by Carola Dunn
All at once Daisy was wide awake.
‘Fleece’? Was that what Belinda had heard to remind her of sheep? Daisy looked longingly over at the other bed, but the little girl was sleeping peacefully. It would have to wait for morning.
All right, suppose it was ‘fleece.’ Suppose Albert McGowan had accused someone of fleecing or trying to fleece him. What could the other words be? Miss Anne Probation was obvious: ‘misappropriation’ – of funds. ‘Puzzlement’ must be ‘embezzlement,’ of course. ‘Orbit?’ ‘Orbit, orbit, orbit,’ Daisy muttered to herself. An ‘orbit,’ or a ‘norbit.’ No, when she suggested ‘orbit’ Belinda had agreed, had thought she recognized the word. Try substituting consonants. Orbit, orcit, ordit, orfit, orgit . . . Ordit! Or rather, ‘audit.’
Which left ‘arson.’ Had someone burned something down and cheated the insurance company? It sounded like the sort of thing Peter Gillespie might try, given his previous record. Yet if Albert McGowan knew about it, surely Harold Bretton must, too, and he’d never have kept his mouth shut.
Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps Alec knew all about it and had only pretended to be stumped. He had told her about the scratches, though.
Well, she wasn’t going back to his bedroom to have it out with him!
Apart from ‘arson,’ the rest applied to Peter Gillespie’s boot factory misdeeds, more or less. He had fleeced the public, but that was no secret to be covered up, no new cause for murder. In fact, there was no proof the row Belinda overheard had any direct bearing on the murder.
So why was Daisy racking her brains about it in the wee small hours of the morning? Anyway, she might have been misled by the coincidence of sheep and the apparently meaningful fleece. Try counting sheep again.
Sheep, lamb, ram, ewe, wool, mutton, lamb, spring; Spring, the sweet Spring is the year’s pleasant king; Sweet lovers love the spring . . . Daisy slept.
CHAPTER 16
Waking, still drowsy, Alec tried to sort reality from his dreams. Had Daisy come to him in the night? Had she set him a puzzle, like the quests in fairy tales, which he had to solve to win her? Had he solved it, and kissed her, and had she shared and warmed his cold, lonely bed?
No, only the puzzle was real, the rest sheer wishful fantasy. She had come, but she had brought Belinda with her. The puzzle was Belinda’s, and if he had found a solution in his dreams he had forgotten it.
In fact, he had forgotten the puzzle. One word remained: arson, and that only because the heat of Daisy’s hand in his had lit a fire those dreams had only partly quenched.
A cold bath, he advised himself.
Half an hour later he joined Tom and Ernie in the dining room. Tom was half-way through a large bowl of porridge.
‘“Oats,”’ quoted Alec, ‘“a grain which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.”’
‘Porridge makes a good starter to breakfast,’ Tom grunted, ‘if it’s done right. Would you believe it, Chief, the Scots eat it with nowt but a bit of salt? Lyle’s Golden Syrup, that’s what I like on it, though I’ll make do with brown sugar at a pinch. This here Demerara hasn’t got the flavour.’ Nonetheless he helped himself to another lavish teaspoonful of the golden crystals.
Piper laughed. ‘You should have heard the fuss, Chief. The waiter thought he wanted syrup ’stead of marmalade for his toast. Want a cuppa?’ He reached for the teapot.
‘No, thanks. I’ll wait for coffee.’
The waiter brought Piper’s bacon and eggs and fried bread, and took Alec’s order. ‘No, no porridge, thanks, and no fried bread.’ He was ten years older than Daisy, ten years nearer to middle-age spread. He’d better start watching what he ate. Perhaps he should take up Swedish exercises?
With an effort, he brought his mind back to business. ‘Either of you have any bright ideas overnight?’
Ernie Piper consulted Tom with a glance.
‘Go ahead, young ’un.’ The sergeant continued to plough through his syrupless porridge.
‘It’s nothing much, Chief, may have nothing to do with the murder, only it seems a bit fishy. We was thinking, Miss Kitty and Mr. Bretton both saying Alistair McGowan’s a miser, what’s he doing gambling on stocks and shares and giving away his brass to charity?’
‘That very question struck me,’ Alec said, ‘in the middle of the night. I’ve come up with three possible answers. First, as Braeburn pointed out, some people do go dotty in old age and do utterly unexpected things. Second, possibly Kitty misunderstood and Bretton exaggerated his parsimony.’ Except that Daisy said the others also described him as a miser – though he couldn’t tell Tom and Ernie so without revealing her midnight visit.
‘We can ask the others if it’s true,’ Tom pointed out, wiping his mustache after the last spoonful of porridge. ‘What’s third, Chief?’
‘That it really is fishy. Perhaps someone has been forging the old man’s name on cheques, or on instructions to his stockbroker or Braeburn.’
‘Peter Gillespie,’ said Tom. ‘Fraud’s his line.’
‘Mr. Bretton,’ said Ernie. ‘Forging signatures is kind of like gambling.’
‘Gillespie’s more likely,’ said Alec. ‘He expected to inherit and could have covered up the . . . Bonjour, madame.’
The three detectives rose as Madame Pasquier came into the dining room and approached their table. She was impeccably dressed in a smart black costume and white silk blouse with a sardonyx cameo on a gold chain, and impeccably made-up despite the early hour.
‘Bonjour, Chief Inspector, gentlemen,’ she responded with a smile. ‘May I join you? You wish to speak to me, I expect. I regret that I was overcome with fatigue yesterday evening.’
Piper gallantly sprang to hold a chair for her. ‘It’s a long journey from Paree, madam,’ he ventured.
‘It is indeed. Don’t let me interrupt your meal,’ she said as the waiter reappeared with plates of food for Tom and Alec, racks of toast, and a pot of coffee. ‘Oh dear.’ She eyed the bacon and eggs with distaste. ‘I’ve grown unused to the English notions of breakfast. I don’t suppose you have croissants, or any kind of hot rolls?’
‘Just toast, madam, besides the porridge and . . .’
‘Porridge! It must be thirty years since I ate porridge. I’ll have some, for the sake of auld lang syne. A small bowl.’
‘We haven’t got syrup, madam,’ said the waiter mistrustfully.
‘Syrup? Mon dieu, what sacrilege! Salt and milk are all that I require.’
‘Spoken like a true Scot,’ Alec said with a grin, ‘but too French to drink tea for breakfast, I dare say. May I pour you a cup of coffee?’
‘Eat, eat! And while you eat, I shall explain myself. You have heard, no doubt, that I ran away from home not long after my sister Amelia’s marriage. I had many friends in France, having been sent to a French finishing school. To my great good fortune, I soon met and married mon cher Jules. I wrote to my father on that occasion. The only response was a letter from my cousin Julia Gillespie, who had taken on the thankless task of catering to Papa’s crotchets, destined for me. Papa refused to communicate, but I continued to write to Julia every Christmas.’
‘Miss Gillespie notified you of your father’s illness, I presume,’ Alec said. ‘I wondered how you happened to turn up just at this moment.’
‘Yes, Julia wrote to announce the gathering of the clans.’ Mme. Pasquier sighed. ‘Perhaps it was foolish after so many years, but I felt a filial impulse to see Papa one last time, to tell him about his grandsons. You must not suppose we have any need of the family fortune. Jules is a wealthy homme d’affaires, even since the War and our two sons are doing well in the family business.’
‘We’re checking that, madam,’ said Tom, having apparently failed to succumb to the lady’s undoubted charm.
Alec produced the usual bromide. ‘A matter of routine.’
‘But naturally. However,’ she continued with a slightly malicious smile, ‘I believe I can set your suspicions at rest wi
thout difficulty. When the Flying Scotsman reached Berwick, I had not yet revealed myself to my family. I might easily have passed as a total stranger, but I chose to disclose my connection with poor Uncle Albert to the local police. You may ask Superintendent Halliday or that nice sergeant of his if this is not so.’
‘Fair enough. May I ask why you chose to reveal yourself to the police but not, earlier, to your family?’
Her shrug was Gallicly expressive. ‘You may ask. Whether I can answer is another matter. Perhaps at first I wanted to leave myself a chance to turn tail and run at the last minute, yet I preferred not to lie to the police. I am a respectable woman, Chief Inspector. And perhaps, though it is quite easy to ignore one’s family from a distance, I did not care to stand aside when they were so close and in trouble.’
Alec nodded. ‘Serious trouble, madame. Did you see or hear anything on the train which might conceivably help us to find your uncle’s murderer?’
‘Nothing. Being lucky enough to find a compartment to myself, I closed the door and pulled down the blinds. There I stayed except for venturing to the dining-car for lunch, where I sat with the charming Miss Dalrymple. No doubt she knows better than I whether anything transpiring there might be of interest to you.’
Her bright, enquiring eyes fixed on Alec’s face and he felt a slow heat rising in his cheeks. ‘Just one more question for the present,’ he said hastily. ‘Your father has been described as . . . er, frugal in his habits. Would you agree?’
‘Frugal?’ Her laugh pealed out. ‘Papa is, and always was, a niggardly skinflint, if he paid for his daughters to attend a finishing school, it was only in order to get us off his hands the sooner. Not until Amelia married and went away did he realize that if I found a husband he’d lose his unpaid housekeeper.’
‘So you took French leave.’
‘Precisely. I’m not at all sorry I ran away, only that poor Julia has borne the brunt of my defection. Jules agrees that I shall ask her to come and live with us in Paris when Papa goes. She is owed a little gaiety, hein? Ah, here is my porridge.’ She stared at the greyish brown mush with distaste. ‘Quelle horreur! I believe I shall stick to toast and coffee, after all. Please, Chief Inspector, don’t let me keep you from your business.’
Alec and Tom had availed themselves of her permission to eat while she talked. They made their excuses, thanked her for her cooperation, and repaired to the landlord’s parlour. Alec took out his pipe and tobacco, while Piper lit up a Woodbine.
Tom, who preferred a rare good cigar to any more frequent but lesser indulgence, said broodingly, ‘More Frog than Scot, if you ask me, Chief. All right if I go and ring up Sergeant Barclay?’
‘Go ahead, and while you’re at it, ask whether there’s any further news from Dr. Renfrew. If we’ve guessed right, those scratches may be all we need.’ He struck a match as Tom padded out.
Alec was huffing and puffing at his pipe when Daisy knocked on the door and entered the parlour, Belinda at her heels.
‘Good . . .’ puff ‘. . . morning,’ he said around the stem clenched between his teeth.
‘Good-morning, Daddy. Good-morning, Mr. Piper. It’s no good trying to talk to Daddy when he’s lighting his pipe, Miss Dalrymple. Let’s go and have breakfast first. I’m starving.’
Daisy chuckled. ‘That’s all right, he won’t be able to interrupt me. Perhaps Mr. Piper would go with you to the dining room and help you choose your breakfast.’ She looked at Ernie Piper, avoiding Alec’s eyes, hoping he’d realize her aim was to spare Belinda, not to catch him on his own.
‘If you don’t mind, Ernie,’ said Alec.
‘’Course not, Chief,’ Piper said gamely. ‘Come on, Miss Belinda.’
‘You can have some of my toast,’ she promised, slipping her hand into his. They went off.
Crossing to the fireplace to warm her hands – the hotel was no warmer today – Daisy said apologetically over her shoulder, ‘She’s so bright this morning, I didn’t want to talk about the murder in front of her. Have you thought about what she overheard?’
‘To tell the truth’ – puff, puff – ‘I forgot the words, all except arson. I’m afraid something distracted me. Dash it, it’s going out.’
She looked at him suspiciously. He was poking at the bowl of his pipe, his face hidden in clouds of fragrant blue smoke. Did he mean that she had distracted him? Did he even remember having kissed her? ‘You don’t think it’s important?’ she asked.
‘I don’t see how I can tell, not without some idea of what she actually heard.’
‘I have some idea. Alec, do put that blasted thing down and listen. It’s only guesswork, of course, but if I’m right it all fits together, sort of. All except arson.’
‘Arson is what I’m trying in vain to commit. Sit down, Daisy, and tell me. I can listen and light my pipe at the same time, no matter what Bel says.’
Daisy sat down on the magenta plush sofa. Alec took a step towards her, cast a glance at the nearest arm chair, then, with an air of resolution, joined her on the sofa. She bit back a small smile. He did remember, though whether he regretted that kiss she couldn’t be sure.
‘It was the sheep that gave me the clue,’ she said as he took out his tobacco pouch and stuffed a few more shreds into the bowl. Unburnt tobacco smelled so good, Daisy could never understand why anyone wanted to burn it. She hated cigarette smoke, and even worse cigar smoke, but she had never minded pipe smoke; she was actually coming quite to like it, since she’d known Alec.
‘Sheep?’ he queried between fierce sucks on the mouthpiece. The ashtray was filling with spent matches.
‘Something to do with sheep, Belinda said, and I came up with fleece.’ She explained where that had led her. ‘So, fleece, misappropriation, embezzlement, audit – it all adds up to financial shenanigans, unless I’m completely on the wrong track.’
‘Hmm.’ The pipe had gone out again, but he didn’t seem to notice. Frowning, he spoke around it. ‘It sounds good, but it would be more convincing if we could fit in the arson.’
‘Belinda didn’t actually say arson, she said arsony.’
‘Hell! Arsony? Sorry, Daisy.’
She scarcely heard his apology. ‘Alec, that’s it! Larceny! I bet he said something like . . . oh, “It’s plain, simple larceny,” or “that’s foul larceny.”’
‘Could be,’ Alec said slowly. ‘It fits with the rest, which is rather stretching coincidence. And with what Braeburn told us . . . Daisy, this is strictly in confidence. Braeburn says Alistair McGowan’s vast fortune is largely mythical, or at least historical. The past few years, he’s been speculating on the Stock Exchange and giving away large sums to charity. There’s only a few thousand left.’
‘The miser giving away large sums? Not likely! I can’t see him speculating, either. Much more probable that someone’s been cheating him.’
‘It is, isn’t it? Even without Belinda’s clues, we’d considered that possibility. But how did Brother Albert find out?’
Daisy pondered. ‘Braeburn told you about the vanished riches? In confidence? You mean he hadn’t told any of the family?’
‘Only Albert, as Alistair’s heir, when Albert consulted him on the train.’
‘But Albert knew perfectly well that his twin brother is a penny-pinching skinflint. I distinctly remember his saying something of the sort. He wouldn’t have believed for a moment in donations to charity.’ She and Alec stared at each other, comprehension dawning. ‘So when he was told . . . by the man who’d have found it easiest . . .’
‘Now hold on, Daisy,’ Alec begged, ‘don’t go off half-cocked!’
‘He accused Braeburn of larceny and threatened an audit.’
‘Hold on! This is a flight of sheer fancy, a house of cards. All we have to go on are a few words misheard by a child, addressed to we know not whom. Even if you’ve guessed every one right, it doesn’t prove the person spoken to killed Albert. It’s not evidence.’
‘What’s not evidence, Chief?’ Serg
eant Tring came in. ‘Morning, Miss Dalrymple.’
‘Good-morning, Mr. Tring. I’ve just made some simply brilliant deductions and the chief says they’re not evidence.’
Alec briefly explained. Not for the first time, Daisy admired his ability to render a convoluted tale concisely and clearly. He was a wizard at it. In fact, he was altogether wizard, even if he had punctured her balloon.
Tring listened, then shook his head. ‘Sorry, Miss Dalrymple, but you could’ve got it all right and it still doesn’t mean anything. Who’s to say old Albert wasn’t shouting at Braeburn about someone else’s swindle?’
‘Hold on, Tom,’ said Alec. ‘If that was the case, surely Braeburn would have mentioned Albert’s suspicions to us. He was quick enough to point to Peter Gillespie as the most likely murderer.’
‘And we already agreed Mr. Gillespie’s the most likely swindler, Chief.’
‘True. It’s all pretty thin, but all the same, I think I’ll ’phone up the Yard and have someone from the Fraud Squad go and speak to Braeburn’s partners. Inspector Fielding, I think. He owes me one, and he’s tactful but persistent.’
‘He’ll need to be, trying to pump a bunch of lawyers about one of their own!’ said Tring.
‘With any luck it won’t matter. You spoke to Sergeant Barclay?’
‘Yes, and it looks like Madame Paskeyay’s in the clear. They’d never’ve guessed she was connected if she hadn’t spoke up.’
‘Any news from Dr. Redlow?’ Alec asked impatiently.
‘I talked to Dr. Fraser.’ Tring’s mustache twitched as he grinned. ‘It’s blood on the pillow-case, Chief. And what’s more, they found blood and skin under the old man’s fingernails.’
‘The same type of blood?’
‘The very same, Chief. Group three, he says, which is not too common. Seems it’s different from Albert McGowan’s, and he’s got no scratches on him, anyways.’
‘Then our chummy has four scratches on one hand.’ Alec curled his fingers into a claw. ‘Albert’s left hand – no, the pillowcase was inside out. Albert’s right, chummy’s left hand. I doubt he attacked from behind, though we’ll check both.’
