Gone West

by Carola Dunn

  DI Worrall arrived next. “I thought I’d find the maids in here,” he said, frowning.

  Daisy explained their departure.

  “I haven’t said anyone was free to leave! They’re from one of the tenant farms, aren’t they? I was hoping they might have some idea where Norman Birtwhistle can be found.”

  “Hasn’t he come in yet?” Daisy asked.

  “I bet I can explain that,” said Myra. “Sometimes, if he’s at one of the farms in the middle of the day, they invite him to eat with them.”

  “I hope that’s all it is,” Worrall said ominously, “and he hasn’t done a bunk. I’m going to have to ring the station and talk to the Chief Inspector, see what he wants me to do. Unless he tells me to chase off after Mr. Norman, me and my men would appreciate a couple of those sandwiches there.”

  “I don’t mind taking soup up to Aunt Ruby,” said Myra, glancing round the kitchen, “even though Walter’s not here to carry up the tray for me. But I’m not setting the table in the dining room just for sandwiches and soup. Why don’t we all eat right here, policemen and all?”

  “Suits me,” Worrall grunted and went out.

  “If you’re hoping to get any information out of them,” Daisy said dryly, “you’ll be out of luck. The other way round is more likely.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t need any more information since they arrested Aunt Lorna, and I haven’t got any to give them, either. Is the soup hot yet, Sybil? I’ll just lay a tray. What should I take Aunt Ruby to drink, do you think? I wonder where the tray-cloths are? Should I go and pick a flower? A tray always looks nicer with a flower on it.”

  Tray-cloths were found, tea decided on—“The universal panegyric,” said Myra with satisfaction just as Simon, Carey, and Ilkton came in.

  “Where did you learn such a long word?” Carey teased her.

  “I must have heard it somewhere, darling. Would you be awfully kind and go out to pick a flower for Aunt Ruby’s tray?”

  “Your wish is my command, my sweet.” He took the scissors she offered.

  Ilkton looked as if he was about to dispute Carey’s right to pick flowers for Myra, even if their ultimate destination was her aunt, but a glance at the window showed teeming rain, so he thought better of it.

  “Are you sure you don’t mean ‘panacea,’ Myra?” Simon asked sarcastically.

  “I don’t think so. Isn’t that a kind of Italian ham? I’m sure I had some once at that restaurant in Soho.”

  “You’re the only one of the family who dines in Soho.”

  Myra pursed her lips in thought. “Perhaps it’s ‘paregoric’ I meant. I’m sure paregoric is something you drink.”

  Sybil, Simon, and Daisy burst out laughing. Ilkton again appeared about to take offence on Myra’s behalf, then thought better of it as she, obviously unoffended, went on making the tea. Daisy, regarding her plateful of neat triangles of bread and butter, decided she had beheaded enough sandwiches.

  Carey brought in a yellow rosebud, unmarred by Monday night’s frost. Myra departed, with Ilkton following her, carrying Ruby’s tray. He looked remarkably like a butler, as Carey pointed out.

  “Don’t say it in his hearing,” Sybil begged. “If his nose gets any higher, I swear I’ll hit him on it.”

  “What’s that, Mrs. Sutherby?” Worrall came back in.

  “Just Walter Ilkton being his insufferable self,” Simon explained.

  “Not, to be fair, that he actually does anything insufferable,” said Carey, “or even, on the whole, says anything. It’s his nose that gives offence.”

  The inspector grinned. “I know exactly what you mean, sir, but I hope Mrs. Sutherby won’t carry out her threat or I’ll be compelled to take official notice.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Worrall. I work off my aggressive impulses in fictional gunfights on Main Street and ambushes in hidden gulches.”

  “Did you get through to my husband, Mr. Worrall?”

  “No, Mrs. Fletcher. Seems Superintendent Aves bore him off for lunch somewhere. I left a message.”

  “Then you can sit down with a clear conscience and have some soup and a sandwich,” said Sybil.

  “And your chaps,” Simon added, “or isn’t it proper for a mere constable to sit down with an inspector?”

  “Tom—DS Tring—will certainly join us,” Daisy said firmly.

  “I need one man to watch for Mr. Norman Birtwhistle and one to listen for the telephone bell.”

  “Simon, why don’t you take each of the constables a sandwich,” Sybil suggested, “and invite Mr. Tring. We’ll need more chairs.”

  Carey offered to fetch a couple of chairs from the dining room. The two young men went out. Ilkton returned to say Myra was staying with Mrs. Birtwhistle to make sure she ate her soup. Sybil sent him back with soup and a sandwich for Myra.

  “You seem to me to be managing the housekeeping very adequately,” Daisy congratulated her.

  “Well, someone has to take charge,” she said with considerable exasperation, “or nothing would get done. But I simply must get on with writing this afternoon.”

  “Myra and I between us will do something about dinner, though I don’t suppose her cooking skills are any improvement on mine.”

  “Bless you, Daisy!”

  Soon the odd collection of people were sitting round the kitchen table, tackling the monstrous sandwiches and inadequate supply of soup with varying degrees of aplomb. Conversation languished in the presence of the police, except between Daisy and Tom, who had a source of mutual interest in the twins’ progress. The case was, of course, another mutual interest, but one not to be discussed in present company.

  They were all munching and sipping when the constable from the hall came in. Worrall started to rise.

  “Sorry, sir, not for you. Dr. Knox on the telephone for Mrs. Sutherby.”

  Sybil jumped up. Catching Worrall’s eye, she said, “Don’t worry, Inspector, I’ll keep it short.”

  “If you please, Mrs. Sutherby.”

  She was back in three or four minutes. “Roger just wanted to say he’s been very busy catching up with the patients he missed, but he’ll come up as soon as he can to see Mrs. Birtwhistle. Your man listened to everything I said, Mr. Worrall.”

  “Nothing but yeses and nos, I’ll be bound.”

  Sybil smiled at him. “Mostly. But I thought you wouldn’t mind if I told him Norman hadn’t turned up yet, and he was able to shed light on the question. Today is Michaelmas—”

  “Quarter Day!” Simon exclaimed. “Of course, he must have gone to the farms to pick up the rent. Uncle Norman always does a bit of an inspection on rent day. He’s usually invited to take a bite with one of the farmers, though I can’t imagine he adds much to the social ambiance. He hasn’t scarpered, Inspector.”

  “That remains to be seen, sir, but I must say it’s a load off my mind to know he has a good reason for stopping away.”

  “You suspect he was in league with my aunt?”

  “All I know is, he’s the only person who was in this house last night who hasn’t been interviewed yet by me or the Chief Inspector. Suspicions or no suspicions—and I’m not saying either way, mind—we’ve got to talk to him.”

  “Well put, Inspector,” Carey applauded. “May I quote you?”

  “If it’s in a play you mean, sir, as long you don’t mention my name in something that’s liable to be banned by the Lord Chamberlain. I dare say I’m as articulate as the average Constable Plod you see on the stage.”

  Carey laughed. “So you’ve heard about my last little effort. Touché! I do believe I shall put an articulate detective inspector in my next play.”

  Simon scowled at him, and Daisy remembered their argument about the ethics of Carey writing a play about the troubles at Eyrie Farm.

  Worrall and Tom Tring, accustomed to periods when they had to eat fast or not at all, chewed their way through their sandwiches before anyone else.

  “If you’ll excuse me, ladies and gents,” said t
he inspector, “I’m going to try again to get hold of Mr. Fletcher. Sergeant, I’ll trouble you to come with me.”

  The two detectives went out. In the kitchen, there was a perceptible sense of relaxation, but still no one had much to say, not even Neil Carey.

  Daisy was quite glad when, a few minutes later, Tom stuck his head round the door. “Mrs. Fletcher, DI Worrall would like a word with you, please. When you’ve finished eating, of course.”

  Intrigued, Daisy willingly abandoned the remains of her doorstep. On her way to the door, she felt the gaze of four pairs of eyes on her back.

  THIRTY

  When Alec at last had a chance to return Worrall’s telephone call and the operator connected him to Eyrie Farm, the voice answering was not that of a police constable. “Daisy?”

  “Darling, at last. I’ve been waiting by the phone for you to ring.”

  “Sorry, love, it’s DI Worrall I want to talk to. He left a message—”

  “Yes, but he’s gone to find Norman, with Tom and the bobbies. He asked me to let you know.”

  One could never tell how provincial detectives would react to Daisy. Alec was resigned—almost—to everything from outright hostility to her being regarded as his deputy and a sort of unofficial member of the force, as seemed to be the present situation.

  “He left a message for me. What did he want?”

  “To ask whether you wanted him to go and look for Norman. He didn’t come in for lunch—”

  “Don’t tell me Worrall’s gone tramping about in the rain hoping to come across him! I thought he had more sense. Norman could be halfway to—”

  “Darling, do listen instead of interrupting. The inspector is pretty certain of where to find Norman. It’s Quarter Day, you see.” She started on a lengthy rigmarole about rent and the maids going home. Dr. Knox came into it somewhere, though Alec couldn’t quite understand his rôle in the affair.

  Once again he interrupted. “Yes, all right, I get the idea. The inspector couldn’t get hold of me, so he made his own decision. I take it the house search didn’t turn up anything else.”

  “No, nothing. He wanted to tell you that, too. And to know what Lorna’s said.”

  “I wouldn’t relay that to him through you, Daisy, even if I’d had a chance to interview her. Which I haven’t. I’m just on my way now.”

  “What have you been doing? Besides having lunch with the superintendent.”

  “Finding the doctor who wrote the prescription for bromide, and interviewing him. Avoiding the press.”

  “Oh dear, have they turned up already?”

  “Only the Derby paper. I’m hoping it’s not a sufficiently spectacular crime to interest Fleet Street, but local reporting might be useful. I must go. Tell Worrall I’ll be in touch later.”

  “All right, darling. Are you coming back to the farm this evening? If not sooner?”

  “It depends entirely on circumstances. Probably. Even if Lorna confesses to the murder, there’ll be a lot of questions still unanswered and we’ll need evidence to support her confession.”

  “I’ll see you later, then. Good luck with Lorna.”

  Alec rang off. The stenographer sent up from Derby was waiting for him, a plain, stoutish young woman in glasses, a grey costume, and sensible shoes. She had a canvas satchel slung over her shoulder.

  “I sent for you for two reasons, Miss Stott,” he explained as they walked to the room where he’d left Lorna under guard. “First, of course, I want a verbatim record of the interview. But also, I want a woman present. I have absolutely no sense of the character of Miss Birtwhistle. I don’t know whether she’s liable to burst into tears, or fits of screaming, or floods of obscenity. I hope you can cope with whatever happens.”

  “Certainly, sir. Officially I’m just a secretary, but I do a bit of everything that’s needed.”

  “Excellent. From what I’ve seen of Miss Birtwhistle, she may simply remain silent.”

  “In which case, I’ll have had a wasted journey,” Miss Stott observed dryly, “which is no skin off my nose.”

  He grinned at her. “That’s the spirit.”

  They entered the interview room. The constable on duty, standing at ease beside the door, came to attention and saluted. Lorna was sitting bolt-upright at the table, but Alec had the impression that she had straightened from a slump at the sound of the door opening. Though she didn’t turn her head to look at him, her eyes slewed in his direction.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Birtwhistle.” No response. “I trust they’ve been taking care of you, something to eat and a cup of tea?” No response. Alec raised his eyebrows at the constable.

  “Yes, sir, lunch was provided, but she didn’t touch it.”

  “Ah well, you can lead a horse to water and all that. But perhaps you could find a more comfortable chair for the lady?”

  “I’m perfectly comfortable,” Lorna snapped. “Unlike some people, I’ve never coddled myself.”

  Alec hid his satisfaction. What she said was irrelevant. What mattered was that she had spoken. Now she would find it very much more difficult to keep her mouth closed. All the same, Judges’ Rules prevailed, and the required caution might be enough to shut her up again. He sat down opposite her.

  “Miss Birtwhistle, I must advise you that you are not obliged to speak, but if you choose to do so, everything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in a court of law. If you wish for the advice of a solicitor—”

  “Solicitor!” She flung herself to her feet and, leaning on the table with both fists, shrieked in his face, “I didn’t kill him! I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Alec remained silent.

  “That incompetent ninny who’s too busy chasing the Sutherby woman to take proper care of my brother … If no one else could see it, I could. What he needed was rest, so I made sure he got it. Taking bromides to help you sleep never hurt anyone. I took it myself thirty years ago, when he turned up again like a rotten apple.”

  Alec’s swift glance at Miss Stott showed her pencil racing over the paper.

  Without prompting, Lorna’s rant continued—and it was a rant, not the ravings of a maniac. After her perfunctory attempt to justify her actions, which she had probably thought up since being brought in, she let her hatred of Humphrey flow. While he was gadding about the world, she and Norman had worked their fingers to the bone on the farm and taking care of their ailing but despotic and penny-pinching father. At last the old man died. At last they enjoyed the fruits of their labours.

  And hardly a year later, Humphrey turned up demanding his share. Not only had he never lifted a finger to keep the place going, he had no intention of helping with the dirty work now he was home.

  He’d brought with him a foreign bride who talked a funny kind of English nobody could understand. They had produced a son as useless as his father, with la-di-dah airs, who refused to have anything to do with the farm though he expected it to support him and his equally useless friends.

  “The best thing Humphrey ever did was fall ill!” Lorna showed no sign of running out of steam. “Mrs. Sutherby’s better at turning out that drivel than he is himself. She brings in a lot more money, even after allowing for the ridiculous salary they pay her. Two maids, no more doing laundry and scrubbing floors! It was plain common sense to make sure he stayed out of the way. And that’s all I did. I didn’t kill him. The last dose of bromide I gave him was on Sunday morning. I ran out of the stuff and had to get another prescription. It was good for him to rest.”

  “Dr. Harris wrote the prescription?”

  “He’s always been our family’s doctor, since long before Dr. Knox came to Matlock. I wouldn’t go to anyone else.”

  “So he’s been writing regular bromide prescriptions for you, for the past two years?”

  “Isn’t that what I said? It was him that gave it to me in the first place, back when Humphrey came home and I couldn’t sleep. I told him I was having the old trouble again.”

  “The old
trouble” had been a combination of bile and choler, Alec assumed, though she wouldn’t have admitted that to the doctor. Harris had probably put down the new trouble to the change of life and a man of his generation, even a medical man, wouldn’t have probed any further.

  “Let me get this straight, Miss Birtwhistle. For the past two years, or thereabouts, Dr. Harris has been writing regular prescriptions for potassium bromide to treat your ailments, not for Humphrey Birtwhistle?”

  “Of course he wrote them for me,” Lorna said scornfully. “Humphrey wasn’t his patient. If I’d told him I was giving the powders to Humphrey, he wouldn’t have let me have any more.”

  “Why did you try to burn the medicine?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? When Humphrey died, I was afraid I’d be blamed, even though all I did was give him a harmless sleeping powder.”

  Alec had heard all he needed, and he had no desire to listen to a repeat of her self-justification. “That will do for now, Miss Birtwhistle.” He couldn’t bring himself to thank her. “I’m just going to have a word with the superintendent. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He beckoned to Miss Stott to follow him, nodded to the constable to stay, and went out, followed by a cry of, “I didn’t kill him!”

  Miss Stott closed the door. “Did she, sir?”

  “I don’t think so. I doubt she’ll go down for worse than aggravated assault. I’ve got to discuss the proper charge with Superintendent Aves. Will you get that typed for me right away, please?”

  “Right away, sir. It shouldn’t take more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

  Aves listened gloomily to Alec’s account of the interview and agreed with his conclusion. “I don’t need to ask a man of your credentials whether she was properly cautioned. Harris is a bloody incompetent fool,” he went on forcefully. “He ought to retire. This means we still have a murderer running loose. Where do we go from here? Any ideas?”

  “DI Worrall may get something useful out of the brother. Or even better, my man may find a recent prescription for chloral at one of the chemists’. He should be back soon.”