Sheer Folly (34 page)

“It's hardly fair to call Gregg a villain,” Daisy protested. “To all appearances he was a perfectly blameless manservant. I wouldn't blame him for talking about blowing off Rhino's eyebrows—”

“But the only way we'll prove he went further than talk is if his dabs are on the gas taps.” Boyle looked down at a figure who was toiling upwards, a canvas bag in one hand, and called, “Got those safe, Gaskell?”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said hoarsely, and coughed to clear his throat. Clad in a bulky overall, he was caked with grey-white soil.

While they waited for him, Daisy made another attempt to share her revelation. “Alec, you said no one could have been sure what would happen when Rhino walked into the hermitage with a lit cigarette. It was sheer guesswork.”

“Yes, but with all the taps turned on, it was liable to be pretty drastic. A fire if not an explosion.”

“But don't you see, it was just a guess that he would arrive before Lady Ottaline. Or rather, no one could know who would arrive first. She smoked quite a bit, too. It was odds on that she'd have a cigarette burning. That means—it
has
to mean—that the
person responsible didn't care if
she
was blown up, instead, or as well.”

“That's what it was!” Alec exclaimed. “I knew something was out of key.”

Boyle frowned. “Unless she did it herself.”

“I wouldn't put it past her,” Daisy agreed, “but don't you see, the important thing is that Charles Arm—Appsworth had absolutely no motive for doing away with her. If anything, he had cause for gratitude to her for taking Rhino away from Julia. It's inconceivable that he'd risk killing her by chance.”

“It does seem highly unlikely,” Alec agreed.

Boyle's frown deepened. “What we don't know is whether they'd arranged it that way, that he'd arrive first to warm the place up, say. It wouldn't have been cosy. The servants were asked who knew about the meeting and when, not whether they knew or discussed the details of Rydal and Lady Ottaline's plans. Maybe Appsworth found out she was going to follow him later. Gaskell!” He turned to the sergeant as the latter reached the top, huffing and puffing.

“All safe and secure, sir,” he gasped, patting the canvas bag.

“Get everyone out of there and out of their overalls. There's no point going on mucking about here. We've got work to do back at the house.”

“You'd better hop it, Daisy,” said Alec, “if you don't want to find yourself surrounded by large, dirty men undressing. You're right about Lady Ottaline. We should have thought of that. But Boyle is right, too. We've got some questions to ask.”

At least Alec hadn't already decided that Charles was guilty, Daisy thought mournfully as she made her way back down the hill, hitching up her skirt to scramble over the stile. Unfortunately, Boyle still seemed to be keen to arrest him. She hadn't much hope of being able to prove him innocent. If only he and Julia hadn't decided to go for a walk just then!

 

Walking through
the gardens, admiring the daffodils nodding in the sunshine, Daisy noticed that the grass round them had been recently mowed. Not today, Sunday, a day of rest; not yesterday afternoon, when it was raining and in any case all the gardeners were busy digging up Rhino; it must have been done yesterday morning.

Surely DI Boyle must have asked the gardeners whether they had seen anyone? Yet all Daisy had heard about was the information garnered in the servants' hall. She knew she had missed a fair bit of what was going on, partly just because she hadn't been present, partly because of the innate tendency of the police to keep things to themselves. But
had
Boyle questioned the gardeners?

He had arrived late on the scene and had been very busy all evening. With Alec involved informally, there was no clear line of command, no coordinating strategy (or did she mean tactics?). The more Daisy thought about it, the more likely it seemed that the gardeners had been overlooked.

After a glance at her shoes, she went into the house by the side door. When she reached the hall, Barker was coming out of the
drawing room. He looked irritable, though his face smoothed into his customary blandness the instant he caught sight of Daisy.

“What's the trouble?” she asked.

“Trouble, madam?”

“Come on, tell me. You never know, perhaps I can help. The household must be all at sixes and sevens, and I'm afraid it's going to get worse. Inspector Boyle's got another round of questions for the servants.”

The butler went so far as to utter a groan—not a loud one, but definitely a groan. “I beg your pardon, madam. I must confess, I am a trifle put out. It's not what one is accustomed to. My immediate difficulty is—er—one of Mr. Pritchard's guests. He desires a drink before luncheon, very much before luncheon, and, to tell the truth, more than one drink. Yet being a gentleman, he refuses to help himself to his host's spirits. This is the second time he has summoned me from duties which are pressing.”

“Sir Desmond's intent on getting blotto?”

“Such would not be an inaccurate way of putting it, madam.”

“Well, I'm sorry if I led you to expect my assistance, but I'm not prepared to help him on his way. Barker, do you happen to know whether the coppers had a go at the gardeners last night?”

“I cannot say for certain, madam, since in normal times they come to the house only to bring garden stuff to the kitchens. However, I doubt it. I believe the man Boyle arrived after Mr. Simmons's assistant and the two boys went home to the village. Mr. Simmons himself has a cottage over near the greenhouses. I cannot speak for him.”

“Of course not, but you can direct me to the cottage, if you'd be so kind.”

Barker obliged. “Will that be all, madam?”

“Yes, thanks. Barker, I don't want to appear to try to teach you your job, but if I were you, I'd fail to hear the bell next time Sir Desmond rings. Either he'll pour for himself, or he won't, which would on the whole be a good thing, don't you think? Is Lady Ottaline with him?”

“No, madam. I believe her ladyship is writing letters in her
room. Goodness knows,” he added gloomily, “what she's saying about Appsworth Hall.”

“Goodness only knows!” Daisy agreed.

The butler hurried off. Daisy turned towards the door by which she had come in, then changed her mind and headed for the front door. If Alec had been about, she would naturally have pointed out the necessity for questioning the gardeners. But he was unavailable, no doubt tramping down from the hill with Boyle and his crew. If she went out the back way, she might meet them heading for the servants' entrance. Boyle would not be happy, she told herself, to have it pointed out to him in front of his men that he'd overlooked several possibly vital witnesses.

She was doing him a favour, avoiding him.

The gardener's cottage was easy to find but hard to see, being overgrown by a huge wisteria already in full bloom on the south-facing wall. Daisy ducked under the drooping purple clusters, still dripping with rain, and knocked on the door. It was opened by a thin, spry, elderly woman enveloped in an apron as thoroughly as the wistaria enveloped her house, and equally flowery.

“Mrs. Simmons? I'm Mrs. Fletcher, a guest of Mr. Pritchard. I'm hoping for a word with your husband.”

“Simmons is out the back, madam, staking some of his blessed p'rennials, but I'll get him in in a trice. It's a labour of love with him, you see, all the same if he's working for the master or himself. Come in, do, madam, if you don't mind me getting on with the pudding for his dinner. It don't do to let it sit once you've beat in the eggs, that's what I say. Best to get it into a hot oven quick as—”

“I don't want to disturb you,” Daisy broke into the flow of words. “Suppose I go round the side and find Mr. Simmons.”

“Well, you could,” Mrs. Simmons said doubtfully, “but the path's overgrown something dreadful with them blessed flowers. Won't trim 'em till they finish blooming, he won't, and that won't be till—”

“That's all right. I'll manage. Thank you!”

No Sunday best for Simmons. He was wearing an ancient
tweed jacket of indeterminate hue, with sagging pockets, and moleskin trousers tied at the knees with the same twine he was using to stake his plants. He looked round as Daisy pushed open a creaky gate.

His garden was crammed with colour. Spring bulbs—daffodils, narcissus, iris, hyacinths pink, white, blue, and yellow—vied with polyanthus and nodding columbines, violets and pot marigolds. Even the surrounding fences were starred with clematis. To an artistic eye, Daisy thought, it probably was a horrendous hodge-podge, but she didn't claim to have an artistic eye so she was allowed to enjoy it.

She introduced herself. “I expect you know my husband is helping Detective Inspector Boyle with the investigation. I have a question for you.” The truth and nothing but the truth, if not exactly the whole truth. She took out her notebook to make herself look more official. “Were you or any of your staff working in the gardens behind the house yesterday morning?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Who? All of you?”

“No, madam. Just young Billy, the lad you took to carry that ladyship to the house.” He sounded as if he still resented her endorsement of the chauffeur's illegitimate order to the gardener's boy.

“He mowed the grass round the daffodils?”

“Yes, madam. He's good with a scythe, and I told him I'd use it on his ears if any of the daffs got cut down.”

“Did he mention seeing anyone while he was working?”

“Not to me. He'd no business looking about him, nor doing aught else but concentrate on his work.”

“Mr. Boyle's going to want to talk to him. Where is he to be found today?”

“I can't speak for what he may be up to on his day off, but he lives with his parents in the village.”

Daisy wrote down the address, thanked Simmons, and headed back to the house. Three factors made her decide against going in search of Billy. First and least important was Boyle's ire. He
would already be annoyed with her, and a little extra annoyance wouldn't hurt either him or her. Second was that she didn't know how long a walk it was to the village. It hadn't seemed far when she and Lucy drove through it on the way to the Hall, but Lucy's speed made apparent distances deceptive.

The third difficulty was decisive. She remembered being unable to understand more than one word in three of Billy's Wiltshire dialect. A fat lot of use it would be to question him if his answers were incomprehensible to her. One of the local police would manage better.

By the time Daisy had finished with the police, receiving a little grudging gratitude along with the expected telling off, the Church-goers had returned. She joined them in the drawing room. Lady Beaufort was talking to Sir Desmond, who looked as if he wasn't hearing a word. Daisy wondered whether he had started helping himself from the bar when Barker quit answering the bell.

Gerald left Julia and Charles and came over as Daisy entered. “Lucy sent a wire,” he told her. “She's expecting to get here shortly after two. She says, ‘watchdog collared bureaucrat.' Telegraphese! What's she talking about?”

“The inspector sent a sergeant with her, didn't you know? He's the watchdog. His original purpose was to stop her flitting to the Continent, but when Boyle heard about Carlin, he told whatsisname—DS Thomkin—to get hold of him and bring him back.”

“Carlin? That's Wandersley's secretary?”

“Yes. He left from Swindon to go and play in a golf tournament. As he must have heard what happened here before he caught the train, Boyle is understandably unhappy.”

Carlin. Daisy didn't imagine for a moment that he had blown up Rhino, but he had some connection with whatever it was she was trying to recall. Something he'd said? Something he had done?

“I hope Lucy's photos cheer him up,” Gerald interrupted her thoughts.

“I shouldn't think so. I don't see how they can help him much. One of them, if she really intends to show it to him, if it doesn't make him laugh—well, there'll be another explosion. I wonder if it worked. I can't wait to see.”

“Daisy, what are you talking about? It's not something he could arrest her for?”

“Blue? No, not at all. How could you think such a thing! Feelthy pictures are not at all Lucy's style.”

Gerald laughed. “Oh, you know Lucy. Always experimenting. I live in dread.”

The arrival of the Chapel party put an end to the topic. Pritchard and Howell started to dispense drinks. Sir Desmond perked up.

Barker came in. In his discreet butlerian undertone, he said something to Mrs. Howell that sent her scurrying out of the room, her lips pursed. A night's sedated sleep seemed to have calmed her
crise de nerfs
. At least she wasn't foaming at the mouth.

Barker next spoke to Pritchard, and then came over to Daisy. “Mr. Fletcher desired me to inform you, madam, that he will be lunching with Boyle. I understand they have much to discuss.”

“Thank you, Barker. Bother!” she said to Julia as the butler bowed and turned away. “I wonder what . . . ? I suppose I'd better not go and try to find out now.”

“I wouldn't. But I'm a suspect, not an amateur detective.”

“Darling, I'm just trying to work out what really happened. I know you and Charles weren't involved, so the sooner we nail whoever did it, the better.”

Pritchard came over to see if they wanted their drinks topped up. “Barker let you know your husband won't be eating with us?” he asked Daisy. “I told him to give them the same as we're having, but he said they requested sandwiches.”

“Easier to eat at the desk,” Daisy explained.

Lady Ottaline came down last, alarmingly bright-eyed and bursting with energy.