Heirs of the Body (24 page)

“Smethwick was sending a telegram to his employer.”

“He’s not on now. Hello? Put me through to the main police station in Worcester, please. I’ll stay on the line.”

“What did Sir Nigel think of the string of accidents?”

“He was inclined to pooh-pooh the whole thing. Not that he doubts the incidents occurred, but that they might have any sinister significance. I have a feeling he sees my profession as making me apt to see crime where none exists.”

“Darling!” Daisy said indignantly.

“However, Geraldine—Hello, this is Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of the Metropolitan Police. Is the chief constable still there? Put me through, please. Yes, I’ll hold.”

“‘However, Geraldine’…?”

“He seems to have considerable respect for her. I shouldn’t be surprised if—Yes, Fletcher speaking, sir.”

Abandoning the remains of her brandy, Daisy hurried over to perch on the desk beside him, her ear as close to the receiver as possible.

She heard Sir Nigel say, “… another already?”

“Another ‘accident.’” Alec managed to put quotation marks in his voice. “And a fatality. The same person, though the two may not be connected.”

“Some unfortunate person suffered an accident and died within … what … an hour or so? It’s not much more than that since you left my office. And you say they may not be connected!”

“Sir, only a doctor can pronounce on that question. And a coroner’s jury.”

“No doctor present?”

“No, sir. The local man’s surgery is in Upton, which is flooded, so he’s out of reach. In any case, with your permission, I would prefer to call in your police surgeon.”

“Of course. You’d better talk to my superintendent. He’ll be in charge of the investigation, if there is one. No, by damn! You’re on the spot and up to the neck in things already. If there’s a case, I’ll get on to your AC right away. No sense in wasting time fumbling about.”

“Er … I’m not sure the Assistant Commissioner will think it’s appropriate to put me in charge in the circumstances. My wife’s family, I mean.…”

“Bosh, my dear chap. Who better? That’s settled. Now, just where is the deceased?”

“Here at Fairacres, sir. In his car—”

“He died at the wheel? By gad, how the devil did he—?”

“No, no, his chauffeur was driving. I gather the body is laid out on the rear seat. In the garage.”

“You gather? You haven’t seen it?”

“No, sir, it seemed more important to get in touch with you at once when I was told—”

“Who told you?”

“My wife,” Alec admitted reluctantly, glowering at Daisy.

“Indeed! And just how did Mrs. Fletcher come to be—”

Interrupting in his turn, Alec explained Daisy’s involvement.

“And she’s quite certain he’s dead,” Sir Nigel asked plaintively, “not merely unconscious?”

“The driver was an ambulance man in the war, as it turns out. He was quite certain.”

“Oh, good enough, I suppose. You’ve sent for the local bobby?”

Alec looked at Daisy, who shook her head and pointed at him. “You were already on your way,” she mouthed.

“Not yet, sir. It seemed more important to notify you immediately.”

“Yes, yes, of course, quite right.”

“As soon as I’ve finished reporting to you,” Alec hinted, “I’ll get on to the local chap.”

“Anything else to report? Still no idea who’s responsible, eh? If anyone.”

“No, sir, no idea. The dead man was at the top of my list.”

TWENTY-TWO

“I was
just about convinced it was Raymond,” said Daisy, returning to her chair. She picked up her glass, then put it down again. She no longer felt in need of a stimulant.

“Is there a bobby in Morton Green?”

“No, the nearest is Upton. Which is flooded.”

“Damnation!”

“Two constables and a sergeant, so one or more might have been outside the village, doing his bicycle beat, when the water rose. Isn’t there a chance someone would know whereabouts he might be?”

“You’re right, someone
ought
to know his whereabouts. Country bobbies can’t be expected to keep as strict time as in town, but they have schedules.” Alec clicked the telephone hook twice to get the operator’s attention. “Upton police, please.… Engaged? Please ring back as soon as it’s open. Official business.”

“I can’t see,” said Daisy, “even if one of them can get here, what use he’s going to be.”

“None. It’s a matter of professional courtesy. As far as I’m concerned, that is. As far as you’re concerned, it’s the duty of every citizen to report an unexpected death to the police.” He was halfway to the door. “And that being so, I’m going to go and inspect the deceased, and leave you to do your undoubted duty.”

Daisy’s indignant “Hi!” followed him out. She had done her duty in reporting to him.

Still, she could cope with a local sergeant on the phone, especially if he was stuck in flooded Upton and not likely to turn up on the doorstep.

The telephone rang. She jumped up and hurried to the desk to grab the receiver before anyone else could answer the call and be alarmed at hearing a policeman on the other end.

“Telegram for G. Smethwick,” said the operator. “Are you ready?”

“No! Half a mo.” Daisy found a pencil in the middle desk drawer and the blotter was handy to write on. “All right, operator, go ahead.”

“Sender: Cox’s Motorcar Hire Co.” The brief message told Smethwick to bring the car back to London at once. No hurry to pass it on, Daisy thought. The Daimler would not be leaving Fairacres until the police had had their way with it. Daisy was about to hang up when the operator said, “Hold on, please. There’s another call coming through for your number.”

This time it was the Upton police sergeant. He had just heard about Raymond’s death from his superintendent in Worcester, and he was very much offended that he hadn’t been the first notified. She soothed him as best she could, and got him to admit that he was hemmed in by floodwaters and unable to act anyway.

“I can send one of my constables, when the dolts get round to reporting in by telephone.”

Alec was unlikely to appreciate the arrival of a dolt, but it wasn’t Daisy’s place to dissuade him. She murmured assenting noises and said goodbye.

Should she go and warn Alec? No, the last thing she wanted was to be anywhere near poor Raymond’s remains. She needed cheering up. A visit to the nursery would be the perfect antidote to the unpleasant events of the morning.

She glanced at the brass clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly three o’clock! Morning was long gone and she hadn’t had any lunch, unless one counted half a glass of B and S. No wonder she had a hollow, sinking sensation in her middle. Food before fun, she decided. She would just pop down to the kitchen and beg Cook for some bread and cheese.

She was making for the door when Ernest reappeared. “Beg pardon, madam, I didn’t know you was still in here.” He held out an envelope. “Letter came for his lordship this morning marked
personal,
that got into Mr. Wharton’s pile by mistake. My fault, and I’ve copped it proper from Mr. Wharton
and
Mr. Lowecroft. It says
URGENT
in big letters, see, in red ink and all, and
personal
’s writ small, so I didn’t notice. I was going to leave it on the desk and mention it to his lordship when he comes in.”

“He’s not home yet?”

“No, madam.”

“Oh dear, I wonder how urgent it is?” Daisy put out her hand and the footman passed over the letter. URGENT was indeed large and red and eye-catching. The postmark showed it had caught the last post. “I see what you mean. Thank you.”

Ernest bowed and departed.

The handwriting was vaguely familiar. As she turned to put it on the desk, she glanced at the back of the envelope. The embossed address was the Pearsons’. “From Tommy!”

“Did you say something, madam?”

“Oh! No, thank you.”

Daisy put the letter in the centre of the blotter, where it couldn’t possibly be missed. She stared at it, and it stared back, pleadingly shouting, “
Urgent!
”

She picked it up again and studied the postmark. It had caught the last London post, long after Tommy’s office was closed; addressed in Tommy’s own writing, not his secretary’s. Urgent.

Tommy was not accustomed to sealing his own letters. The flap was barely stuck down.

Daisy fought temptation, but not for long. After all, Edgar would undoubtedly hand over the letter to Geraldine, and Geraldine had involved Daisy in the business of finding the heir, right from the start. Tommy hadn’t objected very strenuously, either. A letter from the lawyer was undoubtedly business, not personal. Edgar wasn’t at home. Geraldine hadn’t yet returned from Worcester. It was really Daisy’s duty to find out just what was so urgent, in case there was something she could do about it.

She checked to make sure one of the desk drawers contained a bottle of LePage glue, in case circumstances made it advisable to reseal the flap rather than confess her misdeed.

The letter was handwritten, like the envelope, on Tommy’s personal stationery with the engraved address.

My dear Lord Dalrymple,

I write in haste to inform you and her ladyship that a gentleman purporting to be Mr. Samuel Dalrymple of Kingston, Jamaica, called at my house this evening. The documents he carried appeared to support his claim to descent from Julius, Lord Dalrymple, by way of Julian Dalrymple of Jamaica, with further details about the family. However, due to an unavoidable engagement, I was unable to examine them thoroughly and Mr. Samuel declined to entrust them to me.

He declared his intent of taking the early train to Worcester next day, namely Tuesday, and proceeding thence to Fairacres. I asked whether he would like to be met at the station, but he prefers to make his own way. I therefore cannot tell you at what time to expect him.

As for his wife, allow me to suggest that you show Mrs. Fletcher this letter and ask her to break the news of her husband’s coming to Mrs. Samuel.

I have no appointments in the next two days that cannot easily be postponed. Should you wish me to come to Fairacres before Friday in order to enquire more closely into Mr. Samuel’s claim, I shall be happy to oblige.

Signed, Thomas Pearson, Solicitor.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Daisy slipped the letter back into the envelope and laid it on the blotter. Though to read someone else’s correspondence was a shocking breach of good manners, in view of the self-proclaimed urgency and the fact that the writer suggested showing it to her, she felt it was forgivable. She intended to confess, so she didn’t bother to gum down the flap.

Besides, there was no hope of concealment of her sin, as she had to act on the information received.

What to do first? Her impulse was to go at once to tell Alec. Samuel had been in Worcester that very morning. Who was to say he hadn’t attempted to push Raymond under a tram? However, Alec couldn’t act on the possibility without some sort of evidence of foul play. No hurry.

She must break the news to Martha, in person, not on the telephone. No doubt Martha would return from the Dower House any minute for her afternoon nap. If Daisy walked over, she would probably miss her.

The butler and the housekeeper must be notified that another guest was expected. That could be done at once. Daisy rang the bell.

And now that Tommy Pearson had reminded her of his existence and involvement, she realised that he ought to know about the death of one of the prospective heirs. Apart from other considerations, he was the proper person to get in touch with Raymond’s family in South Africa. Raymond’s eldest son was now a candidate.…

“You rang, madam?”

“Ernest, I must speak to Mr. Lowecroft immediately. Also, please let me know at once when Mrs. Samuel comes in. And, come to think of it, her ladyship.”

“Certainly, madam.”

“And his lordship.” She had to give Edgar his letter and confess that she had read it. “And if you see my husband, tell him I have news for him.”

“I believe Mr. Fletcher is in the stables, madam. I can go and—”

“On no account! Just wait until he puts in an appearance.”

“Very well, madam.”

“That’s all. Oh, Ernest,” she added as the footman bowed and turned to leave, “would you bring me something to eat? I seem to have missed lunch and I’m ravenous. Bread and cheese will do.”

He grinned at her. “Right away, madam.”

Daisy contemplated the telephone. She had to send a wire to Tommy, worded discreetly, because no matter what the Post Office said, operators in country districts could not be relied on not to wag their tongues. The news of Raymond’s death would be common knowledge soon enough without such assistance.

In the end, she kept it simple:
RAYMOND DIED TODAY CAUSE UNKNOWN.
She wasn’t getting her—or rather, Edgar’s—shillingsworth, but there really wasn’t anything more to be said without telling the whole complicated story. After all, it didn’t matter much if the villagers knew he was dead. The devil was in the details.

Lowecroft came in while she was dictating the telegram. Though he must have heard the message, he preserved the myth that a butler hears what is spoken by his betters only when it is directed to his ears.

As Daisy hung up, he said, “You wished to speak to me, madam?”

“We’re expecting another guest, Lowecroft.” She could have had Ernest tell him, but he would have been deeply offended. Hierarchy must be observed. “I understand Mr. Samuel Dalrymple is on his way. I’m afraid I don’t know when he’ll get here.”

“No matter, madam. Everything will be set in readiness to receive Mr. Samuel. If I may mention it, madam, I believe I saw Lady John’s car arriving. No doubt Mrs. Samuel has returned from her visit.”

“Good! I expect she’ll want to go upstairs for a rest. Please tell her I’d like a word with her and I’ll come up to her room if she prefers.”

“Very good, madam.”

“Don’t let anyone tell her about Mr. Samuel before I do.”

“Certainly not, madam. There is no reason,” he said austerely, “for anyone other than Mrs. Warden to know whose arrival we are preparing for.” He paused for a perfectly judged moment to see whether she had anything else to say, then bowed and made his stately way out.