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Authors: Carola Dunn

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“The trouble is,” said Flagg, “I don't know where the Lomaxes live.”
“Somewhere down that way.” Daisy waved. “But I'm not sure.”
“We'll have to stop off at Barton's. Sorry, Miss Dalrymple, you were saying?”
“The professor was the one who was always contemplating that epitaph.”
“John Gay,” said Alec. “Early eighteenth century poet and playwright.” Flagg gave him a blank look, stopped the car, and left the motor running while he went into the village police house. “Sorry, love,” Alec went on, “I'd been trying to think who wrote the original. Incidentally, what does this chap Catterick write?”
Daisy knew her face was turning pink. “Steamy novels of rural passion, which just manage to skirt the Censor's rules.”
“But that's no secret,” Alec pointed out. “The question is, how many people would have been aware of the professor's habit of brooding over that rhyme?”
“Probably not many,” Daisy said slowly. “I just happened to come across him. From the lane you wouldn't see him unless you particularly looked, and then you wouldn't see enough to identify him. And really, you'd expect to see the vicar meditating in a churchyard, wouldn't you? Not a professor, even if you didn't know he was an atheist. Alec, I've thought of something else, which could cut the number of suspects. Why would anyone not going to the Parish Hall take that path in the first place?”
“Good question!” Alec jumped out of the car and strode into the police house.
Left alone, Daisy was tempted to dash into the shop next door to buy something—anything!—edible. But she was not sure she wanted to face Mrs. Burden, and the men came out before she had decided.
“No luck,” said Alec. “There's a well-used footpath down the side of the hall which goes on through the wood behind.”
“Cambridge rang up,” said Flagg, setting off across the top of the green and down the lane beyond. “No luck there as yet. Tell us about the Lomaxes.”
Daisy described the brigadier and his mousy wife. “Feeble or not, Mrs. Lomax is one of the Vicarage tea-and-scandal set,” she said, “as ready as the rest to believe ill of anyone. She went to the Women's Institute meeting, I'm sure. In fact, she's chairman of the committee, though Mrs. Osborne flagrantly usurps her position.”
“Everyone'd notice if she wasn't on time, then,” said Flagg. “She's unlikely to be our murderer. All the same, I wonder if she has any secrets she's desperate to hide, or if Mr. Osborne was just after her for gossiping. Ah, here we are.” He turned right between gateless brick gateposts. A sign read LOWER DENE HALL.
Beyond a narrow belt of woodland, they came to a halt before a pleasant manor house, considerably smaller than Oakhurst despite its grandiose name.
“Daisy,” Alec said cautiously, handing her out of the Ford, “how about you seeing if you can get anything useful from Mrs. Lomax, while we see the brigadier?”
She saw through his ploy at once: He didn't want her sitting in on the interview with the brigadier. The wife was a diversionary tactic, a sop to Cerberus. However, at least he had not tried to give her orders. Besides, Daisy felt she might very well find out something useful from Mrs. Lomax, especially with neither her husband nor the detectives present to intimidate her.
Still more pressing was the likelihood of being offered coffee. It wasn't too late for elevenses.
“What a good idea, darling,” she said. “She has one thing to hide, at least. She wouldn't want people to know her husband mistreats her, and to keep that secret she might conceal other information.”
“Don't try interrogating her, though,” Alec warned. “That's a job for us.”
“Well, don't you interrogate the brigadier in his gun-room!” Daisy retorted. “Do be careful, won't you?”
“Miss Dalrymple!” Mrs. Lomax came round the corner of the house, bearing a trug of roses. “How kind of you to call. But I'm afraid the young people have gone to the seaside for the day.” She looked doubtfully at the two men.
Daisy was in a quandary, whether to introduce Alec as her fiancé or as Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard. In the end she did both, and added Detective Inspector Flagg. “I'm afraid they have come on business,” she said.
“Oh yes, the poor professor, and in the churchyard of all places. Maurice will be anxious to hear your news. He takes his churchwarden duties very seriously. Do come in.”
She led them into an untidy hall, with fishing rods and tennis racquets leaning against the wall and a blotchy yellow croquet ball nested in a crumpled pink silk scarf on the table. Ringing for a servant, she ordered the parlourmaid who appeared to show the gentlemen to the brigadier's study and fetch her master.
“And then bring coffee to the drawing room, Annie. I was just coming in for my morning coffee, Miss Dalrymple. You will join me, won't you?”
“Yes, thank you. I missed breakfast.”
“Oh dear! Bring cake and biscuits, Annie. And put these flowers in water, please. I'll arrange them later. Oh, and oh dear,” Mrs. Lomax dithered, “coffee for you gentlemen?”
Alec and Flagg politely accepted, and followed the maid, while Daisy and Mrs. Lomax went into the drawing room.
Well dusted and polished, it was as disorderly as the hall. Magazines lay open; a half played game of backgammon awaited the return of the players; the lid of the gramophone was up and several records lay scattered on the table beside it. Daisy thought it looked comfortably lived in. Remembering the rigid tidiness of the sitting room in Alec's house, she wondered if it was always cleared in honour of her visits or if Mrs. Fletcher insisted on neatness at all times.
“Such a horrible thing to happen,” Mrs. Lomax babbled on. “Mrs. Osborne was severely affected, I fear. She didn't take to her brother-in-law, you know, though naturally she never said a word against him. The poor dear vicar must be simply shattered. I believe they were quite fond of each other. It was a tramp, I suppose?”
“I'm sure the police have a number of theories. You didn't see anyone lurking about when you went to the Parish Hall?”
“Not a soul. I was a little early yesterday. The chairman should be there to greet members, don't you think? I find it
rather a responsibility, though Mrs. Osborne says I make too much of it. She has such a
strong
character,” the brigadier's wife said resentfully, “she doesn't quite sympathize with us weaker vessels, doesn't understand that what we need is
support.
”
The vicar's wife must have taken over the chairman's cherished prerogatives at the meeting, as Daisy had foreseen. She said sympathetically, “Mrs. Osborne is quite managing, isn't she? Of course, a country vicar's wife has great scope for her organizing talents. People like Alec, who have lived all their lives in London, are surprised at how busy village life can be. Always something going on. Take this Poison Pen, for instance.”
“P-poison Pen?” Mrs. Lomax squeaked.
“You didn't know about the anonymous letters people have been getting?” Daisy hoped she wasn't overdoing the amazement. “I thought everyone knew.”
“Oh yes, those, of
course
I know about those.”
Doubtless Mrs. Lomax would have claimed knowledge even if she had never heard of such a thing. As the maid came in with a nicely filled tray just then, Daisy waited to pursue the subject until she had been provided with a cup of coffee and a large slice of cherry cake.
Then she said, “Isn't it extraordinary how practically everyone seems to have received anonymous letters? Of course, you wouldn't be a target for the Poison Pen.”
“Oh, but I am!” Mrs. Lomax was determined not to be left out. “Such
horrible
things, all about malice and uncharitableness, and keeping my tongue from evil-speaking and slandering. I'm sure I wouldn't dream of telling lies about anyone, but when one's friends tell one things, one can't cover one's ears, can one? So
rude
it would look!”
“I suppose Miss Prothero's letters must have said much the
same as yours, condemning you both for a little harmless gossip.”
“I expect so.” Mrs. Lomax would surely have mentioned Miss Prothero's sister if she had known. Daisy congratulated herself: She had never seen Mrs. Osborne as a broadcaster of scandal, whatever her faults. “I wonder,” Mrs. Lomax went on, “if Miss Hendricks' letters mentioned her little trouble.”
“I wonder!” Daisy hid her hope behind her coffee cup.
“It was so long ago, that lucky miscarriage, but her health hasn't been the same since, she claims. If she wasn't always complaining, she'd never have let it out. And then she convinced herself we hadn't understood—of course, we never mentioned it to
her
,” Mrs. Lomax added self-righteously. “Who else, now,” she mused. “Mrs. Willoughby-Jones—so quarrelsome and unkind—and her husband tells shocking untruths about the houses he sells.”
“Mr. Willoughby-Jones is a house agent?”
“Yes. There was something shady about a new factory in Ashford, too, I don't know the details, but perhaps the … Poison Pen, was it? … perhaps she knows. She probably knows about Mrs. Burden, too.”
“Mrs. Burden?” Daisy prodded, though the shopkeeper was an unlikely suspect and had already given what help she could.
“My dear, have you not heard? (Do have another slice of cake, or a biscuit, and let me refill your cup.) Mrs. Willoughby-Jones's cook needed some cheese for a savoury and the piece she had was mouldy, so she sent the housemaid to the village shop for quarter of a pound of Cheddar.”
“It came up short?” Daisy guessed.
“Half an ounce! The cook weighed it before making her recipe, because Mrs. Willoughby-Jones had once complained about her skimping the cheese in a Welsh rarebit—I'm sure I don't know how she keeps her servants. Mrs. Willoughby-Jones
couldn't prove Mrs. Burden had given light weight on purpose, but she gave her a piece of her mind anyway.” Mrs. Lomax maundered on about how both the women had deserved to receive upsetting letters.
At last Daisy managed to slip in another question. “Have you any idea who wrote them?”
“Gracious, no. It must be a regular churchgoer, don't you think? ‘Uncharitableness' and the rest come from the prayer book. But such an unchristian thing to do, upsetting everyone!”
“I expect the brigadier was pretty angry,” Daisy suggested.
Mrs. Lomax looked frightened. “Oh, he doesn't know I … Oh, you mean about
his
letters. He hasn't mentioned them to me, of course, but I'm sure he must be terribly angry. You don't think he has found out who wrote them, do you? Oh, Miss Dalrymple, it wasn't
Professor Osborne
, was it?”
“Gosh, what do you …?
“No, no, it couldn't have been. He was never seen in church even though his brother's the vicar. In any case, Maurice would have shot … would have horsewhipped him, not … he wouldn't, would he?”
“Surely not,” Daisy said soothingly. So Mrs. Lomax considered her husband capable of doing away with the Poison Pen?
“
A
lot of rubbish about temperance,” blustered Brigadier Lomax, sloshing another dollop of whisky into his coffee cup. A trifle glassy eyed, he still had control over his tongue. His hand shook a little as he waved the decanter. “Sure you won't join me?”
Alec once more declined, as did Flagg. “What else did the letters say, sir?” the inspector asked.
“Else? Else? What the devil do you mean,
else
? Isn't that enough, damning a chap for enjoying a nip now and then?”
The brigadier clearly hoped to keep dark his violence towards his wife, assuming that was what Osborne had started to say. Was it a secret he'd kill to keep? The same question was going through the inspector's mind, Alec guessed, as Flagg gave him a quick but meaningful glance.
Pressed, Lomax was liable to ‘clam up,' in the graphic American phrase. To Alec's relief, Flagg changed his tack.
“You'll understand, sir, that I have to ask everyone where they were between the hours of two and three thirty yesterday.”
“Out and about.” Far more relieved than Alec by the turn of the questioning, Lomax not only refrained from taking offence
but did not query Flagg's
everyone
. “I generally take a gun along on my daily constitutional, take a few potshots at vermin. Yesterday I trotted along to the Vicarage, on church business, but Osborne was out.”
“What time did you stop at the Vicarage, sir?”
“Must have been about quarter past. Left here at two. Walked with my wife, on her way to the Parish Hall.”
“And then?”
“Took a turn around the green. Got home to find a message from my wife. Motored back to the church—you were there.”
Flagg consulted his notebook. “That's as far as you walked, sir? Just round the green and back here?”
“I don't walk as fast as I used to,” Lomax said testily.
“Still, not much more than a mile in over an hour.”
“If you must know, I stopped to have a word with Jellaby, the landlord at the Hop-Picker.” And, no doubt, to drink a dram out of licensing hours, which would explain the brigadier's reticence. “Promised Rosa I'd speak to him about a couple staying there she swears are living in sin, just because they're friends of Catterick's. Of course, Jellaby can't do anything about it if they are.”
“What time would it be you stopped at the inn, sir?”
“Good gad, I don't spend all my time looking at my watch! Ask Jellaby.”
“Oh, we'll do that all right, sir. Did you see anyone else on your walk?”
“Look here, my man, what is all this about?” the brigadier demanded belligerently. The whisky had steadied his hands, Alec noted, a sign of a confirmed toper. “Are you suggesting I did for Osborne's brother? Hardly knew the fellow.”
“There seems to be a connection with the anonymous letters, sir. We'll be asking everyone who received them the same questions.”
“Then don't miss the Basin boy! Told me he couldn't work on my Crossley any more because he'd got a nasty letter about it.”
“About your motor-car, sir?” the inspector said, puzzled.
“About the private work he's been doing on his employer's time.” Lomax had the grace to look abashed. “Charged a bit less than Wyndham's rates, don't you know. Dare say I shouldn't have mentioned it to the padre, but I gave him a lift and he commented on how smooth the engine was running. Of course he disapproved, though I must say I'd never have thought he'd pass it on.” He brightened: “On the other hand, my motor isn't the only one Sam Basin's repaired on the side.”
“Well, it's no business of ours unless Mr. Wyndham calls us in. Unless you want to report Basin, sir?” Flagg asked blandly.
“Good gad, no!” The brigadier obviously regretted having let that particular cat out of the bag. He poured himself another splash of whisky. “In any case, Basin would be at the garage at the times you're interested in. Catterick's another kettle of fish. Saw him come out of the shop and turn up the street towards the church, just as I turned down the side of the green.”
“Is that so? And you think he received Poison Pen letters?”
“Complained to me, as though I could do anything about it! Not part of a landlord's duties, damn it! He rents my old gardener's cottage. Can't get a live-in man nowadays for love nor money. Have to make do with a jobbing gardener from the village. Shocking the way servants—”
“Mr. Catterick, sir?” Flagg prompted.
“Gnashing his teeth, he was. Said it ruined his concentration. Doesn't take much concentration to write that sort of rubbish, if you ask me. Not that I read it, mind you. So you think Professor Osborne found out who's been writing those damn' letters, do you?”
As a leap in illogic, that was a record-breaker. Flagg appeared flummoxed. Alec said, “We have to follow up all possibilities, Brigadier. Have you any notion who wrote them?”
“Some damn' frustrated spinster. You can tell by the spelling. They didn't bother with all this damn' rubbish about educating women in the good old days. Women's Institute, pah! Just gives ‘em ideas above their abilities and makes it difficult to keep 'em in order. Whisky?”
“No, thank you, sir,” said Flagg, rising. “Thank you for your help. We'll keep your suggestions in mind, and we may want to ask you a few more questions at a later date.”
“Any time, any time.” Lomax waved the decanter in such an expansive gesture it would have slopped over had the level of Scotch not fallen by several inches. “Happy to be of assistance. All for Law and Order. Do come again, my dear fellows.”
Outside the door, Alec and Flagg exchanged a glance. Flagg shook his head. “Amazing how he can still control his tongue.”
“Even with his brain out of gear. He's unlikely, I think.”
“So do I, but I shan't cross him off yet.”
“A man after my own heart,” said Alec. “Do you want to see Mrs. Lomax?”
“Not till I've heard what Miss Dalrymple has to say. She's a proper wonder,” Flagg said in a congratulatory tone.
“Daisy's sometimes quite a help,” Alec admitted with caution. “She has a way of getting people to confide in her. But don't fall into the trap—like my young detective constable—of thinking she must always be right.”
“Oh, I take everything with a pinch of salt, sir. It goes with the job, doesn't it? But she's done me well on this case so far, and I hope she'll stick with it.” He gave Alec a sideways look.
Alec sighed. “I couldn't keep her out of it if I tried. Lomax has something there. The modern young woman is not the biddable creature her foremothers supposedly were. It's a good
job she didn't hear the brigadier ranting; I'm not at all sure she could have held her tongue.”
“Let's hope she's got something out of his missus. How do we hale her out of there without getting caught up … ?”
Spotting a bell-pull, Alec rang for the parlourmaid. He told her to tell Daisy they were ready to leave and would wait for her outside, and Flagg asked how to find the gardener's cottage.
“Not that this writer bloke sounds like our man,” he said, following Alec through the front door, “but we might as well see him while we're here. Then I must ring up Ashford and have a man check on Sam Basin at Wyndham's Garage. And then, before we go chasing around any more, I want to sit down and talk things out, if that's all right with you.”
“It sounds like an excellent plan,” Alec approved. “Add lunch, and I'm with you. Any luck, love?” he asked as Daisy joined them.
They briefly exchanged news on the way to Piers Catterick's cottage, round the side of the house and through the row of elms and the shrubbery which concealed one building from the other. From the open upstairs window of the one-up, one-down dwelling came a tuneless whistle and the rapid patter of typewriter keys. Flagg knocked.
The sounds continued. The inspector knocked again, harder, and stood back from the door to shout, “Mr. Catterick!”
A long, pale face, adorned with long, unkempt hair and distorted with anger, appeared at the window. “What the bloody hell is it? I'm busy!”
“Police, sir. Detective Inspector Flagg.”
“What do you want? I'm in the middle of a crucial scene.”
Disconcerted, Flagg said lamely, “Just to know where you were between two and half past three yesterday, sir.”
Still more disconcertingly, Catterick shouted with laughter.
“In the police station,” he said, “talking to the bobby.”
“Sir?”
“A professional consultation, Flagg, on a little matter of murder.” The writer giggled. “Don't look so startled, this one's fictional. I wanted to pick the good Barton's brains. Oh, if you want the full narrative: I lunched at the Hop-Picker with my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Edgbaston, who are staying there. Afterwards, must have been a bit after two, we walked up to the shop to buy smokes and a few odds and ends, and Jillie had the brilliant notion of consulting the copper next door.”
Flagg had out his notebook. “How long would that have taken, sir?” he asked, stolid demeanour restored.
“Oh, fifteen or twenty minutes. He wasn't a great deal of help. I say, Inspector, you could probably give me the straight dope on investigating murder. Hold on a mo, I'll be right down.”
“Not just now, sir! I have a real murder on my hands. If you want to come into the station in Ashford once this is out of the way, we'll see what we can do. Where did you go from the village police house?”
“Back here for a cup of coffee. The stuff at the inn is foul. The Edgbastons stayed till five-ish, when inspiration once more overtook me. I do my best work mornings and evenings. Can't I come with you and watch?”
“Eh? No, no, I'm afraid that's out of the question, sir.”
“Oh, right-ho, hurry up and catch your murderer, then, and I'll come and see you in Ashford.” Catterick disappeared. A moment later the tuneless whistle and the rattle of the keys started up again.
Shaking his head, Flagg returned his notebook to his pocket. “Barton can check with the Edgbastons,” he said acidly.
“Great Scott,” Alec murmured to Daisy, “I'm glad you don't write steamy novels of rural sex, darling.”
“No, but I might start writing murder mysteries.”
Alec groaned.
They drove to the police house. Flagg sent Barton to the Hop-Picker to see the Edgbastons, and telephoned the Ashford station to send a man to Wyckham's Garage. Then Daisy 'phoned her sister.
“Alec and I won't be back for lunch, darling. Mrs. Barton has made us mountains of sandwiches.”
“Mrs. Barton the Bobby?” Violet asked. “Darling, what
are
you up to?”
“Helping the police with their enquiries,” Daisy explained, “and I don't mean they're about to arrest us. Vi, Alec says please tell Derek he swears he'll be back in time for a game of cricket, but we can't be sure when. Toodle-oo, darling.”
“But Daisy—”
But Daisy pressed the hook and hung up. She wasn't going to get involved in explanations with Vi when a discussion of the case was at hand. Not to mention sandwiches.
Mrs. Barton, a young woman who bade fair to rival her hefty husband in figure, brought a glass of orange squash and two mugs of beer into the front parlour which served as Rotherden's police station. Beaming at their enthusiastic thanks, she bobbed a curtsy—she had been in service with the Lympnes before marrying—and left them to their business.
Daisy reached for a ham-and-cheese and said, “Does the county constabulary reimburse the Bartons for this?”
Mouth full of cheese-and-pickle, Flagg shook his head. Alec fished his wallet from his pocket, and half-a-crown from his wallet. “Will that do?” he asked. Daisy nodded, her mouth being full by now. But for the odd crunch, silence reigned for several minutes.
Flagg's appetite being as meagre as his frame, he finished first. He set down his empty mug, wiped his drooping moustache
with his handkerchief, and said portentously, “I've been thinking.” In response to Daisy and Alec's raised eyebrows, he continued, “You remember, sir, what Brigadier Lomax said about Professor Osborne having found out who wrote the letters?”
“But we know the vicar wrote them,” said Daisy. “Oh gosh, you don't honestly think he killed his brother?”
“Do you, Miss Dalrymple? If the professor discovered the vicar was the Poison Pen, would he have spread the word? Could Mr. Osborne have relied on him to keep quiet about it? Or would he have killed his own brother to protect himself?”
“Daisy hardly knew them,” Alec protested.

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