by Carola Dunn
As Mackinnon stooped over the body, Alec saw a black van pull up at the bottom of the garden. PC Norris went over to speak to the driver. Two men got out, opened the back doors, and started pulling out a stretcher.
“The mortuary people are here,” Alec told Mackinnon.
The sergeant had folded back the man’s jacket and was staring down at his chest. “Will ye look at that, sir! He’s wearing a shoulder holster.”
“Great Scott! Empty?”
“Yes, sir. Ardmore! Keep your eyes peeled for a gun, as well as yon blunt instrument.”
“A gun!” came an astonished voice from the bushes. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not.”
“Right, Sarge. A gun it is.”
Mackinnon straightened with an air of triumph.
“Here’s his pocket-book. Lots of cash, so it wasna robbery. And look here, sir!” He opened a thin water-stained booklet and read, “‘The United States of America—Passport.’ He’s a Yank! From New York, it says. And there’s a photograph, which will come in handy. The rain hasna damaged it.”
“Excellent.”
“I canna read the name, though. The signature’s a scribble, and where it’s written out at the top, by a clerk, likely, the water’s seeped in and the ink has run. It looks as if the Christian name might begin with an M. And the surname—this could be a C, or a G. Quite a long name, more than one syllable.”
Alec took the passport and examined it. “Yes, M, and this blur suggests the dot of an i, wouldn’t you say? I wouldn’t like to swear to your C or G, but this looks as if it might be a double l. You’d think they’d use India ink. Has he a watch?”
“Not in his fob. Ah, a wristwatch. Gold. Looks like an expensive one. Let’s see—no inscription on the back.”
“It might be worth checking his hands for rings before they cart him off. American men are more apt to wear rings than the English. Or Scots.”
“Stiff as he is, I’ll have to cut his gloves off,” Mackinnon said doubtfully.
“Let’s not do that if we can help it. It’d be difficult without marking the skin, which could mislead the doctor. The leather seems to be thin and flexible. Perhaps you can feel whether he has any.”
Mackinnon grimaced. Alec agreed with his implied comment: For some reason, feeling the dead man’s fingers for rings seemed even more distasteful than anything they had so far put the poor chap through.
But the sergeant obeyed—or rather, followed Alec’s suggestion—and reported, “Nothing, sae far as I can tell. He could be wearing a flat band o’ some sort, like a wedding ring.”
“We’ll leave that for Dr. Ridgeway to find out.”
The stretcher arrived and Mackinnon told the men they could remove the body. “Let PC Norris down there take a look at his face.”
He and Alec, sheltering under the latter’s umbrella, took off their hats as a gesture of respect as the dead man was lifted onto the stretcher, covered with a sheet, and borne off.
Mackinnon offered the passport, pocket-book, and watch to Alec, who was tempted but managed to resist.
“You’d better come up to the house and telephone your super,” he said as Mackinnon tucked the objects into his pocket.
“Thank you, sir. Och, here comes Mrs. Fletcher.”
The pillar-box red umbrella came down the garden path towards them, in a hurry.
“Alec,” she called, “Superintendent Crane just rang up. He wants you to ring back immediately.”
“I’m on my way. Daisy, DS Mackinnon needs to use our telephone, too, as soon as I’ve finished, and can we find a pair of rubber boots for DC Warren?”
“I should think so.”
Warren came over. “Can’t see anything, sir, but the water’s pretty murky. I could do with a rake or summat like that.”
“I expect we have one,” Daisy said vaguely. “Don’t we, darling? Or does the gardener bring his own? We could borrow one from the neighbours.”
“On no account are the neighbours to be involved! There’s a rake in the shed.” Alec was the member of the family who took most interest in the garden, though he rarely had time to work in it.
“Good.” Daisy smiled at Warren. “Are you fishing in the fountain for clues?”
“For the weapon, ma’am.”
“Was he shot?”
“Daisy!” Alec exclaimed in exasperation.
“Sorry,” she said unrepentantly. “Why don’t you all come to the kitchen for tea and biscuits before you do anything else. You must be frozen, and Mrs. Dobson has them ready.”
Mackinnon and Warren gave Alec hopeful looks, and Ardmore emerged from the bushes to do likewise.
Alec gestured to Mackinnon.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “That will be verra welcome. Nobody can interfere with the scene of the crime with the bobbies on duty.”
“You can bring them a hot drink when you come back here,” Daisy proposed, reminding Alec of why he loved her, however infuriating she was at times.
They all trooped up the path to the house, Daisy leading the three local detectives down the area steps to the kitchen while Alec went straight up to the front hall to ring up the Yard.
The switchboard girl put him through. “What’s going on, Fletcher?” barked Superintendent Crane.
“I’m on my way, sir. I should get that report to the AC by noon.”
Crane’s sigh of relief gusted along the wires. “So it’s not a homicide on your front doorstep. Thank heaven for that.”
“I’m afraid it is, sir. Well, not quite on my front doorstep, but, in fact, it’s almost certainly murder.”
“Damn it all, are you sure?”
“The divisional surgeon says so, and he’s a good man. And I have to agree with him. But it’s not my pigeon.”
“Oh yes it is. I’ve had the S Division super on the line. Claims he’s shorthanded, and if it’s homicide, he wants you on the case.”
“But we’re shorthanded, too. It’s chronic—”
“You know what the Commissioner said just the other day about cooperation with the divisions, Fletcher. It’s your case.”
“But sir, it’s going to mean questioning all my close neighbours, for a start. I can’t—”
“No, I see that. But someone else can do that part while you direct behind the scenes. You can come in and write up that report while you’re waiting for them to report to you.”
“I suppose so,” Alec said reluctantly. He liked to have his finger directly on the pulse of an investigation.
But his neighbours were no lords and ladies, merely wealthy cits, in the idiom of the eighteenth century, which Alec had studied at university. Tom Tring could cope perfectly well with interrogating nobs as long as he wore his best suit, not one of his checked monstrosities.
Could Mackinnon? He didn’t know him well enough to count on it. “I’ll want DS Tring, sir, and DC Piper. They’ve worked well before with the S Division detective sergeant on the job.”
“Done. And you’ll have the report by noon?”
“I said that before you dumped this case in my lap, sir! I need to discuss it with Tring and Mackinnon so that they can get going. And the American embassy will have to be notified.”
“What? What?” Crane demanded wildly. “The American embassy?”
“Yes, sir. The victim was a U.S. citizen.”
“Are you sure?”
“Passport in his pocket. The photo and description match.”
“If the divisional chappie had known that, he’d have handed it over to us anyway.” The superintendent sounded slightly mollified.
“No doubt. Come to think of it, sir, I’d like your permission to get in touch with the New York police, and perhaps the FBI.”
“FBI?”
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, sir. In Washington.”
“Oh yes, those chappies you gave a helping hand to over there. Why? Do you suspect he was a wrong ‘un?”
Alec chose his words with care.
“Let’s just say there are aspects of the case that point to the possibility. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it wouldn’t surprise me.” It dawned on him that the holster might equally well mean the man was an agent, like Lambert. Like Lambert, he could have had his gun confiscated by Customs—but then he’d have had no reason to wear the holster. Alec didn’t have time just now to think it through, what with Crane panting on the other end of the line. “Would you like details?”
“No, no. Go ahead and cable whomever you need to.” This time, his sigh expressed long-suffering rather than relief. “I’ll try to explain to the AC why he won’t be getting the report for a while. If you can possibly spare me a moment, you might pop in and tell me what you’ve learnt so far about your Hampstead murder. By the by, how is Mrs. Fletcher holding up? She sounded pretty chipper when I spoke to her just now, but it must have been a shock to her, finding yet another body.”
One cannot tell one’s superior in the police force that sarcasm does not become him. “She didn’t actually find this one, sir,” Alec reminded him. “She hasn’t actually seen him.”
“I dare say, Fletcher, but it is, to my recollection, the first to be found on—I beg your pardon—practically on her own doorstep.” With that, he rang off, which was just as well, as the retort that sprang to Alec’s lips was most improper.
Alec arranged for Ernie Piper to come out to Hampstead to help with the search, and for Tom Tring to meet him and Mackinnon at the Yard. He had to get copies of the passport photo made, and some good photographs of the entire passport to show at the U.S. embassy and to send to the NYPD and FBI. In the meantime, he could cable the passport number to them.
He went down to the kitchen, where Daisy and Mrs. Dobson were presiding over the consumption of tea and flapjacks. “You can go up and ring your station,” he said grumpily to Mackinnon, “but I can tell you what your super’s going to say: He’s talked mine into handing over the case to me.”
“Good!” said Mackinnon. “I mean, I’m sorry you’re being troubled with it, but I’m glad to be working with you again, sir.”
“DC Piper’s coming to give your men a hand. You and I will go to the Yard.”
“Yes, sir.” Mackinnon went off to telephone.
“Ardmore, Warren,” said Alec, “off you go to see if you can find that weapon before Piper arrives.”
There was some scurrying about while boots and a rake were procured for the fountain-fishing expedition; then the two detective constables departed, carrying a couple of thermos flasks and flapjacks wrapped in wax paper for the uniformed men. Alec sat down at the kitchen table.
“Darling, you’re not going to have to interrogate the Jessups, are you?” Daisy poured him a cup of tea. “And the Whitcombs and everyone?”
“I sincerely hope not. Initially at least, the others can do it, but if it turns out any of them are involved, then all bets are off.” He helped himself to a flapjack, chewy and still slightly warm from the oven. A large bite effectively stopped his mouth, allowing Daisy to have her say.
“I hope it doesn’t come to that. We shan’t dare poke our noses outside the door, Mrs. Dobson.”
“Not to worry, madam,” said the cook-housekeeper, clearing cups and plates and sweeping away crumbs. “You know how it is. There’s some as’ll blame you no matter what, and others that’ll know it’s none of it your fault. That’s how you tell your true friends.”
“Very true. Come to think of it, Alec, you can give the Bennetts the ‘third degree’ with my goodwill. Do you have any reason to think one of the neighbours may be involved?”
“I can’t talk about it here.”
Mrs. Dobson drew herself up, her hands on her hips. “If it’s because I’m here, sir, I take leave to tell you there’s many and many a secret I’ve known that’s never crossed my lips, and I’m sure I never gave you cause—”
“Of course not.” Harassed on every side, Alec tried to sound soothing. “I just meant that at present it’s a matter to be discussed only with my colleagues in the police.”
“Hmm.”
“I suppose you won’t tell us who he is, either,” said Daisy.
“I don’t know his name. If I did, you’re right, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Mackinnon came in. “All settled, sir,” he said cheerfully. “I’m to take my orders from you, and I don’t even have to give my super a report until we’ve made an arrest.”
“Assuming we do. Let’s get going. There’s one good thing about crime on the doorstep, Daisy, I should be home on time for dinner, if not before.”
ELEVEN
“Will you look at that, madam! Those policemen haven’t left hardly enough flapjacks to be sent up to the nursery.”
“I’ve already eaten more than my share, Mrs. Dobson,” Daisy said guiltily.
“Then I’ll just put what’s left on the tray here for the kiddies and Mrs. Gilpin’s morning coffee and be off about the shopping. It’s to be hoped that butcher hasn’t already sold his best cuts, the master being home for dinner tonight.”
She put on her hat and coat, took up her basket and umbrella, and set off, leaving Daisy once again pondering a way to infiltrate the Jessups’ house. She still wanted to talk to them, though at least she was no longer worried about their safety.
Another cup of tea failed to inspire her. Perhaps a bath would help. Having dressed in a tearing hurry, she had omitted even a lick and a promise earlier.
On her way up the kitchen stairs, she heard the front doorbell ring. As she pushed open the baize door at the top, Elsie opened the front door. Though she couldn’t be seen, Daisy didn’t step out into the passage. She held the door ajar and listened.
A man’s voice asked for Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher.
“He’s left for the Yard,” said Elsie. No sir, Daisy noted. “You from the papers?”
“That’s right. You’re a sharp girl, you are.”
“Seeing you got a notebook and a cam’ra, and any copper’d be ashamed to go about looking like a ragbag, it weren’t too difficult.”
“Sharp in mind and sharp in tongue.” The reporter sounded disconcerted. “I bet you wouldn’t mind making a couple of pounds telling me what’s going on in the garden there?”
“Go on, you really think I’d risk losing a place like this for a couple of quid? No, not for ten, not for twenty, no thank you! They treat me proper, and it suits me. So you can just get along with you and—”
“Here, hold on! Don’t be so hasty. What about your missus, eh? I bet she’d like to see her name in the paper, and maybe her face, too.”
“Not likely! Madam’s a real lady, not the sort that’d want to see her picture on every street corner. ‘Sides, she’s not at home.” The parlour maid closed the front door with a brisk thud. “Not at home to the likes of you, anyway!” she added.
Daisy came out of hiding. Elsie turned and saw her.
“Oh, madam, I hope I done right. There was this nasty reporter—”
“I heard every word. You were wonderful, quite perfect. Anyone would think you’d been turning newshounds away from the door for years. I’m afraid you may have to do it again, once word gets around.”
“Now I know what they’re like, I’ll get rid of the next one in half the time. You just watch me!”
Daisy went upstairs and took a bath, which thawed the bits of her still chilled in spite of hot tea and the warmth of the kitchen. She was almost dressed when Elsie tapped on the bedroom door and announced, “Mrs. Jessup’s called, madam. I said I’d see if you’re at home.”
“Yes, I’m at home! Tell her I’ll be down in just a minute. Offer her a cup of coffee.” If Mahomet can’t think of an adequate reason to go to the mountain, she thought, then let him wait until the mountain comes to him!
She went down a few minutes later, to find Mrs. Maurice Jessup—she had for some reason expected Audrey—standing at the window of the drawing room, gazing out over the garden. It had stopped raining. As Daisy
crossed the room, she could see that Ernie Piper had joined Ardmore and Warren. They stood by the fountain, Warren waving the rake like a magic wand, as if he hoped to bring the nymph in the centre to life.
“Good morning, Mrs. Jessup,” said Daisy.
Swinging round, Mrs. Jessup said, “Oh, good morning! I didn’t hear you come in. You gave me quite a start.”
“Isn’t it odd how something one is expecting sometimes startles one more than the unexpected?”
“Yes indeed. Especially when you’re waiting by the telephone for a particular call, and when at last it rings, you jump out of your skin. At least I do.”
“Exactly! Won’t you sit down? Elsie’s bringing coffee, I hope.”
Moving with the studied grace of an actress, Mrs. Jessup sat down on the edge of a chair. After a moment’s hesitation, she shifted back and relaxed. “Mrs. Fletcher, as you have no doubt guessed, we are dying of curiosity about the very unexpected goings-on down in the garden. I’m afraid our Enid has taken quite a pet because her sister refused to talk about it.”
“I sympathise,” Daisy said with a smile. “That’s just how I feel when Alec won’t tell me what’s happening.”
“He won’t? How very irritating men can be. I suppose Audrey will just have to go away wondering.”
“Go away? Where is she off to?”
“Oh, didn’t she tell you? Of course, when the two of you are together, you never need any subject of conversation beyond the children. She’s taking Marilyn and Percy to her sister’s, in Lincolnshire. The visit has been planned for ages, but the exact date was uncertain. You see, Aidan has business in the North, customers to see and so on. He’s been postponing the trip until Patrick’s return—my younger son, you know. So when we heard from Patrick that he was on his way home, Aidan made arrangements to take the night train last night.”
“And Audrey’s going to her sister’s while Aidan’s away?”
“That’s right. Vivien married a country squire, and he and Aidan simply have nothing in common. Besides, Aidan loves his own children, but you know how men are with other people’s offspring.”
“Better to visit without him.”
