Sheer Folly (19 page)

Daisy and Julia, conscious of their muddy shoes and knees, were all for going in through the side door, but Pritchard insisted on taking them into the drawing room.

Mrs. Howell glared at their feet.

“Darlings, you
are
a mess,” Lucy greeted them.

“Aren't you glad you didn't come?” said Daisy, gravitating to a radiator.

Lucy shuddered. “Very. What happened to Lady Ottaline?”

“We don't know,” said Julia. “We met Charles carrying her and he left her with us, to go back to the others.”

“Then the chauffeur arrived and carried her until we met the gardeners and Billy took over.”

“This is beginning to sound like one of those endless fairy tales,” Lucy complained.

“It did seem endless at the time,” Julia agreed.

Meanwhile, a maid came in to light a fire in the fireplace.

“I didn't order a fire,” Mrs. Howell told her.

“Mr. Barker said to, ma'am.”

“Who's orders do you obey, mine or the butler's?”

The maid looked nonplussed, the butler clearly as great a figure in her eyes as the lady of the house.

“I think we might have a fire, Winifred,” said Pritchard mildly. “Mrs. Fletcher and Miss Beaufort are damp and chilled.”

“Oh, well, if Barker is more important—”

“Barker is doing an excellent job under unusual and difficult circumstances.”

Emboldened, the maid said, “If you please, sir, Mr. Barker said as how he'd 'preciate a word with Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I ought to change, so I'll go and find him.” Daisy reluctantly abandoned the radiator. “It'll be marvellous to come down to a real fire.”

“I'd better change, too,” said Julia.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Pritchard begged, “isn't there something else I can do to help? I'm afraid I'd only be in the way out on the hill.”

Daisy hesitated. There was one thing she felt should be done as soon as possible, which no one else seemed to have thought of yet. The trouble was, she suspected Alec would prefer to do it himself, in person. She reminded herself that gas leaks happened all the time. She had absolutely no reason to suppose the explosion was anything but an accident—nothing, at least, beyond the character of the apparent victim. But she didn't even know that Rhino
was
a victim.

She made up her mind. “Someone's going to have to tell Sir Desmond that his wife's been hurt. As their host, I'd say you're probably the proper person. Can you telephone him at the factory?”

Pritchard paled. “How could I have forgotten? Yes, of course, I'll do it right away.” He squared his shoulders and followed Daisy and Julia out to the hall.

Lucy was left with Mrs. Howell. Her manners were too good to desert their hostess, though whether she'd bestir herself to make conversation was another matter. Daisy wished she could watch and listen invisibly.

The butler was waiting in the hall.

“You wanted to see me, Barker?”

“Thank you, madam, yes. I merely wished to inform you that I fear I did not follow your instructions to the letter when I telephoned the police. There was not time to advise you, but being acquainted with the constable in the village, I could not feel it desirable to notify him of Mr. Fletcher's profession and rank.”

“Oh?”

“A man easily flustered, madam, by matters outside his usual purview. Very competent, I understand, where poachers, tramps,
boys scrumping apples, and Saturday night fights outside the Spotted Dog are concerned, but apt to lose his head in more complex circumstances.”

“Oh dear. Yes, I quite see your point. A Scotland Yard detective added to an explosion might be altogether too much for the poor man. Thank you, Barker.”

“Thank
you
, madam.”

“Did you tell the doctor? About my husband, I mean.”

“No, madam. As I recall, you suggested telling the police only. I should perhaps also inform you that, after consulting Mr. Pritchard, I telephoned the landlord at the Spotted Dog and asked him to round up a few able-bodied men and bring them to assist in the digging if required.”

“Barker, you're a regular Jeeves,” Daisy said warmly.

“Thank you, madam. Excuse me, madam,” he added as the doorbell rang. “I expect that's Dr. Tenby.”

“Jeeves?” asked Julia.

“A fictional butler who's a genius at dealing with extraordinary circumstances. Your reading has been altogether too serious.”

“Jeeves sounds like the Admirable Crichton. You can't say that's too serious. Come on, what are we waiting for? I'm dying to get out of these wet clothes.”

“You go on up. I want to have a word with Dr. Tenby. I'll take him up to Lady Ottaline.”

“Surely Barker. . . . Oh, you're going to tell the doctor about Alec?”

“I think I'd better. It was almost certainly only an accident, but as long as there's the least chance of hanky-panky being involved—. Well, the doctor will examine Lady Ottaline with a different eye if he might have to testify in court.”

“Daisy, aren't you rather putting the cart before the horse? I mean, just because Alec happens to be on the spot, it doesn't mean a crime's been committed.”

“I know. But just think about it, a man who manages to make himself thoroughly disliked by—. Here's Dr. Tenby.”

“I'm off.” Julia disappeared in the direction of the stairs.

Heading in the opposite direction, Daisy heard Barker remind the doctor of her name before bearing away his top-coat.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Tenby” As he merely bowed silently, she went on, “I'll take you up to Lady Ottaline.”

He gave her an enquiring look. She realised that Barker had not known, when he rang up, who the patient would be, or indeed whether there would be a patient at all.

“Lady Ottaline is your patient.” She started towards the stairs and he followed, black bag in hand. “Lady Ottaline Wandersley. You must have met her the other evening.”

He grunted assent.

“Did Barker tell you what happened?”

“An explosion.”

“Yes, we don't know exactly how it happened, but it was probably a gas leak. Out in the grotto. Have you seen the grotto?”

“Yes.”

“It blew up. My husband is leading a rescue party, in case there are other victims.”

“Burns?”

“What? Oh, Lady Ottaline. No, she's not burnt. I don't exactly know, but my husband thinks she may have a concussion. Something about the eyes.”

“Medical man?”

“Alec? No, but he's a police officer and he's had to deal with a lot of injuries. As a matter of fact, he's a detective chief inspector at Scotland Yard. Not that he's here on business, just as a visitor, but I thought you ought to know. In case he finds out it wasn't an accident and you're asked to testify to an inquest, or even in court.”

He gave an abrupt nod.

“When you've finished with Lady Ottaline, he'd like you to go out to the grotto in case they find another victim.” Alec hadn't actually stated as much, but he'd sent for the doctor before he knew anyone at all was injured.

“Someone missing?”

“Lord Rydal.”

Another grunt. No doubt taciturnity had its admirers, but it made conversation very difficult.

They reached the Wandersleys' bedroom and Daisy knocked. A lady's maid opened the door.

“Dr. Tenby,” Daisy introduced him. She went straight off to change, despite her interest in Lady Ottaline's condition. She was quite sure that her chance of learning anything from the doctor was nil.

A quarter of an hour's tramp brought Alec and his troop to their goal. They stood on the short turf on the edge of a pit some ten or twelve feet deep. A certain amount of debris was scattered about the rim, but most of what the explosion had thrown up had landed back in the hole. After hurrying uphill to get here, all except the gardener's remaining boy were silent, catching their breath as they stared down at the jumbled mess.

The boy said, “Me mum'll take on something turrible if 'er finds out Oi bin down that 'ole.”

“You'll do what you're told,” snapped Madison.

“I'll not order
my
men into yon death-trap,” Simmons snapped back.

“Volunteers only,” said Alec.

“Oi won't tell me mum,” the boy assured him.

“Death-trap,” mused Armitage. “I hope he isn't really down there.”

“Friend of yours?” Alec asked.

“What? No, on the contrary. But it sort of spoils one's abhorrence if it's diluted with pity. A nasty end. I've been thinking. Assuming this was caused by a gas leak and not some natural occurrence, gas in the middle cave wouldn't collect in great concentration because of the tunnel to the outer grotto. There's—or there was—also a rift in the roof which let in a certain amount of light and plenty of air.”

“Yes?” Alec encouraged him.

“So if Rydal walked in with a lit cigarette, and he practically always had a lit cigarette in his holder, it might singe his eyebrows but I doubt it would create a disaster of this magnitude. The hermit's lair on the other hand—”

“The
what
?”

“Mrs. Fletcher hasn't told you? I suppose she hasn't had the opportunity.” He explained Pritchard's fancy of keeping a tame hermit in his grotto. “The room had some sort of natural ventilation, but no source of natural light. It also had a door. It seems to me, the most likely thing to have happened is that Rydal opened the door on a room full of gas. In that case, he'd have been blown backwards, I imagine. He'd be somewhere over there.” Armitage gestured to the left. On that side, the hole sloped up to become a depression that could easily have been a natural part of the hillside.

“We should start digging in that dip?”

“I'm a historian, not a geologist or an explosives expert. But my guess is, the confined explosion blew out the roof of the lair, which then collapsed. It also blew Rydal back into the middle cave, but quite likely didn't do much direct damage to the cave itself. It would be the ground tremors from the blast that brought parts of that one down, leaving some of it undamaged.”

“So he could quite well be alive in there, and it's going to be devilish difficult to get him out.”

Armitage, who had been pink from exertion, turned pale as a ghost and looked down at his feet. “I c-can't dig in these shoes,” he stammered unhappily. He was wearing house-shoes, not having changed after lunch before the impromptu expedition to the grotto. “I have hiking boots back at the house—been tramping the downs to take a look at barrows and the ancient camps, you know—”

“You'd better go and get them.” Alec, like Bincombe, had donned sturdy walking shoes for their drive into the country. One could never be certain even a Daimler would not throw a rod in the middle of nowhere. “More to the point, someone must explain to Mr. Pritchard what appears to have happened, and
what we're going to try. Knowing the territory, you have the best grasp of the situation. You'd better wait till the police and the doctor arrive and bring them back with you.”

“Right you are, sir.” The colour began to return to Armitage's cheeks as he turned to leave.

“But first, old man,” Bincombe put in, “if Pritchard hasn't yet had the gas turned off at the mains, make sure it's done, pronto.” He reached out a long arm and twitched away a packet of Woodbines the undergardener had just pulled out of his pocket.

While Simmons berated his underling for idiocy, Alec, Bincombe, Armitage, and Madison leant over the edge of the crater and sniffed. Alec caught no whiff of gas. Bincombe and Armitage both shook their heads. Madison thought he could smell it, but Alec suspected it was his imagination. As a man who spent much of his life breathing petrol fumes, he was not likely to have a sensitive nose.

In the meantime, the youth had wandered off round the rim of the hole, poking and prying. He now came back, carrying something in a grubby handkerchief, which he showed to Simmons.

The head gardener snorted. “A bit o' copper pipe's not going to make you rich, me lad!”

“This 'ere's a
clue
, Mr. Simmons. I bet it's got dabs on it. That's what they call fingerprints in the books.”

“I'll give you dabs!”

“And it ben't just a scrap o' pipe. En's got a gas tap—”

“Chuck it away and—”

“Let me see that!” Alec interrupted urgently.

He took the trophy from its eager finder, careful to keep the indescribable handkerchief round it. A few inches of twisted pipe protruded from either end of the tap fitting. The tap itself was parallel to the pipe. Turned on.

Frowning at the damning object in Alec's hands, Bincombe shook his head and said, “I can't believe even Rhino would be such a fool as to turn on the gas while holding a lit cigarette.”

 

Daisy was
brushing her hair when she heard a tap at the door.

“Come in!”

It was a very young housemaid, her eyes bright with excitement and a touch of apprehension. “Mr. Pritchard says can you come down, madam. He wants to talk to you. Mr. Endicott's here. He's the p'liceman from the village, madam. It's about her ladyship—Lady Ottaline that is—and the 'splosion. He's ever so upset, madam, Mr. Endicott is.” She chattered on.

Daisy wondered if Pritchard considered that being married to a policeman must make her an expert at soothing members of that profession. On the contrary, she recalled numerous episodes tending to confirm the reverse. Not that she intended to tell Pritchard that she was more likely to exacerbate Constable Endicott's annoyance than to calm it.

“Please tell Mr. Pritchard I'll be down in a minute.”

The girl left. Daisy gave her curls a final whisk of the brush and put on lipstick to give herself courage. Her experience of past battles with Superintendent Crane of the Metropolitan Police, some won, some lost, were no help when it came to facing an irate village bobby.