Gunpowder Plot

by Carola Dunn

  Experience suggested she had worked out in advance exactly what to say. She was protecting someone, and she had no conceivable reason to protect Gooch, or Miller. She had seen one of her family, one of her children, enter the house.

  In silence, Alec considered the four. Adelaide: No hint of a motive had come to light. Barbara: The greed for land was a powerful force, but would she have killed for the chance not to own but to manage the estate for her brother? Gwen: Call it love, lust, or simply a biological urge to reproduce, it was a drive as powerful as greed, and Sir Harold had tried to thwart her last chance in a world where women her age vastly outnumbered the surviving men; she might kill her father, but the woman she’d first met just the previous day?

  There remained Jack, with his overwhelming reasons for wanting both the baronet and Mrs. Gooch out of his way. Whichever way one looked at it, Jack Tyndall was in the centre of the picture. His motive was still greater if he really was the woman’s son, but if such was the case, why would Lady Tyndall deny it? Why should she lie to the police to protect the young man her husband had forced her to pass off as her own?

  “May I pour you another cup?” Few could resist filling a silence that stretched so long and Lady Tyndall eventually succumbed, though not with the helpful gush of words Alec had hoped for.

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’m afraid it’s steeped rather too long.” After emptying the dregs from his cup into the matching slop basin, she poured simultaneous streams of tea and hot water through the silver strainer. Her hands were as steady as if she were entertaining a close friend, not a police detective in a murder enquiry. But now that the sunset glow was fading, her face showed the strain—parchment-pale, with a pinched look about the mouth.

  “It’s getting dark. Shall I turn on a light?” Alec suggested. He wanted to be able to see her expression, so, not waiting for her response, he reached up to switch on the standard lamp behind his chair.

  It had scarcely clicked on when her personal maid came in, her status made plain by the lack of cap and apron. She ignored Alec. “Now, my lady, you’ll be getting chilled there by the window. Come over to the fire, do. I’ll poke it up nice and draw the curtains and move the tray for you. Why, you haven’t eaten a thing. You must keep your strength up, my lady, indeed you must.”

  Bustling about, she suited action to words and resettled Lady Tyndall by the fireplace with a shawl over her knees and a plate with a slice of cherry cake before her.

  “Thank you, Mendicott, but I’m not hungry, I’m afraid.”

  Rejoining her, Alec made up his mind: Tomorrow, if not this evening, he was going to start questioning people at Constable Blount’s station house in the village to avoid the constant interruptions at Edge Manor.

  As soon as the maid closed the door behind her, he said, “I understand Mr. Tyndall was born abroad.”

  The morsel of cake she was listlessly breaking from the slice crumbled. “Oh, how clumsy of me.” She pushed the plate away and wiped her fingers on her napkin with a nervous motion. “Yes, Jack was born in Switzerland. Bearing children didn’t agree with me, you see. I was quite ill when Gwen was born. So when we were expecting another, it was thought advisable that I should try a different climate and complete rest. Harold was . . . was very good. He stayed with me most of the time, though he’d rather have been at home. We brought Jack home when he was six weeks old. His birth was registered here, of course. There’s no question of his not being British.”

  As before, she ran out of steam, or, more likely, out of the speech she had prepared. Alec told himself it didn’t necessarily mean she was attempting to mislead him. An elderly lady of her class, unused to dealing with the police, might well think it a good idea to arrange her thoughts beforehand, especially after breaking down the previous evening. The stiff-upper-lip ethos tended to be even stronger among the “county” families than the aristocracy.

  Though, in Alec’s opinion, anyone might be forgiven for hysterics when informed her husband had shot and killed a woman, a virtual stranger, and himself.

  The second blow, the claim that her son was not her own, she was taking with more outward calm, whether because it was not true or because she had been half-expecting it for twenty-one years. With luck, Ernie Piper would discover the truth among the late doctor’s papers. Alec saw no point in putting the question to Lady Tyndall again at present.

  Again the silence lengthened. This time, it was shattered by a knock on the door, followed by the irruption into the sitting room of Mrs. Yarborough.

  “Mother! I’ve brought your grandsons to comfort you.”

  Lady Tyndall closed her eyes and appeared to utter a silent prayer. Alec regarded with interest the two boys who had almost certainly committed an assault on a motorist, causing grievous bodily harm, which would certainly have landed them in prison had they been older.

  Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. They were scrubbed to a glow, hair slicked down, ties neatly knotted, shirts tucked into their shorts, jacket pockets flat instead of bulging with the bits and bobs boys customarily collect. Even their socks were pulled up to the knee and their shoes shone.

  “Good afternoon, Grandmama,” they chorused. “We’re very sorry about Grandpapa.” But as they spoke, they stared at Alec.

  “Mummy, is that the Scotland Yard ’tec?” the elder whispered.

  “Yes, darling. It’s rude to point, remember.” Mrs. Yarborough gave Alec a hostile look, the first notice she had taken of him since entering.

  The younger boy immediately burst into tears. “We didn’t mean to—”

  The elder kicked him on the ankle. “Shut up, Adrian!” he hissed.

  A young and nervous maid came in with a tray. “Mrs. Yarborough said to bring tea, my lady.”

  “That’s quite all right, Dilys. Mr. Fletcher, you’ve met my daughter Mrs. Yarborough, I believe. These two are my grandsons, Reginald and Adrian.”

  Prompted by a nudge from their mother, the boys muttered, “How do you do” before making for the tray, which the maid set on the table by the window.

  “I don’t want milk. I want tea with lots of sugar,” Reginald demanded, while Adrian picked the cherries out of a hunk of cake and dropped them on his brother’s plate, then stuffed the cake into his mouth.

  Alec made his excuses and departed. Tomorrow the police station, he promised himself.

  Daisy and Miller were watching the sunset when Gwen, looking slightly less worn out after her lie-down, joined them in the drawing room.

  “Tea is on its way,” she said. “I’m sorry you two have been left to your own devices.”

  “In the circs,” said Daisy, “we hardly expect to be entertained. Did you enquire after Mr. Gooch on your way down? How is he?”

  “Beginning to be restless. The nurse says it’s a hopeful sign that he’s not still lying like a log. I’m so thankful!”

  “ ‘Thankful’?” Babs enquired sardonically, coming in, breeched and booted. “What is there to be thankful for?”

  “Mr. Gooch seems to be on the mend.”

  “I suppose that’s a good thing. One less murder, and maybe the fear of death will induce him to confess to the other two. Where’s tea? I could eat a horse!”

  “Not mine.” Jack appeared in jodhpurs and riding boots. “I say, Mrs. Fletcher, do you object to a slight equine effluvium? Just say the word and I’ll go and change.”

  “Not for my sake.” Daisy was pleased, though surprised, to see him so much more composed.

  He was closely followed by a couple of maids with the tea things. Gwen poured. Jack brought Daisy her tea and a generous selection from the array of sandwiches, biscuits, and cakes.

  As he returned to get his own tea, Babs asked him where he’d been riding.

  “Over the Edge.”

  “The Edge of the World.”

  Gwen laughed. “That’s what we used to call it,” she told Miller. “Up the hill and over the Edge of the World.”

  She and Babs and
Jack started reminiscing about long-ago rides. Miller came over to Daisy, looking rather down in the mouth.

  “You see,” he said, “we’re tuned to different wavelengths.”

  “ ‘Wavelengths’?” she asked cautiously. “Isn’t that something to do with the wireless?”

  “That’s right, among other things. Sorry. I meant, half the time I have no idea what they’re talking about.”

  “But presumably Jack knows all about wavelengths, which I don’t. And I always preferred a bicycle to a horse. I liked riding ponies, when I was little, but horses are so big.”

  “I like bicycling.” Miller cheered up.

  “Well, Gwen and I used to go biking together when she came to stay at Fairacres. And you have a motor-car, and she drives. And I am absolutely determined to learn to drive,” Daisy added.

  Jack heard her. “Don’t let a relative teach you,” he advised. “I taught Gwen, and believe me, it’s a recipe for murder.” He turned bright red as a horrified silence fell. “You know what I mean! Mrs. Fletcher, would you like another cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please, and I wouldn’t say no to another macaroon. They’re so frightfully moreish.”

  He fetched her cup. While it was being refilled, a maid came in and told Miller the sergeant had rung up from the Three Ravens. Miller went off to fetch him, and Jack brought Daisy her tea. He set a plate of macaroons dangerously close. Daisy swore to herself that she’d only eat one, or at most two. One each for herself and the baby. Almonds and egg whites must be good for both of them, weren’t they?

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Jack said in a low voice, sitting down next to her, “for what I said about teaching Gwen to drive. Of all the asinine remarks!”

  “Exactly the sort of thing that does slip out at just the wrong moment,” she said lightly. “It’s bound to; that’s what’s on your mind.”

  “I’ve been doing my best not to think about it. But I did come to one conclusion while I was out: It doesn’t really matter whether Mrs. Gooch’s letter is true or not. I never had any great desire to be Sir John, and when I’m working as an engineer, no one will care a hoot. It might be better not to use the title, even if it turns out I’m entitled to it. I wouldn’t want the other fellows to think I expect to trade on it.”

  “That’s just how I feel! Except,” Daisy confessed, “I’m afraid I did rather trade on the Honourable at first, when I started writing, just to get the first commission.”

  “It’s harder for girls,” Jack said generously. “Look at the trouble Babs has had being taken seriously. No one would have thought twice if I’d taken over the estate, however little I know about farming. She’ll do a far better job than I ever could. She and Gwen will still be my sisters, whatever the truth of the matter.”

  “I should hope so!”

  “I’m not so sure about Addie. She may decide to disown me, which would be no great loss, except that I’d like to have a hand in straightening out my nephews. But Mother will always be Mother, even if she isn’t really.” He paused. “You know, if Mrs. Gooch really is . . . was my mother, I’m glad I liked her. And I’m very sorry she’s dead, but I didn’t really know her, after all. Mother is Mother.”

  “Have you told her so? I can’t help feeling she must be wondering how you feel about it all.”

  “Ye-es. Yes, I know I ought. It’s . . . Somehow it’s easier to talk to you about it than to the family.”

  “That’s often the way. But—”

  “I know, I must talk to Mother. I wonder if she’ll tell me whether it’s true or not.”

  “I shouldn’t ask, if I were you.”

  “I expect the police will find out soon enough. They’re just waiting for that to arrest me, aren’t they? No, sorry, pretend I didn’t say that. I didn’t shoot them, but even I can see I’m by far the best prospect.”

  “If you ask me, Gooch is quite as likely,” said Daisy. “Jealousy is—”

  “Daisy!” Alec came in from the front hall, looking irritable.

  “Hello, darling. Have you had tea?”

  “Do sit down,” Gwen said. “I’ll ring for some fresh.”

  “Thank you, but I’ve already had mine. Daisy, there’s a minor point or two I hope you can clear up for me. We’ll go to the billiard room.”

  “Right-oh.” Daisy hurriedly swallowed the last bite of her macaroon—oh dear, had she really eaten half a plateful?—and washed it down with the last of her tea.

  Meanwhile, she racked her brain over what she might have done to annoy him. Her conscience was clear, apart from eating more macaroons than twins or even triplets could justify. Well, fairly clear. Perhaps she should not have encouraged Jack to go and talk to Lady Tyndall about Mrs. Gooch’s letter, but Alec didn’t know about that, and anyway, it was a perfectly natural thing for Jack to do.

  22

  Daisy held her tongue until the door closed behind her and Alec. Then she asked, “Why so snippy, darling?”

  “Snippy? Was I? Sorry, it’s nothing to do with you. It’s just that every time I start interviewing anyone in this house, there’s an interruption. Mrs. Yarborough and her young criminals-in-training just arrived in Lady Tyndall’s sitting room.”

  “That’s enough to drive anyone away. Jack was just telling me he has plans to reform the boys, if you don’t arrest him. Are you about to?”

  “Not without some proof, or a confession, but it doesn’t look good for him, even before I know the truth about his parentage.”

  “I can’t believe it. He’s such a nice boy. What about Gooch?”

  “Gooch is still a possibility, but there’s one major flaw in any theory of him as murderer. Which relates to what I wanted to ask you. Think back to when Jack was looking for his father after the fireworks.”

  “Right-oh. Do you want me to run through it again from the beginning of the quarrel?”

  “That might be the best way. No, on second thoughts, jump to when he came back from searching in the drawing room and hall.”

  “Gosh, it’s hard to remember. Only last night, but so much has happened since.”

  “Try.”

  “Let’s see. Did Adelaide come back with him? No, I think not. He came back just as Gooch went out, and he told us he couldn’t find Sir Harold. Then Gwen said Sir Harold had been talking to someone about the antique pistols earlier, so he might be in here, showing them off. Jack went over and looked in and said no one was there.”

  “Slow down. Jack went over to the door between here and the dining room, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it open or closed?”

  Daisy shut her eyes and tried to picture the scene. “Closed. It was closed. He—or maybe someone else, but I think it was Jack—actually said something like, ‘Why would he have closed the door?’ ”

  “But Jack opened it.”

  “Yes,” she said, puzzled.

  “And?”

  “He said, ‘It’s dark,’ or something similar. ‘No light,’ that’s it. ‘No light. No one’s there.’ And Gwen said, ‘Maybe he went up to the study?’ Jack was ready to stop looking, but Gwen felt their father ought to take his share of entertaining the guests, especially as her mother was quite exhausted. He gave in and went—”

  “In the dark?”

  “No, of course not. He switched on the light.” Opening her eyes, she asked, “Is that what you wanted? I distinctly remember the click of the switch and light coming on beyond the doorway. What’s so significant about it?”

  Alec sighed. “Not much, as it was off. Had it been on, it might have explained how Gooch found the pistol. Jack would be unlikely to turn on the light, since he had a torch and knew his way about. Besides, he’d have been concerned about a stray gleam escaping through the curtains. He knew the house was supposed to be dark.”

  “But Gooch could have turned the light on and then turned it off again.”

  “Exactly. So we’re no further forward. Supposing a premeditated murder by Gooch, who probably knew
his wife intended a meeting with Sir Harold, he could have brought a weapon but decided, when he saw the Tyndalls’ guns, to use one of them.”

  “If they’d been locked up, or hadn’t been loaded, he couldn’t have done it. He’d have had to use his own and you’d know it was him.”

  “If we’re lucky, Tom may have found whatever he originally meant to use. Again, not proof but indicative.”

  “If it wasn’t premeditated,” Daisy mused, “then perhaps he followed them in, noticed the guns in passing, followed them up, and overheard something which made him come down again and get a gun.”

  “Which applies equally to Jack. We’ve been wondering whether Mrs. Gooch could have told him before the fireworks that she was his mother, but there’s no indication that he was under any degree of strain at that point.”

  “So why, in that case, would he have followed them?”

  “Good question,” Alec admitted.

  “If he saw them go in together, what would he have thought?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Probably that she had asked for the loan of a woolly scarf or hat or something like that. They had stacks available. Maybe she realized when she stepped outside that her own hat wasn’t going to keep her ears warm. Maybe—”

  “Daisy, now you’re entering the realm of pure speculation. In any case, Jack denies absolutely having seen them. But your point is valid. Offhand, I can’t think of any reason why Jack should follow them.”

  “And he had duties to attend to outside. Whereas it wouldn’t be at all surprising if Gooch, who was thoroughly uncomfortable with the whole situation, went after them.”

  “True enough. I’ll bear it in mind. What were you and Jack discussing when I so rudely interrupted?”

  “When you so rudely interrupted, he was telling me he expected you to arrest him any minute, though he hadn’t done it. He’d been expounding on his feelings about Mrs. Gooch’s letter.”

  “To you? Great Scott, Daisy—”

  “Don’t say it! I swear I didn’t invite his confidences. I think he needed to put it in words, and he said it was easier to talk to me than to his family.”