by Carola Dunn
“Two different doctors,” Tom suggested. “Or maybe she got the chloral a while ago and only just decided to use it.”
“The receipt we found is only for powders,” PC Bagshaw put in. “She must have gone to two different chemists, too, if she got both yesterday.”
“We weren’t in Matlock long enough yesterday for her to visit two doctors and two chemists’ shops. She did some other shopping, too. Her basket was quite full.”
“Ah.” Tom paused for reflection. “Been hoarding it then, likely. Maybe waiting till there were plenty of people about to confuse things, to increase the number of suspects.”
“Not just the number. With so many people moving about, passing food and drink and so on, no one can remember who did what when or where.”
“Not even you?”
“It was so similar to Monday evening, my first here, I get the two confused.”
“Sounds like a right muddle! The Chief’ll sort it out, though. You know how it is, one person remembers one little detail, and that leads to another, and soon the whole lot’s disentangling. What you said just now, Miss Birtwhistle’s basket being full of shopping and her not likely to get the bromide if she was planning to use chloral to do away with the old man, either of those could be a loose end that’ll start things rolling. Or have you already told the Chief?”
“No, I haven’t had the chance.”
“You’d better go and tell him.”
Daisy wasn’t so sure. About the basket, perhaps, though he’d probably be annoyed that she hadn’t mentioned it before. But once she embarked on theoretical matters, either he’d already considered the possibilities himself or he’d accuse her of indulging in wild speculation. And meddling.
All the same, she might as well go down and see if she could at least mention the basket without interrupting an interview. It just might provide a way to insinuate herself back into the heart of the investigation from which the arrival of the reinforcements had dislodged her.
TWENTY-SIX
When Daisy reached the bottom of the stairs, Alec and Worrall were just going into Humphrey’s office. Worrall glanced back and saw her. He nodded, followed Alec, and closed the door firmly.
“Blast,” said Daisy. She didn’t like any of the choices left to her. She could press her ear to the door and try to hear what was going on, but she was much too well-brought-up to descend to such unambiguous eavesdropping. She could lurk waiting for them to come out—and be found lurking when they came out. Or she could resign herself to being excluded, return to the hall, and be peppered with questions by the others, questions she either couldn’t or shouldn’t answer.
She was willing to brave the questions if Sybil needed her hand held, but she had Roger to support her. Even Tom wouldn’t appreciate Daisy’s returning upstairs to disturb his search.
The only useful action she could come up with was to go to the west wing and relieve the maids of watching for Norman. If she told them to go and make lunch for everyone—sandwiches would do—they were not likely to argue that the police had told them to stay there. She was trying to work out whether there was a way to get there without being seen in the hall or intruding on Tom’s search, when Ernie Piper came out of Humphrey’s office.
“Mrs. Fletcher!” He, at least, looked pleased to see her.
“I was thinking of lunch.”
“Can’t say the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. But the Chief sent me to fetch you, so if you were going to actually do something about it, it’ll have to wait.”
“What does he want?” Daisy asked, a trifle suspiciously.
Grinning, Piper shrugged. “I expect he’ll tell you.”
Half expecting to be asked to make lunch herself, or at least to provide coffee, Daisy went in. Lorna glowered at her, as sour-faced as ever. Any fears or regrets the woman felt were subordinate to her permanent sense of injury. Worrall was obviously torn by conflicting feelings, as if he wasn’t sure he approved of the course of action Alec had proposed. Alec stood behind the desk, looking tired and irritable.
He would soon catch his second wind soon, though, given a cup of coffee. Daisy’s resistance to the menial task melted.
“Coffee?” she said brightly.
“Good idea!” said Alec, perking up. “Inspector, ask—no, tell the maids to make coffee for everyone. And make that telephone call, would you? I know it’s awkward but do your best not to be overheard.”
“Right you are, sir.” Worrall went out.
“Daisy, I’m afraid I need your help again. We’ll go through to Mrs. Sutherby’s office. Piper, stay with Miss Birtwhistle. She is not to leave.”
Piper solemnly acknowledged the order, and Daisy and Alec went through the connecting door.
Daisy waited to hear the click of the latch as Alec closed the door, before she asked, “What’s up, darling?”
“I told you I was going to take Miss Birtwhistle to Matlock? But I don’t want to leave before I’ve talked to the last two, Simon and Norman. Worrall’s bringing Simon here, then going to the west wing to lie in wait for Norman. The search mustn’t be interrupted, nor can that lot in the hall be left to their own devices, so will you take notes again?”
“I’ll be happy to.” Daisy tried not to sound too enthusiastic. She was back in the game.
Alec sighed. “If I hear a word from you,” he threatened, “I’ll manage somehow to dispense with your services.”
“Quiet as a mouse.”
“No squeaking.”
Daisy laughed. “No squeaking. I’ll sit over there by the fire and disappear into the woodwork.”
Alec moved Sybil’s typewriter to one side of the desk so that he’d have a clear view of his suspect.
A couple of minutes later, Worrall ushered in Simon. No longer the carefree dilettante youth, he was haggard, now older than his age.
“Mr. Fletcher,” he burst out desperately, “can’t you let my mother go to bed? She’s in a bad way!”
Alec looked at Worrall, who had stayed on the threshold.
“The lady’s not holding up well.”
“Tell her she’s free to go to her room. If she needs assistance, Miss Olney or Mrs. Sutherby may go with her.”
“Thank you!” said Simon, as Worrall departed. Gratitude quickly changed to belligerence. “Well, have you found out yet who poisoned my father?”
Sitting down behind the desk, Alec gestured him to the chair in front. “Not yet,” he said mildly.
“But you suspect my aunt.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“It’s obvious. Everyone else returned to the hall before you called in the next person.”
“We have no evidence that your aunt was responsible for the death of your father.”
Simon took a moment to digest this cautious statement. “But she did something. What—?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss the matter. Tell me about your father. Often, understanding the victim suggests the motive for his death, and that, of course, leads to the person who caused it.”
“Hasn’t everyone else already said all there is to say?”
“I have their views. I want yours.”
“Well, he was all right, I suppose. I mean, he was pretty much like any father. He sent me to a decent school, and to university, though it was Leeds, not Oxford or Cambridge. Not bad, really, considering my great-grandparents were just small-holders. And he never interfered too much. We got on perfectly well until just recently.” He fell silent.
“What changed?”
“He was ill. One has to make allowances. I didn’t spend much time at home while I was up at Leeds. Then … I dare say I made myself fairly obnoxious,” Simon admitted, shamefaced. “Father didn’t have a university education. It’s not his fault he wasn’t an intellectual. Yet he did quite nicely with his writing even before Sybil took over most of it. I didn’t have to rely on scholarships or anything; he paid all my fees. If I’d only known…” He buried his face in his hands.
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br /> Alec regarded him with scant sympathy, though not with disbelief. “We all say things we regret. Did you have any particular quarrel with your father last night?”
“No. Oh no, nothing like that. I made some remark about … about his books being rubbish, and he hit back with my general incompetence. I suppose I’ll have to find some sort of job now,” he added despondently.
“Why so?”
“It’s that or work with Uncle Norman on the farm. I can’t very well live here without contributing either money, as Father did, or labour. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be a farm labourer. Father didn’t give me my education so that I could do the work he escaped by running away.”
It was a pity, Daisy thought sadly, that it had taken Humphrey’s death to make his son appreciate him. She was pretty sure he was sincere, and certain that a major quarrel last night would have had any number of observers.
Alec’s line of questioning moved on to the events of the previous evening.
Simon’s recall was better than Daisy’s and the others she had heard. In his position as acting host, he had paid attention to what people were doing. He had poured Humphrey’s first gin and bitters.
“Not just a swirl of the Angostura,” he said. “Father liked four or five dashes of the stuff. He used to say his taste-buds were ruined by the muck he drank in the Wild West. Carey took it to him. When dinner was ready, he wanted another pink gin with his meal. The rest of us drank wine, except Uncle Norman, who stuck to beer, and Aunt Lorna, who had water as usual.”
“So neither your aunt nor your uncle was particularly familiar with the contents of the drinks cupboard, or the mixing of cocktails?”
“No. I don’t suppose either ever mixed a cocktail in his—or her—life. Someone brought me Father’s glass—Ilkton it was—and I filled it with the usual and carried it through to his place at the table. I can’t see how anyone could have introduced poison unobserved!”
“Your father had a third drink, after dinner?”
Simon frowned. “I don’t know. I wasn’t watching how much of the second he drank at table. If he was drinking after dinner, it could have been the remains of the second.”
“You didn’t notice whether he was drinking?”
“No. What with clearing the table, washing up, helping Myra find the Happy Families cards, setting up the card tables, and then playing the stupid game, I didn’t even notice when he went to bed. If he had a fresh drink, someone else got it for him.”
“What about other people’s movements?”
“Let’s see. Mother and Father stayed at the table after dinner, talking to Mrs. Fletcher and Sybil. Uncle Norman stayed for coffee, then disappeared in his usual companionable way, to the estate office or his bedroom, I assume. Aunt Lorna was in the kitchen for a while, making tea and organising the rest of us.”
“The rest of you: that’s you, Miss Olney, Mr. Ilkton, and Mr. Carey?”
“Yes. Ten people at dinner use an awful lot of dishes, so we were going back and forth. Carey helped because he’s a good pal, and Ilkton, with his nose in the air, to impress Myra.”
“And the four of you—five with Miss Birtwhistle—didn’t drink tea or coffee? Or had it in the kitchen?”
“No, sorry, I’ve confused you. We cleared the table, went back to the dining room for coffee, then Carey and I washed up. Myra and I take turns when we’re both at home, and Carey offered to dry for me. It doesn’t take long when there are two. When we finished, we went to the hall. That was when Myra asked me to find the cards.”
“Who, besides Miss Olney, was in the hall when you reached it?”
“Everyone. Except Uncle Norman, as I said, and Aunt Lorna had buzzed off by that time, too.”
While Daisy couldn’t fault his account, nor could she confirm large parts of it. There had been a great deal of confusing to-ing and fro-ing, and she hadn’t been paying close attention. Unless Simon’s story combined usefully with one of those she had missed, she didn’t think it was much help.
Any of those clearing the table could have popped into the hall without being missed. The door between the hall and the west wing passageway was kept closed against draughts. It would take only a minute or two to pour the fatal drink and place it by Humphrey’s favoured seat. No one else was at all likely to drink the pink mixture.
Either Lorna or Norman could have done it after coffee, when they left the dining room. Apart from Simon and Neil, together in the kitchen, the others had stayed at the table talking for several minutes before moving to the hall.
Ruby, Sybil, and the doctor seemed to be out of the picture, however, a great relief.
Alec had finished with Simon. “For the moment,” he warned. “I’ll be talking to you again. Come in!” he called in answer to a brisk rat-a-tat on the door.
Betty stalked in with a tray. “That inspector said you’d be wanting coffee. Three cups is what he said, so that’s what I brung.” Glancing round the room, she spotted Daisy. “Oh, I didn’t see you there, madam.” She set down the tray on the desk, precariously balanced on Sybil’s manuscript.
“Thank you. Mr. Simon is just leaving.”
“I’ll take my cup with me.” Simon stood up and leant with both fists on the desk. “Find whoever did it, won’t you, Mr. Fletcher? No matter who it is!”
“Don’t worry,” said Alec, “we’ll find him. Or her. Return straight to the hall, please.”
With a sharp nod to Alec, and a gentler one in Daisy’s direction, Simon went out. He looked much restored by his interrogation. Was he happy to feel he’d been able to help the investigation? Or relieved to feel he’d got away with spinning a tissue of lies?
The door closed behind Betty. Daisy heard no click of the latch. Alec went over and opened it. “You needn’t wait, Miss Hendred. We’ll deliver the tray to the kitchen.”
An offended sniff reached Daisy’s ears, and the sound of receding footsteps. Alec pushed the door shut gently but made sure the latch caught.
“What do you think?” He brought the tray to the fireplace and sank into the chair opposite Daisy.
“I think Miss Betty Hendred was hoping to do a bit of eavesdropping.”
“About Simon’s story,” he said impatiently.
“It seemed to me he was telling the truth, and nothing but the truth, and as much of the whole truth as he knew, or could remember. You didn’t ask him if he saw anything in Matlock, or about Lorna’s and Norman’s attitude to his father.”
“No. I may well get back to that with him, but with any luck being taken to the police station will encourage Lorna to be a little more forthcoming.”
“Has she given you an explanation of the prescription?”
“She hasn’t given me anything but complaints. If she was willing to offer a reasonable explanation, I might not have to take her down to Matlock. As it is, I can only draw the worst conclusion.”
“What I can’t see, darling, is why she wanted the bromides if she intended to kill her brother.”
“Perhaps she was afraid a guilty conscience would keep her awake,” said Alec with somewhat ghoulish humour. “I can’t begin to guess unless she’ll talk. But even if all we can prove is that she’s been administering a sedative to Humphrey for several years, that’s ‘causing bodily harm’ and will put her away for a while. That would be something, though I’d rather find evidence that she administered the chloral, of course, or find out who did. Doctors, chemists, the analyst—I’ve got a lot to do.” He swigged down the remains of his coffee, crammed a last gingersnap into his mouth, and stood up.
“You’re not going to wait for Norman?”
“No, I’ll have to leave him to Worrall. So would you please type up your notes pronto and give them to him.”
“All right. But you move the typewriter back into place for me.”
Alec obliged, and with a sigh Daisy sat down at the desk. It was a pity that taking notes invariably led to having to type them.
TWENTY-SEVEN
If Lorna voiced any objection to being carted off to Matlock police station, Daisy didn’t hear it over the rattle of the typewriter’s keys and the ding of the bell. She had nearly finished—Was that word repress or depress? No, impress, if she looked at the sense rather than just rattling along—when Worrall came in.
“Just a moment, Mr. Worrall.” She finished the last sentence, rolled the page out, removed the carbon papers, squared the three sheets with the others, and presented the second copy to him, saving the top copy for Alec. “Alec’s interviews. I haven’t proofread—”
“As long as I can read ’em. Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. Now, I’ve never worked with Scotland Yard before, and it’s a rare pleasure watching how the chief inspector goes about things. And seeing he trusts you to take notes on his interviews, I’m going to ask if you’d be so good as to do the same for me. DS Tring and Bagshaw are still searching, and my other chap needs to be in the hall—not that he or Bagshaw is much hand at taking notes any road.”
“Have they moved on to the west wing? Oh, will they search my room?”
“’Fraid so. Someone could’ve hidden something in there. Sergeant Tring’ll be doing it.”
“That’s all right then, I don’t so much mind Tom rummaging about in my things.”
“He’s doing the west wing. Bagshaw’s taken on the back of the main house, the kitchens and rooms above.”
“Good luck to him!”
“Seeing they didn’t find anything in Mrs. Sutherby’s rooms, I’ve let the doctor go off to do his rounds, as the chief inspector advised.”
“I’m sure his patients will be grateful.” Daisy was torn between going to talk to Sybil and her opportunity to stay involved in the investigation. Actually, the decision wasn’t difficult: “I’ll do your note taking, Inspector.”
“It’s very good of you. I’ll just read this through and then I’ll fetch Ilkton’s servant, unless Norman Birtwhistle has turned up.”
“I’d almost forgotten the servant. I still don’t know his name. Do you?”
“MacGillivray. Archibald MacGillivray.”
