Sheer Folly

by Carola Dunn

  Julia wasn’t listening. “And he said—soooo sympathetically—it was quite natural that I’d lie for Charles because I loathed Rhino and was glad to be rid of him. He twists whatever you say to fit his beastly theories.”

  They reached the drawing room. Pritchard and Lady Beaufort, on a sofa by the fireplace, were so deep in their conversation that they didn’t notice Daisy and Julia’s entrance. Charles, Howell, and Gerald sat in reasonable proximity to each other, but not quite in a group, all smoking, all looking slightly uncomfortable. Daisy guessed they had probably been exchanging occasional remarks, probably on the weather, for some time. All three jumped up when she and Julia appeared.

  “Drinks?” Howell offered.

  “Think I’ll go and telephone Lucy’s studio, make sure she’s arrived safely,” Gerald muttered. “All right, Howell?”

  “Of course, but with the inspector in my uncle’s den, you’ll have to use the phone in the hall.”

  “If Lucy’s in the middle of some delicate process, she won’t thank you,” Daisy warned.

  “She won’t answer,” Gerald responded.

  Daisy forbore to point out that in that case he wouldn’t know whether or not she had arrived safely.

  By that time, Julia and Charles had retreated to a far corner of the room.

  “Like a drink, Mrs. Fletcher?” Howell said.

  “Yes, please.” Daisy almost asked for cocoa, but she didn’t know how much longer this dreadful evening was going to last, so she could do with a bracer. “Julia, too,” she added as they went over to the dresser-bar. “A brandy and soda, I should think, for both of us. Just a drop of brandy and plenty of soda.”

  “I’ll give Armitage another whisky.” Howell gave Daisy her drink, poured a small brandy and a hefty shot of whisky into tumblers, and carrying a soda syphon, took them over to the couple.

  How long ago Daisy had discussed with him the principle of the syphon! How simple life had seemed then, just a matter of keeping Lucy from insulting their host.

  She went to sit in an easy chair on the opposite side of the fireplace from Pritchard and Lady Beaufort. Both looked up to smile at her.

  “Got everything you need?” Pritchard asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  They returned immediately to their earnest, low-voiced conversation. Howell came and dropped with a sigh into the chair next to Daisy’s. He, too, had a drink, but it was as pale as Daisy’s, more something to do with his hands than anything else.

  “What a day!” he said. “I’m afraid you haven’t had the pleasant visit my uncle hoped for.”

  “I’m just glad it wasn’t Lucy and I who brought the scourge upon you. Rhino being the scourge,” she hastened to explain.

  “Good lord, we don’t hold the Beauforts to blame. My mother was to some degree responsible. Believe me, Uncle Brin is quite capable of having sent him off with a flea in his ear if he wasn’t so soft-hearted as to give in to Mother’s wish to entertain a real live lord.” He hesitated, and Daisy was desperately trying to think of something kind to say about Mrs. Howell when he continued in a lowered voice, “You were present when my mother . . . at her outburst, weren’t you.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Having Rhino about the place must have been a great strain on her nerves.”

  “She always did dislike the grotto. If you ask me, it was hearing of the use Lord Rydal and Lady Ottaline intended for it, even before the explosion, that sent her over the edge.”

  “Some kind of nerve storm, I suppose.” Daisy wasn’t very sure what a nerve storm was, but it seemed a tactful thing to say.

  “She’ll have to see a specialist,” Howell said sombrely. “Don’t you think a rest-cure would be the thing? By the time she gets back, I’ll have set up a house for her in Swindon. She may complain at first, but in the end she’ll be much happier there. She likes the idea of living in a mansion, but she really prefers town life.”

  “I suppose it would be a bit difficult for her to stay on here after what she said about Mr. Pritchard. Will you go and live with her?”

  “That would never do! As a matter of fact, I’ve been making plans to set up my own household for some time now, only I just didn’t know how to break it to Mother that I’m going to get married.”

  “Married?!” Daisy hoped she sounded more interested than astonished. After all, why shouldn’t Owen Howell marry? He was well off, not bad looking, not too old; she had even seriously considered him as a husband for Julia.

  “You may well be surprised. My fiancée is getting tired of keeping it secret from Mother.” He followed Daisy’s glance at Pritchard. “Uncle Brin knows. He’s met Jeannie. He thinks I should have told Mother ages ago, but . . . Oh well, this situation is dreadful but it does make things easier for me in that respect!”

  “Your uncle will miss your company.”

  “I daresay Jeannie and I will be in and out. They like each other. But in any case, I hope Uncle won’t be living here alone for long.” Howell gave a significant look at Pritchard and Lady Beaufort, still in animated conversation.

  Once again, Daisy was astonished. “Good heavens, you think . . . ?” Was that why Mrs. Howell had taken against both of them, afraid for her position in the household? “Well! I did notice right away that they seemed to get on very well together, but—”

  “Nothing is settled,” he said hurriedly. “You won’t mention it?”

  “Of course not. It would be a very good thing, though, especially if Julia’s going to be emigrating to Canada. As long,” she added with foreboding, “as Boyle doesn’t go and arrest both her and Charles.”

  Alec found DI Boyle looking pleased with himself.

  “I’d lay odds the Canadian did it,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I never heard a thinner story in my life, taking off tramping over the hills when there’s rain on the way, just to see a bit of an old grass-grown bank. It’s not even like this here Barbury Castle is a real castle, you know, with towers and battlements and such.” He started folding the ordnance survey map spread out on the desk.

  “Armitage is a historian,” Alec reminded him.

  “Armitage! Your good lady hasn’t told you, then? His real name’s Appsworth,” Boyle said triumphantly.

  “Great Scott! Masquerading under an alias.”

  “Well, not exactly. Pritchard knew all along, but no one else, not even Miss Beaufort. Or so they say. What I say is, it shows a talent for deception.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “So’s not to cause a lot of rumours about a missing heir come to claim his inheritance. Or so he claims.” Boyle handed the half-folded map to DS Gaskell. “Here, you deal with this damn thing.” He leant forwards over the desk and stabbed a finger at Alec. “And when I ask the girl to show me on the map which way they went to get there, to confirm what Appsworth told me, she claims she can’t read it.”

  “Perhaps she can’t. She has lived in France since the War, in rather restricted circumstances, I gather. Besides, some people just have difficulty relating a map to the actual landscape.” Alec’s facility in that regard, together with his name, had led to his RFC nickname during the War: Arrow. In his single-seat spotter plane, a fabrication of canvas, balsa wood, and piano wire, he had almost always come back with information about exactly the target he had been sent to observe. But the very fact that his ability to home in on his target like an arrow had resulted in the nickname suggested that many pilots failed to do so.

  “You don’t believe she’s protecting Appsworth?” Boyle snorted. “Not that I’d blame her, mind, a young lady in love. But it’s accessory after at least, if not before. I suppose you’ll tell me next you don’t believe he blew up Lord Rydal.”

  “I have an open mind on the subject. I’m not half so convinced of his motive as you are. He seems to have come to an understanding with Miss Beaufort some time ago. Rydal was an irritant, not a threat. As an irritant, the man spread his net wide.”

  “Yes, just about everyone here l
oathed his guts, servants and all—”

  “Speaking of servants, I’d better pass on what one of the housemaids told my wife.”

  “Your wife!” Boyle was outraged.

  Alec decided to suppress the butler’s role in sending Rita to Daisy. “It happens,” he said apologetically. “Witnesses see her as a more sympathetic listener than the police, yet they can be sure the information will reach me if necessary.”

  “If Mrs. Fletcher considers it necessary,” the inspector growled.

  “Yes. Unsatisfactory, I know, but I’ve learnt there’s really nothing to be done about it, short of ignoring what she tells me. If she refuses to listen, the chances are they won’t be coming to spill the beans to me themselves, or else they’ll waste my time with completely irrelevant waffle.”

  “All right, what did this maid have to say?”

  Alec related Gregg’s threat. The inspector came to the same conclusion as Daisy—though Alec didn’t tell him so: The chauffeur might have stayed to see Rydal suffer, but was not likely to have set things in motion.

  “He was hanging about the servants’ quarters till after one o’clock,” he said. “You haven’t seen their evidence about times yet, have you. Here, see what you make of it all.” He passed Alec a handful of papers, but didn’t give him a chance to study them. “I don’t think it was Gregg. You don’t think it was Appsworth. Who does that leave us? Lady Ottaline and Mrs. Howell. Explosions—that’s not a woman’s crime, to my way of thinking. You mark my words, Appsworth is our man.”

  “You’ve no proof, I take it.”

  “Not a smidgen. Nor I don’t see how I’m ever going to get any, not what you might call solid evidence.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “My next move? Not to say move, but you and me and Sergeant Gaskell here are going to make sure we’ve all of us got all the information, seeing we’ve been working separately. Then Sergeant Gaskell is going to drive me home, and on the way we’re going to have a bit of a think and a bit of a chat. I hope you’ll have a think, too. I daresay you’ll have a chat with your missus. I’d rather you didn’t, but I can’t stop you. Tomorrow I’m going to let them all stew in their own juice for a few hours. First thing in the morning, I’m coming back with every man I can muster and search the hole and what’s left of the grotto.”

  “I hope it’ll have stopped raining by then. It’s going to be a hell of a job even if it’s not pouring. You’re looking for the gas taps, are you?”

  “If we can find ’em all and see how many were turned on, it might—might, mind you—narrow down the time.”

  “Did you test the ones we found for dabs?”

  “Not yet. As a matter of fact,” Boyle said sheepishly, “Thomkin seems to have gone off with it in his pocket. How he can have failed to notice it . . . !”

  “I expect Lucy—Lady Gerald was rushing him.”

  “Do you really think fingerprints would tell us anything? We know they were all in there at one time or another.”

  “Except Mrs. Howell, I believe. Hers would be definitive. It seems to me unlikely that anyone other than Pritchard, Howell, or Appsworth would touch the taps in the ordinary way of things.”

  “So Appsworth’s wouldn’t amount to proof.”

  “If they were smudged?” Gaskell contributed his first mite. “Meaning someone else touched them after he did.”

  “Or he did it wearing gloves to mislead us,” the inspector pointed out. “Let’s wait and see what we’ve got before we start speculating. I hope Lady Gerald gets a move on bringing back my only concrete clue, my sergeant, her photographs, and that young man who did a bunk.”

  “Yes,” said Alec thoughtfully, “I’d like a word with Carlin. I can’t help feeling we’re missing something somewhere.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Considering all that had happened at Appsworth Hall on Saturday, Sunday breakfast was amazingly normal. Daisy was surprised, however, that both Mrs. Howell and Lady Ottaline, both of whom usually breakfasted in their rooms, came down to join the rest, as did Lady Beaufort.

  Mrs. Howell was very subdued and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. She was all in black, not—it transpired—in mourning for her deceased noble guest, but for Chapel. Her son and Pritchard wore black suits for the same reason.

  “I’ll go with Winifred and Owen,” Pritchard said to Lady Beaufort. He didn’t seem to hold any grudge against his sister-in-law. “Madison will be waiting to drive you down to the village to Church when you’re ready.”

  “Thank you.” She beamed at him. “Daisy, you’ll come with us, won’t you?”

  “Er, I think not, Lady Beaufort. I have to make a fair copy of some notes I took yesterday. Besides, I’d better be here when Lucy gets back, in case . . . um . . . in case she needs my help explaining her photographs to the inspector.” Not for the world would Daisy miss Boyle’s reaction to a certain one among the photos.

  Lady Beaufort seemed a little puzzled, and Alec gave Daisy a suspicious look. Julia and Charles, knowing just what she was referring to, exchanged a glance. Daisy smiled at them all sunnily and spread marmalade on another piece of toast.

  Outside the sun was peeping through the last ragged remnants of the storm. A beautiful day for a walk, and Daisy was keen to inspect the damage to the grotto—not the bit that had caved in on Rhino, but the entrance. She decided that would be pushing Inspector Boyle too far. He was searching it this morning, she vaguely remembered Alec telling her when at last he came to bed last night. She had been half asleep.

  What on earth did he hope to find there?

  Her thoughts returned to the present as Julia said, “I’m glad you’ve recovered so quickly, Lady Ottaline. You’ve really been in the wars the last couple of days.”

  “I’m not an old crock yet!” Lady Ottaline snapped. Then she pulled herself together and said with a strained smile, “Sorry. I’m nervy and I ache all over but the doctor said there’s nothing very wrong and if I stay in bed too long I’ll stiffen up like a board.”

  “Did he really?” said Daisy. “I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of stringing so many words together.”

  “He succeeded in conveying his meaning in two or three brief phrases. I gather you and Miss Beaufort rescued me from my second mishap, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Not really, did we, Julia? Charles carried you halfway. When he met us, he left you with us and went back to help Alec and Gerald. We were expecting servants to come along after us, you see. But you were getting awfully chilly, and we were just wondering whether we’d be able to carry you between us when Madison arrived. So he carried you till we met the gardeners, then he handed you over to one of the gardener’s boys. Fred was his name, wasn’t it, Julia?”

  Julia laughed. “No, that was what Madison called him, and the head gardener got shirty about the chauffeur giving his lads orders, remember? The one who actually carried you to the house, Lady Ottaline, was Billy.”

  “I seem to have been passed round like a parcel. You’d better hand out a few hefty tips, Des.”

  Sir Desmond grunted. He looked, if anything, less well than his wife, as if he had spent a sleepless night. It didn’t seem to have affected his appetite, however, and what little he said was as suave as ever.

  Neither he nor Lady Ottaline made any mention of church-going, but Charles said he would join the ladies. At once Gerald looked up from the heaped plateful he was methodically demolishing, and caught Alec’s eye.

  “I’ll accompany you, if I may, Lady Beaufort,” Gerald said. “It’s been a while, I’m afraid. You won’t mind guiding me through the Prayer Book. I bet I remember the hymns, though. Had them thoroughly drummed into us at school.”

  Daisy guessed that Alec had asked him to keep an eye on any suspects who left Appsworth—which meant Charles was still on the list, alas. She wondered about the chapel-goers. She was pretty sure Pritchard and Howell were in the clear. Perhaps Alec had asked Pritchard to make sure Mrs. Howell didn’t flit. He might
not hold a grudge, but he had no cause to love his sister-in-law. In any case, her chances of getting far under her own steam appeared slight.

  In fact, she was such a wishy-washy person, Daisy simply couldn’t believe she had the gumption to blow up the blasphemous grotto, with or without the immoral Rhino and his mistress in it. Her outburst against Pritchard, if not a fit of madness, had been more spite than a deliberate attempt to implicate him.

  People dispersed. Daisy felt she ought to have a go at the few notes she had made for Boyle, having given them as an excuse for skipping church. She had been too tired to tackle them last night. She took her notebook to the library, where she sat and stared at the hieroglyphics. Her mind was elsewhere. She had a familiar feeling she was missing something vital, some clue, some observed quirk of character or behaviour, that would change the picture entirely. The more she sought it, the more elusive it became.

  Alec came in. “I’m going over to the diggings, love, the place where the hillside collapsed, to see if Boyle’s found anything. Want to come?”

  “Seriously? Don’t you think he’ll throw a fit if I turn up?”

  “He can’t stop you going for a walk. He can keep you at a certain distance, and of course he doesn’t have to tell you anything. Or if he makes you shake in your shoes, you could hide behind a tree—”

  “Darling, honestly! I’m not afraid of the man. I just don’t want to queer your pitch. But I’d like to come. I was thinking earlier that it’s a beautiful day for a walk.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  They went out by the terrace. As they crossed the paving stones, Daisy’s nagging sense that she was forgetting something returned.

  “Your forehead’s all wrinkled,” Alec said. “Better hope the wind doesn’t change. What is it?”

  “That’s the trouble, I don’t know. I’m sure I do know something helpful, something important, but what it is . . .” She shrugged helplessly.

  “You, too? It’s far more likely to be valid in your case than mine, though. You’ve known these people longer than I have, and you were here yesterday morning.”