by Dunn, Carola
Daisy next saw Alec when she went to their room to change for dinner. Plumping down on the bed she said, “You think there’s something fishy about it, don’t you?”
“About what? Thank heaven Geraldine’s said no starched shirts and stiff collars.”
“Don’t change the subject. About Vincent’s ‘accident.’ You don’t think it was an accident.”
“Rubbish.”
“Then why did you march off to view the scene of the crime?”
“Nonsense. We didn’t find it. There are fallen branches all over the place. Not that I believe for a moment that there was any crime.”
“Then why did you interrogate Vincent?”
“Interrogate? I didn’t. Dammit, I’m a DCI, can I help it if my manner suggests…” He was silent for a moment, then said in a voice intended to quell his own doubts, “It’s nonsense. It’s your speculations making me imagine things. A branch fell. Vincent dodged it and tripped. That’s the end of the matter.”
Daisy wasn’t convinced. She didn’t believe Alec was either.
FIFTEEN
Belinda and the boys, offered a choice of joining the adults for dinner or supping á trois in the breakfast room, had unanimously chosen the latter. Daisy still felt responsible for Martha though. She was shy with everyone else, and they tended to ignore her. So, on their way down to dinner, Daisy and Alec collected her.
She was looking very pretty in a lilac crêpe frock, and very pregnant in spite of the slimming effect of diagonal trimming—the latest thing, according to Madge. A mother-of-pearl necklace and earrings were her only ornaments. She had refused to buy even the simplest of jewelry, though Tommy had agreed that charging the estate for dress expenses was permissible, as long as they were modest.
Sammy wouldn’t like it. They had always paid their own way.
They had just settled in the drawing room, and Edgar was asking what they would like to drink, when Lowecroft came in. He came over to Alec and leant down to say in a hushed voice, “A trunk call, sir. From London. Will you take it in his lordship’s study?”
“Alec, they can’t—!”
“I hope it’s just some information I’ve been waiting for.” He stood up. “Yes, the study, please, Lowecroft.”
“I shall switch the instrument through immediately, sir.”
Alec excused himself and went out, leaving Daisy fuming. Though she had said, “They can’t,” she knew very well that “they” could call him back to the Yard if they were shorthanded. It was all very well hoping the call was to provide information he expected, but she had had too many holidays interrupted by the call of duty to have much faith.
“What’s wrong?” Martha was dismayed.
“Oh, sorry, was I scowling? Nothing, probably.” An idea had struck Daisy: The only information she was aware of that Alec might expect was news from his American acquaintances about Martha’s Sam.
Which might be good news or might—from what she knew of rumrunners—be very bad indeed.
She was glad of the distraction when Frank Crowley brought her Dubonnet and Martha’s gin and lime with water instead of gin. Deserting Raymond, next to whom he had been seated, he sat down beside Martha and started chatting with her about their respective Caribbean island homes.
Laurette came in, followed by Vincent, limping along supported by Ernest. Alec returned a moment later.
Daisy raised her eyebrows at him. Flashing a glance towards Martha, he shook his head. He went over to get the whisky Edgar had poured him, then joined Raymond, leaving Daisy to wonder what he meant. Official business he couldn’t tell her about till they were alone? Or bad news he didn’t want to break to Martha in public?
She didn’t find out till bedtime. “Well?” she asked, as Alec closed the door.
“He still hasn’t made up his mind.”
“Samuel? About what? How do you—?”
“Not Samuel, Raymond. I must say I’m impressed by Geraldine and Edgar’s ability to dodge his questions. He’s remarkably persistent. Though why he thinks I know—”
“Darling, you know that’s not what I meant. The phone call—What was that about? News of Martha’s Sam? You said you’d ask someone in America to make enquiries.”
“I said I’d consider doing so. But yes, I did, and I asked Mackinnon to keep an eye out for a response, whether cable or letter, while we’re away. Strictly unofficially. The Yard has no conceivable official interest.”
“It arrived today? Sunday—it must have been a cable.”
“A long one. But there’s a limit to how much one can cram into a cable, and,” he added ruefully, “a limit to how well I can interpret American telegramese.”
“News of Sam, though.”
“Sort of. Possibly. I can’t be sure.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because when rumrunners are caught they don’t give their real names if they can possibly help it.”
“He was caught? Oh no!”
“Let me tell you the story as I understand it. A black ship, the Sunny Susie, was taken off Florida after an exchange of shots. She was escorted into Key West. On arrival, the crew reported that the captain had been wounded and fallen overboard, whereupon the mate, a Jamaican known as Samson Dalloway—”
“Who must be Sam Dalrymple!”
“People who use false names do frequently choose the same initials.”
“The same nickname, too. And Martha was told he shipped on the Saucy Sally.”
“Easy to change one to t’other with a spot of paint.”
“Oh, Alec, I’m sure it was him. I bet he jumped overboard to try to save the captain. Did you know he got a medal after the war for saving several lives when his ship was torpedoed? He can’t have drowned now, in peacetime!” She studied his expression. “No, you’d be looking grim.”
“The crew claimed they both drowned. The captain being a local man and Key West being on the whole anti-Prohibition, there was talk of lynching the coast guard who ordered the shots fired. At least, that’s what I think my informant’s cryptic abbreviations are saying. The ship was confiscated, but most of the cargo had already been sold. Yet they found no money.”
“Sam and the captain must have taken it with them. What happened to them?”
“The captain was found a couple of weeks later, at home with his wife. He had plenty of witnesses to swear he’d never been away.”
“And Sam?”
“Nothing certain. Rumours that a stranger had been staying at the captain’s house. That’s all.”
“Blast, what are we going to tell Martha?”
“That’s up to you. I’ve done my part.”
“Very much above and beyond the call of duty. Thank you, darling.”
Some time passed before she was able to consider the question, being otherwise happily engaged, but once Alec had fallen asleep it nagged at her. On the one hand, she didn’t have any real news of Sam, even if Samson Dalloway was indeed Samuel Dalrymple. On the other, if Martha found out some day that she had not passed on even such vague information, she might be very upset. She still hadn’t decided when she, too, fell asleep.
* * *
The morning was misty with a promise of warmth by afternoon, perfect for the fête, as forecast last night on the wireless. By the time Daisy went downstairs, the children had all dashed off to see what was going on at the site, taking rolls and hard-boiled eggs to sustain them.
After breakfast, Edgar considered it his duty as lord of the manor to see that all was well with the preparations. Alec decided to go with him, to stretch his legs and to make sure the children weren’t getting in the way. Daisy and Martha went up to the nursery to play with Oliver and Miranda. Daisy wasn’t looking forward to informing Nurse Gilpin that she intended to take the twins to the fête.
Mrs. Gilpin, as expected, was not pleased. “There’ll be all sorts there,” she objected. “Nasty ragamuffins from the village, full of germs, and dirty farm workers, maybe even a wise woman who’l
l put a spell on my babies.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Daisy said sharply. “I won’t have you putting such silly ideas into their heads.”
“And poachers and tinkers, like as not,” the nurse muttered, sulking.
“You needn’t worry about them. Mr. Fletcher and I, and Miss Belinda, will take care of them so that you can enjoy the fête.”
“I wouldn’t set foot near the place, madam, and that’s the truth.”
“Manda go?” Miranda asked anxiously. “Manda an’ O’ver?”
“O-li-ver,” Daisy corrected her.
“Oyiver.”
“Me!” said Oliver, looking up briefly from his blocks.
“An’ Auntie Marfa, an’ Ben?”
“All of us, pet.”
“An’ Nana, an’ Nurse?”
“Nurse can go if she wants to see the fun.”
“No thank you, madam.”
“As you wish. I think Nana had better stay here. There will be lots of people and she might get stepped on.”
“Fun,” Oliver said firmly, picking out the only word that mattered.
“Not if it’s still foggy,” said Mrs. Gilpin, equally firmly.
Daisy didn’t argue, but nor did she intend to keep the children indoors if the mist didn’t clear. It was nothing like a coal-smoky London fog, and neither of the twins had a weak chest, thank goodness.
By lunchtime the sun was breaking through. Lunch was served early, a cold buffet, to allow all the servants a chance to attend the fête. Most of them were local, so their friends and relatives would be there, as Geraldine explained to her guests in apologising for the informal meal.
“It’s just simple country merrymaking,” she added, “but I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves.”
“I’ll enjoy it, for sure,” said Frank Crowley. “I’ve already met half the population of the district at the Beetle.” He laughed. “The male half.”
“I think I’ll give it a miss,” Raymond said.
“Not my cup of tea,” said Vincent, stroking his moustache. Laurette nodded.
Edgar leant forward and addressed them earnestly. “It’s up to you, of course. But if one of you ends up as proprietor of Fairacres, people won’t forget that you didn’t participate. It’s an event of some importance for the villagers, raising funds to rebuild the village hall. I hope you’ll reconsider. Geraldine will be opening the festivities at two o’clock.”
“Oh, in that case … Of course we will be there, n’est pas, Vincent? I must not miss the chance to learn how one addresses a crowd of peasants.”
“If everyone else is going,” Raymond conceded ungraciously, “I might as well.” In a more conciliatory tone, he added, “I look forward to hearing you speak in public, Lady Dalrymple.”
“It’s nothing much, no more than a welcome and encouragement to spend freely for a good cause.”
Daisy knew the “nothing much” had caused a huge hullabaloo the summer after her father’s death. The village committee had invited Geraldine to open the fête, both because the dowager was assumed to be in mourning and because, after all, Geraldine was now viscountess. Daisy’s mother was furious, considering herself slighted. Geraldine willingly abdicated the task.
However, the widow then took offence at being introduced as “the Dowager Lady Dalrymple.” Henceforth, Geraldine opened the fête. After Geraldine’s speech was safely over and she had finished her obligatory tour of the flower and vegetable exhibits, Daisy’s mother would put in a brief appearance.
As star of the show, Geraldine was expected to arrive in state in the Vauxhall, driven by Truscott.
She took Martha with her. The rest walked down the half mile of drive, Raymond stalking ahead, Vincent and Laurette lagging behind, Alec in between in charge of the twin’s double pushchair. Frank walked with him. The twins hadn’t seen much of him, but took to him at once. Miranda chatted away, with Oliver interpolating his occasional monosyllable.
Daisy was right behind them with the older children. They had lunched with the adults but sat together, quietly minding their manners, so she hadn’t talked to Belinda since their return to the house after the morning’s exploratory expedition.
All three were excited about the fête. They had helped unpack china in the tea tent, filled vases for the flowers as villagers brought in their prime dahlias and gladioli, and best of all, fed the donkeys.
“They’ll be giving rides,” said Belinda. “But we’re too old for that.”
“And having races later,” Ben added.
“We’re going to race each other,” Derek said.
“If that’s all right, Mummy.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Daddy gave us each half a crown.”
“And so did Uncle Edgar, even when we told him Uncle Alec already had.”
“And I expect my father will, too,” Derek said hopefully. “So we can do everything. Coconut shies, fortune-teller, test your strength, shove-ha’penny, archery—”
“Egg-and-spoon race.”
“Three-legged race. It’s almost like Carnival at home, only different.”
“Ben told us about Carnival in Port-of-Spain, Mummy. They all dress up in fancy costumes and play music in the streets and dance.”
“Dance!” Derek was scornful. “I’d rather race a donkey. Father’s going to buy me a proper horse next birthday. I’m too big for my pony.”
“You’ll squash the poor little donkey,” said Belinda, and they all went off into gales of laughter.
As they quieted, Daisy overheard a censorious mutter from Laurette, behind her. She wondered whether the French in general disapproved of children having fun, or was it just Laurette? She hoped Laurette’s own children, on holiday with their governess, were enjoying themselves more than if their mama had gone with them.
They reached the gate and paid their sixpence apiece admission. Daisy knew most of the villagers—the population hadn’t changed much—so she was quickly surrounded by old acquaintances eager to admire the twins. Oliver and Miranda revelled in the attention, but inevitably they wanted to get out of the pushchair. Miranda ended up riding on Alec’s shoulders, and Frank obligingly hoisted Oliver to his. Along with the slow drift of the crowd, they made for the makeshift dais where Geraldine was to make her introductory speech.
Geraldine kept her remarks admirably brief. The vicar whisked her away to admire the winners of the various displays; during the lunch hour his wife had whipped round affixing blue rosettes to the longest runner beans, the biggest vegetable marrow, the most perfect rose, the greatest variety of wildflowers stuffed into a jam jar by some enterprising schoolchild.
Daisy found Martha and went with her to have her fortune told. As the fortune-teller was the district nurse, nicely got up in a black-and-red robe of shiny artificial silk, the fortune was vague but optimistic. Martha was happy to be told that someone dear to her would soon appear.
Coming out of the tent, she said, “She must mean Sam, don’t you think?”
Or the baby, Daisy thought, murmuring a sound that could be taken for agreement.
“Does she really know?”
“Darling, I haven’t the foggiest. I’ve heard her mother was a wise woman.”
“Wise woman?”
“A sort of village witch, regarded by many people as having uncanny powers, and often very knowledgeable about herbal medicines.” That might be why she had gone into nursing.
“Oh, a Myal-woman.”
Whatever a Myal-woman was, Martha was content with her acceptance of the perceived similarity, so Daisy didn’t upset the applecart by asking for an explanation.
They went to look at some of the stalls. One was selling knitted baby clothes: caps, jackets, leggings, mittens, and socks.
“Oh, Daisy,” Martha cried, “I haven’t started sewing for the baby! Do you think Mr. Pearson would let me buy some material?”
“Of course, or whatever clothes it’ll need.”
“I’d rather make t
hem. But I don’t know how to make things like these, for cold weather.”
“It’s happy I’d be to teach you, madam.” The woman minding the stall, almost as pregnant as Martha, was the Welsh wife of a village shopkeeper. Her knitting needles clicked away busily as she spoke. “This very minute, if you like. I’ve spare needles and wool in my bag and a spare chair right here beside me.”
Martha looked at Daisy. “Would that be all right? Would anyone mind?”
“It sounds like an excellent idea. I’ll come back in a bit and see if you want to have a look at anything else, or go straight to have a cup of tea.”
Daisy went in search of her children. Miranda and Oliver were sitting on Alec’s and Frank’s laps, mouths agape at a Punch and Judy show. They didn’t even notice their mother’s arrival. Frank said he was quite happy to continue to help Alec with them, and Alec said if they got fretful, he’d take them back to Mrs. Gilpin. So Daisy went to find Belinda and the boys.
She came across Raymond. He was staring gloomily at a white elephant stall as though trying to decide whether there was anything among the bits and pieces he could conceivably bring himself to buy.
“Hunting for bargains, Raymond?”
He gave her a look that spoke volumes. Taking out his gleaming gold cigarette case with the diamond initials, he opened it and started to offer it to her. “Oh, you don’t, do you?” He lit one for himself and slid the case back into his breast pocket. Then he pointed at the display and said, “I’ll take that. Please.”
“Er, which was that, sir?”
“It really doesn’t matter.”
A joyful light came into the eyes of the stall minder. “Right you are.” Quickly, before he could change his mind, she picked up a pewter hand mirror, tarnished and dented, with blurry glass, optimistically marked at ten shillings. Among china dogs with chipped ears for fourpence, raffia napkin rings at a penny apiece, and a three-volume set of Victorian sermons (rejected by the book stall) for one-and-six, it was quite the most expensive item. “D’you want it wrapped, sir?”
Declining the sheet of newspaper she offered, he handed over a ten-shilling note and unenthusiastically took possession of the looking glass. He waited while Daisy spent half a crown on a travelling chess set with one bishop missing.
