by Carola Dunn
Reaching Lucy’s interruption of proceedings, she rushed on before Boyle had a chance to question the thoroughness of her report. “Actually, now I come to think of it, Armitage and Howell weren’t at tea, I didn’t meet them till just before dinner. That was when the Wandersleys arrived, too. I already told you about Sir Desmond Wandersley. He’s from the Ministry of Health, here on business.”
“I don’t suppose you happen to know his rank?” Alec asked.
Daisy pondered. “Principal Deputy Secretary, I’m pretty sure. Unless it’s Deputy Principal Secretary . . .”
“No such thing. Lower level of the upper tier,” Alec informed Boyle. “It behoves us to tread with care. What’s he like, Daisy?”
“Expert at presenting a façade to the world.”
“That’s what it takes to rise in the bureaucracy.”
“Good at small talk, fund of entertaining anecdotes—”
“Also prerequisites,” Alec said cynically. “You said he’s here on business? What’s that all about?”
“Well, I haven’t been privy to their discussions—”
“You surprise me.”
She frowned at him. “—Which were held at the Pritchard Plumbing plant in Swindon. But I gather he’s in charge of some sort of contract for plumbing supplies for slum clearance. I did wonder—. But that’s not even hearsay, just pure speculation.”
“What did you wonder, Mrs. Fletcher?” Boyle demanded.
“If you get her going on her wild theories,” Alec warned, “we’ll be here all night.”
“Likely we will anyway. Sir. Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Oh, it’s just that in spite of the façade, I could tell he wasn’t at all pleased to find out I’m a journalist, and I wondered whether there might be something fishy about the contract.”
“Payments under the table?”
“I’ve no idea. His reaction wasn’t necessarily anything to do with plumbing. Some people have an aversion to journalists as others do to policemen. After I assured him I was neither an investigative reporter nor a gossip-column tattler, he was quite friendly.”
Alec asked, “Can you pinpoint whether one or the other was more responsible for his change in attitude?”
Daisy tried to remember. “No, not really. Though subsequent events have made me wonder—”
“I see what you mean, sir,” said Boyle. “Mrs. Fletcher is much given to wondering.”
“Is this material, Daisy?”
“Absolutely. But the best way to explain will be to go back to Mr. Boyle’s method of telling you about each person in turn as I met them.”
“Not,” Boyle muttered, “that you have been doing anything of the sort.”
Treating this observation with the silent disdain it merited, Daisy continued, “Lady Ottaline Wandersley came in with Sir Desmond. I’d never met her, but Julia and Lucy told me—. No, that’s definitely hearsay. Isn’t it, darling?”
“I expect so,” Alec admitted with a sigh. “If it seems necessary, we’ll ask them what they told you.”
“Not that it wasn’t pretty obvious. She’s one of those women who . . .” Daisy hesitated, not wanting to sound catty. “You know the sort. She must once have been truly beautiful and she can’t accept the fact that she’s growing older and is no longer irresistible to men. She dresses to the nines, and she’s still attractive—”
“When not covered in chalk dust!”
“You weren’t terribly attractive yourself in the same condition,” she retorted. “The important thing is that Lady Ottaline was pleased to see Rhino—Lord Rydal—and he wasn’t at all pleased to see her.”
“What made you think that?” Boyle asked sharply.
“I was standing beside Rhino, having recently suffered what passed for a conversation with him. When Lady Ottaline came in, he came over all tense and wary and made no move to greet the Wandersleys, although as later became apparent he was acquainted with both of them. And it wasn’t at all like Rhino to be put out by anyone or anything.”
“And her ladyship?”
“She looked like the cat that stole the cream. A sort of self-satisfied smirk.”
“Sounds to me as if we should be arresting Lord Rydal for the murder of Lady Ottaline,” Boyle complained.
Daisy decided against trying to describe, let alone explain, her subsequent observation of Rhino and Lady Ottaline’s behaviour and attitude towards each other. It was all hearsay and guesswork. She didn’t mind expounding her theories to Alec and being told they were pure speculation, but she was getting tired of Boyle’s quibbling. She was just plain getting tired, come to that. The day seemed to have gone on forever.
“Mr. Carlin arrived with the Wandersleys,” she said. “He’s Sir Desmond’s Private Secretary, capital P capital S as in civil service rank. He was talking at breakfast today about getting back to town this evening for a golf match tomorrow. He went to Swindon with Sir Desmond and Howell. I gathered he didn’t intend to come back to Appsworth Hall.”
Boyle consulted a couple of sheets of paper on the desk in front of him. “No doubt that’s why Carlin is on the butler’s list but not Mr. Pritchard’s. I assumed he must be a servant. We’ll have to get hold of him.” The inspector jumped up and rang the bell. “I hope Thomkin hasn’t left yet.”
“I’m sure Lucy’s still packing up her stuff.”
“Undoubtedly,” Alec agreed. “Speaking of servants, Daisy, I don’t suppose you know anything about this Gregg chap, Lord Rydal’s chauffeur-valet or whatever he was?”
“I never saw him, to my knowledge, but I heard about him shortly after meeting Rhino. Not by name, though. He was furious with him because when Julia asked him to fetch our bags, mine and Lucy’s, from the station, he said he had to remove a grease spot from his dinner jacket so he couldn’t go.”
Boyle blinked. “Have I got this straight, Mrs. Fletcher: Miss Beaufort asked the chauffeur Gregg to fetch—”
“No, no, she asked Rhino—Lord Rydal—and he wanted to send his servant, but Gregg said he had to clean the jacket—Rhino’s, that is, of course—so he couldn’t go. He was acting as valet as well as chauffeur. Rhino told us he—the servant—was a lazy good-for-nothing, or something similar, and should have done it the night before. Gregg apparently claimed he hadn’t been able to see it by artificial light. But that’s hearsay,” Daisy added hurriedly.
“There was already bad blood between them, then,” said Boyle, “before Lord Rydal gave him the sack. What do you reckon he was doing in the cave, Mr. Fletcher?”
“I can’t believe he’d be stupid enough to set up the explosion and then stay around to watch. Nor can I believe he was up to any good.”
“He might have seen whoever did set it up,” Daisy suggested, “and hoped to return to Rhino’s good graces by warning him. Not that Rhino had any good graces. Nor that anyone in their senses would want the job back.”
“And the doctor’s sedated both him and Lady Ottaline,” the inspector said, morose now, “so we can’t ask any questions.”
“Tomorrow. Neither’s badly injured. Daisy, you don’t happen to have any other ideas about what Gregg might have been up to?”
“It would be the wildest speculation,” Daisy said virtuously.
A parlourmaid came in. Boyle told her to find his sergeant and say he was wanted double-quick.
“He’s in the hall, sir, waiting for Lady Gerald.”
“Good. Send him in. Mrs. Fletcher, do you know this Carlin’s Christian name? Anything else about him?”
“Only that he’s a civil servant. Ministry of Health, like Sir Desmond.”
DS Thomkin came in. Boyle explained about Carlin’s departure. “You’d better try and bring him back with you,” he said. “Find out what you can about his likely whereabouts from Wandersley before you leave and see if you can track him down while Lady Gerald is working on those photographs.”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant despondently.
“Here.” Alec handed him a bi
t of paper on which he had just written a name. “Call the Yard and ask for this chap. Tell him to give you a hand, as a purely unofficial favour to me.”
“Yes, sir!” said Thomkin, looking a trifle more hopeful.
“All right, get on with it. Let’s hear your wild speculation now, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“What—. Oh, yes, about Rhino’s servant. Well, Barker didn’t mention it, but I bet Rhino refused to give Gregg a letter of reference. It wouldn’t surprise me if Gregg followed him in hopes of doing a little blackmail, not for money but for a good recommendation.”
“Blackmail?” Boyle said in surprise. “On what grounds?”
“Sorry!” said Alec. “I thought someone would have told you by now. It seems to be common knowledge that Lord Rydal and Lady Ottaline had an assignation in the grotto.”
Boyle glared at Daisy. “Somehow that vital detail failed to reach me. But ‘common knowledge’ is hardly meat for blackmail.”
“It depends how common it is,” Daisy argued. “I expect Rhino would have given a good deal to conceal his liaison from two people in particular. Or possibly three.”
“Who?”
“Well, Julia, obviously, since he adored her. Insofar as he was capable of adoration. And her mother, Lady Beaufort, who had been supporting his suit, but would more than likely change her tune if she found out he was consorting with his mistress while courting Julia. And Sir Desmond, of course. Except that I doubt he was still in ignorance, or, come to that, whether Rhino cared whether he knew.”
“When you say it was common knowledge, Daisy, what exactly do you mean? How common?”
“Umm. Actually, I just guessed. I put together the way they behaved, something I overheard—”
“What?”
“Isn’t that hearsay?”
“Not if they were speaking of their own actions,” Alec said patiently.
“Oh, really? Lady Ottaline said they’d never manage to find privacy in the house, which was why . . . And then the door closed so I didn’t hear why what. But when Lord Rydal missed coffee after lunch and then I saw Lady Ottaline sneaking off through the garden, I put two and two together. Lucy guessed, too, and the Beauforts’s maid told Julia, so I presume most if not all of the household servants knew. Goodness only knows whom they told.”
Boyle pounced. “Miss Beaufort told you she knew?”
“This afternoon.” Daisy attempted to sound as if she was clarifying her statement, though her intent was to obfuscate. She didn’t know when Julia had found out, and she shouldn’t have mentioned her in justifying the statement that the rendezvous was common knowledge. “But once Lucy was aware that Lady Ottaline had been injured and Rhino was missing, she said it was obvious what they’d been up to.”
“The first thing is to talk to the servants,” Boyle proposed to Alec, “see what they know, how they know it, and who they’ve told. They’ll probably know more than most about people’s movements, too.”
“A good place to start,” Alec agreed smoothly. “If you want to get going on that, I’ll just get the details from my wife as to exactly when and where she overheard Lord Rydal and Lady Ottaline.”
“Right you are, sir. I’ll go and talk to them in the servants’ hall. I’ll take my own notes.” With a pointed look at Daisy’s blank notebook, he departed.
“Oh dear,” said Daisy, “I didn’t take any notes after all. It would have seemed rather odd taking notes of my own interrogation.”
“Never mind notes. You may have pulled the wool over DI Boyle’s eyes, though I wouldn’t count on it, but you can’t distract me so easily. When did the maid tell your friend Julia about that pretty pair making their assignation?”
“What does it matter? Julia had no reason to blow Rhino up. She just had to keep saying no.”
“Daisy, you know I can’t let it go at that. I agree that there are others who would appear to have better motives, but Julia Beaufort is definitely on my list. Now tell me about your eavesdropping.”
“Eavesdropping! They knew I was there.”
Before she could explain, the door swung open. Mrs. Howell marched in. In a shrill voice, she announced, “I know who did it!”
TWENTY-FOUR
As Alec sprang to his feet to offer Mrs. Howell his chair, Daisy scribbled on her pad: Don’t believe a word she says! Certain that he’d move to his preferred position behind the desk, she tore off the leaf and slid it across the leather top.
He glanced at it, then at her with a frown, then continued seating Mrs. Howell with his best soothing manner.
Daisy had no idea what Mrs. Howell was going to say, whom she was going to accuse. But the woman was full of rancour and didn’t seem to care about anyone except her son. Even there, it was a case of care about, not care for. Daisy had seen no signs of affection between them. If Mrs. Howell promoted Owen’s interests, it was, to all appearances, only because they meshed with her own.
Besides, Lucy had said their hostess seemed to be developing some sort of religious mania. None of that had seemed relevant when Daisy was telling DI Boyle about the Howells, but if she was going to go round accusing people, her state of mind could not be ignored.
Alec sat down behind the desk. Reading the note without touching it, he leant forward. “Please go on, Mrs. Howell.”
Since her dramatic entrance, Mrs. Howell hadn’t said a word. She didn’t seem to notice Daisy sitting there with her notebook at the ready. She stared wild-eyed at Alec, her mouth opening and closing silently. Even if she happened to be telling the truth, she didn’t at present look in the least like a credible witness.
“You say you know who blew up the grotto?” Alec prompted.
“An evil place! Full of pagan idols and popery! He built it and he destroyed it.”
“Mr. Pritchard?” His tone was so neutral as to express incredulity. “Why should he destroy his own creation?”
“I told him.” She was triumphant. “I convinced Brin of the wickedness, the shame of it.”
“How do you know he acted on his conviction?”
“I saw him.” Mrs. Howell looked away from Alec and started to fidget with her skirt. “I saw him going to that place this morning, after breakfast. I didn’t go down to breakfast and I happened to glance out of my bedroom window, and I saw him.”
“You’re certain it was Mr. Pritchard?”
“Of course,” she asserted, gaining confidence. “I’ve known him since my poor sister married him forty years ago. I couldn’t possibly be mistaken.”
“What time did you see him?”
“I can’t say for sure. I didn’t think anything of it then. Why should I? He’s obsessed with his horrible grotto! He’s so eager to show it off, he lets complete strangers come and stay in the house if they express the slightest interest, without any regard for my convenience. He even lets that man live here, just because he wants someone to play hermit now and then. What does Mr. Armitage want, poking about in dusty old papers that should have been cleared out years ago? Up to no good, if you ask me, and carrying on with that girl, into the bargain. But Brin won’t hear a word against him.”
Alec responded to this tirade with a mild “How long have you lived in Mr. Pritchard’s house?”
“What does that have to do with anything? We’re not living on his charity, I assure you! My husband left me plenty of money, and half the firm to Owen. Brin only invited us to live here so as to have someone to entertain his guests and so he can keep his thumb on Owen.”
“Oh?”
“He’s supposed to have retired, but Owen can’t do a thing without consulting his uncle. I don’t know why Owen doesn’t let him get on with it. My son could live like a gentleman if he sold off his half of the business. But no, all he cares about is Pritchard’s Plumbing. He hasn’t even got his own name on it! I should never have let him visit the plant when he was a boy. My husband never went near the place.”
“Could we get back to what you saw this morning, Mrs. Howell? Where exactly was Mr.
Pritchard, and what was he doing?”
She blinked at Alec vaguely, as if she’d forgotten the purpose of this interview. Perhaps Lucy was right, Daisy thought, and she had developed a mania, though it seemed to be more concerned with her brother-in-law than religion. Why had she turned against him?
“He was walking along the path towards the grotto,” she said at last. “Almost running. And he kept looking behind him as if he was afraid of being seen. I knew he was up to something terrible. He’s an evil man. You must arrest him at once and take him away.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, you know, not simply on your word. Especially as he doesn’t seem to have done anything dreadful while you were actually watching him.”
Mrs. Howell deflated. Rubbing her forehead, she complained, “I have a frightful headache. I’d better go and lie down till dinnertime.”
“We’ll talk again later, when you’re feeling well enough.” Alec went to open the door for her. Closing it behind her, he ran his hand through his hair. The crisp crop shed a dusting of chalk and became one shade nearer its usual dark hue. “Whew!” he exclaimed, returning to the desk. “What a virago. I hope you’re going to explain what that was all about.”
“She seems to have gone completely dotty!”
“She’s got it in for Pritchard all right. But at a guess there’s method to her madness. When one gets a wild accusation like that, it’s often an attempt to cover up guilt, either her own or her son’s.”
“Pure speculation, darling, and I doubt it. Rhino was rude to her but no more so than to everyone else. She forgave him because of his title.”
“She seems to have a genuine hatred of that wretched grotto. Perhaps she wanted to blow it up and didn’t consider that someone was bound to get hurt in the process.”
“It’s possible, I suppose, but I don’t believe she’s that dimwitted. In any case, it wouldn’t surprise me if she hadn’t the slightest idea how to do it, or even that turning on the gas could cause an explosion. That dim-witted she is.”
“What about protecting her son?”
“Owen Howell—well, I just can’t imagine him blowing up perfectly good machinery, if that’s the right word. Technical equipment. He got quite indignant over Rhino being careless with Lucy’s camera stuff.”
