Sheer Folly (37 page)

“She's getting away!” Lucy cried, releasing Daisy's ankle. Until she let go, Daisy hadn't noticed that Lucy and Julia were both hanging on to her. Julia let go, too, and they stood up.

Daisy rolled over and sat up. “Who? Oh, Lady Ottaline!”

The lady in question was stepping carefully but swiftly over Gerald's outstretched legs. Pritchard and Howell, kneeling on either side of Gerald, didn't notice her sneaking by behind them. Mrs. Howell stared at her but made no attempt to stop her. Why should she? She couldn't have seen what had happened up above.

Round the corner came Detective Inspector Boyle, followed by Alec and two hefty detective sergeants.

“Thank heaven,” said Daisy with a sigh, relaxing. “They'll take care of everything.”

Julia gripped the railing, as Lady Ottaline had, and leant over for a better view of what was going on directly below. “They've got Sir Desmond over to the rushes. It's shallower there, but the water's rising. I'm going down.”

“Phew, what's that foul smell?” Lucy demanded.

Daisy sniffed, and wished she hadn't. “They must have stirred up the bottom mud.”

“It's disgusting. I hope Gerald stays out of it. I'm going to get on with the photos before I'm asphyxiated.” With the arrival of the police to take charge, the single-minded Lucy had lost interest in mere mayhem. “Come and hold the flash for me, darling.”

Daisy hadn't lost interest, but she was in no hurry to report what she'd seen and heard to Inspector Boyle. Besides, a certain amount of mud was bound to be splashed about in the course of the rescue of the men in the pool, and though less fastidious than Lucy, Daisy had no desire to be on the receiving end.

“Right-oh, darling,” she said.

 

“It's a
damned awkward situation,” Alec said irritably, wrestling with his collar stud. He hated wearing his dinner jacket, and stiff shirts were anathema.

Mrs. Howell, having lost three of her more distinguished guests to death and the police, had chosen to show the flag with a decree that the rest were to dress for dinner. She would not reign at Appsworth Hall much longer, but for the moment Pritchard was still prepared to indulge her.

“Let me get those studs for you, darling,” Daisy offered.

He held his arms out to allow her access. “I don't know why I let Boyle inveigle me into being his unofficial assistant.” At least for once he wasn't blaming Daisy for his entanglement. “I must have been mad.”

“If Superintendent Crane gets to hear of it, you can always plead temporary insanity. Is that what Lady Ottaline's going to do, do you think?”

“Who knows? With your and Julia's evidence, she can't avoid a charge of assault and battery, but there was no grievous bodily harm, just an unbelievable amount of mud.”

“I'm glad you didn't have to go in to help. Charles and Carlin both still have a faint miasma floating round them.” She fastened the last stud and his arms closed round her.

“Mind my frock!” she yelped. “And your shirt.” After a careful but thorough kiss, she resumed: “Mmm, very glad you didn't land in the pool, darling. You're quite sure it was Sir Desmond who killed Rhino, I suppose? All you said at tea was that he'd been arrested.”

“Not everyone wants a review of the evidence with their scones and Welsh-cakes.”

“Freshly baked scones! I do think Barker is a marvel to keep the household running so smoothly with all the upsets the servants have been having.”

“No, we are not getting a butler.”

“I wouldn't dream of suggesting it, even if we could lure Barker away, which I doubt. I don't think he'd approve of us, what with your irregular hours and the twins. Besides, Mrs. Dobson would be terribly hurt. Sir Desmond . . . ?”

“For a start, your friend Billy—”

“My friend!”

“That's how Boyle refers to him: ‘Mrs. Fletcher's friend Billy.' He saw a big man hurrying down through the gardens from the direction of the grotto. He had no notion of the time—he works till he's finished the job or the head gardener calls him for his dinner. Of course, Rydal himself could have gone up there for some reason. Billy wouldn't necessarily have observed anyone else going or coming later.”

“But Sir Desmond and Rhino were the only two noticeably large men. Until Gerald arrived.”

“Yes. Still, it's not proof. Wandersley could have been taking his daily stroll, as advertised. Howell confirms that Carlin told him about Wandersley's digestive difficulties. Julia and Appsworth agree that when they left the breakfast room, shortly after you and Lucy, only Wandersley and Rydal remained.”

“A combustible—not to say explosive—combination, especially
as Rhino had just made that remark to Carlin about bone-lazy bureaucrats. I wonder if that's when the idea of actually blowing him up occurred to Sir Desmond.”

“It hardly matters, from a legal point of view. He can't very well claim there was no premeditation. Still, it's always awkward arresting a bigwig. I must say, Boyle handled it with suitable dignity and solemnity.”

“Good for Boyle. But you have no real proof, just circumstantial evidence.”

“Circumstantial evidence is perfectly valid in a court of law, though juries tend to prefer eyewitnesses, however unreliable, and fingerprints, however smudged.”

“He might get off. I have to admit to a certain sympathy.”

“For a murderer? And you the wife of a copper?”

“You didn't meet Rhino.”

“True. He seems to have made a present of motives to practically everyone. The manservant is clear on technical grounds, but unfortunately, we haven't been able to completely rule out the other two remaining suspects.”

“Lady Ottaline and Mrs. Howell. No dabs on the gas taps, I take it.”

“Nothing useful. He was probably wearing gloves, or else he gripped them by the edges. What we do have is a confession—”

“Well, what more can you want?”

“—Of sorts. Not to a sworn officer, unfortunately. Wandersley told Appsworth and Carlin, when they were extracting him from the mud, that he wished he'd bagged Lady Ottaline in the explosion, but he had failed to take into account her persistent unpunctuality.”

Daisy couldn't help laughing. “She is practically always late.”

“But now he's shut up and won't say another word without his lawyer's advice,” Alec said gloomily.

“I suppose you couldn't find the torch.”

“Torch? What torch?”

“Darling, he must have had an electric torch. It was pitch-black in the back room, no natural light, and he could hardly use
an open flame to find the taps when he was about to turn them on, could he?”

“Great Scott, Daisy! I must phone Boyle at once—no, he won't have reached Swindon yet. Why didn't you say something sooner?”

“Actually, it's only just dawned on me.”

“It should have dawned on me or Boyle. One gets so used to clicking a switch.”

“I was remembering getting Lady Ottaline back to the house after her ducking, because even soaked and freezing, she managed to delay us. Julia had a torch she'd taken from Charles's pocket. Barker put it on a shelf by the side door—back door, whatever you want to call it. The one in the passage next to the drawing room. I suppose it's kept there with the lamplighter's pole, for whoever goes out at night to light the lamps in the grotto—”

“I'll check there first.”

“And for daytime, an electric lantern behind a nymph at the back of the first cave. Rhino probably knew about that and counted on it, but I don't see how Sir Desmond could know about it. The only time he went was at night.”

“Oh hell!” Shrugging into his dinner jacket, tie untied, Alec dashed off.

Running down the stairs, he wondered what Boyle would say if Daisy's belated stroke of genius meant bringing all his men back to search the grotto, the area of the explosion, and the gardens for an electric torch. He would have to do it, on the slim chance of finding incontrovertible evidence—not only the torch but Wandersley's fingerprints on it.

Unless . . .

The dining room door stood ajar, and Alec heard a sound of movement within. He looked in to find, as expected, the butler straightening a fork here, giving a glass an extra polish there, making sure his domain was in perfect order for dinner.

“Barker, I need your help.”

“Sir? Your tie, sir. Allow me—”

“Devil take my tie. You keep a torch near a side door to the terrace, Mrs. Fletcher tells me?”

“Yes, sir. If you take the passage on your left as—”

“Show me. I may need a witness.”

“Certainly, sir. This way if you please.”

The passage was too narrow to be called a hall, too wide for a mere corridor, just wide enough not to be obstructed by one of those curious pieces of furniture, that combine a pair of umbrella stands, hat and coat pegs, a looking-glass, a small cupboard, and a shelf. One umbrella stand contained three umbrellas, the other a lamplighter's pole, but Alec had eyes only for the chromed-steel torch on the shelf.

“Here it is, sir.” Barker reached for it.

Alec gripped his wrist. “Don't touch it!”

“Very good, sir.”

“May I?” He whipped from the butler's shoulder the snowy napkin with which the man had been buffing up silver and glasses. With the cloth enveloping his hand, Alec picked up the torch by the lens end and held it up to the none-too-bright electric light, turning it this way and that. “Fingerprints!”

“Indeed, sir!” The butler looked quite put out. “The third housemaid is required to polish it daily.”

“Thank heaven she didn't. I'd like a word with her.”

“So,” muttered Barker grimly, “would I. In the circumstances, sir, perhaps you had better come to my pantry.”

Alec had dealt with enough butlers to appreciate the honour of this invitation. “Thank you, that will do very well.”

Bearing the torch, he followed Barker through the green baize door.

The third housemaid was the child who had reported Gregg's threat against Rydal's eyebrows. Rita came in eyes wide with apprehension, summonses to the butler's sanctum being associated with reprimands too severe for the housekeeper to handle. Her eyes flew to the torch, displayed on the napkin on the table where Barker was wont to do his serious silver-polishing.

Alec got his question in before the butler's rebuke could
frighten her out of her wits. “Rita, when did you last polish this torch? It's the one from the hall stand by back door.”

She addressed her reply to the butler anyway. “Oh, Mr. Barker, I tried and tried but I just cou'n't get ever'thing done what wi' the p'lice an' all, the way they kep' coming back.”

After a pregnant pause, Barker said judicially, “It has been a trying time for all of us. Be a good girl and answer Mr. Fletcher's question.”

“Oh, sir, I reckon it must 'a' bin yes'dy morning, like every day 'cepting today.”

“What time, do you know?”

Barker answered. “The ground floor rooms are supposed to be finished before the master finishes his breakfast.”

Long before Wandersley finished his, Alec thought. There was something to be said for an old-fashioned household. It was still possible that Sir Desmond had used some other torch and thrown it into the bushes on his way back to the house, but who else had had need of a torch since early yesterday morning?

“And what I need now is a telephone,” said Alec.

Twenty minutes later he dashed back upstairs to find Daisy waiting for him. While she tied his tie and made sure he was in all respects respectable, he told her about finding the torch.

“Boyle's sending a sergeant to fetch it and to get statements from Barker and me. He's as convinced as I am that the fingerprints on it must be Wandersley's.”

“I hope that means we can go home tomorrow,” said Daisy as the dinner-gong rang through the house. “Come on, we're going to be late. I'm dying to see the babies. I feel as if I've been away for weeks.”

Hurrying down the stairs, Alec said, “Yes, everyone's free to go. You'll undoubtedly be called at Lady Ottaline's trial, but Boyle's promised to do his best to do without my appearing in person as a witness. He's not a bad chap, but I must say I'll be glad to shake the dust of this place off my feet.”

“And out of your hair.”

Alec grinned. “And out of my hair.”

“I don't expect Mr. Pritchard will manage to have the grotto rebuilt before we come back.”

“Come back? I've no intention of ever returning to Appsworth Hall!”

“Darling, you can't possibly miss the triple wedding.”

“Great Scott, Daisy, what—?”

“I had a feeling you weren't really listening at tea-time. Julia and Charles, and Lady Beaufort and Pritchard—”

“What? So that was her secret!”

“Yes. She wouldn't tell Julia she'd given up on Rhino because then it would have looked very odd if she hadn't decided to return to town at once. I'd guess she needed time to make sure she and Pritchard were really thinking along the same lines.”

Alec grinned. “To bring him up to scratch.”

Daisy gave him an old-fashioned look. “To continue: and Howell and his ladylove. They're all going to tie the knots en masse, before Julia and Charles leave for Canada, and we've already been invited.”

“Great Scott!” Alec repeated. “Church or Chapel?”

“I don't think that's been decided yet,” said Daisy, opening the drawing-room door as the last reverberations of the gong died away.

Pritchard stood up with a smile. “We were just wondering—”

His sister-in-law interrupted him. “Since Lady Ottaline isn't here to come down late for dinner,” Mrs. Howell said acidly, “I suppose I should have expected that someone else would follow her example. I'm sure I don't know what the aristocracy are coming to!”