Gone West

by Carola Dunn

  Alec passed her a handkerchief. Expecting a tearful interview with Ruby Birtwhistle, he hoped he had brought an adequate supply.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Daisy was a trifle indignant that Detective Inspector Worrall insisted on her joining everyone else in the main hall. His wink did not mollify her. Not that she really wanted to be anywhere else.

  “Everyone” did not include Sybil, who was being interrogated by Alec at that very moment; Ruby had not come down yet—Roger Knox was said to be with her; and Norman Birtwhistle had gone off somewhere on the farm, as usual. So everyone, besides Daisy, was Simon, Lorna, Myra, Ilkton, and Carey, gathered by a blazing fire, with Betty and Etta huddled whispering as far as they could get from the rest. Ilkton’s servant stood near the maids, against the wall, hands folded in front of him, looking supercilious.

  “There’ll be no lunch for anyone,” Lorna said ominously, “if I’m not allowed in the kitchen.”

  “I’m sorry, madam,” Worrall said cheerfully, “but the Chief Inspector said everyone in here till our reinforcements arrive.”

  Lorna pursed her lips but said no more.

  “Reinforcements?” Simon laughed, rather wildly. “What did I say? A copper in every corner! Peering under the beds, digging through the flour canister, hiding behind the arras.”

  “Exactly, sir.” The inspector beamed. His sharp eyes flitted from face to face. “You’ve got the idea down pat. Raking through the ashes, opening every drawer. Shouldn’t be surprised if you read detective stories.”

  “Pah!” said Simon.

  Neil laughed. “I’m afraid he regards that as an insult, Inspector. Though Poe has artistic merit, old chap, you must give him that.”

  Whether or not it was Neil’s intention, he diverted his friend from outrage at the police presence to an argument about Edgar Allan Poe. He himself seemed as chipper as ever, taking the rough with the smooth, aided by an ever-ready quip.

  Daisy’s gaze followed the inspector’s from face to face, lingering to analyse what she saw.

  Simon, she thought, had not yet altogether come to grips with the fact of his father’s death, let alone his having been murdered. There was no telling how the mercurial young man would react when it finally sank in.

  Lorna’s usual combination of sullenness and aggression was overlaid with disquiet. To one so limited in her outlook, so bound to “the trivial round, the common task,” the present upheaval must seem overwhelming. If she weren’t so phlegmatic by nature, she’d probably be in hysterics.

  Myra’s beautiful, artfully rouged mouth had a tragic droop, and her mascaraed eyes were red-rimmed. She was painting her fingernails carmine. Daisy guessed that the familiar action took her mind off the distressing circumstances surrounding her. She was wearing a tailored forest-green tweed costume, probably her church clothes—needed at some of the houses she visited—and the most sober she possessed.

  Walter Ilkton hovered over her with his usual proprietary air. Nonetheless, the glance he cast at DI Worrall was unmistakably edgy. Here he was, a man of the world, not only compelled to hobnob with the minions of the law but to do so in a milieu not his own where his superiority was not obvious! At home, the police would be more clearly distinguishable as his inferiors. Perhaps, though, Daisy thought, he considered it preferable to suffer the indignity out of sight of his peers.

  Ruby came in, followed by Roger Knox. Hollow-eyed and hollow-cheeked, she looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink all night.

  “Aunt Ruby!” Myra jumped up, spilling nail varnish down her skirt. “Oh, blast! It’ll never come out. Aunt Ruby, are you all right? Come and sit down.” She was about to hug her aunt, then looked ruefully down her front and took her arm instead.

  Ruby sank bonelessly onto a sofa. Simon tucked a cushion behind her and sat down beside her, taking her hand.

  “Mother, you shouldn’t have come down. Do go away, Myra, that stuff stinks to high heaven. It’s going to make everyone sick.”

  “I’ll go and change, but I haven’t got anything else that isn’t a bit on the bright side.”

  Ruby reached up to squeeze her hand. “It’s all right, my dear. The colour of your clothes is the least of our worries.”

  Myra stooped to kiss her cheek. Straightening, graceful as ever, she said, “It does smell rather foul. Oh, but the inspector doesn’t want us to leave the room.”

  Worrall’s nose twitched as the smell reached him. “Mrs. Fletcher, would you mind escorting Miss Olney?”

  Everyone looked at Daisy, that sidelong, wary glance she had become accustomed to, though not quite reconciled to, since marrying a detective. In spite of it, she would have preferred to stay in the hall, watching and listening, but she couldn’t deny that it made more sense for Worrall to remain and her to go with Myra.

  Myra was apparently immune to the others’ misgivings. As she and Daisy went up the stairs, she said, “Mrs. Fletcher, what am I going to do about this skirt? Do you know how to get out the stain?”

  “Oh dear, I don’t. If it was just a little dab, you could use remover, or petrol perhaps. But I don’t think it’d be healthy to use the amount you’d need for that streak, breathing all those fumes.”

  “I’ve got a wonderful dry-cleaner in London, but I’m afraid by the time I get it there, it’ll be too late.”

  The conversation continued on the same lines while Myra changed into an emerald-green woollen frock. She donned the dark green jacket over it, “To tone it down a bit. Poor Aunt Ruby! Isn’t it too awful for her?”

  “Dreadful,” Daisy agreed as they returned towards the stairs. “And for Simon, too.”

  “Simon? Oh. Yes, I suppose so. I must try to be kinder to him, but he can be such a pain in the neck.”

  “I know what you mean. Be patient. I don’t think he’s yet quite made up his mind who he wants to be.”

  Myra looked baffled. The concept obviously meant nothing to her: She had never suffered any doubts about who she was, or what she wanted to do. In her way, she was as sure of herself as Walter Ilkton. Daisy couldn’t see the pair as a happily married couple. Walter would expect her to conform; Myra would go her own sweet way, quite likely not even noticing his efforts.

  The hall was so quiet that their footsteps on the stairs sounded loud. Even the maids had fallen silent. The effect was more of lethargy than of tension, as if everyone had already said everything there could possibly be to say, at least in the presence of the police.

  Worrall, slightly apart from the group about the fire, was inconspicuous, unthreatening, but unmistakably present.

  Ilkton came across to meet Myra and Daisy.

  “My skirt’s a dead loss, darling,” Myra told him mournfully. She looked up at him through her darkened eyelashes. “Unless your man could do something with petrol…?”

  Ilkton looked startled. Doubtless his mind had been on worse calamities than Myra’s spoilt clothes.

  “The inspector wouldn’t let him go,” Daisy reminded her.

  Myra’s eyes rounded. “Does the … Does Mr. Fletcher think Walter’s servant killed Uncle Humphrey?”

  “Highly unlikely, but he has to apply the same rules to everyone.”

  “Oh yes, that’s only fair.”

  “Daisy!” Sybil came in behind them, from the passage beneath the stairs. “Alec said to tell you he needs you. But just a jiffy—” She went on towards the fireplace. “Ruby, Mr. Fletcher wants to talk to you, in a couple of minutes, and he’s wondering whether it would distress you to go to Humphrey’s study, whether you’d rather see him in a different room.”

  Ruby shook her head. “No. It doesn’t really make any difference. He’s gone.” She dabbed at her eyes with a hankie.

  Myra sat down beside her and patted her arm.

  Sybil nodded to Daisy, who dashed off to find out what Alec wanted. She was fairly sure he needed her to take notes for him, as DI Worrall was employed in watching all the suspects. She was also fairly sure he’d be annoyed about it. His instinct�
�not to mention his training—was always to keep her as far away from his investigations as possible, but he wasn’t very successful at it. One way or another, once she was involved, she stayed involved.

  And however much he’d like to deny it, she was more often than not a help to him.

  He was sitting at the desk, frowning at the notes she had typed for him and given to Worrall to pass on.

  “You didn’t remember much about last night,” he greeted her.

  “Darling, I was taking notes on your interrogation of Roger, which you have in front of you. Do you want me to start thinking about it again?”

  “What the doctor said didn’t jog your memory?”

  “’Fraid not. It’s all mixed up in my mind with the evening before.”

  “And getting more mixed up as time passes, I’m sure. Perhaps Mrs. Birtwhistle will remember more clearly.”

  “She’ll be here any moment. Sybil said you wanted her in a couple of minutes. I assume you want me to take notes again?”

  He pulled a wry face. “Yes, please, love. I can’t wait till reinforcements arrive, and I can’t risk one of that lot suddenly recalling some vital bit of evidence he failed to destroy. They had all night as it is. Even after I arrived, we hadn’t any authority until we knew for sure there had been dirty work at the crossroads. Sit at the desk, will you? Mrs. Birtwhistle will be more comfortable by the fire.”

  “I’m glad you’re thinking of her comfort. She’s pretty fragile.”

  Hearing footsteps in the passage, Daisy said no more. She sat down at the desk.

  Ruby came in. Introducing himself, Alec steered her to an armchair and took his seat opposite. He offered his condolences. He had to do it quite often, usually to people he didn’t know and more than likely suspected, for the unnatural deaths of people he didn’t know. Daisy admired the way he always managed to sound sincere. In fact, he really was sincere. No policeman she’d ever met was reconciled to the seemingly inevitable occurrence of murder.

  Gently Alec led Ruby through the previous evening. If anything, she remembered less detail than Daisy and Sybil about people’s movements. She had been happy about Humphrey’s unusual vigour and good spirits—“He very much enjoyed talking to Mrs. Fletcher,” she said apologetically, with a glance at Daisy—and she hadn’t noticed much of anything else.

  “Your son poured the drinks?”

  “He usually does. But he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t harm his father. They had their disagreements, but it’s not as if Humphrey threatened to throw him out of the house, or cut him off without a dime, or anything like that. Simon has a comfortable home. He has as much leisure as he can possibly want for writing, if he ever decides to get down to it seriously, and time to find out whether he can make a go of it. He had no serious quarrel with Humphrey and he has nothing to gain by his death.”

  “He doesn’t gain by Mr. Birtwhistle’s will? It’ll be public eventually, but it might help us to know right away how he left things.”

  “He told me all about it when he had it drawn up. It’s complicated by provisions of his father’s will though. I’ll have to explain that.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It was one of those ridiculously complicated Victorian wills. The estate was left to the three siblings, half to Humphrey as the eldest son, one third to Norman, and one sixth to Lorna, the only daughter. Humphrey would have it he was just being ornery—that’s an American word meaning—”

  “I know it.” Alec smiled. “No need to explain.”

  Returning his smile, Ruby began to relax a little. “The lawyer had some complicated explanation of the old man’s reasons, the details of which escape me, except that if Lorna married her share was to go to Humphrey, to keep the farm in the family. There was a proviso that if Humphrey hadn’t turned up within two years of his father’s death, the property would revert to two thirds to Norman, one third to Lorna, though again she’d lose it if she married.”

  Daisy was indignant. No wonder Lorna was such a wet blanket. Her father had ensured her a home for life, but materially reduced her chance of finding a husband. She would have had more say in running the place, though, if Humphrey hadn’t come home, and brought his bride. It wasn’t surprising she had resented his return, but to hold a grudge for three decades and then decide to do away with him seemed beyond the bounds of likelihood.

  Ruby continued, “I haven’t read Humphrey’s will, but he told me he left his share of the farms to Simon, and you can bet your bottom dollar that Norman’s going to expect him to pull his weight if he wants to live here. No more relying on daddy’s royalties. Any money that continues to come in from the books goes half to me, half to Sybil. Humphrey’s life insurance and savings come to me. I don’t know how much that will be. Certainly no fortune. I doubt it will be enough to support my son in idleness.”

  “You don’t sound dismayed at the prospect.”

  “Where I was brought up, in the West, everyone worked. There was plenty to do on the ranch for both men and women. My father paid for me to go to college back East, but then I found myself a job, and believe me, teaching in a one-room schoolhouse was no picnic. Here in England, you’re used to people with money not lifting a finger, and I’ve heard it’s like that some places in the States. Simon’s not in that position. With his share of the farm, he won’t starve, but he’s going to have to make his own way if he wants any more than that.”

  Alec summed up. “So neither of you is materially better off. I assume your husband made his most recent will fairly recently.”

  “Yes, but how did you … Oh. You’re right, he wasn’t quite so generous to Sybil in the previous will.” Ruby sighed. “I don’t know what we’d have done without her. I hope she’ll marry Roger and have just as much success writing her own books.”

  That would be perfect, Daisy thought. She wrote down the bit about Sybil being indispensable but not Ruby’s hope for her future, which she didn’t consider to be any business of the police.

  Returning to the sequence of events on the previous evening, Alec had Ruby start again at the beginning, but no further information emerged. What with Simon, Myra, and Lorna all helping to serve, “and Myra’s young men were very good-natured about lending a hand, too,” she had no idea who had brought Humphrey his drinks.

  “Who was seated next to you, Mrs. Birtwhistle?”

  “I was at the end of the table, opposite Humphrey, with Mr. Ilkton and Mr. Carey on either side. In spite of their helping, they never left me alone. One or the other was always there for me to talk to. Very mannerly, if only to impress Myra.”

  “Are they both regular visitors?”

  “This is Neil’s third or fourth visit. He’s really a friend of Simon’s, not Myra’s. I think this is the first time they’ve been here at the same time. Mr. Ilkton’s been once before, calling on Myra on his way to see his uncle at the Hydro in Matlock. You’ll think me very slow, Mr. Fletcher, but after three decades in this country, I still feel an obligation to invite callers to stay the night, as we used to in the West, where the next homestead might be a day’s travel or more. So each time he turned up, I offered Mr. Ilkton shelter for the night, and … well, he’s rather taken advantage to stay for several days. He’s very taken with Myra. Captivated, even.”

  “So the visit to the uncle is just an excuse?”

  “Oh, I believe he exists. A cousin, actually, I think he said. Mr. Ilkton spent an hour visiting him at Smedley’s Hydro yesterday, when we all went to Matlock. Whether, if Myra were not in the neighbourhood, he would be quite so assiduous in his attentions to an ancient relative who, I understand, is wandering in his mind, it’s not for me to judge.”

  In Daisy’s view, something else Ruby hadn’t lost over the years was a touch of the tart schoolmistress. When it emerged, she tended to sound more American. However, the Northern English influence became more pronounced when Alec asked how Humphrey had got on with his brother and sister.

  “He had as little to do with them as po
ssible. They made it plain when he first brought me here, in 1897, that the prodigal brother and his bride were not welcome. He had a bit of a nest egg, and they had no objection to his spending it on putting in running water! Humphrey was already eager to write about his experiences in the ‘Wild West.’ He had no interest in interfering with the way Norman ran the farms. Over the years, he’s pretty much left me to work out a fair financial modus vivendi with Norman and Lorna.”

  “They didn’t quarrel? At least, not openly?”

  “Norman’s the silent type. He’ll drop an occasional snide remark, but Humphrey never had the slightest difficulty in ignoring him. Lorna— Well, to tell the truth, Lorna complains so constantly, about everything under the sun, that after a while one ceases to hear her. I wouldn’t expect people who vent their grievances gradually and continually like that to build up enough steam to suddenly … But someone killed Humphrey.” Ruby’s calm dissolved in fresh tears. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

  Alec passed her one of his large linen handkerchiefs to replace the sodden scrap she had screwed up in her fingers. Daisy wondered with a silent sigh how many he would hand out during the course of this case. She always packed half a dozen in his travelling bag. Sometimes he came home with none at all, an expense Scotland Yard didn’t reimburse.

  Not that she begrudged a grieving widow a handkerchief in time of need.

  Whatever Alec thought, Daisy was convinced that Ruby genuinely mourned her husband. She wouldn’t have murdered him. What she might conceivably have done was obtain chloral for him. Suppose he had tired of his half-life lived in the shadow of constant lassitude. Suppose he had decided to end it at a moment when he felt well, before he slipped down again into lethargy.

  Would Ruby have helped him to commit suicide?

  TWENTY-TWO

  Alec sent Daisy to escort Ruby Birtwhistle back to the entrance hall. “I’ll see Mr. Carey next, Daisy. Come back with him, please.”