by Carola Dunn
The room was comfortable, though slightly shabby. Jack sat on the rose-patterned carpet beside his mother, holding one of her hands in both of his. As Daisy stepped in, he started to unfold his long length.
“Don’t get up,” said Daisy. “I don’t want to intrude. I just wanted to say how frightfully sorry I am. You must be wishing me at Jericho. I’ll move down to the Ravens in the morning—Alec’s taken rooms there.”
“Oh no!” Gwen started up from a low cabriole chair. “You mustn’t leave. I don’t know what we’d have done without you this evening.”
Daisy glanced at Lady Tyndall, who nodded. “Yes, do stay, Daisy.”
“You must,” Jack said impulsively. “We were just saying how glad we are that your husband is in charge, and if you go, we might just as well have a stranger nosing about.”
“Jack!” his mother chided.
He coloured. “Sorry, that didn’t come out quite the way I meant it. But you will stay, won’t you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Babs said nothing. Her face remained uncommunicative.
“Do,” Gwen urged. “I’ve already told the maids to make up the other bed in your room for your husband. And they’ve prepared a couple of the unused servants’ rooms for his men. I hope that will be all right?”
“It’s very kind of you. I’m sure we’ll all be more comfortable here.”
“I’ll be glad to have the police in the house.” Lady Tyndall shivered and pulled the shawl more closely about her shoulders. “Surely while they’re here, no ghosts will walk.”
“Nonsense, Mother,” said Babs in her abrupt way. “I don’t pretend to guess what drove Father to do it, what skeletons from the past Mr. Fletcher is going to dig up, but you can be sure they won’t be parading about the house dressed in sheets.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Addie’s boys, though,” remarked Jack, turning from the fireplace, where he’d just added a log to the flames.
“If they dare!” Babs exclaimed.
“Addie’s not going to tell them what happened,” said Gwen, “so there’s no reason it should occur to them.”
“They’re bound to find out,” Jack said. “They can jolly well haunt their own house, though.”
Gwen’s brow wrinkled. “Why should they find out? We only told people there had been an accident.”
“Someone’s bound to talk,” Babs said grimly. “Since they don’t know the facts, rumours will be flying by morning.”
“Oh God!” With a groan, Jack hid his face in his hands. “If only I’d never thought of going to the Ravens. If only I’d never spoken to Gooch. I liked his wife so much, and it’s all my fault she’s dead.”
“Nonsense!” Gwen’s voice was unusually harsh. “It’s no one’s fault but Father’s. Goodness only knows what she can have said to set off his temper, but you know very well it never takes—took much. All of us suffered from it enough.”
Daisy saw that Lady Tyndall was once again looking quite ill. “I’m off to bed,” she said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I know Alec will make things as easy as he can. Good night.”
As if there was the slightest chance that any of them would have a good night.
“I’ll see you to your room,” said Gwen, and they went out together. Closing the door, she went on. “Daisy, Martin hasn’t been talking about leaving, has he? Not that I’d blame him for putting as much distance between himself and us as possible.”
“I haven’t heard him say anything, but I haven’t really talked to him. Doesn’t he have to go back to work?”
“Yes, he was going to go back to Coventry tomorrow, whether or not he’d talked Father into . . .” Her voice faltered. “Whether or not he’d persuaded Father to let Jack take the job. I just wish he’d stay.”
“I expect he will if he can.”
“Won’t the police want him here?”
“I can’t see why they should. What happened can’t have anything to do with him, and he doesn’t know any more about the Gooches than the rest of us do.”
“No, of course not.”
“If he manages to stay, it’ll be for your sake.” Daisy tried to be soothing, if less than entirely truthful. Alec could hardly fail to find out that Miller, as much as Jack, Gwen herself, and Babs, had reason to want Sir Harold out of the way.
Mrs. Gooch’s death was the sticking point. However determined to dispose of the baronet, surely none of them would have murdered an innocent bystander?
Daisy squeezed Gwen’s hand. “Babs is right: It must be rooted in the past.”
“A blackmailing mistress! That would explain the whole thing,” Alec said with relief. Perhaps he and Daisy would be able to go home together tomorrow after all.
Miller frowned. “I’m not so sure.”
Alec resigned himself. “You met the Gooches, talked to them. Explain.”
“For one thing, they were well-off. Gooch told us how he’d made his money in the gold fields. Even if he was exaggerating, why come all the way to England on the off chance of being able to wring a few pounds out of an old lover? For all they knew, Sir Harold might have been dead, or penniless. Or widowed, so that he didn’t care much if anyone knew he’d strayed as a young man.”
“But he wasn’t,” trumpeted Sir Nigel. “That is, not dead, not destitute, and Lady Tyndall is still with us, I’m happy to say. Mind you, I don’t see why he should care so much—wild oats and all that—but obviously he did, since he killed her and himself.”
“No, those points are valid,” Alec said. “You have an analytical mind, Mr. Miller.”
“I’m an engineer.”
“However, it’s possible someone here let them know Sir Harold’s present situation. It’s even more possible they were in hot water in Australia and had to leave. I may have to get in touch with the police down there. I don’t suppose you know which part of Australia they came from? They have gold fields all over the place, I believe.”
“He talked about Western Australia. Coolgardie and Perth.”
“Thank you. You said, ‘For one thing.’ What else?”
“Mrs. Gooch simply wasn’t the type. Blackmail is a really foul crime. She may have had her fling in her youth, for all I know, but she was just a very pleasant middle-aged woman. She and Jack got on like a house on fire. Gooch was—is a nice chap, too. Otherwise Jack wouldn’t have invited them to the fireworks.”
“Aha!” said Wookleigh triumphantly. “That’s the mark of the confidence trickster, isn’t it, Fletcher? Nice chap, pleasant manners, worms his way in, and before you know it, you’re in his clutches.”
Alec had to agree. “True, although I’d hesitate to say that one should therefore mistrust any nice chap with pleasant manners! Who was first to mention the Guy Fawkes party? Had the Gooches heard about it?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Gooch knew about it from her youth. Jack ran into Gooch at the bar and Gooch mentioned that they hoped to join the villagers in the meadow to watch the fireworks from below. He asked Jack if there would be any objection. Jack brought our drinks and said he was going over to the Gooches’ table to assure her that they were welcome to watch from the meadow.” Miller paused. “Actually, it was Mrs. Fletcher who suggested inviting them both to our table.”
Alec clenched his teeth, managing not to grind them. He could hardly hold Daisy’s undiscriminating friendliness responsible for the tragedy. “I hope she didn’t also suggest inviting them up to the house?”
“No, that was entirely Jack’s notion, and Gooch wasn’t keen. But Mrs. Gooch was thrilled and he gave in.”
“Typical pattern.” Wookleigh stubbed out his cigar and preened his whiskers. “He disarms suspicion by making an objection, easily brushed aside.”
“It’s possible, sir. Or perhaps he had no idea what his wife planned. Or—” Alec stopped as police boots sounded on the stairs.
They all looked, to see Constable Blount hurrying down. Alec went to meet him.
“Sir!” His voice was low but urgent
. “Sergeant Tring says it can’t possibly be suicide! Somebody else shot the both of ’em.”
10
Glad to leave the gruesome scene of the crime, Alec switched off the lights and descended the stairs from the late baronet’s study to the room below.
Tom Tring had already dusted the polished oak banisters for fingerprints. He had found only a few blurred smudges, probably made by gloves. Anyone coming in from outside on that cold night would have worn gloves. The billiard/gun room and the study were not much warmer than outdoors, as they had not been prepared to welcome guests, so no fires had been lit. The female victim still had her gloves on. Sir Harold had taken his off. They lay on the bloody desk, beside the blood-splashed telephone, to the left of his slumped body.
The pistol was a Webley & Scott .32 automatic pistol, like those the Metropolitan Police had used since the Siege of Sidney Street in 1911. It lay to the baronet’s right, near his bare right hand. Tom had photographed it in place and replaced it in its original position after checking it for dabs.
The lack of both fingerprints and blood spatters on the gun was sufficient to cast doubt on the suicide theory. The fountain pen clenched in Sir Harold’s right hand was conclusive proof that he had not shot himself.
No message from the dead offered a clue. The sheet of paper beneath his head was soaked with blood, but he had died before he started writing.
Following Alec down the stairs, Tom pointed. “French windows to the terrace not locked, Chief. Key left in the lock. Likewise the gun cabinet, over there. No dabs on the key or the cabinet, just smudges.”
Behind him, Piper said in disgust, “Everyone in gloves. Pity it wasn’t a nice warm evening.”
Alec stopped in front of the glass-fronted cabinet. “Great Scott, he had half a dozen of the damn things!”
“Seems a bit excessive, don’t it, Chief? You can’t exackly call ’em sporting guns.”
“On the contrary. Besides being police weapons, many officers carried them in the War as a second sidearm. He might have used one or two for target shooting, I suppose, but six . . .”
“All oiled not too long ago, and polished. One other loaded, besides the murder weapon.”
“Blount?”
“Edge Manor isn’t properly in my district, sir,” said the local bobby nervously.
“I’m not holding you responsible, just asking if you know anything about this.”
“Only what I’ve heard in the village, sir, and I didn’t come but a couple o’ years back. Master Jack was too young to be called up and Squire never was a military man, but he was very keen on the Volunteer Force, besides they did do a bit of target shooting, like you said. And like you’d expect of country gentlemen, they’d go out after rabbits, pigeons, partridge, pheasant and such, and vermin. What I’ve heard is they’re both good shots, and Miss Tyndall, too.”
“Miss Tyndall?” Alec was surprised. In his experience, women and firearms seldom mixed.
“Miss Barbara, the oldest daughter. Very keen on farming, she is, and don’t turn a hair at shooting rooks and jackdaws and jays and suchlike that get into the crops.”
“Thank you, I’ll bear it in mind. But first I think we’d better concentrate on the Gooches. It seems to me they hold the key to this puzzle. If we knew what brought them to Didmarsh, possibly intending to try to infiltrate Edge Manor, we might have some notion what this is all about.”
“All I know, sir, is they turned up yest’day morning and took a room at the Ravens. Very pleasant couple, Dawson—that’s the landlord—told me. No side, though it was obvious they were worth a bob or two. He didn’t mention any partickler interest in the Manor nor the fireworks, but then, I didn’t ask.”
“No, why should you? You can do that tomorrow. Now, Tom, you’d better find a telephone other than the one up in the study. First make sure someone is sending a police surgeon and a mortuary van. Where would be the closest place with such facilities, Constable? Gloucester?”
“Cheltenham, I should think, sir,” said Blount doubtfully. “There’s a sergeant at Chipping Campden, but it’s a small place. I’d ring up Evesham if so be I had the need in my district, which I hope and pray I never may.”
“I’ll try Cheltenham, Chief.”
“On second thoughts, if Sir Nigel is still here, see if he’s willing to let us use Evesham’s facilities, and if he’ll square it with the Gloucestershire CC. He’s been helpful so far, but there’s rivalry in the air, and I don’t know if it’s with the Gloucestershire force or just with Whatsisname, the Lord Lieutenant.”
“Dryden-Jones,” Piper put in.
“Right, Chief,” said Tom. “These county-boundary cases are a proper pain.”
“We’ll need the Evesham police to make enquiries about Mrs. Gooch’s past, too.” Alec took the passport from his pocket and opened it. “Here’s her maiden name in their joint passport. Too late for that tonight. Here you are, Tom. Get on to the Yard. I want enquiries telegraphed to the police of Western Australia, Perth, and—what was the other town Miller mentioned, Ernie?”
“Coolgardie, Chief.”
“That’s it.”
“Got it.” Tom went out, moving more heavily than was his wont. It had been a very long day, as had yesterday.
“Let’s go and sit down in the next room,” Alec said to the two young constables. They followed Tom as far as the dining room, now cleared of the remains of the interrupted feast. “I need all you know about the Tyndalls, Blount, fact and rumour, but make sure you let me know which is which.”
Blount’s report, though based more on hearsay than observation, gave Alec some idea of how to approach the family. A picture emerged of Sir Harold as a bully who ruled his family not so much with a rod of iron as with explosions of temper. His family were the only ones to suffer, however. The local gentry regarded him as a cordial gentleman and good neighbour, and he treated his tenants and servants well enough.
Unfortunately, the servants had all been too busy preparing for the Bonfire Night festivities to relay the latest gossip to their relatives in the village, who might have passed it on to Blount. Alec would have to count on Daisy to tell him who had most recently suffered the force of the baronet’s displeasure. He wished he hadn’t sent her off to bed without asking a few more questions, but he didn’t want to disturb her, in her condition.
Nonetheless, he wanted a word with the Tyndalls while they were off balance. The only question was whether he should see them singly or all together, and with or without the mysterious Martin Miller, about whom Blount knew next to nothing.
He led the way through the deserted drawing room. Glasses and plates had been cleared away, but the room was still in some disarray from the influx of diners. The servants must have dealt with the worst of the mess and then gone off duty. They would be a source of information about the family, of course, but Tom was the one to tackle them. Servants felt more comfortable with him, females in particular, despite his undoubted attachment to the equally mountainous Mrs. Tring.
In the entrance hall, Miller stood by the fireplace with a pale young woman, her hands clasped in his. Lost in earnest conversation, they didn’t hear Alec step from the drawing room carpet onto the oak boards of the hall, but the constables’ boots were not to be ignored.
The woman glanced round, hastily withdrawing her hands and stepping back. Miller came forward.
“Chief Inspector!” he said with the heartiness of a not naturally hearty man caught in an embarrassing situation. “Sir Nigel went with your sergeant to the telephone, in case his authority was needed. They’re in the butler’s pantry. Would you like me to show you the way?”
“No, thank you. I’m sure DS Tring and the Chief Constable can manage between them.” Alec looked at the young woman, his eyebrows raised in enquiry.
Miller introduced him with obvious reluctance. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher. Miss Gwendolyn Tyndall. Miss Gwen is dreadfully upset by . . . what’s happened. Can’t it wait till morning?”
“It’s all right, Martin.” Gwen had blotted her eyes with a handkerchief, but they were red-rimmed. “Daisy warned me that Mr. Fletcher would want to see the family tonight. How do you do.” She shook hands with Alec.
So this was Daisy’s friend, and she appeared to be involved with Miller. Blount had passed on hints that the engineer might be courting the squire’s youngest daughter, but Alec had hoped the rumours were unfounded. He suppressed a sigh, foreseeing complications. “I’m afraid Daisy’s right, Miss Gwendolyn. I should prefer to talk to you all while your memories are fresh.”
“My sister Adelaide went home, but the rest are upstairs in Mother’s sitting room. Would you like to come up?”
“Not just yet, thank you. Perhaps we could sit down here while I ask you what you know of the Gooches?”
“Yes, of course, not that there’s much to tell. Do have a seat.” She dropped wearily onto the sofa. “Martin?” Her voice held an appeal.
With a somewhat defiant glance at Alec, Miller sat beside her, leaving a discreet space between them.
In a low voice, Alec said to Blount, “Go up to the landing. I don’t want any of the others interrupting.”
“Sir!” Blount saluted and tramped off.
Alec and Piper sat down, as far apart as the arrangement of chairs allowed. Piper selected a fresh pencil from the collection in his breast pocket and opened his notebook.
“Mr. Miller has already informed us of the meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Gooch at the inn,” said Alec.
“I doubt I can add anything.”
“He’s given us the briefest of accounts, and in any case, what you noticed is probably different from what he noticed. Mr. Miller, you may stay, but I must ask you not to speak. If you disagree with anything Miss Gwendolyn says, or have anything to add, let me know afterwards. All right, let’s start with whose idea it was to go to the Three Ravens.”
