Gone West

by Carola Dunn

  She started to consider alternative possibilities but lost the thread when Knox said, “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Fletcher?” and she was forced to confess her thoughts had been wandering.

  “An occupational hazard with writers,” commented Birtwhistle. He followed his last bite of lamb with the last drop of gin in his glass.

  Daisy regretfully refused a second helping of lamb. She asked Norman if it were from the Birtwhistle farms. He grunted what she took for an affirmative, so she told him it was simply delicious.

  The compliment cut no ice with Norman. He produced another surly grunt and gave her a look as if he suspected her of trying to turn him up sweet.

  Which she was. It was going to be very difficult to do any investigating if people refused to talk to her. Not that—strictly speaking—she was investigating. She wasn’t even sure that a crime was being committed. All the same, Alec would be furious if he knew what she was up to.

  Comfort came in the form of apple tart with cream.

  “Apples from our orchard,” Norman told her. He looked and sounded truculent. “Cream from our Jerseys. And I grew those potatoes and cauliflower and carrots, too.” Was he trying to prove to her that he didn’t live off his brother’s earnings? And if so, why?

  “Norman is a marvel,” said Ruby. “He provides almost all our farm stuff, fruit, vegetables, milk, eggs, meat.”

  “There’s still shopping to be done,” Lorna pointed out sharply. “I need to go into Matlock tomorrow.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Ruby offered. “I need a couple of things, and we’ll share the household shopping. Mrs. Fletcher, Matlock is rather a beautiful little town and Tuesday is market day. I wonder whether you’d like to go with us, if it’s fine.”

  “I’d love to, only … Will you be working, Sybil, or can you spare the morning for an outing?”

  “I’d better work in the morning. If I don’t get going first thing, it’s much harder later. If it goes well, I’ll take a couple of hours off in the afternoon.”

  “Then I’d love to go with you, Mrs. Birtwhistle,” Daisy said quickly. Sybil wasn’t much good as a conspirator. The others must be wondering why she had invited Daisy if she had no time to spend with her. And the way she had phrased her explanation made her work sound much more like a creative endeavour than mere transcribing of someone else’s words. “I don’t know this part of the country at all.”

  “Let’s all go,” Myra suggested with enthusiasm. “Walter, you could visit your great-uncle at the Hydro.”

  “Cousin. Twice removed.”

  “Much too complicated! Your elderly relative. If you drive us up that frightful hill, I can show Mrs. Fletcher the view from the top. It’s simply marvellous, Mrs. Fletcher. Then while Walter does his duty, we’ll walk down. There’s a cable tram but I’m certain the cable will snap one of these days and the tram will slide down Bank Road and crash in Crown Square, or even go on down into the river.”

  “How alarming!”

  “So it’s much better if Walter drives us up. You’ll come, of course, Neil? What about you, Simon? Do come. It’ll be such fun if there’s lots of us!”

  “Oh, all right,” said Simon.

  “I’ll tell you what, Myra,” said Carey, “I’ll take you pillion on my motor-bike.”

  “Much too dangerous!” Ruby Birtwhistle exclaimed.

  Ilkton backed her up. “Those machines cause half the accidents on the roads.”

  Neil Carey wasn’t having any of that. “In the narrow lanes round about here, with walls on each side, I’d a sight rather be on my Triumph than in your great Packard, boyo. Not to mention over the bridge.”

  “Until you find your legs scraping the walls.”

  “Oh no, you mustn’t, Myra,” her aunt insisted.

  “I’ll borrow a pair of Uncle Norman’s dungarees. They’ll protect my legs. You’ll lend me a pair, won’t you, Uncle?” she coaxed.

  “Happen I might.”

  “My dear child, you can’t possibly walk round Matlock in your uncle’s gardening trousers!”

  “Gosh, no!” Myra’s face was appalled.

  Ilkton sighed. “We could take a change of clothes for you in the car. We could meet outside one of the hotels and you could pop in round the back way.”

  “Too sweet of you, Walter.” She beamed at him. “Thanks. What a clever idea.”

  Carey’s motor-bicycle versus Ilkton’s sweetness, cleverness, and all-round obligingness: honours even, Daisy decided.

  “I still don’t like it,” said Ruby.

  “Wasn’t I after bringing an extra helmet, Mrs. Birtwhistle,” Carey said. “It’ll protect her head and make her unrecognisable, both.”

  “Well…”

  “No speeding, I promise. And she can wear my leather leggings over her uncle’s dungarees.”

  Ruby gave in, wisely. Daisy doubted she was able to stop Myra having her own way under any circumstances.

  Birtwhistle seemed amused. “Just like Ruby when she was a girl,” he murmured to Daisy. “Headstrong—well, she ran away with an Englishman, didn’t she? You’d think they were mother and daughter.”

  The last bite of apple tart eaten, Lorna got up and started to clear away the dishes. “Myra, if you’ve nothing better to do…”

  Myra jumped up. “I was just coming.”

  Ilkton hurried to help stack bowls, and Carey good-naturedly joined in.

  “Can I help?” Daisy asked.

  Simon, who had been saying something to Sybil, looked round. “No, Mrs. Fletcher, you stay put. I’m just going.”

  “Before you disappear, Simon, I’ll have another pink gin,” said Birtwhistle. “I don’t drink coffee, Mrs. Fletcher. Almost worse than the abominable hooch was the so-called coffee we brewed in cans over a camp-fire. It put me off the stuff for life. As with whisky, now the very smell is enough to bring back the revolting taste. A decent cup of tea wasn’t to be had for love nor money, either.”

  Daisy agreed. “It’s hard to get a good cup of tea anywhere in the country. Americans don’t seem to understand about the water having to be on the boil.”

  “On the contrary. They associate tea with cold sea-water.” He chuckled, then seeing his brother’s perplexed face, explained, “In Boston Harbour, Norm. The American Revolution and all that.”

  Norman grunted.

  “We usually have coffee in here, Mrs. Fletcher,” Ruby said. “It makes things simpler. I made the coffee earlier. It just has to be carried in.”

  Simon brought Birtwhistle’s drink. “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “we don’t run to liqueurs, and the brandy’s nothing to write home about. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Strictly for medicinal purposes?”

  “That’s about it. Ilkton tried it the first time he came to stay and he was horrified. He’s accustomed to the finest Armagnac. He even said next time he’d come prepared. If he has, he’s not sharing. I don’t expect you drink whisky, but if you’d like a gin or another glass of wine—”

  “No, no thank you. Just coffee.”

  Myra returned from the kitchen, followed by Ilkton carrying a tray of coffee things. Daisy doubted that he was accustomed to such chores, travelling with his valet as he did. His eagerness to please was further evidence of his devotion. In fact Daisy was rather surprised that he hadn’t fought harder against Myra’s proposed ride on Carey’s motor-bike. Perhaps he realised his cause wouldn’t suffer from her comparing its discomfort with the luxury of his own Packard.

  Besides, if he was accustomed to seeing her in London, he must be accustomed to sharing her with any number of other admirers. Myra wasn’t ready to be tied down, and she would not appreciate any attempts to spoil her fun.

  Ruby poured the coffee and the cups were passed from hand to hand round the table, followed by a jug of cream and bowl of sugar.

  Birtwhistle finished his drink quickly. “You won’t mind if I take myself off now, Mrs. Fletcher?” he said, his articulation slightly slurred. “I’m beg
inning to run out of steam. Good-night, all.” He started to push himself up out of his chair.

  Simon half-rose, but Dr. Knox beat him, jumping up to help his patient. Ruby Birtwhistle followed them from the dining room.

  “Never could hold his drink,” Norman remarked snidely.

  Sybil rounded on him. “That’s nonsense. He’s ill! And he hardly ever has more than one drink, anyway—rarely any at all.”

  Norman relapsed into his usual sullen silence.

  Coffee was drunk with a minimum of chit-chat, even Myra subdued. No one wanted refills.

  “Your turn to wash up, Myra,” said Lorna.

  “It ruins my hands!” complained Myra, spreading rose-pink varnished nails for everyone to admire.

  “I’ll wash,” offered Ilkton. “You dry.”

  “I’ll dry,” Carey declared.

  “Oh, good, then I’ll only have to put away. Bring the tray, one of you.”

  Myra waltzed off with great good cheer. Ilkton and Carey between them loaded the tray, with somewhat less good cheer. Then they stopped and stared at each other, each apparently willing the other to pick it up.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” Simon exclaimed. “I’ll carry the damned thing. What you see in her I cannot fathom!”

  Sheepishly, the others went after him.

  “One thing’s for sure,” grumbled Lorna, “she won’t remember to come back and put away the place mats.”

  As she went round the table gathering them up, Sybil and Daisy exchanged a guilty look and seized their chance to escape.

  SEVEN

  Sybil took Daisy back to her office, where they could be private.

  “Well, what do you think?” she demanded, poking up the fire and adding a couple of lumps of coal as Daisy sat down.

  “I’m fairly certain Walter Ilkton’s intentions are serious. He’s completely infatuated, though how long it’ll last is anyone’s guess. Neil Carey seems more motivated by his enjoyment of trying to get a rise out of Ilkton. I don’t believe he’s any more interested in marrying than Myra is.”

  “I mean, about Simon and Myra and Humphrey.”

  “I’m sure they were both far too young when Humphrey first fell ill to have anything to do with prolonging his illness.”

  “Oh. Yes, I suppose it is unlikely.”

  “Very.”

  “So I’m making an ass of myself,” Sybil said disconsolately. “It’s all in my head. I should have worked that out for myself before getting you here under false pretenses. And I can’t even entertain you. I really do have to work tomorrow. But don’t feel obliged to go on an outing to Matlock tomorrow if you’d rather just go home.”

  “Not on your life! It’s a long drive. I’m not going to do it again tomorrow.” She decided not to mention that with Simon and Myra out of the picture, other possibilities arose. She hadn’t had a chance to develop her theories. They were still far too tenuous to explain. “Besides, I’d really like to see Matlock and the view from the Hydro.”

  “It is special. You can see right over Matlock Bath to the Heights of Abraham, and down the valley to the Black Rocks and miles of country beyond.”

  “Lovely. I hope it’s fine. You don’t work seven days a week, do you?”

  “Heavens no. Ruby motors over to Bakewell every Saturday morning to fetch Monica from school. When they get back I stop writing and I have the rest of the weekend with her. It’s a pity you couldn’t have come at the weekend so that you could meet her and I’d be able to see more of you.”

  “It was one of Alec’s rare free weekends. Speaking of which, I’m amazed that no one has yet asked me what he does. You didn’t tell them, I assume?”

  “Of course not.”

  “No, sorry. In any case, I can always tell when people know he’s a copper. Even the most innocent people tend to come over all twitchy. When someone asks, I say he’s a civil servant. They usually do ask, sort of as if I’m only a real person in relation to what my husband does, even though I write.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. Outside this house, people think of me as a widow first, not as a competent secretary, let alone a writer. It’s just as well, really, as we don’t want people to know that last part.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, does Myra know you do most of the writing?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure not. The rest of us agreed not to tell her, for obvious reasons.”

  “In that case, I can’t see why you suspected her at all. The only motive she could conceivably have for keeping Humphrey under the weather is that you’re making more money than he did. If she doesn’t know, pop goes the motive.”

  “Daisy, I must be blind as a bat not to have seen that. She certainly didn’t know a couple of years ago, when all this began. And quite apart from her age and what she knows or doesn’t know, I don’t believe for a moment she has enough brains to come up with such a devious plot.”

  “No, devious plots are Humphrey’s business,” Daisy said, laughing.

  “Perhaps I get too caught up in his to think straight about real life.”

  “Then all I can say is it’s a good job he doesn’t write detective stories!” Daisy yawned enormously. “Sorry! I’d better head for bed if I’m not to sleep half tomorrow away. I was up early this morning. May I take a couple of Eli Hawke’s books with me? I’d like to dip into one of Humphrey’s solo efforts and one of yours.”

  “Help yourself. No, on second thoughts, let me give you a couple of my favourites.” She went over to the bookcase. “Here, Lonesome Creek is one of his best. And Halfbreed Hero.”

  “That’s the one based on Othello.”

  “Loosely. With a happy ending.”

  “Good. I prefer happy endings, especially at bedtime. Thanks.”

  “You’d better have a hot water bottle. Let’s go and see what sort of mayhem those three have accomplished in the kitchen.”

  As they went through the hall, Daisy noticed a telephone in a niche under the west stairs. “Oh bother!” she said, “I meant to write to Alec as soon as I got here, to tell him I arrived safely. He was a bit worried about my driving so far on my own. Would it be all right if I sent a wire? I’ll pay, of course.”

  “Go ahead. That’s the only phone in the house, I’m afraid. Not very private. And don’t say anything you don’t want all the operator’s friends and relations to know. You know what country districts are like. I’ll be in the kitchen, through that door and turn right and you can’t miss it.”

  Daisy sent her telegram, then went up to her room to fetch a shilling, knowing she’d forget if she didn’t do it right away. The stairs and passage were dimly lit by a single oil-lamp on the landing. In the murk, it was easier to give credence to Sybil’s forebodings. Daisy pondered the difference gas and electric lighting had made to the world. It was much easier to believe in “ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night” when there were lots of shadowy corners for them to lurk in.

  Counting doors, she found her room. Plenty of shadows here. The flickering embers in the fireplace and the last light from the hallway enabled her to see just well enough to cross to the mantelpiece and find a box of matches.

  After the gloom, one lit candle seemed bright. She dug a couple of sixpences out of her purse, and was turning to leave when a tapping on the door almost made her jump out of her skin.

  “Who’s there?” she quavered.

  “Daisy?”

  “Sybil!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Come in. You just startled me. ‘Suddenly there came a tapping…’”

  “A raven bearing a hot water bottle. You weren’t by the phone so I brought it up.”

  “I came to get the money for the telegram. I didn’t have a shilling and now I’ve gone and dropped the sixpences. Where on earth are they? They must have rolled away.”

  “We’ll find them in the morning.” Sybil tucked the rubber bottle with its red and blue striped,
knitted cosy, under the bedclothes. “If you’re not absolutely determined to go to bed right away, do come down again.” As she spoke, she poked up the bedroom fire and put a couple of lumps of coal on it. “Myra’s given up on dancing. She’s trying to get a game of Racing Demon going. But if you don’t want to play, no one will mind if you just sit and read. Simon probably will, too.”

  “Yes, somehow I can’t imagine Simon playing Racing Demon. It seems a bit below Ilkton’s dignity as well, but who knows what a man in love will stoop to. As for me, I couldn’t possibly sit in a room where it was being played and not join in.”

  Sybil laughed. “If you’re going to play, I will, too. I hope we have enough packs of cards. Here, I’ll light your lamp so you don’t have to fumble for a candle when you come back up.”

  “Thanks. I haven’t lit an oil-lamp in ages. I’d probably manage to make a mess of it.”

  “The girls clean and fill them, so it’s only a matter of adjusting the wick properly. There. Just turn it up a bit if you want more light. Look, there are your sixpences.”

  They went downstairs. Daisy put the coins beside the telephone. The doctor and Mrs. Birtwhistle, who was knitting, sat by the fire, talking. There was no sign of either Norman or Lorna.

  In the middle of the hall, two card tables had been set up, touching each other. Ilkton, Carey and—surprisingly—Simon Birtwhistle were carrying chairs through from the dining room, while Myra directed the operation.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” she cried, “you are going to play Racing Demon with us, aren’t you? The more the merrier.”

  “I’d love to, if you have enough cards.”

  “Simon found enough packs in the sideboard for everyone. Aunt Ruby, Dr. Knox, do come and play.”

  “I used to be a dab hand at Racing Demon,” Knox said nostalgically, glancing at Sybil.

  “Come and play, Roger. If Ruby doesn’t want to, I’ll sit out with her.”

  Knox looked as if that was not quite the outcome he desired. Fortunately, Ruby Birtwhistle decided to take a hand.