Sheer Folly (28 page)

“That's right. I had some accounts to make up. I came straight here after breakfast and was here when Mrs. Fletcher and Lady Gerald came to fetch me to give them a tour of the house.”

“Mrs. Howell said she was alone in her bedroom all morning and saw you walking towards the grotto.”

Pritchard sighed. “Then I don't know whether to hope she was hallucinating or making it up. Either way, it's a sad state of affairs.” He sat there with his hands on his knees, looking tired and worried. “I don't know what I'm going to say to Owen.”

“I'd rather you didn't discuss this with anyone for the moment, sir.” Boyle glanced at Alec. “Any more questions, sir?”

“Not for the moment. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Pritchard. I hope this will prove a momentary aberration on the part of your sister-in-law.”

The moment the door closed behind Pritchard, Boyle said, “I don't think he did it, do you? But this Mrs. Howell's another kettle of fish. Sane or not, she had it in for both Mr. Pritchard and Lord Rydal, not to mention the grotto itself. Then there's this Armitage fellow. Something dodgy about him being here in the first place, if you ask me. All the way from Canada to look at some fusty old papers! Out walking with Miss Beaufort, he claims. Walking out, more like, I shouldn't wonder. After her money.”

“Miss Beaufort is an extraordinarily beautiful young woman,” Alec informed him, “and I have a vague memory of my wife mentioning that she and her mother are far from well off.”

“Oh,” said Boyle, disconcerted. He rallied. “At any rate, Armitage wanting to marry her, him a professor—if he's telling the truth about that!—and her courted by a rich lord. Stands to reason he'd want to get his rival out of the way.”

“But Miss Beaufort also says they were walking the entire time. Why would she back his story if he'd destroyed her chance of an excellent marriage?”

“Because Lord Rydal insulted her. Strange, that. What do you reckon to this theory of Mrs. Fletcher's, sir?”

“About Lord Rydal's upbringing? I think she may well be right, and you may well be right that it doesn't make any difference to us. Except insofar as it's always useful to understand the victim.”

“I daresay.” Boyle sounded unconvinced. “Seems to me it's more important to know he was rude to everyone than why. It gives us a lot of people with reason to dislike him, but the ones with the best motive
and
opportunity are Armitage, with or without Miss Beaufort as accessory; Mrs. Howell, assuming she's batty; and Lady Ottaline Wandersley, that he wanted to throw over for Miss Beaufort, as your good lady told us.”

The door opened, and Alec's “good lady” appeared.

“Darling, I've been thinking,” she announced.

 

Daisy shut
the door and advanced into the room. She didn't recognise one of the three men who rose to their feet. He must be a new arrival.

Perhaps his presence explained why she didn't hear the groan with which Alec usually greeted any declaration of hers that she had been thinking. It was too much to hope he at last realised the value of her thoughts.

“Is this urgent, Daisy? We've got a lot of people to interview this evening.”

She sat down, and they followed suit. “It might be urgent. I was thinking about Lady Ottaline. I assume she's near the top of your list of suspects?”

DI Boyle answered. “She seems to have had a strong motive, though we've not got much to go on yet besides your word for it, Mrs. Fletcher. Same goes for opportunity. I'm waiting for DS Gaskell to bring me the servants' reports on that. He and DC Potter here arrived at long last from Devizes.”

Daisy smiled at the large young man. “It's a good job you're here. You're the very person to guard Lady Ottaline.”

“What?” Alec and Boyle exclaimed together.

“The thing is, it's all very well—in a manner of speaking—if Lady Ottaline blew up Rhino. But supposing she didn't? Whoever did probably intended to blow her up, too. Isn't it quite likely they'd have another go? Possible, at least. There she is, alone and helpless under the influence of whatever powders Dr. Tenby gave her—”

“Daisy, do you know something you haven't told us?”

“No, of course not. At least, not consciously. I have a feeling there's something I've missed. Oh, and I heard Sir Desmond ask Barker to move him to a separate room, because he's a noisy sleeper—presumably he snores—and he doesn't want to wake his wife. They have separate rooms at home, I expect. He'll have to have Rhino's room. It's the only good room unoccupied. Either he doesn't realise, or he's not afraid of ghosts!”

“Daisy!”

“Well, it means she'll be alone all night. Unless you've found out enough to be sure she's safe, I really do think she ought to have a guard, just overnight.”

“You're right,” said Boyle, clearly pained him to have to admit it. “We can't risk it, and you're the only one we can spare, Potter. Off you go. Ask the butler which is her room. If there's a connecting bathroom with another door, make sure it's bolted from the inside.”

“But sir, I can't do that without going through the lady's room!”

“Use your initiative, man. Take her maid with you or something. And give me your notebook before you go. Mrs. Fletcher,” he went on sourly, “I'm going to have to ask you to stay and take notes again, until Gaskell finishes with the servants. He shouldn't be much longer.”

Daisy sighed. Though Alec wouldn't be deceived, with luck Boyle would believe she was doing him a favour. “Oh, all right. Devizes didn't send you enough men. I haven't brought my notebook, though. May I use DC Potter's?” Perhaps she'd have time to skim Potter's notes of the interview with Mr. Pritchard. She hoped his writing was easily legible.

“If you have no preference, Mr. Boyle,” said Alec, “I like to clear what you might call the dead wood out of the way. That is, to question the least likely suspects first.”

Foiled! Daisy naturally was much more interested in what the most likely had to say for themselves.

Luckily, so was Boyle. “That's a good idea, sir. It's getting late, and it'll speed things up no end if we split the load, though Lady Ottaline won't be available till the morning, I suppose. Do you want to stay in here? I'm sure the butler can find one of us another suitable room for interviews.”

For once outmanoeuvred, deliberately or inadvertently, Alec gave in gracefully. “You stay. I take it you want Armitage first? I'll send him to you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They both looked at Daisy, and then at each other. Daisy wasn't sure whether each wanted to shuffle her off on the other, or each hoped to retain her services. Whoever kept her would have better notes for the other to read later. She knew where she wanted to be.

“Mr. Boyle has more need of me, darling,” she said. “You'll want a verbatim report of what the chief suspects say, won't you?”

“I'm just lending a hand,” he reminded her, “not officially a part of this investigation. But yes, you'll be more useful here. I'll ask Armitage to bring his passport and letter of recommendation, shall I, Boyle?”

“Er . . . yes. Yes, I'd better take a look at them. You really think that's not his real name?”

“I think we ought to have evidence to settle the question. Right-oh, I'm off. The one I really want to see is Lucy—Lady Gerald—whose view of things, I'm sure, is very different from Daisy's. In her absence, Lady Beaufort first, I think.”

“If you see my sergeant, tell him to buck up. When he comes, I won't have to trouble Mrs. Fletcher any longer. She can give you a hand.”

“Right-oh.” Alec went out.

Boyle looked glumly at Daisy, then suggested, “You'd better read through Mr. Pritchard's interview, I suppose.”

DC Potter's shorthand was much better than Daisy's. It took her only a couple of minutes to read his notes. “I see why you're suspicious of Charles Armitage,” she had to admit. “It's odd about his name, but I'm sure there's an innocent explanation. Such as it really being his name. Coincidences do happen. I
would
like to know what drew his interest to the papers here at Appsworth Hall, though.”

“I hardly think that's relevant to the enquiry into the death of Lord Rydal.”

“You can't be sure. Alec always insists that any detail may turn out to be significant. And you yourself said you wanted to know absolutely everything I know, hearsay and all, so that you can decide for yourself if it's important.”

Armitage came in so quietly they didn't hear him until he said, “Fletcher told me you wanted to see me?”

The inspector waved him to a seat and held out his hand. “Your passport, please.”

“I'm afraid I don't have it on me.”

“Didn't Mr. Fletcher tell you I want to see it?”

“Oh yes, but you see, I don't have it here. I keep a room in London, and I leave it there while I'm travelling. I don't need it. I've never been asked for it before.”

“I daresay. But you do need to keep your introduction from your university to hand, surely. That will do to be going on with.”

“It's upstairs, in my bedroom, yes,” Armitage acknowledged reluctantly. “But I can't see how it's going to help you, Inspector. It doesn't have a photograph attached, eh, so there's no proof I'm the person referred to, assuming you suspect I'm not.”

Boyle leant forwards, his eagerness obvious. “Are you admitting that you're here under false pretences? A con-man, is that it? Lord Rydal was onto you, so you had to put him away?”

Daisy was too horrified to remember she was supposed to be taking notes.

Armitage shook his head wearily. “Nothing so dramatic. I told Mr. Pritchard it was bound to come out. I was willing to help him avoid embarrassment—myself, too, really, but not to the point of being arrested for murder.”

“What the deuce are you talking about? I warn you, everything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence in a court of law.”

Hastily Daisy started scribbling.

“I told you, I didn't kill Rydal. But you're obviously not going to believe me. I'd better fetch that letter.” He started to stand up.

“No! You just stay here under my eye if you please.” Boyle looked at Daisy, irritated. “You're going to have to go and get it, Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Armitage—or whoever you are—tell her where to find it.”

“In my chest of drawers.” Armitage grinned at Daisy. “Top left, under my socks and . . . other things, an ivory envelope with the university crest embossed on the flap.”

His underwear, no doubt, Daisy thought indignantly, but Boyle didn't seem to have drawn the inference. She could hardly inform him she objected to rummaging through Charles's pants and vests, especially in search of an incriminating letter she'd prefer not to find. Yet if she refused to go without giving a reason, he might use her unhelpfulness as an excuse to bar her from the investigation altogether.

On her way out of the room, she wondered momentarily whether she ought, for Julia's sake, to steel herself to the distasteful task and then to destroy the letter. However, its disappearance would probably cause Charles more trouble than whatever it revealed. She decided to ask Barker to send one of the staff. Then she reconsidered. The envelope must be unsealed, because Charles had made use of the letter. If the servant yielded to temptation and peeked, the entire household would have the information in no time.

Daisy resigned herself to carrying out the job.

She had just reached the foot of the stairs when she heard
footsteps behind her and turned. A man—to Daisy's practised eye obviously a policeman—was crossing the hall, carrying a wodge of scraps of paper, all sizes and shapes and of varying degrees of cleanliness.

“Hello, are you DS Gaskell?”

He looked a bit surprised by her glad greeting. “Yes, madam?”

“I'm Mrs. Fletcher, DCI Fletcher's wife. Mr. Boyle's been wondering when you'd be finished with the servants' timetables.” True. “He needs a letter from Mr. Armitage's chest-of-drawers.” True. “Top left, in an ivory-coloured envelope with a crest on the back.” All perfectly true, if somewhat misleading. But Boyle would undoubtedly have sent the sergeant if he'd been available. “Shall I take those to him?” She indicated the papers in Gaskell's hands.

He handed them over like a lamb. “They're a bit confusing. That's what took me so long, working out what they were trying to say, and then checking the times and places to make sure they didn't contradict each other. Er . . . Can you tell me where this bloke's room is? So's I don't have to ask that snooty butler?”

Daisy gave him directions and watched him hurry up the stairs. So far so good. Now all she had to do was to present the
fait accompli
to Boyle in such a way that he wouldn't be annoyed with either her or Gaskell.

She riffled through the papers, but she couldn't make head or tail of them at a glance and she didn't dare delay to study them. They couldn't help Armitage, in any case. His opportunity to turn on the gas in the grotto had already been established by his own admission.

In Pritchard's den, Charles Armitage was staring at the floor in gloomy silence, while Boyle read through the papers on the desk. Both looked up and started to rise as Daisy entered. She waved them down.

“I've brought the servants' timetables, Inspector.” She set them before him. “I met DS Gaskell on his way with them. It seemed best that he should go for Mr. Armitage's letter. Being a police officer, I mean.”

Boyle grunted what might conceivably be approval, or possibly thanks, and started to sort out the heap of scraps: used envelopes; the backs of shopping lists, receipted bills, and notes for the milkman; and even a torn triangle of butcher's paper. Daisy, realising that her presence would be superfluous as soon as Gaskell arrived, found an inconspicuous seat against the wall, in an ill-lit corner, well to one side and slightly to the rear of the desk.