A Mourning Wedding (18 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: A Mourning Wedding
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With a shiver down her spine, Daisy made for the drawing room. She didn't want coffee, which had a tendency to keep her awake now that she was pregnant, but that was where Gerald would look for her. And there was a certain amount of comfort, if not safety, in numbers.
The numbers in the drawing room were not as great as she expected. Several people were missing, including Sir James. No sign of the Carletons, nor of Tim and Nancy. John Walsdorf was absent, though Jennifer was pouring coffee from a Thermos bottle. Apparently Sally had decided that this was a menial task unworthy of the lady of the house. She was talking to her sister-in-law, Flora. Judging by her gestures, they were discussing redecorating the old-fashioned crimson-and-gold room. Flora looked less than enchanted at the prospect, hardly surprising when her father had been poisoned just a few hours earlier. Sally might be trying to conciliate Flora after their earlier flare-up, but really, she had no sense of tact whatsoever.
Lady Ione was sitting alone near the window, sipping coffee in her self-contained, self-possessed way. Daisy had noticed her black frock earlier. If not a Paris model it was a copy, undoubtedly a new purchase. The glossy satin crepe, jet-beaded and fringed, was adequate
for mourning an unloved aunt but perhaps rather too decorative and lustrous for a beloved brother.
Daisy went over to her. “May I join you?”
“Of course. Don't you want coffee?”
“No, thanks. What a beautiful evening it is.” The electric lights were on in the house but outside the rosy glow of sunset lingered in the dusk. “It seems frightfully inappropriate.”
“Yes. Poor Aubrey! I'm afraid I'm very selfish, I've been thinking of myself. You know, I don't think I can bear to stay at Haverhill with Sally running rampant, but I can't come up with any practical alternative. I'm far too old to start a career. I don't suppose you have any ideas?”
“Not off the cuff, but I'll put my mind to it.”
“On the other hand I can't envision Rupert mouldering away here at Haverhill. He'll probably live expensively in town and bring dashing house-parties down for long weekends to interrupt the quiet mouldering away of the rest of us. You know, you're an extraordinary person, Daisy.”
“Me?” Daisy queried in ungrammatical astonishment.
“You. After my impulsive dash to London I was absolutely terrified of coming back to this house, to the family.”
“You didn't show it.”
“I'd decided bright and breezy was the only way to carry it off. Then I was faced with Aubrey's death and a police interrogation. Without your support, I suspect I'd have disintegrated entirely. I'd have been a mass of sodden handkerchief by the time I had to deal with the family, quite unable to cope with their questions. You pulled me through.”
“Oh, rubbish.” Daisy felt her cheeks grow hot. Blast! she thought. Nearly a mother and still blushing like a Victorian debutante! “You'd have managed. And you'll work out how to cope with Sally if you decide to stay, or how to get along on your own if you decide to leave.”
“That's part of it. You have faith in people and they rise to your expectations.”
“I expect to like people, and usually they turn out to be quite nice. Not always,” she added, her eyes on Sally, whose condescending manner to Flora was obvious even from a distance. Beyond the two, she saw Binkie—Gerald—stop in the hall doorway and look around for her. She gave him a little wave. He nodded and left. “There's Lord Gerald,” she said, relieved at the excuse to quit this embarrassing conversation. “Will you excuse me? I promised to try to explain Lucy to him, though it's a hopeless case.”
“That's another part,” said Lady lone, with a trace of amusement. “You not only like people, you care.”
Already on her way, Daisy managed to pretend she had not heard.
Lucy's mother intercepted her on the way to the door. “Daisy, I've heard you're meeting Lord Gerald in the conservatory. Of course I know you mean nothing wrong by it, dear, but don't you think it presents a rather odd appearance?”
“Sorry, Aunt Vickie, it can't be helped.”
“If he has information for the police, why does he not go straight to your husband instead of using you as an intermediary?”
“But it's nothing to do with the police. Nor is it exactly a clandestine assignation, since apparently the whole world knows, but we need privacy if I'm to persuade him to be patient with Lucy's asininities.” Was there such a word? she wondered.
“My dear, it's very kind of you to take so much trouble for Lucinda. But the conservatory! In my youth, a rendezvous in a conservatory bore such implications …”
“Not any longer.”
“I realize times have changed, but you don't think your husband … ?”
“Good heavens, no! Alec won't mind, since Lord Gerald has been crossed off his list.”
Mrs. Oliver looked blank.
“His list of suspects. He'd be furious if I went to meet someone who might be a murderer, naturally. The thing is, the family isn't likely to interrupt us there after Lord Fotheringay died there so recently. Not that I'm frightfully happy about lingering there myself, but it was the first place that sprang to mind on the spur of the moment.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully.
“I have to do all I can, Aunt Vickie, to sort Lucy and Gerald out. We can't just let them fall apart.”
“Heavens, no. As it is, I simply can't think what I'm going to say to Lady Tiverton. I'm sure the Tivertons have never had a murder in the family.”
“Most people haven't,” said Daisy. “They can hardly blame you or Lucy.”
“I wish I could be certain of that.” Aunt Vickie went on for a while longer about the respectability of the Bincombe family before she said, “But I'm keeping you, Daisy. Do your best to bring Lucinda and Gerald back together, and I'll worry about Lady Tiverton later.”
“That's the spirit, Aunt Vickie.”
Daisy went on towards the door but this time was headed off by Sally. She seemed to be in a conciliatory mood, for she said, “You haven't had coffee, Mrs. Fletcher. I'm afraid it's very remiss of me not to have made sure you were given a cup. I'll have to have a word with Jennifer. Come along now and we'll get you some.”
“Thanks, but I didn't actually want any this evening. It doesn't agree with me in the evenings at present.”
“Oh, I do understand! When I was carrying Dickie, I couldn't bear coffee. But there's no reason you shouldn't have a cup of tea, or cocoa if you prefer. Jennifer ought to have asked what you would care for. Would you like her to squeeze some orange juice for you?”
“No, truly, I don't want anything.”
“I hope your husband drinks coffee. I told Jennifer to have some sent in for him and his men.” The blasted woman seemed to be obsessed
with making sure Daisy understood that Jennifer Walsdorf was an inferior in spite of being Rupert's first cousin.
“I expect they'll be glad of it,” Daisy said. “They've had a long day and it will help keep them awake and alert.”
“Oh, but surely they're arresting Teddy Devenish?”
“I couldn't say. But even if they do, there's all sorts of things still to be done, getting an arrest warrant and charging him and carting him off to prison. Alec couldn't leave all that stuff to Tom and Ernie.”
Sally's eyebrows rose. “Tom and Ernie?”
“Detective Sergeant Tring and Detective Constable Piper. They're friends of mine.”
While Sally was absorbing this facer, Daisy escaped.
She hurried across the hall, careful not to glance towards the library in case poor Lady Devenish was still anguishing there over her son's detention. The dining room was in darkness but for a shadowy area by the windows at the far end. Why hadn't Gerald left the lights on for her? Daisy felt for light-switches on the wall just inside the door, found a row and flipped one. Crystals sparkled as one of the elaborate gasoliers, converted to electricity, burst into life.
On the far side of the room, the glass doors to the conservatory reflected the light, the table and chairs, and Daisy as she approached, circling the table. Beyond the glass panes, the conservatory looked dark. Daisy was afraid she had been too long delayed and Gerald had given up waiting, but when she came closer she saw a dim yellow light, half obscured by foliage. She remembered that Lord Fotheringay had mentioned using only oil lamps. The brightness of electricity upset the plants' growth patterns, he had said.
She pushed open the door. “Gerald?”
Silence.
The atmosphere was muggy, full of exotic fragrances. He had probably stepped out for a breath of fresh air. Daisy made her way along the winding path between the bushes and trees, some grouped
in beds, some in individual pots: plain clay pots, decorative Chinese pots, hideous Victorian pots. The tap of her heels on the slates rang loud in her ears.
Ahead, the lamp burned steadily, in the open space where Lord Fotheringay had sat down to drink his cup of tea and never arisen. Her memory full of the sight of that innocuous gardener dead on the slate floor with Gerald bending over him, she did not for a moment recognize what now lay before her eyes.
The crumpled black heap was Gerald. A palm tree lay across his shoulders. Daisy's eyes, flicking away from the sight she didn't want to see, followed the dark, hairy palm trunk to the shattered pot and spilled soil, dark and rich.
She made herself look at Gerald. On either side of his head was a pool of bright red liquid, spreading, spreading.
A
nother death? It couldn't be a coincidental accident! The back of Gerald's head was matted with blood and a steady stream trickled down on each side to drip into the growing puddles. Did that mean he was still alive? Daisy was not sure. What she could see of his face was bone white.
She needed to feel for a pulse and stanch the bleeding and go for help and, above all, not be sick. Her gorge rose as she knelt beside him, but she'd had a lot of practice recently at fighting down nausea. She conquered the turbulence in her stomach.
Her trembling fingers failed to find a pulse. She'd never been much good at finding pulses, not even her own. Stop the bleeding. She fumbled in her evening bag, dangling from her wrist, and pulled out her handkerchief. Belinda had hemmed the dainty little square of muslin for her for a Christmas present, and embroidered daisies in the corner. She hated to ruin it and it was far too small to be much use, but she had nothing else to use. Gerald's own handkerchief would be more adequate, but she couldn't reach it. Even if she managed to lift the palm and shift his large, muscular body, she knew people with head injuries had to be moved with extreme care.
If he wasn't already dead.
Could she use his socks to bind her folded hankie to the wound? No, her own stockings were more accessible. But what if his skull was fractured? She didn't dare put any pressure on the spot.
Maybe she ought to run for help. She couldn't bear to leave him. Suppose he wasn't yet dead and the murderer came back for another try?
“Hullo!”
Daisy jumped a mile. “Angela, thank heaven! Gerald's hurt and I don't know what to do. Go for help.”
Angela strode forward from the garden door. Tiddler stayed cowering on the threshold, his quivering nose uneasily testing the air. “No, you go. I'll deal with this.”
“You were a VAD?”
“No, Land Army.” Angela dropped to her knees, pulling a large linen handkerchief from her sleeve. “But you wouldn't believe what some of the girls did to themselves with sickles and scythes. Besides, I've treated animals with similar injuries. Go on, quickly. Send Nancy and get Dr. Arbuthnot here on the double.”
And Alec, Daisy thought. For a moment she hesitated. Was Angela the murderer come back for another try? No, she had to trust the lover of all creatures great and small, or Gerald would bleed to death anyway while she looked on, afraid to act.
“Don't touch or move anything you needn't,” she said, and ran.
Entering the hall, she saw between pillars a footman about to disappear through the baize door to the servants' wing.
“Stop!” she cried. He swung round so abruptly several cups slid off his tray and smashed on the marble floor. “Lord Gerald's hurt, badly. Find Mrs. Reverend Timothy and send her to the conservatory. Hurry!”
He dropped the tray on top of the broken china and was already dashing off as he said over his shoulder, “She's upstairs with Lady Fotheringay.”
Daisy sped on to the library and burst in. “Alec! Lord Gerald—he's been attacked.”
He looked up in annoyance, then took in her words and her face and jumped up. “Dead?”
“I don't know. He's bleeding horribly.”
“Where?” he snapped, coming around the desk towards her.
“In the conservatory. Oh, Alec …” Realizing tears were pouring down her face, she dabbed at them ineffectually with the hankie still in her hand, then ran into his arms.
“Tom, conservatory,” he ordered over her head. Tom picked up the Murder Bag and dashed off. “Ernie, telephone. Both doctors. Devenish, you're in the clear, for this one. Hop it. No, wait a minute, go and find one of the local bobbies Sir Leonard left us and send him to the conservatory. Then keep your mouth shut. Daisy, I can't stay. Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes,” she sobbed into his chest. “Go, Alec. Don't let him die. Angela's looking after him. I didn't know what to do! How am I going to tell Lucy?”
“Calm down, love. Coming for me was the best thing you could possibly do.” He picked her up and deposited her on a sofa by a window. “There, keep your feet up. I take it you didn't see anyone.”
“No, only Angela. Darling, what if … ?”
“She knows you saw her. She's not going to harm him now. If Bincombe can be saved, we'll save him.” He strode out after Teddy Devenish.
Drying her eyes, Daisy was aware of Ernie watching her with concern as he talked on the telephone. Seeing she was once again more or less
compos mentis
, he asked, “What sort of injury, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“His head. Someone hit him on the head with a palm tree. There's blood everywhere.”
“Head injuries always bleed like a pig,” the young DC said comfortingly, and relayed the information into the phone. A moment
later he was asking for another number and reporting to the police surgeon. “Yes, sir, Dr. Arbuthnot's coming, fifteen minutes he said. I'll tell the Chief Inspector you're on your way, sir. Thank you.” He held down the hook, cutting off the call, and said to Daisy, “What d'you reckon, Mrs. Fletcher, should I ring the CC? The Chief didn't say.”
Daisy thought. Sir Leonard hadn't been much help but he hadn't been a hindrance, either, and he had neatly disposed of the abominable Crummle. “He might take offence if he's not notified at once. Yes, better ring him up. But don't wait for him to come to the phone. Leave a message. I'm sure the Chief needs you in the conservatory.”
Piper left a message with Sir Leonard's butler, hung up, and gathered up all the papers the Yard men had scattered over the desk. Stuffing them into his pockets, he came over to Daisy. “You going to be all right now, Mrs. Fletcher? Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks, Ernie, I'll be all right. I don't know why I came unstuck like that.”
“He's a friend of yours, isn't he, Lord Gerald. It's different from a stranger, or even someone you know just a bit. And then, if someone's dead you can't help them and you can take your time to … to get a grip on yourself. But if they're not, and you're all in a rush, like, trying to decide what to do for the best … well, it's different.”
“Very,” Daisy agreed fervently.
“And you did the best thing you could, coming for the Chief, like he said.”
“I sent a footman for Nancy Fotheringay, too. She was a nurse during the War. Oh, blast! What one servant knows they'll soon all know, and what all the servants know can't be kept from anyone else. I must go and find Lucy.” She started to swing her legs off the sofa.
Piper fielded her ankles neatly. “You stay put,” he said, then blushed and hastily put his hands behind his back. “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but you didn't ought to get up yet. You looked like a ghost when you came running in. I'll see Miss Lucy comes to you.”
He left Daisy trying desperately to decide how on earth to break the news to Lucy.
She hardly had time to begin to fret herself to flinders before the elderly housekeeper bustled in. “Oh dear, madam, this is a very nasty business!” She came over to the sofa and stood gazing down at Daisy, hands on her hips. “Cocoa,” she announced. “That's what you need, madam. Very soothing, cocoa is, made with milk and nice and sweet. I'll bring you some in a jiffy, with my own two hands. You just lie there and rest.”
Before Daisy could do more than murmur, “Thank you, Mrs. Maple,” she was trotting out again.
Cocoa did sound soothing, but Daisy was dismayed by how quickly word of the attack on Gerald had spread. Lucy must have heard by now—unless by chance Mrs. Maple had been coming down the back stairs as the footman ran up to fetch Nancy.
Something of the kind must have happened, because when Lucy entered the library a few minutes later she obviously had no idea that her ex-fiancé was lying hurt, dying, perhaps dead. At her most languidly graceful, she crossed the room saying, “Has he talked you into pleading his case? Quite useless, I'm afraid, darling, unless he's come up with something Mummy hasn't already said.”
Behind her came her parents. Daisy silently groaned. Their presence was going to complicate her revelation no end and make the effect on Lucy much harder to gauge.
“Sit down, Lucy. Aunt Vickie, Oliver, I've got some …”
“You're looking frightfully seedy, Daisy,” Lucy said, frowning. “Are you feeling ill?”
Aunt Vickie clucked anxiously.
“I'm perfectly well,” Daisy said, “but Gerald isn't. I wanted to break it gently but I don't know how. He's the latest victim.”
Lucy and Aunt Vickie both sat down very suddenly. Lucy's face was as still and inexpressive as a mannequin's in a shop window, carved in celluloid.
“Dead?” asked Oliver, pale-faced, his hand on his wife's shoulder.
“I don't know. Maybe not. He was … he was hit on the head and b-bleeding dreadfully.”
“Daisy, dear, don't talk about it.” Given someone to succour, Aunt Vickie pulled herself together. “Try not to think about it. Think of your dear baby!”
“I'll go and see what I can find out,” said Oliver. “In the conservatory?”
Before he reached the door, Constable Stebbins creaked in. “Mrs. Fletcher? Oh, there you are, madam. The Chief Inspector sent me to tell you the young chap's still alive. Hanging on by a thread, if you ast me, but he ha'n't passed on yet.”
Daisy let go a long breath she hadn't known she was holding.
“Thank you, Officer.” Oliver's calm manner was no different from what it would have been had Stebbins announced the recovery of a parcel dropped in the street. That was how an English gentleman behaved in the presence of minor officialdom. But when Lucy faltered through stiff lips, “Is he … ?” and was unable to continue, her father read her mind and asked, “Is Lord Gerald conscious?”
“That he's not, sir, nor like to be soon, and just as well. If you was to see the crack he took on his noddle …”
“Thank you, Officer,” Oliver repeated firmly.
“Thank you, Mr. Stebbins,” said Daisy, earning a beam for recalling his name. “I should think you'd better hurry back to see if the Chief Inspector needs you.”
Stebbins gave his agonizing new boots a meaningful glance, as if to say, “I'm not hurrying nowhere in these.” But he saluted and tramped off, meeting Mrs. Maple in the doorway.
Daisy was pleased to see the housekeeper, less because of the tray she carried than because her arrival postponed the moment when they'd have to talk about Gerald.
“Dr. Arbuthnot's come,” Mrs. Maple announced. “I don't know what the world's coming to, Mr. Oliver, and that's a fact. Here's your
cocoa, Mrs. Fletcher. Will you take something, Mrs. Oliver? Miss Lucy?”
“I'm going to bed,” said Lucy, and walked out.
Her mother burst into tears.
“The girl is quite impossible!” said Oliver angrily.
“Don't cry, Aunt Vickie! It isn't that she doesn't care. But there's nothing she can do for Gerald—I'm sure Alec wouldn't let her near him anyway—and she can't face explanations just now. Don't you understand?”
“You just listen to Mrs. Fletcher, Mrs. Oliver,” the old retainer advised. “That's good, sound, common sense. I've seen bad news take people like that before. Miss Lucy just needs to be let alone to take it all in, that's all.”
“They're right, my dear. Best leave her alone for the moment. And I think the best thing for you would be to go up, too, with one of Marjorie's powders to help you sleep. We'll go and find her right away. You're going to be all right, Daisy?”
“To tell the truth, I've a very good mind to go to bed, too. This seems to have been an extraordinarily long day. I'll just finish my cocoa and write a note to Alec—I don't want to disturb him. Then I'll follow you up.”
Oliver led Aunt Vickie out, while Mrs. Maple fetched a pencil and note-paper for Daisy, and a blotter to lean on. “You keep your legs up for a bit before you go facing the stairs,” she advised. “Not but what there's a bit more colour in your cheeks now, madam.”
“That's the cocoa. Thanks! Mrs. Maple, I've been thinking.”
“Well, I'm sure I can't think when you've had a chance to do that, madam!”
“No, but this is a pretty easy think. Assuming Lord Gerald doesn't … doesn't die in the next little while, they're not going to want to leave him lying on the cold, hard slates. But I'm sure he should be moved as little as possible, certainly not carried upstairs. Is there somewhere you could have a bed made up?”
“Why yes, the little room near the front door—the antechamber some call it. I'll go and ask Mrs. Walsdorf … . No, then, I won't It'll only make trouble. And ask Mrs. Rupert I won't neither! Nor call her my lady till his poor father's properly buried.”

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