Murder on the Flying Scotsman (27 page)

‘Yes, but I don’t think he has a frightfully high opinion of the peerage. Besides, I’ve explained it all, that I’m a younger son with no chance of inheriting the title,
and I’ll never be more than an “Hon.” or have more than a small allowance.’ He grimaced. ‘My people haven’t met them yet.’

‘Aha! You’re expecting a ragging from . . . What is it, Mrs. Potter?’

Breathing heavily, the stout charwoman beamed as she set a tray of tea-things on the desk. ‘The kettle were just on the boil, miss, so I thought I’d bring up a nice cuppa for you and
the gentleman. No biscuits,’ she added regretfully. ‘We finished ’em up for elevenses, miss, remember?’

‘Yes,’ Daisy said guiltily. Though no slimming diet could possibly make her rounded figure fashionably boyish, she really ought to make an effort. At least, Lucy said so. Frequently.
‘Thank you, Mrs. Potter.’

I’ll pour,’ Phillip offered, leaving his perch and pulling the other chair up to the desk. ‘The typewriter’s in your way.’

‘This is
not
turning into a tea-party! One cup, and off you go. Happy as I am to hear your news, I’ve work to do.’

‘You’ll be free this weekend, won’t you?’ he asked hopefully, passing her a steaming cup. ‘I want you to meet Gloria and Arbuckle, and . . . well, actually, I hoped
you’d go with me when I take them to meet my people. Lend your support, and all that.’

‘You’re going to brace up and bite the bullet? I could spare a couple of hours, if you really think my presence would help. Are Lord and Lady Petrie coming up to town specially to
meet them?’

‘Lord no! The Arbuckles are staying in Great Malvern, at the Abbey Hotel. Gloria wanted to get out of town – she adores the English countryside – so I persuaded Arbuckle that
Malvern’s convenient for his business doings in Oxford and Coventry and Birmingham.’

‘Hardly! And apart from the Malvern Hills, the countryside isn’t anything special.’

‘It’s easy to drive to both the Cotswolds and the Welsh mountains,’ Phillip argued, ‘and none of those cities is more than fifty miles away. Not to mention the concerts
and tennis and golf . . .’

‘You needn’t go on,’ said Daisy, laughing. ‘I’ve read the adverts. “Healthiest of health resorts, lowest death rate in the kingdom, purest water in the
world.”’

‘I threw all that guff at him, but the clincher was the Morgan Motor Company being in the town. Arbuckle’s looking to invest in British motor manufacturers to diversify his holdings.
He made his packet by selling out his railway stocks – railroad, they call it – and going into automobiles, in America, at just the right moment.’

‘Stocks and shares, just your line.’

Shaking his head, Phillip pulled a face. ‘I can’t stand the perishing City much longer. I’m an absolute duffer at it. If Gloria will marry me, I hope her father will find me a
job in the technical end of the motor-car business, but I’m going to tell the pater I’m getting out anyway.’

‘You’ve always hated it,’ Daisy sympathized. ‘Like me and stenography.’

I’d rather be a common-or-garden hired motor mechanic, greasy overalls and all, and what’s more, I’d make more money at it. I’d even rather sell second-hand cars. If that
don’t suit the pater’s notions of consequence, he can jolly well cough up the ready to set up my own business. I know a fellow who’s dying to go into partnership, and . .
.’

‘Not now, Phillip. I can’t make it to Malvern this weekend, but if you can wait till next, I’ll come along to hold your hand.’

‘Will you? You’re a real brick, Daisy!’

‘I owe Mother a visit. She’s feeling neglected, as she never hesitates to let me know.’

I’ll pop in and see her. I’m buzzing down on Saturday anyway – I’ve been home every weekend since Gloria left town. There’s a chappie staying at the hotel,’ he
added darkly, ‘who’s been making a dead set at her. I get down as much as I can.’

‘Your parents must be a bit surprised by the sudden excess of filial devotion, and the Arbuckles that you haven’t yet introduced them. You’ve only just plucked up the
nerve?’

Phillip was indignant. ‘Not at all. It’s only last week I began to think I had a real chance with Gloria, and then I had to talk to you first. The mater . . . All right,’ he
said hastily, standing up as she thrust his hat at him, ‘I’ve talked. I’m going. You’ll like her, Daisy. She’s got golden curls and the bluest eyes you ever saw, and .
. .’

‘Toodle-oo, Phillip,’ said Daisy, cutting short the rhapsody.

‘Oh, right-ho, pip-pip. And you honestly don’t mind?’

‘I honestly don’t mind a bit.’

Phillip went off at last with an air of enormous relief.

Her fingers resting on the typewriter keys, Daisy pondered a moment before taking up her interrupted train of thought. So Gloria had golden curls and blue eyes, did she? And no doubt a
million-dollar wardrobe. Well, her own eyes were blue, but her shingled hair was an intermediate brown and her wardrobe mostly last year’s, if not older, and bought at Selfridge’s
Bargain Basement.

Not that she was jealous. Phillip was an honorary brother. He had never even pretended to be in love with her. She was just afraid the dear old ass might have fallen for a pretty face without
considering what was behind it.

But he had described Gloria as a poppet, not a stunner. Daisy could only hope she was going to like the American girl.

Occasional gateways in the hedges revealed Bredon Hill on the horizon to the right; the Malvern Hills loomed ahead. From a cloudless sky the sun shone down on drought-parched
fields and orchards, rotten luck for the farmers but perfect for a fellow in love.

‘“It’s three o’clock in the morning,”’ Phillip warbled merrily, if inaccurately and off-key, as he tootled along the narrow, winding lane across the Severn
plain. ‘“We’ve danced the whole night through.”’

Nearly home. He’d have a quick wash and brush-up, change his clothes, and then drive into Great Malvern, stop ping at Violet’s for a box of chocs. After tea with the Arbuckles at the
Abbey Hotel, he and Gloria would stroll by the swan pool in Priory Park. Later they might go to the pictures, if there was anything decent showing, or dance at the Winter Gardens ballroom to the
music of Billy Gammon’s All-Star Players.

Dancing, he hoped. If there was any bliss greater than doing the Charleston, tango, or fox-trot with Gloria, it was waltzing with Gloria.

Lost in a dream, he zipped round a bend – and jammed on his brakes. A large motor-car, though pulled into a gateway, blocked half the lane.

‘By Jove!’ Phillip muttered. ‘It’s a good job I overhauled the brakes the other day. What the deuce . . . Oh!’ His irritation with the idiot who’d stopped in
such a spot vanished as he recognized Arbuckle’s vast blue Studebaker touring car.

Arbuckle, sitting in the back seat, turned and waved. And there was Gloria, perched on the top bar of the gate, slim, silk-clad ankles very much in evidence, golden hair outshining the stubble
of the hayfield behind her.

‘Phil . . . Mr. Petrie,’ she cried, ‘aren’t you just an angel? A regular White Knight rushing to the rescue!’ She started to climb down.

Phillip leapt from the Swift, squeezed between Studebaker and hedge, and arrived just in time to catch her as she jumped the last two bars.

‘Careful,’ he said breathlessly, his arms about her waist. She gazed up at him, eyes blue as the sky, rosy lips parted. Overhead a lark poured out a burst of melody, and the air was
full of the fragrance of wild roses.

Mr. Arbuckle coughed. Phillip and Gloria sprang apart.

‘Waal now,’ said her father, a short, spare man with a long face lengthened by a receding hairline, ‘if this isn’t quite a coincidence.’

‘You’ve broken down, sir?’ Phillip asked, at last noticing the Studebaker’s bonnet open on both sides. ‘I’ll have a look, shall I?’

‘It’s mighty kind of you to offer, young fella, but I guess it’s not something that can be fixed on the spot. Me, I’m the financial wizard, don’t pretend to
understand the mechanical stuff, but Crawford, my technical man, was driving us. Say, you’ve met him.’

‘Yes, you introduced us.’ He hadn’t pursued the acquaintance, not having taken to the American engineer, despite his enviably extensive knowledge of motor-cars’ design
and manufacture.

‘Crawford knows autos if anyone does. He went off with some broken part or other to hike to the nearest garage.’

‘I might as well have a dekko.’ Phillip already had his aged tweed jacket off. He tossed it into the Studebaker and rolled up his sleeves. He wasn’t about to pass up a good
excuse to examine an unfamiliar engine.

Gloria came and stood beside him. ‘Mr. Crawford said something about the radiator,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Didn’t he, Poppa?’

‘Beats me, honey.’

‘That’s it.’ Phillip pointed. ‘Look, the hose is gone. It must have split. I think I have a spare in my tool-box which just might fit. Let’s give it a
try?’

‘Atta-boy!’ said Mr. Arbuckle with a nod of approval. ‘That’s what I like to hear. Be Prepared. It’s a wunnerful motto, yes sirree, and not just for Boy
Scouts.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Phillip grinned at him. He was growing quite fond of the old bird.

He fetched a couple of lengths of different-sized hose, a knife, spanner, and screwdriver from the tool-kit attached to the Swift’s running board. As he bent over the Studebaker, a brown
Ford motor-van with FARRIS, BUTCHERS painted on the side panel came along the lane and stopped.

A burly man, shabbily dressed, stepped down. Touching his cap to Arbuckle and Gloria, he addressed Phillip, ‘Wotcher, cock. Need an ’and?’

‘No, thanks. It’s just a matter of getting a new radiator hose clamped in.’

The man leaned with meaty hands on the Studebaker’s nose. ‘Yer’ll need water to fill ’er up, gov’nor,’ he pointed out.

‘True,’ Phillip agreed. ‘I’ll buzz over to the nearest farm in my bus.’ Gesturing with the screwdriver towards the Swift, he turned his head slightly. From the
corner of his eye he caught a sudden motion.

Arbuckle cried out. Phillip swung round. Heavy boots thudded on the dry, packed earth of the lane as four men masked with handkerchiefs rushed around the front of the van.

Two dived over the side of the Studebaker reaching for Arbuckle. One grabbed Gloria. The fourth swung a crowbar at Phillip.

He ducked the blow.

‘Gloria!’ he shouted, and went for her attacker with the screwdriver.

The van’s driver caught him from behind and wrenched the screwdriver from his grasp. A second swing of the crowbar caught him on the side of the head.

Exploding stars blinded him. His ears rang. Distantly aware of a heavy, sweetish odour, he sank into darkness.

Forthcoming titles in the Daisy Dalrymple series

In spring a young man’s fancy will turn to love and the Honourable Phillip Petrie is no exception. Daisy’s chum is totally smitten with Miss Gloria Arbuckle,
daughter of a millionaire Yank. But before the enthusiastic suitor can pop the question, his beloved is abducted by kidnappers. As a distraught Mr Arbuckle begins assembling the ransom, Phillip
enlists Daisy to help him recover his missing sweetheart.

978-1-84901-331-4

£
6.99

www.constablerobinson.com

Forthcoming titles in the Daisy Dalrymple series

July, 1923. Daisy has been invited by an American magazine to cover the Henley Regatta. But unknown to her, she steps right into a class war between two members of the Oxford
rowing team. Cox Horace Bott – a shopkeeper’s son and scholar student – has always hated rower Basil DeLancy – younger son of an earl and all-round cad and bully. And after
a particularly brutal public humiliation by DeLancy, Bott swears revenge – so when DeLancy keels over and dies mid-race, it would seem he’s made good on his promise.

Yet Daisy isn’t convinced, and with the help of her fiancé Detective Inspector Alec Fletcher of Scotland Yard, she dives into a tangled web of jealousies and secrets, where
appearances are everything and good breeding may just be a cover for a killer intent on keeping Daisy mum . . .

978-1-84901-332-1

£
6.99

www.constablerobinson.com