‘He could have brought it with him and put it in his pocket?’ I suggested. ‘A second salt cellar?’
‘Yes, but it’s still too risky! Why did only Mrs Rivers die? Why wasn’t anyone else taken ill? It doesn’t make sense. No, Beanie – it was a good idea, but it won’t wash in this case. Mr Dow must be ruled out.’
‘I know,’ said Beanie sadly. ‘I just thought it was quite clever.’
‘It was clever!’ said Kitty. ‘Oh, Beans, that dress is hopelessly the wrong size.’
She fiddled about with Beanie’s dress, which was indeed far too short and showed Beanie’s white school slip quite obviously, and while she did so, Daisy came over to me.
‘Do you really think he couldn’t have managed it?’ I murmured.
‘I’m sure he couldn’t,’ said Daisy. ‘Such a bother, because it really is genius. Disgusting of Beanie to have got tall and clever this year.’
‘But – is there something in the idea of passing something round?’ I said. ‘We do keep coming back to that.’
‘If anyone else had been taken ill, then perhaps. But no one was! There wasn’t anything that only Mrs Rivers ate and drank apart from what was on her plate and in her glasses,’ said Daisy, shaking her head. ‘So it seems as though the only people who could have put poison onto Mrs Rivers’ plate are Mr Thompson-Bates, Mr Stone and Mr El Maghrabi.’
I thought about the dinner scene we had witnessed, the candlelit hum of it, the comings and goings – and startled myself with the idea that popped into my head.
‘That’s not quite true,’ I said slowly, thinking it out as I spoke. ‘One other person did get up. We’ve been ignoring it because she’s not a man, but … Daisy, Mrs Dow went past Mrs Rivers. What if … what if the Dows are working together somehow? Mr Dow might have been the man Beanie saw on the hill, and Mrs Rivers the woman – but what if the poisoner was Mrs Dow? Perhaps … perhaps they’re in it together?’
‘Hazel!’ gasped Daisy. ‘You think – a conspiracy! Why, that’s quite ingenious. I was ready to rule out Mr Dow as a suspect, but both of the Dows … you’re right, they could be working together. Detectives! Listen! Hazel has had a rather genius idea. Mr Dow on his own could not have committed the crime, we’ve proven that – but the Dows together could have, for reasons that we do not yet understand.
‘And that means that we still have four suspects – or three individual suspects, and one pair – left to watch at the party this afternoon. And we need to watch them like hawks. Pay attention to everything they do and say, and do not let up for even a second, otherwise something terrible may happen.’
‘Something terrible?’ quavered Beanie. ‘But – but do you really think it will?’
‘Perhaps!’ said Daisy ominously.
‘No!’ I said. ‘What Daisy means is that if you do, you might miss out on vital clues.’
‘WE SHALL SEE,’ said Daisy. ‘Now, Lavinia, you’re on Mr Thompson-Bates. Beanie, you watch the Dows. Hazel and I shall watch Mr El Maghrabi. And Kitty – well, you can take Mr Stone.’
Matron stuck her head round the door.
‘Girls!’ she cried. ‘Hurry! You have to be down at school in five minutes, and Miss Barnard has asked me to remind you to look presentable, like ladies, not like little ruffians – brushed hair, clean faces and no slips or petticoats on display, do you hear?’
‘Yes, Matron,’ we chorused – and the meeting dissolved into ruffles and ribbons and bows.
I felt rather nervous, though this time it was not about detecting. At the party I knew we would be hemmed in by English niceties. Daisy is good at Deportment, and polite etiquette, but it never comes naturally to me. I might have learned how to act at the Rue, but sometimes it only makes me more nervously aware of playing a part.
5
The sun was hot on my face – or perhaps I was only blushing. My good Sunday dress, the one I had not unpacked from my trunk until this week, was pinching under the arms, the pink fabric pulled tight. Rather a lot of my legs seemed on show and, try as I might, my petticoat would pop out. Perhaps, after all, I have been growing.
Daisy, of course, looked like an advertisement for a chocolate company, in a white frock with buttons and ruffles, her hair smoothed into plaits. Lavinia was sulky in white with green trim, Kitty fresh and pretty in blue-sprigged cotton, but Beanie looked almost as awkward as I did. She had been too tall for her dress by quite a few inches, so we’d had to put her in one of Kitty’s second-choice frocks. It was all right in the leg but all wrong in the chest, for Kitty has bosoms, while Beanie still absolutely does not.
‘You look like a stick insect in a ballgown,’ said Kitty. ‘Poor Beanpole!’
‘I think she looks pretty,’ I said stubbornly, and Beanie looked at me with huge wet eyes, like a kitten in a rainstorm. I knew she was dreading the garden party as much as I was. It is painfully difficult to focus on being a detective when you feel an idiot, and it is no good people who always look well in clothes telling you that the outside of yourself does not matter. When you are dressed wrong, it is all you can think about. You can almost smell the way people are looking at you, and you are too busy shrivelling up inside to be able to think cleverly.
‘Never mind clothes!’ said Daisy, proving my point. ‘We must detect. You must all think of yourselves as sets of eyes and ears, nothing more. Do not be noticeable, do not be obvious. I know this is difficult for some of you – Lavinia, I am looking at you for a reason – but in your quest to discover the truth of this case you must be subtle.
‘Remember that we have two hours to uncover more about the motives of our remaining suspects, and to narrow them down. After this party, we have only two more events, the play and Leaving Prayers, to solve this case. And we must. Not only must we save Nancy and Beryl from suspicion, but now you know the terrible truth: Deepdean itself is at stake! We are under more pressure than ever before, but I am quite convinced that our intellects are equal to this challenge. Detectives – ready?’
‘Ready!’ we all chorused.
‘Detective Society handshake,’ said Daisy, ‘which is difficult with five of us, I know, but we can at least try.’
We did a very messy, confused handshake, and then looked around at each other seriously.
‘Oh, come on, why are we all hanging about?’ asked Daisy. ‘Let’s go and solve a murder!’
6
Through Old Wing entrance we went, part of a crowd of brightly coloured and beautifully ribboned girls. We hushed as we walked through the solemn black-and-white-tiled quiet of Library corridor, for this afternoon Deepdean rules were being strictly enforced.
We trotted along, caught up in the stream – and then we turned left, out of the wide doors onto the lawns.
Daisy and I had not seen it this morning, but a huge white tent had been set up in the very middle of the garden, and it floated like sails above the green of the grass. Its sides were open, and in the cool space inside I could see smooth white tables laid out with beautiful tiny sandwiches and creamy cakes, and rows of sparkling glasses, all attended to by a neat row of black-and-white-clad maids. Nancy and Beryl were missing, of course – and seeing that made me suddenly feel quite ill. We ought to have been able to protect them, I felt, even though I knew that there was little we could do other than catch the real murderer. We ought to be able to protect them, and Deepdean itself. We were failing our school.
I felt that even more as I looked about. Before the tables moved handsomely dressed adults in suits and floral dresses. Wide-brimmed hats bobbed as their owners turned to each other – but they did not seem easy and cheerful, as people at a garden party should. They were tense, afraid – and the crowd was thinner than it ought to have been. There were faces missing, and those who were there were huddled up together like deer afraid of a tiger.
‘There’s Mum and Dad,’ said Kitty. ‘Why are they looking so odd this weekend?’
‘Your mother is so pretty,’ said Beanie. ‘All plump and happy!’
I was no
t sure Mrs Freebody did look happy. Although there was a smile plastered on her face, her cheeks were tensed behind it, and she was clinging to Mr Freebody’s arm as he held a glass of fizz. I thought again about what Daisy and I had overheard in Deepdean Park and felt worry settling over me.
‘Kitty, DARLING!’ cried Mrs Freebody – and I thought her voice a little shrill. ‘How are you? Are you enjoying the party?’
‘I’m all right, Mum. Don’t fuss,’ said Kitty.
‘Where is Binny?’ asked Mr Freebody. ‘Ah, there she is. Kitty, why don’t you come with us? Have a little family time!’
Kitty rolled her eyes as she allowed herself to be led away.
Daisy, Beanie, Lavinia and I were left alone.
‘Lavinia, Beanie, there’s the Thompson-Bateses and the Dows,’ said Daisy, pointing to where Mr Thompson-Bates and Mr Dow were in loud conversation. Mrs Dow and Mrs Thompson-Bates were standing watching them, Mrs Dow glancing at Mrs Thompson-Bates fearfully out of the corner of her eye, while Mrs Thompson-Bates, in a gorgeous, sleek, high-necked dress and gloves, pointedly ignored her.
‘Remember old Manning, the science master?’ Mr Dow was saying.
‘I remember I set his coat-tails on fire with a Bunsen burner,’ said Mr Thompson-Bates, laughing. ‘And you debagged him as he was in the middle of a lesson. Come to think of it, wasn’t that the same term we bet you couldn’t eat the entire rugby team’s tea?’
‘And I did!’ cried Mr Dow, bellowing with laughter. ‘I could have done it twice over. School food – that’s one thing that hasn’t changed. There’s simply nothing to beat school stodge. Sukie will keep on trying to feed me dishes with spices in them. I can’t abide it!’
Mrs Dow winced.
‘Really?’ Mrs Thompson-Bates asked her. ‘You cook? Good grief! Whatever’s the point when you can pay someone else to do it?’
‘Oh, do I have to listen in to their dull conversation?’ Lavinia groaned – and then she caught sight of someone behind us. ‘Oh heck, there’s my father and Awful P … All right, I’m off. Don’t tell them you saw me.’
I had never seen Lavinia move so quickly, but she and Beanie had barely ducked away when Mr Temple and Patricia (wearing a glossy green dress and matching wrap today) appeared next to us.
‘I thought I saw Lavinia … isn’t she with you?’ asked Patricia, her pretty face falling. ‘I still haven’t had the chance to congratulate her on that marvellous game of tennis she played yesterday. I used to be rather good at tennis, in fact, at my secretarial school – Michael was telling me I ought to take it up again, so that Lavinia and I could play together this summer! Did you know that man over there is really quite a famous player? My friend Phyllida says she met him in a nightclub last year and—’
‘Patricia!’ said Mr Temple, glaring at her. ‘Small pitchers have big ears. And I told you that you might well want to try with the tennis, but Lavinia won’t be having any of it. She hates you. Oh, don’t look now, there’s my cat of an ex-wife over by the tea tent.’
‘We must be going!’ trilled Daisy. ‘We have to be at the other end of the garden immediately!’
We scuttled away, the Temples having apparently accepted Daisy’s nonsense excuse, as people usually do if you say it in the right tone of voice.
‘Wasn’t what Patricia was beginning to say interesting?’ asked Daisy, once we were alone. ‘I wonder what she was going to tell us about Phyllida and Mr Thompson-Bates, before Mr Temple interrupted?’
‘Something grown up, from Mr Temple’s face,’ I said.
‘Agreed,’ said Daisy, nodding. ‘Something fearfully grown up, I should say. Anyway – I’m glad it’s just the two us again, if only for a little while, Watson. Managing three other detectives can be quite exhausting.’
‘But the others are being helpful!’
‘Of course they are, up to a point,’ said Daisy. ‘Don’t you see me letting them detect, Hazel? But can you blame me for preferring the company of someone who is almost as intelligent as me, who does not require me to order her about like one of my informants?’
‘I am as intelligent as you,’ I said.
Daisy waved her hand. ‘Now, Hazel, let us go looking for more information!’ she cried.
And I know that I am quite past finding her mysterious and fascinating – but, all the same, when Daisy prefers me I still get a warm glow.
7
The sun was heavy on the hats of the crowd, the white peaks of the marquee and the green-ivied walls of Deepdean itself as Daisy and I wormed our way around the garden, through the chattering mass of parents and mistresses and girls. As we went, I got little dashes of conversation.
Have you seen Pippa Daventry’s mother? That dress! SO brassy.
You won’t believe what I heard about Mr Stone. In love with a married woman – killed his own wife! You’d never think it about an Old Westonian!
No, really? That’s why the parents aren’t here, then. Poor girl – and it seemed such a good family, but you never can tell. The brother is a bit of an aesthete, you know.
Her father has something to do with the opium trade, I heard.
Keeps her on a short leash, doesn’t he? While of course he’s been dallying with half the—
She was a mouse then, and she still is. No wonder we all ragged on her! Poor little Emily, she’s got no hope …
There were hopes for her career once too – but you know what happens to girls: they fall head over heels for some chap and that’s the end of it.
He’s a sheik, or a … pasha? Is that the right word? I’m sure he is, though apparently he denies it.
She’s pretty – oh yes! But that’s hardly enough these days, is it?
She was a real heartbreaker. Had all of Weston School dangling after her, and then she goes and marries that old fogey! Had one chap convinced he should seek his fortune in Egypt to be worthy of her – and then when he got home she’d already tied the knot with someone else! Perhaps he’s the one who did it …
The school can’t hush up another murder, can it …?
I heard that he was the one who killed her last night …
Last night …
Last night …
Whispers about the fateful dinner seemed to be everywhere. I could feel the uneasiness in the air. The parents who had been on Mrs Rivers’ table were all ringed around with something invisible but electric, a charge in the looks thrown at them. They were each being watched out of the corner of a hundred eyes, and they were each the topic of ten hushed conversations.
‘Lucky for the Detective Society,’ hissed Daisy. ‘We’ll be less suspicious, now that everyone else is watching them as well.’
‘Are you all right?’ I asked her, just as quietly. I knew that she had heard the same whispered words I had, and I knew some of them – the ones about her – must have hurt. I am almost used to the lies about what my father does, but at least the events of Hong Kong had not followed me back to Deepdean the way the Trial has followed Daisy. And if people were whispering about Bertie, might those whispers be dangerous for him?
‘I am absolutely perfect, Hazel, as always,’ snapped Daisy, by which I knew that she was not. I patted her arm, and she twitched away from me.
I was thinking about what we had heard. Some of the rumours were lies – the one about Mr El Maghrabi being a sheik was of course impossible, and the one about my father was simply untrue. But – what if some were true? Could we use any of them to build cases against our suspects? For example, he was the one who killed her last night … I got chills remembering that.
We made a circuit of the garden and at last ducked into the shadow of the marquee. It was half empty, warm with the sun striking through its roof. The people still inside were panting and fanning themselves with their gloves and clutch bags, and the maids all looked distinctly pink in the face.
And there, next to the drinks table, was Mr Stone, picking up a glass of fizz in each hand – and moving towards him were the El Maghrabis.
<
br /> ‘Excellent!’ gasped Daisy. She glanced around her, and her gaze fell upon a platter of fondant fancies, their icing swooning gently earthwards in the heat. ‘What a useful meeting! Come with me, Hazel, and look uninterested!’
Daisy swept up the platter in her hands (I put a fancy in my mouth as discreetly as I could), and together we went sauntering towards Mr and Mrs El Maghrabi and Mr Stone, looking about as though the party bored us, and so did everyone at it.
‘Daddy’s taking me to St Tropez this summer,’ said Daisy, as we approached.
‘How dull,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it! Yes, utterly predictable of him.’
We were now close enough to begin to hear snippets of conversation.
‘… managed to destroy them in time,’ Mr El Maghrabi was saying. ‘They don’t know!’
‘I told you it was stupid of you to bring them,’ said Mrs El Maghrabi. ‘I told you the whole thing was stupid. I told you not to talk to her. And now look! She’s dead!’
‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Mr Stone, circling his hands so the fizz in the glasses he was holding sloshed from side to side like a wave. ‘I know you don’t like her, Omar, but she didn’t deserve it – any of this. I was going to ask – I really thought – she ought to be here, dammit!’
I looked at him as he spoke and saw that his eyes were touched with red, and his lips were trembling – and perhaps it was the fizz, or perhaps it was something else. I was still looking when Mr Stone’s eyes met mine. He broke off suddenly, and frowned at us.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘We’re supposed to be offering you these,’ said Daisy, curling her lip slightly as she held out the fancies, as though the task was utterly beneath her. ‘We were told to.’
‘We don’t want any. Do go away!’ said Mr Stone.
Miss Dodgson went hurrying by.
‘Mamzelle!’ she called. Mamzelle was standing next to the tea table, yawning, with a glass of fizz in her hand. ‘Mamzelle! I’ve just seen El Maghrabi and Delacroix going into Big Girls’ Wing, and you know it’s out of bounds this afternoon. They’re up to something! I shall go after them, but I need you to pay attention to the tent while I’m gone. All right?’
8 Top Marks for Murder Page 14