by Carola Dunn
“We have plenty left to work with, more than we had a few minutes ago. Look, man, if you think the Yard expects to clear up a murder case in twenty-four hours, I can assure you you’re mistaken. You’re getting along nicely. We have Wandersley and Carlin to replace the two that Billy cleared, and Mrs. Howell and Lady Ottaline are still in the picture. More’s the pity. I’d rather have got rid of them.”
“Billy did think the person he saw was a big man, but he’s on the scrawny side so anyone might look big to him. Anyway it could have been Rydal off to make preparations for his love-nest. Or if it was Sir Desmond, likely he was just going for his stroll, like he said. I just can’t see a Principal Secretary going round bumping people off. And a ‘Sir,’ too.”
“Principal Deputy Secretary. Somewhat less exalted. Not that I think civil service rank has any correlation with murderous tendencies, or the reverse. He’s spent his life repressing his feelings, in his marriage as well as his profession, apparently—”
“Oh, that psycho-stuff. I don’t cotton to all that rubbish.”
“It has its points. As for his having been knighted, neither knighthood nor nobility ever was or ever will be a guarantee of virtue. The Wandersleys both have strong motives.”
“Carlin hasn’t got much.” The inspector was determined to look on the gloomy side.
“Not for long premeditation. Unless there’s something in their past dealings to be dug out.”
“Which we’re not likely ever to dig out.”
“It shouldn’t be very difficult. But let’s cross that bridge if we come to it. Let’s suppose a flare of temper when Rydal insulted Carlin. He leaves in a huff, as Daisy said, then he remembers Rydal’s rendezvous and the talk of explosions in the grotto. He himself has already announced his intention to go up to town from Swindon without returning to Appsworth. . . .
It might look like the ideal way to get his own back without risk of consequences. Probably without any idea beyond singeing Rydal’s eyebrows.”
“Like the chauffeur,” DS Thomkin put in.
“I can see he might think it up,” said Boyle, “but I’d expect him to cool off on the way to the grotto. Still, we’d better have another go at him after what Mrs. Fletcher told us.”
“Perhaps we ought to confirm Daisy’s story first,” Alec said diplomatically. “She said Appsworth and Julia were still at breakfast with Wandersley and Rydal when she and Lucy left.”
“Right, sir. Thomkin, go and get those two.”
Alec and Boyle barely had time to start discussing whether any of their suspects could have foreseen the dire consquences of turning on the gas, when Thomkin returned.
“They’ve gone to the grotto, sir,” he reported. “They’ve all gone to the grotto, with Lady Gerald, like you said she could. All ’cepting Lady Beaufort.”
“Bloody hell!” swore Boyle. “What the devil are they playing at?”
“I don’t know,” Alec said grimly, “but if Daisy’s gone to the grotto with a bunch of dodgy characters against one of whom she’s liable to have to give evidence, I’m going after her.”
Daisy stopped on the platform at the foot of the steps, facing the much diminished waterfall. Lucy went ahead up to the grotto, followed by Carlin bearing her impedimenta. She’d been muttering all the way about swarms of people getting in the way of her photography.
“You can’t really tell what it was like,” Daisy said to Gerald. “The waterfall was very pretty, and marvellous at night, lit from behind. And that statue up there in the middle had a head. I wonder if it fell in the pool.”
She went to the edge and, hanging on to Gerald’s arm, peered over. The once-charming pool was an expanse of mud with a trickle winding across it. Tethys’s spattered face stared blindly up at her.
“Nasty business,” said Gerald.
“The explosion, or the collapse, must have shaken the whole hill. I hope Mr. Pritchard is able to restore the grotto. For the second time, poor man! But look, Gerald, I do believe the flow is increasing.”
“Possibly,” Gerald said cautiously.
“The stream must be gradually washing away the debris blocking it.” Hearing voices, Daisy looked back as Julia and Charles came round the bend.
“Of course you don’t have to,” Julia was saying passionately. “Who cares what anyone says. Let alone what they think.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not that, it’s what I—. Oh! Hello, you two.”
“What’s wrong?” Having averted an arrest, Daisy wasn’t going to put up with misunderstandings where she had been counting on a wedding.
“Nothing,” said Charles.
“Yes there is.” Julia was too upset to pretend.
“Julia, don’t!”
“Charles was buried alive in a collapsing trench during the War.”
“I know,” Gerald mumbled uncomfortably.
Julia turned to Daisy. “When the grotto blew up, it reminded him, and now he thinks everyone will say he’s a coward if he doesn’t go back in.”
“Of course he’s not,” Daisy said firmly.
“That’s what I keep telling him.”
Gerald shook his head. “It’s not you he has to convince, Miss Beaufort. Not us. It’s himself. If what it takes is going into the grotto, don’t make it more difficult for him.”
Without another word, Charles started up the steps, his face set. Julia went after him.
“I suppose we might as well go, too,” said Daisy.
“Don’t crowd him.”
“Oh. Right-oh.” She turned back to the waterfall, just in time to see it suddenly double in size with a whoosh. “Look! The water is breaking through.”
The trickle in the mud became a rivulet. Daisy watched fascinated as new geographic features were carved in miniature before her eyes. Then she heard voices again.
“Here come the others. Let’s get out of their way.”
Glancing up at the grotto she saw no sign of Charles lingering near the mouth. Lucy had probably roped him in to help. Being obliged to do something—anything—was usually the best antidote to an excess of emotion of any kind, in Daisy’s experience.
She started up the steps, but Gerald stayed below, doubtless to avoid embarrassing Charles after Julia’s outburst (to be blamed on the French influence, perhaps?) about his weakness. Daisy thought Gerald had handled the situation with unexpected delicacy. He was usually such a taciturn chap that when he did open his mouth and reveal glimpse of his character, it quite often surprised her.
Halfway up she looked down. Gerald was pointing out the fallen head of the river goddess to Pritchard and Howell. Mrs. Howell stood with her back to the cliff, staring up at the headless torso with an expression of grim approval. She didn’t appear to have any desire to inspect the destruction of the idols from a closer vantage point. Daisy wondered if it was wise of Pritchard to stand on the edge with his back to his sister-in-law. Then Lady Ottaline and her husband came round the corner, crossed between Mrs. Howell and the men, and approached the steps.
With the sound of the waterfall so much diminished, Daisy heard Lady Ottaline say sharply, “Come along, Des. I’m the one who was battered. Twice. If I can manage the climb, so can you.”
Why she was so insistent on returning to the scene, Daisy couldn’t imagine. Having no desire to speak to Lady Ottaline, Daisy hurried up the rest of the way and stepped into the grotto. She couldn’t see much for a minute as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Julia came to meet her. Further back, Charles and Carlin were apparently clearing a space for Lucy to set up her tripod.
“Daisy, I’m so sorry,” Julia said in a low voice. “I shouldn’t have blurted out . . . what I did. Charles had just told me and I was so upset I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“I know. You needn’t be afraid I’ll tell anyone else. Even Alec.”
“I gather Alec already knows, as Lord Gerald does. My poor Charles had to explain why he couldn’t help them in here right after the explosion. I feel such a f
ool for embarrassing him and you—. Oh, blast, here come the Wandersleys.” Julia took Daisy’s arm and stepped backwards into the shadow of the headless Tethys.
Following, Daisy looked back. Lady Ottaline came into the grotto. As Sir Desmond reached the top step, she moved further in, out of his way and turned towards him. The moment he was clear of the railing, she gave him a vigorous shove.
For a moment he tottered on the edge. Then, with a shout of terror, he toppled over.
Julia screamed.
How deep was the mud? The question hammered in Daisy’s mind. How deep? The depth might be the difference between life and death.
“Daisy, get away from the edge!” Charles yelled.
She hadn’t realised she was approaching the edge, hadn’t consciously wanted to see what had happened to Sir Desmond. Julia grabbed her and pulled her back as Charles and Carlin pounded past Lady Ottaline and down the steps.
Lady Ottaline was laughing, high-pitched, hysterical. Grabbing the end of the stair-rail, she hung on and leant forwards to look down.
“She pushed him!” Daisy cried.
“No, darling.” Lucy seemed to think Daisy was also hysterical. “That was the other evening, and I said he pushed her into the stream, but I wasn’t serious.”
Instantly Lady Ottaline stopped laughing. “Not serious?” she hissed. “He did push me. I felt his hand on my back, and then I was flying through the air.”
“It could have been Rhino who pushed you,” Lucy pointed out.
“He wouldn’t! He loved me. That’s why Des blew him up, the bastard. Not jealousy. Oh no, he didn’t care about me. His reputation was all he cared about.” Lady Ottaline stared from one to another of the three facing her, and alarm flickered in her eyes. “But you’re wrong, I didn’t push him over. How could I? A big, heavy man like Des! I’m not strong enough.”
“I saw it, too,” said Julia. “You caught him off balance. If he’s dead, you—” She broke off as a peculiar roaring noise came from behind them.
Daisy swung round just in time to see a surge of water burst through the rear wall. The gaping sea-serpent, already missing several teeth, cracked and crumbled. The renascent stream swooshed along its bed, flinging spray over the low wall, rushing towards the drop into the mud puddle, soon to be a pool once more.
A pool with people in it. Even as the realisation dawned, Daisy dropped to her knees and stretched out full length with her head and shoulders over the edge.
“Water coming!” she shouted, waving her arms. “River’s rising! Flood! Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! Murder and treason!”
Somehow Charles and Carlin had already got down to the fallen man. Knee-deep in mud, they seemed to be trying to sit him up. Alive, then, Daisy thought thankfully. At her shout, they looked up, then redoubled their efforts. Gerald, lying flat on the platform—perhaps he’d lowered the other two?—called to them and they changed their tactics. They grabbed Sir Desmond under the armpits and started to drag him towards the side of the pool.
The waterfall arrived. As it hit, mud fountained upwards.
“She’s getting away!” Lucy cried, releasing Daisy’s ankle. Until she let go, Daisy hadn’t noticed that Lucy and Julia were both hanging on to her. Julia let go, too, and they stood up.
Daisy rolled over and sat up. “Who? Oh, Lady Ottaline!”
The lady in question was stepping carefully but swiftly over Gerald’s outstretched legs. Pritchard and Howell, kneeling on either side of Gerald, didn’t notice her sneaking by behind them. Mrs. Howell stared at her but made no attempt to stop her. Why should she? She couldn’t have seen what had happened up above.
Round the corner came Detective Inspector Boyle, followed by Alec and two hefty detective sergeants.
“Thank heaven,” said Daisy with a sigh, relaxing. “They’ll take care of everything.”
Julia gripped the railing, as Lady Ottaline had, and leant over for a better view of what was going on directly below. “They’ve got Sir Desmond over to the rushes. It’s shallower there, but the water’s rising. I’m going down.”
“Phew, what’s that foul smell?” Lucy demanded.
Daisy sniffed, and wished she hadn’t. “They must have stirred up the bottom mud.”
“It’s disgusting. I hope Gerald stays out of it. I’m going to get on with the photos before I’m asphyxiated.” With the arrival of the police to take charge, the single-minded Lucy had lost interest in mere mayhem. “Come and hold the flash for me, darling.”
Daisy hadn’t lost interest, but she was in no hurry to report what she’d seen and heard to Inspector Boyle. Besides, a certain amount of mud was bound to be splashed about in the course of the rescue of the men in the pool, and though less fastidious than Lucy, Daisy had no desire to be on the receiving end.
“Right-oh, darling,” she said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“It’s a damned awkward situation,” Alec said irritably, wrestling with his collar stud. He hated wearing his dinner jacket, and stiff shirts were anathema.
Mrs. Howell, having lost three of her more distinguished guests to death and the police, had chosen to show the flag with a decree that the rest were to dress for dinner. She would not reign at Appsworth Hall much longer, but for the moment Pritchard was still prepared to indulge her.
“Let me get those studs for you, darling,” Daisy offered.
He held his arms out to allow her access. “I don’t know why I let Boyle inveigle me into being his unofficial assistant.” At least for once he wasn’t blaming Daisy for his entanglement. “I must have been mad.”
“If Superintendent Crane gets to hear of it, you can always plead temporary insanity. Is that what Lady Ottaline’s going to do, do you think?”
“Who knows? With your and Julia’s evidence, she can’t avoid a charge of assault and battery, but there was no grievous bodily harm, just an unbelievable amount of mud.”
“I’m glad you didn’t have to go in to help. Charles and Carlin both still have a faint miasma floating round them.” She fastened the last stud and his arms closed round her.
“Mind my frock!” she yelped. “And your shirt.” After a careful but thorough kiss, she resumed: “Mmm, very glad you didn’t land in the pool, darling. You’re quite sure it was Sir Desmond who killed Rhino, I suppose? All you said at tea was that he’d been arrested.”
“Not everyone wants a review of the evidence with their scones and Welsh-cakes.”
“Freshly baked scones! I do think Barker is a marvel to keep the household running so smoothly with all the upsets the servants have been having.”
“No, we are not getting a butler.”
“I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it, even if we could lure Barker away, which I doubt. I don’t think he’d approve of us, what with your irregular hours and the twins. Besides, Mrs. Dobson would be terribly hurt. Sir Desmond . . . ?”
“For a start, your friend Billy—”
“My friend!”
“That’s how Boyle refers to him: ‘Mrs. Fletcher’s friend Billy.’ He saw a big man hurrying down through the gardens from the direction of the grotto. He had no notion of the time—he works till he’s finished the job or the head gardener calls him for his dinner. Of course, Rydal himself could have gone up there for some reason. Billy wouldn’t necessarily have observed anyone else going or coming later.”
“But Sir Desmond and Rhino were the only two noticeably large men. Until Gerald arrived.”
“Yes. Still, it’s not proof. Wandersley could have been taking his daily stroll, as advertised. Howell confirms that Carlin told him about Wandersley’s digestive difficulties. Julia and Appsworth agree that when they left the breakfast room, shortly after you and Lucy, only Wandersley and Rydal remained.”
“A combustible—not to say explosive—combination, especially as Rhino had just made that remark to Carlin about bone-lazy bureaucrats. I wonder if that’s when the idea of actually blowing him up occurred to Sir Desmond.”
�
��It hardly matters, from a legal point of view. He can’t very well claim there was no premeditation. Still, it’s always awkward arresting a bigwig. I must say, Boyle handled it with suitable dignity and solemnity.”
“Good for Boyle. But you have no real proof, just circumstantial evidence.”
“Circumstantial evidence is perfectly valid in a court of law, though juries tend to prefer eyewitnesses, however unreliable, and fingerprints, however smudged.”
“He might get off. I have to admit to a certain sympathy.”
“For a murderer? And you the wife of a copper?”
“You didn’t meet Rhino.”
“True. He seems to have made a present of motives to practically everyone. The manservant is clear on technical grounds, but unfortunately, we haven’t been able to completely rule out the other two remaining suspects.”
“Lady Ottaline and Mrs. Howell. No dabs on the gas taps, I take it.”
“Nothing useful. He was probably wearing gloves, or else he gripped them by the edges. What we do have is a confession—”
“Well, what more can you want?”
“—Of sorts. Not to a sworn officer, unfortunately. Wandersley told Appsworth and Carlin, when they were extracting him from the mud, that he wished he’d bagged Lady Ottaline in the explosion, but he had failed to take into account her persistent unpunctuality.”
Daisy couldn’t help laughing. “She is practically always late.”
“But now he’s shut up and won’t say another word without his lawyer’s advice,” Alec said gloomily.
“I suppose you couldn’t find the torch.”
“Torch? What torch?”
“Darling, he must have had an electric torch. It was pitch-black in the back room, no natural light, and he could hardly use an open flame to find the taps when he was about to turn them on, could he?”
“Great Scott, Daisy! I must phone Boyle at once—no, he won’t have reached Swindon yet. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Actually, it’s only just dawned on me.”
“It should have dawned on me or Boyle. One gets so used to clicking a switch.”
