Gone West

by Carola Dunn

  Daisy wondered whether she knew her uncle’s books were actually written by Sybil. Probably not, she decided, or the whole world would know by now. Myra might well not work it out for herself, and if it were Daisy’s secret, she’d try to keep it from the girl for fear of its popping out quite by accident. Yet Sybil suspected her.…

  Sybil must be too upset about the whole business to think it through. Daisy would have to remember to ask her what Myra had been told.

  Simon had recollected his duty as host. He started distributing drinks, a choice of sherry, whisky, or gin with tonic or bitters. No Dubonnet or vermouth, Daisy’s favourite aperitifs, she noted sadly. She accepted a small sherry.

  “I wish I could offer you Irish whiskey,” Simon said to Carey.

  “Sure, ’tis none so easy to find the stuff this side of the Irish Sea, excepting in the big cities. I’ll make do with a Scotch, I thank you.” He pulled a wry, humorous face.

  Sybil and Mrs. Birtwhistle came together down the stairs from the east wing. Then Dr. Knox, still in his tweeds, came in through the door below, looking worried and moving slowly. On his arm leant a tall, painfully thin gentleman in a dinner jacket of old-fashioned cut.

  “Humphrey!” Mrs. Birtwhistle hurried towards them, tut-tutting. “Are you sure you’re well enough—?”

  “Quite well enough to greet my guests, Ruby. Don’t fuss. Introduce me.”

  “At least sit down first, dear. The ladies will excuse you.”

  Once Mr. Birtwhistle was ensconced in a deep armchair close to the fire, introductions proceeded. He showed no interest in Neil Carey, nor Walter Ilkton, but invited Daisy to come and sit beside him.

  “Pink gin, sir?” Simon offered his father.

  “Thank you, my boy.” He looked at the doctor and said half laughing, half defensively, “No need to look like a stuffed turkey, Knox. I didn’t have a drink with my lunch.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “You see, Mrs. Fletcher, cowboys are—or were in my day—a hard-drinking bunch, and the habit is hard to abandon. The hooch we used to drink was known as whisky, but they had only the name in common. As pond water to Malvern! To this day the very word brings back the taste, and I never touch anything that goes by the name of whisky.”

  Daisy didn’t feel it incumbent upon her to comment on his drinking habits. “You actually worked as a cowboy, Mr. Birtwhistle?”

  “For a few years. I went looking for adventure but I started life in America as a humble tout for a travelling quack. The English accent impressed the rubes—the local yokels. I’d stand up on the seat at the front of the wagon and give the spiel, and they’d be queuing up at the side to buy ‘Dr. Pangloss’s Potent Purple Pastilles, Patent Pending.’”

  “Pangloss. Voltaire?” she asked cautiously.

  “‘All is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds.’ The chances of any of our marks having heard of Candide were extremely slim, but if they had, what could be better for their health than a little optimism?” Almost inaudibly he added, “It’s what keeps me going.”

  Thinking it best to ignore this comment, Daisy said, “I hope the Potent Pastilles didn’t actually kill anyone.”

  “Not in my time. They were made with ‘the best butter.’ Chicle, actually, the stuff they make chewing-gum from. Purple dye from beetroot and he wouldn’t tell me what else. Useless, perhaps, but not deadly. We sold them in tins of twenty, to be taken one a day, no miracle cures to be expected till the entire course was finished.”

  Daisy laughed. “By which time you’d left town, to avoid being tarred and feathered.”

  “Of course. We headed west, and by the time we reached cowboy country I’d saved enough money to buy a decent horse. As I wanted to see the country, I moved from ranch to ranch, from Montana down to Old Mexico.”

  “Old Mexico?”

  “As opposed to New Mexico, one of the United States.”

  “Oh, yes. Alec—my husband—and I didn’t have time to go there.”

  “You’ve been to America, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Just a short visit, most of it spent in Washington and New York. But we flew across the country to Oregon and returned by train.”

  “You flew! You had a very different view from mine, then, crawling along at horse-speed. That must have been interesting.”

  “A lot of the scenery was beautiful from the air, but the aeroplane was so noisy and I was so cold, I wasn’t able to appreciate it properly at the time. The view from the train was better, of course, but limited. You spent several years in the West, I gather. You must have loved the country to have stayed so long.”

  “I did, and do. I have a special fondness for New Mexico, which is where I met Ruby. She misses it. We always intended to go back some day for a visit, until this wretched illness overtook me. But we won’t talk of that. Ruby was a school-marm, as they called it, in a one-horse town. I was a nearly penniless cow-hand. So I took my grub-stake to Nevada, went prospecting, and struck silver.”

  “Right away?” Daisy asked in surprise.

  He laughed. “Not quite. But soon enough to make some of the old-timers look green. It was a nice seam of ore.”

  “What luck!”

  “Yes, and if I’d worked it, I might have ended up richer, or I might have ended up dead. I didn’t care to spend my time watching over my shoulder for claim-jumpers. In any case, the life of a miner didn’t appeal, and Ruby was waiting—I hoped. So I sold out, went back to New Mexico, and got married. I was negotiating for some land when the news reached me, by what roundabout route I never did discover, that my father had died the previous year. Add the fact that New Mexico was suffering a serious drought, and I decided to head for home.”

  Glancing at Mrs. Birtwhistle, Daisy wondered whether she had had any say in the decision to leave her home and her country. She caught Daisy’s eye and came over, looking anxious.

  Daisy explained, “Mr. Birtwhistle’s been telling me about his career, or careers, rather, in America, and how much he loved your part of the country.”

  “New Mexico is very beautiful. I miss it, especially when the winter rains set in here!” She laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “But it just wasn’t the right time to try to get a start in ranching. Even well-established people were in trouble because of the dreadful drought—not something you can imagine here in England. Also, there was Humphrey’s family to be considered.”

  “He’d’ve done better to have stayed away.” The muttered comment coming unexpectedly from behind Daisy made her jump. “We were doing very well without.”

  The dog, back in his spot on the hearth rug, creaked to his feet and moved stiffly to meet the speaker.

  Birtwhistle’s eyes briefly flickered towards the newcomer, then turned up to his wife. Her gaze was fixed on the intruder in an inimical stare. Birtwhistle raised his hand to cover Ruby’s on his shoulder. She glanced down at him and nodded.

  “Hello, Norman,” she said in a neutral voice. “Let me introduce you. Mrs. Fletcher, this is Humphrey’s brother, Norman.”

  Norman wore a baggy, shaggy tweed suit and an air of disgruntlement that had carved permanent lines into his face. Daisy added this to his sister Lorna’s general put-upon-ness and realised that the Prodigal’s return had not been welcomed by his siblings. Thirty years later, they still resented it. Did Humphrey now own Eyrie Farm, left to him by a father in a dynastic mood, or were the three forced uneasily to share?

  More to the immediate point, did either alternative have any bearing on Sybil’s fears?

  She had no chance to contemplate the question, as Lorna came in, looked round, and said sourly, “Oh, are you eating with us, Humphrey? We’ll need another place set.”

  “Yes, I think I will, as long as Mrs. Fletcher will excuse my leaving the table early if it seems advisable.”

  “Certainly,” Daisy said promptly.

  “Are you sure you’re well enough, darling?” Mrs. Birtwhistle fussed.

  “If I we
ren’t, I wouldn’t. Simon can carve—at least, I hope Simon can carve. I spent enough time trying to teach him.”

  “There are more important things in life than cutting up meat neatly,” Simon retorted. “As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of becoming a vegetarian.”

  “What?” Norman Birtwhistle burst out. “A fine thing that’ll be for a sheep farmer!”

  “If you imagine I’m ever going to be a—”

  “You can always keep sheep just for the wool, Si,” Myra pointed out. This soothed neither her cousin nor her uncle.

  Lorna made herself heard again. “Dr. Knox, is Humphrey to eat with the rest of us?”

  “Dammit, Lorna, I’m not a child!” her brother exploded. “I’ll decide for myself. I’ll dine with my guests.”

  His sister departed with a sniff.

  “I’ll set a place for you, Uncle Humphrey,” said Myra.

  Walter Ilkton regarded her with an expression of doting approval. “There’s bound to be chairs that need slinging about. I’ll come and lend a hand.”

  “Darling, too sweet of you!” They went out together.

  Neil winked at Daisy. “Many hands make light work,” he observed lightly, and followed the pair.

  “Sickening!” said Simon, scowling. “I don’t know what they all see in her, but I wish she’d flipping well make up what passes for her mind and marry one of them.”

  “I hope she won’t choose your friend, Simon,” said his mother. “I’m sure he hasn’t a penny to his name. Humphrey, are you quite sure you’re well enough to join us? I know Mrs. Fletcher won’t—”

  “Yes, Ruby, I’m quite sure. Mrs. Fletcher has already assured me that she won’t be offended if I’m obliged to retire after the roast. I hope you’re pleased, Knox. You’re always urging me not to overexert myself.”

  The doctor shrugged. “It’s a good sign that you’re able to join the family, and I hope the company will stimulate your appetite, but one supper doesn’t make a summer.”

  “And one swallow doesn’t make a supper,” Sybil put in.

  “It’s presumptuous of me to bandy words with wordsmiths,” Knox said, smiling. “What do you think, Mrs. Fletcher? I gather you’re a writer, too. Do you object to being called a wordsmith?”

  “Not at all. It has a nice, sensible, solid sound, like blacksmith.”

  “Sensible! Solid!” Simon was outraged. “Is that what you aspire to?”

  “Your work is more like goldsmithing, no doubt,” said Daisy peaceably. “Airy fantasies, delicate—”

  “Psychological insights,” said Simon through his teeth. “Gritty truths.”

  “More like a road-mender, then,” his father remarked dryly.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Simon retorted with a sulky pout.

  “I’d better get your pills, Humphrey,” said Mrs. Birtwhistle, “the ones you take with meals, and put them by your place.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Simon, I’ll have another pink gin at dinner. Take the bottles through, please. It doesn’t seem to be doing me any harm, Knox.”

  “Perhaps not. But please continue to stay away from it when you’re not feeling so bright and breezy.”

  “I’ll settle for the short term.” Watching Simon slouch out with a bottle of gin and one of bitters, he sighed. “‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth…!’”

  “Don’t you think he’s just trying to find his own feet, Mr. Birtwhistle?” said Daisy. “After all, you didn’t exactly follow in your father’s footsteps.”

  He looked at her in some surprise. “That’s very true.”

  “And he’s quite young yet, isn’t he?”

  “Barely twenty-one. At his age, though, I’d been earning my own way for a couple of years.”

  “Selling patent nostrums? Don’t tell me your parents approved!”

  “Lord, no. I never told them. I rarely wrote after running off to America. You have children? A mixed blessing.”

  “My twins aren’t old enough to get into real mischief yet. My stepdaughter is in her teens, but she’s a sweetheart.”

  “I hope she stays that way.”

  “They all go through stages, don’t they? With luck, the troublesome ones don’t last long.”

  “Well, well, perhaps I need not give up on the boy yet. Shall we go through, Mrs. Fletcher? Surely Myra’s young men—though Ilkton’s not as youthful as most of her catches; perhaps she won’t chuck this one back?—surely they’ve finished moving chairs about by now.”

  He levered himself to his feet with difficulty, and took Daisy’s arm, but he didn’t lean heavily on her for support.

  As they went slowly through to the west wing, Lorna reappeared, to say sourly, “And about time, too, or everything will be stone cold.”

  SIX

  The dining room was furnished with heavy Victorian mahogany. At the vast sideboard, Norman Birtwhistle stood carving a rosemary-scented leg of lamb, having apparently taken over the task from his reluctant nephew. The aroma, together with walls painted a modern pale green somewhat relieved the gloom induced by large quantities of dark wood.

  On the walls hung several Wild West paintings: a cowboy on a bucking bronco; a stern, sad-faced Indian chief; a vista of craggy mountains spreading behind a herd of cattle fording a stream—

  “Oh, of course,” said Daisy, “it’s one of those American cattle you’ve got over the mantelpiece in the hall. I thought you must have been shooting, very badly, in the Highlands!”

  Humphrey Birtwhistle laughed. “Yes, a Texas longhorn. And I didn’t shoot it.” He sobered. “After a few years of drought, there were all too many to be found, though the longhorns did better than other stock. I hope you’ll sit beside me, Mrs. Fletcher, though I’m afraid I’d better not try to hold your chair for you.”

  With the host a sick man, formal procedure was obviously impossible—and they were, after all, in a farmhouse, not a mansion.

  His own chair, at the head of the table, was managed for him by a solicitous Walter Ilkton. He subsided limply, while Dr. Knox seated Daisy next to him and sat down beside her. Ruby Birtwhistle had taken her place at the far end of the table. Daisy noticed a round pill-box and a brown bottle by Birtwhistle’s water and wine glasses.

  He saw the direction of her gaze and shook his head sadly. “Patent nostrums,” he said, and she laughed.

  “Made from ‘the best butter.’”

  “The very best butter. It wouldn’t surprise me. The good doctor has experimented with every conceivable drug in the pharmacopoeia. But we’re not going to discuss my health over dinner. Do you find time in your busy life to read as well as write, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I do, though not as much as I’d like. I’m afraid I haven’t read any of Eli Hawke’s books. I’d like to borrow one this evening, if I may.”

  “You may, naturally, but please don’t feel obliged to.”

  “Not at all. Having seen a bit of Western America from above, I look forward to reading about it at ground level, so to speak. I can’t think why I never have.”

  “Most readers of Wild West fiction are men, as are the writers, though B. M. Bower is a woman, I gather.”

  Simon Birtwhistle interrupted. “A glass of wine, Mrs. Fletcher? It’s Bordeaux, red or white. Nothing special in the way of vintage, I’m afraid.”

  “Red, please.” Daisy hoped the claret would be drinkable, but the sherry had not been a good omen—not that she cared much for even the best sherry. Her palate had been somewhat refined by association with the Fletchers’ next-door neighbours, a family of very superior wine-merchants. The Wild West and a sheep farm respectively were not likely places for Humphrey and Norman to have learned about wines, and Simon probably considered the subject effete.

  Walter Ilkton, gravely playing wine waiter, brought her glass, along with a pink gin Simon had poured for his father. She took a sip. Not too bad. Before knowing the Jessups, she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Sometimes ignorance was bliss.

&n
bsp; Lorna and Myra passed plates of lamb, roast potatoes, carrots sprinkled with chopped chives, and cauliflower in white sauce. Gravy and mint sauce were handed up and down the table. Daisy assumed that a soup course was just too much trouble in the evenings, after the servants had left for the day.

  Birtwhistle ate well. Daisy noticed Dr. Knox watching with approval. In fact, his patient was too occupied with his dinner to add more to the conversation than an odd word here and there. Daisy chatted with the doctor, beside her, and Sybil, sitting opposite.

  They were divided from those at the other end of the table by Norman and Lorna, both consuming their dinners in morose silence. Daisy couldn’t see Simon, who was on her side of the table; not hearing his voice she assumed he was as taciturn as his uncle and aunt. From beyond them, she caught occasional gusts of laughter from Myra and her two admirers. Myra was in high spirits. The two men indulged her in persiflage, though Ilkton’s voice had a slight edge that hinted at rivalry between them.

  Was Myra aware that they were competing for her favour, Daisy wondered? Perhaps she found it exciting, but she was young enough to be simply enjoying the attention.

  When her uncle originally fell ill, she couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. The notion that she had, at that age, thought up a scheme to keep him under the weather was ridiculous. To judge by what Daisy had seen of her, she wouldn’t even have realised it might be to her advantage. If someone had been systematically poisoning Birtwhistle for three years, it wasn’t Myra.

  What about Simon? He’d have been eighteen, and he was much brighter than his cousin, whatever one’s opinion of his literary ambitions. Still, his character seemed more inclined to angry outbursts than to a long, insidious campaign to undermine his father’s competence.

  Daisy was about to cross them both off her mental list when she remembered that Alec always required absolute proof of innocence before eliminating a suspect. She moved them to the bottom instead. Still, she was fairly sure that either the whole business was a figment of Sybil’s imagination, or someone else was responsible.