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Authors: Carola Dunn

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Or if Cedric Norville hadn't done it, maybe his father had. Drifting into sleep, Daisy tried to work out how that Mr. Norville could have come by Derek's knife. She dreamt of crowds of shadowy Mr. Norvilles rowing across the Tamar. Their oars were seaman's knives which flashed in the sun. Ahead of them, Mr. Calloway strode across the water, a wreath of mistletoe on his head.
Not an illuminating dream, Daisy thought, recalling it on awaking. Some of the elements of the mystery were there, but they didn't lead to anything, as far as she could see.
What had wakened her was a tapping on the door. Alec, alert as always first thing in the morning, called, “Who's there?”
“Daddy, it's me. Derek and I. And Nana. Can we come in?”
Alec looked at Daisy, who groaned but nodded. “Come in!”
After punctilious “Good morning”s—well brought up children both—and in Daisy's case a kiss on the nose from the puppy which made her sit up in a hurry, Bel burst out, “Daddy, guess who's here? Uncle Tom and Mr. Piper!”
“Detective Sergeant Tring and Detective Constable Piper,” Derek confirmed, hopping from foot to foot in his
excitement. “We think, Bel and I, it must mean Mr. Calloway was murdered and they've come to help Uncle Alec find out who did it. And we wondered, Bel and I, whether you need a bloodhound to track down the murderer, because we've been teaching Nana to follow our tracks and find things and she's frightfully good at it.”
“Not at present, thank you, but I'll bear it in mind,” Alec promised, kindly stuffing his pillow behind Daisy's back before swinging his legs out of bed. “In the meantime, I want you two—you three,” he corrected himself as Belinda wrested one of his slippers from Nana's jaws, “to keep well out of our way. This isn't a game; it's serious business.”
“All right, Daddy, but you'll have to tell us where you're going to be or we can't stay out of the way.”
“This morning, Tom will be interviewing the servants here at Brockdene, and Piper and I are going across the river to do some investigating over there. Where are they now?”
“In the kitchen, having breakfast,” said Belinda.
“How do you know?” Daisy asked suspiciously.
“We were there, Mummy.”
“We get
hungry
, Aunt Daisy. We can't wait for proper breakfast. Detective Sergeant Tring stuck his head round the door and said was this the servants' entrance, and he could smell manna from heaven; and if that was Cornish bacon he was going to move to Cornwall. And Bel told Cook and Mrs. Pardon he really was a Scotland Yard detective and your right-hand man, so they gave him and Detective Constable Piper bacon and eggs and bread right from the oven. That's what we had, hot bread and butter and honey from their own bees. And bramble jelly, too. Ripping!”
“Granny always says hot bread's in-di-gestible,” Bel said anxiously, “but I didn't get a tummy ache, honestly, Mummy.”
“Good,” said Daisy. “I suppose I'd better get up. Off you go now.”
Alec was already at the hand basin, shaving. Daisy lay for a moment pondering whether, if she had to choose, she'd prefer to do without hot water on tap or gas or electric light. Actually, she could remember when the electric plant had been put in at Fairacres, but she couldn't really remember what it had been like before that. On the other hand, she had stayed in plenty of houses where a can of hot water for washing had been brought by a maid—and grown tepid by the time one got to it.
“I vote for hot water,” she said, reaching for her dressing gown. “I'm going to take a bath.”
Alec turned, half his face white with shaving soap, his safety razor poised for the next stroke. “Daisy, I think you'd better take the children back to town.”
“Darling, no! For one thing, your mother gave Dobson leave till tomorrow. For another, my mother would undoubtedly leave with us, and I really don't think I can cope with her and the children and the dog and all the luggage by myself.”
“I did,” Alec said smugly.
“Thirdly, the boat's coming to fetch us tomorrow morning and it's impossible to get hold of the boatman. So that's that. And anyway, I've got simply
heaps
to tell you, though I suppose if Cedric Norville killed Calloway, it's all irrelevant,” she ended disconsolately.
“I don't know that Cedric Norville did kill Calloway.” Alec sighed. “If he didn't, I dare say your information may
prove useful, and I haven't time to listen now or I may be facing a suit for false imprisonment. Very well, then, stay, but keep the children out of my hair, please; don't ask the suspects leading questions; and you're going home tomorrow whether I've made an arrest or not.”
“Right-oh, darling.” Daisy kissed the soapless side of his face, wiped a blob of foam off the tip of her nose, collected her sponge-bag and towel, and went to see if the bathroom was free.
 
Alec dressed and went down to the kitchen. The vast Tudor hearth was occupied by Victorian ranges, but the old iron dogs for holding spits, and hooks and chimney crane for hanging pots and kettles, were still in evidence. Another wall contained within it an enormous, primitive bread oven, seven feet across.
At the well-scrubbed table sat Detective Sergeant Tring and Detective Constable Piper. Young Ernie Piper, his breakfast finished, stood up when Alec came in. Tom was still busy with the remains of a heaped plateful. There was a lot of him to fill, a massive man whose bottle-green-and-maroon-check suit did nothing to mitigate his size.
“Morning, Chief,” he said, nodding a head as smooth and pink as a rose petal. His splendid moustache twitching with amusement, he asked, “Like it?”
“Very smart, Tom. And quite subdued, compared to the yellow and tan.”
“Ah.” He grinned. “It's a Christmas present from me old trouble and strife. She thinks at my age I ought to consider my dignity.”
“How is Mrs. Tring? Furious with me, no doubt. I'm sorry to call the two of you out at Christmas.”
“What's going on, Chief?” Piper asked eagerly.
Alec persuaded a reluctant Mrs. Pardon to lend the housekeeper's room for their confab. There, between bites of the bacon sandwich Cook had pressed upon him, he explained the situation to his men, as quickly as was consonant with thoroughness—and avoidance of choking. To tell the truth, he was a bit worried about having confined Cedric to the dungeon overnight, which was not at all according to Hoyle.
When he and Miles had prepared the prison, he had expected the threat of a night in the dank hole to persuade the young man to bare his soul. In spite of Cedric's recalcitrance, if it hadn't been for Alec's still tender nose he might have locked him in Miles's room for the night. Miles could have joined Tremayne in Calloway's room. If Cedric chose to report his mistreatment, it wouldn't do Alec's career any good.
Having put his men in the picture, Alec handed Tring the murder weapon, wrapped in brown paper. “Here's the knife, Tom. Check it for dabs. Then you'll take the staff, indoor and out. I doubt they'll be much help—as I explained, it's not the usual situation where the servants know the family's every move.”
“It's surprising what people find they know when you make 'em think about it, Chief,” Tom rumbled.
“When you're done with them, go over to the chapel and finger-print everything in sight. Piper, you and I will go and release the prisoner, feed him, and take him across the river. Let's hope he comes quietly.”
To Alec's relief, Cedric Norville was at least not beating on the undersized door of his cell and yelling for release. Neither the click of the key turning in the lock nor the
creak of the hinges brought him rushing forth uttering all too justified complaints. The oil lamp had gone out. Alec took out his electric torch as he ducked through the doorway.
Cedric was sprawled on his back on the camp-bed, mouth open, snoring gently. The torch beam gleamed on two bottles standing neatly by the head of the bed.
Piper picked them up. “Empty, Chief. Both of 'em.”
Neither Piper's voice nor the light on his eyelids roused the sleeper. In response to a vigorous shaking, he opened red eyes at last, only to close them again with a grimace.
“Time to go, Norville. I thought you'd be keen to get out of here.”
At that, Cedric sat up, groaning as he swung his feet to the floor. He buried his unshaven face in his hands. “Devil take it, if you lock a chap in a wine cellar, you must expect him to make the best of it. You might give a chap more choice, though. Sherry's not really my tipple. I've got an awful head this mornin'.”
“There's a thermos flask of coffee and a sandwich waiting for you in the library.”
“Sandwich, ugh! I could do with the coffee, though.”
“Come along, then.”
Cedric brightened somewhat as he drank the coffee, though he still could not face the sandwich. Feeling his chin, he said, “I don't suppose you could lend a chap a razor, my dear fellow? I can't see Felicity like this.”
“I'm afraid you won't be seeing Miss Norville this morning,” said Alec.
“But I must! Dash it all, when a girl does her very best to protect one from being had up for murder … I mean, doesn't it look as if she's got a soft spot for one after all?
Changed her mind about givin' one the old heave-ho? At the very least one ought to thank her and enquire after her injuries!”
Alec kindly refrained from reminding him that, being once again in line to succeed to the earldom, he had therefore returned to his status as an object of interest to the girl. “Not now,” he said. “I want to get over to Helstone as soon as possible. You can write to Miss Norville from there, and I'll bring your letter back with me.”
“Oh, righty-ho, then.” Cedric sighed. “You'd better tell her father I'll replace the sherry. After all, it's not his fault you forced me to accept his hospitality, and I can't help hopin' he's goin' to be my father-in-law some day. Let's get goin'.”
As they crossed the hall to the front door, Alec said, “It will save a great deal of trouble if you will just tell me where you were on the night of Christmas Eve.”
Behind them footsteps sounded, descending the stairs. Cedric glanced back, then hurried forward through the door which Piper had opened. Outside, a gardener was raking the gravel path.
“No,” Cedric said vehemently, “I'm not tellin'.”
A
fter her bath, Daisy wanted to talk to Felicity. The poor girl had been too distraught last night to make much sense, but by now she was probably dying for someone sympathetic to talk to. She might be ready to spill all sorts of beans. Unless, of course, she had had a hand in the killing of Calloway, in which case Daisy could not decently count herself as a sympathetic listener.
Either way, Felicity was quite likely still asleep. Daisy didn't want to wake her, especially when she remembered that Jemima was sharing her room. Jemima was not the person she would choose as an audience for a heart-to-heart.
Breakfast first, Daisy decided. With luck Miles would be there and could tell her more about what had happened last night than Alec had managed before falling asleep. She went downstairs. Godfrey and Dora and Jemima were in the dining room.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” Dora greeted Daisy. She looked as if she had slept on pins and needles, if at all. “Jemima says you helped Felicity to bed last night …”
“She ricked her ankle rather nastily, but not a serious sprain, I'm sure.”
“Oh, I see. Thank you so much for taking care of her. Can you tell me,” she went on apprehensively, “is it true Mr. Fletcher has made an arrest already? And locked the murderer in the wine cellar?”
“I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to ask Alec exactly what's going on,” Daisy prevaricated, “but you may be sure he would not put the household in danger.”
“No, of course not. I didn't for a minute … Jemima says it's the man Felicity has been seeing on the sly!”
“I'm afraid my husband will not be very happy to hear Miss Jemima has been spreading rumours,” Daisy said severely.
“Obviously, the only people with a motive for murder are the Helstone Norvilles,” Godfrey snapped, standing up. He looked no more rested than his wife. “And if Felicity has been carrying on with one of them, she is utterly lacking in loyalty to her own family. Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher, I must get to work. No Bank Holidays for those of us whose work is measured in decades.” He stalked out, retreating to the comfort of the antiquities he loved.
“
I
know two more detectives have come,” said Jemima, uncowed by Daisy's stricture, “and that's not a rumour 'cause it's true.”
“Jemima, take a cup of tea up to your grandmother and see what she'd like to eat.” Dora turned back to Daisy as Jemima left, pouting. “My mother-in-law is such a frail little thing, we take the best care of her we can.”
Daisy murmured polite agreement, wishing she had the sort of mother-in-law she could take pleasure in cosseting.
“I hope Mrs. Norville isn't too upset by what has happened,” she said.
“Naturally she's distressed, but at her age I believe the sorrows of the past have more weight than those of the present. Besides, as Godfrey said, all of us here had nothing to gain and everything to lose by this horrible crime, so the Helstone boy is clearly the culprit. My one prayer is that my poor Felicity is not desperately in love with the brute.” She ended on a sad, questioning note, as if she suspected her daughter had taken Daisy into her confidence in preference to herself.
“I've no idea of her feelings,” Daisy assured her, not adding that she meant to do her best to find out. Felicity would need support if, as seemed probable, her father was right and Cedric Norville was the murderer.
“Good morning, good morning!” The captain came in, a trifle heavy-eyed but with much of his jaunty bearing restored. “I hear Fletcher has nabbed the villain already. Now that's quick work, if you like! Dora, my dear, since the police have sewn up the case, and the other business is sunk too deep for salvage—no use crying over spilt milk!—I'll be off back to my ship tomorrow. She's in the yard, but things will move along faster if I'm there to chivvy them along.”
“We'll be sorry to lose you, Victor. Especially Mother.”
“Never fear, I'll come back for a day or two before we sail. Well, now, Mrs. Fletcher, I'm sorry to say you haven't had quite the merry Christmas we would have liked to give you.”
“The children are enjoying themselves no end,” said Daisy, “and that's what really matters, isn't it? Besides,
from your perspective we've been uninvited guests. We're very appreciative of everything you've done.”
“I'm afraid her ladyship is quite put out,” Dora said, and gave her lower lip an anxious, rabbity nibble.
Daisy could have told them that the Dowager Lady Dalrymple was never so happy as when she had good cause to be put out. A murder in the house where she was staying would give her fuel for months, if not years, of complaints. Refraining from saying so, Daisy murmured, not quite truthfully, “I'm sure Mother doesn't hold you to blame for what happened.”
“It was our young cousin from over the river, of course,” the captain agreed, adding with fervour, “but I wish I'd never found Calloway! The poor fellow would be living today in contented retirement in India, and the family's peace would not have been all cut up for nothing.”
“You meant it for the best,” his sister-in-law consoled him.
“For Mother's sake. And if he hadn't gone back on his word and shilly-shallied so, he wouldn't have been at the chapel in the wood in the middle of the night. Then that young wretch would have had no opportunity to harm him. Is my niece greatly distressed about Fletcher arresting him?”
“I haven't had a chance to talk to Felicity.” Dora turned a reproachful gaze on Daisy. “No one informed me last night that anything had happened, and she was still sleeping when Jemima got up this morning.”
“She may be awake by now,” said Daisy. “Shall I take her up a cup of tea and some toast?”
“That would be very kind.” Apparently Dora was not as keen to confront her erring and possibly heart-broken
daughter as her previous words had suggested. “I'm afraid Godfrey is quite angry with her. She's been very naughty. Girls are so difficult!” she lamented helplessly. “How could I ever have guessed that she'd take up with a murderer, and behind my back?”
Daisy had no answer she cared to pronounce. Leaving the utterance of soothing platitudes to the captain, she departed with tea and toast for the miscreant.
Cedric Norville was a convenient scapegoat, she thought, as she negotiated the passage and the glass-paned door to the entrance hall. Naturally the Brockdene Norvilles were eager to believe him guilty. Perhaps they were right. He and his father had an undeniable motive for wanting Calloway out of the way, and thanks to Felicity he knew it.
When Daisy came to the foot of the stairs, Jemima was halfway down. She obviously had no intention of standing to the side to let Daisy get by on the not-very-wide flight, so Daisy waited at the bottom.
As Jemima reached the last two steps, she turned on Daisy a glare of startling malignity and hissed, “I wish you'd never come to Brockdene!”
Daisy stared after her. In her ears rang the echo of what Jemima had said of Calloway: “I wish he'd never come … I wish he was dead!”
And Calloway was dead.
In the young girl's mind, the present trouble the clergyman had been causing might well have outweighed the possibility of future, ill-understood gain. She was in the habit of wandering the woods at night, spying on her sister. Well-grown, sturdy, she was physically quite capable of driving a knife home into the back of an unsuspecting man.
Physically … but mentally? Daisy shuddered. Jemima was odd, but surely not so disturbed mentally as to murder a man who was, after all, no worse than a wet blanket.
No, the Reverend Calloway had posed a threat to no one but Cedric Norville and his family. Cedric
must
have killed him.
Daisy stopped at the top of the stairs, which she had climbed mechanically. She remembered her dream. It had seemed so unhelpful: crowds of Mr. Norvilles rowing across the river with knives instead of oars—could it have been a warning rather than her brain's attempt to solve the mystery? Not that she believed a dream could foretell the future, but perhaps her unconscious mind had put two and two together and tried to tell her that Alec should not embark in a small boat with a murderer.
A tussle in a boat had begun this whole train of events, a tussle in which both participants had drowned.
Alec was a good swimmer, Daisy reminded herself. Ernie Piper was with him, and anyway it was too late to stop him. Perhaps, without asking leading questions, she could find out from Felicity enough about Cedric to reassure herself as to Alec's safety.
And now Felicity was coming from the lavatory, in an old brown flannel dressing-gown, limping slightly and making an unhappy attempt to smile at Daisy.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
“My ankle's much better, thanks.”
“I've brought you this. No, I'll carry it to your room. You're still a bit wobbly.”
“Thanks, Daisy.”
Jemima's camp-bed, neatly turned back to air, took up most of the floor space in the small bedroom. Without
waiting to be invited, Daisy perched on the foot of Felicity's bed. The furniture was good and well cared for, probably the earl's property and therefore regularly polished by the servants. In contrast, what Daisy could see of the bedding was patched, darned, and sides-to-middled.
A couple of paperbacked novels lay on the bedside table beside the lamp. On the whitewashed walls hung a couple of paintings obscured by sketches tucked into the frames, views of the exterior of the house. Drawing-pins supported more sketches, of elegant frocks and hats.
“Did you do those? Are they your own designs? They look rather good to me.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, but I'm no fashion expert. Still, have you ever thought of going into the trade?”
Felicity shrugged. “There's no money for training, or to set up in business.”
“I should think there must be apprenticeships or something similar. My friend Lucy would know. I could ask her, if you like. Though if you're going to marry the future Earl of Westmoor, I suppose you wouldn't be interested.”
“I shan't be marrying Cedric if he's hanged for murder!”
“So you think he might be?”
“Oh, Daisy, I just don't know,” Felicity said wretchedly. “I simply can't imagine him stabbing someone in the back. He's always seemed such a perfect gentleman, so much so that I've often teased him about it.”
“Any kind of murder isn't exactly the correct, gentlemanly thing to do,” Daisy pointed out.
“No, but if—oh, say some rotter was blackmailing his sister, or something like that, Cedric might confront him and shoot him, face to face. Do you see what I mean?
There would be something gallant, at least, about risking being hanged for that, not like stabbing an elderly clergyman in the back because he threatened one's inheritance. No, I
can't
believe Ceddie did that!”
“But you can believe he was there, up at the chapel, on Christmas Eve?” A matter of opinion, so not a leading question, Daisy hoped. She was a bit vague about what exactly constituted a leading question.
“I wasn't expecting him. When I saw him on Saturday night, I told him about Calloway and said I didn't think I'd marry him after all, so he needn't come the next night. He said he probably wouldn't have anyway because the weather forecast was for high winds. And on Christmas Eve he couldn't come, though he wouldn't tell me why. I thought either he just said it because I'd told him I didn't want to see him again, or maybe he was going to a party with Bella Sidlow and some of that crowd. He used to be quite keen on Bella, before we met.”
“I see.”
“So when he said he'd be there on Christmas night, I said, well, I wouldn't. But he came then anyway, so he might have come the night before, mightn't he?”
Daisy absorbed the gist of this, not bothering to sort out which night was which. “Are you in love with him?” she asked bluntly (a leading question, no doubt, but not directly concerned with the murder).
“I don't know!” Felicity wailed. “I want to get away from here, and the only way seems to be to get married, and I don't meet many men. And after being a poor relation all my life, the prospect of becoming Countess of Westmoor doesn't exactly disgust me. But how can I tell if that's what
attracts me to Ceddie, or if I've found my soul-mate?”
“Did you really mean it when you told him you wouldn't marry him because he wasn't heir to the earldom after all?”
“I don't
know!
I was teasing him, of course, partly. But I wouldn't even have thought of such a thing if I wasn't a horrible mercenary person, would I?”
“It's something one has to consider,” Daisy said judiciously, “the sort of life the future will hold. It would be—would have been—no good marrying Cedric if you were going to spend the rest of your life resenting the fact that you were still a poor relation, your uncle's, your father's, your brother's. I would have been an ass to marry Alec if I hadn't been pretty sure I could put up with being a policeman's wife.”

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