by Carola Dunn
“I must say, ’m, he didn’t look like a common drunk.” Elsie was regaining her sangfroid. “Good-quality clothes he has on. He looked sort of familiar, but I can’t quite place … Has the master gone already?”
“I don’t think so. He went up to say good-bye to the twins.” Daisy had got up early to have breakfast with Alec, who had to leave for Scotland Yard earlier than usual to finish writing a report before a meeting with Superintendent Crane and the AC (Crime). “You’re right, Elsie. He’ll have to be told.”
What, after all, was the point of being married to a policeman if one had to cope oneself with dead bodies carelessly strewn around? It was no use, however, expecting him to be pleased.
Daisy went upstairs. She met Alec on the landing, as he came down.
“I’m off, love. I shouldn’t be too late tonight.”
“Darling, I’m afraid you’re going to be late this morning. There’s a tramp lying under the bushes in the garden, and it looks as if he’s dead.”
“Daisy, if you must fall over bodies wherever you go, could you not at least wait until I’ve left for work?”
“It wasn’t me! Elsie found him.”
“Not me, ’m!” Elsie, who had come up the stairs behind Daisy, was equally anxious to disclaim responsibility. “It was the little dog, sir.”
“Where is she?” Daisy asked. “Where’s Nana?”
“Oh madam, I must’ve forgot her, what with the shock and all. She’ll be out there guarding him still, I ‘spect. And I don’t think he’s a tramp, sir, not by his clothes.”
Alec groaned. “Couldn’t we just pretend you found him when I was already gone?” When Elsie looked almost as shocked as she had in reporting the body, he went on quickly: “No, of course we couldn’t. Daisy, you’d better ring up the local station, but I suppose I’ll have to take a look.”
“Elsie, go with Mr. Fletcher and fetch Nana in.”
“Oh madam, not me. I’m not going anywhere near that body again, not for nobody, not if you was to tell me to pack my box this instant.”
Daisy looked at Alec. Alec looked at Daisy.
He sighed. “Right-oh, you’ll have to come and get the dog. I can’t cope with her as well as a corpse. Telephone the locals first. Elsie, I suppose you’re quite sure he really is dead?”
“I saw bodies in the War, sir, when they bombed the East End. He looked to me about as dead as a jellied eel.” She paused to consider. “No, not a jellied eel, not really. Dead as—”
“Never mind,” Alec said hastily, “I’ll take your word for it.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I’m not going to make it to that meeting. Daisy, after you’ve spoken to the locals, you’re going to have to ring up the Yard and tell the Super what’s going on.”
“Darling, he’s bound to blame me!”
“Can’t be helped.” His grin was infuriating. Daisy wondered whether on the whole it might be preferable to have a husband who was not a policeman if one had to cope with a body. “If he carries on at you, say you have to secure the dog. In the meantime, no doubt she’ll show me where to look.”
With that, he bounded down the stairs and disappeared through the front door.
Before she followed, Daisy fixed the parlour maid with a stern eye. “This is police business now, Elsie. You mustn’t talk about it to anyone. Not a soul, not even your sister, or you’ll be in serious trouble. Did you talk to anyone outside?”
“No one was about, ’m. Leastways, I didn’t see anyone, but then after I saw it, I wasn’t looking. There could’ve been someone I didn’t notice.”
“When you talk to the police, just tell them exactly what you saw, not what or who might have been there.”
Her eyes went round again. “Ooh, madam, will I have to talk to the police?”
“Very likely not, but if so, it’s nothing to be afraid of. You speak to Mr. Fletcher every day, don’t you?”
“Yes’m, but he’s the master. It’s not the same.”
Daisy wished she had never embarked upon the subject. “Well, I dare say they won’t want to see you, with the master to explain what happened. I must go and telephone.”
The desk sergeant at Hampstead police station sounded bored. She gave him her name.
“Mrs. Fletcher, what can I—Mrs. Fletcher?” The voice perked up. “Mrs. DCI Fletcher, by any chance?”
“Yes, actually.”
“What can we do for you, ma’am?”
“I’m ringing for my husband. Could I speak to a detective, please?”
“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher. DS Mackinnon is on duty.”
“Oh good, I know him.” And she liked him. Alec approved of him, too. “At least I think I do. Was he in St. John’s Wood?”
“Moved here a few months ago, ma’am. Half a jiffy. I’ll get him right on the line.”
There were advantages to being notorious, Daisy thought with a sigh.
A moment later: “Mrs. Fletcher?” The rolling Scottish r’s were unmistakable, as was—she hoped—the pleasure in his voice as he continued. “Good morning, ma’am. What can I do for you?”
“Good morning, Mr. Mackinnon. I’m afraid it’s a body.”
“You’ve found a body?” he asked cautiously.
Silently, Daisy blessed him for not saying “another body.”
“Not exactly. That is, my maid found it. Or rather, the dog.”
“Your dog found a body. Where, exactly?”
“In the garden—it’s a sort of park, actually, or circular square, if you see what I mean.” Daisy discovered she was more upset than she had supposed. “I’m explaining it very badly.”
“Not at all. Chust take your time, Mrs. Fletcher. It isna the private garden of your own house, then?”
“No, not exactly. It’s communal, for all the residents of Constable Circle. In Hampstead. Did you know we moved to Hampstead? Constable Circle, number six.”
“Got it. You’ve seen this body, ma’am?”
“No, but my husband has gone to take a look. He told me to telephone.”
“DCI Fletcher is on the scene? Excellent,” Mackinnon said soothingly. “Nae doot it’ll be best if I wait for his confirmation, sin ye’ve only the maid’s word for it. What do you think?”
“No … Yes … Yes, perhaps. Right-oh, I’ll tell him. You’ll be standing by?”
“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll be ready.”
“Thank you.” Reluctantly, Daisy depressed the hook and asked the operator for Whitehall 1212. She did not want to speak to Superintendent Crane. She wasn’t responsible for the body in the bushes; she hadn’t even been the one to find the body in the bushes; but she knew perfectly well that, because of certain unfortunate incidents in her past, Crane would find some way to persuade himself it was all her fault.
A glance at old Mr. Walsall’s grandfather clock suggested a ray of hope. Surely it was much too early for so exalted a person as the Super to be in his office. She would have to leave a message.
“I would like to leave a message for Superintendent Crane, please,” she told the Scotland Yard operator.
“Who is calling, please?” came the inevitable question.
“This is Mrs. Fletcher, with a message from DCI Fletcher.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sure the superintendent will want to speak to you directly. One moment while I connect you.”
Daisy managed to suppress a howl of “NO,” though a click told her it was too late anyway.
“Superintendent Crane’s office. May I help you?”
“This is Mrs. Fletcher.” She went on quickly: “My husband asked me to let Mr. Crane know he’s been unavoidably delayed and won’t—”
“Just a minute, Mrs. Fletcher. You can tell him yourself.”
“But I don’t want—”
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.” Crane sounded irritable, though she hadn’t told him yet about the body. “What’s up? Has he forgotten we have an important meeting this morning?”
“No, Mr. Crane, he’s
well aware of it. But he simply can’t get away in time.” She absolutely could not think of an easy way to break the news. “I’m afraid our dog found a body. Alec has to wait for the local police to come.”
There was dead silence on the line. Then Crane asked with a sort of incredulous resignation, “Did I hear you correctly, Mrs. Fletcher? You’ve found another murder victim?”
“No! I didn’t find him, and I don’t know if he was murdered or not. I haven’t even seen him yet.”
“Yet!” exploded from the much-tried superintendent. “I dare say he’s a particular friend of yours?”
“I don’t know who he is. Believe me, I sincerely hope I shan’t have to look at him. However,” Daisy said firmly, “I told Alec I’d go and get the dog out of his way, so I’m afraid I shall have to hang up.” And she did. Shockingly bad manners, but he was already annoyed with her. She might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.
“Oh madam!” Elsie hovered anxiously by the green baize door to the stairs down to the kitchen. “I’m sure I wish I’d never gone after the little dog.”
“Nonsense. It was your job, and if you hadn’t found the man, someone else would have.” As she spoke, Daisy took her coat from the coat tree. She started to put it on before she realised she was still wearing her dressing gown. “Bother! Oh well, it’s perfectly decent, and Alec can’t wait.” She buttoned the coat to the neck and tied a scarf over her head.
For once, Nana’s lead was hanging in its proper place on the coatrack. Daisy reached for it.
“Madam, your slippers!” Elsie pushed through the swing door and returned immediately with a pair of galoshes, ancient enough to have belonged to Mr. Walsall.
Daisy put them on over her slippers and at last went outside.
Descending the steps—with care, because the galoshes were not hers and were too big—she called to Nana. She could see the little dog’s rear end sticking out of the bushes, tail wagging now that Alec had joined in the excitement.
Nana backed out and came to meet Daisy, whining. She submitted docilely to having the lead clipped to her collar, but she had no intention of tamely returning to the house. With a couple of sharp barks—Come and see what I found—she pulled towards the bushes. In the oversized galoshes, Daisy had no traction to resist. She slip-slopped across the grass after the dog, losing one galosh halfway there.
Squish. “Oh blast!”
“Daisy! For pity’s sake, you’re going to muck up any footprints.”
“It’s murder?”
“It doesn’t look good,” Alec admitted, backing out of the bushes.
“Not someone we know?” Daisy removed a twig from his hair. “Not one of the neighbours?”
“No one I’ve met.”
“Alec, it couldn’t be … The Jessups are expecting the younger son home.”
“I don’t think so. This poor chap looks about the same age as Aidan Jessup, or a year or two older, though it’s hard to tell once they’re dead. Are the locals on their way?”
“It’s DS Mackinnon. Remember him? He said he’d wait till he had confirmation from you that there really is a corpse, but he’s ready to get moving.”
“Good. Go and get him moving. And in the meantime, I need someone stationed at each end of the path until Mackinnon arrives, to keep people out of the garden. I’ve done all I can here. I’ll take the top end. People are more likely to come that way at this time of day.”
“Oh for a good, solid, authoritative butler! I suppose I’d better take the bottom.” Glancing down the slope, Daisy saw the local beat constable about to start up the path.
“Stop!” she and Alec cried in unison.
PC Norris hesitated.
“He’ll do. Daisy, give Mackinnon the word,” Alec ordered. “I’ll deal with this.”
Just as well, Daisy thought, remembering she hadn’t dressed before coming out. She looked down at her feet, abandoned the second galosh, and tugged Nana back across the lawn, careful to place her ruined slippers in the marks she had already made. She didn’t want to be accused of messing up the evidence.
SEVEN
The beat bobby had recognised Alec and was staying put, as instructed. Alec picked his way towards him by the route he thought least likely to disturb any traces of the night’s doings. It was pure guesswork at this stage, so he examined the ground ahead intently before he took each step.
The grass was lush, having been too wet for mowing for a couple of weeks. So far, October had brought lots of rain and little frost. When Alec looked back, his trail was clearly visible, but blurred, unlikely to convey any useful information except direction. No, not even that; just where he had walked.
And if he wasn’t mistaken—He held out his hand, palm up. Yes, it was starting to rain again.
PC Norris looked up at the lowering grey overcast. “More to come, sir,” he opined. “Came down heavy in the night, it did. What’s happened, sir? Anything I can do to help?”
He was a burly middle-aged man. Talking to him when the Fletchers first moved to his district, Alec had found him intelligent but unambitious, with no desire for promotion. He enjoyed patrolling his beat, one of the pleasantest in the metropolitan area, and he knew all the residents by sight, most by name.
“Yes,” Alec said grimly. “We have a suspicious death. Right now, I want you to stay exactly where you are and make sure no one enters the garden from this end. Later, I’ll have you take a look at the deceased.”
“Right you are, sir. Will I blow my whistle for help?”
“No. It would bring every servant in the Circle running, and half their masters and mistresses.” Alec eyed the nearest house, number 10, where the nosy Bennetts lived. He was happy to see all the blinds still closed. “We don’t want to alarm people more than we must. The chaps from your division HQ should be here shortly.”
“Right, sir, but there’ll be them that see me here and come to ask. What do I tell ’em?”
“Tell them you have no idea what’s going on.”
Norris grinned. “No more I don’t,” he said.
“True.” Alec left him, treading on the edge of the paving on the side of the path closest to where the body lay. He had considered going around the outside of the garden to see if there were any signs of the body having been deposited from that direction, but that would have made it impossible to see or prevent people walking down the path. He kept a close watch on the edge of the lawn and was rewarded, just before he reached the fountain, with clear evidence of something heavy having been dragged across the wet grass.
He was about to stoop to examine the traces, when a loud voice hailed him. “I say, Fletcher! What’s up?” His neighbour from number 7, George Whitcomb, was on his way to whatever he did for a living.
“Stop! Not another step!” Alec yelled, and hurried up the slope.
Though Whitcomb obeyed, he looked affronted and indignant. Alec had met him at the Jessups’ party and had exchanged cordial greetings when their paths happened to cross thereafter. The man knew he was a police officer—but that was theory; this was practice. Apparently, Whitcomb either had not expected to encounter Alec in his official capacity or didn’t like being ordered about by the police—or both.
At that moment, Alec realised he could not take on this case. All his neighbours would have to be questioned, as possible witnesses, if not as suspects. He was not only a fellow resident of Constable Circle, he was their leaseholder.
He could hold the fort until DS Mackinnon arrived, and then he’d have to bow out.
Yet Daisy, who knew the neighbours considerably better than Alec did, was sure to be an important source of information. However peripherally she was involved, Superintendent Crane and the Assistant Commissioner would expect Alec to keep her from meddling. Unless, he thought hopefully, they had at long last realised that nothing and nobody was capable of keeping Daisy from meddling.
It was all in the lap of the gods, alias the AC and the Super. Right now, Alec’s job was to keep Whi
tcomb from marching down the garden path.
Whitcomb was armoured for the day’s battle in pinstriped trousers, a fur-collared overcoat, and a bowler hat, and his chosen weapon was a tightly furled black umbrella. He was respectability personified and respectability outraged.
“I say, what the deuce …,” he spluttered. “You’re not thinking of closing off the garden to the rest of us, are you, Fletcher?”
“Great Scott no! I wouldn’t dream of it. The thing is, there’s been a spot of bother down there and I’m just lending a hand while the local chaps gather their forces.”
“Forces? Ah, the police, eh? Splendid chaps. Anything I can do?”
Civil servant, not businessman, Alec guessed. “Not at present, thank you,” he said. “I expect the detective in charge will be in touch. You won’t mind walking round instead of across the garden, I hope.”
“No, no, of course not. Don’t suppose you can give me a hint? No,” he said hastily as Alec shook his head, “of course not.” And off he went.
Alec didn’t foresee objections from the Jessups, who were amiable types. For the rest of the inhabitants of the Circle, going around by the street was actually a more direct route than crossing the garden.
His thoughts turned to Detective Sergeant Mackinnon. The young Scot was competent and cooperative, if a little too inclined to believe Daisy walked on water. Still, Alec had worked with him once or twice since the case in which she had been involved, and his own feet seemed firmly grounded. He had matured, but he was still on the young side to lead a murder investigation.
And pending the doctor’s report, Alec was pretty certain this was going to be a murder investigation.
The local police surgeon, Ridgeway, was also a good man. With luck, he was available and on his way. Not that it really mattered to Alec, as this wasn’t going to be his case, but if people were going to get themselves bumped off not a hundred yards from his front door, he wanted the murderer under arrest. The sooner the better.
In fact, for once, when it was out of the question, Alec really wanted to be in charge. He wanted to be on his knees in the leaf mould beneath the bushes, rain dripping down the back of his neck, looking for clues anyone else just might miss.
