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Authors: Carola Dunn

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“Perhaps he is stupid. He'll be here in a moment, if they've found him. I suppose you'd better stay so that you can tell me about each person before they come in.”
“Darling, may I really?” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the nose.
“Daisy! Sit over there, will you? Not exactly hidden; where people are not likely to notice you.”
She obediently retreated to the shadows as Tom ushered in a youth in dark grey flannels and a navy blazer.
“Mr. Devenish, sir.”
As Teddy Devenish crossed the room towards him, Alec was struck by the resemblance of his expression to Crummle's: disgruntled and belligerent. A closer view, however, revealed not Crummle's gloom but a spark of apprehension behind the façade. Teddy was batting on a sticky wicket and he knew it.
“How do you do, Mr. Devenish. I'm sorry to have to trouble you on such a—”
“I'm not saying anything.” Teddy leant with both hands on the desk and glowered. “Not without a solicitor.”
“That is your privilege, sir. No doubt your father has summoned his solicitor?”
“Er, well, no, actually.”
“Perhaps he is unaware of precisely at what o'clock this morning you arrived?”
“I'm of age. I don't have to tell him everything I do.”
“Of course not,” Alec said soothingly as if to a fractious child. “Family solicitors tend to be rather stuffy. I dare say you'd rather have your own.” He noted with satisfaction that he'd flummoxed the boy. “Won't you sit down, Mr. Devenish?”
Teddy subsided on to the chair with a groan. “I suppose my sister told you everything.”
“Everything she knows. There are gaps to be filled. Let's start at the beginning. Where were you staying before you came to Haverhill?”
“Why the devil do you need to know that?”
“Routine. Ah, I see my sergeant frowning at me. We'd better start with your full name and address, if you please, just as a matter of routine.”
“Edward Granville Devenish.” He gave the address of his flat in town, on the wrong side of Oxford Street, but not by much. “The family place is Saxonfield, in Leicestershire.”
“Thank you. And your friends in Hampshire?”
As Alec anticipated, Teddy found it much less perturbing to give his friends' address once he had given his own. “The name's Hetheridge. Danesbury House, near Nether Wallop. The chap who invited me is Bill Hetheridge.”
“Thank you. What was your reason for leaving Danesbury House late in the evening for a long drive?”
“I can't see that it's any business of yours!”
“Mr. Devenish, you went to a good deal of trouble to arrive in the middle of the night, unexpectedly, and to conceal the time of your arrival. At roughly the time of your arrival, your grandmother was brutally murdered. You are one of her heirs. Let me assure you, it is my business to find out why you left Danesbury House and came to Haverhill in such curious circumstances.”
White-faced, Teddy cried, “I'm not telling you! I won't have you
twisting my words!” He stumbled to his feet. “Leave me alone. Leave me alone, damn you!”
Blundering towards the door, he narrowly missed a couple of chairs. Alec let him reach for the handle before saying in a voice like the crack of a whip, “You are not to leave Haverhill, Mr. Devenish.”
Without speaking, Teddy went out into the hall, leaving the door ajar.
“You think he's our man, Chief?”
“I wouldn't go quite that far, Tom, but young Teddy is definitely in hot water.”
“Waist-deep,” said Daisy soberly.
“I'll ring up these Hetheridges and see what explanation he gave them for leaving. But later, I think. Let him stew for a while. I'll see Lucy next, Tom.”
“Right, Chief.” Tom went out.
“Darling, you're not going to make me sit in this corner while you give Lucy the third degree?”
“No, you can come over here, if you promise not to interrupt.”
“Cross my heart.”
He moved a chair close to the desk for her, at the opposite end from the suspects' chair. “I won't ask you about Lucy. Tell me about Sir James and Lady Devenish.”
“I don't know much. He rather goes in for killing things—huntin', shootin', fishin'—to Angela's distress, but I can't honestly see him doing in his mother. More likely his wife. Lady Devenish is a shrew, and I'd say she wears the breeches.”
“The London house reverts to the estate. He might see it as a refuge, or as somewhere his wife might be persuaded to stay frequently, now that his mother's not there.”
“Occam's razor,” said Daisy.
“Great Scott, Daisy, I didn't know you'd ever heard of Occam.”
“I know my education was deficient and I didn't understand all the
philosophical stuff about nominalism, but I read about his razor the other day and it makes sense. Why should Sir James get rid of his mother in order to escape his wife, rather than simply doing in his wife?”
“Wider field of suspects. Hush, here's Lucy.”
“Good afternoon, Chief Inspector.”
Alec's relationship with his wife's dearest friend had been mixed, to say the least. To start with, she had strongly disapproved of Daisy consorting with a policeman. Later, involved on the periphery of a murder case, she had been furious at his taking her fingerprints and chiding her for careless storage of dangerous photographic chemicals. His support of Daisy's writing career had met with her grudging approval, and he had learnt not to let her sardonic remarks irk him. At best she was mildly antagonistic, but they had been on christian-name terms for ages.
He matched her coolness. “Good afternoon, Miss Fotheringay. I'm sorry to have to trouble you at such a sorrowful—”
She cut him off with a gesture and her own brand of devastating frankness: “I'm not exactly shattered, I'm afraid. Aunt Eva wasn't a bad old bird, as great-aunts go, but then, great-aunts do go, don't they? At least, most of mine have popped off by now. You mustn't think, because she left me some money, that we were close. And I avoid the rest of her family like the plague.”
“Ah yes, the money. I understand you profit considerably from your great-aunt's death.”
“Are you about to arrest me?”
Alec leant back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture he was wont to employ when exasperated. “No, I'm not about to arrest you, Lucy. But you must realize I can't overlook the fact.”
“The money would have come in very handy anytime in the past five or six years, but now I'm getting married, I shan't actually
need
it. Not that I shan't be glad to have it and I'm grateful to Aunt Eva for leaving it to me, of course.”
From the corner of his eye, Alec caught a glimpse of a perplexed expression on Daisy's face. Whatever was troubling her, he didn't expect her to tell him. She was quite convinced of Lucy's innocence, naturally. He himself couldn't quite see her as a murderer.
He regarded Lucy thoughtfully. “We may have to go into Lord Gerald's finances.”
“My dear Chief Ins—Oh, what the hell, Alec!—I'm sure you'll solve the case long before you have to resort to such expedients. That's why I persuaded Grandfather to try to get you down here. I wouldn't have if I'd done her in. I didn't, you know. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a rendezvous with my intended.” Standing, she turned to Daisy. “Coming, darling?”
“Is it tea-time already? Yes, coming. Alec, darling, I've told you all I know about your next two victims. I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll make sure Baines sends in tea for you and Tom.”
“Very welcome it'll be, too, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Tom, studiously avoiding Alec's eye.
With brisk steps, the two young women departed.
 
The library door closed behind them. “So you've decided to marry him after all?” Daisy enquired as they crossed the hall, already emptied of trestle tables.
“I'm not sure. I simply can't make up my mind. I've a feeling I'll know as soon as I see him. You'll extract Uncle Aubrey from the conservatory, won't you, if he's still there?”
“I'll do my best.”
“Tea's in the drawing room today—Grandmother's got some frightfully Victorian notion that tea on the terrace is inappropriate in a house of mourning.”
“I haven't actually noticed much in the way of mourning.”
“No. Sad, isn't it? Poor old Aunt Eva didn't have the knack of making herself loved.” Lucy grimaced. “I don't suppose I do, either.”
“Except by Binkie.”
“Maybe that's why I'm not sure. If he's mad about me, there must be something wrong with the poor fish.”
“Oh, Lucy, you're much too hard to please!”
They entered the dining room and, skirting the table, made for the glass doors on the far side which opened into the conservatory. From beyond them, Daisy heard what sounded like a muffled shout, rhythmically repeated. As Lucy pushed the heavy door open, the sound resolved into a yell: “Help!”
“That's Binkie!” Lucy hurried forward between the palms and heavy-scented datura, Daisy at her heels.
“Help!”
Binkie was kneeling on the slate floor, his back to them, leaning forward, half concealed by luxuriant foliage and pink and white blooms. He straightened.
“Help!”
“Darling, what's wrong?”
“Lucy, go and send for a doctor. Quickly!” Swinging forward again, he pressed down.
“Uncle Aubrey!”
Between Binkie's legs, Lord Fotheringay lay prone, arms outstretched, head turned aside. “One … two … three.” Binkie straightened. “Go! One … two.” He leant forward, compressing his lordship's lower ribs beneath his powerful hands. “One … two … three.”
“Go on, Lucy,” Daisy urged. “I'll help here if I can. We all had to learn artificial respiration at the hospital.”
“But what's wrong with Uncle Aubrey?”
Daisy turned her around and gave her a push. “Run. A heart attack, I imagine. Shall I take a turn, Binkie?”
“That's all right … two … three … I can go on forever. One … two … But I'm awfully afraid it's too late.”
“I'
m afraid it's my job to be suspicious, Lord Haverhill. Your son's death may well be perfectly natural, a heart attack induced by the strain of your sister's murder. But if I were to take it for granted, I should be derelict in my duty.”
“Cardiac arrest,” muttered Dr. Arbuthnot, “well, we all go by cardiac arrest in the final analysis.”
“He was ill.” Lady Fotheringay's face was blotched with tears. “You said yourself he had a weak heart.”
“Yes indeed. Aftereffect of rheumatic fever. Though I would have expected a more gradual decline—breathlessness, angina, and so on. I confess I am not familiar with the effects of tropical poisons.”
“But what conceivable motive could anyone have for murdering Aubrey?” Grieved and bewildered, the earl was now unmistakably an old man, his voice quavery. “He was the mildest, most inoffensive of men!”
“I hadn't had a chance to talk to him yet. Presumably he saw or heard something which could give us a clue to Lady Eva's death, possibly something he didn't recognize as significant. Or the murderer may simply have feared he'd seen something.”
“No, not Aubrey!” Lady Fotheringay sobbed.
Sally Fotheringay patted her mother-in-law's shoulder. “It was probably just a heart attack, all the same. It could have been, couldn't it, Dr. Arbuthnot?”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Fotheringay, quite possibly.”
“Lady Fotheringay,” Sally corrected him. “I'm Lady Fotheringay now.”
Lady Haverhill, pale and drawn but still very upright and steadfast, said sharply, “It is usual to wait until after the funeral to assume a new title, out of respect for the deceased.”
Sally flushed. “I'm sure no one could respect Rupert's father more than I did. I didn't mean to upset anyone. I'm so upset myself I don't know what I'm saying.”
A smart young woman Alec couldn't place said, “Oh, pull yourself together, Sally, or go back to bed till Rupert arrives to hold your hand. Mr. Fletcher, if you truly have reason to believe Father may have been murdered, I for one will do anything in my power to help you find out who did it.” She bit her lip as if struggling to hold back tears. “He was a dear. I've never found another to match him.”
“Oooh,” wailed Lady Fotheringay.
The young woman—Flora?—crossed to her side. “Come along, Mumsie darling, you ought to be in bed. Doctor, can you give her something?”
Flora and Dr. Arbuthnot supported the weeping widow from the room, followed by a silent young man in a clergyman's collar.
Alec turned back to Lord Haverhill. “I'm sorry, sir, I hope I haven't given the impression that I'm certain your son's death is not natural. But nor am I asking your permission to investigate it as murder. If it is so, it can hardly fail to be connected with your sister's. I am in charge of the case, and Sir Leonard agrees that I must continue as I see fit.”
The Chief Constable, hovering unhappily in the background, nodded and muttered, “Terrible business, terrible business.”
“We are extremely grateful to you, Mr. Fletcher,” said the earl, “are we not, my dear? I shall make sure everyone under my roof understands
that they are to give you the utmost cooperation. I only wish your first visit to Haverhill had been under happier circumstances.”
“Believe me, sir, so do I!” A relaxing country weekend, Daisy had promised him.
Alec went back down to the conservatory. The police surgeon had arrived. A young man, he sprang up from his crouch beside the body with enviable ease.
Tom introduced him. “Dr. Philpotts, Chief.”
“No external trauma,” Philpotts said briskly, “barring slight signs of contusion from when he fell forward out of his chair. He was as good as dead when he hit the floor. Either a heart attack or you're looking at a case of poisoning, I'd say.”
“That was my feeling.”
“I recognized two poisonous plants as I came in here: datura and oleander.” He glanced around. “And I believe that's another, over there: poinsettia. I can't say I'm up on the symptoms; have to go look them up. But the garden's bound to be full of deadly stuff too, foxgloves, lily of the valley, narcissus, rhododendrons, autumn crocus, hydrangeas, you name it. I have to warn you, I haven't the facilities for detecting exotic poisons.”
“No, I think this is a case for Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the Home Office pathologist. Great Scott, Tom, what happened to the teapot? Bincombe said the victim was drinking tea when he died.”
“None here when we came in, Chief. Miss Lucy was more concerned to get the doctor here and it was a while before Mrs. Fletcher decided we ought to take a look.”
“But there was someone here all the time. What happened to the tea-pot? And he said Lord Fotheringay's cup broke. Where the deuce have they gone?”
“Only person I can think of could take 'em away and no one 'd notice is a parlourmaid.”
Alec groaned. “Damnation! The pot will have been washed out by now. We'll have nothing to give Sir Bernard.”
“They'll have thrown out the broken cup. May be some dregs left. I'll go see what I can find out.”
“Do that, Tom. In the meantime, all these plants seem to be labelled, Doctor. Would you mind making a list of all those you know to be poisonous, and another of any you are not sure about.”
“Willingly, Chief Inspector, but the second list may well be a long one.” Dr. Philpotts turned to a fresh page of his notebook. “I have little knowledge of tropical plants, of which this conservatory holds a great many.”
“It will be something for Sir Bernard to begin with. Incidentally, did my sergeant tell you Bincombe tried artificial respiration when Lord Fotheringay fell and he could find no pulse? Schafer's method, I understand. Would you consider that appropriate?”
“Certainly; in the case of simple cardiac arrest he had a chance—however remote—of resuscitating the victim.” As he answered, the doctor stooped to peer at plant labels and scribbled on his notepad. “If it was in fact poison, induced vomiting might have been more useful. But that depends on the poison, and if Lord Fotheringay was already dead it would be impossible in any case. In the circumstances, I'd say Bincombe acted with commendable common sense.”
“Thank you.” Alec was relieved to have one less reason for suspecting Lord Gerald of doing in his fiancée's uncle. In fact the only reason he was aware of was the young man's presence on the spot. “I take it you haven't done the autopsy on Lady Eva yet, or you'd have mentioned it.”
“No. The cause of death is pretty obvious, though.”
“Is the stocking still around her neck? I'll need that. For pity's sake don't throw it away, and send over any rings she's wearing, too. Now I'd better go and put in a call to Spilsbury. Thank you, Doctor.”
He spread over the corpse the sheet Philpotts had drawn back to make his examination, then made for the library to telephone. With any luck Sir Bernard would prove quickly and indisputably that Lord Fotheringay had died a natural death. Alec didn't need any more
complications to the already complicated investigation of Lady Eva's murder.
 
Daisy went to the library to wait for Alec. She wanted nothing more than to be told she was an idiot for suggesting Alec ought to look into Lord Fotheringay's death. Of course it wasn't another murder. People simply didn't go around doing in the members of a noble family, however recently ennobled.
But if they did, who was next?
Before she had time to follow up this horrifying train of thought, Alec came in. Striding towards the desk he didn't notice her until she said, “Darling?”
“Daisy! Wait a moment.” He sat down, pulled the telephone closer, and clicked impatiently until the operator responded, when he asked for a London number. “Yes, I'll hold the line. What is it, Daisy?”
“I just wondered. About Lord Fotheringay.”
“No answers yet. The local man doesn't feel competent to do the autopsy so I'm trying to get hold of Sir Bernard Spilsbury.”
“Then you think he was murdered? Someone's decided to do in the Fotheringays, one by one?”
“
If
it's murder, which I don't yet know, I'm sure it's because he knew something which might lead to Lady Eva's murderer. For pity's sake don't go putting it into people's heads that someone has it in for Fotheringays in general.”
“I wouldn't dream of it, darling. But Inspector Crummle is putting—” She stopped as Alec held up his hand.
“Hello?” He spoke for some time, waited, impatiently told the operator that yes, he'd have another three minutes, spoke again, and finally hung up. “Between the interest of the case and the lure of the peerage, he's agreed to do it as soon as we can get the body to him.”
“I think I saw the mortuary men waiting in the hall.”
“Yes, hold on just a minute.” He went to the door, which opened as he reached it. “Tom, you've got something already?”
“Easy, Chief. Seems Lord Fotheringay told Mr. Baines he'd take his tea in the conservatory today, and the parlourmaid carried in the tray at a quarter to five and then went to help in the drawing room, where the rest had theirs. She set it on the table near the garden door, in the middle there. His lordship was off at the far end messing about at his potting bench.”
“So the teapot was sitting there for up to a quarter of an hour before Bincombe arrived on the scene and found him drinking.”
“She said sometimes he was so busy with his plants he let it grow cold. She usually went in after a bit to see if he needed more hot water, but she had to take up a tray to Mr. Montagu too, then service in the drawing room kept her running, there being so many guests. Later, she went to clear up Lord Fotheringay's tea-things, just like normal. That's her job, she says, and that's what she did, though extra quiet and quick seeing he was lying there dead. That was before Mrs. Fletcher started wondering if it was suspicious and came and told us.”
“I dare say there was a bit of morbid curiosity in it.”
“Likely. But just because he was dead, she didn't see why she shouldn't dump the tea-leaves on his plants, like he always said to do. Seems it's good for 'em. And she showed me which plant she dumped them on and I took a look. There's some cut-up leaves that don't look like tea to me. Dr. Philpotts thinks it could be oleander.”
“You've taken a sample?”
“Sealed in one of them nice little jars with a label they put in the Murder Bag. Didn't I always say we needed something like it? Just over a month we've had ‘em and how many times have we used 'em already?”
“You were dead right, Tom. Now give the jar to those mortuary men and I'll leave you to persuade them they have to take it and the
body to London post haste. Spilsbury's agreed to do the autopsy this evening.”
“Right, Chief.”
Alec came back. “What were you saying about Crummle, Daisy? What is he putting where?”
“Not where. He's busy putting the wind up all and sundry.”
“Damnation! Sorry, love. What is it Arbuckle used to say? Tarnation! All the man is supposed to be doing is checking everyone's whereabouts at tea.”
“He seems to be leaving people with the impression that there's a homicidal maniac about, or alternatively that they're about to be hauled off to the police station to be grilled. Dire warnings in all directions. Sir Leonard's madly trying to pour oil on the troubled waters.”
“Oh … heck! Useful language, American. I'd better go and see what … Piper!”
Detective Constable Ernie Piper came into the library with a jaunty step, waving his notebook. “Got the goods, Chief. I'd've been here ages ago but the car that met me had a burst tyre. Afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Piper. Let's hope you can at least narrow the field of suspects!”
“Off with you, Daisy. This is not for your ears, remember. Go and help Sir Leonard with the soothing oil.”
“Right-oh,” said Daisy reluctantly.
In the hall, Tom Tring was arguing with two men in white coats, who held respectively a roll of canvas and two poles. Daisy lingered, lurking beside a pillar, to listen, in case she might be able to put in a decisive word.
“Who's a-goin' to pay for the petrol, that's what I want to know,” said the man with the canvas in the voice of one repeating himself for the umpteenth time.
“Us come to fetch a corpus to the morgue in Cambridge,” said the other obstinately, “not Lunnon.”
“Plans have changed,” said Tom with monumental patience. “Your orders—”
“My orders is what the guv'nor told me afore us set out.”
BOOK: A Mourning Wedding
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