by Carola Dunn
“Yes, running from my righteous wrath. I can’t believe they’ve got Alec coming up here! We don’t even know if there really is something unnatural about Humphrey’s death. Perhaps Dr. Jordan will take one look and diagnose a stroke.”
“I hope so. I do hope so. But if it were so simple, Roger would have known.”
“I wonder whether Alec will be angrier if he’s been dragged up here for nothing or if I really have stumbled into another murder.”
“You’ll never know,” Sybil pointed out, “because it can only be one or the other.”
“True.” Daisy sighed. “One way or another, he’s going to be livid. And he’ll say it’s all my fault. And so will Superintendent Crane.”
“You can blame it on me. Not to mention on Roger. I should never have told him about Alec, let alone have asked you in the first place to try to find out whether my fears had any basis in reality.”
“Which, apparently, they did. And it looks to me as if Roger suspected the same, or he surely would have assumed that Humphrey simply had a heart attack in his sleep.”
“So you think it was…”
“I think it was an overdose, whether accidental or purposeful, of some drug someone had been dosing him with for years.”
“That must be why Roger said I’m an obvious suspect,” Sybil said unhappily. “Humphrey’s illness has made a bigger improvement in my life than anyone else’s.”
FIFTEEN
“Right you are, Dr. Knox,” said Dr. Jordan cheerfully, returning to the hall, “I’ll get those samples analysed tonight. Worrall, you’ll send the body to me in the morning, for autopsy.”
“That I will, Doctor.”
“I’ll be off, then.” Jordan noticed Daisy and Sybil as they stood up. “Sorry, shouldn’t have mentioned such things in the presence of ladies. Good-night!” He strode out to his car.
“Roger!” said Sybil.
“Inspector!” said Daisy.
“Looks like we’ve been ambushed, Doctor. What can I do for you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Worrall was remarkably perky for the time of night. Daisy guessed that, being on night duty, he had slept during the day, unlike everyone else. Now that she got a good look at him, he was about as average as a man can be: middling brown hair, slightly thinning; a face no one would pick out in a crowd; perhaps an inch taller than police height requirements; a figure a trifle thickened at the waist but unremarkable, as were his dark-grey suit and grey-and-cream striped tie.
She invited him to sit down, while Sybil and Roger drew a little apart.
“I can’t tell you anything about … the doctors’ findings,” the inspector said cautiously.
“Of course not. Though it’s obvious Dr. Jordan agrees with Roger—Dr. Knox—that something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”
“Denmark?”
“Sorry! I have a bad habit of indiscriminate quotation. They agree that the cause of Mr. Birtwhistle’s death is not obvious and straightforward. Lucky for you, really, since you seem to have brought my husband rushing to Derbyshire already.”
DI Worrall shook his head. “Not my doing, madam. You’ll be aware, I expect, it takes more than a mere inspector’s request to set things moving in that direction.”
“Yes, I know. I meant you as in the Derbyshire police force.”
“Ah. So I reported Dr. Knox’s call to my superintendent, as was my bounden duty. I’ll tell you this much, he wasn’t happy about it, having just gone to bed. Told me it was for the Chief Constable to make a decision. As if he didn’t know the Colonel can’t be got hold of—up in Scotland shooting some bird or other, unless it’s deer he’s after. Any road, his deputy, Mr. Oakenshawe, doesn’t want to take responsibility for whatever happens whilst he’s gone. Specially a murder enquiry.”
“You rang up Mr. Oakenshawe? What did he say?”
“He was right glad of an excuse to have the CID take charge.”
“The excuse being my presence, I assume.”
“That’s right, madam,” agreed Worrall, straightfaced.
“I suppose I’m glad to have obliged him! I hope you don’t mind having it taken out of your hands?”
“Well, now, we’ve yet to see if there’s anything to be taken. All very vague and airy-fairy it is, so far, if you ask me. But so be there is a case to investigate, I’d just as soon have the help, to tell the truth. Most of the homicides we get in these parts, it doesn’t take two minutes to find out who’s to blame.”
“Did Mr. Oakenshawe make you ring up the Yard?” Daisy asked.
Worrall grinned. “Tried to, but I wasn’t having any. They won’t take any notice of a request from me, I told him like I told you. Next thing I know, just as I was leaving to come here, having notified Dr. Jordan he was needed—next thing was a wire from Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher with the time of his train. Quick off the mark, those blokes.”
“Oh blast! Oakenshawe must have talked to the duty officer, and he rang Mr. Crane, and Crane rang Alec and told him to come and get me out of trouble. It’ll be all over the Yard,” Daisy said gloomily.
“Like that is it?” Worrall sounded sympathetic.
“I just wish Dr. Knox hadn’t taken it into his head to mention Alec to you. Then you could have solved your own murder—”
“If so be it is a murder,” the inspector reminded her, “which isn’t by any means a sure thing.”
“If it isn’t, and Alec’s annoyed about being called out for nothing, I’ll make sure he understands it’s not your fault.”
“I’d take it kindly, madam.”
“Roger and Oakenshawe can jolly well shoulder the blame,” Daisy said firmly. And Alec should jolly well give her some of the credit for Inspector Worrall’s complaisance!
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind, madam, just giving me the names of everyone in the house, so’s I have something to show the Chief Inspector come morning? Always supposing there should be anything here to interest him, other than your good self.”
“Certainly.”
He took out his notebook, then searched his pockets and produced a propelling pencil. “Starting with the family of the deceased, if you’d be so kind.”
“Lorna—Miss Birtwhistle—and Norman are his brother and sister. Norman is also unmarried. I gather the place belongs … belonged to the three of them, though whether in equal shares I can’t say. Eyrie Farm, that is, and as there are two tenant farms I suppose one might refer to it as ‘the estate.’ Norman runs the farms. Miss Birtwhistle shares housekeeping duties with Humphrey’s wife.”
“Ah, yes, the wife.”
“Ruby. She’s American. Or was. She’s been here since the Nineties. But that’s beside the point. You asked for their names.”
“You just tell me in your own way, madam. It’ll help me keep them straight, like, knowing a bit about them.”
“All right. There’s Simon, Humphrey and Ruby’s son, and only child. Not long down from university—one of the red-bricks, not Oxbridge. And Myra Olney is not long out of school. She’s some sort of cousin but she grew up here.” Daisy frowned. “Actually, I don’t know how long Eyrie Farm has been her home.”
“How remiss of you.”
Daisy looked at Worrall in surprise. To her relief, he had a twinkle in his eye. It boded well for his working relationship with Alec, she hoped. “You’re teasing! I’ve only been here since yesterday afternoon. No, the day before, now.”
“In that case, I’d say you’ve picked up a remarkable amount of information. Any more family?”
“No, that’s the lot.”
“Servants?”
“Two farm girls who come in by the day. All I know about them is their given names, Betty and Etta.”
“Very confusing.”
“That’s what Myra said. I think Norman has some help on the home farm, but I don’t know anything at all about him or them. I don’t think they ever come into the house.”
“We’ll count them out for the present. Who does that leave
?” He looked at Sybil and Roger, completely absorbed in each other. “Who’s Dr. Knox’s sweetheart?”
“They’re not sweethearts. Not really. That’s Sybil Sutherby. She’s … She was Humphrey Birtwhistle’s secretary. I was at school with her and she invited me to come and stay at Eyrie Farm.”
The inspector raised his eyebrows. “The secretary invites her own guests?”
“Well … It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Indeed!”
“No, she wasn’t Humphrey’s mistress!”
“Now, now, did I suggest such a thing?”
“Nor the doctor’s. I could tell you were thinking it. I can’t see any need to go into details of her position here unless you find out something suspicious about his death. She’s a widow, and she has a young daughter who’s away at school during the week.”
“Let’s hope everything’s cleared up before the child comes home,” Worrall said piously. “Anyone else?”
“There are two more guests in the house. Neil Carey—he’s a friend of Simon’s, a few years older. And he flirts with Miss Olney, which won’t surprise you when you meet her. The other is older still, in his thirties I’d guess. Walter Ilkton. He made Miss Olney’s acquaintance on a tennis court and hopes to marry her.”
“Ah.” He pondered for a moment. “That’s the lot, then?”
Daisy nodded, then remembered: “No, Mr. Ilkton brought a manservant. I don’t know his name.” She was taken by surprise by an enormous yawn. “I do beg your pardon!”
“Think nothing of it. I must say it’s not the effect a copper usually has on witnesses.” He closed his notebook. “I’m much obliged, Mrs. Fletcher, and I won’t keep you any longer. Doctor, are you leaving now?”
“What’s that? Oh, no, I’m staying the night. I was going to anyway, because of the fog earlier, so there’s a bed made up. I want to have another look in on Mrs. Birtwhistle.”
“Right you are, sir. I’d like a word with you before you retire.”
Accepting their dismissal, Daisy and Sybil said good-night and went together up the west stairs. On the landing, Sybil stopped and looked down at the two men.
“What were you talking about? Did he tell you anything?”
“Not a thing. What about Roger? Did he tell you what Dr. Jordan had to say?”
“Only that he agreed further investigation was warranted. It was a relief in a way, after he’d brought the police in. And Scotland Yard. Daisy, I’m really sorry about that. I hope Alec won’t be terribly angry with you.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s resigned to my getting mixed up in police business. Almost. Besides, I’ve been buttering up Inspector Worrall and I’m pretty sure he’s not going to get shirty about Alec taking over. Local police are often resentful and uncooperative.”
“You sound like a real expert! I suppose I didn’t actually believe half of what I heard about your exploits.”
“Darling, I sincerely hope you haven’t heard about at least half of my ‘exploits’! If I were a real expert, perhaps I’d have worked out what was going on here and put a stop to it before Humphrey died.”
Sybil patted her shoulder. “You had only one day, even if it felt like a century. It will probably turn out to have been a heart attack. Good-night. Sleep well.”
“’Night. You too.”
Daisy didn’t expect to sleep well with so much on her mind. As she climbed into bed, she was trying to decide whether to admit to Alec that she had come to Eyrie Farm specifically to delve into her friend’s suspicions of serious wrong-doing in the household. Sybil would probably tell him. Daisy could have asked her not to mention it. However, Alec was almost certain to guess she was concealing something, not a good idea in a police enquiry.
So she had better confess right away, Daisy decided reluctantly. Unless, with any luck, it turned out that Humphrey’s death was natural and Alec had rushed all the way to Derbyshire for nothing. Holding on to that hope, she fell asleep.
SIXTEEN
Alec reached Derby in the early hours of Wednesday morning. A uniformed constable was waiting, as promised, to escort him to the headquarters of the county police. Having snoozed on the train, Alec was somewhat refreshed, and the crisp night air completed his revival. During the few minutes’ walk through the silent town, he made an attempt to discover the reason for his despatch to Derbyshire. All he could extract from the man was that Detective Inspector Worrall was in charge.
He would have liked to ask whether the inspector was greatly put out at having the Yard brought in, but even if the constable happened to know, it wouldn’t be at all proper to ask him.
“Is the inspector at the station, or still at the scene?”
“He’s back, sir. Came in a few minutes before I left to meet you.”
On the one hand, Alec thought, no time wasted waiting about; on the other, no time to feel out amongst DI Worrall’s colleagues whether he was indifferent, disgruntled, or furious. He’d just have to tread with caution.
On reaching the station, he was invited to step straight up to the inspector’s office. Following the constable up the stairs, he was struck by a sudden wave of fear for Daisy. What was her involvement in whatever was going on? Was she a suspect? Could she even be in danger?
He clung to a slender hope that Superintendent Crane had misunderstood the situation, that at worst Daisy was mixed up in the business only peripherally.
His guide opened a door and announced him: “Sir, Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of New Scotland Yard.”
“Come in, come in, Chief Inspector, and set yourself down.” The man behind the desk half-rose and waved him to a chair. A neat, unobtrusively dressed man with an undistinguished face, he smiled, but his eyes were wary. “You’ll be wondering what’s going on, I don’t doubt.”
“How right you are!”
“I admit, I’m not sure yet myself. We didn’t expect you so soon.”
So the urgency was the Super’s notion. Any hint of Daisy’s presence at the scene of a police investigation was liable to overthrow his usual sangfroid.
“No?” Alec said noncommittally.
“I’d best explain. It was Dr. Knox rang up our chap in Matlock, saying he had an unexplained death on his hands, so to speak. Being as how he’s the local police surgeon, the sergeant was bound to sit up and take notice. He reported to me, and … well, he told me the doctor said one of the sus—one of the people on the premises was the wife of a top CID man. Namely, yourself, sir.”
“Namely, myself.” Alec sighed. “Of course you had no choice but to pass the information up to your superior. And he decided to alert your Chief Constable.”
“His deputy, sir. Mr. Oakenshawe. The Colonel’s off somewhere inaccessible in Scotland shooting at inoffensive birdies.”
“Is he, indeed! I begin to see the light. Am I right in assuming Mr. Oakenshawe has even less police experience than the CC himself?”
“Far be it from me to contradict a superior officer.”
“So he didn’t want the responsibility for a murder investigation— I suppose it is murder we’re talking about?”
“That remains to be seen, sir. Our county medico agrees with Dr. Knox that the cause of death is not clear. He’s doing the autopsy later this morning, but in the meantime he’s running some tests. Very up in the latest techniques, he is. He said they wouldn’t take too long, so I’m waiting for the results.”
Alec sighed. “All right, since I’m here, you’d better put me in the picture. All I know about the friend Daisy—my wife—is visiting is that she lives on a farm and is secretary to a literary man. Who else is on the scene?”
“As to that, Mrs. Fletcher was very helpful, very helpful indeed. A very nice lady, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I might have known she wouldn’t be content with standing by, minding her own business.” He ought to be resigned by now. At least she seemed to have managed to get on the right side of DI Worrall. “Let’s hear it.”
He listened without comment as DI Worrall read from his notebook. By certain turns of phrase he could tell that the inspector was quoting Daisy directly.
She had provided a succinct overview of the household that would be useful if there was in fact anything to investigate. Alec noted—and wondered whether Worrall had noted—her protectiveness towards Sybil Sutherby. Inevitably, in every case she meddled in, Daisy took a suspect or two under her wing and refused to believe ill of them. Inevitably, in this case, her ewe-lamb was the woman she had been at school with. Usually, but by no means always, those she chose to defend turned out to be innocent.
By no means always. Moreover, their innocence was sometimes distinctly ambiguous. Daisy and the Law did not always see eye to eye on the subject of Justice.
As yet there was no case, Alec reminded himself.
Worrall pushed a sheet of paper across his desk. “I’ve made a list for you, just in case. And I’ve booked you a hotel room, in case you want to try to catch a couple of hours of shut-eye. Or longer, if Dr. Jordan’s tests come back negative.”
“Thanks, but I’ll wait with you for the results, if I won’t be disturbing you.”
“Nothing pressing. I’ll tell you what, I’d like to hear the inside story on the Epping Forest murders.”
In Alec’s estimation, the tracking down of the man who had been dubbed by the press “The Epping Executioner” had not been one of his great successes. But the story had some interesting points, so he obliged. Worrall was gratifyingly interested, especially in the team-work necessary to deal with the complicated case.
“That’s where us provincials can’t match you at the Yard,” he said. “We just haven’t got the manpower or the facilities.”
“It involved several different counties. We’d have had to be called in anyway. I can’t see that my presence is necessary here, however.”
“That’s yet to be seen, sir. If there’s anything in it, I won’t say no to a helping hand from—” The telephone bell cut him short. He lifted the receiver. “Worrall. Yes, put him through.” Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he said to Alec, “Dr. Jordan.”
