by Carola Dunn
“If it was just a bash over the head.” Piper waved down a taxi. “Not if Dr. Ridgeway’s right about the way he was killed.”
“No.” Alec sighed. “That’s the sticking point.”
The taxi whirled them to Scotland Yard. Alec found the autopsy report on his desk. Amid a great deal of obscure medical verbiage, the plain fact stood out: Castellano had first been knocked out by the impact of an unidentifiable blunt instrument on the skull. Subsequently, he had been murdered by compression of the carotid arteries. It would have taken no more than a couple of minutes.
Alec sent Piper home and took a taxi to St. Pancras Station. Ross and Patrick were waiting for him, anxiously scanning the arriving cabs. Not until he saw them did Alec realise he had been metaphorically holding his breath, worrying that Patrick might give Ross the slip and run for cover.
Though nothing like it was during rush hour, the station was still busy. Passengers and porters streamed in and out of the brick archways. Alec had cut it fine, so he was relieved when Patrick said, “I’ve got your ticket. Platform seven. We’d better hurry.”
“Thanks. Ross, you’ll be giving DS Tring a hand tomorrow.”
He and Patrick joined the swarms beneath the cavernous iron-vaulted glass roof. The cries of boys hawking food baskets augmented the voices of anxious travellers, the rumble of luggage trolleys, and the din of steam engines.
“I’m ravenous,” said Patrick as they made haste towards Platform 7, dodging old ladies with umbrellas and lapdogs and young ladies wielding careless cigarette holders. “I don’t know whether the dining car will serve supper this late, so I bought us a couple of baskets. Rather infra dig in first class, but it can’t be helped. A porter’s taken them and my bag to nab seats for us.”
First class! Alec had intended to travel third, as was appropriate to a lowly policeman who had to explain his expenses to a clerk intent on saving the taxpayers money. However, the scion of a wealthy wine merchant would be accustomed to better things. Thanks to his great-uncle Walsall, Alec could reimburse him without wincing.
“Over here, guv!” A porter waved vigorously from an open door. “Gotcha two window seats.” His waiting hand was appropriately filled by Patrick. He took Alec’s bag, led them a little way down the corridor, and ushered them into a compartment. Chucking the bag up onto the rack, he wished them “Bong voyidge,” and departed.
Both the corner seats by the corridor were occupied. Dismayed, Alec recognised the gentleman facing forward as a distinguished King’s Counsel with whom he had more than once clashed in court.
The KC frowned at Alec, as if he felt he ought to know him but couldn’t quite place him. One thing was certain: He would not have chosen to travel in this compartment if he could have found an empty one. He was not going to approve of his unwanted companions’ impromptu meal.
Alec had hoped for privacy on the journey in order to continue his interview with Patrick in light of what he had learnt. It was not to be.
With the usual whistle, clanging and clashing, and the hiss of escaping steam, the train pulled out of the station.
TWENTY-THREE
Daisy dined alone, an occurrence too frequent to be bothersome. It allowed her to read while she ate, though, naturally, she’d rather have been talking to Alec. After a delicious apple snow, light and frothy and sweetened just enough, she took her demitasse of coffee up to the nursery.
Miranda was fast asleep in her crib, but Oliver was teething yet again and inclined to be fretful. Daisy rocked him in her arms, crooning a lullaby, while Nurse Gilpin and Bertha went down to the kitchen to have supper with Mrs. Dobson and Elsie.
Oliver soon settled down, sucking his thumb. Mrs. Gilpin would have strongly disapproved. Daisy let him suck. Pulling it out of his mouth would only get him upset again. She debated whether to lay him down in his crib, but she was very comfortable in the rocking chair by the fire, and it was difficult to get out of it holding a large baby, so she stayed put. It was a cosy comfort, not at all conducive to thoughts of murder, yet she couldn’t help her mind turning that way.
Aidan was in hospital in Manchester, suffering from the effects of a concussion. Perhaps he had fallen getting in or out of the train. Perhaps something had fallen on his head from the overhead rack.
Unfortunately, it seemed more likely that he was feeling the delayed aftermath of a fight with Castellano. Had he attacked because Castellano had threatened him or Patrick? What had become of the mysterious vanishing gun, or had Castellano not carried one? And why—the question always recurred—why was Alec convinced Castellano’s death was cold-blooded murder? Not knowing made it very difficult to see either Aidan or Patrick as a cold-blooded murderer. And she must not forget Lambert, though he seemed still more unlikely.
Elsie came in. “Oh madam,” she said in a hushed voice, “Enid just brought a note from them next door.”
“Whatever can they want now?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, madam. It’s sealed. Not that me or Enid would stoop to reading someone else’s letter!” She came over, holding out a blue envelope. “Ooh, who’s a sweetie pie, then!”
“Do you think you could take him and lay him down in his crib without waking him?”
“Sure enough, madam. I’ve got little brothers and sisters, I have.” She picked up Oliver and bore him away.
The envelope was addressed to “Mrs. A. Fletcher” in a hand she didn’t recognise. Opening it, she glanced first at the signature—”Maurice Jessup.” What on earth …?
He apologised for troubling her. Moira was greatly distressed by the latest development in this horrible business and begged for Mrs. Fletcher’s advice. Would she be so very kind as to call at her earliest convenience, tonight if possible?
“Little lamb,” cooed Elsie, leaning over Oliver’s crib. She turned to the other crib. “And I haven’t forgot you, Miss Miranda. Such a good quiet mite.” She tucked a blanket in more securely.
Daisy hardly noticed. Her advice? About what? Did Mrs. Jessup still, after Daisy’s denials, believe she knew everything in Alec’s mind and would be willing to share it?
Alec would undoubtedly say she shouldn’t go. Luckily, he wasn’t here to say it. She knew she’d never sleep tonight with curiosity gnawing at her. If she could satisfy it while bringing some comfort to Mrs. Jessup …
“Elsie, I’m going to pop next door for a few minutes. Did you finish your supper?”
“All but the pudding, madam. Mrs. Dobson will save me some if you want me to stay with the babies.”
“Would you, please, until Nurse comes back? I’d hate her to find Oliver crying and no one here. I shan’t be long.”
Daisy dispensed with hat and gloves, but she did don a coat for the brief venture out into the frosty air, down the steps and up the steps. Enid opened the Jessups’ front door promptly.
“I’m ever so glad you’ve come, madam,” she said. “We’re all that worried about poor Mr. Aidan in the hospital.”
Hospitals were still regarded by many as a place where you were taken to die. “It’s the best place for him,” said Daisy. “He’ll get proper care there.”
“I’m sure I hope so. If you’ll please to come this way, madam.” She showed Daisy into the drawing room.
Mrs. Jessup, as immaculate as ever, came to meet her and took both her hands. “How kind you are!”
“I don’t know if I can help.” Daisy’s voice was full of doubt.
“Come and sit down and let us explain our quandary.”
Daisy had expected to see Mr. Jessup, but somewhat to her surprise, Mr. Irwin was still there, as well. As Aidan’s father-in-law, she wondered, or as a lawyer, or a bit of each? He had freely given Alec the address of Audrey’s sister. Daisy wouldn’t give much for his legal advice in a criminal matter.
He was the first of the two men to speak. “Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher. We are approaching you as a friend of my daughter, the only friend we feel able to bring into this shocking affair, as you are alre
ady conversant with its details.”
“Yes?” Daisy said cautiously.
“Audrey must be told that Aidan is in hospital,” said Mrs. Jessup. “I simply can’t countenance keeping it from her.”
“She ought to know,” Daisy agreed, reflexively accepting a tiny liqueur glass Mr. Jessup pressed into her hand. She tasted—Drambuie.
“The trouble is, Vivien isn’t on the telephone. Jonathan—Mr. Irwin—was going to send a telegram, but I can’t help thinking how I’d hate to get such news in a wire, not knowing what to do or—”
“I’ve said I’ll go to her.” Irwin sounded goaded.
“And take her to Manchester.”
“And take her to Manchester, if that’s what she wants. I’ll hire a motor, leave at once, and drive through the night. But it’s my opinion that the police will consider our arrival unwarranted interference. I repeat,” he added doggedly, “I am not conversant with criminal law.”
“Mrs. Fletcher,” Mrs. Jessup appealed to her, “do you think your husband would consider it—what’s the phrase?—‘obstructing the police in the execution of their duties’ if Jonathan took Audrey to Manchester? Heaven knows, Aidan and Patrick seem to be in trouble enough already. The last thing they need is any further complications.”
Daisy’s sympathies were entirely with Audrey. How much comfort her father would be to her was uncertain, but he was indubitably better than a telegram announcing her husband’s having been rushed into hospital. On the other hand, Alec might reasonably be annoyed if Mr. Irwin reached Audrey and whisked her away before Mackinnon had spoken to her.
“I can’t see that Alec can possibly object to a wife hurrying to her husband’s sickbed,” she said, thinking fast. “And I don’t believe he’s allowed to object to the presence of a lawyer, at least in certain circumstances. Couldn’t you go with them, Mrs. Jessup? A worried mother as well as a worried wife would be awfully hard to take exception to.”
Mrs. Jessup shuddered. “There’s nothing I’d like better, but I simply can’t travel by motor-car. I’d be no use to either Aidan or Audrey if they had to tuck me up in the bed next to his.”
“Mal de voiture,” said Daisy understandingly, “or it ought to be. I don’t know if the French have a word for it. You ought to learn to drive, you know. A friend of mine gets frightfully sick when she’s driven, but she’s perfectly all right driving herself.”
“Oh, I’m much too old to learn.”
“Rubbish! But that’s beside the point. The more I think about it, the more I think Audrey needs a woman to go with her to hold her hand. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Oh yes!”
“We can’t bring anyone else into this,” Jessup said grimly.
All three looked at Daisy.
“Well …”
“My dear Mrs. Fletcher,” said Irwin, “I’d be exceedingly grateful if you could see your way to coming with me. I’m certain your support would mean a great deal to my daughter. Women are so much better on such occasions—‘When pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel thou!’ ”
The solicitor’s lapse into poetry startled Daisy. She didn’t mind that couplet, but she took serious isssue with the first part of the verse. “Uncertain, coy, and hard to please” was not a description any modern young woman would put up with. Not that she couldn’t think of a few to whom it applied neatly, but in her opinion, not a one of them would ever turn into a ministering angel under any foreseeable circs.
“It’s a lot to ask,” said Jessup, refilling Daisy’s glass.
His wife just projected hopefulness that would have easily reached the balcony in a theatre.
“I think it’s quite a good idea, actually,” said Daisy. “If Alec’s furious, it’ll be with me, not with you, and I’m used to it. However, I can’t possibly be ready to leave before the morning. Reasonably early in the morning, but not tonight.”
Mrs. Jessup agreed that the support Daisy could offer her daughter-in-law was more important than speed in announcing the bad news. Mr. Irwin agreed to have his hired car pick her up at eight o’clock the next morning.
Returning home, Daisy breathed a sigh of relief. They might think they had persuaded her into going, but it was just what she wanted. By the time she and Irwin arrived at the farm, Mackinnon would have had his talk with Audrey. When she explained that to Alec, he’d have to agree she’d acted for the best. On top of that, she would not only be a comfort to Audrey; she’d be back in the thick of things, instead of languishing in London while the action was in Manchester.
As she entered the house, the telephone bell was ringing. She reached the instrument just as Elsie pushed through the baize door. “You get it,” she requested, stepping back. “I’m not sure I can cope with any more excitement this evening.”
“It’s that Mr. Mackinnon,” Elsie announced a moment later. “The Scotch detective. It’s a trunk call.”
“Oh dear! Right-oh, I’ll talk to him.” Daisy took the receiver and put her hand over the transmitter. “Elsie, I have to go out of town for a couple of days. Would you get started on packing? I’ll wear country clothes tomorrow—the heather tweed costume and a motoring coat—and then—Whatever do you suppose one wears in Manchester?”
“A dirty place, by what I’ve heard, madam. You’ll want something dark.”
“Right-oh. I’ll be up in a minute.” She uncovered the transmitter. “Hello, Mr. Mackinnon, this is Mrs. Fletcher. What can I do for you?”
The line was terrible, with a crackling noise interrupted by periodic pops.
“Mrs. Fletcher?” Mackinnon shouted.
“Yes!” Daisy shouted back.
“I’m in Lincolnshire, at the Boston police station. The Chief told me to ring up to find out whit’s going on, but they told me at the Yard he’s on his way to Manchester, and Mr. Tring’s gone hame.” He always sounded more Scottish than ever when harassed. “Can ye no gie me an inkling whit’s happened sin’ I left?”
Using initials for those involved, in case the exchange girl was listening in—country operators usually having more time to spare than those in town—Daisy passed on all she knew. Her exposition was punctuated at regular intervals by the operator’s “Your time is up, caller. Would you like another three minutes?” The really irritating thing was that the line always cleared miraculously for these announcements, then reverted to hissing and spitting like an angry cat for Mackinnon’s reply.
“So you don’t have to try to find out from Mrs. A.J. where her husband is. And that’s about the lot,” Daisy said at last, “or at least all I can remember. Alec doesn’t tell me everything, of course. But if I may venture a suggestion, I wouldn’t mention Mr. A.J. being in hospital, if I were you. It’d only upset Mrs. A.J. and make it more difficult for you to get answers out of her. She’ll find out soon enough.”
“Yon’s no the Chief’s notion, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No, just my opinion.”
“I s’ll have to consider—”
“Your time is up, caller. Would you like another three minutes?”
“No, thank you, operator. Thank you, Mrs. Fletch—”
The line went silent.
Oh well, Daisy thought, she had done her best for Audrey. She could only hope Mackinnon would see the sense in her suggestion. She went upstairs to pack.
TWENTY-FOUR
Alec and Patrick arrived in Manchester in the small hours of the morning. It was raining. Patrick wanted to go at once to the Royal Infirmary. Alec, not entirely disingenuously, persuaded him that his brother would be sleeping and ought not to be disturbed. Indeed, the hospital would certainly not allow a visit to the ward, and moving Aidan to a private room—let alone to a nursing home—in the middle of the night was not a good idea, was, in fact, a rotten idea. Rest and peace were what a concussion victim needed most.
He felt only slightly guilty. The truth of his words was not altered by his own intention of disturbing the patient at the earliest feasible hour of the morning. He w
as not about to permit the brothers to meet before he had taken Aidan’s statement.
They went to the London Road Station Hotel. Patrick went straight to his room. Alec’s day was by no means yet ended.
First, he rang up the Manchester police headquarters. True to his word, Superintendent Crane had paved the way. The duty sergeant promised him a car and a detective constable to pick him up at the hotel at quarter past six. Hospitals were notorious for starting their day ridiculously early. Alec reckoned that by the time he had worked his way through the bureaucracy and spoken to the almoner and the doctor, Aidan Jessup should be washed, shaved, fed, and as ready for interrogation as he was likely to be. Assuming he was not inconveniently still unconscious.
This arranged, Alec returned to the reception desk. No one was there, but a sleepy-eyed porter limped over from his post by the door and advised him to ring the bell.
“Thank you, in a minute. Were you on duty last night?”
“Oh aye, that I were.”
“You saw the man who was taken away to hospital?”
“Oh aye. Coom in here lookin’ like death, he did, ’bout this time last night. Cou’n’t stand up straight and wobbling abaht like a one-legged parrot. I thought he were drunk as an oyster, but he were dressed like a gent, an’ ‘e gave the porter what brought his bags from the station an ‘alf crown. Gave me another when I lent him a hand. He’d wired ahead to book a room, so Mr. Greaves didn’t—”
“What I did or didn’t do cannot possibly interest this gentleman, Wetherby.” The voice of authority emanated from a very small man, not much more than a midget, slim and dapper, with only crow’s-feet and greying temples to distinguish him from a boy. He had appeared through the door behind the reception counter, which hid all but his head until he stepped up onto a stool.
“But it does interest me,” said Alec, producing his warrant card. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard. You’re the night manager, I take it, Mr. Greaves? May I have a word with you?”
