Murder on the Flying Scotsman (3 page)

‘As he has sent for his lawyer, I should think he might,’ Daisy said, ‘since the money would presumably have come to you, or at least to your mother if Albert McGowan had died
before Alistair as expected.’

‘Not at all. It’s terribly unfair. The next heir is Uncle Peter, who’s the son of their younger sister. She married a Scot, you see, and Uncle Peter was born in Scotland. So
were his wife and children, though the Gillespies live in London now. What with that, and there being only one female generation on that side, they get the preference over Grandfather’s own .
. . Hush!’

The baby wailed. Screwing up his little red face, he hiccuped, and then let loose a full-throated bawl. Daisy tried not to wince too obviously.

‘Oh, do be quiet, you horrid little monkey,’ Anne snapped at her sweetypie doodums. ‘If you’re going to be naughty, you’ll have to go to Nanny. You too, Tabitha.
Come along.’

‘No!’ screeched Tabitha. ‘I’m being good. I want to stay with B’linda.’

‘She really is being good,’ Belinda said gravely. ‘I’ll look after her for you, Mrs. Bretton. If Miss Dalrymple doesn’t mind.’

‘Not at all.’ Daisy swallowed a sigh. What had happened to her long, dull, but peaceful journey?

CHAPTER 2

‘Where’s my wife?’

The man at the open doorway of the compartment wore a pearl grey lounge suit of obvious Savile Row cut and a club tie with a rather too flashy gold pin. His thin, fair hair was pomaded back from
a prematurely receding hairline. He looked hot enough to be gin steaming at the ears any moment. Pitying him for being too gentlemanly to take off his jacket, or even loosen his tie, Daisy almost
forgave the scowl he bent upon her.

‘Where is she?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘That’s my daughter. Where’s my wife?’

‘I’m being
good
, Daddy,’ Tabitha wailed. He ignored her.

‘You must be Mr. Bretton,’ Daisy said, her tone frigid. ‘I’m Daisy Dalrymple. I was at school with Anne. How do you do?’

He nodded an ungracious acknowledgement. ‘Where . . .’ he began again, then thought better of it. ‘Oh lord, I beg your pardon,’ he said, flashing her a weak smile.
‘The Honourable Miss Dalrymple? Anne mentioned spotting you at King’s Cross. My humble apologies for my curtness, but honestly, what with one thing and another, it’s enough to try
the patience of a saint.’

‘Do come in and sit down.’ She spoke with slightly less coolness, but on first acquaintance she didn’t much care for Harold Bretton. ‘I expect Anne will be back any
minute. She took the baby to his nanny, in third class, I presume. My young friend Belinda Fletcher offered to take care of Tabitha for her.’

‘How do you do, sir,’ said Belinda. Daisy was proud of her manners, particularly as Tabitha, used to being dismissed and determined not to be parted from her, was clinging like grim
death around her neck.

Belinda might as well not have spoken for all the notice Bretton took of her. ‘You’re going to Scotland?’ he asked Daisy with the air of a man prepared to make polite small
talk though his mind was on more important matters.

‘Yes, I have a job to do near Roslin.’

‘A job?’ He stared, his protuberant blue eyes shocked. ‘You work?’

‘I’m a writer,’ Daisy said shortly. ‘What do you do?’

‘Me? Oh, I, er, I help my father-in-law run the jolly old family acres in Kent. At least, he’d like me to,’ Bretton corrected himself in a burst of candour, ‘but
it’s a mug’s game if you ask me. Since the War, there’s no money in farming. Not at all what I expected when I married Anne. We’ll all be on our uppers if things don’t
look up.’

It really was very odd, Daisy thought, the way the most unlikely people insisted on confiding in her. ‘My cousin, the present Lord Dalrymple, seems to be doing reasonably well with
Fairacres,’ she said.

‘Actually, the truth of the matter is Smythe-Pike’s let the estate go to rack and ruin,’ the disillusioned son-in-law said resentfully. ‘All he ever cared for was his
huntin’, shootin’, and fishin’, though his gout’s put a stop to all that, which doesn’t help his temper, I can tell you. It’s only cash will save the place now,
a big win on the gee-gees or Anne’s grandfather coming round.’

‘Anne told me you hope Mr. McGowan will relent in favour of your son.’

‘The old skinflint! Never spends a penny where a farthing’ll serve, so there must be plenty to go around, but what does he do? Leaves the lot to Great-Uncle Albert, who’s
already rolling in it I must say Albert knows how to live,’ Bretton said with envy and grudging admiration. ‘He won’t loan a fellow a fiver, let alone anything useful, but
it’s nothing but the best for him, no expense spared. Though how much joy he gets of it with his dyspepsia is another matter.’

‘I gather Albert McGowan’s in a parlous state of health.’

‘Ha! He’s been at death’s door since before I married Anne. Still, even if he had popped off, it wouldn’t have done
us
any good. Old Alistair’s next heir is
Anne’s uncle, that crook Peter Gillespie.’

‘Crook?’ Daisy pricked up her ears.

‘Inherited a thriving boot factory – rather infra dig, of course, but a real money-spinner – and he goes and kills the goose that laid the golden eggs by selling shoddy boots
to the Army in wartime. They couldn’t prove it was deliberate fraud. He wasn’t convicted, but the business had to pay enormous fines and it went under.’

‘Does Alistair McGowan know?’

‘Oh yes, Smythe-Pike – Anne’s father – made sure of that! Would you believe it, the old miser apparently considered it praiseworthy to have saved money by buying the
cheapest leather available. If that didn’t make him change his will, I don’t know what would. I suppose if we can’t talk Alistair into providing for his great-grandson,
we’ll have to tackle Albert next.’

Daisy was dying to find out who was Uncle Albert’s present heir. Before she could ask, a sandy-haired young man in light tweeds appeared in the open doorway.

‘Tackle Uncle Albert?’ he said. ‘Rather you than me, old bean. His man announced in no uncertain terms that the old curmudgeon doesn’t want to see hide nor hair of any of
us. I just walked past his compartment and he’s got the blinds drawn. We’ll get nowhere if we set the ogre’s back up. Hello there, Tabby.’

‘’Lo, Uncle Jemmy. Not Tabby, Tabiffa.’

‘Right-ho.’ He glanced at Daisy with a frown, of puzzlement rather than annoyance. ‘Excuse me for butting in, I assumed Bretton was talking to one of the family.’

‘This is Jeremy Gillespie, Anne’s cousin,’ Bretton explained to her. ‘Miss Dalrymple is a friend of Anne’s, Gillespie. She’s on the same train by sheer
coincidence.’

‘Oh, I see. I
thought
I knew all the relatives, except Aunt-Geraldine-who-ran-away, of course, and you’re much too young and pretty to be her.’ He studied her with an
appraising eye, and gave her a smile of approval. ‘How d’ye do, Miss Dalrymple. I don’t know how it is, but my cousin Anne – second cousin, by the way – seems to be
friends with all the prettiest girls.’

Daisy smiled back. He was quite good-looking in a sturdy, sandy, Scottish way, and older than she had thought at first sight. In his early thirties, she thought, about the same as Harold
Bretton, who looked older because of the thinning hair.

‘You make a point of meeting Anne’s friends, Mr. Gillespie?’ she teased.

‘As many as possible,’ he said with an exaggerated leer. ‘But please, the name’s Jeremy.’

‘Where have you left Mattie?’ Bretton enquired nastily.

Jeremy Gillespie flushed. ‘She’s with Ray and Judith and Kitty. My wife Matilda, Miss Dalrymple,’ he said, rueful now, ‘being great with child, as they say in the Bible,
tends to stay where she’s put.’

‘How fortunate for you,’ said Daisy sweetly, her opinion of Gillespie taking a nose-dive.

His point made, Bretton dropped the subject. ‘How is Raymond?’ he asked.

‘Judith’s calmed him down. Your sis-in-law has a way with the poor chap, but unless one of the great-uncles comes through, they haven’t a hope in Hades of getting
married.’

Raymond and Judith – Daisy had heard those names recently. Oh yes, the shell-shock victim. And ‘Judith Smythe-Pike, of course, Anne’s sister. She was a couple of forms below me
at school.’

Gillespie laughed. ‘If you remember Judith as a scrubby schoolgirl in a gym tunic, you’ll never recognize her. She’s a flapper now, the epitome of the bright young thing, all
drawl and “darling.”’

‘And “too, too frightfully boring,”’ added a scornful young voice, ‘and she smokes gaspers when Uncle Desmond’s not around.’

A plump, plain girl of about fifteen, the newcomer had Jeremy Gillespie’s sandy colouring. She wore a buttercup yellow summer frock that suited her not at all, and a bottle green
school-uniform hat. Her direct, almost challenging hazel eyes went straight to Daisy. ‘Hallo, are you a friend of Jeremy’s?’

‘No!’ said Daisy with more emphasis than she intended. ‘I’m a friend of Anne Bretton’s.’

‘My little sister, Kitty,’ Gillespie said condescendingly. ‘With any luck she’ll learn a few manners before she leaves school. This is Miss Dalrymple, Kitten.’

‘Don’t call me Kitten!’

‘Then pull in your claws.’

Pulling a face at her brother, Kitty Gillespie turned her back on him. ‘Howjerdo, Miss Dalrymple,’ she said rapidly, then addressed Bretton. ‘Cousin Harold, Daddy told me to
find you. He wants to talk to you about Great-Uncle Albert’s will.’

‘A fat lot of good that’ll do him. I haven’t the foggiest who’s his heir, any more than anyone else.’ Nonetheless, Bretton departed.

Kitty at once took his seat. ‘Hallo, young Tabiffa. Who is your friend?’

‘It’s B’linda.’ Tabitha, relaxing as her father left, now moved closer to Kitty and clutched her arm. ‘Have you got any sweeties?’

‘Not here. They’re in my coat pocket.’ She and Belinda regarded each other with interest ‘Are you traveling with Miss Dalrymple?’ Kitty wanted to know.

‘Yes,’ said Belinda guardedly. ‘Sort of.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t be a Nosey Parker,’ Jeremy Gillespie advised her.

‘It’s good practice. I’ll have to be nosy when I’m a reporter.’

‘Ha! You know perfectly well the parents will never let you get a job.’

‘I’ll probably have to, since it looks as if Gruncle Alistair is going to die before Gruncle Albert,’ Kitty pointed out ‘Anyway, I’m not like you. I
want
to
work.’

‘Good for you,’ said Daisy, who had listened with amusement to the would-be ladykiller squabbling with his little sister.

He saw her amusement and flushed. It must be difficult carrying on clandestine flirtations when his fair skin coloured so readily. ‘I’d better go and see what that ass Bretton and
the pater are saying to each other,’ he said with dignity, and he went off.

Kitty turned eagerly to Daisy. ‘You don’t think it’s wrong for a lady to work, do you, Miss Dalrymple?’

‘I work myself. I write, as you want to, but for magazines, not newspapers. I’m a journalist rather than a reporter.’

‘I wouldn’t mind that. Or I might be a nurse, then I could help Judith take care of my brother Raymond. He’s got shell-shock, you see, from the War, so he can’t get a
decent job, and Judith’s a silly flapper, with no idea how to do anything practical. But he’s in love with her so I think he’ll be happiest if they get married, don’t
you?’

‘Perhaps,’ Daisy said cautiously.

‘I do want him to be happy. He’s my best brother by miles. He’s the nearest my age, though he’s ten years older than me, and he never bossed me around or teased me like
Jeremy and George. Well, hardly ever. Not,’ she hastened to add, ‘that I’m not sorry George died in the War.’

Daisy assured her she quite understood. ‘My brother used to tease, and try to boss me,’ she said, ‘but I still miss him frightfully.’

‘He was killed in the War, too? I can’t exactly say I
miss
George,’ Kitty candidly admitted.

‘I miss my Mummy sometimes,’ Belinda said in a woebe-gone little voice. ‘She died of flu when I was four.’

‘So did my father,’ Daisy told her, pushing up the folding arm-rest and patting the seat at her side. Belinda slipped across and nestled beside her. ‘In the flu epidemic, that
is, not when I was four. But what a fearfully depressing subject. Tell me, Kitty, what makes you think you’d like to be a reporter?’

‘I get jolly good marks in English, and writing a book would take much too long. I don’t really care what I do, though, as long as it’s interesting. I wish I was a man, they
can do anything.’

‘Just about.’

‘Jeremy works for a shipping company. He wanted to stop at the end of the War – he has flat feet so he couldn’t be a soldier – and he’s still mad as fire that he
has to go on working because Daddy lost lots of money.
I
don’t mind. I think it’ll be fun being a reporter.’ Turning to Belinda, she asked in a stern tone more suited to a
cross-examining barrister than a newshound, ‘What did you mean when you said you’re
sort of
traveling with Miss Dalrymple?’

‘I stowed away,’ Belinda confessed.

Kitty gawked. ‘Golly,’ she breathed, ‘did you really? Tell me all about it!’ She swung over to sit next to Belinda.

Left alone on the opposite seat, Tabitha opened her mouth wide to protest. A preliminary squawk was cut short when her mother returned, sans Baby, to Daisy’s relief.

‘Sorry I’ve been so long,’ Anne apologised. ‘Mother saw me pass and called me in. She agrees Grandfather’s most likely to bequeath the money directly to Baby, but
Father’s being difficult. He wants to try to talk Grandfather into leaving it to Mother. Harold says if we don’t all try for the same result, we won’t get anywhere.’

‘I should think he’s right as far as Alistair McGowan is concerned,’ Daisy agreed. ‘The baby’s the only new factor, after all. But if he won’t change his will
in his namesake’s favour, Albert might be more easily persuaded to leave at least part of the family fortune to your mother rather than your son. A niece is closer than a
great-great-nephew.’

‘Oh, Uncle Albert! I don’t believe the selfish beast has the slightest spark of family feeling. Uncle Peter’s found out he’s leaving the lot to that ghastly little
Indian. All very well when it was nothing but his flat and his bits and pieces – though what a savage wants with a London flat is beyond me – but to let a rank outsider get his grubby
hands on the McGowan fortune is more than a bit thick!’