by Carola Dunn
Doris had left. Daisy took the pad out into the more brightly lit hall and slanted it to the light. With difficulty she made out the clumsy writing: KERNLE LOMAK SEZ EEL COM BAK LETTER.
So the brigadier had dropped in when the Osbornes were out, but he could not conceivably have left such an illiterate inscription. No, Doris had written down his message. Looking at the hall table, Daisy saw two or three folded sheets of paper beneath a paperweight on a silver-plated salver, the silver wearing thin in patches.
Doris as Poison Pen? She was in the right place to hear all the gossip.
But Daisy’s excitement lasted scarcely a moment. The letters on the pad were heavily impressed and ill-formed, quite unlike the Poison Pen’s neat block capitals. And surely no one who spelt like that could have managed to get “you‘re” and “you’ve” correct, let alone “folk” or “caught.”
All the same, the police might be able to make something of it. She tore off the top sheet and tucked it into her handbag as she turned back to the telephone.
With Winifred Burden at the exchange in mind, Daisy told Violet nothing that would not already be all over the village. It was lucky her sister was singularly uninquisitive. There was just a chance she and Johnnie might be able to keep the Poison Pen business from Vi even if the murder was connected.
“How are Bel and Derek?” she asked. “Are they frightfully shocked?”
“Not a bit of it, darling. Rather disappointed not to have seen the body—at least, Derek is, the bloodthirsty little monster. They went to inspect their dam, which has suffered from the rain, I gather, and now they’re playing piggy-in-the-middle with Peter. Peter would be piggy forever, of course, if Belinda didn’t deliberately throw him the ball now and then. What a kind-hearted child! I’m glad she’s going to be my boys’ cousin, and the baby’s.”
“So am I,” said Daisy. “I’ll be back long before dinner, Vi, but first I’d like to give my statement to Inspector Flagg, so he doesn’t have to come up to Oakhurst. Toodle-oo!”
As she hung up, Daisy was glad to see Doris go past from the nether regions carrying a jug of hot water. She was simply dying for a cup of tea.
Slipping into the drawing room behind the maid, she heard Mrs. Molesworth say encouragingly, “Do drink your tea, Mrs. Osborne. Strong, hot, and sweet, it’s quite the best thing for shock.”
“I’m sure my nerves are in tatters,” moaned Miss Hendricks. “No one knows better than I what it is to have delicate nerves. Dear Mrs. Osborne is always so strong.”
The vicar’s wife was sitting bolt upright, her lips tightly compressed, her hands gripped together in her lap. She was clearly suppressing some strong emotion, though Daisy could not tell what. Was it sick uncertainty, the fear that the body had been misidentified and she was a widow, or was she simply irritated almost beyond bearing by the women fussing about her?
“Do stop clucking like a flock of silly hens!” came Mrs. Willoughby-Jones’ strident tones. “Give the woman some peace. Ah, Doris, is that more hot water you’ve brought? I’ll have another cup.”
“Oh, Miss Dalrymple!” Miss Prothero, spotting her, jumped up and advanced upon her with an avid expression. “Perhaps you can tell us what has happened? Poor Mrs. Osborne feels quite unable to give us the details.”
“All we know,” put in Mrs. Lomax, “is that Professor Osborne has met with a fatal accident.”
“I can’t tell you any more,” Daisy prevaricated, “except that the police are investigating, as I’m sure you’re aware is necessary in any sudden death. Don’t you think that when the vicar comes home he’s going to want peace and quiet to deal with his loss?”
“Oh, but special friends …” Miss Hendricks wailed, wringing her hands. “The dear vicar has done so much for all of us …”
“You’re quite right, Miss Dalrymple,” Mrs. Molesworth interrupted in her deep voice. “Mrs. Osborne, if there is anything at all I can do to help you have only to let me know. There, I’m off.”
“But special friends …” said Miss Hendricks weakly.
“You’re not one,” Mrs. Willoughby-Jones informed her with brutal candour.
The remaining women all looked at each other sidelong, then one by one said subdued goodbyes, with promises of assistance as needed, and drifted out. Mrs. Osborne, it appeared, had no special friends.
Daisy certainly did not count herself as a friend, even an ordinary one. She hadn’t the vaguest right to stay, as Mrs. Willoughby-Jones’ truculent glance in parting made plain. But she had found the body, and talked to the police, and besides, she was Lady John’s sister. No one objected aloud.
Was one of them the murderer—the Poison Pen or a victim of the Poison Pen? They had all been in the vicinity.
As chairman of the WI committee, Mrs. Lomax probably could not have arrived at the meeting late without arousing comment—though Mrs. Osborne habitually usurped her functions whether she was present or not. Any of the others might have sneaked into the Parish Hall and sat down at the back unnoticed. How much force had it taken to topple the angel? Mrs. Molesworth and Mrs. Willoughby-Jones were both fairly hefty, and even Miss Prothero, though elderly, was quite vigorous. Miss Hendricks’ much vaunted feebleness could be less fact than an excuse to whine, though she did look pretty sickly.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Daisy picked up Mrs. Osborne’s nearly full tea-cup. “You prefer it weak, and without milk, don’t you? And I expect they have put enough sugar in to make it undrinkable. Two lumps, I seem to remember.”
Preparing a fresh cup to those specifications, she set it beside the vicar’s wife, then poured some for herself. Mrs. Osborne drank thirstily.
“I feel as if none of this is real,” she said in a remote voice. “What will Osbert do next?”
“You don’t know where he went?” Daisy asked. “I’m sure the police would send someone to fetch him.”
“No!” Mrs. Osborne saw Daisy’s surprise at her vehemence and added with a feverish light in her eye, “Why grieve him sooner than need be? I don’t know how I’m going to tell him about his brother!”
“How long has the professor been staying?”
“Since the end of June. Why?”
“Oh, I suppose I wondered how close the brothers are,” Daisy invented hastily. “Mr. Osborne may well see the police before he gets here, in which case he’s bound to stop and ask what is going on in his churchyard, isn’t he? If not, would you like me to break the news?”
“Would you?” Mrs. Osborne begged eagerly. “You know more than I do, at all events, and to tell the truth I’m not feeling at all well. Will you forgive me if I go and lie down?”
“Of course.” Daisy couldn’t blame her cowardice. The vicar knew his wife had not cared for his brother, so any expression of sympathy was bound to strike a false note.
Mrs. Osborne’s departure left Daisy in indisputable occupation of the drawing room until Mr. Osborne came in. She went straight to the small hinged-front desk in the far corner. Though the vicar must have a private den with a desk where he produced his sermons, if Professor Osborne had been the Poison Pen, he was quite likely to use this to write his letters. Daisy pulled out the supports and let down the front.
The first thing she saw was a box of blue Basildon Bond, the kind with folded sheets, not a pad. She poked through the pigeon-holes and little drawers, but found no other writing paper of any sort. Closing the top, she opened the top drawer below. At first glance, it was full of receipted bills, old cheque-books, and such.
There was no time for a second glance. Someone knocked on the front door. Daisy hastily shut the drawer and moved away from the corner.
She heard Doris answer the door, then the maid came in.
“It’s a p‘liceman, miss. Leastways, he says he is, only he’s not in uniform ’cause he’s a ‘tective. He’s asking for you. Did I ought to go up and tell the mistress?”
“No, leave her in peace until she’s needed, Doris. Will you show the policeman in here, please?”
“The vicar hasn’t come home yet,” she said.
“Oh, Mr. Osborne turned up just a few minutes ago.”
“Thank heaven!” Daisy exclaimed with feeling. When Flagg gave her an enquiring look, she explained, “It would have been too frightful if it turned out to be Mrs. Osborne’s husband when I’d assured her it was her brother-in-law. Where is he? Is he fearfully upset?”
“Shattered, the poor gentleman. He went into the church, to pray, I imagine. Only natural for a parson.”
To pray? To try to pray, possibly, or just to try to look as if he was praying, to keep up appearances even in his grief, for his wife’s sake.
“I think I’d better tell the maid to let Mrs. Osborne know the vicar has turned up,” Daisy said, going to ring the bell. “She didn’t seem to doubt that it was the professor who was killed, but she’s in quite a state and it won’t hurt to reassure her.”
“Good idea,” Flagg agreed, taking out his notebook. “It’ll be half an hour or so before my men and the police surgeon get here. I’ve done all I can without them, so if you wouldn’t mind repeating what you told me about finding the deceased …”
“Of course.” She turned as the maid came in. “Oh Doris, Inspector Flagg says the vicar has come back and is in the church. Would you tell Mrs. Osborne right away?”
“Yes, miss. Was you wanting any more tea or’ll I clear?”
Daisy looked at Flagg, who said, “I wouldn’t mind a cup.”
“Bring a fresh pot, please, but go to Mrs. Osborne first. Right-oh, Inspector, I’d better explain first that I was on my way to the Parish Hall to give a talk to the Women’s Institute.” Pleased to note that her stomach remained calm, she continued with the story of her gruesome discovery and what she did next. She finished with Dr. Padgett’s reluctant concession that the angel could not have fallen by chance. “What do you think, Mr. Flagg? Don’t you think it must have been pushed?”
“It seems that way to me,” the inspector conceded, almost as reluctantly as the doctor had. “There’s no sign of mortar to attach it to the base, so its own weight must’ve held it there all these years, though we’ve had a gale or two in my time.”
“There wasn’t a breath of wind this afternoon.”
“Nary a whisper. That angel looks top-heavy, with the wings spread and all. I should think a good shove between the shoulder-blades’d topple it. We’ll look for fingerprints, of course. The polished stone should hold ’em well if there are any, but if not I expect the super will want to bring in some sort of scientist to say how much force it would have taken.”
“And how high up,” Daisy suggested, running her suspects through her mind. None was particularly short.
“That too,” Flagg agreed. “We’ll either have to experiment in the churchyard, or take the angel away. The churchwarden, Brigadier Lomax, wasn’t any too pleased when he heard that, I can tell you.”
“I don’t suppose he was. Did you find anything useful in the way of footprints? The gravel doesn’t show much, does it?”
The inspector shook his head. “There’s a couple of deepish indentations right where the murderer would have stood to push the angel over, but nothing remotely identifiable. Which isn’t to say I’m not grateful to you for keeping people off, Miss Dalrymple. It’s a pity more citizens don’t have the sense to guard the scenes of crimes.”
Murmuring a modest disclaimer, Daisy wondered whether to admit her previous involvement with several murder cases. At that moment, the maid came in with a steaming teapot.
“Did you tell Mrs. Osborne the vicar is back, Doris?” Daisy asked.
“Yes, miss. Cheered up no end, she did, when I told her the master was in church praying for his brother. She weren’t too pleased to hear the p‘lice is in the house, but when I said he just wanted to talk to miss, she said she s’posed there weren’t no harm. Is there anything else, miss?”
“No, thank you, Doris.” Daisy poured tea for Flagg and another cup for herself. “Now you’ve seen the vicar, Inspector,” she said, “don’t you agree it’s possible someone could have mistaken his brother for him?”
“I shouldn’t be discussing the case with you, Miss Dalrymple,” said Flagg with abrupt gruffness. The interruption had dispersed whatever spell beguiled people into confiding in her, and he was now obviously annoyed with himself for succumbing. “I don’t know what I was thinking of.”
“But the mix-up could be the key,” Daisy persisted, nerving herself to tell him about the Poison Pen. “Supposing—”
“You’d better leave the supposing to us, ma’am. Now, if you wouldn’t mind just going over these times once more, make sure I’ve got them down right. Half past two was it the WI meeting started?”
For the present, Daisy gave in. At least she would have a chance to warn Johnnie that the existence of the anonymous letters must be revealed.
10
Leaving the Vicarage, Daisy crossed the lane to knock on Mrs. LeBeau’s door. The mistress of the house opened the door herself, dressed in a glorious tea-gown of rose chiffon.
“Miss Dalrymple, do come in! I hope you have come to satisfy my vulgar curiosity? I’m all agog. It’s been all I could do to restrain myself from going over to ask what has happened.”
“I’ll tell you, but I’m afraid you won’t like the rest of my errand.”
“You’d better come and sit down,” said Mrs. LeBeau soberly, showing her into the drawing room, which was filled with fragrance from the vases of roses. “Sherry?”
“No, thanks.” Daisy needed a clear head, and she had not eaten since lunch. She told the bare facts of Professor Osborne’s demise, little more than that he had been killed by a falling tombstone.
Mrs. LeBeau made the proper shocked and sympathetic noises, without pretending to great distress. “I didn’t know the professor except to bow to in passing,” she explained, “and I doubt anything more than formal condolences from me would be well received at the Vicarage. I’ll rely on you to tell me if you think there’s anything I can do to help without giving offence. But what else did you have to tell me?”
Daisy hesitated, then came to the conclusion that there simply wasn’t an easy way to say it. “The thing is, there seems little doubt that Professor Osborne was murdered.”
“I wondered whether that might be the case, since the police appear inordinately interested. Why on earth would anyone kill him? He seemed an inoffensive sort of man, if rather eccentric.” She frowned. “Don’t say you came to warn me there may be a homicidal maniac about?”
“Good gracious, no! At least, I don’t think the police are thinking on those lines. No, the thing is, it seems to me the murder is very likely tied up somehow with the Poison Pen letters.”
Mrs. LeBeau stared at her in surprise. “The letters? But how?”
“It’s rather complicated, and I really ought not to explain to anyone but the police. Because I’m afraid I’m going to have to tell the police about the letters, and they’re going to want to know who’s been getting them.”
“Must you?” Mrs. LeBeau cried. Daisy thought she paled, though it was hard to be sure because of her make-up. “Must you tell them about me? There are others, you said.”
“The others won’t be any happier than you,” Daisy pointed out gently. “I can’t very well pick and choose.”
“No.” Her shoulders slumped. “And after all, one of them—one of us—is your brother-in- … Miss Dalrymple, I’m not a suspect, am I? Surely you don’t suspect me! Truly, I didn’t know the man.”
“I believe you,” Daisy hastily assured her.
In fact, it had not dawned on her before that Mrs. LeBeau might be the murderer, with the same conceivable
motive as any victim of the Poison Pen—including Johnnie. On the whole she was inclined to the theory that the murderer was the Poison Pen, found out by the vicar and killing his brother by mistake.
She was pretty sure Mrs. LeBeau had not written the anonymous letters, including those to herself to divert suspicion. But one never could tell, Daisy thought uneasily.
“Excuse me,” said Mrs. LeBeau, rising, “I believe I’ll have a glass of sherry now. I feel rather in need. You won’t?”
“Thank you, no.” She jumped up, glad of a suitable opening to take her leave. “I must be getting back to Oakhurst, to warn Johnnie.”
“I do appreciate your warning me, Miss Dalrymple, not just sending the police round to interrogate me.” Mrs. LeBeau ushered Daisy out into the hall and opened the front door as she went on with a faint smile, “And I’m grateful to you for believing me. You will be careful whom else you warn, won’t you? Before the police have all your information, I mean.”
“Gosh, yes!” said Daisy, dismayed.
Of all the feeble-minded chumps! The inherent danger in advising suspects of her intention of blowing the gaff to the police had not occurred to her. Alec would be furious if he found out—so he mustn’t. Too fearfully lucky that Mrs. LeBeau was innocent. Daisy had even contemplated ringing up Dr. Padgett. That was out.
Johnnie was all right. She had to trust him. But she jolly well hoped he had an alibi.
All the way up the hill, she pondered how to persuade Inspector Flagg to take her theories seriously, without setting his back up. The easiest would be to ’phone up Alec and ask him to convey her concerns. However, she wasn’t frightfully keen on Alec finding out she had set out to investigate an anonymous-letter epidemic without his knowledge. Anyway, Flagg would resent his repeated intervention.
Her reflections were interrupted as she approached the house. Derek and Belinda burst out of the front door.
“Aunt Daisy, Aunt Daisy, Bel’s daddy’s coming to stay!”
“Daddy telephoned and said he was motoring down tonight and Aunt Violet said he could stay here, at Oakhurst. Isn’t it spiffing?”
