Heirs of the Body (23 page)

“He’s Raymond Dalrymple, officer. He’s a guest of Lord and Lady Dalrymple at Fairacres, as I am. I’m Mrs. Fletcher, if you want it for your report.”

“No need for that, thank you, madam.”

“We’re going to meet the rest of the party at the Talbot. Mr. Raymond’s car is there, and his chauffeur. Perhaps someone could—”

“Here, you!” the constable called to the boy, who lingered in the shop door. “Run over to the Talbot, lad, and have them send Mr. Raymond Dalrymple’s car for him.”

The trams had already clanged away and the flow of traffic resumed. Most of the police had returned to their beats, but one brought Raymond his hat and his cane, broken in half.

“’Ere you go, sir. I ’opes you don’t need the stick for walking.”

Raymond raised his head. “No no.” He reached for his felt hat and settled it on his head, then snatched it off again. “It hurts. Someone pushed…”

“Yes, sir, someone pushed you out of the way and lucky for you it was.”

“Raymond, did you bang your head?” Daisy leant over him, examining his balding scalp for bruising.

He looked at her vacantly, apparently finding it difficult to focus. “Daisy? No, I didn’t.… Someone pushed…”

Though she couldn’t find any marks suggestive of a blow, she was worried. “We’d better get you to a doctor.”

A shake of his head turned into a wince. He dropped the hat and clutched his head. “No. Home. Go to bed.”

Arguing seemed inadvisable. Daisy decided to go with him, and if he was no better by the time they reached Fairacres, she would ring up Dr. Hopcroft.

The bronze Daimler arrived at last, the shop boy lounging happily in the seat beside the chauffeur. He bounced out and he, the chauffeur, and the one remaining bobby vied to help Raymond into the car. Daisy tipped him, as Raymond showed no sign of doing so, and he handed her in next.

Laurette, who had been hanging back from what she appeared to consider a disgraceful scene, came up to the car. The bobby looked at her askance.

“Another cousin,” Daisy told him. To Laurette she said, “I’m going to go back to Fairacres with Raymond.”

“You can take me to the Talbot,
n’est-ce pas
?” Laurette joined them in the car. “I will explain to the others what has happened.”

“Good idea.”

They dropped her off. Raymond remained slumped in the corner, eyes closed. Before they were halfway back to Fairacres, he started to breathe stertorously, an unpleasant cross between a snort and a gasp. Alarmed, Daisy spoke to him. He didn’t respond.

She listened for a few minutes, then reached for the speaking tube. “Smethwick?”

“Yes, madam?”

“Mr. Raymond seems to be very ill. I think we’d better take him straight to the doctor, in Upton-upon-Severn. Just stay on this road.”

“Yes, madam.”

“I don’t know his address.”

“We’ll just have to ask, madam. You’re all right, are you?”

“So far, thank you.” After all, having hysterics or fainting would hardly alter the situation for the better. “Oh, by the way, I’ve been wanting to thank you for trying to help me when I had that puncture a few weeks ago, and for sending the RAC man to the rescue. The blue Gwynne Eight?”

“I thought it was you, madam. My pleasure, I’m sure.”

Daisy sat back. The horrible sound had stopped and Raymond’s chest no longer heaved at each breath. Perhaps he’d be all right just going to bed? Should she take his pulse?

Reluctantly she slid across the leather seat. His breathing was so quiet she couldn’t hear it at all. She couldn’t see his chest rising and falling. When she lifted his wrist, his hand flopped downward. His skin felt clammy.

No pulse. The blank stare wasn’t a stare because those fixed eyes were seeing nothing.

TWENTY-ONE

Daisy’s heart
stood still. For a moment she couldn’t speak, then she cried out, “Stop!” so loud that Smethwick heard her, although she didn’t use the tube.

He glanced back, his expression startled. A hundred yards farther on, he pulled into a farm gateway. “Madam?”

She opened the door and jumped out, her one thought was to escape from the immediate vicinity of Raymond’s body. “I can’t find a pulse,” she blurted out as Smethwick, alarmed, also sprang out of the Daimler. “I think he’s dead.”

“Let me check,” he said in a businesslike way. “I drove an ambulance in the war. Flat feet.”

He climbed into the back of the car, leaving Daisy thinking sad thoughts of her fiancé, Michael, who had likewise been an ambulance driver during the war but had not returned.

“You’re right, he’s gone.” The chauffeur emerged from the interior. “Had an accident in Worcester, did he?”

“Yes, but the police seem to think he just fell, and he himself said he hadn’t hit his head.”

“Heart attack. Or stroke. He’s the age and figure for it.”

“He seemed so vigorous!”

“Oh well, you never can tell. I s’pose I better lay him out on the seat. Otherwise he’s going to slide off when we start moving. If you don’t mind sitting in front with me, madam.”

“Yes, please!” said Daisy.

Once the Raymond’s body was in a decently recumbent position, Smethwick fetched a car rug from the boot to spread over him. The cheerful red-and-yellow tartan was altogether inappropriate, but as the chauffeur said, “Beggars and corpses can’t be choosers.” He returned to his seat behind the steering wheel. “I haven’t driven around with a stiff behind me—if you’ll pardon the expression—since the Armistice. Where to now, madam?”

“Oh dear, I expect we ought to take him to Dr. Hopcroft, even though it’s too late. He’ll know what to do.”

“Right you are. I’ve got to find a post office and send a wire to my company, too. The boss isn’t going to be happy.”

“If he didn’t pay in advance, I daresay Lord Dalrymple will cover the expense.” She only half listened to Smethwick’s response. She was wondering whether Raymond’s death fitted into the pattern of accidents—assuming there was in fact a pattern—and if so, how.

From what the copper had said, it sounded as if someone had pushed him aside at the last minute, possibly saving his life. It was slightly odd that the Good Samaritan hadn’t stayed to make sure he was all right and to enjoy the kudos. Perhaps he’d been in a tearing hurry, or perhaps just shy.

He might yet be found. Daisy had learnt from experience the sequence of events that Raymond’s death would lead to. As he had not, to her knowledge, been under the care of a doctor, and no medical practitioner had been present, an inquest would be necessary. In the circumstances, after Alec’s hobnob with the CC, the coroner would surely require an autopsy. If there was anything fishy about Raymond’s death, a police investigation would follow.

The police—

“Hell!” Smethwick jammed his feet on the brake and clutch. The car slithered to a halt in a few inches of brown water. Ahead, the lane was under water as far as they could see, ripples spreading round the next curve. “Begging your pardon, madam. I was took by surprise.”

“Never mind that. Upton must be flooded again.”

“It’s not just a big puddle, or a water-splash?”

“No, it’ll be deeper farther on. We can’t drive into the village. Blast! I wonder what we should do? I don’t want to dash about trying to find another doctor.”

“Go back to Fairacres and use the telephone.”

“I dare say we ought to take him back to Worcester, to the hospital or the police station. But I must say, I don’t feel like spending any more time in the car with the poor man than I must.” She shuddered.

“Back to Fairacres and telephone.”

“I expect you’re right.” She brightened. “I’ll ring up the Talbot and speak to Alec. My husband,” she elucidated.

Smethwick grinned. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard.”

So even the visiting hire car driver knew! Daisy wondered why Alec bothered to try to keep quiet about his profession. Not that she was really in any doubt: A policeman’s wife was almost equally subject to the phenomenon of people falling silent when she entered a room. Except when he was working, life was simpler if he vaguely introduced himself as a civil servant.

His being a copper didn’t seem to bother Smethwick, and the chauffeur’s awareness didn’t necessarily mean all the heirs knew, Daisy assured herself.

He put the car into reverse gear and they motored backwards up the lane. Hedged and without verges, it was too narrow for the big Daimler to do a three-point turn. They soon came to a cart track, where Smethwick, muttering about mud, backed in and drove out forwards. Ten minutes later they reached Fairacres.

Daisy was so anxious to talk to Alec, she didn’t wait for the chauffeur to open the car door for her. Getting out, she said, “I may want you to fetch—Oh no, I suppose not.”

“No, madam. In fact, I was thinking I better get the car out of the sun.”

“Oh dear, isn’t it awful.…” Suddenly Daisy was on the edge of tears. Poor Raymond had been a relative, after all, even if she hadn’t liked him much. She swallowed. “You wanted to send your employers a telegram. I’ll have Ernest let you know when I’m finished on the phone.”

“I could walk over to the post office in Morton Green, madam.”

“No, I’m sure Lord Dalrymple would want you to use his telephone. I’d … I’d rather you stayed nearby, please. But please don’t tell anyone.…”

“Of course, madam,” Smethwick said soothingly.

He really was a very nice man, Daisy thought, going up the steps.

Ernest appeared as she entered the house. “The chief in—I mean, Mr. Fletcher telephoned, madam, from the Talbot Hotel in Worcester.”

“Thanks. I’m just about to ring him, anyway.”

“He said he’s coming back right away.”

“Good. Is his lordship in?”

“No, madam. He took the young ’uns bicycling. Off to Cooper’s Wood, they was, dogs and all, hunting a Wood Tiger. Sounds dangerous, don’t it?”

“Butterfly or moth?”

“Moth, I believe, madam. Cook packed lunches for them, so they won’t be back for a while.”

“And Mrs. Samuel?”

“Lady John didn’t feel well enough to come here, madam, so she sent the car to fetch Mrs. Samuel over to the Dower House. Mrs. Samuel telephoned later to say she would stay there for lunch.”

Daisy was relieved. The fewer people about while Raymond’s body remained in the Daimler in the garage, the better. She hoped Alec would arrange to have it removed before the children and the pregnant Martha came back. And she hoped Martha would not suffer for going without her usual cup of mint tea before the meal.

“I’ll wait for Alec in Lord Dalrymple’s den, Ernest. Would you go and tell Smethwick the telephone is available for his use?”

Too agitated to sit in one of the huge leather armchairs, Daisy stood at the window in the study, gazing out but seeing only the scene at The Cross—the trams, cars, lorries at a standstill, and people crowding forwards. If only she had been closer, had been able to see exactly what had happened. The point-duty policeman hadn’t noticed anything more than a stumble, though, and he surely would have noticed anything suspicious. Perhaps not; he had to keep an eye on the movements of all those vehicles and people.

She should have taken Raymond straight to a hospital.

Not more than five minutes passed before Alec strode into the room. “Daisy, what’s this garbled story of Laurette’s? Raymond’s had an accident?”

“Oh darling, he’s dead!” Daisy burst into tears and flung herself on Alec’s chest.

He gave her a handkerchief and put his arms round her. “Dead! Laurette seemed to think he just had a fright.”

“That’s what I thought. He said he wanted to come back here and go to bed, so I decided I’d better go with him, and if only I’d taken him to a doctor right away he might still be alive. But he died in the car. Alec, it was simply frightful!”

“Come and sit down and tell me all about it. Does Edgar keep any booze in here?” After scanning the room in vain, he unceremoniously yanked open the kneehole desk’s two bottom drawers. “Damn.” He rang the bell, then went impatiently to the door.

It opened as he reached it, revealing Ernest with a silver tray. On it stood a decanter, a bottle, and a soda syphon.

“You’ve read my mind,” said Alec.

“Mr. Lowecroft did, sir. Brandy for madam. He thought you’d prefer whisky.”

“Perfect.” He took the tray from Ernest and closed the door.

“I don’t want brandy,” Daisy said crossly.

“Whisky, then. You’ve had a shock.”

“I don’t like whisky.” She accepted the B and S—more B than S—that he handed to her, and took a sip. “Alec, could Raymond have died of shock?”

“That’s for a doctor to say.” He frowned. “I’d have thought it would be instant or not at all. You’ve sent for a doctor? The man who was at the fête?”

“I was going to, but then he died, so I thought I ought to—”

“Better start at the beginning, Daisy, if I’m to have a hope of sorting this out.”

She described the scene in Worcester and her recognition of Raymond. “He was obviously dizzy and he said his head hurt. He denied he’d hit it, though. He wanted to come home so I sent for his car. Then he suddenly got worse. I thought he ought to see the doctor right away, but he died.… And then we couldn’t get through. The road’s flooded.”

“So you came back here. I take it Dr. Hopcroft couldn’t get here, either.”

“I haven’t talked to him. I didn’t know who to tell, so I was going to phone you at the Talbot, but you were already on your way. Thank you for rushing to the rescue! Did they all come back with you?”

“No, no one. I sent Truscott back to pick them up when they’re ready to leave.”

“Thank goodness, and the children and Martha are all still out. Edgar, too, so I couldn’t ask his advice. Should I try to get hold of Dr. Hopcroft? Or report Raymond’s death to the local bobby?”

“You were quite right to ring me first, love. I’m going to go straight to the top.” He went over to the telephone on the desk.

“Sir Nigel?”

“Sir Nigel. He was quite chummy, and sent you his best regards. I’ll try the main police station first, but if he’s not there, I’ll call him at home.” He picked up the receiver and the daffodil base and sat on the corner of the desk.