Die Laughing (3 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Die Laughing
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“Are you all right?” she asked, going over to light the gas under the kettle.
“Yes, it was nothing. I was just saying, it won't hurt him to wait while I make the tea.”
The bell rang again.
“It looks as if Gladys is otherwise occupied.” Though the Dowager Lady Dalrymple would have strongly objected to either course, in the circs Daisy decided making tea was less infra dig than answering the door. “I think you should go and let him in. I'll do the tea.”
Lips pursed, Nurse Hensted regarded Daisy with a slight frown. “Yes, perhaps I will,” she said, and went off, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking slightly on the linoleum in the passage.
Daisy found a big brown earthenware teapot and a pair of japanned canisters, one smelling of Earl Grey, the other of Darjeeling. There was a packet of a cheap brand of tea, too, but she didn't feel obliged to lower herself to that extent just because she would be drinking from a thick white china cup. She set out cups and saucers for Miss Hensted and Detective Sergeant Mackinnon as well. The kettle was steaming so she poured hot water into the teapot to warm it.
As she swirled the water in the pot, she heard voices approaching. She moved closer to the open door to listen.
“ … Mrs. Fletcher, she's a patient who just happened to be here. Oh, and Gladys, the housemaid. I don't know where the dratted girl has got to! But there was no need to call you out, Sergeant. It was an accident, for sure.”
“That's for the Coroner's jury to decide, miss.”
“You see, I'm afraid Mr. Talmadge was in the habit of taking a little sniff of laughing gas when we'd had a run of difficult patients, just to relax. No harm in that!” The nurse gave a forced laugh. “I never thought anything of it, but looking back, I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later, that he'd forget to switch on the oxygen. There's no reason to think he did it on purpose.”
“That'll be for the Coroner to decide, miss.” The rolling Scottish
r
confirmed the speaker to be Mackinnon. “In here, is he?”
“That's right.” Miss Hensted's hand came into view, reaching
for the doorknob. The plainclothes detective officer gripped her white-cuffed wrist.
“Don't touch, please, miss. It'll have to be done for fingerprints.”
“Why on earth … ?”
“Standard procedure, miss, in any unexpected death. Did you touch this handle when you found the deceased?”
“Yes, I—”
“No,” said Daisy. “Mrs. Talmadge opened the door and I closed it, when you had to help her upstairs.”
“Oh yes, that's right.”
Sergeant Mackinnon, a tall, rawboned redhead who looked even more Scots than he sounded, eyed Daisy and her teapot askance. “And you are … ?”
“Mrs. Fletcher. I telephoned.”
“Ah yes.” He took out his notebook. “I have a few questions to ask you, madam”—he pronounced the last word dubiously, with another look at the teapot—“before I take a look at—”
“Miss Hensted!” Gladys came tearing along from the front hall. “Miss Hensted, Miss Kidd says if the doctor's not come yet will you come and see to the mistress. She's fallen into a fit!”
“What did I say? I told her she couldn't manage without me.” Miss Hensted hurried off.
The maid hesitated, obviously agog with curiosity over the stranger downstairs while not wanting to miss any of the excitement upstairs.
“This is Gladys, the housemaid, Sergeant,” said Daisy.
“A pleeceman?” Gladys squeaked.
“Yes, and I'll want to have a word with you later, my girl, but you can take yourself off now. You listen out for the doorbell, mind. There'll be more people coming.”
With another inarticulate squeak, Gladys scuttled away.
“I think you ought to go and look at … him first, Sergeant,” Daisy suggested. “The signs I saw may fade. I'll explain what to look for.”
Mackinnon cast an uneasy glance behind him at the surgery door. “That can wait till the doctor comes,” he said.
“But—”
“I'll just do things my own way, if you don't mind.”
Daisy sighed. “Then you'd better come into the kitchen and sit down. The kettle's boiling and I really do need a cup of tea. Will you have one?”
“Not just now, thank you, madam.” He closed the kitchen door and sat down at the table, the notebook before him. “Your full name, please.”
“Daisy Fletcher.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, please describe in your own words what occurred leading to your telephone call.”
So while Daisy made tea, she quickly explained how the dentist had not turned up for her appointment and she and the nurse had gone to look for him. “We found him lying in his reclining chair, with the laughing-gas mask on. His hands were cold and he wasn't breathing, and Miss Hensted couldn't find a pulse. She turned the gas off and the oxygen on, just in case.”
“The gas off and the oxygen on?”
“She said oxygen was the only remedy, but she was pretty sure it was too late. Then Mrs. Talmadge went into strong hysterics and Miss Hensted had to deal with that. She and
Gladys took her upstairs. That was when I noticed the things that made me wonder if it really was either an accident or suicide. There was a sort of pinkish patch around his—”
“Pinkish patch,” Sergeant Mackinnon said sceptically, not writing it down.
“Yes, squarish, around—”
“No doubt the police doctor will take note of anything significant in the appearance of the deceased.”
“But if he doesn't come soon—”
“Thank you for your statement, Mrs. Fletcher. It will be transcribed for you to sign, and there may be further questions. Where may I get hold of you?”
As Daisy gave her address, she was trying to decide what to do next. The sergeant obviously wasn't going to listen to her. Should she phone the Yard again, or just give up and let some maniac run loose hither and yon murdering dentists?
The notion was undeniably attractive.
A
bell rang—the front door again. With any luck it was the police surgeon. Maybe he would listen to Daisy, or notice the anomalies for himself.
“Here they are now.” With evident relief, Mackinnon jumped up and opened the kitchen door.
They heard heavy footsteps approaching and Gladys's voice. “Oh yes, Mr. Atkinson, the sergeant's in the kitchen. Isn't it awful? The mistress is in such a taking you wouldn't believe.”
A large bobby with his helmet in his hands appeared in the doorway, Mackinnon giving way before him. “Constable Atkinson, Sergeant. This is my beat and they told me to come and see is there anything I can do to help. Afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher. A sorry business, ma'am!”
“Yes, ghastly,” Daisy said feelingly. “Do you know if the police surgeon will be here soon? I'd like a word with him.”
“No need for that, madam,” said Mackinnon, annoyed. “You're free to leave, and I have your address if we need to trouble you further.”
Atkinson looked from one to the other. “Half a mo', Sergeant, a word in your ear.” He whispered. Daisy caught the words “Honourable,” “Dalrymple as was,” and “Chief Inspector.”
Mackinnon turned a red, aghast face to her. Maybe she should have warned him, but she hated to flaunt either her own courtesy title or Alec's more substantial rank.
“Gosh,” she said quickly, “I nearly forgot, Sergeant. I have the key to the surgery in my handbag. I must have left it in the study, where I telephoned. I'll get it for you.” She headed for the door.
They parted to let her through, then followed her into the passage. “Thank you, ma'am,” said Mackinnon weakly.
“I wrapped it in my hankie. I didn't touch it, or the doorknob, with my bare hands.”
“Knows all about dabs, see,” came the constable's loud whisper behind her.
“I was going to tell the medico what I noticed in there,” Daisy continued, entering the hall, “but as he's still not here, I dare say I ought to tell you.”
“If you please, Mrs. Fletcher.” Drawing abreast of her, Mackinnon cast her a look of fervent gratitude.
She described the discoloured mark around Talmadge's mouth and the lingering odour of the antiseptic adhesive benzoin. As long as she didn't actually think about it, she could talk about it quite calmly. “There's a first-aid cabinet which surely includes sticking plaster, though I didn't look. It could have been used to stop him breathing through his mouth, couldn't it?”
“More than likely,” agreed the sergeant with the devoutness of the converted.
“Then there are the peculiar creases in his sleeves, as if his wrists were tied to the arms of the chair.”
“With bandages, maybe, from the first-aid kit!”
“That's what I'd guess,” said Daisy approvingly. “His arms were laid on the arms of the chair unnaturally neatly. I mean, if you were going to relax for a few minutes, with or without the aid of the gas, with or without the intention of killing yourself, wouldn't you fold your arms comfortably, or clasp your hands in your lap? Or at most put your elbows on the arms of the chair and let your hands sort of droop?”
“Umm … I expect so,” said Mackinnon, making a visible effort to picture himself in that situation.
Having won her point with her observations, Daisy refrained from pushing her theories, a decision Alec would have heartily approved. She turned into the study. Her handbag was on the desk. She extracted the wrapped key, careful not to rub it, and handed it to the detective.
“I'd like my handkerchief back, please, when you don't need it any longer.”
He felt in the pockets of his brown serge suit. Constable Atkinson handed him a huge cotton square, blue polka-dotted with white. The key was transferred and Daisy's hankie returned to her. Now she had no excuse for lingering, except that she still hadn't had any tea.
“If there's a chance it could be murder,” said the sergeant, going to the telephone, “I'd better ring up the station and get them to send a photographer, and report to my super.”
“I'll just pop up and see how Mrs. Talmadge is doing.” Daisy made her escape.
On the first-floor landing, faced with a number of closed doors, she didn't know which way to turn. Despite her
refusal to abide by the strict rules of propriety instilled by her nanny and her school, she couldn't quite bring herself to listen at the doors. Her dilemma was solved when one of them opened.
Miss Hensted stalked out, her face a study in outrage, yanking the door after her. Just before it slammed she caught it and closed it with the excessive care of repressed violence.
Then she noticed Daisy. “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, can I help you?”
“I wondered whether Mrs. Talmadge is well enough for me to see her for a moment to express my sympathy.”
“
I
would say so, but what that woman will say … Well! I'm not one to take offence, but really, when an ignorant servant thinks she knows better than a Registered Nurse, what's the world coming to? Wanting to give Mrs. Talmadge brandy for shock, like in the bad old days, instead of strong tea. Sending for me because she took a fit, then arguing about what's best to do, then after I bring her out of it, telling me I'm not wanted to look after her! I ask you, did you ever?”
“Everyone's upset,” Daisy said soothingly. “The doctor's bound to get here soon, and he can decide whether Mrs. Talmadge needs your professional care. In the meantime, why don't you go down and have a cup of tea?”
“I could do with one, and that's a fact.”
“And in your opinion it's all right for me to see Mrs. Talmadge?”
“Nothing wrong with her bar hysterics. It'll do her good to have a friend of her own sort to talk to, instead of no one but that Hilda Kidd that's been coddling her since the year
dot.” Still stiff with indignation, Miss Hensted marched off towards the stairs.
Daisy knocked on the door. The tall, spare woman who opened it wore a black dress with no white collar and cuffs and no cap on her grey hair. She was vaguely familiar to Daisy. The nurse had called her a “glorified parlourmaid,” so she probably put on collar, cuffs, and caps on occasion to admit guests to the house and hand round trays of drinks. Apparently she acted also as lady's maid in this post-War world where servants were so hard to come by.
“Yes?” she said suspiciously.
“I'm Mrs. Fletcher. I've come to see Mrs. Talmadge.”
“She's not seeing anyone.” Hilda Kidd started to close the door in Daisy's face.
“Hilda, who is it?” Mrs. Talmadge's voice sounded exhausted, blurry with tears.
“Mrs. Fletcher, ma'am.”
“Of course I'll see her. Ask her in.”
“There's no call to go worrying yourself with people who—”
“That's enough, Hilda!”
Grim faced, the maid opened the door and stood aside to let Daisy enter. If looks could kill, Daisy would have dropped dead before she got halfway across the room.
It was a spacious, very feminine room, rose pink and white with gold touches, all ruffles and frills and broderie anglaise. Almost defiantly feminine, Daisy thought, as if daring any male to profane it. No masculine touch was visible anywhere. The only bed, though comfortable for one, would be cramped for two.
Mrs. Talmadge reclined on a chaise longue. With the
ruined make-up washed off and eyes red rimmed, the expensively marcelled bob tousled, her pale face was quite plain. She had one of those oddly flat faces, all in one plane except for a button nose, though clever cosmetics usually disguised the lack of any distinguishing features.
As Daisy approached, she made an effort to sit straight.
“No, don't get up,” said Daisy, holding out her hand. “I don't want to disturb you. I just wanted to say how very sorry I am.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Talmadge said on a half sob. “I can't quite believe it's happened, somehow. Do sit down. You'll have some tea, won't you?”
“It's cold,” Hilda announced, her tone mutinous.
“Then go and make some more. Nurse Hensted said I should have some and I never drank it.”
“A drop of brandy's what you need.”
“I gather tea is preferred for shock these days,” said Daisy. “Strong, hot, and sweet, they say.”
“Tea, please, Hilda.”
Muttering, “Well, if you want to take
her
word against them that's cared for you all these years!” the maid at last departed.
“I'm afraid Hilda can be awfully rude sometimes,” Mrs. Talmadge apologized. “She was a nursery maid when I was a child, and she's been with me ever since. It's difficult to stop her taking liberties.”
“Old retainers tend to be like that, unless they're stiff and starchy and frightfully proper. She naturally feels a need to protect you at this dreadful time.”
“How
could
he do this to me! Just when I thought we had it all sorted out. Everyone will say it's my fault.”
“Why should they?”
“Because I … Because that's the sort of thing people say. People always assume the worst. They don't need a reason for it. Of course there's no reason to blame me. Poor Raymond was feeling rather depressed.”
“What a shame.” Daisy's tone held a hint of a question.
“Yes, he … A professional disappointment.” Mrs. Talmadge didn't quite look around wildly for inspiration, but she sounded as if she were finding it as she went along. “He … he had hoped to buy into a practice in Harley Street. Unfortunately, they are asking rather more than we can afford.”
“How frustrating!”
“Yes, poor Raymond was quite shattered. You know how men are, so anxious about rising in their professions. Is your husband likely to be called in, do you think? Nurse Hensted said the police had to be notified about … poor Raymond.”
“They wouldn't call Alec in for an accident or suicide,” Daisy replied evasively.
 
 
“I don't believe it,” groaned the Assistant Commissioner (Crime).
“I'm afraid it's true, sir.” Superintendent Crane was no happier.
“I did hope that once the Honourable Daisy Dalrymple became Mrs. Chief Inspector Fletcher, she'd stop this nonsense.”
“To be fair, sir, it's been five months since Mrs. Fletcher found herself on the scene of a crime. And that was in America.”
“Four months. Remember Cornwall.”
“I've been trying to forget it, sir! How does she do it?”
“I suppose it's what the young people call an affinity.”
“Isn't that a term used by young women of unsuitable young men they wish to marry?” Crane asked, puzzled.
“Only in Mrs. Fletcher's case it's unsuitable murders she's involved with. It is murder, is it?”
“The divisional super says his man assumed accident, sir, or at worst suicide, but Mrs. Fletcher suspects it's murder.”
“Damnation!”
“Yes, sir. In the circumstances, Superintendent Willoughby's asking for our assistance. I take it you want me to assign Fletcher to the case?”
Heaving a sigh, the AC nodded.
 
 
The arrival of Dr. Curtis, a slight, grey-haired GP with gold-rimmed spectacles, drove Daisy from Daphne Talmadge's room. She was not unwilling to leave. Having expounded the fairy tale about “poor Raymond's” disappointment, Daphne had grown teary again. She developed a tendency to regard Daisy as her only true friend and insisted on first-name terms. Had she not turned down brandy in favour of tea, Daisy would have guessed she was just a trifle tiddly.
Hilda and the tea arrived simultaneously with the doctor, so once again Daisy went without. Dr. Curtis dismissed the maid along with Daisy. They went downstairs together.
“Mrs. Talmadge told me you've been with her since she was a child,” said Daisy. “You must be fearfully worried about her.”
“Well, and I am, there's no denying. She's ever so upset. Who wouldn't be?” Hilda demanded, then added sotto voce, “Though there's some might think she's well rid of him!”
Pretending not to hear this last, Daisy said, “Of course, she's had a frightful shock.”
“And it's not very nice having the police in the house, not at all what we're used to. Poking and prying when anyone can see it was an accident.”
“So you agree with Nurse Hensted.”
“About that,” the maid agreed grudgingly, “and not much else. The mistress used to beg the master not to use that nasty gas. Have a whisky and soda, she'd say, or gin-and-It, like everyone else. It was bound to happen sooner or later and we don't need any police upsetting everybody with their nosey-parkering.”

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