Gunpowder Plot (23 page)

“We think not, sir, and—”

“He killed her!” In his fury, Gooch raised his bandaged head, then sank back with a moan. Eyes closed, he mumbled, “Let me go home to my boys. . . .”

“That’s enough now, Chief Inspector,” said the nurse adamantly, picking up a hypodermic needle and a vial of colourless liquid.

Alec and Piper left.

“Seems to me, Chief, he wasn’t in any state to make stuff up.”

“You’re right. I think he honestly believes Sir Harold shot his wife. That still leaves the possibility of Gooch himself having shot Sir Harold in revenge— if it is a possibility.” Alec sighed. “We’d better go over our notes on the scene in the study and make sure that theory won’t wash. If we still can’t make it work, Jack Tyndall looks like our man.”

23

I
f Edge Manor had worn an air of gloom on Thursday, on Friday the atmosphere was thick with doom. No matter what Daisy said about “helping the police with their enquiries,” she was unable to convince the Tyndalls that Jack had not been arrested.

Immediately after breakfast, the detectives from Scotland Yard had taken him off to the village police station. Martin Miller, having adjured him not to say anything without a lawyer present, had then taken it upon himself to ring up Mr. Lewin to request the name of a local solicitor who handled criminal matters.

Lady Tyndall was deathly pale but would not go to bed, even at the behest of Dr. Prentice, who came to see Gooch (and pronounced him out of danger). Babs muttered about a thaw and rain coming and jobs that needed doing. She went off to the farm but came back half an hour later to mope about in the hall with the rest. Adelaide turned up, without her sons, to complain that the whole family was bound to be ostracized. Babs and Gwen turned on her, and she flounced away again in a miff.

Daisy found the situation extremely uncomfortable. She decided to leave after lunch by train, without waiting for Alec. But Gwen, when asked for a lift to the station, begged her to stay.

By mid-morning, Daisy was in desperate need of a breath of fresh air. The cloud banks of last night’s sunset had solidified to a thick grey pall, but no rain yet fell. She fetched her coat and slipped out. No one appeared to notice her going.

The wind that brought the clouds had subsided to a breeze, warm in comparison to the past few days’ frosts. She stood for a few minutes on the terrace, gazing down at the meadow and the village. The last of the autumn leaves had been torn from the skeletal trees, revealing the roofs of houses and shops.

Daisy didn’t know which was the police house, but she picked out the inn. There in the cosy taproom of the Three Ravens, the machinery of tragedy, created more than twenty years ago, had been set in motion. The meadow where children had danced around the bonfire was empty but for a bull, pastured there to keep unwanted visitors at bay. The only sign of the celebration was a black circle in the middle. The fireworks apparatus was gone from the lowest terrace, the chattering crowds from the top terrace. Would the Tyndalls ever again celebrate the Gunpowder Plot with their friends and neighbours?

In a melancholy mood, Daisy walked along the terrace and into the shrubbery, murkier than ever beneath the overcast sky.

“Daisy!”

She swung round. Lady Tyndall, enveloped in her loden cloak, came towards her with short, quick steps. The cloak was done up to the chin and her hands were buried in the pockets, but she had forgotten her hat. She looked cold, with an inner chill nothing could ever warm.

“Daisy, I’m sorry, I expect you wanted to get away from . . . from us all.” She paused, but Daisy was far too well brought up to agree. “I have to talk to you.”

“Right-oh.” Daisy gave her an expectant look but walked on slowly.

Lady Tyndall kept pace. “You must tell your husband that Jack didn’t shoot his father and that woman!”

“I’m afraid Alec can’t accept my unsupported assertion any more than anyone else’s,” Daisy said with all the patience she could muster. “He has to have evidence.”

“But he had no reason to! He didn’t know she was— she claimed to be his mother. He wasn’t there, so he didn’t hear Harold say he didn’t care what she told his ‘ damned underbred, misbegotten son.’ And even if he had . . .” Her voice trailed away as she met Daisy’s eyes.

And Daisy knew who had shot Sir Harold and Lady Gooch, and she saw Lady Tyndall realize that she knew.

“‘ He wasn’t there.’ Outside the study, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“You were.”

“Yes. I saw them go off together. I followed. Harold didn’t close the study door properly, and I heard every word. They were conspiring to drive my boy away from me!” The words came out as a cry of anguish. “I went down and took a gun from the cabinet. Harold insisted I learn to shoot, during the War. I hoped . . . but I can’t let Jack be blamed. I’ve written—”

An explosion made both their heads turn. It came from the direction of the potting shed and was followed by shrill screams.

“Reggie and Adrian!” Lady Tyndall started running through the bushes towards the shed.

Daisy was not supposed to run, but she followed at a fast walk. Approaching the wooden building, she heard more explosions, and a rocket smashed through the small cobwebbed window, scattering shards of glass and glowing balls of silver, blue, and green fire. Behind the broken panes, flames flickered.

Lady Tyndall flung open the door and plunged into the shed.

She emerged, coughing, with a limp grandson in her arms, just as Daisy arrived. “Get him away from here!”

As Daisy took the child from her, she rushed into the shed again. Staggering under the boy’s weight, Daisy carried him a few paces away and laid him down. His hair was frizzled on one side and his face, hands, and clothes were smudged with soot, but he was breathing, thank heaven. After a moment, his body convulsed with a rack ing series of coughs, the sound vying with the continuing explosions and the crackle of the fire.

Daisy hurried back towards the shed. Now flames shot from the window and the collapsing roof. A final flurry of bangs announced the demise of the last rocket.

Through thick smoke, Lady Tyndall tottered out with the second boy. Her face was black, her eyes red and staring. She sank to her knees, her burden slipping to the ground. It was the elder brother, too heavy for Daisy to lift. She grabbed him under the shoulders and dragged him over to the other, then turned to help Lady Tyndall.

The elderly woman had somehow risen to her feet. She seemed to be struggling to take an object from her pocket. As Daisy started forward, she saw Lady Tyndall whirl around and dart back into the burning building.

The shed was engulfed in a roaring inferno, clouds of smoke billowing into the sky. And then came one final
crack.

Her legs suddenly weak, Daisy sat down on the ground, watching aghast.

“Mrs. Fletcher!” Constable Blount came pounding towards her, the gardener, Biddle, close at his heels. “What’s happened?”

Only then did Daisy realize that all along she had been shouting, screaming for help. She pointed at the boys. “Stolen rockets,” she gasped hoarsely, and surrendered to tears.

24

I
told them she was confused by the flames and smoke,” Daisy said sombrely. “They were too busy getting Reggie breathing to ask questions. There wasn’t the slightest chance of saving her, even if she hadn’t shot herself.”

“You’re quite certain of that?” said Alec. “That she shot herself, I mean.”

“Oh yes. I saw her take the gun from her pocket. You’ll find it when the embers cool.”

They were sitting with Tom, Piper, Sir Nigel Wookleigh, and an unusually silent Dryden-Jones in the billiard room. Piper had his notebook and pencils at the ready, but at Daisy’s insistence, he was not taking notes.

They all looked at the gun cabinet. Two Webley & Scott automatics were missing.

“She went back in deliberately?”

“Yes. She knew exactly what she was doing. I’m sure she brought the pistol because she intended to commit suicide. The fire gave her a chance both to heroically save the children and to make her death appear an accident.”

“And you say you found a confession in her bedroom?” Sir Nigel put in. “No, no, I don’t want to read it.”

“You realize, sir, that in a case like this, we can’t accept a confession, or even suicide, as proof of guilt. However, Lady Tyndall mentioned details only the murderer could have known. Besides, our interview with Mr. Tyndall was leading us in the same direction. I did, in fact, send PC Blount up to the house to request that her ladyship come down to the police station.”

“Don’t say the boy implicated his mother!” the Lord Lieutenant burst out.

“Great Scott no, sir! Far from it. I’m afraid I can’t let you see the report, but—”

“Why not, dash it?” Dryden-Jones muttered, but in a subdued tone. “My county, after all.”

“I’ll have to send it to your chief constable. If he chooses to show it to you . . .”

“No, no. But what about my coroner? King’s Coroner, don’t you know, and I’m His Majesty’s representative in the county. The inquest is already scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Daisy?” said Alec, and sat back with his arms crossed.

She shot him an indignant look. She had hoped he would explain her proposal and persuade the Chief Constable and Lord Lieutenant to go along with it. But it was unorthodox, and he was an officer of the law, and no doubt the less he had to do with it, the better.

“The . . . the person responsible for the tragedy is dead.” She simply could not bring herself to call Lady Tyndall a murderess. “The Tyndalls are in for a horrible time, whatever happens next.”

“Murder is frowned upon in the best families,” Dryden-Jones commented, apparently without facetious intent.

“So is suicide,” Daisy pointed out. “But rescuing one’s grandchildren from a burning building and dying in the process . . . Well, I simply can’t see why the world has to know she killed herself after shooting the others. She really was extraordinarily brave. A gun is a much quicker way to die than fire. I was terrified. And quite apart from having the nerve, I don’t know how she had the strength to do it.”

“It’s not uncommon,” said Alec, “for people in similar situations to tap reserves they can’t normally draw on.”

“So, if people think Sir Harold shot Mrs. Gooch and then himself, her heroism may counteract the scandal to some extent.”

Dryden-Jones nodded. “See what you mean, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“It’s a point,” Sir Nigel agreed, then asked gruffly, “Does young Tyndall intend to make a clean breast of the matter of his birth? To the Heralds’ College, that is.”

“Yes, he has no interest in trying to keep a title that isn’t legitimately his, though Mr. Gooch wouldn’t dream of making public his wife’s youthful peccadillo. Jack will try to keep her name out of it.”

“There will be scandal there, too, all the same. Well, what do you think, Dryden-Jones? It’s a shocking thing to mislead an official of the Crown, but the way Mrs. Fletcher would have us put the case would somewhat mitigate the Tyndalls’ situation without going too far astray.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all very well, and I’m sure we all want to avoid as much scandal as possible. The newspapers seem to get worse every year. But you really can’t expect me to go and pitch a tale to the Coroner!”

“Your county, my dear fellow,” said Sir Nigel maliciously.

The Lord Lieutenant’s face purpled, and Alec hastily intervened.

“There’s no question of that, sir. In homicide cases where the Met has been called in by a county force and completes the investigation before the inquest, it is quite in order for us to leave the local force to deal with the Coroner. I shall report to Mr. Herriott—”

“Herriott? Herriott? The Gloucestershire CC? Could have sworn the man’s name was Hazlitt.”

“To the Chief Constable,” Alec amended patiently, “that the murder weapon was found close to Sir Harold’s right hand, as indeed it was. He’s unlikely to demand a detailed report, as he’s already requested my help with another case. He won’t want me and my men wasting time writing up a case that’s already solved. He or one of his chaps will relay the information to the Coroner. I’d be very surprised if the jury didn’t bring a verdict of murder-suicide by the late baronet.”

“Bit hard on the poor chap,” Dryden-Jones protested.

Sir Nigel disagreed. “Since the whole disaster was brought about by his actions, I shan’t weep for him.”

“As for Lady Tyndall’s death,” Alec continued, “that will be a separate inquest. In view of my wife’s . . . er . . . condition, I trust the Coroner will be satisfied with her written testimony.”

“Which will state, with perfect truth, that I witnessed Lady Tyn-dall rescue her grandsons from a burning building but unfortunately she didn’t survive her injuries. PC Blount and the gardener won’t contradict that.”

“By Jove, Mrs. Fletcher, you’ve got it all worked out!” said Sir Nigel with ironic admiration. “Tell me, Chief Inspector: I suppose there are a few cases when you have to do without your wife’s assistance. How on earth do you manage?”

Piper snickered. Tom’s moustache twitched and his eyes twinkled.

Alec grinned. “Less
interestingly,
sir,” he said.

“Gwen, you will keep in touch, won’t you?” said Daisy as they drove through dank drizzle to the station.

“If you’re sure you want to associate with such a disreputable family.” Gwen’s smile was feeble. Her nose and eyes were red. Her mother, however guilty, was truly mourned, as her father was not.

“Don’t be an ass. I want to hear how things work out for all of you, even your nephews. Horrors that they are, I’m glad they weren’t seriously hurt.”

“Yes, superficial burns and smoke inhalation. They deserve every pang. And Dr. Prentice is pretty sure Mr. Gooch will recover fully. We have much to be thankful for. Not least that you were there. Daisy, I don’t know how we’d have coped without you. And Alec, too, instead of some beastly flat-footed bobby with no manners and no sensitivity.”

“Speaking of sensitivity, are you quite sure you’re all willing for my article to be published?”

“Oh yes, Jack and Babs don’t mind. You did say you won’t put in anything about . . . what’s been happening.”

“Of course not. It’s not that sort of magazine. My editor would have forty fits. But it is possible you’ll get the odd American tourist turning up to see the show.”

“That’s a whole year away. We’ll worry about it then. We haven’t even begun to think about whether we’ll continue to put on a Bonfire Night celebration.”

“It would be a pity to stop, after four hundred years.”

“At present,” said Gwen wryly, “my respect for the demands of tradition is not high.”

“Great Scott, another dozen Christmas cards!” said Alec, regarding the pile of envelopes beside Daisy’s plate as he sat down to his eggs and bacon.

“Between the two of us, we know a lot of people. Better cards than letters which have to be answered. Oh dear, here’s one from Sir Nigel Wookleigh. I didn’t send him one.”

“Still time. Are you really feeling up to meeting the school train at Liverpool Street, love?”

“Gosh yes. I wouldn’t fail Belinda for anything. It’ll be lovely to have her at home over Christmas. I’ve really missed her.”

“Yes, sometimes I wish she hadn’t chosen to go to boarding school. You’re to take a taxi both ways, no nonsense about hopping on a bus. Do you have enough money?”

“I think so,” Daisy said absently, opening another envelope. “Oh, darling, here’s a letter from Gwen. Gwen
Miller
! She’s married him.”

“The aeronautical engineer?”

“Yes. Let’s see. She’s written pages.” Skimming through the letter, she relayed the salient bits to Alec as he ate. “A quiet registry office wedding. Jack’s joined Miller’s firm and they’re all sharing a house in Coventry, but they usually go to Edge Manor at the weekends and will spend Christmas there. Lucky it’s so near. Babs is running the place and . . . Poor Babs, Addie and her boys have moved in!”

“Miss Tyndall will cope, I feel sure.”

“Reggie and Adrian will be going away to a proper prep school in January, one with a reputation for firm discipline. And Mr. Gooch has sailed for home, in a wheelchair, but he’s expected to be on his feet by the time he gets to Perth.” She sighed. “Poor Mr. Gooch, he really got the worst of it, and through no fault of his own.”

“That’s the way it generally is with murder. The innocent suffer most. If people thought about that first, maybe there would be fewer murders committed.”

“And you’d be out of a job, darling.”

“Or work shorter hours.” He finished his coffee, stood up, pushed in his chair, and came round the table to kiss her. “Give Bel my love, and I promise to do my very best to get home on time.”

“That’ll be the day,” said Daisy.