by Carola Dunn
“You can worry about it tomorrow. Come to bed.”
What nobody had remembered to worry about was breakfast.
Next morning at a few minutes after half past eight, as the Fletchers went downstairs, it suddenly dawned on Daisy: “Oh dear, no Lorna, no breakfast?”
Alec sniffed the air. “I can’t smell bacon. Or even toast.”
“Ruby’s probably sleeping in, because of the bromide Roger gave her. Perhaps I’d better go and see if Myra’s having trouble in the kitchen. You go to the dining room and see whether Simon’s there. If so, send him to help.”
But Daisy found Simon in the kitchen. He was standing at the open larder door, staring in in a helpless sort of way.
At the sound of her footsteps, he turned, saying, “I’ve put the kettle on, but— Oh, good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. I thought it was Myra. Or Mother.”
“Good morning. I was rather expecting to find Myra here.”
“I suppose she’s still in bed, the lazy … Well, never mind that. I can manage coffee and toast. If people want bacon and sausages and eggs and such—”
Alec came in. “Simon’s not— Ah, he’s here already.”
Close behind him came Sybil. “Myra’s not down yet? I’ll help.”
“Thanks, Sybil, but it’s not your responsibility.” Simon looked harassed. “Would you mind going to see if she’s on her way? Tell her to hurry up, for heaven’s sake!”
“All right.”
In the doorway, Sybil met Ilkton. He stood aside to let her pass, then stepped in, his usual smooth façade ruffled by an irritable look. “What’s going on? Fletcher, I presume you’re not going to keep us all here forever? Miss Olney and I want to leave for London today, in time to arrive before nightfall.”
“I can’t tell you till later whether that will be possible. In any case, the present hold-up can’t be set at my door. Miss Olney hasn’t yet put in an appearance, and breakfast is waiting on her assistance.”
“Myra didn’t say anything about going to London with you, Ilkton,” Simon objected.
“You can’t expect my future wife to stay here acting as your cook-maid forever. She doesn’t need your permission to leave.”
“I must say, I think it would be indecent to talk her into dashing off, with the family in mourning. And Myra’s part of this family, make no mistake about it, even if that school of hers put some high-falutin’ ideas in her noddle. She jolly well owes the rest of us a bit of help when it’s needed, and to do her justice, she knows it!”
“She—”
“Oh, stop it, both of you,” Daisy snapped, her stomach rumbling. “Simon, why don’t you start slicing bread for toast, and the rest can wait until Myra arrives. Ruby’s probably still asleep. I’ll make the coffee. We’ll eat in here. There’s no sense in carrying everything to the dining room.”
Sybil rushed in, out of breath. “She’s left!”
“Left?” Alec stiffened.
Ilkton gaped. “Left!”
“What do you mean, left?” Simon pulled out a chair from the table and Sybil sank onto it. “What’s she been and gone and done now?” he asked with a sigh.
“She’s stripped her bed and packed her bags and left them stacked by the door, labelled for her London address. There’s a note, but it just says, ‘Please forward. Will write.’”
“How can she have left?” said Ilkton, outraged. “She has no car.”
“Where’s Neil?” Daisy enquired. “Has anyone seen him this morning?”
Everyone stared at her, then looked at one another. Heads shook.
“Simon,” Alec ordered, “go and look in his room. Ilkton, you know where he kept his motorcycle? See if it’s gone. I’ll be at the telephone.”
The men hurried out.
Elbows on the table, Sybil dropped her head in her hands and closed her eyes for a moment. “I can’t believe it!” She looked up at Daisy. “At least, I can. It’s typical of Myra, really, acting on impulse, and Carey likewise. But Alec believes she killed Humphrey, doesn’t he? Because she went off without his permission?”
“I’m afraid so. That is, he doesn’t exactly believe it—he’ll have to have more evidence than her unexpected departure—but you must admit it looks suspicious.”
“Only if you don’t know Myra. Goodness knows what sort of maggot she’s got into what passes for her mind, but I’m sure she has a reason that appears perfectly sound to her.” She stood up.
Daisy laid a delaying hand on her arm. “I know exactly what you mean. The trouble is, the same applies to her motive for murdering her uncle. Don’t bite my head off!” she said hastily as Sybil glared at her. “I’d be very surprised if she did. But you must admit that her apparent lack of a motive has no relevance, given the way she thinks.”
“If she thinks. I’m not sure the word can be applied to what happens inside her head.”
“Quite. What I meant to point out is, if you were to try to persuade Alec that her flight may well have nothing whatsoever to do with her guilt or innocence, it would be a two-edged sword.”
“I do see that. Let’s go and see what’s happening, though.”
They went into the hall. Alec was beating an impatient tattoo on the telephone table while he waited for the operator. He looked round, frowning, then turned towards the west staircase as Simon came dashing down.
“He’s not there. And he’s taken all his traps. He left a note but all it says is, ‘Thanks. Will be in touch.’”
“Bloody fool,” Alec grunted. “Yes, operator, I want the Matlock police station. Police priority call. Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, Scotland Yard.”
“What are you going to do?” Simon demanded aggressively. “Myra didn’t kill Father, I’d take my oath on it. She hasn’t got the brains.”
Alec ignored him. “Yes, DI Worrall, or Superintendent Aves. Simon, what colour is the motor-bike, and do you know the make?”
“Green Triumph. But—”
“Go and call Ilkton back. Something tells me he won’t find it.”
Simon scowled, but went sulkily to open the front door, admitting an icy draught. As he stepped out, an engine roared. A moment later, Ilkton’s Packard flashed past.
“He’s escaping!” Daisy exclaimed.
“He’s going after her,” cried Sybil. She gave Daisy a questioning look. “‘Escaping’?”
“Now what made me say that?” She held up her hand. “Hold on a minute, let me think.”
“Worrall?” said Alec into the phone, and started giving instructions for an alert to be sent to all police forces along the route to London.
Simon came in, slamming the door behind him. “What a fool. Myra’s not going to marry him. Or Neil.”
The elusive thought clarified in Daisy’s memory. “Something Simon said. Simon, the first evening I was here, after dinner, you apologised for not having any liqueurs or good brandy. And you mentioned that you thought Walter Ilkton had brought his own.”
“And wasn’t sharing. Why—? Yes, you’re right, Mrs. Fletcher.” His eyes gleamed with excitement. “I’m pretty sure he had a pocket flask.”
“Alec…” Daisy shrugged as Alec put his finger to his lips, shaking his head, listening intently to whatever Worrall was saying. She turned back to Simon. “Come on, let’s go and ask his valet. Do you know where to find him?”
“Somewhere in the old servants’ quarters, the original farmhouse bedrooms. This way.”
“He might be in the kitchen by now,” suggested Sybil, tagging along, “wondering where his breakfast is. But Daisy, the police searched the house for a bottle. They wouldn’t have ignored a flask.”
“Ilkton wasn’t really a serious suspect. If he hid it well—”
“In the car, I bet!” said Simon, bursting into the kitchen ahead of them. “Locked in that toolbox. Hey, you, MacGilli-whatsit!”
The servant, like Simon before him, was at the larder door, peering in hopefully. He swung round, saying stiffly, “MacGillivray, sir. I beg y
our pardon, sir, I was just—”
“Never mind that. Take what you want to eat. But tell me, did Mr. Ilkton have a pocket flask?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.”
“When did you last see it?” Daisy asked.
“I’m sorry, madam, I don’t remember, but I do know it wasn’t in any of his pockets when I dealt with his clothes on Tuesday evening.”
“And you didn’t tell the police?”
“They didn’t ask me, madam.”
Simon looked ready to explode. Daisy said quickly, “You’re probably right, Simon. He slipped out and locked it in the toolbox. Even if they searched the cars, they might not have bothered about asking for the key to it.”
“The master did go out to the car that evening, madam. He told me he’d put the rug over the bonnet, so I needn’t.”
Sybil grasped Simon’s sleeve and tugged. “Let’s go and tell the Chief Inspector.”
“If Ilkton gets away, I’m going to make sure this slimy little man pays for it!”
“Don’t be silly. Come on, the sooner we tell him the better.”
“It may be irrelevant,” Daisy warned, as they hurried back to the hall.
Alec was still on the phone. “Yes, the black Packard,” he was saying. “He left just a couple of minutes ago. All right, get right on to it, and ring me back.” He hung up.
“Darling, we’ve discovered a clue. I remembered—”
“Ilkton had a pocket flask,” Simon interrupted. “His man has confirmed it.”
“MacGillivray?” Alec said sharply. “Let’s hear it.”
Simon explained, giving due credit to Daisy for the initiating idea, discredit to MacGillivray for not informing the police, and credit to himself for the theory of the toolbox.
“It must have been Bagshaw who searched the Packard,” said Daisy. “Tom would have found it.”
Alec grinned at her. “If it’s there. Hold on while I tell them to look for it.” He was put through immediately this time. The girl at the exchange must be on the lookout by now for police calls on this line. Alec left a message for Worrall rather than asking to speak to him. Hanging up, he turned to the waiting trio. “I think you deserve to know what’s happened this morning.”
“Just a minute,” said Sybil, “here’s Ruby.”
Simon rushed to support his mother, who stumbled into the hall swathed in a blue flannel dressing gown, her hair wild. She looked half asleep, and very shaky. In her hand was a sheet of paper.
“I heard a car. It woke me up.” She held the paper out to Alec. “Mr. Fletcher, I just found this, pushed under my door. I thought I ought to show you at once.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Alec took the note from Ruby. As he read, a sort of grim amusement grew on his face.
“Myra?” asked Sybil.
“How did you guess? What it boils down to is, she hadn’t realised yesterday was Michaelmas, which is Quarter Day, when her allowance is due. When it was brought to her attention, she talked Carey into taking her up to town to call on her lawyer.”
“Typical!” said Daisy. “Of both of them.”
“I could skin the pair of them, but it’s hardly worth the effort. Not worth the effort to try to stop them on the way, either, when we can pick them up easily in town.” He strode over to the fireplace, where Simon had installed his mother in a chair by the empty grate. “Mrs. Birtwhistle, I hope you know the name of Miss Olney’s solicitor?”
“Yes, of course.” She gave the name and address. “Myra won’t get into a lot of trouble, will she? She’s just thoughtless and impulsive, truly.” Ruby was shivering convulsively.
Hardly surprising: Daisy was half frozen, too. She hugged herself.
Simon took off his coat and draped it about Ruby’s shoulders. “The girls should be here by now, if they’re coming. I’ll set them to lighting fires, or do it myself if they haven’t turned up. Come to think of it, I might see if I can coerce that worm MacGillivray into doing it.” He headed for the kitchen.
“Hot water bottle!” Sybil called after him.
“We shan’t be prosecuting Miss Olney just for leaving without notice,” Alec reassured Ruby, “though she deserves a good talking to. Excuse me.” He returned to the telephone.
Sybil sat beside Ruby and chafed her hands. “What on earth do you think happened this morning?” she said to Daisy. “Apart from Myra and Carey decamping, I mean.”
“I just hope Alec won’t decide not to tell us after all.”
Alec’s phone call was short. He came back to the fireplace and said, “Too much excitement before breakfast!”
“You haven’t had breakfast yet?” Ruby started to get up. “I’m so sorry. I’ll—”
“No, you won’t,” Sybil said firmly. “You’re going back to bed, and someone will bring you breakfast there. The only question is, do you want to stay and hear what Mr. Fletcher has to say before you go.”
“Oh yes!”
Simon returned with a hot water bottle in one hand and a full coal-scuttle in the other. “The kettle was just on the boil. Betty’s making tea and toast and bacon and eggs. Etta’s going to light the fire in your room first, Mother, then do this one. I’d suggest we all move to the kitchen, which is nice and warm, but I expect Mr. Fletcher needs to be within hearing of the telephone. Are you going to reveal all, sir?”
“I can’t promise all, but if you’ll all promise to keep this under your hats…”
Everyone promised.
“Early this morning, a nurse from Smedley’s Hydro went into the Matlock station. She’d heard—or read, I’m not clear about that—about our hunt for the source of the chloral. It seems she’s been worried since Tuesday evening about the disappearance of the contents of a bottle of chloral. The contents, note, not the bottle. It was prescribed by the Hydro’s own doctor for an elderly resident, because he naps so much through the day that without it he was wakeful at night and constantly ringing his bell.”
“Ilkton’s ancient uncle!” Daisy exclaimed. “Or cousin or whatever he is.”
“So it would appear. There’s a record of Walter Ilkton visiting him on Tuesday. The medicine is kept in a cupboard in his adjoining lavatory. When she went to give him his dose at bedtime on Tuesday, she found the bottle just about empty, though it had been nearly full the previous evening. The old man showed no symptoms of having taken even his usual dose.”
“Didn’t she report it missing?” Simon demanded.
“Oh yes, she went to the doctor. He gave her another bottle and told her to keep mum.”
“Bad publicity for the Hydro,” said Sybil, “if people knew dangerous medicines were going missing.”
Tears streamed down Ruby’s face. “But why? What had Humphrey ever done to him?”
“That’s a matter for speculation until—” The ring of the bell called Alec back to the phone.
“Yes, why?” said Simon, as puzzled as he was angry. “He knew Father couldn’t forbid Myra’s marrying.”
“I think I can guess.” Daisy turned to Sybil. “More or less the same motive as the police imputed to Roger.”
“That I would marry…” She blushed. “That Myra would marry Ilkton if Humphrey were dead?”
“Myra’s had a safe haven here all these years. I think Ilkton reckoned that Lorna and Norman would not put up with her flitting in and out. Myra had refused time and time again to marry him, but she would be left rudderless and in desperate need of a home of her own.”
“Myra will always have a home with me,” Ruby said quietly.
“Of course, Mother.” Simon took her hand. “She may be a little idiot, but she’s our little idiot. He must be mad!”
“He’s obsessed,” said Sybil, “literally mad with love. Or rather infatuation. It’s a useful trait in a novel, but I hope I never run into it again in real life.” She shuddered.
“Was it his car that woke me?” Ruby asked. “Will th
ey catch him?”
“Alec was on the telephone within a couple of minutes of his roaring off. I don’t see how they can possibly miss—”
The door-knocker banged. Simon ran to the door and opened it. “My God!” he exclaimed.
He stood aside and Roger Knox came in, supporting a sodden Ilkton, whose head was bleeding. As Simon helped get the half-conscious man to the sofa, Roger explained.
“I was coming up to see how Ruby is. The roads are extremely icy, so I was driving very carefully, but apparently this maniac wasn’t. He skidded on the bridge and went into the brook.”
“Yes, bring a warrant,” Alec said into the phone. “And drive carefully, it’s icy.” He hung up and came over to join the others. “Walter Ilkton, I have applied for a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murder. It is my duty to caution you…”
EPILOGUE
The maître d’hôtel at Maxim’s was said never to forget a patron. He greeted Daisy: “Mrs. Fletcher, enchanté de vous revoir, madame. Lady Gerald Bincombe is not yet arrived but she has reserved a table on the balcony. You wish to ascend?”
Daisy ascended the elegant staircase. A menial showed her to a table overlooking the ground floor, and whisked away her tweed coat.
She took her list from her bag and read through it. The editor of the book on follies had asked Daisy and Lucy to do another on inns with odd names. Daisy had consulted Alec and Tom Tring, who travelled all over the country, and they had come up with some beauties: The Magnet and Dewdrop, for instance; the Tippling Philosopher; Rent Day; the Cat and Mutton; and the World Turned Upside Down; and just across the river, in Southwark, the Boot and Flogger.
Lucy didn’t keep her waiting long. The maître d’hôtel himself escorted her ladyship upstairs and caught her fur coat when she let it slip from her shoulders, folding it carefully over his arm.
“May I recommend the faisan aux champignons, milady, madame,” he suggested. “This is the first that has hanged long enough—to perfection!—because the season of the pheasant, it has begun only since ten days.”
