by Carola Dunn
The Assistant Commissioner for Crime of the Metropolitan Police was one of the very few people who knew the whole story of Daisy’s involvement at Wentwater Court. Alec was convinced he heard him wince over the wire when her name was pronounced. The thought of the Honourable Miss Dalrymple running wild in the middle of a murder case was enough to make the A.C. shudder—and send Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher to try to rein her in.
The Chief Constable of Cheshire, unaware—lucky man—of Daisy’s proclivities, was only too glad for reasons of his own to have Scotland Yard take over a case that promised to turn into a disaster.
An hour and a half after Daisy’s phone call, Alec hung up for the last time, sat back, and said in a voice full of misgiving, “Well, I’m off. Piper can drive me and I’ll try to deal with some of this bumf en route.” He gathered a sheaf of papers and shoved them into his attaché case, pretending not to notice Tom’s expectant look. “And I’m leaving you, Sergeant, in charge of unmasking the mysterious George Brown.”
“Right, Chief,” said Tom, his broad face clouding. “Can’t be more’n ten thousand George Browns in London, give or take a couple. And not a clue what he sells.”
Alec relented. “There must be some sort of listing of firms which use travelling representatives. Try employment agencies. I’ll authorize three constables to help on the phones. Then when you’ve run the bloke to earth, hop on a train to join us. Don’t take too long about it, Tom. Young Ernie deserves his chance but with a parlourmaid and a gardener involved we’ll need to look below-stairs for answers, and there’s no one to beat you in the servants’ hall.”
Tom stroked his moustache. “Right, Chief,” he said again, slightly cheered. “My best respects to Miss Dalrymple.”
With a load off her mind after speaking to Alec, Daisy went to find Phillip in the lounge of the Bear and Billet, the ancient inn in Chester where they had lunched. “He’s coming,” she announced.
“Just like that, because you asked him to?” Phillip said sceptically.
“Well, he said he’ll see what he can do, and I know he’ll manage it somehow.”
“Hang it all, Daisy, I don’t like it, inviting a busy in to pry into the private affairs of people like us.”
“For heaven’s sake, do stop calling Mr. Fletcher a busy,” she snapped. “Murder is not a private affair and Lady Valeria is not ‘people like us.’”
“You know what I mean. Oh, all right, I dare say Fletcher is a good enough fellow for a policeman, and Lady Valeria is in a class of her own. I can’t say I’m frightfully looking forward to meeting her tonight.”
“Just be your usual charming self. The Gorgon won’t turn you to stone unless you start chatting about the murder.” An unnecessary warning; Phillip was far too well bred to dream of such a solecism. His social savoir-faire was impeccable. “It’ll be a relief to have you there.”
“I suppose we’d better be buzzing back.”
“No hurry.” Daisy found herself distinctly reluctant to return to Occles Hall. “I must buy an ink-ribbon first. Oh drat, I forgot to check what size the machine takes.”
“That hardly matters since you don’t really need one,” Phillip pointed out, so they went in search of a stationer’s.
Daisy was enchanted with the Rows, the shops whose roofs served as a galleried walk for another, set-back arcade of shops built on top. Exploring, she almost forgot the murder. Then they walked the circuit of the city walls, past the cathedral, the canal, the race-track, the castle, along the river and back. By then the sky was clouding over and she reluctantly decided she ought to put in an appearance for tea at Occles Hall.
As they drove up the hill through Occleswich, a few raindrops spotted the dust on the Swift’s bonnet. Daisy saw a familiar stocky figure come out of the Cheshire Cheese.
“There’s Bobbie Parslow,” she said. “We’d better squeeze her in. It’s going to pour any minute.”
Phillip obligingly pulled up and Daisy introduced him. Scrambling back to the dickey seat, she induced Bobbie to take the front passenger seat. She thought Bobbie seemed oddly excited, at once guilty and defiant, but Phillip’s affable social chatter quickly set her at ease. He dropped them in the entrance passage and put up the Swift’s hood before reversing over the bridge and rattling off.
“He’s jolly nice,” said Bobbie as they went in.
“Yes, Phillip’s a good egg. I’ve known him practically since I was born. His people’s place shares a boundary with Fairacres and he was my brother’s best chum.”
“But you don’t … I mean, he hasn’t … ?” Bobbie flushed.
“Oh, he proposes every now and then. More because he feels it his duty to look after Gervaise’s little sister than anything else, I think. But he hasn’t a bean, any more than I have, just an allowance from his father. He does something in the City, and being a Micawber he … .”
“A what?”
“Micawber, the Dickens character who was always sure something would turn up. Didn’t you do David Copperfield at school? Anyway, even if by a miracle Phillip did make a killing on the Stock Exchange, I wouldn’t marry him.”
“Oh. Don’t you want to marry?”
Daisy thought of Michael, dead and gone; of Alec, a middle-class widower with a nine-year-old daughter she hadn’t met yet: Alec, who was rushing from London to Cheshire at her behest. She sighed, smiled. “Under the right circumstances,” she said, “I shouldn’t have anything against it.”
“Really? Because I … .”
“Oh there you are, Roberta.” Lady Valeria lay in wait in the Long Hall. With a curt nod to Daisy, she turned back to her daughter. “I’ve been looking for you. Where on earth have you been?”
“I just walked down to the vicarage. I took Mrs. Lake the cake recipe you recommended to her.” Bobbie shot a pleading glance at Daisy, who immediately started wondering what she’d been doing at the inn.
“Recipe? You’ve never taken the least interest in recipes, more’s the pity. I want to talk to you about the Girl Guides’ meeting next week.” She drew Bobbie away and Daisy went upstairs to take off her hat and coat.
The typewriter ribbon was the wrong kind. She hoped the shop would give her her money back, or at least change it.
Picking up her comb to tidy her hair, Daisy gazed unseeing at the mirror. What had Bobbie been doing at the Cheshire Cheese that she didn’t want her mother to know about? More than likely Lady Valeria would object to her going there for any reason, but if so, what had led her to defy the ban?
A taste for forbidden gin? Grinning, Daisy shook her head at herself. Not healthy, hearty Bobbie, and anyway the bars would not have been open at that hour.
Perhaps she had caught wind of the local constable’s enquiries about the commercial traveller. She might hope for information which would exculpate her brother—except that she had no way of knowing anyone suspected him. Or she herself might suspect him and hope to suppress damning information.
Or she might have killed Grace to protect him.
Daisy shivered. Maybe Phillip was right and one ought to let well alone. But all was not well, she reminded herself sternly. A girl had been brutally murdered and an innocent man was in prison.
She squared her shoulders and reluctantly went down to tea. Everyone except Sir Reginald had gathered in the Yellow Parlour. No stranger dropping in could conceivably have guessed that a human body had been dug up in the garden two days ago.
Lady Valeria and Bobbie continued to talk about the Girl Guides—Daisy gathered Bobbie was a troop leader and Lady Valeria, naturally, headed some committee. Sebastian and Ben were in high spirits. They had been reading together about ruins on some of the smaller Greek islands whose archaeological significance had not yet been investigated.
“Even Ithaca has scarcely been touched,” Sebastian told Daisy enthusiastically. “Schliemann only dug a trench or two. Think of it, Ulysses’ own home!”
“‘It little profits that an idle king,’” Daisy quoted, tr
ying not to think of trench-digging, “‘By this still hearth, among these barren crags … .’ It’s amazing how a poem learnt by heart years ago sticks in one’s mind. I always liked that one.”
“Tennyson’s sequel to Homer,” said Ben, grinning.
“Oh, Tennyson be blowed.” Sebastian dismissed the late Poet Laureate with a wave of the hand. “I don’t suppose he ever actually saw the barren crags, or even set foot in Greece.”
“If you like, Sebastian,” said his mother indulgently, “we might consider going to Corfu next winter instead of the Riviera. I believe it’s quite civilized.”
“That would be a nice change, Mater,” Sebastian said in a colourless voice, and exchanged a glance with Ben. Daisy presumed there was little or no chance of Lady Valeria agreeing to take the secretary with them.
However stunning, Sebastian could not be described as resolute or strong-willed. Was she crazy to think he might have murdered Grace? No; though she simply could not imagine him planning so dire a deed, in a fit of temper—on the spur of the moment—anything was possible.
After tea, he challenged her to a game of backgammon. She hadn’t played for some time, and when she went astray he reminded her of the rules with such charming good humour that she was overcome with guilt at the prospect of setting Alec onto him.
Then he chivalrously let her win, which so annoyed her that she went up to change quite at loggerheads with him.
Phillip was not the only guest at dinner. Lady Valeria had also invited Lord and Lady Bristow, an elderly couple whose estate adjoined Occles Hall, and their middle-aged spinster daughter. Not by a word did any of the three indicate an awareness of the recent shocking events. With four outsiders present, everyone had on their social faces, and Daisy was amazed at the banality of the occasion.
Miss Bristow, for one, was never at a loss for a word. Addicted to good works, she was both garrulous and sanctimonious. Seated beside her at the table, Ben Goodman listened with admirable courtesy and patience, but he couldn’t quite hide his relief when Bobbie claimed his attention. Miss Bristow addressed Sir Reginald, on her other side, and Daisy saw his eyes glaze as the flood washed over him.
Meanwhile, poor Phillip was undergoing interrogation by Lady Valeria, on his family, his schooling, and his prospects. She didn’t seem to recall her row with his mother, but doubtless it had been nothing out of the ordinary for her. Nor, somewhat to Daisy’s surprise, did she demand his reason for staying in Occleswich. Either she assumed he had an understanding with Daisy, or she was afraid the murder had something to do with it.
Good manners and an easy temper carried him through, but when he was able to turn back to Daisy, she had a distinct impression that he would have liked to wipe his forehead.
“Was there a Greek monster who melted her victims into a little puddle?” he asked in an undertone.
“Ask Ben, he’s the expert. The nearest I know of is Phoebus, the sun god, who could be said to have melted the wax in Icarus’ wings.”
“I remember that story,” said Phillip, pleased.
After dinner, following Lady Valeria and the Bristow ladies to the drawing room, Bobbie whispered to Daisy, “You really don’t want to marry Mr. Petrie? You and he get on so well together. If I were you, I’d snap him up.”
“Why don’t you try?”
“Oh no, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that every time I see Miss Bristow, I can picture myself ending up exactly the same.”
“She seems quite happy,” said Daisy dubiously. She was sure she herself would never turn into a Miss Bristow, even if she never married, but if she’d been forced to live with her mother she might have. And if she’d stayed at Fairacres when those worthy, well-meaning fossils Edgar and Geraldine moved in, it would have been practically inevitable. Frightful thought!
The rest of the evening was decorously dull. Phillip discovered mutual Army acquaintances with Ben, but he buzzed off as early as he decently could and the Bristows did not long outstay him. Daisy was about to bid the others good-night and go up to bed when Moody plodded in to say Mr. Petrie wished to speak to her on the telephone.
She made her way to the Long Gallery. Could he have come across a clue? Or perhaps after meeting Lady Valeria he had decided to flee Occleswich at daybreak, she thought, shutting the phone cubby door behind her. Much as she had resented his arrival, she’d really rather like him to stay.
“Phillip? What’s up?”
“A friend of yours has arrived, old bean. It’ll be all over the county by morning but he asked me to put through the call so as not to wise up the natives betimes. Here he is.”
Daisy smiled. However much Phillip resented Alec, he’d do as the detective asked.
“Miss Dalrymple?” The sound of his tired voice was infinitely reassuring.
“Good evening, Mr. Fletcher. Since you’re here, I take it I did the right thing in squawking for help?”
“I certainly hope so. But I still know very little of your reasons. I’d like to talk to you before I see the big chief tomorrow. Can you come down to the inn early?”
“Eight o’clock? I’ll join you for breakfast. I am glad you’ve come.” Let him take that professionally or personally, whichever he preferred.
She hung up. Was it Vi who had told her no woman should consider marrying a man whose behaviour at the breakfast table she had never observed? Usually a house-party took care of that, but Alec was not likely to be invited to any house-party.
Not that she was considering marrying him. It was entirely Bobbie’s fault the thought had even crossed her mind. She promptly banished it and instead considered what she was going to tell him tomorrow.
The awful truth was, she had nothing but intuition to explain her belief that Owen Morgan was not a murderer.
8
Under a pillar-box red umbrella, Daisy walked down to the Cheshire Cheese next morning. In the rain the village wasn’t half so picturesque. In fact the forced sameness of the cottages gave it a rather sterile air, although more people were about, despite the rain, than there had been on Whitbury market day. An occasional roof of tile or thatch instead of slate, a row of leeks in a front garden, even an intrusive building of Georgian brick would have been welcome. At least the inn’s half-timbering was genuine, of the same period as the Hall, to judge by the crooked beams, the wavering roofline, and the step down into the lobby.
Closing her umbrella as she stepped down, Daisy heard the church clock strike eight. Dead on time. A professional start to the interview the prospect of which was making her ridiculously nervous. She touched her coat pocket where reposed a sheaf of papers.
Alec and Phillip, crisp, dark hair and sleek blond, were already seated together at a table in the small dining room. Poor Phillip looked distinctly ill at ease. No doubt Daisy’s friendship with Alec had put him in an awkward situation, making it difficult to treat the detective as a distant and far from desirable acquaintance.
Only one of the other three tables was occupied, by a thin, slightly shabby man of a type Daisy instantly recognized as all too common in Chelsea. Artistically dishevelled hair worn a bit too long, a green corduroy jacket and a flowing cravat, the faraway, rapt look of one expecting imminent inspiration: he must be the poet Phillip had mentioned.
Seeing Daisy, Alec rose and pulled out a chair for her. Phillip stumbled to his feet, not only uneasy but still not quite awake. Alec, broader of shoulder though not so tall, was alert, his clear, observant grey eyes smiling at her as he bade her “Good-morning.”
Her nervousness vanished and she returned the smile as she sat down. “Good-morning, gentlemen.”
“I was going to fetch you in the car,” said Alec, “because of the rain, but Mr. Petrie explained that I’d probably miss you because of the shortcut to the village.”
“You would have. It’s all right, it isn’t the beastly kind of cold, windy rain which blows in under an umbrella. The walk has given me a terrific appetite.”
“They do a good breakfast h
ere,” Phillip assured her, “though I don’t usually get to it till an hour later.”
The peroxided girl who had showed her to the dining room came to take their orders. As she left, Daisy said to Alec, “Isn’t Mr. Tring with you?” She bit back a giggle as she imagined Phillip’s face had he been forced to breakfast with the vast sergeant.
“Tom’ll be joining me later. Ernie Piper’s eating in the kitchen and … er … gossiping.” With a slight movement of his head, Alec indicated the poet. “But no business till after breakfast,” he said firmly.
“By George, no,” Phillip agreed. “In fact, unless you want me to stick around, Daisy, I’ll see if I can borrow a pair of dungarees and have a go at the old bus. She was making a dashed sinister noise when I drove down from the Hall last night.”
“She always does.”
“A new noise,” he said with dignity.
“You do your own mechanical work?” Alec asked, surprised. He confessed that his Austin Seven was serviced by the police motor-pool mechanics, fortunately, as he had no mechanical aptitude. Not that he had had any trouble with it yet; it was only a few months old. Nonetheless he appeared happy to spend the rest of the meal discussing the quirks of the internal combustion engine and its various ancillary attachments. Daisy was bored stiff, but she observed Alec’s low opinion of Phillip rising a notch or two.
The poet left as Daisy bagged the last slice of toast from the toast rack and finished off the marmalade. “I’ll order some more,” she said guiltily.
“Not for me,” said Phillip. “It’s stopped raining. I’ll buzz along now, if you don’t need me.”
He addressed Daisy, but Alec answered. “Not at present, but don’t leave Occleswich without letting me know, please. It’s possible you may be able to confirm some of Miss Dalrymple’s report.”
