by Carola Dunn
“How many of your patients do, Dr. Knox?” Daisy asked, partly with interest, partly hoping to end the diatribe.
“All too few. Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, you don’t want to hear about Birtwhistle’s intransigence.”
“Insofar as it affects Sybil, I’m interested. Just so long as you don’t start using incomprehensible medical Latin!”
“Certainly not.” He glanced at his watch. “I must go and check up on the old boy. How does he seem, Sybil?”
“Wishy-washy, but not as sleepy as usual. The new tonic you’ve started trying on him may actually be helping.”
“I hate to use nux vomica. It’s really a last-resort stimulant. It’s dangerous stuff, and not to be used on a long-term basis. I can only hope it will somehow break the cycle, though I’ve told him it’s best to skip a dose if he’s feeling more energetic than usual.”
“Well, for now, he’s well enough to plot though not quite ready yet to insist on going out.”
The doctor sighed. “It’ll be soon enough. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll see you shortly.” He went out through a door connecting to the room next door.
“Humphrey’s study and library,” Sybil explained. “He has a bedroom beyond that he used to use when he stayed up late writing, so as not to disturb Ruby. It comes in handy now when he’s ill.”
“Very convenient. Does he have a nurse?”
“No, Ruby and Lorna cope between them. He doesn’t need, or want, someone constantly in attendance.”
“I’m glad to hear he’s doing better at present. I want to meet him. Dr. Knox—Roger— What’s going on there?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come off it, Sybil. I wasn’t born yesterday. He may not be as overtly nutty about you as Walter is about Myra, but you can’t tell me he’s not keen on you. And vice versa.”
“I like him.” Sybil’s face was a becoming pink. “But I have Monica to think about. And my career.”
Letting Roger Knox and Monica fall by the wayside for the present, Daisy pursued her enquiries into the career. “You were saying, while you finished writing Double Cross at the something-or-other, which I take it is the name of a ranch, Humphrey was plotting a new story.”
“Halfbreed Hero. He really is very good at thinking up plots. In fact, they’ve improved—more coherent and more intricate—since he’s had plenty of time to lie thinking about them. And time to read, as well. Some of his best are based on Shakespeare’s plays. Halfbreed Hero is based on Othello, for instance, though good has to triumph, of course.”
“But…?”
“What do you mean, but?”
“There was definitely a but in your voice,” Daisy said firmly. “He’s good at plots, but…”
“Promise you won’t repeat this.”
“I promise.”
“His characters were wooden, partly because he wrote dialogue really badly. And though his descriptions of the landscape were wonderful—after all, he’s seen it for himself—they went on much too long. I always suspected the errand boys just skipped them.”
Daisy pounced. “Were. Wrote. Went on. Past tense. He’s not writing them any longer.”
“No, actually,” Sybil admitted. “I was just getting to that.”
“You write them.”
“It just sort of happened. He had a wonderful story and felt well enough to tackle it. Then, after a couple of days at his desk, he had a relapse. Roger absolutely forbade him to try again for a month.”
“Meanwhile, you had your editor waiting impatiently.”
“Yes, though it became more complicated than that. I don’t want to sound immodest, but Double Cross started selling considerably better than Eli Hawke’s earlier sixpenny volumes. They brought out a new edition, and then an American publisher decided to serialise it.”
“Even though the author was English?”
“They put ‘Eli Hawke’ in quotation marks and underneath identified him as ‘an English gentleman widely traveled in the American West.’” Sybil giggled. “And they paid jolly well.”
“Gosh, how awkward!”
“It was,” she agreed soberly. “I wondered if you’d understand.”
“There’s Humphrey, writing the things for aeons, then you do the writing and suddenly they start making a lot of money. Was he furious?”
“He wasn’t happy. How could he be? Ruby sympathised with him, but she was too glad to get the extra money not to be pleased. The unspeakable Simon had just decided the literary life was for him, so she could see he’d have to be supported indefinitely. Not that she’s blind to his faults, but she’s a mother with a single chick.”
“A rooster, all crow and fine plumage, and no production.”
Sybil laughed. “That just about sums him up. And Myra, too. Instead of marrying and settling down to have babies, off the Birtwhistles’ hands, she spends all her money on clothes and gadding about, flirting with a multitude of admirers. Then she comes back here to be supported by her uncle till her next quarter’s income is due. Not to mention her guests who have to be entertained. The household can really use the extra money.”
“I can see that. But after the splendid reception of your first solo work, didn’t you consider setting up for yourself?”
“Naturally I considered it. Double Cross wasn’t really a solo achievement, though. The plot was entirely Humphrey’s. And, more important, so was the name on the cover—his accepted pen-name, at least. I couldn’t take that with me. ‘My’ success was built on his foundation. There was Monica to think of, too. It wasn’t as if the Birtwhistles withheld the proceeds. They raised my salary commensurately.”
“I’m surprised Humphrey wasn’t too resentful to want to continue to employ you.”
“Oh, he soon rationalised—with the help of Ruby’s persuasive powers—that by typing out so many of his works, I’d learnt to imitate his style faithfully. I continued writing Halfbreed Hero. Then we started to get feelers from Hodder and Stoughton. The American sale piqued their interest, and they wanted Eli Hawke’s next work for their two-shilling clothbound Westerns.”
“You certainly took the Wild West by storm! But what happened when Humphrey recovered his health?” Daisy waved at the bookshelves. “Evidently Hodder went on publishing Eli Hawke. He didn’t want to go back to writing?”
“I think he’s afraid to try, after my success. Daisy, it’s awful. I feel so guilty.”
“You mean he doesn’t really believe your writing is not better than his? That the editors would take one look and say Double Cross must have been a fluke?”
“Something like that. Roger says he may not consciously doubt his own ability. It’s just that every time he gets well enough to start work again, he has a relapse. Roger’s at his wits’ end, really. He’s not sure whether it’s actually overexertion that’s the trouble, and if so whether he’s doing it on purpose. Or he could be deliberately dosing himself with some sedative, only we can’t see how he could get hold of anything. Or it just might be his subconscious mind causing the symptoms, which are real enough—psychosomatic illness, they call it.”
“I realise your Roger—”
“Not mine!”
“Sorry. Would-be-your Roger—deny it if you can—isn’t a psychologist, but can’t he get Humphrey to talk about what’s going on in his head?”
“He can’t force him to talk. All Humphrey will say is that he refuses to go through life lying in bed when he has the energy to get up and walk.”
“I can’t say I blame him!”
“It’s awfully difficult. No one else, not even Roger, can know whether or when Humphrey’s really well enough to be up and about.”
“It does sound a bit as if Humphrey may be subconsciously determined not to recover fully,” Daisy pondered. “I don’t see why you should feel guilty. You saved his bacon when he was first ill.”
“I could have tried harder to mimic his style.”
“Then you wouldn’t have done so
well and made more money for everyone.”
“No. But…”
“But?”
“I have an awful feeling … It was something Roger said. I can’t remember what, exactly. But it made me wonder if perhaps … No, it can’t possibly be true!”
“What can’t be true?” Daisy asked with all the patience she could muster.
“I think Roger may suspect that Simon or Myra is putting something in Humphrey’s food.”
“Good gracious, why? Oh, more money as long as you’re doing the writing, of course. Is that why you wanted me to come? To try to find out if it’s true?”
“I thought you could just poke about a bit,” Sybil said defensively.
“I’m not a detective, you know. By sheer chance I’ve been on the spot a few times when things have happened. The only reason I’ve been able to help Alec once or twice is that I’ve already known the people involved.”
“That’s all I’m asking you to do, Daisy. Get to know them. See if you think either of them is capable of doing such a horrible thing!”
“Why don’t you talk to Roger about it? Find out what made him suspect them.”
“I couldn’t! He didn’t actually tell me he suspects them. He didn’t even hint at it deliberately. I wish I could remember what he said that put the idea into my head. But you know how it is, once it’s there, it won’t go away.”
“It’s very likely all in your imagination. Roger might well say he never meant anything of the sort.”
“Don’t you see, then I’d have put the horrible idea into his head. He couldn’t help but wonder what they’d done to make me suspicious. Or he might think I’m being spiteful because I envy them for living carefree on my work.”
“You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t envy them.”
“A bit, yes, though I enjoy my work and I’m happy to be able to support Monica decently. You could give up your writing, couldn’t you, if you wanted to? But you haven’t.”
“No, and I shan’t.” Daisy sighed. “All right, so you won’t discuss your suspicions with Roger. I’ll talk to your suspects and give you my opinion of them, but honestly, Sybil, you mustn’t expect any definitive conclusion from me.”
“At least you can be objective about it. I can’t. Heavens, look at the time! We’d better go and change for dinner.”
“Aren’t you going to wait and see what he has to say about Humphrey’s health?”
“No, he’ll go and talk to Ruby. But he’s staying to dinner. He always puts Eyrie Farm last on his list.” Sybil blushed. “Just because we’re so out of the way, of course.”
“Of course,” said Daisy.
FIVE
Daisy had brought a warm woollen dress, certain it would prove to be a necessity. She dressed it up for the evening with a cashmere stole. Adding the necklace of polished petrified-wood beads Alec had bought her when they visited the American West—unexpectedly appropriate—she wondered what sort of evening concoction Myra would wear.
The girl was obviously fashion-mad, but at least she had a sense of humour about it. It was hard to imagine her deliberately making her uncle ill in order to have the money to dress in the latest modes. However, Daisy had never been particularly interested in leading a fashionable life, so she wasn’t really qualified to understand how important it might seem to a pretty young girl. At Myra’s age, Daisy had just emerged from her volunteer job in the office of a military hospital and was trying to find a way to earn a living. Anything had seemed preferable to residing with her ever-dissatisfied mother or taking advantage of the offered charity of Cousin Edgar, the present Lord Dalrymple, then a virtual stranger.
Simon evidently didn’t feel that way about sponging on his father’s hard work. Could he possibly be so wrapped up in his dream of future literary greatness that he considered it more important than Humphrey’s health? From what little she had seen of him, she wouldn’t put it past him.
Still, putting some sort of dope in his food would be an awfully risky business. Suppose he miscalculated and killed him? No more books. No more income.
Daisy wasn’t au fait with the novel-publishing world, but what Sybil had said seemed logical: The Westerns sold under the Eli Hawke name were presumed to have been written by Humphrey Birtwhistle. The publisher’s contracts were with Birtwhistle. If he died, they wouldn’t easily accept his secretary suddenly declaring that she’d been writing them for several years and was quite capable of continuing to do so.
Besides, Sybil herself admitted that Humphrey was responsible for the plots. She might not be capable of coming up with such popular stories for herself, even with the aid of Shakespeare.
Whether Simon and Myra understood these intricacies was another matter. Perhaps they were self-absorbed enough to believe Sybil could go on writing if Humphrey died, and that she’d be willing to turn over a large part of the proceeds to the Birtwhistles. Or they might simply not have considered the possibility of an accidental overdose of whatever was turning Humphrey into an invalid.
Daisy really didn’t know them well enough to indulge in what Alec would undoubtedly describe as “wild speculation.” First things first. She applied a final dab of powder to her nose and went downstairs.
Hearing her footsteps on the stairs, Walter Ilkton—now in evening dress and without the Woolworths pearl—looked round eagerly. His face fell, because she was not Myra, Daisy supposed.
However, he said courteously enough, “Hello, Mrs. … er, Feather.”
“Fletcher,” Daisy corrected him with a smile. “Not too far off.”
“Sorry! Association of both sounds and ideas, what?” He wasn’t as unintelligent as he had first appeared, if he knew what a fletcher was. “And I have a bad habit of not listening properly to introductions. The Americans are better at it, in my opinion.”
“The way they tend to repeat one’s name after hearing it? Have you been in America, Mr. Ilkton?”
He had, and they chatted about their experiences till Simon Birtwhistle joined them. He, too, was in evening dress, but with a cravat instead of a bow tie.
“Oh, America!” he said dismissively when he heard what they were talking about. “Leave it to the cowboys and Indians. The few really cultured Americans are all in Paris.”
Daisy and Ilkton exchanged a look and made a mutual decision to let this wild generalisation pass.
“What are you writing?” Daisy asked.
Simon waved a languid hand. “Oh, just a little thing about perversion and decay in a small mining town in Derbyshire.”
“Nice and convenient for your researches.” Ilkton’s bland tone failed to hide his sneer. “Or do you write from personal experience?”
“I’m a novelist,” Simon snapped. “And I don’t mean a scribbler of popular fiction for the masses, like my father and his so-called secretary. I intend to make a serious contribution to the literature of the ages.”
“If wishes were horses,” said Ilkton, but he never completed the proverb, to Daisy’s relief, because at that moment Myra appeared at the top of the staircase. Ilkton noticed her instantly.
She looked splendid in a floor-length frock of heavy silk, silvery-grey embroidered with tiny gold beads. The low neckline was filled in with gold net, more of which fell in cascades from shoulders to wrists. The effect was of almost barbaric splendour, most unsuitable for a quiet evening in a farmhouse. Myra descended with a superb disregard for the unsuitability.
Stifling a laugh, Daisy wondered if she had found her woollen stockings to wear underneath.
Ilkton, looking dazed, went to meet her. “You’re magnificent,” he said.
“Horrible little show-off,” said her cousin.
“I hope you know how to dance a minuet, Walter,” Myra said with a dazzling smile, batting darkened eyelashes. “I feel nothing else will do.”
“You’ll have to teach me,” he said gallantly.
“And what music do you propose to dance to?” Simon demanded. “My Stravinsky or your tangos?”<
br />
“We don’t have any suitable records for the gramophone,” Myra agreed amiably, “but it doesn’t really matter, because I haven’t the slightest notion of the steps. Still, it was a nice idea, don’t you think, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I’d have enjoyed watching. But it seems to me your frock would do very nicely for a captive princess in Stravinsky’s Firebird—”
“Have you seen it, Mrs. Fletcher?” Simon asked eagerly, revising his opinion of her. “The ballet?”
“No, just heard the suite, at the Queen’s Hall, years ago.” Daisy tried to remember who had taken her to the concert. She certainly hadn’t had the money to buy a ticket in those days, and it had been before she met Alec.
“You’re so lucky to live in London.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. I wanted to live there so I found a job to make it possible.”
He muttered something about women taking men’s jobs.
“Honestly, Simon,” said Myra, “as if you’d ever even looked for a job! And if you did, you’ve already aired your opinion of Mrs. Fletcher’s work. You wouldn’t take it if it was offered you on a gold plate.”
Simon flushed.
In an undertone, Walter Ilkton said to Daisy, “Tact is definitely not the family’s long suit. The poor dear was attempting to defend you. There’s not an ounce of malice in her.” He glared at Neil Carey, who was coming down the stairs whistling an Irish tune.
“Neil,” Myra addressed him, “the very thing: You can teach us how to dance an Irish jig.”
He grinned at her. “With pleasure, Miss Olney. Is it this very minute you’ll be wanting a lesson?”
“After dinner, silly.” She moved towards him as she spoke.
Ilkton, his lips tight, drifted after her. He was too bland, too much a man of the world to look thunderous, but Daisy was pretty sure that was how he felt. Whatever Myra’s view of their relationship, his proprietary interest was obvious.
In general, Myra seemed good-natured enough, even her occasional animosity towards her cousin merely an injudicious mixture of sibling squabbling and unfortunate frankness. She just said whatever came into her head, unfiltered by what passed for her brain.
