Gunpowder Plot (21 page)

Click, ping, click-click.
“Hello, Fletcher? Wookleigh speaking. I know you’re busy, my dear fellow, and I won’t keep you. Just wanted to make sure my chaps are cooperating with your chaps all down the line.”

“They’ve been very helpful, sir. They’ve managed to get in touch with everyone on the guest list—”

“Including me,” said the Chief Constable dryly.

“That proves how thorough they were. Unfortunately, no one saw any more of what was going on than you did. The local Constable, Blount, is carrying on a few enquiries for me in his district. A good man.”

“I’ll remember that. All right, I won’t trouble you any longer. Carry on, Fletcher, and let me know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”

“Thank you, sir.” If only all CCs were like Sir Nigel!

Alec had hardly stuck the receiver back in its hook when the bell rang again.

“Chief Inspector?” enquired a harassed voice he didn’t recognize.“This is Herriott. I’ve just had the Lord Lieutenant on the line demanding the latest news of your little murder. He says you told him to ask me.”

“I’m sorry, sir. What I told him was that I’d be reporting to you in due time and I was sure you’d be in touch with him.”

“Oh. Right-oh. Anything to report?”

“No, sir. Enquiries are proceeding, et cetera.”

The Gloucestershire CC produced a gruff guffaw. “Like that, is it? Well, I hope you’ll get a move on. I’ve asked Superintendent Crane to have you come here when you’ve bagged your man. Nasty business, this Customs raid. They blew up an unfortunate watchman with the vault and have got away with a load of bullion. The Yard is sending me a detective inspector, but I want you. How long do you reckon?”

Alec swallowed an unprintable retort. So much for his leisurely drive home with Daisy. He was going to demand a week off after this, and they would go away without leaving an address. “I can’t say, sir. We’ve pretty much narrowed it down to two, but one is unconscious after a motor smash-up and we’re still investigating the other’s motive. There’s very little in the way of hard evidence. It may be one of those cases where we have a moral certainty but can’t prosecute.”

“Well, reach your moral certainty quickly, and in the meantime, I’ll fend off Dryden-Jones.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Alec.

21

W
ide-awake now, Alec glanced at his watch. Just five minutes before he was due to see Lady Tyndall— on the way to the study, he had met Gwen in the passage as she came out of her mother’s room.

He ran down the stairs to the billiard room and quickly looked through the notes of his previous meetings with her ladyship. They had covered remarkably little ground. Questioning the widow of a murder victim was always a touchy business.

Alec reached the sitting room door at the same time as a maid bearing a tea tray. He wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sorry. Sometimes the ritual of serving tea relaxed the person to be interviewed; sometimes fussing over teacups was an irritating distraction.

He knocked and held the door open for the girl. As he followed her into the room, his attention flew to the window opposite. The sun was a red ball on the horizon, and thickening bands of cloud flamed in a display that outdid any fireworks show he had ever seen.

“‘ What is man, that thou art mindful of him?’ ” murmured Lady Tyndall. She was seated in a chair by the window, angled to look out. She motioned him to another, set opposite at an equivalent angle, as the maid laid out the tea things on a small table between them.

Man is— Alec thought but didn’t say— as far as we know, the only creature able to appreciate a sunset, and it is a crime to kill him.

He would have preferred to face her directly, but failing that he turned his chair slightly towards her before he sat down. She looked much less fragile than last night, but he couldn’t tell how much the change was due to the healthy glow imparted by the pink light of the evening sky. She was, at least, more composed.

“I hope you like Lapsang Souchong, Mr. Fletcher,” she said, holding the teapot poised over a flowery, gold-rimmed porcelain cup. “It is my favourite at this time of day. But Bella can bring something else if you prefer.”

“Lapsang Souchong will do very well, thank you, Lady Tyndall.”

“Milk? Lemon? Sugar? Please help yourself to sandwiches and cake. Thank you, Bella, that will be all.”

“A little milk, no sugar, thanks.” As he had feared, teatime was already interfering with the interview. Though a cuppa was welcome, he had no intention of encumbering himself with mouthfuls of food.

“Oh dear, it’s rather strong. Shall I add a little hot water?” She lifted the silver hot-water jug.

“No, thank you, that’s perfect. Lady Tyndall, I’m sorry to have to take you back to last night, but it can’t be helped. You told me you were dismayed that your son invited the Gooches but accepted his right to do so. Your husband was less accommodating. Did he tax your son with his opinion?”

“I believe not.” Her voice was constrained. “I was occupied with our other guests and didn’t watch them, but even Harold would not start a row at a party, and Jack certainly showed no sign of being disturbed. Not until . . . afterwards.”

“After the fireworks.”

“The . . . ? Oh, yes, the missing rockets. I’d almost forgotten. That fuss was almost too much for me, on top of the strain of entertaining a large number of people.”

“You must have been tempted to stay in the warm house when everyone went outside.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that.” Her smile was sudden, charming. “But I confess I made up my mind not to mingle with the throng, making polite conversation. Everyone would presume I was talking to someone else.”

“You were at leisure, then, to watch the rest. Did you see Sir Harold or Mrs. Gooch or anyone else go inside?”

“No,” she answered quickly— too quickly. “I was watching the fireworks. I knew Harold would ask me about them later. You must understand that he spent months planning the show. He was very secretive, like a child with a new toy he doesn’t want to share. That’s why the display had to be constructed at the last minute, so that no one could guess the details. And afterwards, he always wanted everyone to say how wonderful it was. It combined his two passions: family tradition and gunpowder explosions.”

The vigour of her words was belied by a fading tone, like a gramophone in need of winding. Alec sipped his tea, letting the ensuing pause lengthen.

Experience suggested she had worked out in advance exactly what to say. She was protecting someone, and she had no conceivable reason to protect Gooch, or Miller. She had seen one of her family, one of her children, enter the house.

In silence, Alec considered the four. Adelaide: No hint of a motive had come to light. Barbara: The greed for land was a powerful force, but would she have killed for the chance not to own but to manage the estate for her brother? Gwen: Call it love, lust, or simply a biological urge to reproduce, it was a drive as powerful as greed, and Sir Harold had tried to thwart her last chance in a world where women her age vastly outnumbered the surviving men; she might kill her father, but the woman she’d first met just the previous day?

There remained Jack, with his overwhelming reasons for wanting both the baronet and Mrs. Gooch out of his way. Whichever way one looked at it, Jack Tyndall was in the centre of the picture. His motive was still greater if he really was the woman’s son, but if such was the case, why would Lady Tyndall deny it? Why should she lie to the police to protect the young man her husband had forced her to pass off as her own?

“May I pour you another cup?” Few could resist filling a silence that stretched so long and Lady Tyndall eventually succumbed, though not with the helpful gush of words Alec had hoped for.

“Yes, please.”

“I’m afraid it’s steeped rather too long.” After emptying the dregs from his cup into the matching slop basin, she poured simultaneous streams of tea and hot water through the silver strainer. Her hands were as steady as if she were entertaining a close friend, not a police detective in a murder enquiry. But now that the sunset glow was fading, her face showed the strain— parchment-pale, with a pinched look about the mouth.

“It’s getting dark. Shall I turn on a light?” Alec suggested. He wanted to be able to see her expression, so, not waiting for her response, he reached up to switch on the standard lamp behind his chair.

It had scarcely clicked on when her personal maid came in, her status made plain by the lack of cap and apron. She ignored Alec.“Now, my lady, you’ll be getting chilled there by the window. Come over to the fire, do. I’ll poke it up nice and draw the curtains and move the tray for you. Why, you haven’t eaten a thing. You must keep your strength up, my lady, indeed you must.”

Bustling about, she suited action to words and resettled Lady Tyndall by the fireplace with a shawl over her knees and a plate with a slice of cherry cake before her.

“Thank you, Mendicott, but I’m not hungry, I’m afraid.”

Rejoining her, Alec made up his mind: Tomorrow, if not this evening, he was going to start questioning people at Constable Blount’s station house in the village to avoid the constant interruptions at Edge Manor.

As soon as the maid closed the door behind her, he said, “I understand Mr. Tyndall was born abroad.”

The morsel of cake she was listlessly breaking from the slice crumbled. “Oh, how clumsy of me.” She pushed the plate away and wiped her fingers on her napkin with a nervous motion. “Yes, Jack was born in Switzerland. Bearing children didn’t agree with me, you see. I was quite ill when Gwen was born. So when we were expecting another, it was thought advisable that I should try a different climate and complete rest. Harold was . . . was very good. He stayed with me most of the time, though he’d rather have been at home. We brought Jack home when he was six weeks old. His birth was registered here, of course. There’s no question of his not being British.”

As before, she ran out of steam, or, more likely, out of the speech she had prepared. Alec told himself it didn’t necessarily mean she was attempting to mislead him. An elderly lady of her class, unused to dealing with the police, might well think it a good idea to arrange her thoughts beforehand, especially after breaking down the previous evening. The stiff-upper-lip ethos tended to be even stronger among the “county” families than the aristocracy.

Though, in Alec’s opinion, anyone might be forgiven for hysterics when informed her husband had shot and killed a woman, a virtual stranger, and himself.

The second blow, the claim that her son was not her own, she was taking with more outward calm, whether because it was not true or because she had been half-expecting it for twenty-one years. With luck, Ernie Piper would discover the truth among the late doctor’s papers. Alec saw no point in putting the question to Lady Tyndall again at present.

Again the silence lengthened. This time, it was shattered by a knock on the door, followed by the irruption into the sitting room of Mrs. Yarborough.

“Mother! I’ve brought your grandsons to comfort you.”

Lady Tyndall closed her eyes and appeared to utter a silent prayer. Alec regarded with interest the two boys who had almost certainly committed an assault on a motorist, causing grievous bodily harm, which would certainly have landed them in prison had they been older.

Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. They were scrubbed to a glow, hair slicked down, ties neatly knotted, shirts tucked into their shorts, jacket pockets flat instead of bulging with the bits and bobs boys customarily collect. Even their socks were pulled up to the knee and their shoes shone.

“Good afternoon, Grandmama,” they chorused. “We’re very sorry about Grandpapa.” But as they spoke, they stared at Alec.

“Mummy, is that the Scotland Yard ’ tec?” the elder whispered.

“Yes, darling. It’s rude to point, remember.” Mrs. Yarborough gave Alec a hostile look, the first notice she had taken of him since entering.

The younger boy immediately burst into tears. “We didn’t mean to—”

The elder kicked him on the ankle. “Shut up, Adrian!” he hissed.

A young and nervous maid came in with a tray. “Mrs. Yarborough said to bring tea, my lady.”

“That’s quite all right, Dilys. Mr. Fletcher, you’ve met my daughter Mrs. Yarborough, I believe. These two are my grandsons, Reginald and Adrian.”

Prompted by a nudge from their mother, the boys muttered, “How do you do” before making for the tray, which the maid set on the table by the window.

“I don’t want milk. I want tea with lots of sugar,” Reginald demanded, while Adrian picked the cherries out of a hunk of cake and dropped them on his brother’s plate, then stuffed the cake into his mouth.

Alec made his excuses and departed. Tomorrow the police station, he promised himself.

Daisy and Miller were watching the sunset when Gwen, looking slightly less worn out after her lie-down, joined them in the drawing room.

“Tea is on its way,” she said. “I’m sorry you two have been left to your own devices.”

“In the circs,” said Daisy, “we hardly expect to be entertained. Did you enquire after Mr. Gooch on your way down? How is he?”

“Beginning to be restless. The nurse says it’s a hopeful sign that he’s not still lying like a log. I’m so thankful!”

“‘ Thankful’?” Babs enquired sardonically, coming in, breeched and booted. “What is there to be thankful for?”

“Mr. Gooch seems to be on the mend.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing. One less murder, and maybe the fear of death will induce him to confess to the other two. Where’s tea? I could eat a horse!”

“Not mine.” Jack appeared in jodhpurs and riding boots. “I say, Mrs. Fletcher, do you object to a slight equine effluvium? Just say the word and I’ll go and change.”

“Not for my sake.” Daisy was pleased, though surprised, to see him so much more composed.

He was closely followed by a couple of maids with the tea things. Gwen poured. Jack brought Daisy her tea and a generous selection from the array of sandwiches, biscuits, and cakes.

As he returned to get his own tea, Babs asked him where he’d been riding.

“Over the Edge.”

“The Edge of the World.”

Gwen laughed. “That’s what we used to call it,” she told Miller. “Up the hill and over the Edge of the World.”

She and Babs and Jack started reminiscing about long-ago rides. Miller came over to Daisy, looking rather down in the mouth.

“You see,” he said, “we’re tuned to different wavelengths.”

“‘ Wavelengths’?” she asked cautiously. “Isn’t that something to do with the wireless?”

“That’s right, among other things. Sorry. I meant, half the time I have no idea what they’re talking about.”

“But presumably Jack knows all about wavelengths, which I don’t. And I always preferred a bicycle to a horse. I liked riding ponies, when I was little, but horses are so
big.
”

“I like bicycling.” Miller cheered up.

“Well, Gwen and I used to go biking together when she came to stay at Fairacres. And you have a motor-car, and she drives. And I am absolutely determined to learn to drive,” Daisy added.

Jack heard her. “Don’t let a relative teach you,” he advised. “I taught Gwen, and believe me, it’s a recipe for murder.” He turned bright red as a horrified silence fell. “You know what I mean! Mrs. Fletcher, would you like another cup of tea?”

“Yes, please, and I wouldn’t say no to another macaroon. They’re so frightfully moreish.”

He fetched her cup. While it was being refilled, a maid came in and told Miller the sergeant had rung up from the Three Ravens. Miller went off to fetch him, and Jack brought Daisy her tea. He set a plate of macaroons dangerously close. Daisy swore to herself that she’d only eat one, or at most two. One each for herself and the baby. Almonds and egg whites must be good for both of them, weren’t they?

“I’m awfully sorry,” Jack said in a low voice, sitting down next to her, “for what I said about teaching Gwen to drive. Of all the asinine remarks!”

“Exactly the sort of thing that does slip out at just the wrong moment,” she said lightly. “It’s bound to; that’s what’s on your mind.”

“I’ve been doing my best not to think about it. But I did come to one conclusion while I was out: It doesn’t really matter whether Mrs. Gooch’s letter is true or not. I never had any great desire to be Sir John, and when I’m working as an engineer, no one will care a hoot. It might be better not to use the title, even if it turns out I’m entitled to it. I wouldn’t want the other fellows to think I expect to trade on it.”