Sheer Folly (23 page)

“I know Lucy,” said Alec grimly.

 

“Now I
have no one to take notes,” said Detective Inspector Boyle gloomily. “I've got some men coming over from Devizes, but it'll take them a couple of hours to get here. Swindon can't spare anyone on a Saturday night, what with the railway works and all.”

“I'm very good at taking notes,” Daisy said at once. “Aren't I, Alec?”

“I've known worse.”

“You write shorthand?”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“If you don't mind that she's the only person who can read it.”

“Darling, must you be so damping?”

“It's only fair that Mr. Boyle should know what he's getting himself into, if he decides to get.”

“Am I to assume, sir, that Mrs. Fletcher has taken notes for you in the past? In a police investigation?”

“Often,” said Daisy.

“Occasionally. She has never to my knowledge suppressed information she has written down in the course of an interview.”

Daisy was about to protest against his “to my knowledge,”
when Boyle, passing over that derogatory caveat, pounced on the rest.

“Are you saying Mrs. Fletcher is liable to suppress information otherwise acquired, sir?”

“I've been told so often that hearsay isn't evidence,” Daisy told Boyle, “that I don't report it, or gossip, unless it's of vital importance.”

“And just who decides what's of vital importance?”

“Who decides what's hearsay?” Alec put in. “You must admit, love, that you're not altogether certain of the definition.”

“Even the courts don't seem able to decide on that,” said Boyle. “All right, Mrs. Fletcher, I'll accept your kind offer to take notes, but I'd appreciate it if you'd allow me or the chief inspector to determine what's allowable evidence and what's not. Come to that, even inadmissible evidence can lead us in the right direction. Now, where were we when we were interrupted?” He opened Thomkin's notebook, turned to the last written-on page, and stared at it blankly.

“May I?” Daisy asked, reaching for it. “Perhaps I don't write the clearest shorthand in the world but I'm an expert at deciphering it. Besides, what he wrote is what I told you.”

Reluctantly Boyle handed the notebook over. “You'd better read it out loud from the beginning. Mr. Fletcher missed it.”

Daisy had no difficulty reading the detective sergeant's shorthand. She found her description of residents and guests at Appsworth transformed into indigestible officialese, so she transformed it back, in the process glossing over certain aspects. After all, her worry about the publisher refusing to include the scene of a murder in the folly book was not relevant. Alec wouldn't want to hear her philosophising about Rhino's upbringing and the twins. And she had exaggerated Julia's dislike of Rhino, giving Boyle the false impression that it could have led to murder. No need to repeat his words to Alec, who would much prefer to draw his own conclusions.

Reaching Lucy's interruption of proceedings, she rushed on before Boyle had a chance to question the thoroughness of her
report. “Actually, now I come to think of it, Armitage and Howell weren't at tea, I didn't meet them till just before dinner. That was when the Wandersleys arrived, too. I already told you about Sir Desmond Wandersley. He's from the Ministry of Health, here on business.”

“I don't suppose you happen to know his rank?” Alec asked.

Daisy pondered. “Principal Deputy Secretary, I'm pretty sure. Unless it's Deputy Principal Secretary . . .”

“No such thing. Lower level of the upper tier,” Alec informed Boyle. “It behoves us to tread with care. What's he like, Daisy?”

“Expert at presenting a façade to the world.”

“That's what it takes to rise in the bureaucracy.”

“Good at small talk, fund of entertaining anecdotes—”

“Also prerequisites,” Alec said cynically. “You said he's here on business? What's that all about?”

“Well, I haven't been privy to their discussions—”

“You surprise me.”

She frowned at him. “—Which were held at the Pritchard Plumbing plant in Swindon. But I gather he's in charge of some sort of contract for plumbing supplies for slum clearance. I did wonder—. But that's not even hearsay, just pure speculation.”

“What did you wonder, Mrs. Fletcher?” Boyle demanded.

“If you get her going on her wild theories,” Alec warned, “we'll be here all night.”

“Likely we will anyway. Sir. Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Oh, it's just that in spite of the façade, I could tell he wasn't at all pleased to find out I'm a journalist, and I wondered whether there might be something fishy about the contract.”

“Payments under the table?”

“I've no idea. His reaction wasn't necessarily anything to do with plumbing. Some people have an aversion to journalists as others do to policemen. After I assured him I was neither an investigative reporter nor a gossip-column tattler, he was quite friendly.”

Alec asked, “Can you pinpoint whether one or the other was more responsible for his change in attitude?”

Daisy tried to remember. “No, not really. Though subsequent events have made me wonder—”

“I see what you mean, sir,” said Boyle. “Mrs. Fletcher is much given to wondering.”

“Is this material, Daisy?”

“Absolutely. But the best way to explain will be to go back to Mr. Boyle's method of telling you about each person in turn as I met them.”

“Not,” Boyle muttered, “that you have been doing anything of the sort.”

Treating this observation with the silent disdain it merited, Daisy continued, “Lady Ottaline Wandersley came in with Sir Desmond. I'd never met her, but Julia and Lucy told me—. No, that's definitely hearsay. Isn't it, darling?”

“I expect so,” Alec admitted with a sigh. “If it seems necessary, we'll ask them what they told you.”

“Not that it wasn't pretty obvious. She's one of those women who . . .” Daisy hesitated, not wanting to sound catty. “You know the sort. She must once have been truly beautiful and she can't accept the fact that she's growing older and is no longer irresistible to men. She dresses to the nines, and she's still attractive—”

“When not covered in chalk dust!”

“You weren't terribly attractive yourself in the same condition,” she retorted. “The important thing is that Lady Ottaline was pleased to see Rhino—Lord Rydal—and he wasn't at all pleased to see her.”

“What made you think that?” Boyle asked sharply.

“I was standing beside Rhino, having recently suffered what passed for a conversation with him. When Lady Ottaline came in, he came over all tense and wary and made no move to greet the Wandersleys, although as later became apparent he was acquainted with both of them. And it wasn't at all like Rhino to be put out by anyone or anything.”

“And her ladyship?”

“She looked like the cat that stole the cream. A sort of self-satisfied smirk.”

“Sounds to me as if we should be arresting Lord Rydal for the murder of Lady Ottaline,” Boyle complained.

Daisy decided against trying to describe, let alone explain, her subsequent observation of Rhino and Lady Ottaline's behaviour and attitude towards each other. It was all hearsay and guesswork. She didn't mind expounding her theories to Alec and being told they were pure speculation, but she was getting tired of Boyle's quibbling. She was just plain getting tired, come to that. The day seemed to have gone on forever.

“Mr. Carlin arrived with the Wandersleys,” she said. “He's Sir Desmond's Private Secretary, capital
P
capital
S
as in civil service rank. He was talking at breakfast today about getting back to town this evening for a golf match tomorrow. He went to Swindon with Sir Desmond and Howell. I gathered he didn't intend to come back to Appsworth Hall.”

Boyle consulted a couple of sheets of paper on the desk in front of him. “No doubt that's why Carlin is on the butler's list but not Mr. Pritchard's. I assumed he must be a servant. We'll have to get hold of him.” The inspector jumped up and rang the bell. “I hope Thomkin hasn't left yet.”

“I'm sure Lucy's still packing up her stuff.”

“Undoubtedly,” Alec agreed. “Speaking of servants, Daisy, I don't suppose you know anything about this Gregg chap, Lord Rydal's chauffeur-valet or whatever he was?”

“I never saw him, to my knowledge, but I heard about him shortly after meeting Rhino. Not by name, though. He was furious with him because when Julia asked him to fetch our bags, mine and Lucy's, from the station, he said he had to remove a grease spot from his dinner jacket so he couldn't go.”

Boyle blinked. “Have I got this straight, Mrs. Fletcher: Miss Beaufort asked the chauffeur Gregg to fetch—”

“No, no, she asked Rhino—Lord Rydal—and he wanted to send his servant, but Gregg said he had to clean the jacket—Rhino's, that is, of course—so he couldn't go. He was acting as valet as well as chauffeur. Rhino told us he—the servant—was a lazy good-for-nothing, or something similar, and should have
done it the night before. Gregg apparently claimed he hadn't been able to see it by artificial light. But that's hearsay,” Daisy added hurriedly.

“There was already bad blood between them, then,” said Boyle, “before Lord Rydal gave him the sack. What do you reckon he was doing in the cave, Mr. Fletcher?”

“I can't believe he'd be stupid enough to set up the explosion and then stay around to watch. Nor can I believe he was up to any good.”

“He might have seen whoever did set it up,” Daisy suggested, “and hoped to return to Rhino's good graces by warning him. Not that Rhino had any good graces. Nor that anyone in their senses would want the job back.”

“And the doctor's sedated both him and Lady Ottaline,” the inspector said, morose now, “so we can't ask any questions.”

“Tomorrow. Neither's badly injured. Daisy, you don't happen to have any other ideas about what Gregg might have been up to?”

“It would be the wildest speculation,” Daisy said virtuously.

A parlourmaid came in. Boyle told her to find his sergeant and say he was wanted double-quick.

“He's in the hall, sir, waiting for Lady Gerald.”

“Good. Send him in. Mrs. Fletcher, do you know this Carlin's Christian name? Anything else about him?”

“Only that he's a civil servant. Ministry of Health, like Sir Desmond.”

DS Thomkin came in. Boyle explained about Carlin's departure. “You'd better try and bring him back with you,” he said. “Find out what you can about his likely whereabouts from Wandersley before you leave and see if you can track him down while Lady Gerald is working on those photographs.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant despondently.

“Here.” Alec handed him a bit of paper on which he had just written a name. “Call the Yard and ask for this chap. Tell him to give you a hand, as a purely unofficial favour to me.”

“Yes, sir!” said Thomkin, looking a trifle more hopeful.

“All right, get on with it. Let's hear your wild speculation now, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“What—. Oh, yes, about Rhino's servant. Well, Barker didn't mention it, but I bet Rhino refused to give Gregg a letter of reference. It wouldn't surprise me if Gregg followed him in hopes of doing a little blackmail, not for money but for a good recommendation.”

“Blackmail?” Boyle said in surprise. “On what grounds?”

“Sorry!” said Alec. “I thought someone would have told you by now. It seems to be common knowledge that Lord Rydal and Lady Ottaline had an assignation in the grotto.”

Boyle glared at Daisy. “Somehow that vital detail failed to reach me. But ‘common knowledge' is hardly meat for blackmail.”

“It depends how common it is,” Daisy argued. “I expect Rhino would have given a good deal to conceal his liaison from two people in particular. Or possibly three.”

“Who?”

“Well, Julia, obviously, since he adored her. Insofar as he was capable of adoration. And her mother, Lady Beaufort, who had been supporting his suit, but would more than likely change her tune if she found out he was consorting with his mistress while courting Julia. And Sir Desmond, of course. Except that I doubt he was still in ignorance, or, come to that, whether Rhino cared whether he knew.”

“When you say it was common knowledge, Daisy, what exactly do you mean? How common?”

“Umm. Actually, I just guessed. I put together the way they behaved, something I overheard—”

“What?”

“Isn't that hearsay?”

“Not if they were speaking of their own actions,” Alec said patiently.

“Oh, really? Lady Ottaline said they'd never manage to find privacy in the house, which was why . . . And then the door closed so I didn't hear why what. But when Lord Rydal missed
coffee after lunch and then I saw Lady Ottaline sneaking off through the garden, I put two and two together. Lucy guessed, too, and the Beauforts's maid told Julia, so I presume most if not all of the household servants knew. Goodness only knows whom they told.”

Boyle pounced. “Miss Beaufort told you she knew?”

“This afternoon.” Daisy attempted to sound as if she was clarifying her statement, though her intent was to obfuscate. She didn't know when Julia had found out, and she shouldn't have mentioned her in justifying the statement that the rendezvous was common knowledge. “But once Lucy was aware that Lady Ottaline had been injured and Rhino was missing, she said it was obvious what they'd been up to.”

“The first thing is to talk to the servants,” Boyle proposed to Alec, “see what they know, how they know it, and who they've told. They'll probably know more than most about people's movements, too.”