by Carola Dunn
Now exasperated, dark brows lowering, he ran his fingers through his crisp, dark hair, leaving it unruffled. “Why the dickens didn’t you tell me before, Daisy? It’s entirely on account of your telling us he’s Olive Coleman’s uncle that we went up there in the first place. Why didn’t Puckle say something?”
“He may not realize how much he frightened him. Mr. Baskin was talking to him at his cabin and he managed to convey that he no longer comes down to Westcombe as he used to, because he’s afraid of being locked up. He does come as far as our beach, though.”
“You’ve seen him? When?”
“Yesterday. He gave the girls necklaces of shells and feathers—I suppose they haven’t shown you as you’re out all the time. I was going to ask him if he’d seen Olive, but then Peter Anstruther came down to the beach to fetch my deck-chair. Sid took one look at him and scuttled off as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. Anstruther said he’d never been afraid of him before, but he was wearing his naval cap, and I’m sure that’s what scared him. I don’t suppose he can distinguish between uniforms.”
“Possibly not,” Alec admitted grudgingly. “I’ll have a word with Anstruther.”
“Darling, isn’t it marvellous? Inspector Mallow says Mr. Anstruther is in the clear. A boy recognized his bike in Malborough and he knows the time because the church clock struck three shortly after he saw it.”
“That’s right, sir,” Mallow admitted even more grudgingly. “I don’t see how it can be got round. He couldn’t’ve done it.”
“Nor could Sid,” Daisy insisted. “He’s constitutionally incapable of violence.”
“Ah,” said Mallow, “but you never know what the peacefullest chap’ll do if he’s threatened.”
“I know just what he does. I told you, Alec. He turns his back and bends down and looks backwards through his legs.”
“That certainly doesn’t sound very aggressive.”
“On the contrary. But it’s very disconcerting.”
“That’s as may be,” said Alec. “We’ll still have to find him. There was no sign that the girl had been at his cabin, but he might have seen something on Sunday. We’ve put a watch on the cabin.”
“He’ll just run again if he sees a uniform.”
“The man’s been told to keep out of sight. He’s probably asleep in the heather! Did you drop in just to see what’s going on, Daisy, or have you found out something new?”
“Not exactly found out. Well, sort of.”
“Great Scott, Daisy!”
“I mean,” she said hastily, “something someone said made me think of something.”
Donald Baskin had taken Daisy and the girls to see a ruined castle. Very little of it remained, mostly grassy mounds with a few fragments of walls still standing. But Baskin kept Bel and Deva amused with tales of mediæval chivalry, the sun shone and the wind blew, and it was altogether a pleasant outing.
However, they returned to Westcombe with Daisy none the wiser as to the reasons for his interest in Enderby.
As they walked through the town, Daisy was waylaid by Mrs. Hammett. She waved to the others to go on, which they did, hastily and without demur.
“Does your husband know you’ve been out walking wi’ that young man?” Mrs. Hammett demanded.
“It’s useless to try to hide anything from Alec,” Daisy said mournfully. “He’s a detective, remember.”
“Young Olive don’t seem to have much trouble hiding from him! I’ve just been to the parish hall to ask did they find her yet, and they ha’n’t seen nor hide nor hair.”
“Were you able to help them with the names of any friends she might have gone to?”
“Nay, Olive didn’t have no time for friends. Even when she was still at school, she had her chores to do at home after. There’s allus something to be done on a farm, as none should know better than I, that was bred on a farm, and not ashamed of it.”
“No, why should you be?”
“There’s them as is jealous because I’ve raised myself,” Mrs. Hammett said darkly. “But I don’t pay ’em no heed. And they needn’t think the wife of a man in a good way o’ business don’t have enough to do to keep her busy, neither. But it’s not like on a farm, where you don’t get a minute to sit down from dawn to dusk.”
“So after she left school, Olive pretty much only saw people on her father’s farm?” Daisy wasn’t surprised Olive had gone astray, if she was never allowed to have fun with other young people. “I wonder how she met George Enderby.”
“I reckon it must ha’ bin one time when Edna sent her to me on an errand. Mr. Hammett’s very good about sending my relations a present o’ fresh fish now and then, being in the fish wholesaling business. And they’ll do likewise, wi’ a leg o’ lamb or a piece o’ pork when they slaughter, or the like. Even Edna, though she dasn’t let Alfred know. ’Twere just a few weeks past Olive brought me a nice cheese.”
“I don’t suppose she hurried home afterwards. I expect you’re right, that must be when she met him.”
“Aye. And after that, she wouldn’t find it too hard to slip away for an hour now and then, Edna thinking her one place and Alfred another. Sly, that’s the word wi’ no bark on it. It’s to be hoped she ha’n’t got herself into more trouble than she can be got out of.”
“I hope not.” Feeling she was not learning anything of use, Daisy politely extricated herself and went after Baskin and the girls.
The trouble Mrs. Hammett referred to must be the possibility that Olive was pregnant, Daisy assumed. Suppose she was, she would have demanded Enderby’s assistance. A thoroughly selfish man, he would probably have refused, perhaps laughed at her or just up and walked away from her. What more likely than that she should lose her temper, run after him, and hit out at him with whatever came to hand? She might not even have meant to knock him over the cliff and kill him.
Daisy wondered whether Alec was considering Olive as a suspect or only as a witness.
At this point in her musing, she found that her feet had carried her to the parish hall, so she went in. Inspector Mallow gave her a suave welcome, but she could see that her arrival annoyed him.
“No doubt you have something to report, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Not exactly.” She wasn’t about to discuss Olive’s possible pregnancy with Mallow. “But I think I’ll wait and have a word with Alec, if you’re expecting him reasonably soon?”
“The chief inspector didn’t know just how long he’d be.”
Daisy glanced at her wrist-watch. She had half an hour to spare before lunch. “Right-oh, I’ll wait for a bit.”
“As you wish, madam. I’ll ask you to sit over here, if you don’t mind, out of the way of my men as they report in.”
“Of course. By the way, have any of the suspects been cleared yet?”
That was when the inspector had told her about Peter Anstruther’s bicycle, reluctantly but, she suspected, unwilling to risk offending his superior officer. Delighted, she nearly rushed off to congratulate Anstruther and Cecilia. She really wanted to speak to Alec, though, to find out if he’d considered the possibility that Olive might have killed Enderby.
Sitting near the door on the extremely uncomfortable folding chair typical of parish halls, Daisy had had plenty of time to think before Alec turned up. She decided Olive Coleman was unlikely to have deliberately murdered Enderby. To do so would be to abandon all hope of his helping her. It didn’t sound as if she could expect much help or sympathy at home. No wonder the poor girl’s head had been turned by George Enderby’s charming manner. She led a miserable life, rarely seeing anyone other than the farm-hands.
Of course, Mrs. Hammett’s cheese suggested a dairy on the farm, and where there was a dairy, milkmaids and dairy-maids were to be found. Olive herself was surely expected to work in the dairy, so she might have friends amongst the maids.
“So you see, darling, it all depends on whether the dairy-maids live in or out. If they have homes to go to, Olive could have gone to on
e of them.”
Alec was frowning again, but thoughtfully, not irritably. “You have a point,” he admitted. “Though it’s not quite that straightforward, alas. I met an elderly dairy-maid at Coleman’s who said the girls don’t stay down on the farm these days. They either marry or soon go off to look for jobs in town.”
“Then they’re not necessarily local. They could be absolutely anywhere,” said Daisy, disappointed.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t make friends amongst them and keep in touch somehow with one or more, in which case she might have managed to make her way to one of them. It’s a good idea, love, and will have to be followed up. I can only hope Mrs. Coleman has the names of departed dairy-maids, if not their addresses.”
“Blast! It’s going to take forever, isn’t it? I was hoping you’d arrest Coleman quickly and manage a few days of holiday before we leave.”
“You shouldn’t come up with good ideas, then,” he said with a grin. “I was going to send someone to the farm anyway, to try to find out whether any of the labourers was keen on Olive to the point of murdering her seducer. Horrocks and Tumbelow can go. A couple of hefty sergeants, one in uniform, one plainclothes, ought to be able to cope with the Colemans. In fact, I think I’ll have them bring Coleman in for further questioning.” He started to get up, turning away from Daisy.
“Just one more thing, darling. Is Olive Coleman on your list?”
“Certainly. If she asked him for help in escaping her father—”
“Or because she was pregnant.”
“I hadn’t considered that. It’s possible, of course. In either case, if he refused to help, she might have struck out at him. Until we find her and hear her story, there’s nothing to be done about it. Right-oh, thanks for your help. You’d better go and join the girls for lunch. Tell Mrs. Anstruther I’ll try to get back for dinner.”
“Right-oh. Bel’s getting a bit fed up with never setting eyes on you.”
“She’s used to being a policeman’s daughter, but I admit it’s a bit thick when we’re supposed to be on holiday. Tell her I’m sorry. Oh, and tell Baskin I’d like to see him here this afternoon, will you? We’ve found out he’s telling the truth about teaching at that school, and that he’s not married, but the rest will take some digging. It’s time he came clean about his interest in Enderby.”
“Darling, too utterly mortifying to be bearer of a message like that when we’ve just had such a nice walk together and he’s so kind keeping the girls entertained. Don’t you think you ought to send a policeman?”
“Can’t spare a man at the moment. It’s entirely your own fault for meddling.”
Entering the Anstruthers’ house, Daisy heard Cecily singing in the kitchen. She stopped to listen.
We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors. We’ll rant and we’ll roar across the salt seas, Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old England. From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.
Daisy stuck her head in. “I’m so very happy for you,” she said.
“You’ve heard?” Cecily turned a joyful face from the range. “It’s all thanks to you and your husband! I know the local police would have arrested Peter at once.”
“If it had been left up to Detective Inspector Mallow,” Daisy agreed. “Where is he? I must congratulate him.”
Cecily laughed. “He’s borrowed the bicycle again and ridden over to show his friend Mr. Pritchard his letter to the powers-that-be in Devonport. With any luck, he’ll be sticking close to Scilly in future.”
“I hope so.”
“Lunch in five minutes, unless you need longer?”
“No, I’ll be ready. I’m ravenous.”
Daisy saved Alec’s summons for Baskin until after lunch. She passed it on over coffee, the girls having gone off to change their library books.
“Righty-oh. I’ll go, but I haven’t anything new to tell them. I wish they’d find someone who saw me.”
“I think they’re concentrating on finding”—she realized she wasn’t sure whether Baskin knew about Olive Coleman, or even that Enderby had had a girl with him shortly before meeting his death—“on finding someone else,” she concluded.
“Well, it’s good to know I’m not the chief suspect, now that Anstruther’s out of it.”
Daisy hoped she wasn’t misleading him. But no, Coleman must be top of the list because of his obvious motive and his violent character. No doubt Alec had put Sid on the list now, but right at the bottom, she hoped, after what she had said about his meekness. He was far more the sort to be a victim than a villain.
A horrid thought struck Daisy: What if the murderer heard that the police were hunting for Sid as a possible witness? The beachcomber might be in deadly danger—and she simply couldn’t think of anything useful to do about it.
Baskin departed for the parish hall. Daisy fetched her book and went out to the garden. Though the wind had strengthened, it had cleared the last clouds from the sky, and she found a sunny, sheltered spot to set up a deck-chair. She opened the book, but the latest Edgar Wallace could not hold her attention. Worrying about Sid, she watched the swells roll up the inlet. Their rhythm proved hypnotic. Her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep.
23
Alec was simultaneously reading reports and eating sandwiches brought in from the Schooner when Baskin arrived at police headquarters.
“Tell him I’ll be with him in five minutes,” he said to Mallow.
The inspector went to meet Baskin, ushered him to a seat at the map table, and returned to announce, “He says not to hurry. He’s told us all he can remember about his movements and he hasn’t got anything to add.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“D’you want me to have a go at him, sir?”
“No, leave him to me. I want you to see if you can get anything out of Coleman when they bring him in.” Alec looked at his watch. “Which should be any minute. You can hardly have less success than I did.”
“Belligerent, wasn’t he?” said Mallow uneasily.
“He won’t have his dog or his bull with him. Smith can leave off his typewriting and stand by to give you a hand if he gets obstreperous, and Puckle’s due back from his lunch. Horrocks and Tumbelow are to get on with following up any leads they’ve obtained as to the girl’s possible whereabouts.”
“Right, sir.”
Maybe he was making a mistake in letting Mallow tackle the farmer, but the inspector’s sneaky ways just might be more effective than Alec’s own more straightforward approach. He finished a last bite of beef with rather more horse-radish than he cared for, washed it down with the Schooner’s first-rate ale, and joined Baskin.
“Thank you for coming along.”
“I was rather under the impression that it was the sort of invitation one cannot refuse.”
“Not at all, though a refusal would certainly give the wrong impression. You can always send for a lawyer, if you wish.”
“No need. I haven’t anything to say.”
Alec regarded the young man with exasperation. “We’ll find out what your interest in Enderby was, whether you tell us or not. I’ve had a man at Scotland Yard put on to ferreting.”
“Good luck to him. He’s not likely to find anything before the inquest. It’s later this afternoon, isn’t it? If I tell you now, my business is bound to come out at the inquest, and then the press will get hold of it. So far, the London papers haven’t been interested, but as soon as word gets out of a verdict of murder …”
“At least you’re not denying an association with the deceased.”
“I can scarcely expect get away with that,” Baskin conceded with a touch of sarcasm, “after having turned for information about him to the chief investigator’s wife.”
“Daisy had to tell me,” Alec defended her.
“Oh, I don’t hold it against Mrs. Fletcher, I assure you. A charming lady, but not one in whom one might choose to confide if one had the slightest expectation of gettin
g mixed up in a murder case.”
“We can be discreet, you know, if it’s nothing to do with the case.”
“It’s nothing to do with the case in the sense that I didn’t kill Enderby, therefore it’s irrelevant.”
“But it gave you a motive for doing away with him.”
“I’m sorry to be disobliging,” the schoolmaster said politely, “but I think on the whole it’s time—in the vernacular—to button my lip.”
Was it worth pressing him? He had more or less admitted to a motive. Exactly what that motive was ought to be revealed by the Yard’s digging, and in any case did not have to be proved, though convincing a jury without one was difficult.
Means and opportunity were another matter. Baskin’s walking stick had been thoroughly examined and was definitely not the weapon. Someone might yet turn up to give him an alibi. The forces at Alec’s disposal had not yet looked for any of the yokels with whom he claimed to have exchanged greetings, in indeterminate places. The police were too busy hunting first for Olive Coleman and now for her uncle Sid. When found, one or the other or both should be able to identify the murderer, whether Baskin, Alfred Coleman, or some as yet unguessed third party.
Alec was very conscious that he hadn’t yet delved into the history of George Enderby’s philanderings in the district. That Mrs. Anstruther had been his first mistress here seemed unlikely. Nancy Enderby might be able to provide more names, or the abominable Mrs. Hammett, or any of the gossipy villagers.
It was one more thing to be gone into, if Olive failed to turn up and provide a name. Where were Tumbelow and Horrocks?
“May I go, Mr. Fletcher?” Baskin asked.
“What?” Alec jerked out of his brown study. “Oh, no, not yet.”
“I really am not going to say anything else.”
