Sheer Folly

by Carola Dunn

  “It may not remain your business,” Daisy warned. “I don’t know along what lines Boyle is thinking, but the police are liable to ferret out absolutely everything.”

  “Let them try,” said Lady Beaufort. “Now, Lord Gerald, did Sir Desmond know about his wife’s . . . connection with Lord Rydal, or did he not?”

  “He didn’t confide in me,” Gerald said stiffly, “but it was common talk. I doubt he could fail to be aware of it.”

  “Quite apart from her behaviour here,” Armitage put in, tearing his bemused gaze from Julia’s glowing face. They were now openly holding hands.

  Daisy looked pointedly at the clasped hands. “The police may ferret out everything, but there’s no need to make it too easy for them.”

  Armitage dropped Julia’s hand as if it were a smoking gun.

  Julia frowned. “You think it’s best to pretend we aren’t . . . um . . .”

  “On second thought, no. They’ll find out anyway and it’d just look fishy. At least, I’m not sure of Inspector Boyle’s abilities, but Alec will find out.”

  “Fletcher’s in on the investigation?” Gerald asked.

  “Sort of. He’s caught between two stools. He doesn’t really want to get involved, but he already is, having seen the explosion and found the body. Boyle’s in the same position: He doesn’t want Scotland Yard taking over his case, but having an expert on the scene and already mixed up in it, how can he avoid asking for help? So they’re trying to keep their collaboration informal. The trouble is, Alec finds it frightfully difficult not to take charge.”

  “Is it a good thing for us if he takes charge?” Julia asked.

  “He won’t let my opinions influence him,” Daisy said, “if that’s what you mean. But he’ll get at the truth with the least disruption possible, and he’ll rein in the inspector if he gets any wild ideas into his head. At least, he’ll try,” she amended.

  Lady Beaufort looked alarmed. “Wild ideas?”

  “Well, Boyle’s already proposed applying for a warrant to arrest—a certain person, on very slim grounds. Alec dissuaded him, but there’s no knowing what direction he’ll go off in next.”

  “What it boils down to,” Boyle grumbled, “is that you can’t give us an answer.”

  “Not unless you find all the gas taps,” said Pritchard.

  “Even then, we couldn’t be precise, Uncle,” Howell objected, “not with the ventilation being natural and its flow never measured.”

  “Close enough for these gentlemen, I daresay.”

  “What beats me is how he worked out how long it would take for the gas to build up to explosive proportions.”

  Boyle pounced. “He?”

  “The murderer,” said Howell patiently.

  “You think it was a man?”

  “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Ladies aren’t really interested in the technical details. Mrs. Fletcher asked for a demonstration of the new safety features on the hot water geysers, but I could see, her attention soon wandered. None of the rest even expressed an interest.”

  “Did any of the men?” Alec asked.

  “Er, well, no.”

  “So you two are the only ones with the necessary knowledge,” said Boyle, darting a significant look at Alec.

  “Except that even we couldn’t be precise,” Howell repeated, in the tone of one prepared to reiterate the point as often as necessary.

  “It seems to me,” said Alec, “that everything points to someone who in fact had no expert knowledge. Someone who had heard of coal-gas explosions, but had no idea they only occur if the proportion of gas to air is between five and fifteen percent.”

  “Roughly,” Howell insisted. “It depends to some degree on the local distribution of the various components of the gas. Some are heavier than air, some lighter, so—”

  “I think Mr. Fletcher has grasped that point, Owen.”

  “In your discourse on the geyser, Mr. Howell, did you happen to mention that explosive fraction?”

  “Certainly not. I was talking about the new safety feature that prevents a steam explosion. I’m not at all sure all my audience grasped the difference, but I didn’t touch on gas explosions at all. They are much more difficult, if not impossible, to prevent, but considerably less likely to occur.”

  “What happens if the concentration’s too high and someone walks in?” Boyle asked.

  “They smell the gas and walk out,” said Pritchard. “In a hurry. Unless there’s a spark or flame entering with them.”

  “As was presumably the case with Rydal,” Alec put in.

  “He always had a lit cigarette, or was in the process of lighting one. If there was too much gas to explode, there would almost certainly be a fire, which could well have killed Lord Rydal equally effectively.”

  “Almost certainly.” Boyle groaned. “You’re right, Mr. Fletcher, it looks as if he was killed by someone who had no idea what he was doing. And that means she is just as likely as he.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Even with the addition of Alec and Gerald, a diminished company sat down to dinner. Lucy had left for London and her studio; Carlin for London and his golf match; Lady Ottaline and Mrs. Howell had both taken bromides and stayed abed; and Rhino’s absence made itself felt in a curious combination of lightened spirits and wariness.

  Sir Desmond had come down at the last minute. He responded to queries about his wife’s condition with his usual suave courtesy—“resting as comfortably as can be expected”—but, not unnaturally, he looked harried.

  Mr. Pritchard invited Lady Beaufort to take Mrs. Howell’s place at the end of the table. With six men to only three women, seating was necessarily informal, though Daisy suspected Mrs. Howell had in any case been responsible for previous attempts at formality. Sir Desmond, of course, had a proper appreciation of hierarchy. He appropriated the place to Lady Beaufort’s left, leaving that on her right to Gerald, but Gerald chose familiarity over precedence. He sat down next to Daisy, who had found herself on Pritchard’s right, opposite Julia.

  Lady Beaufort beckoned Alec to the empty chair beside her. Howell beat Charles Armitage to Julia’s side—or perhaps Charles was being discreet. He took the one remaining seat, between Sir Desmond and Gerald.

  Daisy was amazed at how much one could guess about people simply from where they chose to sit at an informal dinner.

  As Barker and the parlourmaid started serving the leek and potato soup, Lady Beaufort said to Alec, “Well, Mr. Fletcher, were you able to pin down the time to your satifaction?”

  “The time, Lady Beaufort?” Alec asked cautiously.

  “The time the trap was set. The time someone was out in the grotto turning on the gas.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Anything but exactly,” said Howell. “There are just too many variables.”

  “The best we could do,” Pritchard confirmed, “was to place it somewhere between eight in the morning and noon.”

  “Is that helpful to you, Mr. Fletcher?” Lady Beaufort enquired.

  “Better than nothing.”

  Armitage said, “I assume you’ll be asking us all to account for our time between eight and noon. It’s a long period to account for.”

  “Not really. It was just this morning, and unless you’re an early riser—”

  “Which I am not,” Lady Beaufort declared. “I walked all the way to the grotto and back yesterday afternoon and again in the evening—all those steps!—and I was quite exhausted.”

  “Exhausting,” Alec murmured, a trifle ironically. Daisy could tell he hadn’t intended to ask any questions during dinner, but he wasn’t displeased to have the subject raised.

  Lady Beaufort gave him a shrewd look. “I know you’ve been there all afternoon, and digging besides, but I’m an elderly lady.”

  “Not at all!” Pritchard protested.

  “Do go on, Lady Beaufort,” Alec suggested.

  “I slept until nine o’clock and then I had breakfast in bed, so it must have been quite
half past eleven before I came down. I hadn’t been in the drawing room more than a minute or two when Mrs. Howell came in. We sat together until lunchtime. So there you are, time all accounted for. And I can assure you that had I risen early, I should not have ventured to the grotto without an escort, for any purpose.”

  Pritchard sighed. “I’m afraid it’ll be a long time before I shall have the pleasure of escorting you there again. When I think of all the . . . But it’s no use crying over spilt milk. Now let me see, what time did I get up?”

  They all started discussing their movements and trying to work out times. Daisy hoped Alec was succeeding in keeping it all straight, because she soon found herself losing track.

  Her mind wandered. No one seemed to be taking the exercise seriously, perhaps because no one was really mourning Rhino. Though she had disliked him, Daisy wondered sadly whether anyone, anywhere, would mourn Rhino. That brought her to his family, if any, and consideration of his family led to Boyle’s question about his heir.

  Greed was a common motive for premeditated murder, perhaps the commonest, Daisy wasn’t sure. It would be comforting to presume that the unknown heir to the earldom and pots of money had sneaked into the grounds of Appsworth Hall and turned on the gas. Unfortunately, she couldn’t imagine how a stranger could be sufficiently familiar with the grotto, let alone have known about Rhino and Lady Ottaline’s assignation.

  If she wanted to cling to the money motive theory, only one among the assembled company could possibly be a long-lost heir: Charles Armitage. He would have had a double motive, greed and jealousy, and he obviously had some mysterious secret in his past, something he didn’t want to talk about. But Daisy didn’t want to believe he was a murderer. In fact, she refused to believe it.

  Her unbelief did not dispose of his motive of jealousy—and a secret.

  Lady Beaufort had a secret, too. Why did she refuse to discuss her reason for having delayed disclosure of her change of heart about Rhino’s suitability as a son-in-law? The delay was a great pity. With Rhino no longer a rival, Charles would have had little cause for jealousy.

  Of course the motive of jealousy applied equally to Sir Desmond, in fact even more so. Apparently unruffled, he was now tucking into roast pork with apple sauce and broad beans (no fish course!), having briefly mentioned his simple movements of the morning. He had risen from his bed—he could not name the hour, but no doubt his valet would know—and after breakfast had been driven into Swindon to the Pritchard plant. Howell and the missing Carlin could vouch for his presence there.

  Carlin. He’d skedaddled in rather a hurry, but Daisy couldn’t think of any reason for him to have murdered Rhino. The only insults flung his way had been general animadversions on the bureaucracy, nothing to take personally. He hadn’t shown any particular interest in Julia, either. Probably he considered her to be an “older woman,” Daisy decided gloomily, just as she and Lucy and Julia had pigeon-holed Lady Ottaline.

  What had Lady Ottaline been doing this morning? She wasn’t present to speak for herself. She hadn’t come down to breakfast, either. That was hardly surprising. Women d’un certain âge (how much kinder the French phrase) often breakfasted in bed at country-house parties.

  Daisy’s attention was drawn back to present company as Julia said, “Mr. Armitage wanted me to see Barbury Castle. He is a historian, after all.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that,” Alec said mildly. “And I’m afraid I’ve never heard of Barbury Castle. Tell me about it.”

  “It’s an Iron Age . . .” She glanced at Charles and he nodded. “.. . An Iron Age fort. There are barrows, too. Those are ancient burial places. There’s supposed to have been a battle nearby, as well, in five hundred and something A.D., between the Britons and the Saxons.”

  “Who won?”

  “I can’t . . . Oh, the Saxons, I suppose. They drove the Britons out, to Cornwall and Wales. Do you remember, Daisy? The Angles, Saxons, and Jutes?”

  “How could I forget? Lucy used to complain that the Angles belonged in geometry and the Jutes in geography. The exports of India or somewhere.”

  “How far from here is Barbury Castle?”

  Charles answered. “It’s a couple of miles as the crow flies, on the ordnance survey map. Farther walking, of course, and quite rough country in places. We went on beyond for a bit, too, hoping to get within sight of one of these white horses carved in the chalk—I expect you know about them.”

  “I’ve seen the Pewsey White Horse. I didn’t know there were others. Why didn’t you get as far as this one?”

  “Julia—Miss Beaufort was afraid we’d be late for lunch, so we turned back.”

  “It was quarter to one when we got back, just time enough to tidy up before lunch.”

  “Which direction is Barbury Castle from here?” Alec asked.

  After a painful pause, Armitage said, “More or less south.”

  “Beyond the grotto.”

  “Yes.”

  “It sounds like an interesting place.” Pritchard seemed to have decided his guests had been interrogated sufficiently at his dinner table. “I’d like to see it. You must take me there when the weather improves, Armitage.”

  “Certainly, sir. You won’t have to tramp as far as Miss Beaufort and I did. There’s a lane goes quite close.”

  Lady Beaufort, whose obvious anxiety had eased at Pritchard’s words, turned to Alec and asked, “Are you interested in history, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. My degree is in history, but I specialised in the Georgian period, not the Ancient Britons.”

  “Darling,” said Daisy, “I’ve just had a brilliant idea. We should collaborate on a book about the early history of the police and call it From Beadles to Bobbies.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “A catchy title,” Armitage remarked. “If you ever write it, I’ll certainly recommend it to my students.”

  “Students!” Lady Beaufort exclaimed. “You’re a teacher?”

  “University lecturer, actually.”

  “Why—?” She had been going to ask why she hadn’t been informed, Daisy was sure. But that would imply she had a reason for expecting to be informed, and that in turn might lead the police to question the relationship between Julia and Charles. Though Alec’s face gave nothing away, Daisy could have told her he had already drawn his own all too obvious conclusions. “How interesting,” her ladyship said weakly instead.

  “In Canada?” asked Gerald. He had been ploughing silently through the meal, no alibi being required of him. Now Barker and the maid, Inskip, were clearing the dishes in preparation for serving pudding, so momentarily Gerald had no excuse for failing to do his conversational duty.

  The arrival of plum tart and a pitcher of thick cream put an end to his participation, but he had diverted the stream. Life in Canada, life in France, relations between France and Canada, relations between French Canadians and British Canadians—there was plenty to keep everyone going. Daisy would have liked to ask about the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, but in the circumstances, she decided, the less said about any kind of police the better.

  All too soon they’d have to face once more the unpleasant demands of the murder investigation.

  “Good grub,” said Boyle as Alec returned to Pritchard’s den. He put a spoonful of plum tart in his mouth and chewed.

  “You were right, I learnt quite a bit at dinner. They were actually keen for me to ask them where they were this morning.”

  “All of them?” Boyle grunted sceptically.

  “Some were keener than others. But I got stories from all of them, for what they’re worth.”

  “What are they worth, d’you think, then?”

  “Some more than others. Let me write it all down—I couldn’t very well at table—and we’ll go over it.”

  While the inspector finished his dinner, Alec made notes. They’d have to ask each person the same question all over again, but how they answered the second time was often more significan
t than the first. Omissions and additions, alterations, or repetitions in the same words, suggesting rehearsal, might all be clues to the truthfulness of the speaker.

  Boyle heard him out, then said, “I still haven’t got a real grasp of who all these people are, or why they’re at Appsworth Hall. Not that Mrs. Fletcher wasn’t helpful, but I’d like to hear from Pritchard what they’re doing here in his house. If you’ve no objection, sir, we’ll have him back first.”

  “Do you regard him as a suspect?”

  Boyle frowned. “Not on such information as I’ve got already. But, of course, there’s no knowing what I’ll—we’ll dig up. Nor there’s no knowing what’ll set some people off, and Mrs. Fletcher did say Rydal insulted Pritchard, along with everyone else.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Boyle was about to summon Pritchard—or rather invite him to step into his own study—when the troops from Devizes arrived at last. They consisted of a detective sergeant, a detective constable, and two uniformed constables, all damp. The rain was coming down in torrents by now.

  The inspector wanted to send one of the uniformed pair to relieve PC Endicott who was still out there on the hillside in the storm, guarding the site of the explosion. “And the other to the grotto entrance, don’t you think?” he asked Alec. “You said you couldn’t see for dust, but when that’s settled, and in daylight, it ought to be searched, as well as the hole.”

  Alec nodded, forbearing to point out in the presence of Boyle’s subordinates that all the suspects had visited the cave in the past few days, so any evidence of their presence was unlikely to be meaningful.

  The two men stood stolidly waiting for instructions. After a moment of thought, Boyle said gloomily, “The only thing is, how the devil are they going to find their posts in the dark? One of the outdoor servants’ll have to guide them.”

  “Ask Barker,” Alec suggested.

  “Mr. Barker’s eating his supper, sir,” protested the maid who had shown the policemen into the room.

  “Can’t be helped,” said Boyle curtly. “Take these fellows along, and tell Mr. Barker there’ll be a detective following in a minute or two to collect the timetables you should all have made out. When he arrives, take my compliments to Mr. Pritchard and tell him we’d like to have a word with him in here.”