keep up the good work, Chief Inspector.”
“I shall, sir, never fear.” Alec breathed a sigh of relief as he hung up. The man was a pest, but easily routed. Whether he’d take the hint and apply to Herriott for information in future remained to be seen.
Leaning back, Alec surveyed the room. The sun was sinking beyond the western window, burnishing a few streaks of cloud. Jack had said the electric lights were on when he came upstairs. Those heavy curtains would have made them unnoticeable from the terrace. Sir Harold had been sitting here, apparently about to write something for the woman seated opposite him, when someone came in.
Through the door to the passage or that to the stairs? Probably the stairs, having picked up the pistol on the way.
Gun in hand, or concealed in a pocket? Very likely concealed, as the baronet had only half-risen by the time the murderer had advanced several paces into the room. Surely he’d have jumped to his feet and dropped the pen had he seen the weapon immediately. Mrs. Gooch didn’t appear to have made any attempt to stand up.
Did any of these assumptions offer a hint as to who had interrupted their tête-à-tête? Was there any point in building speculation upon speculation? He was constantly warning Daisy against wild theorizing.
What he really wanted was a spot of shut-eye. They had worked long hours on the Birmingham job and he hadn’t slept much last night. He longed to lay his head down on his arms and let himself drift. The state of the desk and the memory of its recent occupant prevented such indulgence, but his eyelids started to droop.
Brring-brring. Brring-brring.
Groaning, he reached for the telephone.
“Is that you?” said a creaky voice before Alec could speak. “Are you still there?”
Who the . . .? The butler, of course. “Fletcher here,” he growled.
“I’m not one to complain,” creaked Jennings, “but all these here telephone callers ringing up night and day is not what I’m accustomed to.”
“I dare say you’re not accustomed to murder, either. You’re going to have to put up with it. Do you have someone on the line to speak to me? Put him through.”
Click, ping, click-click. “Hello, Fletcher? Wookleigh speaking. I know you’re busy, my dear fellow, and I won’t keep you. Just wanted to make sure my chaps are cooperating with your chaps all down the line.”
“They’ve been very helpful, sir. They’ve managed to get in touch with everyone on the guest list—”
“Including me,” said the Chief Constable dryly.
“That proves how thorough they were. Unfortunately, no one saw any more of what was going on than you did. The local Constable, Blount, is carrying on a few enquiries for me in his district. A good man.”
“I’ll remember that. All right, I won’t trouble you any longer. Carry on, Fletcher, and let me know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”
“Thank you, sir.” If only all CCs were like Sir Nigel!
Alec had hardly stuck the receiver back in its hook when the bell rang again.
“Chief Inspector?” enquired a harassed voice he didn’t recognize. “This is Herriott. I’ve just had the Lord Lieutenant on the line demanding the latest news of your little murder. He says you told him to ask me.”
“I’m sorry, sir. What I told him was that I’d be reporting to you in due time and I was sure you’d be in touch with him.”
“Oh. Right-oh. Anything to report?”
“No, sir. Enquiries are proceeding, et cetera.”
The Gloucestershire CC produced a gruff guffaw. “Like that, is it? Well, I hope you’ll get a move on. I’ve asked Superintendent Crane to have you come here when you’ve bagged your man. Nasty business, this Customs raid. They blew up an unfortunate watchman with the vault and have got away with a load of bullion. The Yard is sending me a detective inspector, but I want you. How long do you reckon?”
Alec swallowed an unprintable retort. So much for his leisurely drive home with Daisy. He was going to demand a week off after this, and they would go away without leaving an address. “I can’t say, sir. We’ve pretty much narrowed it down to two, but one is unconscious after a motor smash-up and we’re still investigating the other’s motive. There’s very little in the way of hard evidence. It may be one of those cases where we have a moral certainty but can’t prosecute.”
“Well, reach your moral certainty quickly, and in the meantime, I’ll fend off Dryden-Jones.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Alec.
21
Wide-awake now, Alec glanced at his watch. Just five minutes before he was due to see Lady Tyndall—on the way to the study, he had met Gwen in the passage as she came out of her mother’s room.
He ran down the stairs to the billiard room and quickly looked through the notes of his previous meetings with her ladyship. They had covered remarkably little ground. Questioning the widow of a murder victim was always a touchy business.
Alec reached the sitting room door at the same time as a maid bearing a tea tray. He wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sorry. Sometimes the ritual of serving tea relaxed the person to be interviewed; sometimes fussing over teacups was an irritating distraction.
He knocked and held the door open for the girl. As he followed her into the room, his attention flew to the window opposite. The sun was a red ball on the horizon, and thickening bands of cloud flamed in a display that outdid any fireworks show he had ever seen.
“ ‘What is man, that thou art mindful of him?’ ” murmured Lady Tyndall. She was seated in a chair by the window, angled to look out. She motioned him to another, set opposite at an equivalent angle, as the maid laid out the tea things on a small table between them.
Man is—Alec thought but didn’t say—as far as we know, the only creature able to appreciate a sunset, and it is a crime to kill him.
He would have preferred to face her directly, but failing that he turned his chair slightly towards her before he sat down. She looked much less fragile than last night, but he couldn’t tell how much the change was due to the healthy glow imparted by the pink light of the evening sky. She was, at least, more composed.
“I hope you like Lapsang Souchong, Mr. Fletcher,” she said, holding the teapot poised over a flowery, gold-rimmed porcelain cup. “It is my favourite at this time of day. But Bella can bring something else if you prefer.”
“Lapsang Souchong will do very well, thank you, Lady Tyndall.”
“Milk? Lemon? Sugar? Please help yourself to sandwi
ches and cake. Thank you, Bella, that will be all.”
“A little milk, no sugar, thanks.” As he had feared, teatime was already interfering with the interview. Though a cuppa was welcome, he had no intention of encumbering himself with mouthfuls of food.
“Oh dear, it’s rather strong. Shall I add a little hot water?” She lifted the silver hot-water jug.
“No, thank you, that’s perfect. Lady Tyndall, I’m sorry to have to take you back to last night, but it can’t be helped. You told me you were dismayed that your son invited the Gooches but accepted his right to do so. Your husband was less accommodating. Did he tax your son with his opinion?”
“I believe not.” Her voice was constrained. “I was occupied with our other guests and didn’t watch them, but even Harold would not start a row at a party, and Jack certainly showed no sign of being disturbed. Not until . . .afterwards.”
“After the fireworks.”
“The . . .? Oh, yes, the missing rockets. I’d almost forgotten. That fuss was almost too much for me, on top of the strain of entertaining a large number of people.”
“You must have been tempted to stay in the warm house when everyone went outside.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that.” Her smile was sudden, charming. “But I confess I made up my mind not to mingle with the throng, making polite conversation. Everyone would presume I was talking to someone else.”
“You were at leisure, then, to watch the rest. Did you see Sir Harold or Mrs. Gooch or anyone else go inside?”
“No,” she answered quickly—too quickly. “I was watching the fireworks. I knew Harold would ask me about them later. You must understand that he spent months planning the show. He was very secretive, like a child with a new toy he doesn’t want to share. That’s why the display had to be constructed at the last minute, so that no one could guess the details. And afterwards, he always wanted everyone to say how wonderful it was. It combined his two passions: family tradition and gunpowder explosions.”
The vigour of her words was belied by a fading tone, like a gramophone in need of winding. Alec sipped his tea, letting the ensuing pause lengthen.