by Carola Dunn
On her way to bed, Daisy went to the library to borrow the book about Wentwater Court recommended by Lady Josephine. Though the evening had ended peacefully, it had been fraught with overwrought emotions, and she hoped a little of the duller kind of history would send her straight to sleep. Through the open connecting door to Lord Wentwater’s study she saw the earl sitting in a wing chair by the fire, his face set in stern, melancholy lines. In his hands he warmed a brandy glass and a half-full decanter stood at his elbow.
So perhaps Lord Wentwater was not indifferent to Stephen Astwick’s pursuit of his young wife. Daisy wished he would hurry up and decide how to put an end to it.
***
In the morning, Daisy rose with the sun, which, as Wilfred had pointed out, was not particularly early at the beginning of January. Skipping the cold bath and postponing the outdoor exercise, she dressed warmly and went down to the breakfast parlour, a pleasantly sunny east-facing room. James, Fenella, and Sir Hugh were there before her. Sir Hugh lowered his Financial Times momentarily to wish her a good morning before retreating once more behind that bastion.
She helped herself to kedgeree from the buffet on the sideboard and joined them at the table.
‘Will you skate with us this morning, Daisy?’ Fenella asked. ‘I know you’re frightfully busy but this weather may not last and we don’t get such spiffing freezes very often.’
‘Yes, I’d like to, if I can borrow skates?’
‘We have a cupboardful,’ James assured her. ‘There’s bound to be something to fit you.’
‘Jolly good. I’ll finish off the roll of film in the camera down at the lake, and spend the rest of the morning developing my pictures.’
Sir Hugh, emerging from his newspaper, told her he owned shares in the Eastman Kodak company and asked about the developing and printing process. Daisy explained as she ate. James and Fenella lingered over their coffee until she had finished her breakfast, then took her to look for a pair of skates.
Outside, the air was crisp and still. Daisy couldn’t resist leaving a footprint or two in the glistening untrodden snow beside the path. It crunched underfoot.
James carried the skating boots down the hill for her as she was laden with camera and tripod. While she set them up, he and Fenella sat on the bench and put on their skates. They circled slowly at the near end of the lake, waiting for her.
‘Go ahead,’ she called, already chilled fingers fumbling at the stiff catch that attached the camera to the tripod. ‘I’ll be with you in half a mo.’
Waving to her, they joined hands and whizzed off towards the bridge. As they reached it, James yelled, ‘Stop!’
They swerved to a halt beneath the arch. James moved cautiously forward into the black shadow cast by the low sun. And then Fenella screamed.
CHAPTER 4
As scream after scream shredded the peaceful morning, Daisy raced along the lakeside path towards the bridge. Stepping down cautiously from the bank onto the ice, she was under the stone arch before she saw what had stopped James and Fenella in their tracks.
In the shadow of the bridge, the ice was shattered, and in the inky water floated a man, facedown.
With a gasp of shock, Daisy turned to Fenella. ‘Be quiet,’ she ordered sharply. ‘Don’t look.’
The ear-piercing screams ended in a sob, half buried in James’s chest as he pulled his fiancée into his arms. He glared at Daisy over her shoulder.
‘She’s upset!’
‘So am I, but hysterics won’t help. Send her away.’
He nodded sober understanding. ‘Fenella, I want you to go up to the house and tell Father, or Sir Hugh if you can’t find him. Come and take your skates off. I suppose I’d better get a boathook,’ he added to Daisy.
‘Yes, though I’m sure it’s too late.’
Finding the camera in her hands, Daisy tried to regard the gruesome scene as a problem in photography. The shadow was less deep now that her eyes were accustomed to it, and on the far side the jagged edge of the hole was in sunlight. Her shaking hands steadied as she moved around taking shots from different angles, venturing as close to the dark water as she dared. The ice, roughened by skate blades, felt solid beneath her feet, but of course the man must be much heavier than she was.
The man. Though she kept calling him that to herself, she knew who he was. The tight-waisted, tight-cuffed leather jacket, ballooned with air, supported his torso and arms on the surface. His legs dangled invisible below. His head was just submerged, the slick black hair a darker patch, the nape of his neck white and strangely defenceless in death.
Lord Stephen.
She began to feel sick, picturing him scrabbling desperately at the ice for nonexistent handholds. Though he had been one of the least likeable people she had ever met, she wouldn’t wish such a horror on her worst enemy.
James returned from the boathouse. He spread some coconut matting on the ice to give a footing, then, in grim silence, he caught the back of the collar with a gaff, the waistband with a boathook. Awkwardly, one pole in each hand, he hauled the body to the edge of the hole.
‘Sorry, I can’t manage it by myself.’
Daisy hung the camera around her neck, took the gaff pole, shut her eyes, and pulled.
‘Lift a bit.’
She obeyed. As the body came free, she staggered backwards, slipped, and sat down.
‘Oof!’
‘Are you all right? I say, Daisy, you’re a jolly good sport.’ James stooped to unhook the gaff and the boathook, and turned the body over. ‘Astwick, poor blighter. Dead as mutton. I’ll get him onto the bank.’
Recovering her breath, she gathered herself together and followed. As James dragged him across the ice, Lord Stephen’s limp feet in their skating boots flopped pathetically sideways. With a shudder, Daisy averted her eyes.
‘Hullo, there’s a great gash on his forehead. Look, here on the temple. It’s hard to see because his face is all blotchy. He must have knocked himself out on the ice when he fell through. I wondered why the poor devil hadn’t pulled himself out.’
‘He wouldn’t have known he was drowning then,’ she said, saved from her ghastly imaginings. The sound of voices drew her attention up the hill. ‘Here comes your father.’
Lord Wentwater, Sir Hugh, and Phillip joined them. In a solemn circle they stood staring down at the mortal remains of Lord Stephen Astwick, all except Daisy, who watched the men.
The earl must surely feel relief at the very least. His face showed nothing but the natural grave concern of a man whose guest has met with a fatal accident on his premises. Sir Hugh frowned, possibly foreseeing the unpleasantness of enquiries into the victim’s City dealings. Had he been more involved in Astwick’s business affairs than he was ready to admit?
Phillip regarded the body with the mingled curiosity and distaste of one to whom corpses are nothing new. Of all the young men Daisy knew who had gone through the War in France, he had emerged least affected, perhaps saved by a lack of imagination.
And James, who had done his brief military service safe in a ministry in London, was morose. His plot against his stepmother was now missing an essential part.
Sir Hugh was the first to stir, the first to speak. ‘We must send for the police.’
Lord Wentwater’s head jerked up. ‘No!’
‘I’m afraid so, Henry.’
‘Dr. Fennis will write out a death certificate . . . ’
‘Precisely: death by drowning. No chance of even you persuading him Astwick died in bed of heart failure. Any unexpected death requires an inquest, especially a violent death, however obviously accidental, and the coroner will require a police report.’
‘Ye gods, I can’t let Wetherby pry into my affairs!’
‘Wetherby?’ asked Sir Hugh.
‘The Chief Constable,’ James explained. ‘He and Father have a running feud on every subject under the sun. Colonel Wetherby would revel in a chance to tear us to pieces.’
‘Surely it needn’t go b
eyond your local johnny,’ said Phillip. ‘Your local constable, I mean. One look ought to be enough to get him to swear to an accident at the inquest.’
‘Job Ruddle?’ James laughed. ‘You’ve got something there, Petrie. The Ruddles have been family retainers for centuries.’
His father shook his head. ‘He’d have to write a report, and one way or another it would reach Wetherby’s ears.’
‘It’s not the kind of thing that can be hushed up,’ Sir Hugh reaffirmed. ‘What I could do is telephone the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. He’s an old friend, and maybe he can send down some discreet C.I.D. officer from Scotland Yard. I don’t know what the protocol is, but it might be possible to keep it from the local police.’
‘Try it.’ Lord Wentwater’s shoulders slumped as he accepted the necessity of calling in the authorities. ‘Thank you, Hugh. James, see to having . . . this removed to the boathouse. We don’t want anyone coming across it unexpectedly.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sir Hugh looked down at the dead man, sprawled on his back at their feet. ‘I believe we ought to have some photographs, before he’s moved again. Miss Dalrymple, do you feel up to it?’
‘Good Lord, no!’ said Phillip, belatedly protective. ‘Hang it all you can’t ask a young lady to do anything so bally beastly. Daisy, you shouldn’t be here at all.’
His protest erased her qualms. ‘Don’t be a silly ass, Phillip. Of course I can do it. I helped James pull him out.’
He stood guard over her like an anxious mother hen until she sent him to fetch the tripod from the other side of the lake. As she finished the roll of film, James returned with a couple of under-gardeners, one all agog, the other timorous. They laid out a tarpaulin like a shroud on the snow beside the path.
The body was a person again, not just a pattern in the viewfinder. Daisy turned away. ‘I’m going up to develop these now,’ she said.
‘I’ll come with you, old thing, unless you need a hand, Beddowe?’
‘No, go ahead.’
Leaving James and the gardeners to their grisly task, they set off up the path.
‘Jolly rotten luck,’ Phillip observed, ‘having a guest drown in one’s ornamental water. One can’t blame Wentwater for being sick as a dog over it. I dare say Lady Wentwater won’t be any too bobbish, either. Astwick was an old friend of hers, one gathers.’
‘So he told me.’ Daisy marvelled at the way the currents of emotion swirling through Wentwater Court had apparently washed right past Phillip’s oblivious head.
‘Rather bad form, having the busies in the house,’ he went on. ‘I wonder if the mater’d want me to take Fenella home?’
‘Don’t leave, Phil.’ She felt a need for his familiar, comforting presence, even if he was a bit of a chump. ‘I expect the police will want to talk to Fenella, as she was one of those who found the body. She might even have to attend the inquest.’
‘Lord, wouldn’t that just put the cat among the pigeons! The gov’nor will have my head on a platter if I let her appear in court.’
‘I’m sure they could call her as a witness even if you did take her home. But she didn’t see anything that James and I didn’t see too. They won’t need her evidence.’
‘Right-ho.’ He sighed with relief. ‘I’ll ring the parents up on the telephone, but unless they insist or Fenella gets the wind up, we won’t leg it.’
On reaching the house, Daisy retired to Sydney Beddowe’s scullery-darkroom. A narrow, windowless room with whitewashed walls and a stone flagged floor, it was lit by a shadeless lightbulb dangling by its flex from the ceiling. At the far end was a zinc sink with a cold-water tap and slate draining boards. One long wall was taken up by a stained wooden counter where the equipment, old-fashioned but in good condition, was ranged, including an electric lamp with a red bulb. Empty shelves on the opposite wall had doubtless held supplies.
Absorbed in her work, Daisy managed to forget for a couple of hours the unpleasant end of the unpleasant Lord Stephen Astwick.
Sydney’s enlarger was still in perfect working order. Daisy decided to make prints of the pictures the police might want to see. As she set them out to dry, some of the horror returned. Nonetheless, she was rather pleased with the way they had come out. She had succeeded in shading the lens from the glare of sun on snow and ice. Most of both close-up and more distant shots were clear, with jolly good contrast. Lucy would be proud of her.
With a puzzled frown, she took a closer look at one of the pictures. Those marks on the broken edge of the ice, almost as if . . .
A knock on the door interrupted her train of thought. ‘Miss?’
‘It’s all right, you can come in.’
The door opened two inches and an eye appeared. ‘I don’t want to spoil your pitchers, miss.’
‘Thank you, but really, it’s all right now.’
Gingerly, a footman stepped into the scullery. ‘Luncheon will be served in quarter of an hour, miss, and the detective’s asking to see you.’
‘A Scotland Yard man?’ Daisy asked, flipping electrical switches to Off. ‘Here already? Or is it the local police?’
‘From Scotland Yard, miss, a Chief Inspector. Seems he was in Hampshire on business anyway. He’s already seen Miss Petrie and Master James – Lord Beddowe, that is.’ He stepped back to let her precede him through the door and along the dimly lit corridor.
‘Well, I don’t want to keep him waiting, but I’m starved. Is he lunching with the family?’
‘Crikey, miss, I shouldn’t think so! I mean, a p’leeceman’s not a real gentleman, is he? But you better ask Mr. Drew.’ He dodged past her to hold open the baize door from the servants’ quarters.
The butler was in the dining-room, casting a last glance over the table before announcing lunch. ‘His lordship has not intimated to me that he wishes the detective to join the family,’ he said austerely.
‘A Chief Inspector won’t be frightfully happy to be expected to eat in the servants’ hall! I suppose you’ll give him a tray in . . . wherever he is?’
‘The Blue Salon, miss. The detective has not requested refreshment.’
‘The poor chap’s bound to be glad of a bite to eat. I’m sure Lord Wentwater won’t mind if you take him some soup and sandwiches. Tell him I’ll be with him right after lunch.’ She would willingly have shared the policeman’s sandwiches, but she wanted to see how Lord Stephen’s demise affected the company.
Fenella appeared to have recovered from the shock of finding the body. James and Phillip sat on either side of her, treating her like a piece of priceless porcelain. She basked in their solicitude.
Marjorie was absent. ‘The poor prune came unstrung,’ Wilfred told Daisy, seated beside him. ‘Dr. Fennis doped her up. Doesn’t know when she’s well off,’ he added in an undertone. ‘Astwick was a rotten swine.’
‘I can’t say I cared for him myself, but he’s dead now.’
‘De mortuis, et cetera.’ He pulled a face. ‘Hypocritical bunkum.’
Since Wilfred was distinctly cheerful, the smell of gin on his breath was presumably not from drowning his sorrows but from celebrating. Lady Josephine was also in sunny spirits which, whenever she glanced at her thoughtful husband, she tried guiltily to hide behind a more appropriate cloud of solemnity.
Annabel, on the other hand, was even paler and quieter than usual, and seemed to have lost her appetite. The removal of her persecutor ought to have bucked her up no end. Daisy wondered whether she was mistaken in believing that the young countess had feared Lord Stephen. Was she now mourning her lover?
The earl certainly had every reason to rejoice, yet he was as soberly formal, as unreadable, as ever.
After lunch, Daisy declared her intention of skipping coffee and going to see the C.I.D. man. At once Phillip, James, Lord Wentwater, and even Sir Hugh offered to accompany her.
‘Heavens, no, thank you,’ she said, laughing. ‘I don’t imagine he’ll use the “third degree” on me.’ Leaving Wilfred to ex
plain that American term to his father, she went off to the Blue Salon.
She was eager to meet the detective. The only contact she’d ever had with policemen was to enquire after the family of the local bobby at home in Worcestershire, and occasionally to ask the way of a London constable. A Chief Inspector was a different kettle of fish, not a ‘real gentle man,’ in the footman’s words, but a man of a certain power and influence.
Despite her refusal of support, she was a trifle nervous when she entered the small sitting-room. Facing north, decorated in pale blue and white, the room had a chilly atmosphere that the small fire in the grate battled in vain. No doubt that explained why it was little used by the family in winter and could be spared for the police. Daisy shivered.
The man who looked up from the papers on an elegant eighteenth-century writing table was much younger than she had expected, in his mid-thirties, she thought. He rose to his feet. Gentleman or not, he was well dressed in a charcoal suit, with the tie of the Royal Flying Corps. Of middle height, broad shouldered, he impressed Daisy as vigorous and resolute, an impression reinforced by rather intimidating dark, heavy eyebrows over piercing grey eyes.
Daisy was not about to let herself be intimidated. She advanced across the blue Wilton carpet, held out her hand, and announced, ‘I’m Daisy Dalrymple.’
‘How do you do.’ His handshake was cool and firm, his voice educated – though not at Eton or Harrow. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, C.I.D. I understand I have you to thank for my lunch, Miss Dalrymple.’
‘The servants seemed to think that a policeman is above such mortal needs as food, Mr. Fletcher.’
He grinned, his eyes warming, and she noticed that his dark, crisp hair sprang from his temples in the most delicious way. Altogether he was rather gorgeous, she decided.
‘This policeman was hungry. Thank you.’ He became businesslike. ‘I hope you don’t mind describing to me the events of this morning.’
‘Not at all.’ Remembering, she changed her mind. ‘Well, not much. But I shouldn’t think I can add anything to what James – Lord Beddowe – and Fenella Petrie have told you.’ She sat down on the nearest chair, and he resumed his seat.
