by Carola Dunn
He started to pace, head turned to keep an eye on the pair on the sofa. “I’d like to take Myra out of it, drive her up to town.”
“You can’t do that,” said Carey, startled and disapproving. “She’s family. She can’t leave now.”
Daisy nodded agreement, her opinion of him going up a notch, and of Ilkton down a notch.
“She’s not going to be much support to anyone. The poor child needs to be supported, and no one here’s going to have time for her.”
“I shall. I can’t see Mrs. Birtwhistle throwing me out.” Carey lounged back in his chair, gazing up at his would-be rival. “You can leave in the morning, fog willing. I’m staying.”
“So am I,” said Daisy. “At least until I’m sure I can’t help. Myra will decide for herself, but I don’t think she’ll want to desert her family.”
“Certainly not. Hasn’t she more spunk than you give her credit for, Ilkton.”
Ilkton’s lips tightened. Daisy was afraid he was ripe to escalate the sniping into open hostilities, but after a moment, he sat down without speaking. His fingers beat a tattoo on his expensively clad knee.
“She’s had a nasty shock,” Daisy pointed out. Though it made her feel ancient, she went on, “The young tend to see people close to them as immortal. She’ll be all right.”
Neither of the men responded, and Daisy was quite glad not to have to talk. Myra’s sobs had subsided to sniffs. She and Sybil talked quietly, their words for the most part indistinguishable. Daisy wondered if her casual words about no one in the household paying much attention to the girl had borne fruit already.
The only other sound was an occasional crackle or hiss from the fire. Ilkton went back to the hearth and stood leaning with one arm on the mantel, head bowed, staring into the flickering flames.
Approaching footsteps sounded loud. Everyone turned to look. Simon came in. His face was very pale, set in an expression of disbelief.
With a wordless cry, Myra jumped up and ran to him. “Oh, Simon!” She clutched him.
Somewhat to Daisy’s surprise, he put his arms round her and hugged her. He seemed unable to speak.
“Brandy!” said Carey.
“I’ll get it.” Ilkton went towards the sideboard, twin of the one in the dining room, where the drinks were kept.
“No! No, I don’t want it. I’m all right.” Simon came to the fire, his arm still round Myra’s shoulders. After what seemed like a long pause, he said in a strange voice, “Father’s dead. And Knox won’t give a certificate.”
“A certificate?” Myra sounded frightened. “What does that mean?”
No one seemed inclined to tell her, so Daisy explained. “When someone dies, a doctor has to issue a certificate listing the cause of death. If he’s not sure, he won’t sign it.”
“But Uncle Humphrey was ill.”
“Not of anything that could have killed him,” said Simon, achieving a normal tone with a heroic effort. “At least, that’s what Dr. Knox thinks. He says he never did achieve a satisfactory diagnosis of what ailed Father.”
“It might have been a heart attack or a stroke,” Sybil suggested, almost hopefully. “He wasn’t a young man.”
“That’s what he said. But he can’t tell from a superficial examination, and he wants to be certain.”
“Does that mean they’ll…” Myra’s horrified voice trailed off.
“Yes,” her cousin told her savagely. “They’ll cut—”
“Simon!” Sybil cut him off.
“Sorry.” He passed his hand over his face. “I’m just about done in. I’ll take that brandy after all, Ilkton.”
Ilkton seemed no longer eager to oblige. “What about Mrs. Birtwhistle?” he asked, frowning.
“Poor Aunt Ruby!”
“Knox is taking care of her,” said Simon, flopping into a chair as Carey went to fetch the brandy. “She’s pretty shattered, of course. I think he’s taken her up to her room.”
“I must go and help her,” Myra declared, and whisked out.
Sybil looked at Daisy. “Do you think I ought—”
“Let Myra do it. Feeling useful will help her, I expect. Ruby will send her away if she doesn’t want her.”
“Heavens, I’ve just thought: What about Lorna and Norman?”
“I’m not telling them!” Simon took a gulp of the brandy Carey put in his hand. “Thanks, Neil. I can’t see any need to wake Uncle Norman and Aunt Lorna. They’ll find out soon enough. And won’t they be happy!”
“Simon!” Sybil protested.
“Well, they will. They’ve always wished he hadn’t come back from America alive. Not that they’ll have anything to gloat about. I suppose Mother or I will inherit his share of the farm. I could live happily without ever seeing the place again.”
Daisy began to fidget. She knew what the next move should be, but she didn’t want to be the first to mention the police.
“Would you like me to tell them?” Sybil offered—very nobly, Daisy felt. “Lorna and Norman, I mean. He’s their brother, after all.”
“No need,” Simon insisted, slurring a bit now, after finishing off the brandy with a third gulp. On top of the shock of his father’s death, it was enough to befuddle a stronger head than his. “Why spoil their sleep? They’re always complaining about how hard they work. Leave ’em to get their rest while they can.”
“I suppose it won’t hurt to wait till the morning.”
“No. And it won’t hurt to wait till morning to call in Dr. Harris and the coppers. They can’t get here in this damn fog anyway.”
“The coppers!” Carey exclaimed.
“Didn’t I tell you? Dr. Knox sent me to ring the police. Standard procedure when the cause of death is uncertain. We’re going to have bloody coppers crawling all over the house tomorrow. Won’t that make Uncle Norman and Aunt Lorna happy!”
“All the same,” Sybil advised, “you’d better ring them up right away.”
“Why the hell should I?”
“You’re not thinking clearly, Simon. Which is very understandable in the circumstances, but not at all helpful. The last thing we want to do is antagonise the police before they even begin ‘crawling all over the house.’ Can’t you see, if there’s something the least bit fishy about your father’s death, they’re going to start with the assumption one of us here at Eyrie Farm must be involved?”
THIRTEEN
“Mrs. Sutherby’s right,” said Neil Carey. “The sooner you notify the police the better.”
“I can’t see that it makes much difference.” Ilkton was uneasy. Naturally he hadn’t expected his pursuit of Myra to lead him into such troubled waters. “There’s nothing fishy about it. It was surely a heart attack or a stroke.”
“We can’t be sure. Ring up now, Simon.” Sybil looked to Daisy, who nodded confirmation, hoping it looked like mere agreement.
She managed not to say anything about obstructing the police in the course of their duties, which would be liable to give away an unseemly familiarity with police procedure. The less the local force knew about her connection with Scotland Yard, the better. They were apt to be very touchy at the slightest hint that the Yard might find an excuse to trespass on their territory.
And Alec’s boss, Superintendent Crane, was apt to be very touchy at the slightest hint that Daisy had got herself involved yet again in anything remotely criminal.
Roger Knox came in. “Did you get through already, Simon? Is Harris coming?”
“I haven’t tried yet,” Simon said sulkily.
Taking in the empty brandy glass at a glance, the doctor laid a hand on his shoulder. “No, I’m sorry, it was too much to ask. You’re in shock. Now I’ve settled your mother—and Myra is looking after her surprisingly competently, I must say—I’ll do it myself.”
“Roger…” Sybil hesitated. “I suppose you can’t tell us any more about … what’s happened?”
“The less said the better, I think,” he said gently, “until the police get here.”
>
“But that won’t be till the morning!”
“I’ll try to persuade them to get a move on.”
“The fog…”
“Haven’t you looked out of a window recently? The fog is clearing. I shouldn’t be surprised if we have rain before morning. There’s nothing to stop them coming tonight—other than indolence. I must get another doctor here quickly, though. Simon—No. Carey, do you know how to deal with an oil lantern? Would you mind lighting the one in the porch?”
“Sure and I’ll do it this minute, Doctor.”
“Thank you. Excuse me.” He went to the telephone.
Carey crossed to the front door. Beside it, on a small table stood an unlit lantern. “This is it, I take it?”
“That’s the one,” Sybil told him. She went over to help. “There’s a pole in a bracket on the wall, just behind the edge of the curtain—Yes, that’s it, for lifting the lantern to its hook outside. Have you got matches?”
“In my pocket. Here.” Carey handed her a matchbox to hold while he opened the lantern.
Daisy tried to ignore them and listen to the doctor. The Matlock operator must have answered promptly, because a moment later Knox asked for the police station.
“Sorry,” said Sybil, “I don’t have much to do with the housekeeping. Simon, where’s the lamp-oil kept?”
“Huh?”
“The lantern’s low on oil.” Carey came over, carrying it. “Be a good chap and show me where to refill it.”
Simon levered himself out of his chair and the two men went through to the back regions. Sybil left the matches on the table by the door and sat down again with Daisy and Ilkton.
Meanwhile, Knox had been speaking in a low voice and Daisy, to her annoyance, had missed what he was saying.
Ilkton, silent for some time, now said, “I’m afraid you’ve lost your employment, Mrs. Sutherby.” He didn’t sound very interested.
“Eventually, yes, but I’ll finish what I’m working on now. And I expect Mrs. Birtwhistle will need help dealing with Humphrey’s papers. I can’t worry about that now. Poor Ruby! I must admit, Myra seems to have turned up trumps. I wouldn’t have thought she had it in her.”
“Everyone here underestimates Myra. I’ve noticed it. She may be what they call a ‘bright young thing’ in town, but she’s not one of these brittle, shallow girls who care for nothing and nobody. Unlike most, she’s very well-mannered and sweet-tempered.…”
Daisy tuned out his catalogue of Myra’s virtues like an unwanted wireless station, straining her ears to pick up Roger Knox’s words. He was still talking too quietly, until he said with irritated emphasis, “I am the local police surgeon, Sergeant. I want a second opinion.”
Then he lowered his voice again. Ilkton was still boring on about Myra, with Sybil throwing in an occasional absentminded comment as if to keep him talking so that she could think about other matters.
Daisy tossed in an innocuous remark to help keep the pot boiling. Just as her attention returned to the doctor, he said loudly, “Yes, Scotland Yard, dammit, man! A detective chief inspector. So if you’re calling in your inspector from Derby, you’d better…” Once again he lowered his voice.
Daisy fixed an accusing glare on Sybil. After swearing not to reveal Alec’s profession to a soul, she had told her Roger! Her apologetic look showed she, too, had heard what he said.
They couldn’t have it out in Ilkton’s presence. At least he seemed to be winding down at last.
“So, obviously, she’s much too sensitive to have to deal with cloddish policemen. As neither of us had anything to do with whatever happened to Birtwhistle, which in any case I’m certain must have been a heart attack, the best thing I can do is take her away.”
“You can’t do that,” Daisy reiterated Carey’s assertion.
“The fog has lifted, Knox said so. We could leave immediately.”
“If Myra’s so sensitive,” said Sybil stringently, “and please note I’m not denying it, she wouldn’t dream of abandoning her aunt at such a moment. Besides, the police are bound to want to speak to both of you. You can hardly expect the rest of us to keep your presence here a secret! I can’t believe you want to have them chasing after you, like a pair of felons!”
“The press would probably get hold of the story, too,” said Daisy. “You can’t have thought. You don’t want to start married life with a scandal round your necks. And quite apart from the police, they’d have a field-day with the two of you going off together in the middle of the night, as if you were eloping.”
“I suppose so.” Ilkton managed to sound both disconcerted and annoyed. He summoned up a smile. “Nothing but the best for Myra. I’m concerned only for her comfort.” He greeted the return of Simon and Carey with relief. “You managed all right, did you?”
“Weren’t we after making a bit of a mess of it,” Carey admitted cheerfully, “but we cleared up as best we could. Now to tackle hanging it up.”
Simon slumped into a chair. He leant forward, elbows on knees, his head in his hands. Carey gave him a pat on the back with the hand that wasn’t holding the lantern, and went on towards the front door.
Ilkton muttered something about making sure he didn’t make another mess and went after him.
“Escaping from us,” said Daisy. Simon was on the far side of the fireplace, so as long as she and Sybil kept their voices down, they could talk without his hearing. Not that he appeared to be in a state to take in anything he heard. “The conceit of that man!”
“Don’t you think it’s rather sweet, the way he wants to protect Myra?”
“I suppose so, but he seems to think he’s a superior being, above being troubled by a murder investigation like the rest of us.”
“Don’t say that, Daisy! Not about Ilkton’s conceit, I mean murder. It can’t be! Roger’s just being careful, because he’s not absolutely sure—”
“Very careful, if he’s going to the lengths of invoking Scotland Yard.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out. It was when I was trying to decide whether to talk to him about my suspicions. I thought he’d be more likely to take me seriously if he knew I’d invited the wife of a Scotland Yard detective to visit. But he didn’t seem particularly interested, and then you persuaded me not to alert him.”
“As I recall, you persuaded yourself. Never mind, it’s no use crying over spilt milk when the cat’s out of the bag, to coin a proverb. My guess is, Roger had his own suspicions about the cause of Humphrey’s illness and didn’t want to worry you by making a thing of it. Not knowing you were already wondering, he’d assume it was sheer chance my husband’s being a…” Daisy glanced at Simon. He was surely blind and deaf to the world, or he would have reacted by now to what she and Sybil had already said. She decided on caution all the same. “Alec being what he is.”
“You’re hoping to keep it from the others, still?”
Daisy sighed. “Probably impossible, but yes. I’d rather they didn’t start giving me peculiar looks.”
The looks Roger received—when he finished on the telephone at last and came over to the fire—were accusing. “My apologies to both of you,” he said wearily. “I’ll explain later,” he added, as Ilkton and Carey came in from the porch and Simon raised his head.
“What about Aunt Lorna and Uncle Norman? With the coppers about to invade shouldn’t you wake them up and tell them?”
“Don’t you think that’s your responsibility?”
In the pause while Simon absorbed the import of this question, Carey said to Ilkton, “Time for us to fade away?”
“Definitely.”
And fade away they did, in the direction of the dining room, with a stop en route at the sideboard for a bottle, two glasses, and a couple of packs of cards.
Simon sat up straight. “I’ll tell Uncle Norman, but I’m not waking Aunt Lorna. Myra’s the one who should do that.”
“Myra’s with your mother,” Sybil reminded
him. “I’ll go, if you like. Even though I’m not family, at least I’m female, and I get on with Lorna as well as anyone does.”
“Which is to say, not very well,” said Simon. “But you are practically family, and I’d be very grateful if you’d tell her about … Father. Oh well, here goes!”
He went off to climb the west staircase as if it were a mountain.
As Sybil reluctantly came to her feet, Daisy said, “Darling, would you like me to go up with you? I won’t cross the threshold. I’ll just wait outside her room, ready to hold your hand afterwards if you need it.”
“Would you, Daisy?”
“Miss Birtwhistle’s bound to be upset,” Roger said with a touch of impatience, “but she doesn’t bite. I’m going to see how Ruby’s doing.”
They all went up the east stairs. Roger turned right towards Ruby’s room at the front end of the wing. Sybil and Daisy turned left. Lorna’s room was in the part of the newer wing that shared a wall with the old house, right at the back. Sybil knocked on the door.
There was no response.
“Are you sure she went to bed?” Daisy whispered. “Perhaps she and Norman are carousing somewhere together.”
“In the estate office? I can’t see them carousing, but drowning their sorrows— No, I can’t imagine it! They both always go to bed early and get up early. It’s part of their martyr act, really. Admittedly, farmers do keep early hours, but Lorna insists on making breakfast for everyone, every day, though she and Ruby share most of the cooking.” She knocked again, more loudly.
“What is it?” came Lorna’s sleepy, grumpy voice. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Sybil. I must speak to you.”
“I was asleep. Can’t it wait till morning?”
“I’m sorry, it’s urgent.”
They heard a thump, followed by a shuffling noise. A couple more minutes passed before the door opened about four inches. Lorna peered through the gap, holding up a candle. If she had worn her hair in a fringe, it would have been in imminent danger, but the tightly pulled back bun had been replaced by a lank plait falling over her shoulder. She had on a brown flannel dressing gown and the same carpet slippers in which she slopped around the house during the day.
