The Winter Garden Mystery

by Carola Dunn

  First: Grace had kept only her parlourmaid’s uniforms at the Hall. Second: she had promised Brown to return with her things in ten minutes. What a complete, fatuous fathead he was not to have realized she went from the inn to the smithy, not the Hall!

  Stan Moss needed his daughter—as long as she turned over her pay, cooked and cleaned for him, and complied with his plot against Lady Valeria. But Grace had planned to run away … .

  Even enlightenment failed to keep Alec awake, but a plan was ready in his head by morning. Over a hurried breakfast, he explained his reasoning to the others.

  “So, although I’m not quite ready to let Brown or Lady Valeria off the hook,” he finished, “everything points to Moss.”

  “Whew!” Piper heaved a sigh of relief, then blushed as Alec and Tom stared. “You see, Chief, the last thing you said last night was you got to see Moss, and I couldn’t go to sleep for thinking of the way he’s never there. So I got up and I went to Mr. Petrie’s room and for all he weren’t pleased to be woke up he listened. He’s a real gent, he is. Anyways, he told me how to disable Moss’s lorry without doing any real damage and so’s it’d take a whiles to work out what’s wrong, so off I went and done it.”

  “Against all the rules,” Alec reproached him, grinning. “Well done, Ernie.”

  “How?” asked Tom.

  “Mr. Petrie made me promise not to tell, Sergeant,” Piper said virtuously.

  “All right,” said Alec, “since you’re now a motor expert, Ernie, you’ll take the Austin and check Brown’s alibi. If it’s no good, phone the Yard at once and have him stopped, then come back here. Tom, you and I will tackle Moss, but I’ll have a go at him alone first. Routine enquiries—with luck he won’t get the wind up and he may drop his guard. I want a confession, whether from him or from her ladyship. We still have no real evidence. You telephone Chester and ask them to have a police vehicle standing by. I don’t want it coming yet, I may be wrong and I don’t want to look a total chump. Oh, and while you’re about it, tell ’em to let Morgan go. Phone from Rudge’s station, and bring him along to the smithy about fifteen minutes after I go up there.”

  “Right, Chief,” acknowledged Tring and the disappointed Piper.

  Alec walked up the deserted street. Market day in Whitbury, the landlady had said. The shop was open, though, and unwisely he went in for tobacco. Mr. Taylor, his wife gone a-marketing like the rest, drew him into a chat from which he had great difficulty extricating himself without offence. He had to stop at the police station next door to tell Tom he’d been delayed.

  As Alec approached the smithy, from the rear came a rumble of curses. He bit back a smile. Rounding the forge he saw the hefty blacksmith crouched by his battered lorry, siphoning petrol from the tank. The air was full of the stinking fumes.

  Moss was an expert mechanic indeed to have worked out already what was wrong. Alec was only just in time.

  “Fletcher, Scotland Yard. We’ve met. I have a few more routine questions to ask you about your daughter.”

  The man froze, not even looking round. “What?” he growled.

  “How much money did you hope to extort from Lady Valeria by threatening a breach of promise suit?”

  “Money!” He turned his head and spat. “All I wanted were a bit o’ paper saying I c’d put in a petrol pump.”

  “Without Grace you hadn’t a hope even of that, did you?”

  Silence.

  “You said you came home late the night she disappeared. What time, and where had you been?”

  “What business is that o’ yourn? It’s a free country.”

  “Where were you, and what time did you get home?” Alec persisted.

  “I were over to the Dog and Bone, in Whitbury,” the blacksmith said sullenly. “Dunno the time. Don’t have a watch, do I.”

  “Never mind what o’clock, then. You arrived just as your daughter … .”

  With an inarticulate roar, Moss swung round, rising to his full height. Though not tall, he was built on the lines of a gorilla.

  “Yes, I killed the little bitch!” he bellowed. “Going to leave me, she were, like her bitch of a mother. But you won’t hang me!” He grabbed a rusty axle from the nearest heap of scrap metal and hurled himself at Alec, aiming a vicious swipe.

  Alec sprang backwards. His foot hit a patch of oil and he staggered, arms flailing helplessly. The axle swept down.

  17

  “Good heavens,” said Daisy, waving the letter that had arrived by the early post. “Mother’s come through for once.”

  “Come through?” Bobbie asked. “I say, Dodo, don’t hog the toast, you brute. Bastie, is that the marmalade lurking by your elbow?”

  “No, plum jam.”

  Daisy passed the marmalade. “She says her gardener’s about ready to retire and she’ll employ Owen Morgan. Isn’t it spiffing? Sir Reginald promised to give him a good reference. I’d better go and phone Mr. Fletcher to see when he’ll be released.”

  “Ask him when we’ll be released,” said Sebastian.

  “I will,” she promised.

  As she went to the telephone she had a brilliant idea. She and Phillip could take Owen to Worcestershire on their way to London—well, not quite on their way, but with a bit of a detour. Owen wasn’t large and wouldn’t mind squeezing into the dickey. She could stay the night at the Dower House, which would please Mother, and Phillip could go over to Malvern to spend a night with his family.

  Mrs. Chiver answered the Cheshire Cheese telephone.

  “Chief Inspector Fletcher, please,” Daisy requested.

  “He’s just this minute stepped out, miss,” said the landlady. “Going to the smithy, I heard him say. Shall I call him back?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll meet him there.” Surely among all that rubbish there must be a spot from which she could observe the interview with Stan Moss without being seen, if she hurried.

  Luckily, she was wearing a warm tweed costume and country shoes. Not stopping for a coat, she sped from the house and down the path towards the village. As she passed the Winter Garden, she wondered for the hundredth time who could have been such an idiot as to hide a body where it would so certainly be discovered.

  For the first time she found an answer: someone whose garden was paved over and grew nothing but rusty metal.

  No—Stan Moss couldn’t have killed his own daughter! It was unthinkable, unbearable. And even the blacksmith, a countryman however mechanically minded, must be aware that without careful replanting the excavated soil would grow no flowers.

  Of course he knew, Daisy realized with horror. That was what he wanted. He loathed Lady Valeria, and what could cause his enemy more trouble than the discovery of a murdered servant buried in her garden?

  She couldn’t bear to believe the murder was premeditated. It was almost as bad, though, to cynically make use of his daughter’s body after hitting out at her in a burst of violent anger. Sebastian had expressed surprise that Moss and his mother had never come to blows; Bobbie had said he had a filthy temper; Daisy herself had heard him threaten Owen.

  And Alec was on his way to ask questions which could not help but arouse that temper.

  Daisy ran. Even when she remembered he’d have Tom Tring with him, she went on running. Down the path, through the wicket, across the lane, panting round the end of the ramshackle cottage … .

  As she reached the corner, she heard a wordless roar. A thick voice she recognized from the inquest shouted, “Yes, I killed the little bitch! Going to leave me, she were, like her bitch of a mother. But you won’t hang me!”

  Slowing just enough to seize a bent starting-handle, she dashed on. The blacksmith’s bludgeon was already descending on Alec when she hit him over the head.

  Moss toppled like a felled tree and lay still.

  Alec was on his back, eyes closed, face white, groaning, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand.

  Daisy dropped the starting-handle and fell to her knees beside him. “Alec,” s
he whispered, “I think I’ve killed him.”

  “Better him than me, my avenging angel.” He struggled to sit up, his arm dangling limply. She helped him. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “You can’t!” she wailed, laying hands simultaneously on his clammy forehead and her own. “I am. Oh, Alec, does it hurt dreadfully?”

  “As a matter of fact, no,” he said, sounding surprised. “My arm’s numb all the way from shoulder to fingertips. I just feel absolutely like death.”

  “Shock.” At last she remembered what she’d learnt working in the hospital during the War. Pulling herself together, she cleared the bits of scrap he’d fallen on. Thank goodness his soft hat had stayed on and protected the back of his head. “You must lie down again, and try to keep that arm still, even if it doesn’t hurt. I’m afraid it will soon.”

  He let her lower him onto the paving again, with his folded felt hat as a pillow. “Daisy, it would have been my head if you hadn’t arrived.” He gripped her hand.

  “And you told me to take elementary precautions! We must keep you warm.” Gently she disengaged herself, took off her jacket, and draped it over him, then restored her hand to his clasp. “I rang up the inn and Mrs. Chiver said you had come here. I just wanted to try to hear the interview, but on the way down everything suddenly came together. I realized how dangerous he was, so I ran to warn you. Alec, I ought to feel his pulse and try to stop the bleeding.”

  “If he’s bleeding badly, he’s not dead yet.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t looked, but I hit him a terrific whack. I’d better … .”

  To her profound relief, Phillip loped around the corner of the forge, followed by a sound like a galloping carthorse which turned out to be Tom Tring and Constable Rudge, both puffing.

  Phillip stopped and stared at the scene, wild-eyed. He was unshaven, his blond hair stood up in tufts, his waistcoat was buttoned wrong, and he hadn’t fastened his collar, let alone put on a tie. “Good gad, Daisy,” he cried. “What’s going on?”

  Daisy burst into tears. “Stan Moss tried to kill Alec and I think I’ve killed him.”

  “Here, I say, old dear, no need for that.” He felt in his pocket for a handkerchief which wasn’t there. “Fletcher appears to be alive, if not well, and if you’ve bumped off the other chap, well, he’s a rotter and deserves it.”

  “Hear, hear!” Alec agreed.

  “He killed Grace,” Daisy sobbed. “His own daughter. I heard him say so.”

  “Well, he’ll dangle for it, miss,” said Sergeant Tring, on his knees beside the blacksmith, “being as how you haven’t saved the hangman the trouble. Coming round, he is, and going to start creating any minute. Good job I brought me bracelets. Here, Mr. Petrie, give miss me hankercher, and I’ll trouble you for yours, Rudge, to bind up chummie’s head. You’re not going to kick the bucket, Chief?”

  “Not yet, Tom.” Alec raised his head but at once laid it down again, wincing. “Petrie, it’s going to take two men to handle Moss, I expect. Would you mind going down to the police station and phoning Chester for me?” His voice faded.

  As Daisy anxiously bent over him, Tring took charge. “Ask for Superintendent Higginbotham, sir. He’s got a car standing by. Tell him we’ll want an ambulance and a doctor, too.”

  “Righty-ho,” said Phillip.

  “And take Miss Dalrymple with you,” said Alec weakly.

  “No! I’m not leaving you till the doctor comes.”

  “Send the wife up, miss,” said Rudge. “She’s done a bit o’ nursing. Tell her what’s happened.”

  “Please, Daisy,” Alec begged. “I don’t want you here when Moss comes round. I promise I shan’t shuffle off this mortal coil in your absence.”

  “All right, but I’ll come back with Mrs. Rudge.”

  Alec and Phillip exchanged a look.

  “No, you won’t, Daisy,” said Phillip with unwonted firmness. “Come on.”

  He helped her up and, with an equally firm grip on her arm, removed her from the battleground.

  “Honestly, Daisy,” he said reproachfully as they walked down the deserted street, “it’s frightfully infra dig getting mixed up in a brawl like that.”

  “Infra dig be blowed! I suppose you think I should have let Moss kill Alec?”

  “By George, no, but I could have stopped him if you’d just waited till I arrived.”

  She realized his pride was hurt. “You came too late,” she pointed out, “but I was jolly glad to see you. What on earth brought you to the smithy?”

  “Mrs. Chiver was worried when you told her you were going there, especially with the police on their way. I was drinking my tea in bed when she told me.”

  Daisy looked at him and grinned. “I bet you’ve never been out in public in such disarray in your life.”

  He glanced down at himself, raised a hand to his open collar. “I was in a hurry,” he said self-consciously. “Come to that, you’re not so spruce yourself. No coat, no hat, and your hair is all over the place.”

  “I’m cold.” Shivering, she hugged herself, suddenly exhausted.

  Daisy was glad to sit in the Rudges’ cosy parlour with a cup of strong, hot, over-sweetened tea, while Phillip phoned and Mrs. Rudge bustled off with blankets, bandages, and a scarf for a sling. She didn’t even protest much when Phillip insisted on driving her up to the Hall, though she made him promise he’d go straight back to the smithy to make sure nothing dreadful had happened.

  “I’ll pick you up at two,” he said as he pulled up in the tunnel by the front door. “We won’t get to town till late but you should be feeling better by then.”

  With a struggle, she dragged her mind from Alec’s white face and Moss’s still form. “Do you know, I’d forgotten we’re leaving today. Phil, could we possibly go home for a night on the way?”

  “Of course, my dear old thing.” He regarded her anxiously. “You’ll want to see your mater after such a fearful shock.”

  “It’s nothing to do with Mother. Or, at least, only that she’s going to hire Owen Morgan. We can take him in the dickey.”

  “Dash it, Daisy … .”

  “Thank you, Phil dear.” She stretched up to kiss his cheek and escaped into the house.

  Moody met her in the Long Hall. “Miss Roberta’s been asking after you, miss,” he said sourly. “She’s in the morning room.”

  Daisy’s entrance into the morning room created a sensation. Bobbie rushed towards her. “Daisy, where on earth have you been? You went to make a telephone call and next thing we knew Moody said you’d rushed out of the house without a coat or hat or anything. And now you haven’t even got your jacket!”

  “I had to put it over Alec, to keep him warm.” She started shaking and clapped a hand to her mouth as the ghastly nausea swept over her again.

  “Oh blast! Come and sit down, you’re white as a sheet.” Bobbie’s arm was around her, supporting her. “There, put your head between your knees. Thanks, Ben.”

  Ben had dumped an arrangement of honesty and Chinese lanterns and rushed the empty bowl to Daisy. For an awful moment she thought she was going to need it, to disgrace herself in public. Then her head stopped swimming. She took a couple of deep breaths and her pulse steadied beneath Bobbie’s fingertips. The Girl Guides’ first-aid course would come in handy for a games mistress, she thought irrelevantly.

  “I’m all right now,” she said, sitting up. Sebastian thrust a glass of brandy into her hand and she smiled shakily at him. “Thanks. Sorry to be such a drip.”

  “Oh bosh, don’t be a chump,” said Bobbie. “Golly, though, we’re all simply dying to know what’s happened, if you feel well enough to tell us.”

  She sipped the brandy and its fire drove away the last of the chill. “Yes, of course I’ll tell you. I suppose it’s quite exciting, really, but at the time it was perfectly beastly.” Shuddering, she swallowed another sip.

  They all sat down, Bobbie and Mr. Wilkinson on a sofa, holding ha
nds, Sebastian and Ben circumspectly on widely separated chairs. Daisy felt a flash of pity for all the hiding they had done and all they had yet to do. At least Ben looked quite recovered after spending Sunday in bed.

  “Go ahead,” Bobbie urged eagerly.

  She told them the story, from ringing up the Cheshire Cheese to Mrs. Rudge’s departure with aid and comfort for the injured. The horror dissipated as she turned it into words, though she was sure frightful memories would return to haunt her sooner or later. “Phillip wouldn’t let me go back to the smithy,” she finished, “so I don’t know what happened next.”

  “By Jove,” Sebastian said admiringly, “you’re a regular heroine.”

  “A thoroughly capable heroine,” said Ben.

  Daisy blushed. “Oh no, not really. There just wasn’t anything else to do.”

  “You could have fainted before instead of afterwards,” Bobbie pointed out, “or have been too squeamish to biff him hard enough. I can see Dodo’s already composing a poem in your honour.”

  Her fiance was indeed lost in a world of his own, though there was no way to be sure he was composing a paean to Daisy. It would be rather fun, she thought, as long as it was the kind of poetry she could understand. Fortunately Bobbie didn’t seem jealous.

  “I hope you’ll send me a copy,” she said diplomatically.

  “You must come and visit us. There’s a spare room in the cottage.” Bobbie’s healthily pink face turned red with emotion. “If it wasn’t for you, Daisy, I’d never have got up the nerve … .”

  “Oh, that reminds me. I didn’t have a chance to ask Mr. Fletcher what put him onto Moss, but since he confessed, I’m sure you’re all free to leave. Though perhaps you’d better wait for official notification from Mr. Fletcher,” she added, recalling disagreements as to who was suspect and who was not. Then she wondered whether Alec was too badly hurt to notify anyone of anything. “Or from Sergeant Tring,” she said unhappily.

  As if he’d read her mind, Ben said at once, “I’m sure someone will let you know as soon as a doctor has seen the Chief Inspector.”

  “Yes, of course, Tring will, or Phillip. Phillip’s coming to fetch me at two so I’d better go and pack.” Yes, she’d pack, but if Alec had to stay in hospital she’d have Phil take her to a hotel nearby. She did her best to smile. “I’m so very glad, for all of you, that it turned out to be Stan Moss.”