Death at Daisy's Folly (17 page)

Sir Friedrich frowned. “A surgeon? But the man is quite dead.”

“Since there is no evident exit wound, the bullet must still be in the body. I would like to recover it.”

The Prince grimaced. “It seems a rather macabre souvenir.”

“Not a souvenir, sir, evidence. With luck, a bullet can be traced to the gun that fired it.”

“The exact gun?” Sir Friedrich asked curiously.

Lord Warwick looked skeptical. “I have had a great deal of experience with guns, Charles. A bullet might reveal the caliber and type of the gun that fired it, but beyond that—”

“When I was visiting the Krupp munitions works,” Charles said, “I noticed the driving bands with which the shells are fitted. When the shell is fired, these copper bands are forced into the spiral grooves that are cut into the inner surface of the gun barrel—its rifling, that is. These grooves, as you may be aware, force the projectile to rotate.”

“Every sportsman knows as much,” Sir Friedrich said impatiently. “The rotation prevents the projectile from tumbling while in flight, and increases its range and accuracy. But I fail to see what that has to do with—”

“As I studied the copper bands,” Charles said, “I noticed that the shells fired from the same weapon bore identical markings, but that these were different from the markings on shells fired by another weapon. As I looked into the matter further, I discovered that different arms manufacturers use different riflings. From model to model, there is a great variation among the number of grooves, their angle and twist, and the width of the grooves and the lands—the smooth surfaces between the grooves. Theoretically, at least, it is possible to identify the weapon from which a particular bullet was fired.”

“Amazing!” Lord Warwick exclaimed. He frowned. “I'm not sure I see the practical application, though.”

“Don't you?” the Prince asked. “I daresay the police do.”

“As a matter of fact,” Charles said, “a murder conviction was obtained in Lyons in '89 upon the testimony of Professor Lacassagne, who compared the marks on a fatal bullet and found them identical to the rifling of a gun owned by one of the suspects. While his conclusion is open to question, the conviction demonstrates that such evidence is useful in prosecution.”

“By Jove!” the Prince exclaimed. “What wonders science is visiting upon us!” He frowned down at Wallace's body. “The projectile is of no use, however, unless there is a weapon against which it may be compared.”

“Precisely. But the weapon may come to light. Meanwhile I should like to retrieve the bullet. There is a surgeon in Chelmsford who has my trust—a Dr. John Miles.”

“I shall be glad to send the carriage,” Lord Warwick offered.

There was a rattle of footsteps on the gravel, and Bradford appeared with the camera gear. “Sorry to be delayed,” he said to Charles. “Your gear had been unpacked and taken to your room.”

“Send Marsden,” the Prince said. “He's eager enough to put that motorcar of his into use.”

“Oh, absolutely, sir,” Bradford said, setting down the camera. “Where am I going?”

“To Chelmsford, for a surgeon,” Charles said. “His name is Dr. John Miles. You will find him in the High Street, at Number Twenty-two.” He turned to the Prince. “In the meantime, I suggest that Your Highness have Wallace's room sealed and post a guard at the door.”

“Excellent idea,” Sir Friedrich put in. “Reggie's belongings may contain vital evidence.”

“Yes,” Sir Charles agreed. “We need someone reliable. Everyone must be kept out.”

The Prince turned to Kirk-Smythe. “Room-guarding is up your line, Kirk-Smythe. I'll have a lunch plate sent up to you. ”

Kirk-Smythe came to attention. “Your Highness will be safe?”

“Of course I'll be safe,” the Prince said testily. “After all, I am among friends. This body-guarding business can be carried a bit too far, if you ask me.”

Kate looked at Kirk-Smythe, suddenly realizing what she might have guessed before: that the man was assigned to protect the Prince. It must not be an easy job.

“But, sir,” Kirk-Smythe objected, “the Queen is quite concerned about Anarchists. And when she learns of Lord Wallace's murder, she will be deeply worried that—”

“Oh, blast the Queen,” the Prince said. “Anyway, I don't intend Mama to learn of the murder until Sheridan has solved it for us.” He waved the young man off. “Go on and guard that room.” He turned to Sir Charles. “Are we quite finished? While we dawdle here, our food is getting cold.”

“There is one thing more,” Charles said. He glanced obliquely at Kate. “I would like Miss Ardleigh to serve as my assistant. She has an access to the female guests and servants that I could not possibly obtain.”

Kate pulled in her breath. His assistant? Beryl Bardwell felt like shouting and throwing her hat in the air. Access to the details of a criminal investigation—no, more than access, participation in the investigation itself! What a wonderful way to gather new materials for—

But then her heart sank. If she had any doubt that Sir Charles knew about Beryl Bardwell, this kicked it into a cocked hat. Of course he knew—and thought that since she practiced the solution of crime on paper, she might have a talent for the thing itself.

“Miss Ardleigh? Kate?” The Prince was staring at her, perplexed. “But she is a woman!”

Sir Friedrich looked through his pince-nez. “One reads of such things in popular fiction,” he drawled in a condescending tone, “but confidential investigation is hardly a suitable occupation for a lady.”

“I can vouch for Miss Ardleigh's powers of observation,” Charles said. “She will be a most competent assistant.” Kate, taken totally aback by this turn of events, could think of nothing to say on her own behalf.

“Observation and competence are all very well,” the Prince said, twirling his walking stick, “but there remains the question of trust.” He peered at Kate. “Can she hold her tongue?”

“Miss Ardleigh can be trusted absolutely,” Sir Charles said, before Kate could speak. “I have no qualms regarding her ability to maintain a confidence.”

Sir Friedrich was frowning. “All this is well and good,” he said, “but don't forget that she is an American.” Suitable for enticing into Stone Hall for a spot of seduction, Kate thought with wry amusement, but fundamentally unreliable.

“Her viewpoint is all the fresher for it,” Sir Charles said. “She can see through our pretenses.” He glanced at her and added, as if he were suddenly struck by the thought, “She will not be dismayed by rank and privilege.”

“And,” Lord Warwick said practically, “since she's not one of us, she's not likely to have had a motive to kill Reggie.”

“Quite so,” the Prince said. “Well, then, Charles, Kate shall play Dr. Watson to your Holmes.” His good humor seemed entirely restored now that luncheon was at hand. He lifted his hand to Sir Charles. “Carry on, Sherlock.” He bowed to Kate. “And you, too, my dear Miss Watson.”

He strode off, chuckling at his little joke. As he rounded the corner in the path, they heard him say, “Her Watson to his Holmes. Quite apt, that. Quite apt!”

It is impossible to love and be wise.

—FRANCIS BACON
Essays
, 1625

 

 

C
harles watched the Prince stride jauntily away, wondering whether to laugh or be angry. He seemed to have very little comprehension of the dreadful reality of this situation. Two people dead, and His Highness was concerned with getting to luncheon on time!

Kate was also staring after the departing backs. “So I have been given permission to assist you,” she said, obviously annoyed, “even if I am a woman—and an American.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “You don't suppose the Prince really believes that silly business about the security of the realm, do you?”

“I think he will seize any excuse to keep this crime out of the public eye,” Charles replied, “particularly if the killer turns out to be one of his friends. He has a terrible fear of scandal.”

“As do they all,” Kate replied, “the women even more than the men.”

She frowned, and Charles noticed again, not for the first time that morning, how striking was the intelligence in her hazel eyes, and how lovely her russet hair, piled high on her head under that foolishly tipped gold hat. But his thoughts were wrenched back to the subject by her next question.

“Do you suppose, Charles, that fear of scandal might have been a motive for this murder?”

“It is certainly possible,” he replied, and wondered again why this woman was so infernally interested in crime. Of course, it was that very interest which had prompted him to suggest her as his assistant. Remembering something Temple had said, he muttered, half to himself, “It is almost as if you
have
been reading detective stories.”

“Pardon me?”

He smiled, thinking that this one small revelation made light of a great deal that had puzzled him about the hitherto enigmatic Kate Ardleigh.

“Was Temple right?” he asked. “Are you one of Doyle's devotees?
Do
you imagine yourself Dr. Watson to Sherlock Holmes?”

The minute the words were out of his mouth, he realized how patronizing they must sound and hoped he had not offended her. Where was the fault if a lady read crime stories for her amusement?

But it was not offense that he read in those green-flecked eyes. She searched his face intently; then, as if she had come to some conclusion, squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and said, “I think, Charles, that it is time we spoke straightforwardly to one another. You know that I do not just read detective stories. I write them.”

Charles frowned, not quite sure he had heard her correctly. “Forgive me,” he said, “I fear I don't—”

She sighed. “Let's not play games, Charles. I know you have guessed.”

“Guessed what, for heaven's sake?”

“That I am ... Beryl Bardwell.”

“Beryl Bardwell?” He searched his memory. “The author of ‘The Duchess's Dilemma'? The writer who is being spoken of as a female Conan Doyle?” He stared at her. “You are telling me that you—? I don't believe it!”

She gave a little gasp. “You mean, you had not guessed?”

“Guessed?” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “Great God in heaven, how could I have guessed a thing like that?”

There was an audible outbreath and she turned away so that her face was hidden. “You have read ‘The Duchess's Dilemma'?”

“A day or two ago, upon the recommendation of Bradford Marsden. He thought the setting and characters fit a situation that occurred in his family last spring. He wanted my opinion.”

Her cheeks reddened. “I should not have stayed so close to the facts.”

Charles shook his head, still bemused, still only half-comprehending. “The description of the duchess—I recognized the similarity to Bradford's mother, of course, and wondered if the author might be acquainted with the family. But I never surmised that
you
—”

“I'm sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I thought you knew.”

“Thought I knew!” he exclaimed, seized by an unexpectedly wild feeling. “I
should
have known, damn it! The truth was right there in front of me. Since the very day I met you, you have been absorbed in such matters!”

As he spoke, he heard the passion in his words, revealing his feeling for this confounded American woman who refused to know her place.

“That is,” he said, “I mean to say. . .”

He stopped, lost in her eyes, unable to remember what he had meant to say. He lifted his arms and drew her into his embrace, feeling the fragrant sweetness of her body against his. Then his lips were on her mouth and he was devouring her in a kiss that seemed to him to divulge every confused feeling in his heart. But a moment later, he was wrenching himself free.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, gasping for breath. “I am ... dishonoring you, and myself.”

Kate put her fingers on his cheek, turning his face so that he had to look into her eyes. “What is the dishonor in loving, Charles?” she asked gently.

“Not in loving,” he said. He took her hand and held it. “I do love you, Kate. I had made up my mind to ask you to marry me. But after I learned about Robert's illness, I.... I must agree with your conclusion. It is not wise.” He stopped. “Daisy tells me that you know about Robert.”

“Yes,” she said and looked him full in the face. “I am sorry for you, Charles. Losing a brother is a sad thing.”

“It is only one of the sadnesses,” he said. “Robert enjoys the baronial life and has lived it with great pleasure. I have already determined that if I must take his place, I will continue to pursue my own interests, insofar as I can. But there are certain obligations I cannot avoid. I must manage the estates, assume the family seat in the House of Lords, occasionally appear socially. In this situation, a marriage between us—”

She lowered her eyes. “I know. In this situation, a marriage to an Irish-American wife with a secret life as a writer cannot be wise.”

“But that's not what I mean at all! In such a situation, you would be terribly unhappy. It is not a life you would enjoy.”

She was startled into looking at him. “If I were your wife, you would not see my writing as a thorn, or as a potential embarrassment?”

“If I were your husband,” he countered, “would you not see my family, and the estate, and the damned social appearances as thorns? For they are, certainly.”