by Carola Dunn
“Only of a negative kind, I’m afraid, sir.” He explained that a fairly large number of people had been eliminated from their enquiries. “Your Special Constables have been of invaluable assistance,” he added.
Carradine’s temperament was naturally sanguine. “They’re a good lot, on the whole,” he said, brightening. “They wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’m glad they’ve been helpful. But negative progress—that doesn’t sound promising.”
“Come now, sir, ‘Reculer pour mieux sauter’? In your profession, you have the strategic retreat. In mine, we often have to clear away a lot of deadwood before we can see the trees for the forest, if you see what I mean.”
“Yes, I think so. Yes, of course.”
“Every suspect we eliminate makes it easier for us to concentrate our attentions on those remaining.” No need to mention that the most promising suspect was out of the picture. Nor that, with Rumford cleared of murder, the likelihood was very much increased that he was the intended victim, thus propelling the Resident Governor and his daughters to positions near the head of the list.
“Ah, yes, that sounds like progress, doesn’t it, Jeremy?”
“Indeed, sir.” Webster’s gaze, as always difficult to read because of his glasses, seemed to Alec to be tinged with scepticism.
Alec hoped the secretary wouldn’t feel obliged to point out to his employer just how little had actually been said.
The general started to ask, “Who—?” He frowned as a heavy tread on the stairs interrupted him, then asked again, but with a different object: “Who—?”
A short, plump gentleman burst in without announcement or invitation. “Carradine, I really must protest. . . . Oh, who’s this?”
“Our sleuth from Scotland Yard, Sir Patrick.” Carradine seemed more amused than annoyed. “Allow me to introduce Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher. You met his wife here the other evening. Mr. Fletcher, Sir Patrick Heald, the Keeper of the Regalia.”
Sir Patrick scowled at Alec and said irately, “So you’re the one responsible for . . . Mrs. Fletcher? She’s married to a policeman?” He glanced back at the general. “But didn’t you say . . . ? Sorry, old chap, no offence. Charming little lady.”
Alec managed to preserve the impassive face proper to a policeman, but behind it his thoughts echoed Macleod’s words: Supercilious bastard. “My wife is a very well-respected journalist,” he said in a tone that suggested agreement, although he knew perfectly well that what Sir Patrick referred to was not Daisy’s writing ability, but her noble birth.
“Yes, well, I showed her the Regalia myself, didn’t I, Webster?”
“You did, sir.” Webster didn’t appear to care for the Keeper any better than Macleod did.
“Which I don’t for your everyday scribbler, I assure you. But what’s all this about not being allowed to leave the Tower, my dear fellow? Carradine tells me it was on your advice that he closed the gates.”
“That is correct, sir. In a murder case, it’s usual to request that all possible witnesses remain within reach until we have had time to make the necessary enquiries.”
“I can see that’s appropriate for the rank and file, but—”
“I’d have thought, sir, in your official capacity, you’d wish to set an example to others who might find it inconvenient or distasteful to have their movements restricted.”
“I suppose, if you put it like that . . . Oh, very well! But I have an engagement at my country place tomorrow evening that I don’t care to miss.”
“I expect we’ll have everything cleared up in good time, sir,” Alec said untruthfully.
“Very well. Carry on. You’ll keep me informed, Carradine?”
“Of course, Sir Patrick. I can’t apologise enough for the misunderstanding this morning.”
With a disgruntled grunt, the Keeper departed.
“To be fair,” said Carradine, “he’s been quite patient and forbearing. My chaps at the Byward Tower told me he drove along to the gate at the usual time of opening and was quite put out to find it locked. He’s not involved in the administration of the Tower, of course, and no one had thought to inform him of Crabtree’s unfortunate demise. My fault entirely.”
“At that time, sir,” Webster pointed out, “we were scarcely beginning to comprehend the fact ourselves.”
“True. I can’t think why he had to leave so early, today of all days! I suppose he had an engagement in the country—golf, luncheon, who knows. Well, one must expect to be inconvenienced by murder.”
“In any case,” said the secretary doggedly, “I was not aware that Sir Patrick was in residence last night.”
“Nor I, nor I.”
“Are you aware, General,” said Alec, “that your Yeoman Gaoler is in the hospital?”
“Good gad, no! Was he attacked, too?”
“Only in the lungs, by the fog.”
“Poor chap.” Carradine’s commiseration was perfunctory. “Did you know, Jeremy?”
“Dr. Macleod sent over the regulation chit this morning. I put it on your desk, but you haven’t had much opportunity to deal with everyday business today.” Webster was soothing without being sycophantic.
He was probably a good secretary in spite of his peculiarities, Alec decided. But if he was more competent than first appearances suggested, might he not also be more athletic than his thick glasses implied? Consider the prodigious leaps performed by fat little goggle-eyed frogs. Back on the list went Mr. Jeremy Fisher.
Carradine was regarding his paper-strewn desk with aversion, which metamorphosed unexpectedly into thankfulness. “I usually visit any of our men who land in sick bay, but in the circumstances, I hardly think . . .”
“You won’t be missed, sir,” Alec assured him. “The doctor has Rumford under heavy sedation.”
“Excellent, excellent.”
“You’ll want to speak to the Constable, sir, to bring him up-to-date on Mr. Fletcher’s ‘progress.’ ”
Webster’s sarcasm was obvious to Alec, but the general ignored or failed to notice it. “Yes, the sooner the better,” he said. “See if you can get hold of him, Jeremy.”
Alec slipped out quickly before that inconvenient “Who . . . ?” question could raise its head again. That had been much easier than his report to Superintendent Crane was going to be.
He met Tom and Ernie at the Guard House.
Tom had nothing useful to report from questioning the Hotspur NCOs. Several had known Crabtree before he retired from the regiment, and they were unanimous that he wasn’t the sort who made enemies.
Ernie had obtained the key to the Yeoman Gaoler’s House from Webster and searched it, as well as Crabtree’s. In the latter, he had found signs of the making and clearing up of toasted cheese. Assuming he had eaten it immediately after the Keys ceremony, the autopsy should be able to time his death pretty accurately.
“And at Rumford’s?” Alec asked. “A nice list of names? An account book or bankbook with unexplained deposits?”
“No such luck, Chief.”
“Ah,” said Tom. “That don’t really surprise me. These noncoms, they aren’t writers. I mean, they’re literate, but it’s not automatic to write everything down like it is in the force. On the other hand, they have a phenomenal memory for names and faces. They’re in charge of keeping all those privates in order, and they don’t want to have to stop and think ‘What’s that bloke’s name?’ before they yell at him. I reckon Rumford’d rely on his memory for who he had his hooks into.”
“Not even a nice hoard of banknotes, I suppose?” Alec said unhopefully.
“Three quid and change, in a tobacco jar on the mantelpiece. If he’s been extorting cash, he must’ve hidden it in one of those secret dungeons.”
“Darling!” Daisy stopped shaking the rattle as she looked up from the nursery floor, where she was sitting. “I’m so glad you’re home in time to see how clever our babies are.”
“Should they be on the floor with the dog, Daisy? My mother would have
forty fits.”
“That’s what I told Nanny. That’s what persuaded her to permit it. We always had a dog or two wandering in and out of the nursery when I was little. I’m sure it’s good for them. They won’t grow up afraid of dogs, and by the time they’re old enough to pester her, she’ll be used to them.”
Alec sank wearily into a chair. “All right, if you say so. Show me what brilliant things our offspring are doing.”
“Watch. They both raise their heads and gurgle when I shake the rattle. Miranda keeps her eyes on it when I move it across in front of her, and Oliver grabs at it.”
“I wonder if that’s a prognostication of their future attitudes to life. Miranda will be contemplative and Oliver will be grasping.”
“He won’t!” Daisy said indignantly. “It could just as well mean he’s going to be good at sports. Oh dear, Nana’s sniffing his little bottom. I expect his nappy needs changing. Nanny’s having her supper—that’s why she let me play with them—but she’ll be up in a minute, thank heaven. I’m glad you’re home in time for dinner, darling.”
“So am I, but I’m going to change out of these shoes first.”
“There’s an awful lot of walking at the Tower, isn’t there? Though I don’t suppose you had to go up and down all those winding stairs. Put on your slippers—I’m not expecting anyone to drop in this evening.”
“Good. Nana, come! We appreciate the alert, but excessive interest is unwholesome and unbecoming. Perhaps I can teach you to bring me my slippers. You know, Daisy, I think we’re going to have to start calling either Nana or Nanny something else before the twins begin to talk, or we’ll have the most unholy confusion.”
Daisy let Alec finish his soup before she said, slightly reproachfully, “I assume you’d have told me if you’d arrested anyone. I expected you to come home really late if you were still baffled.”
“Not so much baffled as frustrated. We’ve interviewed just about every inhabitant of the Inner Ward, except the rank and file Guardsmen not on sentry duty, whose whereabouts are pretty well attested to by their NCOs. Tom and Ernie and I spent hours going over our notes of the interviews, and where do you think it all leads?”
“Rumford,” Daisy said at once. “Won’t he talk?”
Alec shook his head, but he waited until Mrs. Dobson had cleared the soup plates and brought in the veal cutlets before he said, “Not so much won’t as can’t.”
“Whatever do you mean? Don’t tell me he’s been murdered, too!”
“No, no, nor died of his chest complaint. I’d still be afraid he’d managed to get away somehow if you hadn’t told me about his coughing. In the end, I put two and two together and ran him to earth in the hospital.”
“Heavens, I never thought of that. That must have been where he was making for when Crabtree and I met him at the top of the steps. Oh, darling, does that mean he got there before Crabtree was killed?”
“Officially signed in at quarter past ten,” Alec said gloomily. “The police surgeon puts the murder at around midnight, certainly not before eleven.”
“What a nuisance! Rumford would have been the perfect murderer. He really couldn’t . . . ?”
“He really couldn’t. Dr. Macleod is trying some new kind of treatment that involves knocking him out with drugs.”
“Not permanently?”
“ ‘Permanently’?”
“I mean, an experimental treatment would be a good way for a doctor to do away with a blackmailer.”
“Great Scott, Daisy . . .” Alec flung down his napkin and started to stand up. Then he calmed down. “No. If he was going to do it, he’s had plenty of opportunity. He knows I’m aware of why he’s being blackmailed, if such is the case.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you that. But in spite of Macleod’s failings, he’s an intelligent man. He knows that if Rumford dies under his care, I wouldn’t let it pass as a natural death. Another thing: Rumford put himself into Macleod’s hands. He wouldn’t have done that if he wasn’t sure he could trust the doctor, which probably means he’s not blackmailing him, in spite of knowing his secret. After all, it’s never difficult for a doctor to do away with a patient, and I’m sure for the few we catch, there must be others we never even suspect. All the same, I ought to have considered the possibility, and I didn’t.”
“You can’t think of everything, darling. Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”
“Yes, Mother.” He forked in veal, potatoes, and Brussels sprouts.
“You’re right: Rumford would be a fool to blackmail the doctor who treats him for a chronic condition. Even if Macleod wouldn’t go so far as to kill him, he could easily mess up his treatment on purpose, without anyone guessing.”
“Leaving him in even worse health.”
“If Rumford’s not the murderer,” Daisy continued, ruminating aloud, “then Crabtree must have been killed because someone mistook him for Rumford. Have you found out what he was doing at the steps at midnight? If Rumford was on the way to the hospital, he wouldn’t have made an appointment to meet him. I bet you anything you like he asked him—Rumford asked Crabtree, that is—to do some job for him, something he was supposed to do at midnight. It must have been something official, because of both of them wearing their fancy dress.”
Alec stopped with knife and fork poised and stared at her. “Yes, of course. Something that Rumford normally did every night at midnight. Now why does that ring a bell?”
“I can’t imagine. I think you’re drowning in a sea of information. But whatever he was supposed to do, he can’t have done it, and someone ought to have noticed. Not that it really matters where he was going. What matters is that he took over Rumford’s routine without anyone knowing, so the murderer thought he was killing Rumford.”
“That’s still pure speculation.” He resumed eating. “In fact, it sounds to me suspiciously like one of your circular arguments.”
“No, darling, is it? How disappointing. It all fits together so nicely.”
“That is the nature of circles. For one thing, it all depends on Rumford being a blackmailer, which is sheer guesswork.”
“Well, never mind, you’ll find out tomorrow when you talk to him.”
“I hardly think he’s likely to admit to it. Ernie didn’t find any proof in his house, no list of names and amounts or anything of the sort. I’m going to need some evidence before I can tackle his supposed victims. And failing that, I have absolutely no other theory to fall back on!”
15
Half an hour after Alec left the house next morning, the telephone rang. Daisy was crossing the hall, on her way to the nursery from the kitchen and her daily consultation with Mrs. Dobson about the day’s menus.
Given Alec’s irregular hours, they were limited to meals that would either cook quickly or keep hot without spoiling. Cutlets and stews were staples, but since becoming friendly with Sakari’s chauffeur, Kesin, Mrs. Dobson sometimes daringly branched out into curries. Tonight, at whatever hour Alec arrived home, curried lamb would await him.
Brring-brring. Daisy unhooked the receiver, pressed it to her ear, and spoke the telephone number into the mouthpiece.
“Mrs. Fletcher?” came a breathless whisper.
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“Brenda. Brenda Carradine. Is Mr. Fletcher there?”
“No, I’m afraid he’s already left for the Tower. He should get there any minute.”
“Oh, good.” She continued to whisper. Fortunately, they had a good connection. “I mean, it’s not him we need to talk to, but we didn’t want him to overhear what you’re saying.”
“And you don’t want anyone at that end to overhear what you’re saying?”
“We knew you’d understand.”
“So far,” said Daisy, “I understand nothing. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t tell you on the telephone. Someone might overhear. Could you possibly possibly come here? We know it’s a great imposition, only everything is so dreadful a
nd we don’t know what to do, and you’re the only person we can turn to.”
“What about your aunt Christina?”
“Oh no! She might tell the colonel, and that would be too awful for words.”
“Brenda, whatever it is, there’s a chance I might have to tell Alec.”
“That’s just it. You’ll know if he absolutely has to know, and if not, you might be able to . . . Oh, I can’t explain over the ’phone. Please come!”
“Right-oh,” Daisy said with a silent sigh. “It’ll take me awhile to get there. I don’t want to get caught up in the morning rush.”
“Oh. Can you hold on a minute?”
Daisy heard a muffled sound of anxious consultation.
Brenda returned. “Mrs. Fletcher? We still have most of our quarter’s allowance. We’ll pay for a taxi. We’ll meet you at the Middle Tower, all right? We’ll wait there till you arrive.”
Heavens above, they must be really worried! Daisy agreed, and rang off.
What on earth was Alec going to say when she turned up at the Tower? She had better think up something she needed to tell him both urgently and privately, something that couldn’t be passed on in a telephone message. Of course, what the Carradine girls had to tell her might qualify.
Urgent or not, she had to change into clothes more appropriate for going into the city—her grey costume, she thought, in view of the distressing events at the Tower—and she absolutely refused to sacrifice a visit to the nursery for at least a few minutes with the babies.
When Alec reached the Middle Tower, a huddle of early-rising reporters lay in wait for him. He managed to escape making a statement by reminding them that the Tower of London was a royal palace.
“It’s as much as my job’s worth to pass on any information,” he told them, wondering whether it was true. “You’d better apply to Buckingham Palace, or perhaps Downing Street.” They all groaned. “Or, come to think of it, the Constable of the Tower, who’s the King’s representative. . . . No, I can’t give you his address or telephone number, but I’m sure gentlemen as resourceful as yourselves won’t have any difficulty finding out.”
