Gone West

by Carola Dunn

  “Well, what’s so urgent?” she snapped.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news, Miss Birtwhistle. Perhaps you’d better sit down.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. What’s happened that I have to be wakened for in the middle of the night, with all the work that’s to be done tomorrow? All the extra people may not make any difference to you, but—”

  “Miss Birtwhistle, your brother—”

  “Norman? Something’s happened to Norman?”

  “No. It’s Humphrey. He died earlier this evening.”

  “Humphrey!” Her sallow face paled still further and the candle drooped in her shaking hand.

  Taking the candle from her, Sybil passed it to Daisy. She pushed open the door, took Lorna’s arm, and led the woman to a straight chair beside the iron bedstead, the only seat in the room.

  Lorna sat down as if her knees simply gave way. “Humphrey?” she quavered. “He wasn’t really ill!”

  “I’m sorry to bring such bad news.”

  “He wasn’t all that ill!”

  Daisy set the candlestick on the mantelpiece, noting the empty grate. The cold, sparsely furnished bedroom was more evidence of Lorna’s determination to see herself as a martyr. Though it was a good-sized room, with two big sash windows, the only other objects in it were a big wardrobe and a bedside table. No looking-glass, unless there was one inside the wardrobe. Perhaps Lorna felt no need to look at herself.

  She was pulling herself together. “I suppose it was a heart attack. He wasn’t a young man. I don’t see why you couldn’t have waited till morning to tell me. There’ll be even more work than usual.”

  “It may have been a heart attack,” Sybil agreed. “Dr. Knox can’t tell for sure. He wasn’t treating Humphrey for a heart ailment, so he’s not willing to sign the certificate without a second opinion. That means the police had to be notified. We thought you’d want to know before they arrive.”

  “The police…” Lorna’s voice faded beneath the enormity of the thought.

  “Daisy, do you think you can wrest the brandy from—”

  “I won’t drink spirits!” Indignation revived her. “And what the police want to come poking their long noses into respectable folks’s affairs that’s none of their business, I’m sure I don’t know. Humphrey must have had a heart attack, that’s all there is to it. I can’t see the police have any need to talk to me.”

  “Perhaps they won’t want to,” Sybil said soothingly. “It’s up to you whether you dress and come down or not. I just thought—Simon thought—you ought to know right away.”

  “Why didn’t Simon come himself?”

  “He’s telling Norman.”

  “He could have sent that useless Myra, that’s at least one of the family.”

  “Myra’s with Ruby.”

  It was just as well Myra had come up to scratch, Daisy thought. So far Lorna had not, apparently, spared a thought for her bereaved sister-in-law.

  “I dare say everyone’s expecting me to go down and rush about making tea and sandwiches.”

  “I really can’t see any need for sandwiches,” said Sybil, beginning to lose her sympathetic, reassuring tone. “I was going to make tea myself. Would you like someone to bring you a cup?”

  “I’m perfectly capable of making it myself,” Lorna snapped. “I might as well come down now. I’ll never get back to sleep.”

  “And if you did, the police might come and wake you again anyway. They might even wonder at your sleeping in the circumstances!”

  With this waspish remark, Sybil whisked out of the room. Daisy trotted after her, closing the door behind her.

  “Oh, that bloody, bloody woman!” Sybil said, and burst into tears.

  “Darling!” Daisy put her arm round Sybil’s shoulders. “Don’t take it to heart. You know she’s nasty to everyone.”

  “It’s not that. How can she be so … so blasé about her brother’s death, and not even care for what Ruby is suffering?”

  “It was a terrific shock to her. You could see that. People do react oddly to that kind of news, as if they haven’t assimilated it properly. Especially as it was a double shock, hearing about the police, too. Not everyone is as accustomed as I am to having them hanging about the place.”

  Sybil summoned up a watery smile. “No. And I want very much to find out what excuse Roger has for mentioning your august connections. Let’s go down and corner him.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to lie down for a bit? It’s been a very long day.”

  “Oh, Daisy, you must be exhausted. I’m so sorry this happened while you were staying.”

  “It’s my karma. My Indian friend Sakari told me so. Come on, let’s go and tackle Roger. He’d better have a good explanation ready!”

  They went downstairs. Roger was standing on the hearth, staring down into the glowing coals as Ilkton had earlier. He looked even wearier than Daisy felt. He looked round at the sound of their footsteps.

  “Here comes Nemesis, times two.” He added a couple of lumps of coal to the fire. “It’s going to be a long night, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s already been a long night. How is Ruby?” Sybil asked as they all sat down.

  “As well as can be expected,” the doctor said wryly. “I told her I’d requested a second opinion. She approved. She’s as anxious as I am to know for certain what Humphrey died of. And when I explained I’d had to notify the police—well, she didn’t like the idea but she understands that it’s a legal requirement.”

  “And when you told her you had called in Scotland Yard?”

  “Sybil, I haven’t ‘called in Scotland Yard.’ As I understand it, only the chief constable can do that.”

  “True,” Daisy agreed. “And I can’t think of any good reason for him to want them involved in this.”

  “I mentioned to the local man, Sergeant Ridd, that Mrs. Fletcher, a guest at Eyrie Farm, is the wife of a detective officer at the Yard, for which breach of confidence I repeat my apology. I can only say that I thought it justified in the circumstances. What’s more, I hope and expect that he’ll pass the information on to his superiors in Derby, and that they’ll decide they don’t want the responsibility of having to treat Mrs. Fletcher as a suspect, however unlikely.”

  “Roger, Daisy has no conceivable motive! So why—”

  “Because if Humphrey was—helped to his death, someone in this house was involved. If it comes to a serious police investigation, frankly I don’t trust the local people to do a thorough job. I’m afraid they’ll pick on the most likely person and look no further. And let’s face it, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that they could pick either you or me. Unlike Mrs. Fletcher, we both have easily conceivable motives.”

  FOURTEEN

  The criminals of England had unaccountably allowed Alec an entire uninterrupted weekend with Daisy and the twins. Evil-doers continued to snooze after she departed on Monday morning to visit her school friend. Since this provided Alec with no excuse not to tackle the paperwork piling up on his desk, he would just as soon they weren’t quite so forbearing.

  By five o’clock on Tuesday evening, he had read, initialled, or signed absolutely everything that could be read, initialled, or signed, and DS Tring, his right-hand man, had forwarded or filed everything that could be forwarded or filed. Tom Tring was, if possible, even less fond of paperwork than Alec.

  “I wouldn’t say no to a nice Bond Street smash-and-grab,” he said wistfully as he shrugged into a plaid overcoat the size of a tent. “Otherwise, you know they’re just going to come up with another load of bumf to keep us busy.”

  “Or meetings. We haven’t had a lecture from the Assistant Commissioner for a couple of weeks. At least your wife is there to be pleased to have you home on time for once. With Daisy out of town, I can’t even take her to a show to make up for all the times I’ve spoilt her plans.”

  “That’s a pity, that is, Mrs. Fletcher being away just now. Might as well have a smash-and-grab as not.”r />
  Alec laughed. “Don’t say that in the Super’s hearing.”

  “Not bloody likely! See you tomorrow then, Chief. My love to my godson and Miss Miranda.”

  He went out, walking with the light tread so unexpected in so large a man. A weekend off and two days of paperwork, however boring, had done Tring good, Alec thought. Long hours of activity and late nights took it out of him these days, though he’d be the last to admit it. He was still three or four years from retirement. Alec knew he dreaded finishing his career in a desk job.

  He was still a valuable member of Alec’s team. His expertise in questioning witnesses couldn’t be matched by young Ernie Piper, or even DS Mackinnon, and he intimidated with his sheer bulk those recalcitrant members of society who needed intimidating.

  Alec stuck his fountain pen in his pocket, folded his Daily Chronicle—for once he’d had time to read more than the headlines—and went to the window. The river and, beyond it, the glass roof of Waterloo Station gleamed in the westering sun. By the time he reached Hampstead, it would be a bit late to go for a walk on the Heath with Oliver and Miranda, but Nurse Gilpin might allow him to take them out into the Constable Circle garden for a quarter of an hour. They loved to dabble their hands in the fountain and the excitement engendered by throwing a penny into the water was out of all proportion. Alec collected his Burberry and his hat from the rack and departed homeward.

  * * *

  Alec was halfway up the stairs to bed when the telephone rang. He was tempted not to answer it, but if he didn’t, one of the servants would. They were accustomed to urgent calls at ungodly hours. Besides, it might be Daisy.

  With a sigh, he went back down to the hall and lifted the receiver.

  “Fletcher, what the deuce makes your wife think she can call in the Yard when she’s not happy with the local bobbies?”

  Alec couldn’t believe his ears, especially as Superintendent Crane’s bellow had set the receiver vibrating in his hand. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “You heard me. Doesn’t like the manners of the Derbyshire police, I’m told.”

  “Sir, I’m certain Daisy doesn’t believe any such thing. She knows perfectly well what the protocol is. There must be some misunderstanding.”

  “Is she or is she not in Derbyshire?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s visiting an old school friend.”

  “There you are, then,” said the Super, unfairly though more quietly. “I don’t know what’s going on and I’m damned if I want to know, but you’d better get up there pronto and sort it out. You haven’t anything else on your plate at present, have you?”

  “There’s always plenty on my plate, sir, though nothing desperately urgent just now, but—”

  “Catch the earliest possible express. Wire the county HQ in Derby and they’ll meet you at the station. You can send for your men tomorrow if you need them. Don’t splutter at me. Apparently your wife needs your help. Get a move on, man!”

  Crane hung up, cutting off Alec’s fourth or fifth ineffective, “But—”

  He stood for a moment with the receiver in his hand, trying to work out whether the Super was furious with Daisy or concerned for her. Both, he decided. It behooved him to feel likewise, which was not difficult.

  Frowning, he went into their shared office to look up trains for Derby. Bradshaw informed him that a mail train left St. Pancras at midnight. He looked at his watch. Time enough to make it, if he didn’t dally.

  He wrote notes for Mrs. Dobson, the housekeeper, and Nurse Gilpin and took them out to the hall table, where Elsie, the parlourmaid, would see them first thing in the morning. He phoned in a cable to the Derbyshire police giving them his time of arrival. The early hour would not improve his popularity with that undoubtedly disgruntled force, but the Super’s instructions had been precise. Though Crane was not in general an unreasonable man, he did expect explicit instructions to be obeyed.

  Except by Daisy. All hope of that he had given up long since.

  Nonetheless, Alec was quite sure Daisy had no illusions about her right or her ability to call in the Yard at her convenience.

  What sort of a mess had she got herself into now?

  He thought of ringing up the Yard and speaking to whoever had taken the request from Derbyshire. Crane, he was certain, had either received a garbled message or not passed on all he’d been told. But time was passing. He hurried upstairs, peeked into the nursery to blow the sleeping twins a farewell kiss, and retrieved from the wardrobe in his and Daisy’s bedroom the suitcase that was kept packed for emergencies.

  He’d have to wait till he reached Derby to find out what was really going on.

  * * *

  It was past midnight when the police reached Eyrie Farm. The hammering at the door startled everyone in the hall out of the silent, somnolent state they had drifted into while waiting. Daisy had actually dozed off for a few minutes.

  Rudely awakened, she thought for a moment the noise was Alec’s alarm clock. She detested that alarm clock, but it was definitely preferable to the present reality.

  “Here they are,” said Simon. He got up. The knocker sounded again, impatiently, as he went to the door. He flung aside the curtain and opened it.

  “Derbyshire police, Detective Inspector Worrall. We’ve had a report—”

  “I know. I’m Simon Birtwhistle.” His voice was slightly unsteady as he continued, “My father died unexpectedly and Dr. Knox said he was required to report it.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “So you’d better come in and talk to him.”

  “Just a moment, sir. The county police doctor followed us up, and … Ah, here he comes now.”

  The sound of a car door slamming reached those inside. “Coming, Inspector, coming!” said a very North Country voice. “Couldn’t find my dashed bag in the dark.”

  DI Worrall moved aside. The man who stepped past him into the house looked not much older than Simon, in spite of the dignity lent by the black medical bag he carried. He must have been several years older to have qualified as a doctor, though. His slight figure was respectably clad in a dark suit, in contrast to the inappropriate crimson velvet jacket Simon hadn’t got round to changing out of.

  “Dr. Jordan,” Worrall introduced him, coming in after him, followed by a single uniformed constable. “This is Mr. Birtwhistle, Doctor, the son of the deceased.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Birtwhistle. My condolences on your loss. Now, where’s … Ah, there you are, Dr. Knox.”

  “Glad to see you, Jordan. I hope we can sort this out in short order.” They shook hands and, without further ado, went off briskly towards Humphrey’s bedroom, the detective and the constable at their heels.

  “Inspector,” Daisy called after them, “are you going to want to talk to everyone tonight?”

  Worrall turned back. “No, no, I suggest you all go to bed. There’ll be nothing done until morning, Mrs. … Birtwhistle, is it?”

  “I’m Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Ah!” Worrall managed to pack just as much significance into the single syllable as Tom Tring, who was an expert. “It’ll be your husband that’s coming up from the Yard, then.”

  “Oh, damn!” said Daisy, her worst fears realised—well, almost the worst. “I’ll wait up and have a word with you after…” She gestured in the direction the doctors had taken.

  “Right you are, madam,” the inspector said genially.

  At least he didn’t seem to be offended by the interference from London, but Daisy was furious with Roger Knox. Surely for once she might have got away with involvement in a police investigation without Alec finding out about it!

  She noticed that Lorna was staring at her with more than usual disapproval. “Really, Mrs. Fletcher, your language is not what I care for!”

  “Sorry, Miss Birtwhistle. It slipped out.” Amazing, Daisy thought, that the woman could care about such a triviality with her brother lying mysteriously dead and the police in the house. Perhaps it was what Sakari,
that inveterate taker of classes and attender of lectures, would call “displacement.” If Daisy remembered Sakari’s explanation correctly, it meant something to do with shifting uncomfortable emotions from the appropriate object to a lesser target, as a way of reducing the discomfort.

  Lorna headed for the stairs.

  Myra was decidedly wan after staying with Ruby for ages. Returning to the hall half an hour ago, she had told them her aunt wanted to be alone. “I’ll go up, too,” she said now, “if you don’t mind, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Of course not,” Daisy assured her. “You look all in. Sleep well.”

  Sybil gave Myra a hug. “Sleep well. You’ve earned sweet dreams.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t! Poor Uncle Humphrey!” Tears welled in her eyes.

  Ilkton handed her another handkerchief. He and Carey followed her to the stairs, a pace behind.

  “I hope they’re not going to make nuisances of themselves,” said Daisy.

  They both apparently realised at the same moment that they couldn’t very well accompany Myra any farther, her room being in the east wing, theirs in the west. They returned to the fireplace.

  “I’m turning in, if you’ll excuse me, ladies,” said Ilkton. “Good-night.” He went on to the west stairs.

  “Want company, old chap?” Carey asked Simon.

  Simon had been standing looking a bit disconsolate since the doctors and police had walked past him with scarcely a word. He shook his head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just make sure Mother’s all right, then head for bed. Myra’s been a brick, hasn’t she?”

  “Sure and didn’t Ilkton tell you, repeatedly, you didn’t appreciate her properly. ’Night, everyone.”

  According to Simon, Norman had absorbed the news of his brother’s demise, muttered that he had to get up at six, turned over, and gone back to sleep, so Daisy and Sybil were left at the fireside.

  “Waiting for Roger?” asked Daisy.

  “And keeping you company, if you insist on staying up to talk to that policeman. As the fog has cleared, Roger probably will want to go home for what little is left of the night.”