Death at Daisy's Folly (21 page)

“Guard Reggie's room?” Daisy repeated faintly. But that would make it difficult to—

“Righto,” Bertie said. “Might be valuable evidence there, you know.”

Sir Thomas did not appear to be pleased. “What's all this about the modern investigation of crime?” he asked petulantly. “What the deuce is modern in police work?”

Bertie waved his hand carelessly. “Oh, looking for things with magnifying glasses and microscopes. Taking pictures of them with cameras. Finding marks on bullets and such like. Did you know that an expert can look at a bullet and recognize the gun from which it was fired?”

Lillian Forsythe gave a little gasp of surprise, and Malcolm Rochdale frowned. “Marks on bullets?” he asked. “Sounds like jiggery-pokery to me.”

“Not at all, Malcolm,” the Prince said. “Not at all. I myself have not yet mastered these forensic techniques, of course, but I assure you that Charles Sheridan has. That is precisely why I have asked him to undertake this criminal investigation.”

“I still don't understand what a microscope has to do with a man who took a bullet through the head,” Sir Thomas said, sounding confused.

“Charles will explain it all to us,” Bertie said. “He's out and about just now, interrogating a possible witness to the boy's death. Later, of course, he will want to question the gentlemen.”

“Question the ... gentlemen?” Sir Thomas asked, frowning. “You mean,
us?”

“Quite so,” Bertie said. “How else is he to learn where we were last night.”

“Exactly, Thomas,” said Lillian Forsythe. “He must confirm that you could not have been at Daisy's Folly, lying in wait for Reggie.”

“Charles is not with us,” the Prince went on, “but Miss Ardleigh is here.” He smiled warmly. “Stand up, my dear. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Miss Kate Ardleigh, our female investigator. After luncheon, she will hold court in the morning room, where she will ask each of the ladies to confirm her whereabouts last night.”

“Our
whereabouts?” Lillian asked in a choked voice.

“Exactly, Lillian,” Sir Thomas mocked. “She must confirm that you could not have been at Daisy's Folly, lying in wait for Reggie. The female of the species, you know.”

“But a
servant
did it,” Felicia insisted wildly. “Why must we submit ourselves to ... to...” She choked.

“Splendid question, Felicia!” Bertie said approvingly. “Why must we submit? The answer is quite simple. Without our collective effort it will be impossible to identify
which
of the servants is responsible.” He glanced around the room. “And until this is done, we cannot enjoy our weekend with any easiness or pleasure—as Reggie would undoubtedly have us do. So I encourage you to answer forthrightly any and all questions Kate and Charles may put to you.” He rubbed his hands together, beaming. “Now, if there are no more questions, shall we carry on with luncheon? I understand that we are about to be served a most delectable ptarmigan pie.”

With an anticipatory smile, Bertie sat down.

 

As Kate suffered through the stiff, uncomfortable meal and the following futile interrogation of the lady guests, she thought time and again of the Prince's luncheon performance—a strange and wonderful exhibition of...

Of what? The more Kate thought about what had happened, the more confident she was of what she had witnessed—and the less certain she was of the motives that lay behind it.

The Prince's performance had been pure comic opera, there was no question about that. With a few nonchalant words, a light chuckle here, a dismissive gesture there, he had reduced Reginald Wallace's death to something that Gilbert and Sullivan might have contrived, and trivialized the investigation by suggesting that the assembled company had nothing to fear from it. By the time he had finished, every guest must have believed that His Highness's primary intention was to dispose of the unpleasant matter as swiftly and efficiently as they were to put away the ptarmigan pie (a Royal favorite which everyone else thoroughly detested), by revealing that one of the servants was the guilty party.

Kate went to the door and told the footman waiting outside to assemble the upstairs maids so that she could interview them. Then she went to stand by the window, looking out on the garden, still thinking about the Prince's motive. Was he simply getting past a sticky place by making light of it? That was possible, of course, for his tact and
savoir faire
were often praised, and he was admired for his social diplomacy.

But she could not overlook the possibility that the Prince might have intended to disarm the guilty person. A murderer who felt overconfident might be more likely to commit a revealing mistake. Or the Prince might know who had committed the murder and was intent on protecting him—or her. Kate had observed Daisy's shaking hands and distraught manner and had seen the look the Countess had given the Prince when he announced that there would be no police investigation. Her face had been swept by an expression of gratitude and relief so intense, so overpowering that Kate had felt its force halfway across the room.

And if Kate had seen or heard anything of importance in the hours since she had accepted assignment to this investigation, she reflected as she turned to greet the first of the servants, it was that look.

It requires a very unusual mind to undertake the analysis of the obvious.

—ALFRED NORTH WHITEHEAD

 

 

C
harles found the Prince at a desk in the library, working on papers he had taken from a leather portfolio. He looked up from his writing and said, “I'll be with you in a moment, Charles.”

As he was waiting, Charles looked around. The library was one of Easton's most beautiful rooms, high-ceilinged and elegant, with Persian carpets on the floors and agreeably placed windows and walnut shelves along the walls, under an ornately carved plaster frieze. The shelves were filled with several thousand books bound in scarlet morocco to match the scarlet draperies. Some several hundred, Charles knew, were volumes of theology, obtained by one of Daisy's pious ancestors in exchange for several manors on the estate. Above the shelves hung gilt-framed oils of Maynard ancestors and prints of various sporting and military scenes. Reading tables, map cases, leather chairs, and commodious sofas were arranged throughout the large, light room, and on the tables were arranged decorative objects: celadon bowls, Faberge cigarette-boxes, jade carvings from the Orient. It was a place where guests might gather to read, write, or enjoy a quiet game of cribbage or bridge.

The Prince threw down his pen and stepped around the desk. “Ah, Charles. I am sorry you had to miss luncheon. We not only had an excellent ptarmigan pie, but a most delicious raspberry fool. Have you made any progress?”

“Perhaps,” Charles said cautiously.

“Well, then,” the Prince said, “let me hear about it.” He seated himself on a nearby sofa and motioned Charles to the chair opposite. “Tell me what you have found,” he said, taking out a cigar.

Charles sat down. “It is beginning to seem that there is a connection between Wallace's murder and the death of Your Highness's groom. Wallace was seen leaving the stable at approximately the same time as the boy died.”

The Prince lighted his cigar. “Your informant is reliable?”

“I believe so. He is deaf, and communicating with him is difficult. But he seems to have keen powers of observation, and I can think of no good reason why he should fabricate a false story.”

“So Wallace was shot because someone—a servant, no doubt—thought he killed poor Harry, eh?” The Prince drew deeply on his cigar, blowing out a cloud of pungent blue smoke. “A cogent theory, I must say. Reggie was murdered for the sake of revenge.”

“It's one theory,” Charles said, wary. “I'm not sure I subscribe to it, however.” In fact, revenge was such a weak motive that he couldn't imagine why the Prince would give any credence to it. The boy was a stranger at Easton, and new to the Prince's retinue. What servant would care enough to risk his own life for the sake of revenge?

“Of course,” the Prince said thoughtfully, “the theory does not require us to assume that Reggie actually murdered the lad. He wasn't the sort to cosh a stableboy, particularly my stableboy, for no reason. All we have to assume is that someone
thought
he killed the youngster. This person—distraught with grief, no doubt, and tormented by the thought of the poor boy's sorrowing mother—acquired a gun, stalked his target until he was alone in a deserted place, and—” The Prince raised his plump hand, pointed his cigar at Charles as if it were a gun, and said gravely, “Blam.”

Charles cleared his throat. “I fear,” he said, “that there is other evidence to be considered.” He reached into his pocket and took out the handkerchief that Kate had pointed out to him at the scene of the murder. He handed it to the Prince.

“What's this? A woman's handkerchief?” The Prince examined the dainty, lace-edged thing. “Hold on,” he said, half to himself. “Here are some initials, worked into a design in the corner. Looks tike—” He stopped.

“It looks like an F andaWintertwined,” Charles said softly. “Frances Warwick. It's Daisy's handkerchief.”

The Prince handed the handkerchief to Charles and turned to tap, the ash from his cigar, concealing his face. “Where did you get it?”

“In a flower bed, a dozen paces from Wallace's body.”

“It proves nothing,” the Prince said brusquely. He heaved himself off the sofa. “Daisy lives here, you know. And women lose their handkerchiefs in the most damned awkward places.” His chuckle was forced. “I've had to come up with a few quick explanations in my time, believe me, Sheridan. Alexandra may be hard of hearing, but there's nothing wrong with her eyes. She can spot an unfamiliar handkerchief at thirty paces—even under the bed.”

Charles stood also. He took out the note and extended it, with genuine regret, to the Prince. “Before you conclude that the handkerchief has nothing to do with the crime, I think you must read this, sir.”

The Prince's eyes flickered. “No,” he said, taking several large puffs on his cigar.

Charles sighed, thinking that denial served no good purpose. “Then I shall have to read it aloud.”

“Oh, very well, then,” the Prince said heavily.

Charles unfolded the note. “‘Meet me at the Folly,' ” he read aloud, “‘after everyone has gone to bed.' It is written on Daisy's stationery,” he added. “I believe it to be her hand.”

The Prince turned toward the window. He was silent for a moment. “Where was it found?” he asked gruffly. “By whom?”

“On Wallace's person. Miss Ardleigh saw it very soon after the body was discovered. She confiscated it so that no one would be tempted to remove it.”

The Prince turned, his shoulders hunched. “No one else has read it but the two of you, and myself?”

“To my knowledge, only you and I, sir. Miss Ardleigh gave it to me unread.”

“Good girl.” A smile ghosted across the Prince's fleshy mouth and then vanished. He drew himself up, stem. “You can't think that Daisy killed the poor wretch.”

“I'm afraid it is a possibility we must consider, sir. After all, whatever it was that Wallace wanted to talk with you about last night seemed to involve Daisy.”

The Prince shook his head in manifest disbelief. “But that's preposterous, man! What motive could she have?”

“Blackmail, perhaps. She and Wallace—”

The Prince snorted scornfully. “Their affair was common knowledge. One can't be blackmailed over something that everyone knows, for pity's sake. In any event, it was over long ago.” His mouth tightened, and Charles wondered how sure he was of his assertion. Albert Edward might be heir to the throne, but that did not mean that he was confident in his prowess as a man.

The silence stretched on for a moment. “Perhaps she was in debt to him,” Charles said finally. “I have heard it frequently reported—have read it in the newspapers, as a matter of fact—that the Warwicks are increasingly short of funds. It is even said that they plan to sell part of this estate.”

“She may be in debt, but not to Wallace.” The Prince gestured sharply. “If you insist on barking up that tree, go talk to Isaacson.”

“Ah,” Charles said. “You're suggesting that Isaacson loaned—”

“I'm not suggesting anything, damn it,” the Prince said testily. “Just talk to him, that's all. Find out what he has to say.” He looked away. “Anyway, a person of pedigree doesn't kill for money.”

“But such a person might kill for reputation,” Charles persisted, “and that is the word Wallace used in my hearing last night. For many, a reputation is even more important than the family estate.”

“Rubbish.” The Prince straightened his shoulders, seeming to arrive at some sort of determination. “I must tell you that the lady in question might have made an appointment with Wallace, but she did not keep it.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Dash it all, man,” the Prince burst out angrily, “do I have to say it outright? Daisy couldn't have killed Reggie. I was with her the entire night, from shortly after we retired until almost breakfast time. She did not leave the room, even for an instant.”

Charles regarded him thoughtfully. If the Prince could unequivocally confirm Daisy's whereabouts, why had he not said so at once? “The whole night?” he asked gently. “You are able to swear to that, sir, under oath?”

The Prince suddenly leaned forward, balancing on the balls of his feet, thrusting his head forward with an angry bullishness. “You dare to contradict me?” he asked in a steely voice.