Sheer Folly (32 page)

Daisy managed to shut the door before she collapsed in laughter. “Darling, what a come-down! The great Scotland Yard detective can't even scare a third housemaid!”

“I could an I would,” Alec said darkly. “What do you think of her story?”

“I'm sure it's true. What it means is another matter. The fact that Gregg was on the spot when the place blew up suggests he wasn't expecting anything half so dramatic.”

“Which need mean no more than that he simply didn't know much about the properties of coal-gas.”

“What do you mean?”

Alec explained what Pritchard and Howell had said about the necessary concentration to cause an explosion. “Now I come to think about it, whoever was responsible probably didn't realise how uncertain the outcome was. Even those two experts couldn't predict a specific result, taking into account how many taps were turned on for how long.”

“I don't believe Gregg did it. I can't imagine him going to the grotto, turning on the gas, then waiting right there for long enough for enough gas to escape to cause an explosion, expected or unexpected. If you ask me—which I suppose you won't—he'd have hung about the house or garage or somewhere until half an hour or so before the assignation. When he got to the grotto, he would have opened the door at the back and smelt gas and promptly closed it again, thinking someone had got there before him.”

“And waited to watch Rhino get his come-uppance?”

“Yes. To be charitable, he may also have intended to warn off Lady Ottaline if she arrived first. He had no quarrel with her, did he?”

“Not as far as I know. But I know very little. If he really meant to release only a small amount of gas, as much as he expected to
be enough to burn off Rhino's eyebrows, what made him think Rhino wouldn't smell the gas too soon for his purposes and depart in haste, or at least put out his cigarette? In fact, that seems to me a flaw in the scheme whoever did it, and whatever they hoped for the outcome to be. As far as I know, the door of the hermitage wasn't airtight. A certain amount of gas must have seeped under it.”

“Darling, if you'd seen the way Rhino smoked, you wouldn't wonder. I very much doubt whether he'd had any sense of smell for years.”

 

“If I
tell him, he's bound to complain that it's nothing but hearsay,” Daisy grumbled as she and Alec approached Pritchard's den. “Why can't you?”

“Because from me it would be at third hand.”

“He'll want to talk to Rita himself, anyway.”

“Yes, but with luck not until tomorrow. You can explain better than I can that she's an extremely reluctant witness, and I doubt he'll have any desire to tackle her at this time of night.”

“Oh, all right.”

The door opened just as Daisy reached for the handle, startling her. Julia came storming out, startled in her turn as she nearly ran into Daisy.

“Oh, the beast!” she cried, tears in her eyes. “He absolutely refuses to believe me!”

“It's his job to be sceptical, Miss Beaufort.”

“Call me Julia, for heaven's sake, or I'll think you don't believe me, either.”

“I don't.”

“Oh! Well, call me Julia anyway. But I'm telling the truth, and so is Charles.”

“If it's any comfort, I don't actually disbelieve you. I have to keep an open mind.”

“Boyle had Charles's ordnance survey map. He made me look at it and tell him exactly where we went, to see if I agreed with Charles, but I've never had to read one before and I had no idea.”

“You win!” Alec said out of the corner of his mouth to Daisy. “I'll tell him.” He made a shooing motion.

Daisy took Julia's arm and urged her drawing-roomward. “Come along, darling, you need a drink.”

“He obviously thinks Charles killed Rhino out of jealousy. I told him Charles had no reason to be jealous because I loathed Rhino and swore I'd never marry him, but he seemed to think Mother could stop me marrying Charles. Did you ever hear anything so Victorian? I wish Mother had decided sooner that she didn't approve of Rhino!”

“So do I,” said Daisy. “And I can't help wondering why she didn't tell you right away.”

Julia wasn't listening. “And he said—
soooo
sympathetically—it was quite natural that I'd lie for Charles because I loathed Rhino and was glad to be rid of him. He twists whatever you say to fit his beastly theories.”

They reached the drawing room. Pritchard and Lady Beaufort, on a sofa by the fireplace, were so deep in their conversation that they didn't notice Daisy and Julia's entrance. Charles, Howell, and Gerald sat in reasonable proximity to each other, but not quite in a group, all smoking, all looking slightly uncomfortable. Daisy guessed they had probably been exchanging occasional remarks, probably on the weather, for some time. All three jumped up when she and Julia appeared.

“Drinks?” Howell offered.

“Think I'll go and telephone Lucy's studio, make sure she's arrived safely,” Gerald muttered. “All right, Howell?”

“Of course, but with the inspector in my uncle's den, you'll have to use the phone in the hall.”

“If Lucy's in the middle of some delicate process, she won't thank you,” Daisy warned.

“She won't answer,” Gerald responded.

Daisy forbore to point out that in that case he wouldn't know whether or not she had arrived safely.

By that time, Julia and Charles had retreated to a far corner of the room.

“Like a drink, Mrs. Fletcher?” Howell said.

“Yes, please.” Daisy almost asked for cocoa, but she didn't know how much longer this dreadful evening was going to last, so she could do with a bracer. “Julia, too,” she added as they went over to the dresser-bar. “A brandy and soda, I should think, for both of us. Just a drop of brandy and plenty of soda.”

“I'll give Armitage another whisky.” Howell gave Daisy her drink, poured a small brandy and a hefty shot of whisky into tumblers, and carrying a soda syphon, took them over to the couple.

How long ago Daisy had discussed with him the principle of the syphon! How simple life had seemed then, just a matter of keeping Lucy from insulting their host.

She went to sit in an easy chair on the opposite side of the fireplace from Pritchard and Lady Beaufort. Both looked up to smile at her.

“Got everything you need?” Pritchard asked.

“Yes, thanks.”

They returned immediately to their earnest, low-voiced conversation. Howell came and dropped with a sigh into the chair next to Daisy's. He, too, had a drink, but it was as pale as Daisy's, more something to do with his hands than anything else.

“What a day!” he said. “I'm afraid you haven't had the pleasant visit my uncle hoped for.”

“I'm just glad it wasn't Lucy and I who brought the scourge upon you. Rhino being the scourge,” she hastened to explain.

“Good lord, we don't hold the Beauforts to blame. My mother was to some degree responsible. Believe me, Uncle Brin is quite capable of having sent him off with a flea in his ear if he wasn't so soft-hearted as to give in to Mother's wish to entertain a real live lord.” He hesitated, and Daisy was desperately trying to think of
something kind to say about Mrs. Howell when he continued in a lowered voice, “You were present when my mother . . . at her outburst, weren't you.”

“Yes. I'm sorry. Having Rhino about the place must have been a great strain on her nerves.”

“She always did dislike the grotto. If you ask me, it was hearing of the use Lord Rydal and Lady Ottaline intended for it, even before the explosion, that sent her over the edge.”

“Some kind of nerve storm, I suppose.” Daisy wasn't very sure what a nerve storm was, but it seemed a tactful thing to say.

“She'll have to see a specialist,” Howell said sombrely. “Don't you think a rest-cure would be the thing? By the time she gets back, I'll have set up a house for her in Swindon. She may complain at first, but in the end she'll be much happier there. She likes the idea of living in a mansion, but she really prefers town life.”

“I suppose it would be a bit difficult for her to stay on here after what she said about Mr. Pritchard. Will you go and live with her?”

“That would never do! As a matter of fact, I've been making plans to set up my own household for some time now, only I just didn't know how to break it to Mother that I'm going to get married.”

“Married?!” Daisy hoped she sounded more interested than astonished. After all, why shouldn't Owen Howell marry? He was well off, not bad looking, not too old; she had even seriously considered him as a husband for Julia.

“You may well be surprised. My fiancée is getting tired of keeping it secret from Mother.” He followed Daisy's glance at Pritchard. “Uncle Brin knows. He's met Jeannie. He thinks I should have told Mother ages ago, but . . . Oh well, this situation is dreadful but it does make things easier for me in that respect!”

“Your uncle will miss your company.”

“I daresay Jeannie and I will be in and out. They like each other. But in any case, I hope Uncle won't be living here alone
for long.” Howell gave a significant look at Pritchard and Lady Beaufort, still in animated conversation.

Once again, Daisy was astonished. “Good heavens, you think . . . ?” Was that why Mrs. Howell had taken against both of them, afraid for her position in the household? “Well! I did notice right away that they seemed to get on very well together, but—”

“Nothing is settled,” he said hurriedly. “You won't mention it?”

“Of course not. It would be a very good thing, though, especially if Julia's going to be emigrating to Canada. As long,” she added with foreboding, “as Boyle doesn't go and arrest both her and Charles.”

Alec found DI Boyle looking pleased with himself.

“I'd lay odds the Canadian did it,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I never heard a thinner story in my life, taking off tramping over the hills when there's rain on the way, just to see a bit of an old grass-grown bank. It's not even like this here Barbury Castle is a real castle, you know, with towers and battlements and such.” He started folding the ordnance survey map spread out on the desk.

“Armitage is a historian,” Alec reminded him.

“Armitage! Your good lady hasn't told you, then? His real name's Appsworth,” Boyle said triumphantly.

“Great Scott! Masquerading under an alias.”

“Well, not exactly. Pritchard knew all along, but no one else, not even Miss Beaufort. Or so they say. What I say is, it shows a talent for deception.”

“For what purpose?”

“So's not to cause a lot of rumours about a missing heir come to claim his inheritance. Or so he claims.” Boyle handed the half-folded map to DS Gaskell. “Here, you deal with this damn thing.” He leant forwards over the desk and stabbed a finger at Alec. “And when I ask the girl to show me on the map which way
they went to get there, to confirm what Appsworth told me, she claims she can't read it.”

“Perhaps she can't. She has lived in France since the War, in rather restricted circumstances, I gather. Besides, some people just have difficulty relating a map to the actual landscape.” Alec's facility in that regard, together with his name, had led to his RFC nickname during the War: Arrow. In his single-seat spotter plane, a fabrication of canvas, balsa wood, and piano wire, he had almost always come back with information about exactly the target he had been sent to observe. But the very fact that his ability to home in on his target like an arrow had resulted in the nickname suggested that many pilots failed to do so.

“You don't believe she's protecting Appsworth?” Boyle snorted. “Not that I'd blame her, mind, a young lady in love. But it's accessory after at least, if not before. I suppose you'll tell me next you don't believe he blew up Lord Rydal.”

“I have an open mind on the subject. I'm not half so convinced of his motive as you are. He seems to have come to an understanding with Miss Beaufort some time ago. Rydal was an irritant, not a threat. As an irritant, the man spread his net wide.”

“Yes, just about everyone here loathed his guts, servants and all—”

“Speaking of servants, I'd better pass on what one of the housemaids told my wife.”

“Your wife!” Boyle was outraged.

Alec decided to suppress the butler's role in sending Rita to Daisy. “It happens,” he said apologetically. “Witnesses see her as a more sympathetic listener than the police, yet they can be sure the information will reach me if necessary.”

“If Mrs. Fletcher considers it necessary,” the inspector growled.

“Yes. Unsatisfactory, I know, but I've learnt there's really nothing to be done about it, short of ignoring what she tells me. If she refuses to listen, the chances are they won't be coming to spill the beans to me themselves, or else they'll waste my time with completely irrelevant waffle.”

“All right, what did this maid have to say?”

Alec related Gregg's threat. The inspector came to the same conclusion as Daisy—though Alec didn't tell him so: The chauffeur might have stayed to see Rydal suffer, but was not likely to have set things in motion.

“He was hanging about the servants' quarters till after one o'clock,” he said. “You haven't seen their evidence about times yet, have you. Here, see what you make of it all.” He passed Alec a handful of papers, but didn't give him a chance to study them. “I don't think it was Gregg. You don't think it was Appsworth. Who does that leave us? Lady Ottaline and Mrs. Howell. Explosions—that's not a woman's crime, to my way of thinking. You mark my words, Appsworth is our man.”

“You've no proof, I take it.”

“Not a smidgen. Nor I don't see how I'm ever going to get any, not what you might call solid evidence.”