Death at Wentwater Court (8 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Death at Wentwater Court
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“Tom, let me explain what's going on. Miss Dalrymple, I count on you to interrupt if I leave anything out.”
Mr. Fletcher's precis was rapid but comprehensive. Daisy admired his ability to bring all the necessary information together in a clear and concise account.
“Ah,” said Sergeant Tring ruminatively when he finished.
“So I want you to tackle the staff. You're good at that.”
“Ah.” The sergeant winked at Daisy and preened his moustache. She gathered he had a way with female servants. Extraordinary, though no more extraordinary than the slimy Lord Stephen's conquests. “It's a rum thing,” Tring elaborated on his monosyllable in a rumbling bass, “that there man of Lord Stephen's being missing. I've a notion he's the one could blow the gaff. You see, Chief, there's been developments.” He glanced sideways at Daisy.
“You can speak before Miss Dalrymple, Tom. She knows about that case, too.”
“Well, 'tain't much to go on, but we've picked up a fellow driving a motor that's been seen lurking about near the Flatford place on and off the last few days. Rang a bell, it did, and I went through the reports of the other jobs. Seems there's been a grey Lanchester spotted in three out of four.”
“A grey Lanchester!” Daisy exclaimed. “Lord Stephen's car was a grey Lanchester.”
“Is that so, miss. Don't happen to know the number-plate, do you?”
“I was too far away to read it, and I don't suppose I'd remember if I had. Jones, Lord Wentwater's chauffeur, is certain to know.”
“Very true, miss. The one we've got is a London number, Chief. Inspector Gillett wired for identification. Obscured by mud, it
was—a right laugh, that, with the paintwork gleaming, the brass bright as gold, and no mud this side of the Channel that's not froze solid. We're holding chummie on that and on not having no driving license on him. The inspector sent his dabs up to the Yard, too.”
“Dabs?” Daisy queried.
“His fingerprints, miss. To find out if he's got a record.”
“I take it he's not talking?” Mr. Fletcher asked.
“Dumb as the knave of diamonds, Chief.” Sergeant Tring's little brown eyes twinkled as Daisy laughed. He was brighter than he looked, she decided.
“Astwick may turn out to have been the king of diamonds,” said the Chief Inspector dryly.
“Not to mention king of hearts!” Daisy put in.
“Miss Dalrymple and I already had a vague inkling of some connection. If the number-plates match, well and good, but it wouldn't surprise me if the plates turn out to be faked or recently stolen. Either way, we'll search his room before we go, Tom. Let's get the interviewing done first. On your way to the servants' quarters, you'd better ring up Gillett and tell him on no account to let the chummie go; and tell the footman to send in Mr. Wilfred.”
“Right you are, Chief.” He removed his bulk from the room with an unexpectedly light, swift tread.
Daisy was bursting with questions. “Why would they bother to cover a stolen number-plate with mud? It just made it conspicuous.”
“I'd say that was the servant's idea, not Astwick's, if he is in fact involved. He strikes me as too canny a man to do anything so stupid.”
“But a Lanchester is a pretty conspicuous motor-car to use in the first place. I'd use a Morris, or a Ford, something people wouldn't look at twice.”
“Astwick would have looked pretty conspicuous rolling up to Wentwater Court in a Morris Oxford,” Mr. Fletcher pointed out patiently. “Admittedly his man could have switched vehicles before he approached the burgled house, but that would complicate matters no end. Whereas a Lanchester is not likely to be stopped, short of an
outright breach of the law, because it can only belong to a man of wealth and therefore of influence.”
“So … Oh, botheration!” Daisy scurried to the window-seat and took up notebook and pencil as Wilfred breezed in.
“What-ho, my dear fellow!” he greeted the detective airily. “What can I do to help the jolly old coppers? Hullo, hullo, playing the scribe, are you, Daisy?”
She nodded and gave him a small smile, but left it to Mr. Fletcher to answer.
To Alec's ears, the slight young man in his natty suit sounded distinctly nervous. Seated, he fidgeted constantly, crossing and uncrossing his legs, straightening his tie, smoothing his sleek, pomaded hair. When Alec took a moment to shuffle a pile of irrelevant papers, Wilfred Beddowe burst into speech again.
“Rotten business, this, what? Gave me a nasty turn when my man brought the news with my tea. I mean to say, a guest here, not just any old passing tramp.”
“More particularly your guest, Mr. Beddowe, I understand.”
“Yes, I invited him,” he agreed with a hint of his elder brother's belligerence. “What of it?”
“May I ask why you invited Lord Stephen Astwick to join a small family party?”
“Happened to run into him in town just before Christmas. I thought he might fancy a glimpse of the old homestead.”
“Let me get this straight. You happened to run into Astwick in London—in your club, perhaps, or in the street?”
“At Ciro's.”
“Ah, in a nightclub—and you thought he might like to see Wentwater Court, so you invited him down for a few days. You and he must have been very good friends.” He gave Wilfred an enquiring look which elicited silence. “Interesting, when he was nearly twice your age. No doubt he was in some sort a mentor?” Silence. “A pity you should choose a rogue to guide you.”
“I didn't! He wasn't! We weren't even friends.”
“You invited a rogue who was not your friend to stay with your family?” Alec asked with feigned incredulity.
“Yes. No. I didn't want to but he insisted,” he said sulkily. “Dash it, I knew Marjie would be pleased at least.”
“But you were not pleased.”
“Pleased to be stuck in the same house with that infernal fellow!” Wilfred exclaimed, shuddering.
“Then why … ?”
“All right, if you must know, I owed him money.”
“Gambling debts?”
“How I wish it had been! I'd've gone to the guv'nor sooner than let Astwick blackmail me. He'd have read the riot act, maybe cut my allowance and gated me, but he'd have paid up. He's a bit of a fossil, my father, but not such a bad old stick.”
“Then what was it you couldn't tell Lord Wentwater?”
Wilfred crimsoned. “Breach of promise,” he confessed.
“Whispering sweet nothings to a shop-girl, eh?” Alec hoped his voice had covered the muffled snort from Miss Dalrymple.
“A chorus-girl.”
“Letters?” He shook his head as Wilfred nodded. “Silly young chump. So Astwick lent you money to buy her off and then threatened to tell your father.”
“The pater would have blown me sky-high. I'm
glad
Astwick's dead,” said Wilfred defiantly. “They're all sitting around trying to pretend nothing's happened, but I want to break out the Champagne.”
“Yet it gave you a nasty turn when you heard of his demise.”
“Gad, yes. I mean to say, not the sort of thing a chap likes to hear first thing in the morning when he's not feeling too bobbish.”
“First thing? What time was this, Mr. Beddowe?”
“Oh, half past tennish.” His confession over, he was regaining his insouciant air. He took out a chased silver cigarette case and offered it to Alec, who shook his head. Wilfred lit up.
“You had a late night last night?”
“Not at all. Went to bed early as a matter of fact. There's nothing to do in the country. I dare say I was all tucked up cosy by one, but my man has strict instructions never to wake me before ten thirty.”
“You didn't retire immediately after the weather forecast?”
“No, Jimmy—my brother—and Petrie and I went to the smoking-room for a nightcap. But Jimmy's a yokel at heart and Petrie had this asinine notion of skating with Astwick at dawn, so we weren't long.”
Alec pricked up his ears. “Mr. Petrie told you he intended to go skating at dawn?”
“He told everyone, when Astwick was blethering on about Swedish exercises and fitness, after dinner. Said it sounded like a ripping idea. All rot, if you ask me. I take it he came to his senses, or he'd have been there to pull Astwick out.”
Unless he'd been the one to fall in, Alec thought. This put an altogether different complexion on things. Who knew Petrie planned to skate early? Did someone not care if they injured the wrong victim? Or could that amiable ass possibly be the intended victim?
I
completely forgot about Phillip's pronouncement,” said Daisy, full of remorse. “It changes everything, doesn't it?”
“It does alter matters somewhat,” the Chief Inspector agreed tiredly, rubbing his eyes.
“You see, I know him jolly well and I was pretty sure he wouldn't turn out at dawn, so it didn't make much impression on me. No one else knows him so well, though, except Fenella, so everyone else may have expected him actually to skate with Lord Stephen.”
“Does your memory agree with Wilfred's as to who constitutes everyone?”
“Lord Wentwater and Sir Hugh weren't in the drawing-room. I can't say whether the rest were all listening.” She thought hard. “The only others who joined in the conversation were Lady Josephine and Marjorie, and Marjorie was so busy fluttering her eyelashes at Lord Stephen she may not have heard what Phillip said.”
“Marjorie! I
must
speak to that young lady but I can't wait about for the sedative to wear off. I suppose tomorrow will have to do. Let's see, that means Lord Wentwater and Sir Hugh were unaware of Mr. Petrie's plans, and Lord Beddowe, Geoffrey, Lady Marjorie, Lady Josephine, and Lady Wentwater may or may not have known.”
“It doesn't help much, does it?” Daisy said with a sigh. “I can't
believe anyone would have deliberately risked hurting Phillip instead of Lord Stephen—he's such an inoffensive idiot!—but we can't be sure who heard him.”
“It shouldn't be difficult to … Ah, Piper. Any luck?”
Detective Constable Piper entered the room with the heavy tramp of a policeman on the beat. Daisy saw Mr. Fletcher wince, remembered Tring's catlike tread, and deduced that Piper had only recently joined the plainclothes branch.
“Nothing, sir. No boots nor nothing out of the way. The bloke at the lodge didn't let anyone in, nor did his missus. And there weren't no footprints, 'cepting on the paths and the drive.” The young man appeared bitterly disappointed. “Couldn't someone've come up behind the house, sir, and walked round by where the snow's trampled?”
“A good thought, Constable. Would that be possible, Miss Dalrymple?”
“Possible, certainly, but it's miles to any road other than the lane by the lodge. And from the lane you'd have to walk miles around to come up behind the house without leaving footprints near the drive.”
“I suppose someone could have left a vehicle outside the park wall, climbed over, and tramped for miles through the snow in the dark just to play a trick,” the Chief Inspector mused, “but it seems highly improbable. Besides, it's not likely any outsider would know Astwick had taken to skating at dawn since the lake froze, let alone that he'd be on his own. No, I think the mysterious someone is out. Any other ideas, Piper?”
“Just that, seeing the hole in the ice is evidence, sir, p'raps I ought to report as the wind's in the south and like as not there'll be a thaw afore morning.”
“Thank you, that's certainly worth knowing. Luckily we have excellent photographs, thanks to Miss Dalrymple. Well, there's no sense in your looking for an axe. I'm sure there are several about in the outbuildings, and no one would have gone out without gloves last
night just to provide us with fingerprints. You'd better relieve Miss Dalrymple.”
“Sir!” Pad and pencil appeared on the instant.
“I don't want to be relieved,” Daisy protested.
The daunting stare he turned on her, intensified by dark, baleful eyebrows, made her quail. It vanished in a moment and he grinned. “I'd almost forgotten you're not one of my officers. I appreciate your hard work, Miss Dalrymple, but at present the best thing you can do to help is to begin transcribing your notes. I promise I'll not leave without letting you know what's going on.”
She pulled a face. “Oh, very well. I'll try and get them done before you go. Do you mind spelling mistakes? I type faster if I don't have to worry about spelling.”
“Just as long as you think I'll be able to make a guess at what the garbled words are supposed to be.”
“I'm not
that
bad! Cheerio for now, then.”
As she moved towards the door, Piper hurried forward to open it for her. Before he reached it, it opened and Lord Wentwater appeared. He held the door for her with his usual grave politeness. Turning towards the stairs, Daisy decided she was after all quite glad to be relieved of her note-taking duties. She respected the earl and didn't want to listen while he explained or defended—or incriminated—himself.
Alec would have been happy to avoid that duty. Not for a moment did he believe in the innate superiority of the aristocracy. The malignant James Beddowe would have disabused him of that notion if he had. What concerned him was their perceived superiority, the influence they wielded by virtue of their birth and their belief in their own importance.
Lord Wentwater had never doubted his right to special treatment, Alec was certain. Nonetheless, he had to admire the earl's calm dignity and iron self-control. Impossible to imagine this distinguished gentleman on his knees hacking at the ice with an axe.
Yet Alec knew from experience that a man in the throes of jealousy and hate is capable of actions he'd never dream of otherwise.
Buoyed by that knowledge, he gently steered Lord Wentwater towards the seat where he wanted him. Even more than with his other suspects, it was essential to be able to read every nuance of expression on the earl's face.
Piper slipped inconspicuously into the window-seat favoured by Miss Dalrymple, and Alec sat down opposite the earl, not waiting to be invited. Here, he was in charge. “Would you please give me your opinion of Stephen Astwick, sir?” he requested.
“As I am sure you have heard by now, Chief Inspector,” Lord Wentwater said in an even voice, “the man was an unmitigated blackguard.”
“Yet you entertained him in your home.”
His mouth tightened. “No doubt you have discovered that Astwick is the brother of the Marquis of Brinbury. Brinbury and I went to school together, are members of the same clubs, sit in the House of Lords together. Astwick also belonged to some of those clubs. While I would never have invited him to Wentwater, it would have been an intolerable insult to ask him to leave.”
“I understand his own family had disowned him. Have they been informed of his demise?” Alec ought to have seen to that long ago. If only there were more hours in a day! Two nights' lack of sleep was suddenly catching up with him at just the wrong moment, and he saw no prospect of a full eight hours tonight.
“I telephoned Brinbury.”
“And?”
“He asked me to let him know when his brother was safely underground,” Lord Wentwater said dryly. “Perhaps you find it difficult to understand, Chief Inspector, but the views of his family in no way altered my obligation towards Astwick as a member of that family. No doubt you have colleagues at Scotland Yard with whom you are obliged to associate against your wishes.”
True, but he didn't take them home, Alec silently protested, and
even the most objectionable had never chased his wife, let alone blackmailed her. Was it possible the earl had been as blind to Astwick's conduct as his sister believed?
“The laws of hospitality supersede the natural desire for a faithful wife?” he asked, trying to make the question sound like simple curiosity rather than impertinent prying.
“Astwick was not my wife's lover!” The anger in Lord Wentwater's tone was unconvincing, and for the first time in the course of the interview he did not meet Alec's eyes. A muscle twitched twice at the corner of his mouth.
An outright lie seemed out of character. As Alec murmured an apology for his crassness, he wondered whether the earl might be attempting to convince himself, as much as his interrogator, of Lady Wentwater's faithfulness. A proud man, he'd not easily admit to himself that he had been cuckolded. Possibly he was also a charitable man, eager to give his wife the benefit of the doubt. Possibly he was simply an old man with a young wife who accepted as inevitable that she would take lovers.
No, not an old man. He must be about fifteen years older than Alec, still the erect and vigorous product of an active, healthy country life. He looked quite robust enough to satisfy a young wife—or to hack a hole in the ice.
Alec rubbed his eyes. God, what he'd give for a pipe and a cup of coffee, or even tea, but he couldn't ask Lord Wentwater for it any more than he could ask him whether he shared a bedroom with his lady. Thank heaven Tring would be finding out that most pertinent bit of information from the servants.
No doubt the sergeant would also be wallowing in tea and cakes. He had that effect on cooks for some inscrutable reason, witness his waistline.
Doggedly Alec continued questioning the earl. He felt as if he'd lost the thread of the investigation, or rather, as if he'd never found it. His questions and the answers seemed equally irrelevant, and he wished Miss Dalrymple were there to discuss them with him. With
any luck everything would fall into place when he talked to Lady Wentwater, though it was still conceivable that her only connection with Astwick's death was as the object of the gallantries that roused Lady Marjorie's jealousy.
Why had that death so shattered Lady Marjorie that she needed several doses of a sedative? Was she truly broken-hearted over the loss of a man she was deeply in love with? Or was she appalled that her vengeful mischief, intended to discomfort, had killed him?
“I take it this farce is at an end?” said Lord Wentwater impatiently.
Alec realized that he had failed to follow up an answer with another question. “I have nothing more to ask you for the moment, sir,” he said. “May I have your permission to search Astwick's bedroom?”
“If you must.”
“Also, I still need to speak to Lady Wentwater, and to Lady Marjorie, who, I gather, is not to be seen today. I shall have to return tomorrow. My constable will remain here. I'm afraid I must request that no one leave Wentwater before my return.”
“Very well.” Lord Wentwater appeared to be resigned to the continuance of the investigation.
Either innocent or very sure of himself, Alec decided as the earl left the room. Right at that moment, he didn't care which. He only hoped he'd make sense when he was talking to Lady Wentwater.
The footman took a confounded time to answer the bell. When he arrived, he preceded a parlourmaid bearing a heavily laden tea tray.
“Miss Dalrymple's orders, sir,” he announced.
“Bless the woman!” Alec fell upon the teapot like a fox on a hencoop.
Piper was not far behind. “No lunch, sir,” he explained, putting away dainty, triangular, crustless Gentleman's Relish sandwiches by the fistful.
“At least you had more than two hours sleep last night,” Alec grunted, pouring his second cup. The tea was no wishy-washy Earl Grey but a strong Darjeeling brew, which he put down to Tring's presence in the kitchen. It was wonderfully revivifying.
Resuscitated, he felt ready for anything by the time the footman ushered in Lady Wentwater. Nonetheless, her loveliness took away his breath.
Miss Dalrymple had said she was young and beautiful. He had not expected the figure of an Aphrodite, undisguised by her fashionably shapeless crêpe-de-Chine tea-dress, and the exquisite face of a sorrowing Madonna. Her dark, melancholy eyes cried out for sympathy. Alec knew he'd have to fight to maintain a balance between favouring her and reacting too far the other way.
No wonder the earl had married her, Astwick had pursued her, and Lady Marjorie was jealous of her. Lord Beddowe's antipathy might be based more on sheer sexual jealousy than he himself realized. Fenella Petrie was a candle to her sun.
But Lady Wentwater was more moon than sun. Pale from weariness of climbing heaven and shining on the earth … Shelley, wasn't it? Daisy Dalrymple was really more to Alec's taste. Pretty rather than beautiful, but cheerful rather than tragic, she reminded him of Joan, who had never let slender means nor the hazards of war dampen her spirits.
Surely Lady Wentwater ought to have perked up a trifle now that her persecutor was gone. Was it possible Miss Dalrymple had misinterpreted the situation, that the young countess had been Astwick's willing lover and now grieved for his death? She didn't look strong enough to chop a hole in the ice, though she was taller than average and desperation could augment a person's strength in the most amazing way.
As Alec greeted her, she looked around the room distractedly. “I thought … someone said Daisy was here. Miss Dalrymple.” Her voice was low and soft, with a pleading note.
“She was, but my constable has taken over from her. Would you like someone with you? Another lady, or your maid?”
She bit her lip. “Miss Dalrymple, please, may she come back?”
“Of course, Lady Wentwater.” He sent the footman to fetch her,
and while they waited he asked with considerable curiosity, “You have known Miss Dalrymple long?”

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