by Carola Dunn
But she was still a suspect. Means, motive, opportunity, she had them all in abundance.
“Do you want a word with Daisy?” she asked.
“She’s with you?”
“No, she’s moved back next door, but I could fetch her.”
“That’s all right, thanks. If you happen to speak to her, please tell her I’ll see her tomorrow evening. Good-bye.” Hanging up, he glared at the grins on Tom and Ernie’s faces.
“Miss Dalrymple safe home, Chief?” Tom asked innocently.
“Yes. What does the lab say?”
“Too little for proper testing, but some indication of a substance which could be nitroglycerin. Reading between the lines, they’re convinced but won’t swear to it on oath.”
“Sir Bernard says much the same. For the present, we’ll work on that basis. Let’s get something to eat while we go over the list.”
Over steak-and-kidney pie—more kidney than steak, as Tom remarked—with chips and greyish tinned peas, they discussed the suspects. Gower, Finch, and Miss de la Costa were out of it. No sign of a motive for Browne had emerged.
“Of the rest,” Alec said, “Abernathy has trinitrin pills and Miss Westlea has easy access to them. Miss Blaise and Cochran knew a spare bottle was kept in the downstairs cloakroom. Cochran’s access to the house was limited after Mrs. Abernathy forced him to give her the part, but Miss Blaise continued to frequent it for her lessons. Levich never visited until after Mrs. Abernathy’s death.” He interrupted himself to take a forkful of gravy-sogged pastry and rubbery kidney such as Mrs. Tring would never have allowed on her table.
“What about Mr. Abernathy, Chief?” Piper asked.
“I don’t think there’s any doubt that he loved her, which doesn’t mean he didn’t poison her. He’s still top of the list, if only because statistics prove husbands are the most frequent killers of wives.”
“Don’t say much for marriage, does it.”
“Ah,” said Tom, “now if everyone’s trouble and strife was like mine!”
Alec smiled at him. “Some of us are luckier than others. Abernathy was not one of the lucky ones. He had means, motive, opportunity. The trouble is, like Miss Westlea he had all three in abundance for a long time. Why there and then? I’ve yet to hear anything which even hints at an explanation. Any ideas?”
The others shook their heads.
“Think about it. Unless we come up with something, I wouldn’t put any money on him.”
“That leaves Mrs. Cochran, Mrs. Gower, and Marchenko,” Tom said. “Didn’t you say Miss Dalrymple told you Mrs. Gower could get at the pills?”
“Yes. She does volunteer work at an East End clinic and actually mentioned to Miss Dalrymple that trinitrin is one of the drugs dispensed there, though she herself works mostly with children. Ernie, I’ll leave this one to you.”
“Cor, really, Chief?”
“If Mrs. Gower is at the clinic, she’s unlikely to recognize you and take fright—don’t mention her name if you can help it. We need to know whether they keep their drugs locked up and if so, who has keys.” He paused as Ernie whipped out his notebook. “Also whether they keep proper records and, if so, has an unusual amount of trinitrin been used recently.”
“Trinitrin’s the same as nitroglycerin, Chief?”
“Yes, and easier to spell. If the clinic’s not open tomorrow morning, try to find out who’s in charge and get them to show you around. Refer them to me if necessary. I want to know soon.”
“Right, Chief.”
“You really think she could be the one, Chief?” Tom enquired, pushing away a practically spotless plate and replacing it with a dish of spotted dog liberally doused with lumpy custard.
With a shudder, Alec gave up on his bullet-like peas and took out his pipe. “You can have my pudding, Tom. Yes, Mrs. Gower’s near the top. She was afraid Mrs. Abernathy was going to break up her family, harm her children, who are her whole life. She was alone in the soloists’ room. Ernie, when you’re done with the clinic, find the usher who was on the door and pin him down as to how long she was in there.”
“Right, Chief.”
“Not that it’ll make much difference. A few seconds would suffice. I’ll have to see her again, and I’ll deal with Marchenko. Tom, I want you to trace the Cochrans’ and Levich’s doctors and find out if trinitrin was ever prescribed for any of them. I’m inclined to write off all three, but we need to know.”
“I doubt it was Miss Blaise eether, Chief. Like she said, bumping off Mrs. Abernathy during the performance was too late to do her much good.”
Alec’s pipe caught at last and he puffed at it for a few moments before he said contemplatively, “There’s another reason, less tangible perhaps, why I’d be inclined to write off Miss Blaise, and Miss Westlea, too. Whether they’re genuinely in love with Cochran and Levich respectively I don’t pretend to guess, but I do believe their affection and concern for Abernathy is sincere. They’re both very much aware that any severe shock could kill him. To my mind, that would be enough to stop either killing his wife.”
“D’you think so, Chief?” Tom said, his large face dubious.
“‘I’d be inclined,’ I said.” Alec laughed. “You know better, Tom, than to think anyone drops off my little list without more reason than a hunch.” Or intervention by the Special Branch. “There’s something else in Miss Westlea’s favour, though, those finger-marks on the sides of the stopper. Why should she grasp it that way when her prints are all over the knob?”
“If she didn’t, someone else did,” Piper observed profoundly.
“Exactly, and no one but the murderer had a reason. Ernie, you can go home now. Tom, you’ve today’s notes to write up, and I have three or four other cases to catch up on. We’ll all meet in my office tomorrow at five—no, try to make it half past four.”
Tom winked. “Give you time to spruce up before you take Miss Dalrymple out, eh, Chief?”
17
The yellow Austin Chummy pulled in to the kerb promptly at seven thirty. Daisy hurriedly dropped the curtain to close the tiny gap she’d been peering through.
“Lucy, do I look all right?” she asked hopefully, twitching the belt which clamped the rose charmeuse to her unfashionable, undeniable hips.
“Topping, darling,” Lucy drawled. “Much too smart for the Strand Corner House.”
“He won’t take me there, and if he does I don’t mind. All sorts of people eat there.”
“Precisely.”
Daisy pulled a face at her maddening friend, then grabbed her handbag and powdered her nose as the doorbell rang. Dashing out into the hall, she opened the door. There was Alec, looking frightfully suave, in fact altogether scrumptious, in a perfectly decent dinner-jacket. Hardly daring to acknowledge to herself that she’d been afraid he’d turn up in a suit—not that she cared, but what Lucy would say!—she took him into the front parlour.
“Good-evening, Mr. Fletcher.” Lucy was coolly antagonistic. “I hope you’re prepared to spring for champagne. Daisy has some news to tell.”
“I was going to save it for later,” Daisy said crossly.
“You can’t keep me in suspense now.” Alec smiled at her. “I can do with some good news.”
“I took my museum article, the one about the Victoria and Albert, to the editor this morning.” Elation frothed up inside her again. “There was a magazine editor from America in his office, visiting, and he looked at it and liked it and bought American rights on the spot.”
“Congratulations!”
“Wait, that’s not all. He wants a whole series of articles on the museums of London, and he’s paying simply pots of money!”
“Daisy, that’s wonderful!” His pleasure set the seal on her accomplishment.
“So the champagne’s on me,” she said grandly, picking up her coat from the back of a chair.
“Not on your life.” He held the coat for her. “Tonight’s my treat. My honour: Miss Daisy Dalrymple, the well-known internationa
l journalist, was seen dining with an unknown …”
Daisy laughed. “ … With the celebrated Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard, reports of whose feats of detection have often graced these pages. I’ll see you later, Lucy.”
“Cheerio, darling, have fun.” Lucy’s smile was genuine and included Alec.
Alec waited until the front door closed behind them to comment. “Do I detect a slight thaw?”
“You’re the detective. Yes, I think the liberated woman may yet overcome the blue blood. You were suitably impressed by my brilliant achievement, unlike Phillip.”
“Phillip Petrie?” he said guardedly, opening the Austin’s door for her.
“Yes.” Sitting down with a grace worthy—she hoped—of a Daimler, she looked up at him. “You see, I met Phil for lunch afterwards and his response to my news was that it would only encourage me in this tommy-rot about earning my own living.”
“Silly juggins.”
By the light of the streetlamp on the corner, she saw his broad grin. Could he possibly be jealous of Phillip?
“I was livid, and so was Lucy when I told her,” she said as he got in beside her. “But it’s pointless, really. The dear old duffer just doesn’t understand. Enough of that, though. What’s going on with the case? I gather from the papers that Mrs. Cochran hasn’t been charged with Bettina’s murder?”
“Let’s leave that till later. Listen, I’ve booked a table at a rather different little place in Soho, but your news calls for the Ritz, if you’d prefer.”
“Oh no, let’s go somewhere different and interesting. Maybe I could write a series on unusual places to eat in London, for the American magazine. I bet Mr. Thorwald would swallow it. Where are we going?”
“Wait and see.”
He took her to the Cathay. Daisy had noticed it before, when dining at the popular Monico, next door, but none of her set had ventured to delve into its Oriental mysteries. In fact, she had never tried Chinese food. The proprietor himself welcomed Alec by name and showed them to one of the best tables. To Daisy’s disappointment, the Chinaman was dressed in ordinary black tails, not an embroidered robe, and the only accent she detected was the merest hint of Cockney. At least he bowed in proper Oriental fashion.
The meal was exotic enough to satisfy her—dishes containing bamboo shoots and bean sprouts among commoner ingredients. With strange and delicious flavours tickling her palate and champagne bubbles her nose, it was hard to concentrate on all the questions she wanted to ask.
“It was really Mrs. Cochran who tried to kill Olivia?” she said at last, the immediate pangs of hunger assuaged.
“Indubitably. Faced with incriminating fingerprints, she confessed.”
“How on earth did she hope to get away with it?”
“Like most criminals, she hadn’t really thought it through. She says she expected whoever murdered Mrs. Abernathy to be blamed, and since she didn’t do that … .” He shrugged. “She’s quick-witted at times, but she’s not a level-headed woman or she wouldn’t have married a man fifteen years younger and tried to mould him into a knightable conductor.”
“It’s most unfair.” Daisy went off at a tangent. “It’s perfectly acceptable for a man to marry a girl fifteen years his junior and try to make her a dame-able singer, like Dame Nellie Melba.”
“If you mean Abernathy, I’d have said the ambition was hers, not his. He just wanted her, for what she was worth.”
“Yes, but the principle is the same. It’s awful, Alec, he’s absolutely pining away. He doesn’t seem to want to live without her. It’s hard to fathom, but he truly loved her.”
“Rereading my notes, the word people most often used was ‘doted,’ with its suggestion of foolishness and blindness.”
“Foolish, yes; blind, no. She broke his heart—yet losing her has broken it all over again. It may sound fearfully soppy and old-fashioned, but it’s true. On top of everything else, he has this weird idea it was his fault Olivia was nearly poisoned. The only thing keeping him going is preparing her and his chorus for the repeat performance on Monday. You will be able to go, won’t you?”
“I expect so. No promises.”
“Well, at least you’ve kept your promise tonight not to desert me before dessert,” Daisy said with a smile as the waiter removed empty plates and offered the menu. “What do you recommend?”
“Both the ly-chees and the ginger in syrup are good.”
“Hmm. I can’t decide.”
“I’ll order both and we’ll swap half-way if you like.”
She nodded. With champagne singing in her head, the intimacy of sharing sounded simply heavenly.
“And coffee, sir?”
“Jasmine tea, please. If you don’t care for it, Daisy, we can always ask for coffee.”
After a few mouthfuls of fiery ginger, she was glad of the cool succulence of the ly-chees. Sipping the fragrant tea, she returned to business.
“If it wasn’t Mrs. Cochran who killed Bettina, do you know yet who it was?”
“There’s a good chance it was Jennifer Gower, I’m afraid.” Refilling her tiny, handleless cup, he failed to meet her eyes. Was he being evasive? “The drug cupboard at her clinic is only locked at night and their records are in a hopeless mess. You know how Piper is with figures? He glanced over their books and came back with a list of discrepancies as long as my arm. Mrs. Gower could have walked out with anything from trinitrin to morphine without its being missed.”
“You don’t have any proof she took anything, though?”
“None. Frankly, at this stage I can’t see how we’ll ever find proof. The best I can hope for is a confession, and if it’s her I’ve an idea how to wring one from her.”
“It sounds beastly.”
“Murder is beastly. Remember that, Daisy, because I want your help.”
Her qualms vanished. “You do? Oh, spiffing! What do you want me to do?”
“Are you free tomorrow, late afternoon? There’s to be a rehearsal of the Verdi Requiem at the Albert Hall, so most of the suspects will be there anyway.”
“Everyone except Mrs. Gower.”
“Yes, but I’ve told her I want to gather everyone together to give them news about the case. She’ll come, and I don’t imagine anyone will be surprised to see you there.”
“They’ll all think you’re going to tell them Mrs. Cochran did it, but I can’t see how that would induce anyone to confess.”
“No, what I shall announce is that the only way Mrs. Abernathy could have been poisoned by cyanide …”
“But I thought you’d decided it was trinitrin!” Daisy interrupted.
“Hold on a minute. Let me finish. The only way she could have been poisoned by cyanide is if her doctor made a mistake in putting up a prescription for her, a prescription for cyanide in a very weak solution to soothe a cough.”
“Dr. Woodward?”
“Yes, though I shan’t mention him by name.”
“I should hope not! He could be ruined.”
“Exactly. That’s why I have to hedge, and why I’m hoping it will flush out a confession, and why you can help. And, incidentally, why I’ve already asked his permission to try this.”
“He’s letting you do it?” She was outraged. “Doesn’t he have a family? What about his wife and children being ruined too?”
“Perfect!”
Daisy glared at him. “What do you mean, perfect?”
“If you’ll just stop going off half-cocked and let me explain, you’ll find out! You see, the nitroglycerin theory is still theory, not fact, so Woodward has a stake in getting the case cleared up. And his children are the whole point.”
“Mrs. Gower is mad about children,” Daisy said slowly.
“Right. Woodward has three young ’uns.”
“So when you say he … . You want me to … . And you think she’ll confess for their sake? Yes, she might.”
“Only don’t, for pity’s sake, announce his name in case she doesn’t. I can’t sq
ueeze another drop from this tea-pot. More? All right, then, we’ll work out on the way home exactly what you have to say.” Alec summoned the waiter with a glance and asked for the bill.
Instead of the waiter returning, the proprietor came over. “Please, Mr. Fletcher, I ’ope … hope you will accept your dinner on the house, sir,” he said, beaming and bowing.
Alec firmly, though politely, insisted on paying. On the way to the car, Daisy asked what he had done to be so favoured, but he shook his head.
“Come on, Alec, be a sport!”
He laughed. “No, that was one case of mine you didn’t manage to horn in on. We’ll keep it that way. Be satisfied with a vital part in this one.”
So there they all were in the choir room again. Daisy had attended the rehearsal. Her head still buzzing from the thrill of the Libera me with its dramatically hushed ending, she sat with Muriel, Roger, and Yakov Levich.
Nearby, Mr. Finch played on his imaginary keyboard. Olivia and Cochran were together, the conductor looking harrowed, uncertain, as if he had lost his place in the score of life and now had to improvise on an unknown tune. His performance on the podium hadn’t been affected, though, as far as Daisy could tell. The rehearsal had gone well.
Dimitri Marchenko again sat alone, brooding. Consuela de la Costa paced, a tawny, impatient cat, studiously ignoring and being ignored by the Gowers. Gilbert and Jennifer Gower sat very close to each other, heads together. Daisy had seen them holding hands as they came in. She couldn’t help hoping that Alec was wrong and Mrs. Gower innocent.
Of all those present, Daisy would have preferred to see Marchenko unmasked as the murderer, but he’d never confess to save Dr. Woodward. If he was the one, how on earth was Alec to prove it?
Major Browne came in, red-faced and tubby as ever, and bustled from group to group, assuring all and sundry that the Chief Inspector would be here any minute. When he reached Daisy and her friends, he winked at her and said in a roguish aside, “I’ve got a new tin of biscuits if you’d like to join me afterwards, Miss Dalrymple? Haw, haw!”
