Death at Daisy's Folly (27 page)

“Did your quick march take you in the direction of the Folly?”

“As a matter of fact, I went the other way.” Cobb puffed reflectively on his cigar, the smoke rising in a blue haze around his head. “Is there anything else?”

“I wonder,” Charles said, “whether you brought a gun with you—a personal sidearm, that is.”

“Why the devil would I bring a sidearm?” Cobb retorted testily. “Should one care to shoot, one can readily equip oneself from the gun room.” He made as if to rise.

Charles raised his hand. “One thing more, if you don't mind. You knew Wallace quite well—at least you did at one time. Would you care to hazard a guess as to the identity of his killer?”

“I'll give you two,” Cobb growled, and stood. “One is Lady Warwick.”

“Her motive?”

“She owed him money, of course, and he was beginning to be tiresome about it. And if he were dead, she could stop feeling guilty about Margaret's death.”

“I see,” Charles said. But if Wallace were demanding repayment of a debt, why had he been invited to Easton, unless—? Unless Daisy, or Brooke, planned to kill him. “How much money?”

“Ten thousand pounds, more or less. He told me he intended to exact payment this weekend.” The old man gave a quick, hard laugh. “One almost pities the poor fellow, actually. Getting money out of that woman must be like wringing whiskey out of a rock.”

Charles studied Sir Thomas. It appeared that he knew nothing about the Prince's letter. Had he stolen it and planted it in Wallace's room, he would certainly have claimed that Wallace was using it to coerce Daisy into repaying the debt. That the old man had mentioned nothing about the letter seemed to Charles to exonerate him from the murder—unless he was being deliberately subtle.

“That's one guess,” Charles said. “What's the other?”

A smile flickered. “Anarchists, Sheridan. Anarchists.”

 

A few moments later, the chair opposite Charles was occupied by Felicia Metcalf. Her hair was laced with a black ribbon, and she had arranged a heavily fringed black silk shawl around the shoulders of her lavender tea gown—tokens, Charles concluded, of mourning for Wallace. But if there were other signs of her grief, they were lost in the grand majesty of her offended dignity.

“I said everything I had to say to Miss Ardleigh.” Felicia's tone was glacial. “Since she has surely reported my answers to you, Charles, I cannot think why I must respond to still more questions.”

Charles refused to take offense. “I apologize for the intrusion into your privacy, Felicia,” he said softly. “It really is most unforgivable of me, at a time when you are so heavily weighed with grief. Please believe that I would not trouble you if the Prince had not commanded me.” He paused. “Miss Ardleigh tells me that you and Reggie were close friends.”

Some of the ice began to thaw. “We were,” she said sadly. A lacy handkerchief appeared and was dabbed quickly to the eyes. “Quite close.”

“Intimate, I believe,” Charles said with sympathy.

The sigh was heavy. “I cannot deny it.” A blush rose to the cheeks that Charles suspected had already been reddened with a rub of
papier poudre.

“Then perhaps you can help me to understand this appalling business.” Charles made a helpless gesture. “I confess to being entirely at sea, without a clue, as it were. Who do you think might have wished poor Reggie dead?”

Lady Metcalf, appeased, sat forward. “I have been giving a great deal of thought to that myself,” she said briskly. “At first—did Miss Ardleigh tell you?—I believed that Reggie and Lillian Forsythe had gone off together. When I learned he was dead, I entertained the possibility that Lillian herself might have killed him.” She simpered. “In a moment of pique, of course, when she learned that while Reggie might briefly respond to another's physical charms, his heart belonged to me. But now I am given to understand that Lillian and Sir Friedrich spent the night together. She could have had nothing to do with it.”

“I must agree with you, Felicia.” Charles leaned closer. “I wonder,” he said, “whether Reggie mentioned anything to you about a certain ... letter in his possession.”

She pulled in her breath. “A letter?”

“He said something of it to you?”

For a long moment she did not answer. Then she cried, in a low, broken tone, so unlike her affected speech that it startled Charles, “Oh, what a foolish, foolish man! I begged him to be careful. I warned him not to meddle with Daisy, no matter how much money she owed him. And I
especially
told him not to discuss it with Brooke.”

Charles gave her the same stem look he would have given to a miscreant child. “I see, Felicia, that you have been concealing something of great importance. You must make a clean breast of it.”

She went stiff. There was no mistaking the very real fear in her eyes. Mutely, she shook her head.

He rose from his chair. “Then I shall be forced to ask His Highness to step over here, and you can tell him that you know nothing that might help us resolve this matter.”

She gnawed her lip. “I'm not sure there's anything to tell,” she said at last.

He sat down again. “I shall be the judge of that.”

With a reluctant sigh, she yielded. “I only know that it had something to do with a letter of Daisy's. Reggie meant to speak of it with Brooke.” She swallowed hard. “There. That's all I know.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Truly it is, Charles.”

“What sort of a letter?” he asked.

“Why, one of their old love letters, I suppose. Daisy and Reggie, I mean.” She made a disgusted face. “When they were lovers, they used to write daily.”

Charles spoke carefully, conscious of the importance of his question. “Exactly what did you think Reggie meant to say to Brooke?”

Fear shadowed her eyes. “Must I?” she whispered.

“You must,” he said emphatically.

Her voice was low and hesitant. “I thought ... I imagined that he planned to offer the letter to Brooke in return for repayment of Daisy's debt to him. She owed him—close to ten thousand pounds.” She held out her hand in appeal. “He didn't say that, Charles. It is only what I
thought.
I could be dreadfully wrong. In fact, I am sure that I am wrong! Reggie would not have stooped to blackmail. And Brooke could not have—” She drew a ragged breath. “No Warwick could have—”

“Could have what?” he prompted.

She swallowed hard. “Have killed him,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide. “Oh, please, Charles! You must not tell Brooke that I have any knowledge ... that I might suspect ... that it might even have crossed my mind for a moment—”

He touched her hand. The Warwicks were among the most powerful families in England. If Brooke or Daisy learned of Felicia's accusation, guarded as it was, they would view it as slander. She would never be invited to another social event—the kiss of death to anyone in her circumstances.

“I trust you will not discuss this business with anyone else,” he said. But he did not need her assurance. The terror in her eyes told him that she would not dare to speak a word.

 

The third person to occupy the chair opposite was Francis Brooke, Lord Warwick. He slouched comfortably in it, his long legs stretched out before him, turning the fine waxed tips of his dark Kaiser mustache as he gazed the length of the ballroom. He was a strikingly handsome, clean-shaven man with dark eyes and brows and firm, chiseled features, his crisply curled hair clipped short, his manner marked by the unconscious arrogance of one whose family had lived in a castle for hundreds of years. Warwick Castle, Brooke's ancestral home, was more than a castle, of course; it was an historical monument whose restoration was made possible by his marriage to Daisy, who had been the wealthiest heiress of her era.

Where had all that money gone in only fifteen years? Charles wondered. Had the Warwicks spent it on their properties—Easton Lodge, Warwick Castle, the London house, the estate in Scotland? Or had it been lavished on expensive entertainments, particularly those involving the Prince?

“Damned fine gathering,” Lord Warwick said in a bored, drawling voice. He signaled to the footman to refill the whiskey glass he had brought with him.

“Agreed,” Charles said, although he privately thought that he would much prefer to be off with Kate in the wild, far away from blackmail and murder.

There was an extended silence as both men regarded the company at the far end of the room, the women splendid in their lavish tea gowns, the men handsome in their dark coats and patterned waistcoats. Daisy and the Prince were tête-à-tete on a red velvet love seat, and Eleanor Farley, at the grand piano, was accompanying Lillian Forsythe and Friedrich Temple in a German lieder. It was a picture of privilege.

After a moment, Warwick roused himself. “Bertie tells me that you are coming along famously with your investigations,” he said, and downed his whiskey in one gulp. “Discovered anything of interest?”

“Nothing very firm,” Charles said. “It does appear, however, that Wallace may have known something about the death of His Highness's stableboy. Reggie was seen leaving the stable around the time of the lad's death.”

“I say,” Lord Warwick said with mild regret. He sighed. “Somehow, one always felt that there was something ... oh, not quite the thing in Reggie.” He paused, watching the Prince rise and extend a hand to Daisy, who stood and walked with him to the French doors that opened into the conservatory. For a moment they paused, he looking down at her, she laughing up at him, a poised, elegant couple. Then they disappeared into the mysterious green recesses of the conservatory. The door closed behind them.

“Not quite the thing?” Charles asked.

Lord Warwick seemed to pull himself back from a great distance. “I don't mean that he was ...” He frowned. “No, nothing of that sort. I simply mean that one was not confident in his ...” He gave up the effort. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

“I understand,” Charles said delicately, “that he and Lady Warwick were once quite friendly.”

Warwick turned his glance on Charles and became, with an effort, blandly affable. “Oh, quite,” he said. “Yes, quite.” He cleared his throat. “I expect they saw quite a bit of one another, once, you know.”

“I also understand that Lady Warwick may have been in his debt.”

“Now, now, old chap,” Warwick said, wagging his forefinger with a sudden, roguish smile, “one mustn't believe everything one is told.” He went back to twirling the ends of his mustache, his eyes on the French doors. “I b'lieve, however, that she was. In debt, I mean.” He coughed. “To Reggie, that is. Lady Warwick has her own private fortune,” he added, with the air of a man who feels he is clarifying a murky point. “She may call on me from time to time for advice, but one does not wish to intrude unless one is asked, you know.” He chuckled without mirth. “One does not volunteer.”

“Did Reggie speak to you recently about that debt?”

“To me?” Warwick was not looking at him. “Oh, no, not to me. Perhaps, though, Lady Warwick spoke to him about it.” He made a vague gesture. “Yes, I feel quite certain she did. Or at least, she meant to.” There was a long pause, and then Warwick said, half to himself, “I s'pose now there will be a great deal of confusion. One deals with the heirs, of course, and with solicitors, which rather delays things.” He brightened and signaled to the footman again. When his glass was full, he held it up in salute. “Which rather delays things,” he repeated triumphantly, as if it were a toast, and dispatched the drink in one gulp.

The man's speech was becoming blurred, and Charles felt that he should ask the important questions while Warwick was still capable of answering them. “The autopsy surgeon retrieved the fatal bullet,” he said. “It was fired from a thirty-two caliber gun.”

“Most unfortunate,” Lord Warwick said, his face mournful. “Alas, poor Reggie, I knew him.” He smiled, pleased with himself. “Shakespeare, you know.” His smile faded. “My wife,” he added obliquely, “knew him rather better.”

“There is a thirty-two caliber gun missing from Lady Warwick's bedroom.”

“Daisy's misplaced another gun?” He focused his eyes on Charles with some effort. “Really, she must be spoken to about her carelessness.”

“Lady Warwick has misplaced more than one gun?”

“My darling Daisy wife would misplace the crown jewels, Sheridan. She has grand ideas for saving the world, but a perfect want of responsibility. The crown jewels,” Warwick repeated. His eyes went to the French doors again. “I s'pose that's ironic,” he said with an elephantine sadness. “Do you think that's ironic, Sheridan?”

“Did you know that her gun was gone?”

Warwick shook his head from side to side. “Sorry, old chap. I'm not helping very much, am I?” He started to get up and sat back again, abruptly.

“Did you know that a letter was missing from her room?”

“A letter, too? Can't say that I did.” He stared at Charles with such effort that his eyes almost crossed. “Darling Daisy's quite careless about things. But don't worry, old chap. It'll turn up. Up schmup,” he said cheerfully, raising his empty glass. “Up schlup.”

“One more question,” Charles said. “Where were you last night?”

“Las' night?” Warwick pulled his earlobe. “Las' night? Let's see, now. Where—?” He snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering.
“I'll
tell you where I was las' night, Sheridan!” he exclaimed gleefully. “I was drunk las' night, tha's where I was!”