Heirs of the Body (34 page)

“And it didn’t even swell up at all,” Ben reminded her.

The children were satisfied. Raymond’s death and the Vincent Dalrymples’ absence from the scene hadn’t made much impression on them. None of the three had asked about the stabbing so Daisy assumed everyone had had more sense than to tell them about it. She hoped Alec wouldn’t want to question them.

They had reached the pudding course—a fluffy lemon mousse, sweet and tart and perfect for a hot day—when Alec came in.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Cousin Geraldine. I wanted to catch you all together.” He glanced round the table. “Where are Vincent and Laurette?”

“Barricaded in their room still. Servants-only admitted.”

“They’ll admit me. As you’ve all doubtless heard by now, my two detective sergeants have arrived from London. Geraldine, DS Tring will be talking to the servants. Would you be kind enough to instruct them to cooperate?”

“Lowecroft, you heard Mr.… um…”

“DCI.”

“DCI Fletcher. Please see that everyone gives DS Tring full cooperation.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

Alec continued, “I’d like to ask all of you to stay within easy reach, as I may want to speak to you again this afternoon.”

Edgar’s face brightened. “I’ll tell Wharton I can’t go with him to inspect the home farm!”

“Thank you, sir.” Alec preserved a straight face except for a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I presume coffee on the terrace is acceptable,” Geraldine said.

“By all means.”

Edgar brightened still further. “Then I may go to the conservatory?”

“Anywhere in the house, sir, except that I’ll beg the continued use of your study. Outside, please stay close enough to be easily visible.”

Even in the shade, it was as hot or hotter on the terrace, though less stuffy than in the house. No sign of thunderclouds, just the sun beating down. The air above the lawn shimmered.

Lowecroft and Ernest brought out a jug of iced coffee as well as the usual coffeepot. The children tried it but didn’t like it. Edgar soon bore them off to the conservatory—or vice versa. Sam went up to see Martha, returning to say she was snoozing. A maid had told him she ate scarcely a mouthful of lunch but drank several cups of mint tea.

Geraldine went inside to write letters. Daisy was sure she ought to be writing letters, but she was too limp and lethargic to remember to whom. Frank and Sam asked whether she’d mind if they deserted her for the billiard room.

“Of course not. I’m going up to see the twins in a bit, after their nap.” She moved to the wicker chaise longue.

Ernie Piper came out. “Whew, is it ever hot. You happen to know where Mr. Crowley or Mr. Samuel Dalrymple have got to?”

“They said they were going to play billiards, just a couple of minutes ago. Ernie, what’s going on? What’s Alec up to? Has he received any news from Scarborough or Paris? Has he any ideas about what’s going on here?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. All I’m allowed to say is the police are making progress in their investigation.”

Daisy sighed. “I hope that’s true. It’s not at all comfortable having one’s relatives attempting to do each other in.”

“Happens in the best families,” said Ernie. “I mean—You know what I mean.”

She smiled at him. “I do.”

He left. Daisy leant back against the cushions and closed her eyes against the glare.

She awoke to the sound of the grandfather clock in the drawing room striking three. Groggy, disoriented, she blinked at the sun-drenched world. She had a crick in her neck. Afternoon naps never agreed with her, and it was hotter than ever.

Pulling herself together, she struggled to her feet. Time to go up to the nursery. She was not looking forward to climbing the stairs.

“Mama!”

“Mama!”

With shrieks of glee, Miranda and Oliver scampered across the lawn towards her. Running to meet them, Daisy saw Mrs. Gilpin in the shade of the great chestnut, seated stiff as a dressmaker’s dummy on a kitchen chair Ernest must have carried out for her.

Playing with the twins, Daisy managed to forget for a while that even the best families may harbour a felon.

At Nurse’s decree, playtime ended at last. Daisy held Miranda’s hand up the endless stairs, carrying her up the last flight. Oliver, doggedly determined, reached above his head to hold the banister rail and made it all the way on his own.

Daisy read them a story, then went down to see how Martha was doing.

Sam opened the door. He told her Dr. Hopcroft had already called. He had been very soothing. Nothing was seriously wrong, Sam assured Daisy, sounding as if he was reassuring himself. Martha should take it easy, continue to rest with her feet up and stick to small quantities of bland foods until she felt better. She must make herself eat, because though she wasn’t hungry, the baby was. Nibbling a dry biscuit should quell her nausea. Plenty of liquids, he advised, particularly in this hot weather. Milk was best, most nourishing, if she could stomach it.

A plate of Marie and Bath Oliver biscuits, a dish of junket, a glass of milk, and a teapot showed that cook and housekeeper were doing their part to tempt the invalid. One biscuit showed signs of nibbling. The milk was down half an inch from the creamy ring that showed the original level.

“Maybe you can persuade her to eat?” Sam said anxiously.

“I’ll try. I’ll sit with her for a bit, at least, if you’d like to stretch your legs.”

Daisy managed to persuade Martha to finish the nibbled biscuit and swallow most of the junket, in spite of continuing nausea. Half a cup of mint tea seemed to make her feel worse. Daisy removed the pot to the top of the chest of drawers, out of the way, so that Martha wouldn’t drink more without thinking. She put a glass of water on the table.

Martha was very hot and sweaty—Daisy’s nanny would have been horrified by the adjective: “Horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, ladies glow” had been one of her favourite maxims. But there it was, Martha was hot and sweaty. Daisy brought a basin of cold water and a flannel and helped her wash face, neck, and arms.

She wondered whether Alec wanted to question Martha but she didn’t mention it, or talk about murder. The poor girl needed to be cheered up, not depressed.

Sam returned. “Tea on the terrace, Daisy,” he said. “I’ll stay with Martha till your sister … Oh sweetie, you’ve had a bite to eat. I’m so glad.”

Down on the terrace, she found Geraldine alone, presiding over the tea tray. “Really, Daisy,” she greeted her, “your mother!”

“What now?” Daisy accepted a cup of tea and piled a plate with cucumber and watercress sandwiches and a slice of sponge cake.

“She rang up. Now it’s
my
fault Raymond died and reporters are swarming round the Dower House.”

“They are?”

“Truscott and a bobby were keeping them out of Fairacres, so they’re trying to wring further information from the Dower House instead. As if I could do anything about it!”

“I can’t imagine what she expects of you.” Daisy hoped Violet would be able to get away. She wasn’t up to the walk across the park on a hot day.

Frank came out, looking disgruntled. “The same questions over and over again,” he grumbled, swigging a cup of tea standing, then holding out the cup for a refill. “After a bit, you want to make up different answers, just for a change.”

“Better not,” Daisy advised.

“Oh, I didn’t. Yet. At least I’m now allowed out of sight of the house. Lady D, would you mind if I pop down to the Wedge for a pint in a while?”

No longer a suspect, Daisy wondered, or given enough rope to hang himself? No doubt someone would be keeping an eye on him. Tom Tring, perhaps—Tom was as good in pubs as he was with servants, genial, chatty without giving anything away, picking up all sorts of information without upsetting people.

Pepper and Nana arrived, followed by Edgar and the children, all chattering happily about a Purple Emperor that had hatched today in the conservatory. They had released it in the woods, where it flitted straight to the brambles, its caterpillars’ favourite food.

“It’s a butterfly,” Ben told Daisy when she enquired. Carefully he added, “
Apatura iris
. Is that right, Uncle Edgar?”

“To the letter, my dear boy.” Edgar beamed with fond pride.

Still no sign of Vincent and Laurette. When Ernest brought out more hot water, Daisy drew him aside and asked whether Alec had been to see them in their room. He had.

Alec was being utterly infuriating. He wasn’t usually quite so determined to keep her at arm’s length from his investigations, once she was involved. And this one concerned her own relatives, her family! Or perhaps that was why he was keeping her in the dark, now that he had Tom and Ernie’s help?

Sam arrived. “Your sister’s with Martha,” he told Daisy.

“I’ll go up, then, and see if Violet has any ideas for making Martha more comfortable.”

And while on the subject of comfort, it was past time she changed out of the skirt and blouse she had been wearing all day. She had a sleeveless linen frock, a pretty blue-and-green pattern, that would be cool and suitable for dinner, as they weren’t dressing. It was sure to be creased, though. Changing course, she made for her and Alec’s room, to get it out and ring for a maid to iron it.

The frock was at the back of the wardrobe. As she reached down the coat hanger, she noticed in the corner below it Vincent’s slashed shirt and jacket, roughly folded, where she had deposited them.

Had Alec forgotten them, amidst the flood of information he was collecting? Abandoning the frock, she took them out and draped them over the back of a cane chair. In his haste to go and look for the weapon, he had given them only a cursory examination. Perhaps she could find something significant about them and worm her way back into the case.

She fetched a matching chair and set it side by side with the first, then dressed them, one in the shirt, one in the jacket. She looked. She frowned.

It was no good saying it couldn’t have happened, because clearly it had happened. Therefore it was not impossible. But she couldn’t understand how a single blow could have caused both cuts. The one in the jacket was just under the armpit, barely missing the seam. The rent in the shirt, spotted with blood that Daisy carefully avoided touching, was considerably longer, lower down, and further back, matching the graze on Vincent’s back.

Daisy tried to picture the sequence of events that could have produced this result, and failed. It just wasn’t possible.

She had to tell Alec at once. It was
not
just a ploy to insinuate herself into the investigation. She took the jacket off the chair—and in doing so noticed a nick in the artificial silk lining, high up inside the front of the sleeve, just where a blade entering from the back would catch it—if no arm was in the way.

With the shirt folded inside the jacket, cuts hidden, down the stairs she trudged again. After all this exercise, she ought to be slim enough to please even Lucy. In the hall she met the ubiquitous Ernest.

“Is Mr. Fletcher still in the study?” she asked. “Is anyone with him at present?”

“Yes, madam, and no, not if you mean any of them you might call suspects. There’s a Dr. Pardoe, him that came to take a look at Mr. Raymond in the garage.” He gave Vincent’s jacket a knowing glance but didn’t comment.

Daisy knocked on the study door and went in without waiting to be invited. Alec, sitting at the desk as usual, looked up in annoyance. Tom, Ernie, and the doctor stood up.

Alec rose likewise, saying, “Daisy, what—”

“Look!” She held up the clothes. “Vincent’s, that he was wearing when—”

“All right, I’d forgotten them,” he admitted. He took the bundle from her. “Tom and Ernie haven’t seen them. We’ll take a look,” he said dismissively. “Thanks.”

“Alec, it simply can’t have happened they way they told us. In fact, it can’t have happened at all. The attack on Vincent, I mean. Their story was cut out of whole cloth, in more senses than one.”

He exchanged glances with Tom and Ernie. “Daisy, I said we’d take care of it. Leave it to us, will you? And don’t for pity’s sake talk about it.”

“I wasn’t going to.” As an exit line, it could have been bettered, but it would do. Daisy duly made her exit. If they needed her to explain the evidence to them, they could jolly well come and find her.

She still hadn’t dealt with the frock she wanted to wear. Hot and sticky, she plodded up the stairs yet again.

On her way to the bedroom, she had to pass Martha’s room. She decided to pop in to say hello to Violet and see how things were going. When she knocked, to her surprise she heard rapid footsteps coming towards the door.

“Come in!” Vi sounded desperate. She flung the door open before Daisy could turn the knob. “At last—Oh, Daisy! I rang for a maid. Thank heaven you’re here. Martha’s bleeding and having cramps.” She laid her hand on her abdomen. “Like contractions. I’m afraid.… Please, please, go and ring the doctor!”

“Of course, darling. Right away.”

“I want Sammy!” Martha’s wail followed Daisy.

This time she ran, sliding her hand down the banisters to keep her balance. Halfway down the second flight, she remembered Dr. Pardoe’s presence. A doctor in the house was worth two in Upton, she thought, slightly hysterical. Dr. Pardoe was the police surgeon and pathologist, but presumably he knew a bit about difficult pregnancies as well as dead bodies.

She sped to Edgar’s den and burst in without knocking. “Dr. Pardoe, I’m afraid my cousin Martha is having a miscarriage. Will you
please
come quickly!”

“I’m not really … But of course I’ll come. Have someone fetch my bag from my car, and you’d better ring up her GP. Symptoms?” he queried, following Daisy from the room.

“Bleeding and cramps. I don’t know how bad. My sister is with her.”

When they reached the entrance hall, a maid was scurrying down the stairs, looking frightened. Daisy told her to show Dr. Pardoe to Mrs. Samuel’s room.

By then Ernest had appeared. “Go and get the doctor’s bag from his car,” Daisy directed, “and take it to him.”

“At once, madam.”

“Half a mo, do you know where Mr. Samuel is?”