Gunpowder Plot
Page 24
“Don’t say the boy implicated his mother!” the Lord Lieutenant burst out.
“Great Scott no, sir! Far from it. I’m afraid I can’t let you see the report, but—”
“Why not, dash it?” Dryden-Jones muttered, but in a subdued tone. “My county, after all.”
“I’ll have to send it to your chief constable. If he chooses to show it to you . . .”
“No, no. But what about my coroner? King’s Coroner, don’t you know, and I’m His Majesty’s representative in the county. The inquest is already scheduled for tomorrow.”
“Daisy?” said Alec, and sat back with his arms crossed.
She shot him an indignant look. She had hoped he would explain her proposal and persuade the Chief Constable and Lord Lieutenant to go along with it. But it was unorthodox, and he was an officer of the law, and no doubt the less he had to do with it, the better.
“The . . .the person responsible for the tragedy is dead.” She simply could not bring herself to call Lady Tyndall a murderess. “The Tyndalls are in for a horrible time, whatever happens next.”
“Murder is frowned upon in the best families,” Dryden-Jones commented, apparently without facetious intent.
“So is suicide,” Daisy pointed out. “But rescuing one’s grandchildren from a burning building and dying in the process . . .Well, I simply can’t see why the world has to know she killed herself after shooting the others. She really was extraordinarily brave. A gun is a much quicker way to die than fire. I was terrified. And quite apart from having the nerve, I don’t know how she had the strength to do it.”
“It’s not uncommon,” said Alec, “for people in similar situations to tap reserves they can’t normally draw on.”
“So, if people think Sir Harold shot Mrs. Gooch and then himself, her heroism may counteract the scandal to some extent.”
Dryden-Jones nodded. “See what you mean, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“It’s a point,” Sir Nigel agreed, then asked gruffly, “Does young Tyndall intend to make a clean breast of the matter of his birth? To the Heralds’ College, that is.”
“Yes, he has no interest in trying to keep a title that isn’t legitimately his, though Mr. Gooch wouldn’t dream of making public his wife’s youthful peccadillo. Jack will try to keep her name out of it.”
“There will be scandal there, too, all the same. Well, what do you think, Dryden-Jones? It’s a shocking thing to mislead an official of the Crown, but the way Mrs. Fletcher would have us put the case would somewhat mitigate the Tyndalls’ situation without going too far astray.”
“Yes, yes, that’s all very well, and I’m sure we all want to avoid as much scandal as possible. The newspapers seem to get worse every year. But you really can’t expect me to go and pitch a tale to the Coroner!”
“Your county, my dear fellow,” said Sir Nigel maliciously.
The Lord Lieutenant’s face purpled, and Alec hastily intervened.
“There’s no question of that, sir. In homicide cases where the Met has been called in by a county force and completes the investigation before the inquest, it is quite in order for us to leave the local force to deal with the Coroner. I shall report to Mr. Herriott—”
“Herriott? Herriott? The Gloucestershire CC? Could have sworn the man’s name was Hazlitt.”
“To the Chief Constable,” Alec amended patiently, “that the murder weapon was found close to Sir Harold’s right hand, as indeed it was. He’s unlikely to demand a detailed report, as he’s already requested my help with another case. He won’t want me and my men wasting time writing up a case that’s already solved. He or one of his chaps will relay the information to the Coroner. I’d be very surprised if the jury didn’t bring a verdict of murder-suicide by the late baronet.”
“Bit hard on the poor chap,” Dryden-Jones protested.
Sir Nigel disagreed. “Since the whole disaster was brought about by his actions, I shan’t weep for him.”
“As for Lady Tyndall’s death,” Alec continued, “that will be a separate inquest. In view of my wife’s . . . er . . . condition, I trust the Coroner will be satisfied with her written testimony.”
“Which will state, with perfect truth, that I witnessed Lady Tyndall rescue her grandsons from a burning building but unfortunately she didn’t survive her injuries. PC Blount and the gardener won’t contradict that.”
“By Jove, Mrs. Fletcher, you’ve got it all worked out!” said Sir Nigel with ironic admiration. “Tell me, Chief Inspector: I suppose there are a few cases when you have to do without your wife’s assistance. How on earth do you manage?”
Piper snickered. Tom’s moustache twitched and his eyes twinkled.
Alec grinned. “Less interestingly, sir,” he said.
“Gwen, you will keep in touch, won’t you?” said Daisy as they drove through dank drizzle to the station.
“If you’re sure you want to associate with such a disreputable family.” Gwen’s smile was feeble. Her nose and eyes were red. Her mother, however guilty, was truly mourned, as her father was not.
“Don’t be an ass. I want to hear how things work out for all of you, even your nephews. Horrors that they are, I’m glad they weren’t seriously hurt.”
“Yes, superficial burns and smoke inhalation. They deserve every pang. And Dr. Prentice is pretty sure Mr. Gooch will recover fully. We have much to be thankful for. Not least that you were there. Daisy, I don’t know how we’d have coped without you. And Alec, too, instead of some beastly flat-footed bobby with no manners and no sensitivity.”
“Speaking of sensitivity, are you quite sure you’re all willing for my article to be published?”
“Oh yes, Jack and Babs don’t mind. You did say you won’t put in anything about . . . what’s been happening.”
“Of course not. It’s not that sort of magazine. My editor would have forty fits. But it is possible you’ll get the odd American tourist turning up to see the show.”
“That’s a whole year away. We’ll worry about it then. We haven’t even begun to think about whether we’ll continue to put on a Bonfire Night celebration.”
“It would be a pity to stop, after four hundred years.”
“At present,” said Gwen wryly, “my respect for the demands of tradition is not high.”
“Great Scott, another dozen Christmas cards!” said Alec, regarding the pile of envelopes beside Daisy’s plate as he sat down to his eggs and bacon.
“Between the two of us, we know a lot of people. Better cards than letters which have to be answered. Oh dear, here’s one from Sir Nigel Wookleigh. I didn’t send him one.”
“Still time. Are you really feeling up to meeting the school train at Liverpool Street, love?”
“Gosh yes. I wouldn’t fail Belinda for anything. It’ll be lovely to have her at home over Christmas. I’ve really missed her.”
“Yes, sometimes I wish she hadn’t chosen to go to boarding school. You’re to take a taxi both ways, no nonsense about hopping on a bus. Do you have enough money?”
“I think so,” Daisy said absently, opening another envelope. “Oh, darling, here’s a letter from Gwen. Gwen Miller! She’s married him.”
“The aeronautical engineer?”
“Yes. Let’s see. She’s written pages.” Skimming through the letter, she relayed the salient bits to Alec as he ate. “A quiet registry office wedding. Jack’s joined Miller’s firm and they’re all sharing a house in Coventry, but they usually go to Edge Manor at the weekends and will spend Christmas there. Lucky it’s so near. Babs is running the place and . . .Poor Babs, Addie and her boys have moved in!”
“Miss Tyndall will cope, I feel sure.”
“Reggie and Adrian will be going away to a proper prep school in January, one with a reputation for firm discipline. And Mr. Gooch has sailed for home, in a wheelchair, but he’s expected to be on his feet by the time he gets to Perth.” She sighed. “Poor Mr. Gooch, he really got the worst of it, and through no fault of his own.”
“That’s the way it generally is with murder. The innocent suffer most. If people thought about that first, maybe there would be fewer murders committed.”
“And you’d be out of a job, darling.”
“Or work shorter hours.” He finished his coffee, stood up, pushed in his chair, and came round the table to kiss her. “Give Bel my love, and I promise to do my very best to get home on time.”
“That’ll be the day,” said Daisy.