Sheer Folly (20 page)

But when she reached the hall, she found PC Endicott bewildered, not angry. The round-faced young man, helmet in hand, was saying piteously to Pritchard, “You see, Mr. Pritchard, sir, there ben't nuthen in the handbook about explosions.”

“So you've already told me, Constable.” More than once, to judge by Pritchard's face. “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher! This is PC Endicott. His sergeant is down with pleurisy, and he can't make up his mind whether he ought to notify his superiors in Swindon or not.”

Daisy tried to decide what Alec would prefer. Bringing in the Swindon brass hats without telling them he was from the Met was out of the question, certain to cause trouble. Honesty, though not always the best policy, was advisable in this case.

On second thoughts, not just yet. “I should think, Mr. Endicott, your best course would be to go out to the scene of the disaster and find out exactly what happened. Then you can decide whether it should be reported or not.”

The harried look lifted from Endicott's face. “Aye, thet'll be best. Thank 'ee kindly, ma'am.”

“If you hurry, you can catch up with the lads from the village,” Pritchard suggested.

Barker was miraculously on hand to show the constable to the back door.

“Just what I would have suggested, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Pritchard. “Masterly inaction.”

“Why didn't you, then?”

“I wanted to be sure you concurred. I didn't want to make trouble for your husband by either giving information unnecessarily or witholding it. Now it's up to him to make the decisions.”

“Usually the best course.” Daisy sighed. “Don't they say it's a sign of growing old when policemen start to look like schoolboys?”

Pritchard's eyes twinkled. “I'd always heard the same of doctors.”

“Oh, that's all right then. Dr. Tenby doesn't look at all like a schoolboy to me.”

“More like an undertaker,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “But hush, here he comes. How is your patient doing, Tenby?”

“Bad bruising. No concussion. Fainted from pain. Still considerable discomfort. I've left some powders.”

“Should I send for a nurse?”

“No, no, quite unnecessary. Lady Beaufort seems competent—”

“Very competent.”

“And her ladyship's maid can do whatever is required. Where's my other patient?”

“We're not certain there is one.”

“But Lord Rydal is still missing,” Daisy put in. “Possibly blown up with the grotto. Oh, hello, Charles. What's up?”

Armitage squelched in. “Fletcher sent me to get my hiking boots,” he said, looking down apologetically at his sodden, mucky footwear. “I just met the copper already on his way, but I'm to escort you back, Dr. Tenby—”

“Galoshes, sir.” Barker rematerialised at the doctor's side, proffering the said objects. “The weather is inclement, I fear.”

Tenby's gloom deepened, but he didn't protest. Perhaps it would have required the utterance of too many words.

“If you wouldn't mind waiting just a moment while I fetch my boots, Doctor.”

“I shall send a maid for them, sir,” Barker told Armitage, departing once more.

“Thanks!” Armitage turned to Pritchard. “And most important, sir, Fletcher wants to know whether you've had the gas supply to the grotto turned off.”

“Yes, yes, immediately after the explosion. I take it there's no sign of Lord Rydal?”

“No. There's a dangerous blockage between the outer and inner grottoes—trying to move it could cause further collapse—so the job has to be tackled from the other end.” He hesitated. “Fletcher didn't say—I think I should tell you three, but for pity's sake don't tell anyone else.”

“My lips are sealed,” Pritchard promised. Dr. Tenby's lips were practically always sealed anyway.

Daisy wasn't prepared to promise the same, but Armitage apparently assumed that as Alec's wife she was entitled to know all. Not that she hadn't already guessed what he was about to reveal with so much premonitory palaver.

“We've found what appears to be evidence that the explosion was not an accident.”

“Hmph,” said the doctor, unimpressed or uninterested. “Pritchard, a stretcher.”

“I'll see what I can arrange and send it after you. Barker,” he said as the butler silently returned, “can we provide anything in the way of a stretcher for Dr. Tenby?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” said Pritchard, “ought I to ring up the Swindon police, now that it looks as if—”

“Not unless Alec said to.” Daisy turned to Armitage.

“He didn't. He told me to bring Dr. Tenby and the police—. Oh, do you suppose he expected the bobby's superiors to be on their way already? Are they?”

Pritchard shook his head. “PC Endicott didn't report the explosion to them. He wanted my advice as to whether he should.”

“And I said no,” Daisy admitted. “I think Alec would want to speak to the constable before anyone sends for anyone else. If he wants them to come, he can send you back again, Charles.”

“That's all right, eh, as long as I have my boots.”

“Here they come.”

A maid arrived with the boots and Armitage put them on. He and Dr. Tenby went out into the rain. It was coming down quite heavily now, Daisy saw. She hoped it wouldn't make the excavations more dangerous. At least Alec had plenty of assistants now—the gardeners, the villagers, Pritchard's chauffeur. . . . And while on the subject of chauffeurs—

The butler was back, no doubt having instructed his subordinates to construct a stretcher.

“Barker, did Lord Rydal's man go to help?”

“No, madam. I am given to understand that Gregg failed to give satisfaction. His lordship informed him that his services would no longer be required after their return to London, but he chose to leave immediately.”

“And who can blame him!” Pritchard muttered.

“When was this?”

“This morning, madam.”

“And he actually did leave? How?”

“Madam?”

“I mean, did someone take him to the station, or was he seen trudging off down the drive with his bag in his hand and his box on his shoulder?”

For once Barker was at a loss. “I'm afraid I don't know, madam. Gregg not being one of the household. . . . Madison didn't take him, that's for sure. But he could have cadged a lift with Mr. Howell, or even with Sir Desmond's chauffeur.”

“They both took cars?”

“I believe so, madam.”

“Thank you, Barker.”

“If you'll excuse me, sir, I must ensure that work on the stretcher is proceeding according to plan.”

As Pritchard waved the butler away, Julia came down the stairs.

“Mother's still with Lady Ottaline.”

“Your mother is a saint, Miss Beaufort,” Pritchard said warmly.

Julia looked startled. “The old dear is being rather a brick,” she conceded.

“My sister-in-law ought to be at Lady Ottaline's bedside,” he acknowledged, “but I'm afraid she would not be a soothing companion.”

Daisy and Julia exchanged looks, but tactfully held their tongues. His comment reminded Daisy that Lucy had been left alone with Mrs. Howell for far longer than was advisable. But he had appeared puzzled by her questions about the chauffeur,
Gregg, and she owed it to him, if not to satisfy his curiosity, at least to hear him out. He might even contribute something useful. Also, she had questions for him.

“Julia, be an angel and tell Lucy I'm on my way,” she said. “There's a couple of things I must discuss with Mr. Pritchard.”

“Right-oh, but first tell me, have you heard anything more about the grotto?”

“Charles came to fetch Dr. Tenby. You just missed him.”

“Bother! He's all right?”

“Yes, perfectly, apart from wet feet. He came for his boots, too. He said they can't get through the grotto itself so they've all gone to dig in the hole in the hill.”

“That'll be fun, in this weather.” Wistfully, Julia added, “I suppose I'd be in the way.”

“Definitely.”

“You mustn't dream of going out there, Miss Beaufort,” said Pritchard. “Mr. Fletcher has plenty of men to help him.”

Julia nodded, sighed, and went off to the drawing room to rescue Lucy from Mrs. Howell—or vice versa.

“Will you come into my study, Mrs. Fletcher? I must ring Sir Desmond again, to tell him Lady Ottaline is in no danger, though I expect he's left the works by now.”

“How did he take it?” Daisy asked, preceding Pritchard along the passage.

“I was afraid you were going to ask me that. It's very difficult to say. Do sit down.” With a little sigh, he sank into the chair behind his desk, looking tired. “He didn't explode with anger—in the circumstances that's a bad way to put it, but you know what I mean. He didn't sound desperately worried, though I told him I didn't know how badly she was injured.”

“I doubt if Sir Desmond ever sounds desperately anything. Either he's naturally detached or he cultivates detachment.” Even, or perhaps especially, with regard to his wife.

“Yes. There was something in his voice. . . . But I may have imagined it. You know what the telephone lines are like.”

“What sort of something?”

“I just suspected he wasn't quite as indifferent as he wanted to sound. I couldn't pin it down to anything specific. But I hate to believe a man could be so unmoved by his wife being injured, so maybe it's wishful thinking.”

“Perhaps. Or a bad connection. He said he'd come straight back, though?”

“Hmm, not exactly. He said the business was nearly finished and he'd be back shortly. But we can't guess what was in his mind from a brief telephone conversation over a bad wire. What was in your mind when you wanted to know how Lord Rydal's chauffeur left the house?”

“Not so much
how
as
whether
.”

“Ah, yes, a different question altogether, now we know the explosion wasn't an accident.”

Daisy hadn't expected him to catch on so quickly. She should have. He impressed her more and more with his astuteness. She hoped Alec wasn't going to be annoyed with her for letting Pritchard see her suspicion of the chauffeur. To distract him, she said, “You looked relieved when Charles Armitage said it looked like murder.”

Prichard was dismayed. “Oh dear, was it obvious? I'm afraid relief was my first reaction. After all, if the explosion had been caused by a gas leak, I'd have been to some degree responsible; whereas, though it may be unpleasant to have a murder on the premises, I can hardly be blamed if some idiot chose my grotto as a suitable place to blow up Lord Rydal.”

 

Leaving Pritchard
to try to reach Sir Desmond on the phone, Daisy went to the drawing room. She was halfway across the hall when Mrs. Howell came out. She was muttering to herself, distracted, and didn't notice Daisy. She hurried away and Daisy went on in.

“Darling!” Lucy greeted her. “I thought you'd quite abandoned me to that madwoman.”

“Lucy thinks Mrs. Howell's gone completely off her rocker,” said Julia.

“Why?”

“She never was completely normal, if you ask me,” said Lucy. “All that fuss about fish.”

“No more fuss than Rhino made.”

“Would you call Rhino completely normal?”

“Well, no. But not
crazy
.”

“He seems crazy to me,” said Julia. “Swearing he adores me and will do anything in the world for me, and then going off for an assignation with Lady Ottaline.”

“That's men for you,” Lucy averred. “Though he could at least
have waited till you accepted him! But to be fair, it was she who made the running.”

“You knew he had an assignation, Julia?” Daisy asked. “Lady Ottaline could just have followed him to see where he was going.”

“Why on earth should he go to the grotto,” Lucy demanded, “if not to meet her? That divan bed is quite comfortable—I sat down on it. And much more private than anywhere in the house.”

“Willett told me.”

“I knew I should have brought my maid,” said Lucy. “We'd have known all about it, too.”

“Did Willett tell your mother?”

Julia gave a very Gallic shrug. “I've no idea. Probably. She's on my side, though she's only been with us a few weeks, so she'd pass on anything that might change Mother's mind about him.”

Daisy wondered why Lady Beaufort hadn't already told her daughter she had changed her mind about Lord Rydal. “If Willett knew, probably all the servants did, too, at least the upper servants. Hmm.”

“Daisy, are you sleuthing?” Lucy said suspiciously.

“As far as we know it was an accident,” Julia reminded her.

“That I could believe of anyone else, but not of Rhino. Besides, I recognise that look of Daisy's.”

“What look! I don't have a special ‘sleuthing' look.”

“Yes, you do. You know it wasn't an accident, don't you?” Lucy accused.

Lucy wouldn't believe her if she denied it. “You won't tell Alec I told you, will you,” Daisy begged.

“You didn't tell us, darling. I guessed, all by my little self.”

“Well, don't breathe a word to anyone else, for pity's sake.”

“Our lips are sealed, aren't they, Julia?”

“Of course. Who do you think did it, Daisy?”

“The obvious person is Sir Desmond.”

“But he was in Swindon,” said Julia.

“Lady Ottaline was right on the spot,” Lucy mused. “Perhaps
she was hoist by her own petard? I've always wondered what a ‘petard' is.”

“Some sort of bomb,” said Daisy.

“It's in Shakespeare,” Julia elaborated. “
Hamlet
, isn't it, Daisy?”

“I wouldn't like to swear to it. Why should Lady Ottaline want to blow up Rhino? He came to heel very nicely, for a rhinoceros.”