Gone West

by Carola Dunn

  “You wouldn’t rate it as a quarrel?”

  “Not what I observed. I can’t speak for what may have gone on before I came, or out of my hearing.”

  “Naturally. Anything else?”

  “Nothing that comes to mind. I must say, Mrs. Birtwhistle seems to have been an exemplary wife, constantly concerned for her husband’s comfort and well-being. I say, how can you chaps really be sure he was … murdered? There must be some mistake. He was an invalid, ill and elderly. Isn’t it far more likely his heart simply gave out?”

  “We’re sure, believe me, Mr. Ilkton. If you have no further insights about the family…?” He paused. “Then we’ll move on to yesterday. You went with several others to Matlock.”

  “I drove them. Even in my Packard we’d have been cramped if my man had chauffeured, though the Irishman rode his motorcycle—an invention of the devil, I’m inclined to think. If you want to know what they all did in Matlock, I can’t help you. I went straight to Smedley’s Hydro, where I paid a call on a relative who resides there. He’s on the verge of senility, I’m afraid.” His mouth twitched. He raised a hand to cover it. Was he anxious lest Alec should suppose his family was prone to senility? “But what can one expect of anyone who lives into the nineties? A grand old boy!”

  “After your visit, you joined the others in the town?”

  His mouth pursed in a near pout. “When I returned to the town centre, Myra had already gone off with the Irishman on some expedition. The rest were ready to leave.”

  Alec decided it was pointless to ask whether any of them seemed unusually agitated. Ilkton, self-absorbed to the nth degree, would have been far too put out by Myra Olney’s defection to notice.

  “All right, what about yesterday evening? You were helping to pass round drinks, I understand.”

  “Myra—Miss Olney—was expected to help, so what else could I do? It’s really most unsuitable … The sooner I can get her away from here, the better.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let anyone leave for the present, sir. Getting back to last night, please tell me what you recall of everyone’s movements from the moment Humphrey Birtwhistle arrived in the hall.”

  Ilkton remembered no more than Alec had already heard from others. His inability to give a straightforward, detailed account flustered him. Perhaps it damaged his view of himself as a superior being. Grimacing, he apologised.

  “It’s a pity, but it can’t be helped,” said Alec. “People always have difficulty with the specifics when it’s a question of one among several similar occurrences. Sometimes an emotional shock makes associated memories indelible, but as often as not it blurs or even erases them.”

  “Emotional shock?”

  “The murder of your host…”

  “I hardly knew the man. I don’t suppose we’d exchanged more than a dozen words. It was a great shock to Miss Olney, however. She was fond of the old man. So it’s iniquitous to make her stay in this house—”

  “I’m sorry, I can only repeat that you are all going to have to stay here, within easy reach, until I no longer require your presence.”

  Alec half expected him to threaten to ring up his lawyer, but he just said sulkily, “I suppose you know your own business best.”

  Alec stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Ilkton. I hope you’ll put your mind to trying to remember more about yesterday evening—though sometimes memories crop up when your mind is elsewhere. Don’t hesitate to ask to see me if anything occurs to you. I’d like you to rejoin the others in the hall now. Piper, I’ll see Miss Olney next. Make sure you find out whether she wants someone to come with her.”

  Ilkton stood up, hesitated, then went out. Behind his back, Piper pulled a face before following him.

  A true gentleman is never above his company. If that was a quotation, Alec couldn’t pin it down. Ilkton, with his proud good looks, reminded him of Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, in love with a woman he considered beneath his station. In this case, instead of a sister’s elopement, an uncle’s murder had further muddied the waters. Perhaps, like Darcy, he would learn from love to be less censorious.

  Alec was eager to meet Myra Olney, though she didn’t sound in the least like Lizzie Bennet. Rather more, in fact, like Lydia …

  She came in with a cheerful smile, ushered by a grinning Piper.

  “Mr. Fletcher!” She held out her hand and they shook. “Or should I call you Chief Inspector? I simply adore Mrs. Fletcher. She’s not a bit like Sybil. Though I’m very fond of Sybil, too. She’s practically family, after all, and she has the sweetest little girl. Mrs. Fletcher said you have a young daughter?”

  “Yes. She’s thirteen, a bit older than Mrs. Sutherby’s, I understand.”

  “I’d love to meet her. And twins as well?”

  “Miranda and Oliver. They’re still toddlers.”

  “They sound absolutely adorable. I don’t suppose I could come and meet them when I’m in London?” Myra asked wistfully.

  “Why don’t you talk to Daisy about it?” he suggested, conscious that Piper’s grin had changed to a smirk. “We’d better get down to business.”

  “Poor Uncle Humphrey!” Her beautiful eyes—Alec couldn’t decide whether they were green or blue—filled with tears. He felt for a handkerchief, but he’d run out. Fortunately the tears didn’t spill. “Sometimes I can almost forget for a few minutes. He was always so kind to me, taking me in when Aunt Lorna didn’t want to at all. I can’t believe anyone at Eyrie Farm would do anything so horrible!”

  Myra’s version of the outing to Matlock was mostly concerned with the girl they had met at the Hydro—quite pretty but rather dim—and the necklace she had helped Daisy choose for Belinda, at the market.

  “Then I got rather bored,” she confessed. “I mean, a market’s not fun for very long if you haven’t any money to spend, is it? So I talked Neil into leaving early. Aunt Ruby had agreed that I could go home on his motor-bike. He said I’d be stiff and sore afterwards, but I’m not, not a bit. I often go riding when I visit friends in the country. I think that must be it, don’t you?”

  “Very likely. You left Matlock early, you were saying?”

  “Only a tiny bit early, and took the long way round. Walter was a bit peeved, but I didn’t go off without a word, I told Simon where we were going.”

  It was none of Alec’s business, but he couldn’t resist: “Are you going to marry Mr. Ilkton?”

  “Goodness, no!” She giggled. “I’m not going to marry anyone for simply ages. Years and years. Not till I’m twenty-one, at least. I told Walter, but some people just refuse to believe you’re serious when it doesn’t suit them.” She sounded as if she had considerable experience, as she quite likely did.

  “Very true. Was Simon with you the whole time until you and Mr. Carey left?”

  “No, he went to a pub to drink beer. It was knowing the Hydro is TT, you see. It made him thirsty.”

  “I see.” Alec managed to keep a straight face. “And your aunts, did you see either of them after dropping them off in the town square?”

  “Not till lunchtime. Neil and I were home in time for lunch. I promised Simon. He didn’t want Aunt Ruby to worry. It’s a bit of a bore, in a way, having someone worrying about you, but it’s sort of nice, too, if you know what I mean. I don’t mind helping in the house, either, whatever Aunt Lorna says, as long as they don’t expect me to cook. And they’re not likely to ask me, after last time!” Again came that infectious giggle.

  Alec refrained from enquiring about the domestic disaster. “Tell me about the evening,” he said. “You were helping then?”

  “Yes, I gave Aunt Lorna a hand in the kitchen. She does breakfast and Aunt Ruby does lunch, and they take turns, week by week, with dinner. I just help with dishing up and carrying stuff to the dining room. Oh, and washing up after. But Neil and even Walter have been jolly good sports about carrying in the trays. They’ve even helped with the washing-up.”

  “So you spent some time in the ki
tchen, and you were in and out of the hall and dining room?”

  “Exactly.” She beamed at his ready comprehension.

  “You don’t help with drinks, though?”

  “Hardly ever. If I’m at home and Simon’s not, as often as not we don’t have cocktails or wine. Uncle Norman sometimes drinks beer. Last night, Simon was in charge, and I think I saw Neil and Walter helping when they weren’t helping me. And Aunt Lorna.”

  “Did you happen to notice who served your uncle’s drinks?”

  Her eyes grew round. “No. Is that how he was killed? How mean! He enjoyed his pink gin so much, and he was hardly ever well enough to have it.”

  A novel view of murder! Alec asked a few more questions, with little hope of anything new emerging. She told him, in considerably more detail than he wanted, about coercing Ilkton into playing Happy Families.

  “He only plays bridge, really, but he couldn’t not, not without looking like a rotten sport. He couldn’t play for toffee. I suppose he couldn’t be bothered to put his mind to a children’s game. He was hopeless at Racing Demon, too.”

  Alec sincerely hoped Myra would not marry Ilkton. He didn’t think she’d suit him at all.

  On the other hand, he was clearly crazy about her. Perhaps he wouldn’t find fault with her silly chatter when artless spontaneity aged to stupid tactlessness, à la Mrs. Bennet. They might rub on together well enough.

  After all many people, including Alec’s mother, Daisy’s mother, and Lucy, her best friend, had prophesied disaster for his own marriage.

  He thanked Myra and sent her out. She paused in the doorway, looked back, and said with a dazzling smile, “Aren’t you coming, Mr. Piper?”

  “He’ll be along in a minute or two,” Alec told her. “I’m sure I can trust you to go straight back to the hall.”

  “Of course,” she said indignantly. With one of her lightning changes of mood, she then confessed, “This is quite the most exciting thing that ever happened to me!” And changed again to a disconsolate: “If only it wasn’t for poor old Uncle Humphrey!”

  With that, she took herself off. Piper, apparently mesmerised, watched her go.

  “Don’t tell me she’s struck you all of a heap,” said Alec, with some asperity.

  “She’s quite a…” Piper, unusually, was lost for words. He shook his head. “Sorry, Chief. Who’d you want to see next?”

  “Norman Birtwhistle, but I suppose he’s still out on the farm.”

  “D’you want me to go and look for him?”

  “No, he’ll have to wait. He usually comes in for lunch, I gather.”

  “That leaves Miss Birtwhistle and Simon Birtwhistle. You reckon they’re our best bet, one or t’other?”

  “I do indeed, Ernie, I do indeed, unless I’ve very much misread Mrs. Birtwhistle.” He yawned enormously. “Beg your pardon! I got very little sleep last night. Yes, Simon’s top of my list, so let’s see if we can eliminate Lorna before I tackle him.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Daisy had led her three policemen up the extra staircase put in for Humphrey’s convenience. It took them up towards the front of the house to a landing just outside Ruby’s bedroom.

  Feeling like a traitor to her kind hostess, Daisy opened the door and stood back. “Mrs. Birtwhistle’s room.”

  Worrall went in and stood looking about him. Tom stood on the threshold, blocking Daisy’s view, for a minute, then joined him. Daisy and the uniformed constable stayed at the door, awaiting instructions. The room, its walls white, was well-lit by windows in two walls. Summer-sky blue curtains matched the bedspread. The furniture was Arts-and-Crafts of the plainer sort, double bed, night tables, chest-of-drawers, wardrobe, and a couple of straight chairs. A blue-and-beige rug covered part of the wood floor, picking up the colours of a couple of paintings of New Mexico scenery hanging on the walls.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” said Worrall, “what’s through there?” He gestured at a door in the north wall.

  “Mrs. Birtwhistle’s sitting room. I think it used to be a dressing room.”

  He went over, opened the door, and glanced in. “A desk,” he observed. “Well, you’re the great Scotland Yard expert, Mr. Tring. How would you go about the search?”

  “Ah,” Tom ruminated. “It’s not a question of fingerprints at present, not till we find something that needs checking. Mr. Fletcher would likely say divide up the task so’s we’re each of us responsible for a part of it.”

  “Do you want to take the desk?”

  “Not me! I’m no great shakes at paperwork.”

  “All right, I’ll do that. Wardrobe, chest-of-drawers, and bedside drawers for you. Mrs. Fletcher, would you mind keeping an eye on the corridor and letting me know if anyone tries to get into any of the rooms?”

  “Isn’t the constable in the hall supposed to keep everyone together?”

  “Yes, but there’s only one of him and quite a few of them. If someone claims to need to … er … visit the cloakroom and tries to sneak up—”

  “Oh, of course. I’ll stand guard.”

  “Thank you. Bagshaw,” he said to the constable, “all the usual places in here. Then come through to the other room.”

  “It’s a medicine bottle we’re looking for, sir?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Inspector,” said Daisy, “I’ve just thought. You’re looking for a typical brown glass medicine bottle, right? But mightn’t the chloral have been transferred to some other container before it was brought to the farm?”

  “You’ve got a point there, Mrs. Fletcher. Any small bottle that has no obvious purpose, I suppose. Even if it’s been washed out, the cork or stopper might still have traces of chloral.”

  Daisy watched the swift but meticulous search, with an occasional glance along the passage, though she was sure she’d hear if anyone came up.

  PC Bagshaw stripped the bed, including taking pillowcases off the pillows, swept his hand under the mattress from both sides, and made it up again with a speed and neatness that any housemaid might do well to emulate. He lay full length on the floor to peer under the bed, climbed on a chair to look on top of the wardrobe, and pulled the chest away from the wall in case anything had been slipped down the back. Then he rolled up the rug. He tested the end of every plank with his foot, presumably to make sure none were loose enough to make a hiding place. He took a sheet of newspaper from his pocket and emptied the wastepaper basket onto it, poked through the ashes in the fireplace, and even looked behind the pictures.

  Meanwhile, Tom went through every pocket of every garment in the wardrobe, pushing aside the hangers to check behind them, even pulling the two drawers at the bottom all the way out to look into the cavity. Daisy was particularly impressed by the care he took to return everything to as near its original state as possible. He gave the bedside tables the same treatment, and flipped through the three books on top of one of them.

  If anything were hidden anywhere in the room, they would find it, Daisy reckoned. What “it” might be, other than the bottle that had held the chloral, she wasn’t certain. No one could hide a bottle between the pages of a book or behind a painting.

  “I’m about done, Sergeant,” said Bagshaw. “Need any help?”

  “No, thanks,” said Tom. “You can go next door.” He turned to the chest-of-drawers, now back against the wall.

  In the top left drawer, beneath a pile of undies, he found a bulging manilla envelope.

  “Not Ruby!” Daisy exclaimed, shocked.

  Tom opened the unsealed envelope and took out a thick wad of papers. He shook his head benignly. “Fivers. Must have a couple of hundred quid here. You wouldn’t believe how many women keep a cache of cash or jewellery in their lang-jerry drawer.” Tom had a notable vocabulary, but French pronunciation was beyond him. “I hope you don’t, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s the first place a burglar looks.”

  “So Alec told me.”

  A twitch of Tom’s moustache gave away his grin. “You used to.”

&n
bsp; “Just a few pounds, for emergencies. No one ever found it. But then, we never had a burglary.”

  “And I hope you never do.” He tucked the notes back into the envelope and returned it to the bottom of the drawer.

  As he started to fold Ruby’s plain cotton undies, Daisy offered, “Would you like me to do that?”

  “You’re s’posed to be watching the hallway, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Oh, yes.” Daisy turned and stared along the hall. “I have been, honestly.”

  “I’ll tell you what, I’ll put one of these chairs out there for you to sit on while we do the rest of the rooms.”

  “Thank you,” she said meekly.

  “If you want to leave before we’re done, just let DI Worrall know. That Bagshaw can take care of it. Not but what he’s a fair hand at a search,” Tom conceded, setting down a bentwood chair facing the length of the corridor. Returning to work, he closed the door behind him.

  Daisy could hear the sounds of Tom finishing off the chest-of-drawers and going through to Ruby’s sitting room, from which came voices and the clomp of Bagshaw’s boots. After a couple of minutes, the door to the corridor opened and Tom and Bagshaw came out.

  “Enough stuff in that desk to keep the inspector busy for a while yet,” Tom said to Daisy. “Whose is the next room?”

  “Simon’s, I’m pretty sure. The victim’s son.”

  “Ah,” said Tom.

  “He’s a budding author, so you may find a lot of papers in there.”

  “Ah,” said Tom with a note of gloom.

  He and Bagshaw disappeared into the room. Daisy sat on her chair, which grew harder and harder as she grew more and more bored with watching an empty passage. The only movement was a couple of crows flapping past the nearest window and a pigeon strutting on the bit of roof within her view.

  She was tempted to tell Worrall she was ready to abandon her post. However, in the past she had been forbidden to take part in enough investigations to appreciate being given a task at least potentially useful. Admittedly, the prohibitions had rarely had much effect on her subsequent involvement. Still, it was nice to be asked.