by Carola Dunn
“It comes off easy, miss. You see, sir, there’s at least two different lots of prints and I need Miss Fotheringay’s for elimination purposes.”
“Most of the others are probably mine,” Daisy interrupted. “Do say you’ll take my fingerprints, Sergeant Tring.”
“It’d be an honour and a pleasure, miss,” said the sergeant solemnly, his little brown eyes twinkling at her.
While he inked her fingers one by one on his pad and took impressions on a shiny-surfaced white card, Alec drew Lucy aside. Daisy stretched her ears but Tom Tring talked as he worked and she couldn’t make out the others’ words. Not that she didn’t know perfectly well what was being said. Lucy looked haughty, then furious, then sulky, then alarmed.
“Ta, miss, that’s it,” said Tring at last. “Soap and water should get it off in a trice.”
“I’ll wash in the darkroom.”
Crossing the room, she heard Alec say, “I don’t want to give the impression that the cyanide which poisoned Mrs. Abernathy was definitely yours. It’s just a possibility. A strong possibility,” he added as relief lightened Lucy’s alarm.
“I’ll get rid of the blasted stuff,” Lucy snapped. “I practically always use hypo anyway.”
“Other dangerous chemicals are used in your business, Miss Fotheringay. Silver nitrate, for one, can be deadly.”
“Oh, all right,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll try to be more careful about locking up.”
“Thank you, you ease my mind,” Alec said dryly. “I hope you’re now ready … .”
With the water running, Daisy didn’t catch the rest of his sentence, but the explosive reply sounded distinctly negative.
She stuck her head back round the door. “Don’t be an ass, Lucy,” she said. “The ink comes off, and if you don’t show Alec the appointment book, I’ll pinch it and make a list myself.”
Stiff with annoyance, Lucy stalked over to the desk and presented her hand to Tom Tring. She was even more annoyed when she was kept waiting while Alec took his sergeant aside for a quiet word. Then Daisy and Alec left them together.
“I haven’t endeared myself to your friend,” Alec said regretfully as they returned to the house next door.
“It’s not quite the first meeting I’d have chosen for you, but never mind. Lucy will come round.” She unlocked the music-room door. “It’s a bit outré sneaking into someone else’s house the back way like this.”
“It was Abernathy’s idea. He seemed much recovered. Would you say he’s well enough to answer questions without a doctor present?”
“Keep an eye on his lips. I’ve noticed the first sign of trouble is that they turn blue. Like Bettina’s,” Daisy added, striving to banish the horrid image. “Is that why the third doctor wondered whether she was having a heart seizure?”
“Probably. I’d forgotten about that.” Alec frowned—a grimace always lent a peculiar significance by his dark, thick eyebrows—then shrugged his shoulders. “The post-mortem was done this morning and the pathologist confirmed cyanide poisoning over the ’phone.”
“Dr. Renfrew?” Daisy remembered the impatient, irascible man who had shouted at Detective Constable Piper over the ’phone at Wentwater Court.
“No, he’s on holiday. His junior did the autopsy. It didn’t seem worth calling in Sir Bernard Spilsbury for such a straightforward case. He revels in complications.”
“Sir Bernard’s the Home Office Chief Pathologist, isn’t he? I read something about him. Here we are.” She opened the door at the top of the stairs. “Alec, are you going to talk to Bettina’s parents? Because if so, please don’t forget they don’t know about her misbehaviour. Muriel went to a lot of trouble not to disillusion them.”
“I shan’t forget. Now, how do we announce ourselves?”
“As I’m staying here, I’ll just march into the drawing room and tell them we’re back.” Daisy paused with her hand on the brass door-handle. From within came the sound of a harsh, denunciatory diatribe. “Oh, poor Muriel!” she whispered. “I’m so glad you’re with me. I never did cope very well with ranting clergymen.”
“I’ll protect you,” Alec whispered back with a smile, squeezing her hand. “Courage!”
Picturing a tall, gaunt, severe parson, Daisy was decidedly taken aback when the Reverend Westlea turned out to be small and chubby, with a rubicund face above his dog-collar. However, he stood before the fireplace with his right hand thrust into his coat and his chest puffed out in an unmistakeably Napoleonic pose.
Muriel, drooping before him like a naughty child, jumped up and almost ran to meet Daisy. “Thank heaven you’re back,” she murmured. “I’d almost forgotten how frightful … . Mother, Father, this is the Honourable Daisy Dalrymple, and Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard.”
Daisy hadn’t known Muriel was even aware of her honorary title. She had certainly never mentioned it before, but it seemed to be the right thing to do now, for the Reverend Westlea came forward rubbing his hands and bobbing his head.
“How d’ye do, Miss Dalrymple. I’m delighted to find my daughter has made at least one respectable friend in London.” He gave Alec a frosty nod.
Mrs. Westlea scuttled up behind him. Daisy wasn’t surprised she had overlooked the vicar’s wife, who was an older version of Muriel, two or three decades more faded and downtrodden.
Once all the polite formulas proper to a bereavement had been uttered, Mr. Westlea addressed to Alec. “I hope you can tell me, Inspector, since my daughter has no idea, when shall we be able to hold the funeral?”
Daisy opened her mouth to correct Alec’s title, but he shook his head at her.
“The inquest will be held tomorrow morning, sir,” he said. “I imagine the … er … remains of the deceased will be released for burial at that time, though I can’t vouch for the Coroner’s actions.”
“Then I shall arrange the funeral service for Wednesday morning.” He turned back to Daisy. “I shall have to apply to you, Miss Dalrymple, for the name of the incumbent of this parish. I have been shocked to find Muriel so neglectful of Elizabeth’s spiritual as well as her physical welfare that she is not … .”
“Chief Inspector!” Muriel broke in with an air of desperation—to Daisy’s unspeakable relief as she wasn’t at all sure which was their parish church, let alone the vicar’s name. “I know you want to talk to me, and to Roger. He’s gone up for a rest but I’m at your service. Will the dining room do?”
“Perfectly.” If Alec was disconcerted to have his chief suspect practically throw herself into his arms, Daisy saw no sign of it in his expression. “Did Detective Constable Piper arrive during my absence?”
“Yes, a few minutes before you. He went down to the kitchen. I’ll ring for Beryl to send him up.” She pressed the bell. “Daisy, you’ll come with me, won’t you?”
“If you feel in need of support, Muriel,” said her father, “I am quite prepared to accompany you.”
Muriel looked aghast.
“I’d prefer Miss Dalrymple’s presence, sir,” Alec intervened, earning glances of burning gratitude from both Daisy and Muriel. “She is acquainted with many of the other people involved in the case.”
“I hardly consider that a recommendation,” the disgruntled vicar said stiffly.
Before he could insist on his right to attend his daughter, Muriel sped out to the hall, in her haste almost catching Alec’s heels in the door as he brought up the rear behind Daisy. They settled at the table in the dining room, with Piper in an inconspicuous corner taking notes.
“First, Miss Westlea,” Alec began, “will you confirm that Mrs. Abernathy drank from the decanter during the interval?”
“Oh yes. The first thing she wanted when I joined her in the ladies’ dressing-room was a glass of ratafia.”
“And she drank it?”
“She didn’t gulp it, as she did when … later. She sipped it, but by the end of the interval she had finished it.”
“Thank you, t
hat’s a great help.”
No wonder Alec looked pleased, Daisy thought. Muriel had eliminated the need to hunt down everyone who arrived late for the concert. She didn’t seem to realize she had limited the list of suspects to those in the soloists’ room during the interval.
“Before I went back to the choir room,” she went on, “I refilled the glass and gave it to one of the ushers to put under her chair on the stage. Father says I should have known something was wrong with it, but how could I?” She gazed at Alec pleadingly.
“You couldn’t, Miss Westlea … unless you had added the cyanide.”
“I told him I couldn’t possibly have guessed.” Muriel appeared far more concerned about her father’s reproaches than Alec’s suspicions. “It looked and smelled just the same as usual. There was no way to tell someone had tampered with it.”
“But someone did. Why did you tell me Mrs. Abernathy had no enemies?”
“‘Enemies’ sounds so very malevolent. Betsy sometimes upset people, but she wasn’t the sort of evil person who has enemies.”
“Would you say Eric Cochran was upset when she threatened to tell his wife about his affair with Miss Blaise?”
“She didn’t exactly threaten him. She said it wasn’t right to keep his wife in ignorance, but she didn’t see how she’d ever find time to tell her if she had to rehearse for the Verdi Requiem.”
Alec’s lips twitched. “I see. Neither Cochran nor Miss Blaise retaliated by suggesting Mrs. Abernathy’s affair with Gilbert Gower ought to be disclosed to their respective spouses?”
“They already knew. Betsy never tried to keep her affairs secret from poor Roger, only from our parents.” Muriel threw a nervous glance backwards at the dining-room door. “And the way Mr. Gower carried on with foreign sopranos was notorious.”
“Mrs. Gower knew about the foreign sopranos,” Alec agreed. “Did she know about Mrs. Abernathy?”
“Yes, she actually asked Betsy to leave Gilbert alone. Betsy said she was in a state because he’d taken up with an English mistress who wouldn’t go away after a few months.”
Just as Alec had surmised. He flashed Daisy a smug glance as he asked, “Did Mrs. Abernathy comply with Mrs. Gower’s request?”
“No, she refused to stop seeing him. In fact, I’m afraid she thought it was very funny because they had already ceased to be lovers. I tried to persuade her to set Mrs. Gower’s mind at rest, but … well, Betsy could be rather stubborn, and I didn’t quite like to approach Mrs. Gower myself on such a subject.”
“Do you know why Mrs. Abernathy kept meeting Gower when they were no longer lovers?”
Muriel reluctantly confirmed the Covent Garden story. Alec went on to ask her about Consuela de la Costa’s threats against Bettina, and then about Marchenko’s grudge, both of which she admitted, growing more and more unhappy.
“And your parents still regard your sister as an angel?” he said at last, sceptically.
“They never used to come up to town and don’t know anyone here. The only way they could have found out what she was really like was if I told them. Why should I shatter their illusions?” A note of yearning entered her voice. “It wouldn’t make them love me any better. They’d probably not have believed me, but if they did they’d be devastated.”
Daisy didn’t believe anything was capable of devastating the Reverend Westlea’s tyrannical self-righteousness, unshaken by his favourite daughter’s death. As for Mrs. Westlea, she was already thoroughly devastated by life with him. Muriel had been on her way to the same pathetic state of submissiveness, but now that Bettina was dead, perhaps Yakov Levich would rescue her. He didn’t seem at all the brow-beating sort, but whether he’d support Muriel against her parents was another matter.
As if he had read Daisy’s mind, Alec asked, “Were your parents disturbed by Mr. Levich’s presence here this morning?”
“Yes.” Muriel looked mutinous. “Father stared down his nose as if Mr. Levich were a … a cockroach and asked in a perfectly horrid voice if he was a Hebrew. Then Roger, the dear, said very firmly that Mr. Levich was his friend, but I said he was mine, too. And then Yasha, Mr. Levich, said he ought to be going. I asked him to stay but he insisted. When I showed him out, he told me he didn’t want to add to my parents’ distress at such a time. So I said what about my distress and I made him promise to come back for dinner!” she finished in triumph.
“Bravo!” said Daisy.
As Muriel turned to her, Alec’s eyebrows warned her against interrupting. “Miss Westlea,” he said, recapturing Muriel’s attention, “what did your sister think of your ‘friendship’ with Levich?”
“Betsy made things as difficult as she could,” said Muriel candidly, sadly. “She was even ruder than Father to Yasha. But he ignored her, and anyway, she was hardly ever there when we met at rehearsals. Most of her engagements were in the provinces, you know. I’m afraid she blamed poor Roger for that, too, though it was her own fault.”
Seizing the opening, Alec asked her about Roger Abernathy’s relations with Bettina. Nothing new emerged, as far as Daisy could tell. Despite all provocation, Abernathy had remained patient and kind, not so much forgiving as accepting his beautiful wife’s vagaries.
“He was still in love with her,” said Muriel with absolute certainty, “don’t ask me why.”
After that, Alec took her through what little she recalled about people’s movements in the soloists’ room, from which one useful fact emerged: After her arrival, Consuela de la Costa had only left the ladies’ dressing-room briefly to see Eric Cochran. She had brought bottled spring water with her, the way Continentals did, not trusting tap water. Her maid had a glass of it ready.”
“Her maid?” said Alec, dismayed. “I’ve heard nothing about a maid!”
“She stayed in the dressing-room. The usher at the door wouldn’t have seen her. And I expect Miss de la Costa sent her home at the end of the interval.”
“Yes, probably. At least, she left before the room was locked. That’s all for the present, then, Miss Westlea, except that my sergeant should be here by now to take your fingerprints, and Mr. Abernathy’s. It’s routine procedure, for elimination purposes.”
Without hesitation, Muriel rang for the maid. Beryl appeared with Tom Tring in tow, and was sent to see if Roger Abernathy had risen from his rest.
Abernathy came in just as Muriel’s fingerprinting was finished. He still looked pale and strained, but by no means in imminent danger of dropping dead. Like Muriel, he presented his fingertips to Sergeant Tring without hesitation.
“I needn’t detain you any longer,” Alec said to Muriel, with a glance at Daisy which said plainly, “and that goes for you, too.”
“Have you got your pills, Roger?” Muriel asked anxiously. He felt in his pocket with his free hand and produced the little bottle. “Oh dear, you only have a couple left, and this is the spare bottle from the cloakroom. I must get your prescription renewed at once.”
Daisy hissed a reminder at Alec: “Watch his lips!” Alec nodded, and she and Muriel went out.
Muriel telephoned Abernathy’s doctor. As she hung up the receiver after talking to him, Tom Tring came out of the dining room.
“I’ve Mr. Abernathy’s permission to have a look through Mrs. Abernathy’s desk, miss,” he said.
“Oh dear, I’ve put Mother and Father in there, and I was just going to send Elsie out for Roger’s prescription.”
“I’ll clear it out and take the contents downstairs to examine, if that’s more convenient, miss.”
“Yes,” Muriel said gratefully, “you can go to the music room. I’ll take you up now. Daisy, would you mind frightfully … ?” She gave the drawing-room door an edgy glance.
“Right-ho,” said Daisy nobly, and went to beard the vicar.
She didn’t suffer alone for long. Muriel returned, and shortly thereafter the front doorbell rang to announce the first of a stream of visitors.
The Reverend Westlea proved most adept at dealing wit
h the mixed condolences and curiosity of acquaintances, leaving to Muriel her brother-in-law’s many genuinely sympathetic friends. Choir members, pupils past and present, others who had worked with Roger Abernathy, all surprised Daisy with their evident fondness for the quiet, unassuming man. He put in a brief appearance, but he was not at all well. Just before he retired upstairs again, he told Muriel and Daisy—to Daisy’s annoyance—that the police had left.
Olivia Blaise came specifically to find out how Roger was. “I can’t bring myself to offer sympathy,” she murmured to Daisy, “because he’s much better off without her, but I do hope he’ll take care of his health.”
“Muriel will look after him. It’s a frightful thing to say, but if you ask me he ought to have married her, not Bettina. Then they both could have been happy for the last ten years instead of miserable.”
Olivia smiled but shook her head. “Bettina would have battened on them and ruined everything anyway.” She looked round as Beryl announced Mr. and Mrs. Cochran. “I’m off. Don’t forget to tell Roger I asked after him.” Turning, she found Cochran close behind her. “Oh, Eric! What do you want?”
“To offer you the Verdi part.” A muscle twitched in his cheek and his eyes pleaded with her. “Browne has arranged for a repeat performance next Monday. Please, Olivia.”
Her gaze searched his handsome face. “Do you really want me?”
“You know I do!”
Olivia’s expression softened and she laid her hand on his arm. “We’ll give it a try,” she said gently.
Daisy slipped away unnoticed. She joined the group around Mr. and Mrs. Westlea in time to hear Mrs. Cochran offer the use of her house for a reception after the funeral.
“Mrs. Abernathy was well known in musical circles and you will certainly need more space than you have here,” she said. “In my youth we always lent our grounds for church picnics and fetes. My father, Sir Denzil Vernon, considered it his duty.”
The Reverend Westlea eagerly accepted. “Mrs. Cochran, have you met the Honourable Miss Dalrymple?” he went on.
“The Honourable!” Mrs. Cochran’s nostrils flared as she stared at Daisy with pursed lips, to the detriment of her maquillage. “Yes, Vicar, Miss Dalrymple and I have met. I was not aware …”
