Sheer Folly (24 page)

“A good place to start,” Alec agreed smoothly. “If you want to get going on that, I'll just get the details from my wife as to exactly when and where she overheard Lord Rydal and Lady Ottaline.”

“Right you are, sir. I'll go and talk to them in the servants' hall. I'll take my own notes.” With a pointed look at Daisy's blank notebook, he departed.

“Oh dear,” said Daisy, “I didn't take any notes after all. It would have seemed rather odd taking notes of my own interrogation.”

“Never mind notes. You may have pulled the wool over DI Boyle's eyes, though I wouldn't count on it, but you can't distract me so easily. When did the maid tell your friend Julia about that pretty pair making their assignation?”

“What does it matter? Julia had no reason to blow Rhino up. She just had to keep saying no.”

“Daisy, you know I can't let it go at that. I agree that there are others who would appear to have better motives, but Julia Beaufort
is definitely on my list. Now tell me about your eavesdropping.”

“Eavesdropping! They knew I was there.”

Before she could explain, the door swung open. Mrs. Howell marched in. In a shrill voice, she announced, “I know who did it!”

 

As Alec
sprang to his feet to offer Mrs. Howell his chair, Daisy scribbled on her pad:
Don't believe a word she says
! Certain that he'd move to his preferred position behind the desk, she tore off the leaf and slid it across the leather top.

He glanced at it, then at her with a frown, then continued seating Mrs. Howell with his best soothing manner.

Daisy had no idea what Mrs. Howell was going to say, whom she was going to accuse. But the woman was full of rancour and didn't seem to care about anyone except her son. Even there, it was a case of care
about
, not care
for
. Daisy had seen no signs of affection between them. If Mrs. Howell promoted Owen's interests, it was, to all appearances, only because they meshed with her own.

Besides, Lucy had said their hostess seemed to be developing some sort of religious mania. None of that had seemed relevant when Daisy was telling DI Boyle about the Howells, but if she was going to go round accusing people, her state of mind could not be ignored.

Alec sat down behind the desk. Reading the note without touching it, he leant forward. “Please go on, Mrs. Howell.”

Since her dramatic entrance, Mrs. Howell hadn't said a word. She didn't seem to notice Daisy sitting there with her notebook at the ready. She stared wild-eyed at Alec, her mouth opening and closing silently. Even if she happened to be telling the truth, she didn't at present look in the least like a credible witness.

“You say you know who blew up the grotto?” Alec prompted.

“An evil place! Full of pagan idols and popery!
He
built it and
he
destroyed it.”

“Mr. Pritchard?” His tone was so neutral as to express incredulity. “Why should he destroy his own creation?”

“I told him.” She was triumphant. “I convinced Brin of the wickedness, the shame of it.”

“How do you know he acted on his conviction?”

“I saw him.” Mrs. Howell looked away from Alec and started to fidget with her skirt. “I saw him going to that place this morning, after breakfast. I didn't go down to breakfast and I happened to glance out of my bedroom window, and I saw him.”

“You're certain it was Mr. Pritchard?”

“Of course,” she asserted, gaining confidence. “I've known him since my poor sister married him forty years ago. I couldn't possibly be mistaken.”

“What time did you see him?”

“I can't say for sure. I didn't think anything of it then. Why should I? He's obsessed with his horrible grotto! He's so eager to show it off, he lets complete strangers come and stay in the house if they express the slightest interest, without any regard for my convenience. He even lets that man live here, just because he wants someone to play hermit now and then. What does Mr. Armitage want, poking about in dusty old papers that should have been cleared out years ago? Up to no good, if you ask me, and carrying on with that girl, into the bargain. But Brin won't hear a word against him.”

Alec responded to this tirade with a mild “How long have you lived in Mr. Pritchard's house?”

“What does that have to do with anything? We're not living on his charity, I assure you! My husband left me plenty of money,
and half the firm to Owen. Brin only invited us to live here so as to have someone to entertain his guests and so he can keep his thumb on Owen.”

“Oh?”

“He's supposed to have retired, but Owen can't do a thing without consulting his uncle. I don't know why Owen doesn't let him get on with it. My son could live like a gentleman if he sold off his half of the business. But no, all he cares about is Pritchard's Plumbing. He hasn't even got his own name on it! I should never have let him visit the plant when he was a boy. My husband never went near the place.”

“Could we get back to what you saw this morning, Mrs. Howell? Where exactly was Mr. Pritchard, and what was he doing?”

She blinked at Alec vaguely, as if she'd forgotten the purpose of this interview. Perhaps Lucy was right, Daisy thought, and she had developed a mania, though it seemed to be more concerned with her brother-in-law than religion. Why had she turned against him?

“He was walking along the path towards the grotto,” she said at last. “Almost running. And he kept looking behind him as if he was afraid of being seen. I knew he was up to something terrible. He's an evil man. You must arrest him at once and take him away.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that, you know, not simply on your word. Especially as he doesn't seem to have done anything dreadful while you were actually watching him.”

Mrs. Howell deflated. Rubbing her forehead, she complained, “I have a frightful headache. I'd better go and lie down till dinnertime.”

“We'll talk again later, when you're feeling well enough.” Alec went to open the door for her. Closing it behind her, he ran his hand through his hair. The crisp crop shed a dusting of chalk and became one shade nearer its usual dark hue. “Whew!” he exclaimed, returning to the desk. “What a virago. I hope you're going to explain what that was all about.”

“She seems to have gone completely dotty!”

“She's got it in for Pritchard all right. But at a guess there's method to her madness. When one gets a wild accusation like that, it's often an attempt to cover up guilt, either her own or her son's.”

“Pure speculation, darling, and I doubt it. Rhino was rude to her but no more so than to everyone else. She forgave him because of his title.”

“She seems to have a genuine hatred of that wretched grotto. Perhaps she wanted to blow it up and didn't consider that someone was bound to get hurt in the process.”

“It's possible, I suppose, but I don't believe she's that dimwitted. In any case, it wouldn't surprise me if she hadn't the slightest idea how to do it, or even that turning on the gas could cause an explosion.
That
dim-witted she is.”

“What about protecting her son?”

“Owen Howell—well, I just can't imagine him blowing up perfectly good machinery, if that's the right word. Technical equipment. He got quite indignant over Rhino being careless with Lucy's camera stuff.”

“Indignant at Rhino?”

“Yes, but not violently. In general he's cool, calm, and collected. He rejoices in what you might call an orderly brain. In fact, he's one of the most rational people I've ever met. I can think of much more likely motives for Mrs. Howell to try to get Pritchard arrested.”

“Such as?”

“It boils down to simply getting rid of him. She may have enough money to be independent of him, but she likes being chatelaine of Appsworth House. I've heard him talk about letting women have their own way in the house, for the sake of peace, but in actual fact, as far as I can see, everything is run his way. He invites whomever he chooses, his favourite food is served—and his unfavourite not served—”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It's a fishy tale, darling, that's completely irrelevant. I'll tell you sometime. Suffice it to say, they don't get on at all well. He
teases her and she carps at him—. Oho, more fish! I'll have to tell Lucy and Julia.”

“Daisy!”

“Sorry. The important thing is that Owen inherits the house, I gather, as well as everything else, including Pritchard's interest in the company. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry, but obviously if Appsworth was his, his mother's position would be much enhanced. She could even consider herself safely ensconced for life, because he's not the marrying kind.”

“How on earth do you know?”

“For a start, he's forty and unmarried. And he appears to appreciate Julia's looks, but doesn't follow her about with his tongue hanging out, like Rhino and . . .” Bother! She didn't want to draw attention to Charles Armitage's passion for Julia.

“And?”

“And I've never seen him show the least sign of jealousy. He's far more interested in explaining the latest technological improvements in the safety of water heaters than in Julia being beautiful and in need of a wealthy husband.”

“The safety of water heaters? Was it a water heater that blew up out there?”

“Probably. But, if I've got this right, it couldn't have been a steam explosion because—let's see—because the gas can't be turned on before the water is. Or something of the sort.”

“I'm going to have to talk to Howell and Pritchard about the technical aspect of the explosion. Or rather, Boyle is. I suppose I'd better bring him up to date on Mrs. Howell's rant.”

“You don't believe her, do you?”

“Great Scott, no! Too many inconsistencies in her story, not to mention her manner. But all the same, as you're well aware, I don't know nearly enough to cross Pritchard off the list.”

Daisy sighed. “I like him. I can't believe he'd destroy his beloved grotto just to get rid of an irritating guest who was leaving soon anyway. But I know you and your precious list.”

“ ‘You know my methods, Watson.' Can you spare a sheet from your notebook, or shall I pinch some of Pritchard's paper?”

“He wouldn't mind, but if you feel it's inappropriate for a policeman to misappropriate his host's stationery, here you are.” She tore off a blank page and handed it over. “What's it for?”

“Just a note for Boyle. I don't want to send a verbal message and have it published to the world before it reaches him. Ring for a servant, would you, love?”

The little maid Rita scurried in a very short time later, as flustered as ever.

“Have you been promoted to parlourmaid, Rita?” Daisy asked her.

“Oh no'm. That Mr. Boyle's asking Lily questions, and Mr. Barker said I was to come.” She scurried off again with Alec's note, but some time passed before Boyle appeared. While they waited, Alec asked Daisy what she had really been going to say when she'd stopped herself after comparing Lord Rydal's pursuit of Julia with Howell's lack of interest. She should have known he wouldn't miss her hesitation. She managed to fob him off with the fish story, which made him laugh, but she knew the reprieve was temporary.

Boyle arrived before he could press her. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. The girl only just gave me your note. She didn't want to interrupt. What's up?”

“The lady of the house has accused her brother-in-law of blowing up the grotto.”

“Wonderful!” the inspector said acidly. “I can't possibly get a warrant at this time on a Saturday evening.”

“Not so fast. Wait till you've heard what she said. Daisy?”

Daisy read her notes aloud. She had written them recently enough to be able to decipher them without difficulty. Mrs. Howell's ranting didn't sound quite as mad in her own prosaic voice, but it was still pretty mad.

“Well now,” Boyle said doubtfully, “that's not good enough for a warrant, agreed, but Mr. Pritchard's going to have to account for himself. What was he doing trotting off through the gardens towards the grotto at that time in the morning?”

“I think it's pure fabrication,” said Daisy. “He told me he had
a few things to do in here before he gave me a tour of the house, and I bet he was right here the whole time.”

“Why should Mrs. Howell fabricate a story to incriminate her brother-in-law?”

“You'll have to explain, Daisy.”

“But it's all speculation, darling. With a bit of hearsay mixed in, I shouldn't be surprised.”

In spite of his naturally inexpressive features, Boyle's look spoke louder than words. “If you recall, Mrs. Fletcher, I told you I want to hear
everything
.”

So Daisy repeated the arguments she had already given to Alec.

“Sounds reasonable,” Boyle conceded. “All the same, sir, we'll have to ask him about it.”

“Of course. I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. However, I don't consider it urgent. But it's your case,” Alec apologised.

“Maybe we'd better change that, put it on a formal footing. In the morning I'll ring up my super and ask him to put it to the Chief Constable—”

“Great Scott, no! The more informal we can keep it, the happier I'll be. You may have to remind me now and then, though, Inspector, that I have no standing whatsoever in this case. I am merely a consultant.”

“Well, sir, if you insist. For the present at least. Suppose I was to want to consult you right this minute. What'd you say's the most urgent item on the agenda?”

“First, did you get anywhere with the servants? I'm sorry I interrupted you, but it seemed to me that, being in charge, you'd have had every right to be annoyed if I hadn't let you know immediately about Mrs. Howell's claim.”