Gone West

by Carola Dunn

  Miss Stott brought in three copies of the verbatim report. Aves quickly read through it. “Just as you said, Mr. Fletcher. The silly woman condemns herself out of her own mouth.”

  “It left an unpleasant taste in mine. She’s taciturn as a rule, I gather, and it was as if once the floodgate opened, she couldn’t stop herself.”

  “It sometimes takes ’em that way. Shall I have my Inspector Kennedy deal with the arrest, or would you prefer to handle it yourself?”

  “I’d much sooner he did. Thank you. Strictly speaking, it’s none of my business. I was sent to investigate the murder.” Actually, to keep Daisy out of trouble, but he wasn’t about to admit that. “This part is all yours, though I’ll write up a summary of the supporting evidence while I wait for DC Piper.”

  Miss Stott, who had lingered unobtrusively, offered, “If you’d like to dictate it, sir, I’ll type it before I go back to Derby.”

  “Wonderful woman!” said Alec.

  Miss Stott blushed. “If you have more reports to be typed, I could stay the rest of the day, I expect. I’m sure they can spare me.”

  “My wife typed a couple.” He turned to Aves. “I hope you don’t mind, sir. Daisy knows shorthand,”—sort of—“so she can be quite helpful. We had rather a lot of interviews to cope with and not much manpower.”

  The superintendent grinned. “Yes, I had a word with Mr. Crane on the subject of Mrs. Fletcher’s inclination to ‘assist the police,’” he said, to Alec’s dismay. “Don’t worry, I shan’t breathe a word.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Not that it would make the slightest difference. Crane would be convinced of Daisy’s meddling, whatever he was told.

  The stenographer looked disappointed. She was in no hurry to return to Derby.

  Anxious not to lose her services, Alec said, “I do have some notes in need of typing, and DI Worrall must have a lot, too.…”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Make sure I get copies of everything as soon as possible, Fletcher. Oh, by the way, Mr. Crane is expecting to hear from you today.”

  “No doubt,” Alec muttered.

  * * *

  In due course, Ernie Piper returned, steaming from the combination of bicycling up hill and down dale and the rain that was now falling lightly but persistently.

  “Not a thing, Chief. I went back through all their prescription books for three months. Several listings for chloral, but the chemists concerned swore they were well-known customers having no connection with Eyrie Farm.”

  Alec sighed. “You realise what this means?”

  “I can see three possibilities, Chief.”

  “That’s one more than I can.” He rubbed his eyes. “No sleep last night. Go ahead, Ernie.”

  “Could be someone planned this more than three months ago.”

  “Yes. We’ll have to find out how long the stuff stays potent after it’s dispensed.”

  “I asked. It’s all right indefinitely if it’s stored properly. Could be was got hold of somewhere else.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to have every chemist on the road to Derby and in the city called on. The county people aren’t going to like that a bit.”

  “It’s not only Norman Birtwistle had the chance, Chief. Simon and Miss Olney have both been away. And didn’t I hear that Mrs. Sutherby was in London?”

  “You did. Seeing ‘Eli Hawke’s’ publisher and lunching with Daisy and Lady Gerald. Damnation!”

  “It’s a tall order,” Piper agreed. “And then there’s the doctor. Dr. Knox, I mean, not Dr. Harris. He wouldn’t need a prescription to get hold of the stuff, would he? He likely keeps some in his surgery in case it’s needed when all the chemists’ are closed. None of ’em would think twice about supplying it to him.”

  “I’d rather dropped Knox from the picture,” Alec admitted. “He had the means. He was there in the house, and no doubt Humphrey would have swallowed anything he offered. On the other hand, his motive is thin. But before we start a major operation hunting down prescriptions for chloral over half the country, we’ll take a good hard look at it.”

  “You mean Mrs. Sutherby losing her job, Chief, and having to marry him? Love’s all very well, but maybe he’s got a financial motive we don’t know about. Maybe Mr. Birtwhistle remembered him in his will. Maybe his practice isn’t doing too well— There’s plenty of competition in the town.”

  “Mrs. Birtwhistle told me that Mrs. Sutherby will continue to receive half of all royalties coming in from the books. I haven’t the slightest idea how much that might amount to, but if she marries him…”

  THIRTY-ONE

  When Daisy returned to the kitchen after talking to Alec, only Simon and Neil Carey were there. They were still seated at the table, regarding the dirty dishes with disillusioned eyes.

  “Don’t get up,” said Daisy as they started to rise. She sat down, but they continued to stand.

  “We’d better get on with it,” said Carey, sighing. “We promised Mrs. Sutherby we’d wash up.” He started clearing the table.

  “She had to go and get on with her work.”

  “Myra’s not come down yet?”

  “No,” Simon told her. “We’ve been waiting, but you can bet she’ll appear with the tray just as we finish and hang up the tea-towels.”

  “But at least, as she’s not here, Ilkton’s taken himself off,” Daisy pointed out.

  “He might have stayed to help!”

  “I’d as soon have his room as his company,” said Carey. “Twitchy as a … well, twitchy.”

  “Censored?” Daisy enquired.

  “How did you guess?” Carey gave her a wide smile. “But seriously, I’d never have believed he was sufficiently devoted to the girl to stay in a situation that manifestly makes him horribly uncomfortable.”

  “Too many adverbs,” Simon advised him.

  “I’m talking, me boyo, not writing a literary masterpiece. Too many police, for his liking. The nobs don’t like hobnobbing with coppers.”

  “Unless he’s afraid he’ll be the next victim,” Daisy suggested.

  “That’s another possibility,” Carey agreed.

  “If he stays much longer, he may be, in which case your husband can arrest me, Mrs. Fletcher. But not for Father’s murder. Do you know what’s going on with Aunt Lorna?”

  “I just spoke to Alec on the telephone, but he hadn’t interviewed Miss Birtwhistle yet,” Daisy said as an alternative to her usual plea that she wasn’t allowed to pass on information.

  “I know she never forgave Father for coming home, but I can’t believe … I can’t believe any of it. I can’t believe I won’t wake up from this nightmare!” Falling silent, Simon sought refuge in the prosaic business of washing up. He turned on the taps and water whooshed into the washing-up bowl as Carey piled the last plates beside the sink.

  Watching the men clearing the dishes took Daisy’s thoughts back to the previous evening. Was it really only last night that Ruby had come into the hall, cried out that Humphrey was not breathing, and begged Roger Knox to come quickly? Alec and Worrall and their men had accomplished an awful lot in such a short time.

  Such a short time— If she tried again, surely she could summon up more accurate details of who was where when. She had been interrupted earlier, when Alec asked her to write down her recollections. Though she had typed her notes for him, along with those of the interviews she had attended, she still had the original shorthand squiggles in her notebook. She took it out and read through it.

  The main difference between Monday and Tuesday nights—apart from the horrible ending of the latter—was that Roger had come to dinner on Monday but not until after dinner on Tuesday. Perhaps if she concentrated on that she could sort out the muddle in her mind.

  She scribbled down a couple of thoughts, followed by heavy question marks. The trouble now was that her own memories were contaminated by what the others had told Alec and Worrall in her presence, though they had all been about as vague as she felt. Suppose s
he concentrated on the characters of those concerned. If everyone claimed not to know who had poured the fatal drink, someone had been lying.

  What it all came down to was who was the most convincing liar?

  To consider that question, one didn’t have to confine oneself to the events of any particular period of time. Daisy set herself to thinking back over all her interactions with everyone at Eyrie Farm.

  Simon’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “What are you writing, Mrs. Fletcher?” Simon’s voice … Something Simon had said … The fleeting hint of a memory slipped away as he went on, “You wouldn’t write about us, for a scandal sheet?”

  “Certainly not!” said Daisy, outraged. “That’s not at all my sort of thing. I write travel articles for respectable magazines.”

  “Are you going to write about Matlock?” Neil Carey asked, adding the soup plate he’d just dried to the stack on the table.

  “Possibly. I’m not sure I have enough material. But what I was actually doing is trying to make sense of the situation. Sometimes it helps just to write down everything—”

  “Simon?” Myra came in, looking as haggard as a very pretty eighteen-year-old girl can look. “Simon, Aunt Ruby can’t seem to stop crying. I don’t know what to do. Will you go to her?”

  Simon blenched but said manfully, “Of course.”

  Relieved, Myra set down the tray. “I’ll finish the washing up.”

  Simon dried his hands. As he strode out, Daisy said, “Myra, it looks as if you and I are going to be responsible for dinner. I hope your cookery skills are better than mine.”

  Myra swung round. “Me? I can’t cook! I’ve helped the aunts, but I wouldn’t know where to begin preparing a whole dinner.”

  They both turned to Carey. He backed away, both hands raised. “Not me! But there’s a bowl of scrubbed ’taties over there to start you off.”

  “Oh yes, the ones the girls scrubbed but never put in the oven. I can bake potatoes.” Daisy gave the big cast-iron stove a doubtful look. “In a gas oven.”

  “How different can it be?” Carey hastily finished drying the dishes and took himself off.

  “The first thing to do,” said Myra, displaying an unexpected practical streak, “is look in the larder and see what we have to work with.”

  The larder was more of a full-fledged pantry. It was at least four times the size of the Fletchers’ at home in Hampstead, where the butcher, baker, and milkman delivered daily and the shops were five minutes’ walk. On the north side of the house, with thick stone walls and a tiny window on either side for ventilation, it was decidedly chilly after the warm kitchen. The shelves and bins and meat safe were well-stocked with supplies from both the farm and the Matlock shops.

  Daisy and Myra sat at the kitchen table with cups of coffee, discussing what to do with what they had found. To make things more difficult, they had no idea how many people they would have to feed.

  “Surely not the police,” said Myra, “now that they’ve arrested Aunt Lorna. They’ve all gone away. Unless your husband’s staying?”

  “They haven’t left, they’ve just gone to find your uncle.” Daisy was trying to explain why the police had to conduct another series of interviews, while not revealing anything she ought not, when Simon came back.

  He slumped onto a chair. “Mother’s a little calmer. I rang up Knox anyway. He said the Chief Inspector is there, at his surgery, poking about—sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but those are the doctor’s words—and asking more questions. Knox promised to come right away, even if he has to drive and answer questions at the same time. What’s going on? I thought it was all over bar the trial.”

  “I’ve just been explaining to Myra, it’s more complicated than that. They have to make sure they’ve collected every scrap of evidence, as well as getting official signed statements from everyone. They’ll be interviewing all of us again.”

  “I won’t have them pestering Mother!”

  “They won’t insist on talking to her if Roger says she’s not up to it.”

  “Do go away, Simon,” said Myra. “Mrs. Fletcher and I have to make dinner and neither of us has a clue, and if the police are going to keep interrupting us— Unless you’d like to peel the potatoes?”

  To Daisy’s relief, he departed in haste. Though her explanation of the return of the detectives was true as far as it went, she was not at all happy to hear Alec had been “poking about” in Roger’s surgery. She had hoped he and Sybil were well out of the picture by now. Had Lorna somehow implicated him? And if so, was she telling the truth?

  Myra sighed heavily. “I wish I was in London!” She spread her hands and pouted at her varnished fingernails. “Peeling potatoes will ruin my hands.”

  “We’ll bake them, as intended. If they come out burnt or half raw, people will just have to make do without. I wonder whether they should go in the slow oven now or in the hot oven later? When I lived in Chelsea, we used to set the dial at Mark 6 and cook them for about three quarters of an hour.”

  “The range doesn’t have a dial,” Myra pointed out unnecessarily.

  This and other domestic conundrums still occupied them when Walter Ilkton wandered in. Considering the circumstances, he looked indecently cheerful.

  With a polite nod to Daisy, he said, “Myra, I wondered where you had got to. Now that your … hmm … Now that an arrest has been made, I expect you’re as anxious to get back to town as I am. It’s a bit late to leave today, but I thought we might take a run up to Buxton and have dinner at the Old Hall Hotel.”

  “I’d love to!” Myra glanced at Daisy’s raised eyebrows and added hurriedly, “But sorry, it’s not on. I can’t leave Mrs. Fletcher alone to make dinner for everyone else, can I? Are you any good at peeling potatoes?”

  His jaw dropped. “You’re not serious. I wouldn’t know where to begin. I could have my man give it a try, but it’s not what he’s used to. It’s all I can do to persuade him to polish the car. He’d probably give notice.”

  “Oh, no, that would never do.” Myra sounded shocked, and since she was incapable of irony, in Daisy’s opinion, doubtless she was shocked. “I know you’d be lost without him. Never mind, he’d probably make a mess of it, and we can manage that quite well ourselves.”

  “You shouldn’t be doing such chores. When we’re married, you need never see the inside of a kitchen again. Surely the maids would be willing to come back now that the police have left? They won’t want to lose their wages.”

  “It’s probably too late. What’s the time?”

  Daisy looked at her wristwatch. “Nearly four. Heavens, I didn’t realise how time was passing.”

  “Betty and Etta always go home at four. They have to take care of chickens and cows and things at home. Besides, the police haven’t gone away. Mrs. Fletcher says they want to talk to us again.”

  “What?” Now Ilkton was shocked. “Why?”

  “Just tying up loose ends,” Daisy said vaguely. “But they won’t want anyone to leave just yet. Myra, we’ve got to decide what we’re going to cook and actually start making preparations. There’s tea to think about, too.”

  “I’ll drive into Matlock and buy a tin of biscuits for you,” Ilkton offered, “or a cake from the bakery.”

  “If you don’t mind, sir—” Tom Tring had come in with the silent tread so unexpected in so large a man. “—I believe Chief Inspector Fletcher would prefer everyone to remain on the premises until he’s finished.”

  “That’s all right, darling,” Myra said to Walter. “Aunt Ruby enjoys baking so there’s always something. Why don’t you go and explore the tins in the larder?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, DI Worrall would like a word with you, if you please.”

  As Tom and Daisy went out, Myra called after them in dismay, “Don’t be gone too long! I can’t cope without you.”

  “I’ll be as quick as I can. Tom, did you find Norman?”

  “Yes, and he seems to be out of the picture, at least as far as the trip to Derby is conc
erned. One of the farm lads went with him—he’s teaching him to drive—and he swears they didn’t stop for ‘nowt,’ except petrol and at the Derby butcher’s when they got there. They even took bread and cheese rather than pay for a bite to eat. They were together the whole time. A right old penny-pincher, he called Mr. Norman Birtwhistle, and sour-tongued, but fair with it.”

  Daisy laughed. “I take it he was interviewed separately!”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Worrall’s got his head screwed on right. He had me have another go at the sisters, too, the girls who are in service here. I asked them had they ever seen anyone giving medicine to Mr. Humphrey, and … But I’d better let him tell you if he chooses to.”

  They had reached Humphrey’s office, where the inspector awaited, with Bagshaw and the other constable.

  Daisy got her word in first. “Mr. Worrall, what did the maids tell Mr. Tring? When you asked about seeing anyone giving Humphrey medicine?”

  Worrall frowned at Tom, but told her, “DS Tring had them eating out of his hand. It was Miss Hendred this and Miss Etta that, till they really cottoned on to him.”

  “Ah,” said Tom, his eyes twinkling at Daisy.

  “The cheeky one, Betty, said she’d never noticed anything like that, but the other remembered one morning when they arrived a few minutes early.” Worrall gestured to Tom to finish the story.

  “Seems Miss Birtwhistle was just about to take her brother his breakfast tray. She put something in his tea and stirred it before she realised the maids had come into the kitchen. Betty says it was probably sugar, but Etta claims there was a sugar-bowl on the tray, so why would Miss Birtwhistle sweeten his tea for him?”

  “Not proof,” said the inspector, “but another scrap of evidence if it’s needed. Do you know what Mr. Fletcher’s got out of her?”

  “No, when I spoke to him, he hadn’t interviewed her yet. But I gather he’s on his way here now, with Dr. Knox.”

  “Ah,” said the inspector with satisfaction. “Then I won’t keep you, thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Blast! thought Daisy, making her way back to the kitchen. If she had just managed to withhold that information a bit longer, she might have learnt more. On the other hand, Worrall probably didn’t know much more than she did, unless he had read the reports of the interviews they had both missed.