The Winter Garden Mystery

by Carola Dunn

  Brown collects his bags, drives up to the wicket-gate, gets fed up waiting in his car, walks up the path and meets Grace. Perhaps she even takes him into the Winter Garden to ensure privacy. She tells him she isn’t going with him. As she turns away to hurry back to the Hall before the doors are locked—having decided to stay, she wouldn’t want to risk being locked out—he hits her.

  The timing was tight, but by no means impossible. Brown left the inn shortly after ten thirty; Moody locked up at the Hall at eleven thirty. Time enough, and once she was dead he had all the time in the world to bury her.

  Thin motive, Alec thought. He’d have a better idea what was what once he’d seen Brown. Right now, Goodman was waiting for him.

  While he worked out Brown’s possible movements, the men had been arguing about precisely who said what. He asked them a few more questions, which they answered with apparent candour if unhelpfully. Everyone who had been at the Cheshire Cheese that December night had been debating it ever since the body was discovered. No one had seen anything worthy of note or they’d have told each other, if not the police.

  Alec was about to buy his informants one last round when Carney said, “Yon fella never told us what he were a-selling of. I ’spect you’ll know that, Chief Inspector?”

  Alec pondered for a brief moment. Brown’s job was hardly a secret and anyway the chances were excellent he’d never return to Occleswich. “He sells ready-to-wear corsets,” he informed them.

  This was met with such delighted mirth—broad grins, raucous laughter, and slapping of thighs—he wished he’d told them sooner. He might not have had to rely on Daisy to break the ice. As it was, she’d hold her assistance over his head whenever he tried to disengage her from the investigation.

  He looked around for her. Just as he spotted her, sitting with Goodman and Petrie now, the landlord called out, “Time, gentlemen, please.”

  Too late for Goodman tonight. He did look exhausted. With luck the offer of a lift up the hill would put him in a helpful frame of mind tomorrow.

  When Alec returned from driving up the hill, he was astonished to find Petrie and Piper together in the bar-parlour. They were talking sports again, over a legal-to-residents nightcap. Petrie was a simple soul at heart, his snobbish notions a thin veneer over a friendly, modest chap inclined to like everyone he met, even Stan Moss.

  Piper had seen the blacksmith earlier in the public bar, the only point of interest he had to report. Moss came in looking surly. As Piper approached, some helpful soul pointed him out as a detective investigating Grace’s death, whereupon Moss had scowled, spat on the sawdust-covered floor, and stalked out.

  “I says to the bloke I was with, ‘That’s a bit odd, seeing we’re trying to find the chummie what done his daughter in.’ And he says as Moss don’t like the police on account of her ladyship setting ‘em on him. ’Sides, he’s made up his mind Morgan done it, and he’s afraid we’re going to let him out. Seems he’s got it in for the Taffies, Chief, ever since his wife ran off with a Welshman.”

  “So the artist was a Welshman, was he? Well, like it or not, I have to see Moss sooner or later, and after the funeral tomorrow is as good a time as any. We’ll go up to the Hall first, though.”

  Daisy would be out of the way while he interrogated her new friend. She had said she was at last going to visit the dairy.

  First thing next morning, Alec reported by telephone to his Super at the Yard. As he expected, he was given until Monday to clear the case up or turn it back to the local police. “You’ve set ’em straight,” grunted Superintendent Crane. “That’s what you’re there for. I can’t spare you to do their work for ’em.”

  The day was overcast but dry and mild. As Alec drove out of the inn yard, he glanced down the hill. Lady Valeria’s unmistakably imposing tweed-clad rear view was receding along the track by the church, towards the vicarage and school.

  “Excellent,” he said to Piper. “I’ll see young Parslow first, while she’s out. In fact, we might as well get statements from both him and Goodman, so you’ll take notes. You can carry on with the servants while I’m at the funeral. If you have time, start typing up the statements on Constable Rudge’s machine. We’ll meet at the Cheshire Cheese at one for lunch.”

  “Right, Chief.”

  Moody admitted them with his usual sour face but without comment. Parslow and Goodman were strolling on the terrace, the younger man accommodating his long stride to the other’s limping pace. Intent on their conversation, they both started when they turned at the end and saw Alec waiting for them, watching them.

  Goodman resigned, Parslow frightened, they approached.

  “I’d like a word with you first, Mr. Parslow, if you please. Then with you, Mr. Goodman.”

  Parslow looked around wildly. The secretary touched his shoulder and said, “Why don’t you use the library, Sebastian? Shall I go with you?”

  “I’d prefer not, sir,” Alec said in his most stolid, policemanly manner. “Mr. Parslow is at liberty to refuse to speak to me without his solicitor present.”

  “No! I don’t need a lawyer.” The young man managed a wavering smile. “I’ll come quietly, Officer.”

  In the library, in his preferred place behind the desk, Alec explained that Piper would be taking notes to be transcribed into a formal statement. Piper seated himself at the long library table, behind the suspect, where his unobtrusive presence would be forgotten by all but the most self-possessed, which Parslow was not.

  Alec took him through the sorry story he had told the day before. The only material change was that this time he reported, with attempted nonchalance, his visit to Goodman’s bedroom at eleven forty-five.

  “Why didn’t you mention that yesterday?”

  Parslow flushed. “It seemed irrelevant. Ben didn’t need an alibi. He obviously had nothing to do with Grace’s death.”

  “I decide what is irrelevant, Mr. Parslow, and what’s obvious.”

  “Ben couldn’t have done it! He’s not strong.” He didn’t claim Goodman had no motive, Alec noted with interest. “All right, if you want to know the truth, I didn’t care to tell you about the mater refusing to take him with us, when another English winter could kill him.” Having said this, he looked horrified, as though he had never quite put the thought into words before. The colour in his cheeks ebbed, leaving him sickly pale.

  “That’s more like it.” Alec was noncommittal. The answer was reasonable, given that Parslow felt no need for an alibi for himself. Though not entirely satisfied, he had no idea in what direction to probe. “I gather it was not the first time you had approached Lady Valeria on the subject. This was a last-ditch effort, I take it, because she had unexpectedly put forward your departure for France. Why did she suddenly change the date?”

  Parslow shrugged his admirable shoulders. “The mater isn’t in the habit of explaining herself. I assumed she wanted to get me away from Grace. She can be difficult at times,” he said awkwardly, “but she’s only doing what she thinks best for me.”

  “Including ‘dealing’ with Grace.”

  The possibility that Lady Valeria was the murderer had been broached before. This time her son simply shook his head wearily. “I don’t know. It’s not the sort of thing one can believe of one’s mother, is it?”

  Alec thought of his own kind, fussy mother, who had kept house for him and Belinda since Joan died in the ’19 influenza pandemic. The only way she’d ever kill anyone was by over-cosseting. Lady Valeria was another kettle of fish, but he could see Parslow’s point.

  “How did you imagine she meant to deal with Grace?”

  “Oh, by paying her off, I suppose. That’s what Bobbie said I should do. I didn’t think it would work.”

  “Because Grace was determined to marry you?”

  “Because Stan Moss was determined to cause as much trouble as he possibly could.”

  “Ah yes, Stan Moss.” Alec was becoming more and more eager to talk to the blacksmith. He glanced at his watch,
which reminded him of another question. “What were you doing between ten, when your manservant left your room, and half past eleven, when you went to your mother’s room?”

  For a question that must have been foreseen, it rattled Parslow excessively. “N-nothing in particular,” he stammered.

  “You didn’t try to see Lady Valeria about taking Goodman with you?”

  “Oh yes.” Now why was he relieved? “I’d forgotten. I went down to the drawing room, but I didn’t go in because the mater and Bobbie were in the middle of a row.”

  “What about?”

  “I just heard raised voices. I didn’t stay to listen.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Right after Thomkins left. Ten did you say?”

  “If you didn’t listen, that can’t have taken long. What next?”

  “I-I went back upstairs and … oh, fidgeted around. I wanted to give the mater time to cool down before I tackled her, so I listened for the creaky board outside her room. I … I know, I hunted for a missing cuff-link, one of a favourite pair I wanted to take with me. Thomkins is deuced careless.”

  He announced this with an air more of inspiration than remembrance. What the devil had he really been up to? Alec didn’t think he’d been murdering and burying his mistress. He relied on his mother and sister to save his bacon—and he quite simply hadn’t the guts.

  But he was hiding something. Perhaps Goodman would provide a clue.

  “Thank you, Mr. Parslow, that will be all for now. A statement will be typed up and I’ll be asking you to read and sign it. At that time, you’ll be able to make any changes or additions you wish.”

  “Right-oh, Chief Inspector.” He stood up, looking almost light-headed with relief. “Anything I can do to help. She was a good girl, really. I’ll send Ben in, shall I? You’ll find he hadn’t anything to do with it.”

  Yet Goodman, for all his ill-health, was a much stronger character. He limped into the library with a calm, friendly smile on his homely face, though Alec noted that his eyes were watchful. Still, few indeed were those capable of facing a Scotland Yard murder investigation without visible qualms.

  Remembering his “don’t play games with me,” Alec advised him straightforwardly that he had been seen with Grace and asked for an explanation.

  “I was warning her, Chief Inspector. Warning her that Lady Valeria would go to any lengths to stop her son marrying a parlourmaid.”

  “You knew Grace was demanding marriage?”

  “Sebastian had told me.”

  “And that he had promised to marry her?”

  Goodman flinched. So that was what Parslow had not wanted him to find out—but why should he care? “No, I didn’t know that,” he said unhappily. “He’s … high-strung, irresolute, but what can you expect of the way he’s been brought up?”

  “It’s not for me to judge him. You didn’t know of his promise, but you feared he might give in to Grace’s importunities and that her ladyship would then take a hand?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I suggest in fact you had taken a fancy to the girl yourself, you approached her, and she ridiculed your advances.”

  He laughed, with obviously genuine amusement. Alec suddenly saw why Daisy might find him an attractive man.

  “Oh, Chief Inspector, unwilling women have never been a problem to me, I assure you. I’d have to be in dire need to pursue the mistress of my employer’s son.”

  “It does seem unlikely,” Alec conceded, smiling. Dammit, he liked the chap. “You understand, we have to follow every possible lead.”

  “I don’t envy you your present job, any more than your stint in the R.F.C.”

  “It suits me well enough. All right, let’s go back. Parslow kept from you his promise to Grace. Now he’s keeping something from me. Any idea what he’s hiding?”

  “Hiding, Chief Inspector?” Goodman spoke lightly, but the wariness had returned to his eyes. “Poor Sebastian is so used to hiding minor matters from his mother, I dare say simply being questioned is enough to make him look shifty.”

  “Perhaps it’s from Lady Valeria more than from me that he’s trying to conceal what he was doing between ten and eleven thirty on December 13th,” Alec said, irritated.

  “Very likely.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.” Was there the slightest hesitation before the firm denial? No doubt Goodman, too, was bent on protecting Parslow from his mother. Confound the woman!

  “You told Grace that Lady Valeria would go to any lengths to prevent a marriage. Did you mean it?”

  “Do I consider her ladyship capable of murder? In all honesty, I couldn’t rule it out. I hope I’m not speaking from personal dislike. Lady Valeria has … virtues isn’t the word … qualities one must admire. She is not capricious; she does nothing without what seems to her good and sufficient reason, and Sebastian’s welfare is her prime motive—whether or not one agrees with her notion of what’s best for him. If she believed Grace posed a threat to him only to be removed by her death … . But I hardly think the situation had reached such an impasse.”

  “Do you know when and why she suddenly changed the date of their departure for the Riviera?”

  “She ordered me that afternoon to telephone Cook’s to change the bookings, and to tell no one. Lady Valeria is not accustomed to explain her decisions to the hired help, nor, in all fairness, to her family. Miss Parslow and I assumed her aim was to remove Sebastian from a painful predicament. He was in a bad way.”

  “Ah yes, Miss Parslow. In your opinion, would she be capable of murder?”

  “Bobbie? Good Lord, no. It wouldn’t be playing the game. Simply not cricket.” His irony was affectionate.

  “Yet she disappeared when I arrived. I ought to have asked last night whether you know where she went.”

  “Neither where nor why, but I think you’ll find she was unaware of your arrival and the reopening of the enquiry. Miss Parslow is a sensible young woman.”

  “Who has disappeared without informing her family of her whereabouts or her plans.”

  “Without informing her mother.”

  “Everything comes back to Lady Valeria. I shall have to try again this afternoon to get a few answers from her, but now I must dash off to the funeral.” Alec pushed back his chair and stood up. “I understand the Hall will not be represented.”

  “No,” said Goodman with regret, then added dryly, “Her ladyship went down to the vicarage this morning to make sure Mr. Lake’s plans for the service are appropriate. Not that he’ll pay her much heed.”

  “No? A bold man! Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Goodman.” Not that he was quite finished with the secretary. However much Daisy trusted the man, Alec was quite certain that, like Parslow, Ben Goodman had something to hide.

  14

  Reluctant to witness Ben’s response to a conjecture that Grace had scorned his advances, Daisy hadn’t even tried to persuade Alec to let her be present. Instead, she had arranged with the delighted Sir Reginald to tour his dairy. Now, though, she was eager to find out how Ben’s interview had gone. She hurried back up to the Hall.

  He wasn’t in the library. She went to the Yellow Parlour. Pushing open the door, she stepped in, then stopped, her hand to her mouth to hold back a gasp of shock.

  Ben sat in a chair by the fire with Sebastian huddled on a footstool at his feet. Sebastian’s face was hidden in his folded arms, resting on Ben’s lap. Ben had one arm about Sebastian’s shuddering shoulders, and his other hand caressed the golden hair.

  The loving tenderness on Ben’s face made Daisy’s breath catch in her throat. As she stood frozen in the doorway, Ben looked up. His expression changed to resigned regret. “Miss Dalrymple’s here, Sebastian,” he said gently.

  Sebastian raised a tear-devastated face and reached for Ben’s hand.

  Daisy hurriedly shut the door behind her. “You’re …” she began, then stopped, unable to think of a polite way to phrase her question.
r />   “We’re in love,” said Sebastian defiantly.

  “That explains a lot.” So many little oddnesses came together in her mind. She crossed the room to drop, weak-kneed, onto the sofa opposite them. “It must be absolutely frightful trying to keep it hidden.”

  “I’ve grown accustomed to concealment,” Ben said wryly. “It’s been hell for Sebastian. You aren’t beating a horrified retreat?”

  “I live in Chelsea; we have all sorts of … unusual people living around us,” Daisy explained. All the same, she was rather proud of her sang-froid. She had met two or three male couples at parties, but somehow suddenly discovering someone one regarded as a friend to be that way inclined was rather more difficult. “Lady Valeria knows, doesn’t she?”

  “She certainly suspects.” The grim set of Ben’s mouth made him plainer than ever. “She inveigled Sebastian into the affair with Grace to try to prove her suspicions were unfounded.”

  “You can’t be sure of that, Ben. In any case it wasn’t all her doing,” Sebastian said with remorse. “I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn’t … different. It didn’t work. I was more than ready to admit that to myself when Grace told me she was pregnant and all the fuss started.”

  “Escaping to Antibes must have been a vast relief,” said Daisy.

  “It would have been, if only Ben could have come too. I was desperately worried about him. When Bobbie wrote to say Grace had cleared out with a stranger I wanted to come home but … .”

  “Bobbie wrote to tell you?”

  “Yes. She’s not much of a letter-writer but she knew how much it meant to me.”

  “When did she write?”

  “Oh, about a week after we left. It takes a couple of days for village gossip to filter up to our ears, and she waited a day or two longer to be sure Grace didn’t reappear.”

  Daisy noticed Ben was amused. She lifted an enquiring eyebrow at him.

  “Fletcher has an apt pupil,” he said.

  She blushed furiously. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, I don’t mind telling you,” said Sebastian. “It’s an enormous relief to have it all out in the open.” He leaned back against Ben’s knees.