Arsenic For Tea: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery (A Wells and Wong Mystery) (18 page)

Beanie and Kitty had crawled out of their hiding places, and they were staring at me with almost identical expressions of horror.

‘What happened?’ whispered Beanie. ‘Is Daisy all right?’

‘I told her that Lord Hastings might be the murderer,’ I said.

‘Cruel,’ said Kitty, ‘but true.’

‘
Don’t
,’ I said. I was in no mood for Kitty’s nasty side.

‘Ooh, all right, Hazel Wong,’ said Kitty, holding up her hands. ‘What do you propose your precious Detective Society does, now that Daisy’s gone off in a sulk?’

I took a slightly wobbly breath. What
were
we to do?

‘We . . .’ I said. ‘We’re going to—’

And then we heard the most terrible crash.

The three of us went running down the stairs (me wondering if it was particularly wise to run
towards
a noise when there was a murderer on the loose). There were no more smashes after the first one, but I realized that it had come from the kitchens. Beanie hung back, shaking her head in fear, and I knew that with no Daisy, I would have to give the orders.

‘Come on,’ I said to her encouragingly. ‘We have to see what it is.’

We went into the kitchens. Hetty was standing there, arms up to her chest. Broken crockery lay scattered around her feet, and Mrs Doherty was next to her, open-mouthed. They were both staring fixedly at the pile of dirty china beside the washing-up bowl.

‘I’m not going mad,’ said Hetty to Mrs Doherty. ‘I’m not.’

‘You certainly are
not
,’ said Mrs Doherty firmly.

‘Oh, what is it?’ whispered Beanie. ‘Is it something awful?’

Mrs Doherty turned and saw us. ‘Girls!’ she said. ‘Goodness, isn’t Daisy with you?’

‘She’s not feeling well,’ I said hurriedly. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s . . .’ said Hetty. ‘Well, all the teacups from the good set, they’re still in the dining room, and the dining room is
locked
, and has been since yesterday. But . . . look at
that
.’ And she pointed to the pile of washing-up.

We all squinted. The cups resting on top of each other looked very much like cups to me – until I saw that one of them was thinner than the others and fluted, with a fine band of gold around its rim and more on its sides.

‘It’s one of the good set, in
here
,’ Hetty said. ‘I don’t understand it! It’s impossible, but there it is. I shouldn’t have dropped my tray – it was the shock. You see, I’d been thinking about
what happened
all day and then, suddenly, there was a reminder in front of me, and I don’t see how it could have got there!’

Of course,
I
saw. There was only one explanation: the murderer must have slipped into the kitchens when Mrs Doherty and Hetty were out and put the cup in amongst the washing-up, where they hoped no one would notice it. Lord Hastings had been downstairs just now, I remembered – we had seen him coming up to his bedroom to speak to Chapman.

‘What’s all this, what’s all this?’ boomed a large voice behind us. It was Lord Hastings again.

Beanie flinched and stepped back into Kitty, and I clenched my fists at my sides. After what we had overheard, I couldn’t help it. If he really
was
the murderer, all his jolly goodness suddenly seemed like a lie.

‘Is everything all right? What have you broken this time?’ he asked.

‘It was another rat, sir,’ said Mrs Doherty composedly. ‘Hetty was startled, and she dropped a tray.’

‘Good grief, is that all? I should have thought you’d be used to them by now. Buck up, Hetty.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Hetty. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s a phobia.’

‘Goodness,’ said Lord Hastings. ‘Phobias! Don’t believe in them myself. New-age mumbo-jumbo. But still . . . don’t do it again, eh?’

‘No, sir,’ said Hetty.

Lord Hastings withdrew. We all heard him say to someone in the hall, ‘Hetty saw a rat. Says she has a
phobia
.’

We all breathed again. ‘
Phobia
,’ said Mrs Doherty. ‘I agree with Lord Hastings! But it is
odd
, all the same. I don’t blame you for being shocked. Where
is
Daisy? It’s not like her to miss a bit of excitement.’

‘She’s not feeling well,’ I said again uncomfortably. ‘I’ll . . . go and see her now.’

I left Beanie and Kitty in the kitchens – they would be safe with Mrs Doherty, I decided – and went upstairs alone. Some talks are for best friends only.

I climbed the back stairs to the nursery – I’d got into the habit of using them now – with a sick feeling in my stomach and a very leaden feeling in my feet. I didn’t want to see Daisy, and I knew that she didn’t want to see me. What if she never wanted to speak to me again?

I wondered whether we
should
give up on hunting for the murderer. After all, no one apart from Lady Hastings was upset about Mr Curtis, and even she would probably get over it in time. I felt terrible for thinking it, but there it was.

I decided to tell Daisy that we were going to pretend none of this had ever happened. We didn’t even need to pay attention to the cup. The police could look at it when they arrived.

But when I pushed open the door of the nursery, it seemed to be empty. I stared about in astonishment. Where had Daisy gone?

Then I heard a little rustling noise from under her bed. I got down on hands and knees and crawled cautiously forward – and saw a white sock, kicking against the metal bed frame. It was attached to a small ankle, and that was attached to a slim, scratched leg – and above that was Daisy’s woollen skirt.

‘Wotcher,’ I whispered. Very carefully, I put out a hand to tap Daisy’s knee, and she turned her head and looked at me.

Her gold was all dimmed, and there were snaky dust-tracks down her cheeks. At that moment she did not look like
my
Daisy Wells at all. ‘Go away,’ she said.

‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘Don’t try to make me.’

‘What happened downstairs just now?’ asked Daisy. ‘No! For all I care, you can solve the rotten case on your own. Since you’re such a good detective, you won’t be needing me anyway.’

‘You’re a good detective too,’ I said loyally.

‘Honestly, Hazel, don’t be so
nice
.’ She pushed herself up onto her elbows and screwed up her face in despair. ‘Why can’t everything be neat and simple and right?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘It always is in books,’ said Daisy. ‘That’s what upsets me. Somehow you don’t expect . . . real life.’

‘It might not be
him
.’

‘Hazel, I need to buck up and face the facts,’ she said bitterly. ‘Oh, I could kill Mr Curtis all over again for upsetting us all like this! What
was
that crash, by the way?’

‘The missing teacup – Hetty’s found it. It’s back in the kitchens. Someone put it with the washing-up, amongst lots of other cups.’

Daisy’s head bumped against the bed springs. ‘What?’ she said. ‘It’s back?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry, Daisy. It’s all muddled in with the other dirty things, so we won’t be able to use it as evidence now.’

But Daisy didn’t look sorry at all. Suddenly she was fizzing, all her Daisy-ishness back with a vengeance.

‘But,
Hazel
!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you see? This changes everything! If the teacup is in the kitchens, then Daddy simply didn’t do the murder.’

I didn’t follow. ‘Daisy, your father was downstairs just now. He could easily have put the cup back in the kitchens.’

Daisy bounced, and the bed springs clinked again. She edged out from under the bed. ‘Ouch. No, Hazel,
listen
. It wouldn’t occur to Daddy to put the teacup back where it ought to go. If he’d taken it, he’d keep it hidden . . . oh, I don’t know, in his wardrobe, or do something silly and dramatic like burying it in the garden. He’d never hide it somewhere as sensible as the kitchens. This is the evidence I was hoping for. He’s
innocent
!’

I thought about Lord Hastings’ untidiness: his jackets and walking sticks and hats were scattered all over the house. Daisy is not always logical, but she has a sense about people, and in this case I realized that her sense might be right.

‘But who did it, if he didn’t?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ said Daisy, ‘Miss Alston has a tremendously tidy mind. And . . . let’s see – Aunt Saskia behaves as though she’s too silly for words, but really she is perfectly intelligent and resourceful. Hazel, I was wrong. We can’t stop now – we simply can’t! Daddy looks guilty, I see that, and that’s what the police will think, once they arrive. What happened to the teacup proves to
me
that he didn’t do it, but it won’t prove anything to anyone official. We have to save him from himself! Daddy gets so terribly nervous – once some silly old lord asked him a question in the middle of a speech in the House, and Daddy got apoplectic and called him an
insufferable popinjay
in front of everyone. He refused to answer anything and had to be disciplined.’

‘What is a popinjay?’ I asked.

‘Goodness – a sort of parrot, don’t you know? The point is, we’ve seen from our re-creation, and from our investigation in general, how guilty Daddy looks. The police will fix on him at once, and then he’ll respond by behaving like the guiltiest man alive. If we don’t help him, he’ll be in jail in the blink of an eye.’

‘All right,’ I said. I knew I had to back her up – and I did see what she meant about Lord Hastings. ‘But what shall we do about it?’

‘Well, for the moment you’ll just have to trust me,’ said Daisy, brushing herself down in a most businesslike manner. ‘Come on, let’s go down and find our assistants, so we can inform them about this important development. We’ve ruled out another suspect!’

But as I raced to follow Daisy down the stairs, I couldn’t help worrying. I believed her about the teacup, but I didn’t see how we could prove it. And even if it was not Lord Hastings, that left five suspects, four of them in Daisy’s family. I still felt that this case was not one that we would like solving. All the same, I was glad that the Daisy in front of me was my Daisy again, ridiculous and brilliant and mad – and superstitiously, I felt that Daisy in that sort of mood could solve anything.

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, the hall telephone rang, and Chapman limped out of the drawing room to answer it. He stared at us with a not particularly friendly expression on his face.

‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Indeed it is . . . Yes . . . No . . . Yes – certainly, sir, I shall just fetch her.’ Then he held the mouthpiece away from his face as though it might bite him, and called, ‘Madam! Telephone!’

There was no answer, and Chapman sighed, put down the receiver and shuffled away towards the library. As soon as he’d gone, Daisy pounced. She was obviously still in an extremely buoyant mood. She pressed the receiver to her ear and the mouthpiece to her lips and shouted, ‘Hello! Inspector Priestley? Hello? . . . Oh, who is this? . . . No, I’m not Lady Hastings. Goodness, how old do you think I am? Who are you? Where’s Inspector Priestley? You’re being awfully lax, you know – you should tell your inspector that if he doesn’t hurry up and get here quickly we will have solved the case before him again . . . Yes, we will, and you can tell him that Daisy Wells says so . . . Don’t you laugh at me! How rude! If you were my policeman I should demote you. Oh – Mummy’s here. Bother. Tell Inspector Priestley—’

Lady Hastings wrenched the phone out of Daisy’s grasp.

‘Apologies, Inspector,’ she said breathlessly. ‘My daughter— Oh. Who is this? . . . Where is Inspector Priestley? Really, I do think we are being shoddily treated. Don’t you know who I am? . . . Yes, I know there are floods, but you ought to have been here hours ago! We’ve got a poor man’s body simply
mouldering
away upstairs, and we’ve been sent
no
support, and . . . Oh. You are coming? You’ll be here tomorrow morning? Well, I must say, it’s not a moment too soon. What if there were to be another murder? I tell you, we are all in the most terrible danger . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . No, certainly not! . . . Yes . . . Oh, all right then. Goodbye.’

She put down the phone with a clatter and sighed dramatically. She had an audience – and not just the two of us, either. While she was talking, the drawing-room door had opened again, and Aunt Saskia’s large face, all set about with earrings and scarves, had come poking out, a distinctly sharp and suspicious look on it under its puff of hair. Behind her were Miss Alston and Uncle Felix (together again, I thought) – and out of the library came Bertie, with Lord Hastings and Stephen behind him. All our suspects, in fact, were there, and they had all heard Lady Hastings’ conversation. I saw Kitty and Beanie pop their heads round the door to the kitchens – even they were listening in.

‘The police are on their way!’ said Lady Hastings unnecessarily. ‘They think the flood will be down by morning. We shall get to the bottom of this horrid business at last!’

‘Mother, you are an idiot,’ said Bertie.

‘I think what Bertie means,’ said Uncle Felix, ‘is that if you
do
get to the bottom of this, you might not like what you find.’

‘Oh, do be quiet, all of you!’ cried Lady Hastings. ‘I know what you’re trying to say, and I don’t care! Denis has been
murdered
. I know you all hated him – he told me about the fearful argument you had with him, George, and about you threatening him, Felix. And his watch –
I
haven’t seen it, have you, Saskia? Denis had no secrets from me, and I shan’t hide anything from the police when they arrive tomorrow.’

Aunt Saskia gasped. Miss Alston squeezed her lips tight shut, as though she were trying to stop words escaping. Bertie crumpled up his fist and slammed it into his open palm. ‘Come on, Stephen, don’t just
stand
there,’ he said furiously. ‘I don’t much feel like being in present company any longer.’

Lord Hastings was standing stock-still in the library doorway, and he had turned a very funny puce colour. His hands were clutched together over his bulging stomach and his mouth was open. ‘But, Margaret,’ he said, ‘you can’t simply . . . Think of the
family
, Margaret . . .’