by Carola Dunn
Before leaving London for Oakham, he had received two cheerful letters from Daisy recounting the immediate improvement in her health and continuing progress. All the same, he was worried about her. She was so seldom ill she was inclined to belittle her own symptoms, besides not wanting to worry him … Yet here he was worrying anyway.
He concentrated on driving, through a light but relentless drizzle, the complicated route from Rutland to Beaconsfield that Ernie had mapped out for him.
It was dark when he reached the Saracen’s Head, to find himself expected. The ping of the bell on the reception desk brought a young woman from the room behind it. On hearing his name, she exclaimed, “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher will be ever so happy to see you, sir. She’s ever so much better than when she came. Hardly ever coughs and none of them terrible coughing fits yesterday.”
“Thank you, Miss…?”
“Hedger. Sally Hedger, sir. Mrs. Fletcher’s in her room—your room. Number eleven, turn right at the top of the stairs. She has a key, and here’s another one for you, in case you need it.”
“Thanks.”
“Any bags to be brought in, sir?”
“This is it.” He hefted his valise. “I can manage, thanks.” Luckily he’d taken an extra clean shirt to Rutland. He went upstairs and found the room. Knocking, he called, “Daisy, it’s me,” while trying the handle.
The door wasn’t locked. As it opened, Daisy cried, “Darling!” and jumped up from a chair by the fire, dropping a book on the floor.
He dropped his valise as she flung herself into his arms. Kicking the door closed behind him, he kissed her. Her enthusiastic response lasted long enough to prove she no longer suffered from severe breathlessness.
“Darling, I’ve missed you. I’m so glad you managed to get away.”
“Ernie Piper knows where I am. The Yard doesn’t.”
“Good.”
He held her away from him and scrutinised her face. “You don’t look quite as like a death’s head as you did.” Still a bit wan, but the curl was returning to golden-brown shingled hair that had lain limp and drab when she left London.
“How kind of you! I’m perfectly well, I promise, and trying not to regain too many pounds.”
“I like you with the pounds,” Alec said firmly, remembering that, at their first meeting, “cuddlesome” had been the word that came to mind.
“That’s a great relief, but I’m trying anyway. Did you get my last letter? When did you leave town?”
“I had two letters.”
“Then you didn’t get the one about the invitation to lunch tomorrow.”
He groaned. “I hoped—”
“I know. I rather wish I hadn’t accepted, but I did. I told them I wasn’t sure whether you’d make it, though, so you could go away again.”
“Not till I can take you with me, love. Not till tomorrow evening, that is, or early next day at latest. I have to turn up at the Yard on Monday morning.”
“We’ll stay over till Monday, then, so we’ll have the evening together. I’m sure you’ll get a good Sunday lunch, at least. I gather Isabel is an excellent cook.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And speaking of food, I’m hungry. I missed lunch today, as usual.”
“I’m ready, let’s go down.”
They went to the saloon bar first for a predinner drink. The barman was surly, and Alec got the impression that Daisy was a particular target of his scowl. When they sat down, she explained.
Alec laughed, but said, “Your friends have just recently moved here, didn’t they? I’d have thought they’d do better not to start out by antagonising people.”
“Willie said they’ll stick to the White Horse in future. They’ve been in a couple of times without anyone objecting.” Daisy bristled. “I don’t see why women shouldn’t have a quiet drink in a respectable bar just because they don’t happen to have a male escort.”
“Nor do I, love, so there’s no need to look daggers at me! It sounds as if your friend handled it just right.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, mollified.
“If I’m meeting them tomorrow, you’d better tell me a bit about them,” Alec proposed.
Daisy was glad to oblige. The harmonious ménage she described seemed to Alec to be a bit too good to be true. He’d come across quite a few households made up of “superfluous women,” and in his experience they were liable to suffer from most of the same sources of discord as the average marriage.
Not that he would say so to Daisy.
When they went to the dining room, he noted with amusement that she was on the friendliest terms with the staff, especially Sally Hedger. Obviously the barman’s attitude had not affected the others.
As usual, Daisy made friends wherever she went. He regarded her fondly across the table, happy to see the natural colour returned to her cheeks, the bounce and shine to her hair. She hadn’t coughed once since he arrived.
* * *
The clouds dissipated overnight and the sun shone bright in the pale blue sky. Though it gave little warmth as yet, it promised a perfect autumn day. After breakfast, Alec drove Daisy to Burnham Beeches, where they rambled through the ancient forest, glowing golden in its autumn glory.
Alec found it exhilarating. He was amused at Daisy’s awe. She wasn’t easily awed. He had to agree that the straight grey trunks of the beech trees gave the impression of a vast cathedral spreading as far as the eye could see in every direction.
It was chilly in the shade of the woodland paths, but when they returned to the open area of heather and birch where Alec had parked the car, the sun was surprisingly warm. Daisy shed scarves and gloves and coat and even, defying propriety, her woolly hat.
“You’ll get cold.”
“I can easily put them on again. It’s hardly any distance back to the hotel, though, and if you drive fast, we’ll be there in no time.”
“Twenty miles an hour.”
“The most disregarded law in the country,” Daisy teased.
“But I’m a copper.”
She laughed. “And if coppers all drove no faster than twenty, they’d never ever catch anyone.”
Alec proceeded at his usual steady thirty miles an hour, keeping an eye out for coppers. Mindful that life is precious and fragile—the doctor had spoken of pneumonia—he held Daisy’s hand as he drove except when he needed his to change gears. They didn’t often manage to spend more than a few hours alone together. Damn those well-meaning friends of hers and their invitation!
After washing and changing at the hotel, they drove to Cherry Trees.
The ladies welcomed them warmly. As soon as Daisy had introduced Alec, Isabel Sutcliffe, a strapping creature, excused herself to go and see to the gravy. Vera Leighton appeared to be average in every way, the sort of person one met and immediately forgot. Daisy’s schoolfriend, Miss Wilhelmina Chandler, was small and fluffy. Alec recalled with a start that she was a chartered accountant.
“Do come into the sitting room,” she invited. “We have some just about passable sherry.”
“We were hoping the previous owner of the house might have accidentally left a bottle or two of the good stuff in a dark corner of the cellar,” said Vera, “but the key is missing and we haven’t been able to open the door to find out.”
“What kind of lock is it?” Alec asked.
“Just an ordinary old-fashioned one. Not a Yale or Chubb or anything. Isabel fiddled with a wire coat hanger without success.”
“Would you like me to have a go?”
“Will you? You’re not a burglar by profession, are you? Willie went all cagey when we wondered what you do.”
“I did not go cagey, if you must use that revolting term! You’d better take care or you’ll find yourself teaching American slang to your kids.”
“They already know it from the cinema, all but the littlest.”
“Anyway, I was being discreet.”
“I hope Daisy is sufficiently discreet not to have revealed tha
t I was a burglar—if I were one! My thanks for your discretion, Miss Chandler. I’m a detective officer, Miss Leighton. We tend to learn a few burglarious tricks. Is the coat hanger handy?”
“In the cupboard under the stairs. I’ll get it,” Willie said promptly.
“Even if there are no bottles in the cellar,” said Vera, “Isabel wants to use it to store apples. We have five trees, and the fruit’s sitting in crates in a damp garden shed full of spiders and earwigs. The house agent told Iz the cellar’s practically airtight, to control the temperature for old Mr. Gray’s collection of wines. The old man was fanatical about it, apparently. Mrs. Gray was going to sell the lot, but you never know, we might find something that wasn’t carted away.”
Willie reappeared with an unravelled coat hanger and a torch. “I’m not sure if there’s electric light down there. This way.”
Alec followed her across the hall, Daisy and Vera trailing behind. At the rear, an open door revealed a dining room, the table set for lunch. Willie turned into a narrow passage, with a staircase on the right leading up to the first floor. A door in the left-hand wall also stood open. Daisy peeked in and saw the kitchen, with Isabel stirring something on the stove. An appetising smell of roast beef wafted out.
At the end of the corridor was a half-glazed door to the outside. Beside it on the left, a row of pegs held coats, with a shelf above for hats and a row of rubber boots beneath. Willie gestured at a door on the right, under the stairs.
“This is it, Mr. Fletcher. May I watch?”
“Really, Willie!” Vera exclaimed.
“I promise I won’t take up burglary!”
“You’re welcome to watch, but you won’t learn much. It’s mostly a matter of feel.”
Alec bent the wire to the angle most likely to be helpful. The keyhole had a hinged draught excluder. He swung it to one side and inserted the lock pick. It didn’t go right through—there must be another flap on the other side—but it went far enough for his purpose. He was out of practice so it took a couple of minutes, but the wards eventually clicked back.
He stepped back, turned the doorknob, and gave the door a slight push.
“Whew!” Willie retreated, holding her nose.
“Aargh!” Daisy fled, gagging.
“A dead rat,” said Isabel, who had come out of the kitchen to see what was going on. At Daisy’s heels, she rapidly returned to her stronghold.
“A Hamlin-Town of dead rats!” Vera followed them. “Coming, Mr. Fletcher?”
He shook his head without a backward glance. “Duty calls.”
The kitchen door thumped shut.
A handkerchief held to nose and mouth, Alec switched on the torch and cautiously set foot on a small landing. To his right, flimsily railed wooden stairs ran steeply down against the wall. The middle section of the railing was broken. He went down a few steps and directed the beam at the floor below the break.
On the pale grey floor lay a corpse, just one, not a horde of rats. It wore a tweed costume, a silk blouse, pearls, and one shoe.
The cellar was airtight enough to keep out blowflies, apparently. But nothing could prevent the ravages of decomposition. Having seen what he needed to see, Alec hastily stepped back into the passage and slammed the door.
FOUR
Daisy, feeling rather green, sat at the kitchen table with Willie and Vera. Isabel had gone back to stirring her gravy. The savoury smell helped banish the sweet, sickly stink of death from Daisy’s nostrils.
“Could a badger have burrowed in?” Daisy asked. “Or a fox, perhaps?”
“Don’t think so,” said Isabel. “I only had a glimpse when the agent and Mrs. Gray showed me round the house, but I’m pretty sure the walls are bricked and the floor is stone.”
“Besides,” Vera pointed out, “if an animal could get in, it could get out by the same hole.”
Willie, her face as green as Daisy’s felt, shuddered. “Thank goodness we invited your Alec, Daisy. He’ll know what to do.”
“I suppose no one’s going to feel like sitting down to roast beef,” Isabel said regretfully. “Oh well, it can be eaten cold, and the gravy will reheat. I can rescue the potatoes, too, and the carrots, but the Yorkshire pudding’ll be a dead loss. Tea, everyone?” She filled and plugged in an electric kettle.
“So, let’s face it,” said Vera, her eyes filled with horror, “it’s a person. But who on earth—?”
Alec came in, opening the door as little as possible to squeeze through and closing it sharply behind him. In spite of these precautions, a nauseating whiff accompanied him. His clothes were probably permeated, Daisy thought in dismay.
“I’ve opened the side and front doors and all the downstairs windows to air the place out. I checked that all the doors upstairs are shut. I suggest you stay in here for the moment, all together. Are you on the telephone?”
“No, we’re waiting for them to connect it,” Isabel told him. “There’s a phone box just round the corner in Station Road, outside the post office. Three minutes’ walk.”
“Where’s the police station?”
“I think it’s in the Old Town.”
“Yes,” Vera confirmed. “Wycombe End, practically next door to your hotel.”
“I’ll ring, then, unless I meet your beat bobby on the way. Not rats, as you’ll have guessed.”
“Would you like one of us to go and phone?” Willie asked reluctantly.
“No, thanks, I’d better. There’s nothing to be done until the local force takes over. I haven’t attempted to relock the cellar door. I assume none of you is likely to open it.”
“No fear!” they chorussed.
“Darling, are you going to tell them you’re from Scotland Yard?”
Alec grimaced. “I’d rather not. They won’t like it. But on the other hand, they’re pretty well bound to find out and then they’ll be offended. Best policy is to reveal all up front.” He looked round the table. “And that goes for you ladies, equally. They’re going to be asking you a lot of questions. For pity’s sake, don’t hold anything back. I’m off.”
“Turn right at the gate,” Isabel directed him, “then left on Station Road and it’s on your right.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank you! And thank goodness you’re here.”
With a wave, he departed, once again letting in the horrible stench of death.
“Damn and blast!” said Daisy. Only Vera appeared slightly shocked.
“Why?” asked Isabel, making tea. “We’re the ones who are going to be interrogated. At least, I imagine it must have been there since before you even came to Beaconsfield.”
“Probably. It’s not a subject I’ve studied intensively, but considering the cool, dry conditions in the cellar, I should think it must have been there quite a while.”
“Ugh!” Willie shivered.
“But Alec found the body, so he’s a witness. He can’t possibly keep it from his superintendent, and Mr. Crane will blame me, as usual.”
“Blame you for what?” Vera demanded. “He has no reason to blame you for anything!”
“He doesn’t need a reason. Whenever I’m within a hundred miles of a case Alec’s involved with, he’s convinced I’m interfering.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fairer than you might suppose,” Willie put in a trifle maliciously.
“But never mind,” Daisy said hurriedly, to forestall any questions from the other two on the fairness or otherwise of Superintendent Crane’s strictures. “It’s not likely Alec will have anything to do with the case, apart from giving a statement about finding the body. The local police almost always want to run things themselves, and he can’t just butt in without being invited. Their first question’s going to be: Who is it? They won’t get very far without identification. Any ideas?”
“Except you, Daisy, we haven’t had any visitors since we moved in.” Isabel had been stowing away the unwanted meal in the larder. Now she came to sit with the others, pouring herself a cu
p of tea. “Not even the vicar, though Vera goes to church.”
“He’s a rector, not a vicar,” Vera said. “He did drop by once, one evening when you two had gone to the cinema. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think you’d be interested. And you were so busy telling me about the films … I gave him a cup of tea. He didn’t go anywhere near the cellar door.”
“Anyway, he hasn’t gone missing,” said Willie.
“No one else has called,” Isabel continued. “I’m here most of the time.”
“Do you lock all the doors when you go out?”
“Well, no, not if I just pop round to the shops. But why would anyone come into the house uninvited?”
“To snoop,” Vera suggested. “Or burglars, of course.”
“In daylight? When I might return any moment?”
“You ought to get a watchdog,” said Daisy.
“Anyway, nothing’s gone missing and no bag of swag found lying about the house.”
“Not to mention,” said Willie, “that to get into the cellar a burglar would have to have a key—”
“Not if he had a lock pick,” Daisy pointed out, “or a picklock, or whatever it’s called. Alec easily managed with a coat hanger.”
“He’d have to have locked the door again behind him, barring his own escape route, then fallen down the stairs and broken his neck.”
“I remember the stairs being steep,” said Isabel, “but we don’t know that that’s what happened. Maybe he had a heart attack or something.”
“He’d still have had to lock the door behind himself. It doesn’t sound likely.”
“Suppose he heard me coming home,” Isabel mused, “he might have thought he could hide there until the coast was clear. Oh dear, you don’t suppose he died of asphyxiation, do you? The cellar’s supposed to be nearly airtight.”
They were all silent for a moment. A slow death from asphyxiation was much more horrible than a quick one from a broken neck or a heart attack.
