Gunpowder Plot (20 page)

“Must you? I suppose you must. All right.”

She left, and Alec turned to Daisy. “What else have you not told me?” he asked resignedly.

“Darling, last night you were in a rush to find out what had happened and to see everyone, and today I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you at all, except about Babs and Lady Tyndall’s trip abroad. Else besides what?”

“Besides Gooch being with you in the dining room. I’d better hear your version of what went on last night, from the Gooches’ arrival at the party. Try to stick to the essential points, love?”

“I’ll try,” Daisy promised. “First, I happened to be watching when the Gooches arrived. I wasn’t close enough to hear what was said, but as the Gooches continued into the hall, I saw Sir Harold and Lady Tyndall turn and look after them with horrified expressions.”

“Both Tyndalls?”

“Both. I thought—”

“Just the facts, Daisy.”

“Yes, but you mustn’t jump to the conclusion that they recognized Mrs. Gooch. It might just have been the prospect of Gooch’s Australian accent mingling with the august company.”

“I’ll take that into account.”

“You must, honestly. Martin Miller has hardly any accent, but it’s enough to make them eye him askance. He was very helpful, incidentally. I wanted to go down and see the merrymaking at the bonfire in the meadow, where the villagers gathered, and he drove me down. We went just after the Gooches got here, and got back to the house as people started to move out to the terrace, so I didn’t see anything that happened indoors in between.”

“Pity. I’d give a good deal to know what Sir Harold said to Mrs. Gooch and vice versa, or at least in what spirit it was said.”

“Sorry, can’t help. I can tell you, though, that she didn’t go outside with her husband. I did. I had an idea for an article . . . but you don’t want to hear about that, and it’s dead as the dodo now anyway.”

“How long did you talk to him?”

“Just a couple of minutes. As soon as the fireworks started, everyone moved forward and I lost him. Let’s see, who was next? Babs, I think. She collared the Yarborough boys as they were about to disappear down the steps. Obviously her prohibition didn’t have a lasting effect. Later I had a word with Addie’s mama-in-law, and lastly Jack, for just a moment before
he
disappeared down the steps. That was just as the final grand spectacle started.”

“I don’t suppose you noticed what direction he came from.”

“Not a hope. It was dark, darling, except for the weird light of the fireworks, and people kept moving around. I didn’t see anyone heading for the house until after the grand finale. I would have told you right away.”

“Yes, of course.” Alec sighed. “Go on. If Jack did the shooting, it must have been before you saw him?”

“I should think so. No time afterwards, not if the fireworks covered the sound of the shots, which they must have, mustn’t they?”

“That’s our assumption. How did he behave?”

“I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. At least, he looked as normal as one can with a blue face. The missing rockets— or rather, the ones that didn’t go missing— showered down green and blue sparks to represent rain, to make the tree—”

“Great Scott, Daisy!”

“Sorry. What was I . . . O hyes, Jack sounded normal. But he said only a few words before he noticed something wrong with the rockets and got upset and went down.”

“So the missing rockets could have been a very convenient excuse to cover the real reason for his being in a state of nerves.”

“I suppose so,” Daisy admitted reluctantly.

“I gather you were one of the last to return to the house.”

“I’d seen the supper buffet earlier and knew they weren’t going to run out of food, so I stayed to watch the bonfire blaze up. I sort of assumed at the time, without really thinking about it, that Gooch and Miller hung back because they weren’t entirely comfortable with the company. But Gooch was probably hoping to see his wife as she went in, and Miller may have been waiting till Gwen finished helping Babs hand out sparklers to the children. Anyway, we all went in together and we were at the end of the line. By then, I was—”

“Ravenous.”

“I was going to say ‘ famished,’ ” Daisy said with dignity. “And my toes were getting frostbitten. I know you don’t want to hear about my toes, but every little bit helps me remember exactly what happened. You’re always saying any detail may prove significant.”

“It may. I don’t want to rush you. It’s just that I can’t recall an investigation when I’ve had so many interviews cut short in the middle, and I was hoping we might get through the whole story before we’re interrupted. But you’re right. Tell it your own way, love.”

As if on cue, there came a knock on the door.

“Come in!” called Alec, exasperated.

A maid peeked nervously around the door. “Telephone, sir, if you please, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Jennings didn’t say, sir, just that it’s for you, sir.”

Alec slammed his hand down on the table. The maid jumped.“See what I mean?” he snarled, eyebrows meeting above his nose. “I must say I never before appreciated what a difference a good butler makes to a household like this.”

“I’ll write down everything I can remember,” Daisy said diplomatically as he strode to the door. “I hope it’s someone ringing with information you desperately need.”

But she’d venture a bet on its being Struwwelpeter, eager to reassert his claim to “his” county.

Less averse to being disturbed than Alec, Daisy took her writing things down to the drawing room. Not that she was positively courting interruptions, she assured herself, or she would have stationed herself in the front hall, with its acknowledged resemblance to Piccadilly Circus. She just didn’t want to appear to be avoiding the family in their time of trouble.

The drawing room was deserted. With nothing to distract her, Daisy soon wrote down all she could recall up to the point where Jack returned from the study to report the shooting. She was wondering whether she need go any further, when Miller wandered in. His disconsolate face brightened at the sight of her.

“Mrs. Fletcher! I was hoping I might come across you. But you’re busy. . . .”

“I’m just about finished. Do sit down. What can I do for you?”

He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, half offered it to Daisy, then drew back. “No, you don’t, do you? Half the girls seem to smoke these days.” To her relief, he returned the packet to his pocket without lighting up. “Do you mind if I ask your advice?”

“Not at all. I can’t promise to be able to give you any. At least, I can’t promise it’d be
good
advice.”

“Of course not. But you know how people like the Tyndalls think. What’s good form and what’s bad form and that sort of thing. It’s sometimes a bit mystifying to an ordinary bloke like me.”

“I know what you mean,” Daisy agreed. “I’ll try to help.”

“The thing is, I wonder if I ought to buzz off after all, after I’ve fetched the sergeant from the village. The only subject on Jack’s mind is who he really is. He’s not going to be making decisions about his future till that’s sorted out. I can’t even help him by being there for him to talk to. He went riding. I’ve never been on a horse in my life. He’s my host, and for all I know he’s wishing me away but too polite to tell me.”

“Yes, I see your difficulty.”

“I’d stay for Gwen, only I’ve hardly seen her since that wretched Australian crashed his motor. She’s too busy nursing him to—”

“Not any longer. A couple of professional nurses turned up. Didn’t you know? I made Gwen go and lie down. She’s exhausted. But wasn’t the last you saw of her when Jack asked you to explain about Mrs. Gooch’s letter? It seems to me they both need you here, even if they’re rather leaving you to your own devices at the moment. I shouldn’t cut and run if I were you.”

“But what about Lady Tyndall? She wasn’t too happy with me coming here in the first place. I wouldn’t be surprised if she blames me for everything that’s happened.”

“For shooting Sir Harold and Mrs. Gooch?” Daisy asked, astonished. “Why on earth should she think you did it?”

“Oh, not that, exactly,” Miller said gloomily. “But it was for my sake Jack wanted to go down to the Ravens. If we hadn’t gone, he’d not have met the Gooches and invited them to the house.”

“You might as well blame me for suggesting inviting them to our table. Alec’s half inclined to think it’s all my fault.”

“Is he really? I’m sorry I told him about that.”

“Not seriously. I’d have had to tell him myself, so don’t worry about it. But to get back to your original concern, I doubt if Lady Tyndall has the slightest idea that your preference for beer led to the visit to the pub. And I don’t see how your presence could possibly be as disturbing to her as ours— mine and Scotland Yard’s— not to mention Gooch’s. Who knows, she may even be glad you’re here because you’re someone else outside the family for Alec to suspect.”

Miller smiled wryly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Anyway, you see, it’s as much my fault as yours, but if you ask me, the Gooches would have found some other way to meet Jack.”

“Perhaps not one that would lead to murder.”

“Perhaps not,” Daisy had to acknowledge. “The fireworks were perfect cover for the shooting. I wouldn’t be so sure, though. That letter was pretty incendiary.”

“Do you think it’s true? That Jack is not Lady Tyndall’s son?”

Daisy hesitated. “The letter is awfully convincing.”

“If they made a practice of writing blackmailing letters, I suppose they’d have got pretty good at it.”

“The trouble is, it doesn’t matter so much whether it’s true or not. It’s whether Mrs. Gooch told the story to Jack and either convinced him, or he thought her claim might convince other people.”

“Eh?” After a moment’s confusion, Miller sorted it out. “Oh, I see what you mean. So you believe Jack killed them?”

“I don’t believe anything,” Daisy said crossly. “I’m waiting for Alec to find out. Isn’t it time for tea yet?”

Alec took the telephone call in the study, which had been cleaned since the removal of the bodies. Bloodstains were still visible— they would never completely disappear; the desk and carpet would doubtless be replaced as soon as the family had leisure for such niceties— and a slight sickly smell hung in the air, overlaid with acrid whiffs of carbolic disinfectant. But it was preferable to either battling the butler for the use of his pantry or forgoing privacy in the hall.

He picked up the telephone apparatus and sat down in the desk chair, pushed back a bit from the damp desk. Unhooking the receiver, he said, “Hello? DCI Fletcher speaking.”

“Dryden-Jones here, Chief Inspector.” The voice was pompous, with an undertone of complaint.

For a moment, Alec couldn’t think who the hell Dryden-Jones was. Ah, Daisy’s Struwwelpeter, alas, alias Sir Nigel’s stuffed orangutan, not to mention Lord Lieutenant of Gloucestershire. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Perhaps I didn’t make it clear, Chief Inspector, that I expect to be kept up-to-date with your progress in the enquiry into this horrible crime in
my
county.”

Though his position gave him absolutely no right to such information, he had been helpful over the search warrant, and there was no sense in antagonizing him. “Sorry, sir. The usual enquiries are proceeding.” Useful phrase, that. “But this is a very early stage in the investigation. With the able assistance of the Gloucestershire police force, we have interviewed every guest at the party. Unfortunately, none of them appears to have observed anything helpful. I’m very grateful for your assistance in obtaining a warrant—”

“Yes, yes, man, and what came of it? That’s what I want to know.”

“Nothing as yet. My detective constable is serving it as we speak. I shall, of course, be in touch with your chief constable as soon as I have anything to report, and he will no doubt keep you up-to-date. I’m expecting a vital telephone call, sir, so if you don’t mind . . .”

“Of course, of course, I’ll clear the line. Keep up the good work, Chief Inspector.”

“I shall, sir, never fear.” Alec breathed a sigh of relief as he hung up. The man was a pest, but easily routed. Whether he’d take the hint and apply to Herriott for information in future remained to be seen.

Leaning back, Alec surveyed the room. The sun was sinking beyond the western window, burnishing a few streaks of cloud. Jack had said the electric lights were on when he came upstairs. Those heavy curtains would have made them unnoticeable from the terrace. Sir Harold had been sitting here, apparently about to write something for the woman seated opposite him, when someone came in.

Through the door to the passage or that to the stairs? Probably the stairs, having picked up the pistol on the way.

Gun in hand, or concealed in a pocket? Very likely concealed, as the baronet had only half-risen by the time the murderer had advanced several paces into the room. Surely he’d have jumped to his feet and dropped the pen had he seen the weapon immediately. Mrs. Gooch didn’t appear to have made any attempt to stand up.

Did any of these assumptions offer a hint as to who had interrupted their tête- à- tête? Was there any point in building speculation upon speculation? He was constantly warning Daisy against wild theorizing.

What he really wanted was a spot of shut-eye. They had worked long hours on the Birmingham job and he hadn’t slept much last night. He longed to lay his head down on his arms and let himself drift. The state of the desk and the memory of its recent occupant prevented such indulgence, but his eyelids started to droop.

Brring-brring. Brring-brring.

Groaning, he reached for the telephone.

“Is that you?” said a creaky voice before Alec could speak. “Are you still there?”

Who the . . . ? The butler, of course. “Fletcher here,” he growled.

“I’m not one to complain,” creaked Jennings, “but all these here telephone callers ringing up night and day is not what I’m accustomed to.”

“I dare say you’re not accustomed to murder, either. You’re going to have to put up with it. Do you have someone on the line to speak to me? Put him through.”