Authors: Carola Dunn

The Winter Garden Mystery (10 page)

BOOK: The Winter Garden Mystery

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Perhaps she had caught wind of the local constable's enquiries about the commercial traveller. She might hope for information which would exculpate her brotherâexcept that she had no way of
knowing anyone suspected him. Or she herself might suspect him and hope to suppress damning information.

Or she might have killed Grace to protect him.

Daisy shivered. Maybe Phillip was right and one ought to let well alone. But all was not well, she reminded herself sternly. A girl had been brutally murdered and an innocent man was in prison.

She squared her shoulders and reluctantly went down to tea. Everyone except Sir Reginald had gathered in the Yellow Parlour. No stranger dropping in could conceivably have guessed that a human body had been dug up in the garden two days ago.

Lady Valeria and Bobbie continued to talk about the Girl GuidesâDaisy gathered Bobbie was a troop leader and Lady Valeria, naturally, headed some committee. Sebastian and Ben were in high spirits. They had been reading together about ruins on some of the smaller Greek islands whose archaeological significance had not yet been investigated.

“Even Ithaca has scarcely been touched,” Sebastian told Daisy enthusiastically. “Schliemann only dug a trench or two. Think of it, Ulysses' own home!”

“âIt little profits that an idle king,'” Daisy quoted, trying not to think of trench-digging, “âBy this still hearth, among these barren crags â¦ .' It's amazing how a poem learnt by heart years ago sticks in one's mind. I always liked that one.”

“Tennyson's sequel to Homer,” said Ben, grinning.

“Oh, Tennyson be blowed.” Sebastian dismissed the late Poet Laureate with a wave of the hand. “I don't suppose he ever actually saw the barren crags, or even set foot in Greece.”

“If you like, Sebastian,” said his mother indulgently, “we might consider going to Corfu next winter instead of the Riviera. I believe it's quite civilized.”

“That would be a nice change, Mater,” Sebastian said in a colourless voice, and exchanged a glance with Ben. Daisy presumed there was little or no chance of Lady Valeria agreeing to take the secretary with them.

However stunning, Sebastian could not be described as resolute or strong-willed. Was she crazy to think he might have murdered Grace? No; though she simply could not imagine him planning so dire a deed, in a fit of temperâon the spur of the momentâanything was possible.

After tea, he challenged her to a game of backgammon. She hadn't played for some time, and when she went astray he reminded her of the rules with such charming good humour that she was overcome with guilt at the prospect of setting Alec onto him.

Then he chivalrously let her win, which so annoyed her that she went up to change quite at loggerheads with him.

Phillip was not the only guest at dinner. Lady Valeria had also invited Lord and Lady Bristow, an elderly couple whose estate adjoined Occles Hall, and their middle-aged spinster daughter. Not by a word did any of the three indicate an awareness of the recent shocking events. With four outsiders present, everyone had on their social faces, and Daisy was amazed at the banality of the occasion.

Miss Bristow, for one, was never at a loss for a word. Addicted to good works, she was both garrulous and sanctimonious. Seated beside her at the table, Ben Goodman listened with admirable courtesy and patience, but he couldn't quite hide his relief when Bobbie claimed his attention. Miss Bristow addressed Sir Reginald, on her other side, and Daisy saw his eyes glaze as the flood washed over him.

Meanwhile, poor Phillip was undergoing interrogation by Lady Valeria, on his family, his schooling, and his prospects. She didn't seem to recall her row with his mother, but doubtless it had been nothing out of the ordinary for her. Nor, somewhat to Daisy's surprise, did she demand his reason for staying in Occleswich. Either she assumed he had an understanding with Daisy, or she was afraid the murder had something to do with it.

Good manners and an easy temper carried him through, but when he was able to turn back to Daisy, she had a distinct impression that he would have liked to wipe his forehead.

“Was there a Greek monster who melted her victims into a little puddle?” he asked in an undertone.

“Ask Ben, he's the expert. The nearest I know of is Phoebus, the sun god, who could be said to have melted the wax in Icarus' wings.”

“I remember that story,” said Phillip, pleased.

After dinner, following Lady Valeria and the Bristow ladies to the drawing room, Bobbie whispered to Daisy, “You really don't want to marry Mr. Petrie? You and he get on so well together. If I were you, I'd snap him up.”

“Why don't you try?”

“Oh no, I didn't mean that. It's just that every time I see Miss Bristow, I can picture myself ending up exactly the same.”

“She seems quite happy,” said Daisy dubiously. She was sure she herself would never turn into a Miss Bristow, even if she never married, but if she'd been forced to live with her mother she might have. And if she'd stayed at Fairacres when those worthy, well-meaning fossils Edgar and Geraldine moved in, it would have been practically inevitable. Frightful thought!

The rest of the evening was decorously dull. Phillip discovered mutual Army acquaintances with Ben, but he buzzed off as early as he decently could and the Bristows did not long outstay him. Daisy was about to bid the others good-night and go up to bed when Moody plodded in to say Mr. Petrie wished to speak to her on the telephone.

She made her way to the Long Gallery. Could he have come across a clue? Or perhaps after meeting Lady Valeria he had decided to flee Occleswich at daybreak, she thought, shutting the phone cubby door behind her. Much as she had resented his arrival, she'd really rather like him to stay.

“Phillip? What's up?”

“A friend of yours has arrived, old bean. It'll be all over the county by morning but he asked me to put through the call so as not to wise up the natives betimes. Here he is.”

Daisy smiled. However much Phillip resented Alec, he'd do as the detective asked.

“Miss Dalrymple?” The sound of his tired voice was infinitely reassuring.

“Good evening, Mr. Fletcher. Since you're here, I take it I did the right thing in squawking for help?”

“I certainly hope so. But I still know very little of your reasons. I'd like to talk to you before I see the big chief tomorrow. Can you come down to the inn early?”

“Eight o'clock? I'll join you for breakfast. I
am
glad you've come.” Let him take that professionally or personally, whichever he preferred.

She hung up. Was it Vi who had told her no woman should consider marrying a man whose behaviour at the breakfast table she had never observed? Usually a house-party took care of that, but Alec was not likely to be invited to any house-party.

Not that she was considering marrying him. It was entirely Bobbie's fault the thought had even crossed her mind. She promptly banished it and instead considered what she was going to tell him tomorrow.

The awful truth was, she had nothing but intuition to explain her belief that Owen Morgan was not a murderer.

U
nder a pillar-box red umbrella, Daisy walked down to the Cheshire Cheese next morning. In the rain the village wasn't half so picturesque. In fact the forced sameness of the cottages gave it a rather sterile air, although more people were about, despite the rain, than there had been on Whitbury market day. An occasional roof of tile or thatch instead of slate, a row of leeks in a front garden, even an intrusive building of Georgian brick would have been welcome. At least the inn's half-timbering was genuine, of the same period as the Hall, to judge by the crooked beams, the wavering roofline, and the step down into the lobby.

Closing her umbrella as she stepped down, Daisy heard the church clock strike eight. Dead on time. A professional start to the interview the prospect of which was making her ridiculously nervous. She touched her coat pocket where reposed a sheaf of papers.

Alec and Phillip, crisp, dark hair and sleek blond, were already seated together at a table in the small dining room. Poor Phillip looked distinctly ill at ease. No doubt Daisy's friendship with Alec had put him in an awkward situation, making it difficult to treat the detective as a distant and far from desirable acquaintance.

Only one of the other three tables was occupied, by a thin, slightly shabby man of a type Daisy instantly recognized as all too common in
Chelsea. Artistically dishevelled hair worn a bit too long, a green corduroy jacket and a flowing cravat, the faraway, rapt look of one expecting imminent inspiration: he must be the poet Phillip had mentioned.

Seeing Daisy, Alec rose and pulled out a chair for her. Phillip stumbled to his feet, not only uneasy but still not quite awake. Alec, broader of shoulder though not so tall, was alert, his clear, observant grey eyes smiling at her as he bade her “Good-morning.”

Her nervousness vanished and she returned the smile as she sat down. “Good-morning, gentlemen.”

“I was going to fetch you in the car,” said Alec, “because of the rain, but Mr. Petrie explained that I'd probably miss you because of the shortcut to the village.”

“You would have. It's all right, it isn't the beastly kind of cold, windy rain which blows in under an umbrella. The walk has given me a terrific appetite.”

“They do a good breakfast here,” Phillip assured her, “though I don't usually get to it till an hour later.”

The peroxided girl who had showed her to the dining room came to take their orders. As she left, Daisy said to Alec, “Isn't Mr. Tring with you?” She bit back a giggle as she imagined Phillip's face had he been forced to breakfast with the vast sergeant.

“Tom'll be joining me later. Ernie Piper's eating in the kitchen and â¦ er â¦ gossiping.” With a slight movement of his head, Alec indicated the poet. “But no business till after breakfast,” he said firmly.

“By George, no,” Phillip agreed. “In fact, unless you want me to stick around, Daisy, I'll see if I can borrow a pair of dungarees and have a go at the old bus. She was making a dashed sinister noise when I drove down from the Hall last night.”

“She always does.”

“A new noise,” he said with dignity.

“You do your own mechanical work?” Alec asked, surprised. He confessed that his Austin Seven was serviced by the police motor-pool
mechanics, fortunately, as he had no mechanical aptitude. Not that he had had any trouble with it yet; it was only a few months old. Nonetheless he appeared happy to spend the rest of the meal discussing the quirks of the internal combustion engine and its various ancillary attachments. Daisy was bored stiff, but she observed Alec's low opinion of Phillip rising a notch or two.

The poet left as Daisy bagged the last slice of toast from the toast rack and finished off the marmalade. “I'll order some more,” she said guiltily.

“Not for me,” said Phillip. “It's stopped raining. I'll buzz along now, if you don't need me.”

He addressed Daisy, but Alec answered. “Not at present, but don't leave Occleswich without letting me know, please. It's possible you may be able to confirm some of Miss Dalrymple's report.”

“Not me!” Phillip hastily demurred. “I mean, I don't know anything about the bally murder, but I shan't skedaddle. Toodle-oo for now, then.”

He left, and the girl came in to clear the table. Alec asked if they could use the room to discuss some business, and when she agreed he ordered more tea for Daisy and coffee for himself.

Daisy gave him her papers. “I typed it all out,” she said, “so I wouldn't forget anything.”

“Splendid. Do you mind if I smoke while I read?”

“Your pipe? Not at all, as long as you don't mind my spelling.”

He grinned, reaching into his pocket for pipe and tobacco pouch. “Not at all.”

“I didn't worry about spelling because I thought it was more important to make sure I wrote down absolutely everything which might be relevant, and I was up till one doing it anyway.”

With a nod of approval, Alec flattened the papers on the table in front of him and started reading while he filled his pipe. The fragrance of fresh tobacco wafted to Daisy's nose. It was a pity people insisted on burning the stuff when it smelled so much better unburnt. The pouch was embroidered in blue with a crooked “A.F.” Belinda's
work, she guessed. Would Alec's daughter like her when they met?

Sipping tea, she watched him as he read, intent on her words, oblivious of her presence. Though the pipe went out after producing a few curls of blue smoke, he kept it clenched between his teeth while making occasional marks in the margins of the report with his fountain-pen. His face was set in stern lines and he frowned once or twice. Cool and competent, he was all policeman now.

He finished the last page. Straightening the papers, he said seriously, “You were right to call me in. You haven't got anything definite here, but quite enough to make me wonder why the deuce Inspector Dunnett is ignoring it.”

“Don't blame him too much until you've met Lady Valeria.”

His mouth tightened. “Whatever she's like, it's no excuse for a policeman neglecting his duty, let alone for wrongful arrest. You do realize though, don't you, that while there appears to be no real evidence against Morgan, nor is there any to clear him?”

“I know, but we'll find something.”

“We? Daisy, you are absolutely not to interfere in this case.”

“I shan't interfere, I'll only help. You must admit it's quite different from last time. I have no sympathy for whoever murdered an innocent young girl.”

“Innocent?” he said dryly. “She was unmarried and pregnant, with at least two possible fathers for the child.”

“Oh, Alec, don't be a prude. She didn't do anyone but herself any harm.”

“On the contrary.” His lips twitched. “She gave more than one person a lot of pleasure.”

“And don't be coarse!” Daisy said severely.

“I beg your pardon.” His voice was grave but those grey eyes laughed at her. Then he sobered and leafed through the papers. “I have one or two questions. First, who, besides Mr. Goodman, knew you were interested in the Winter Garden?”

Daisy thought back. “The subject came up at breakfast. Bobbie was there, and Sebastian.”

“Neither of them, nor Goodman, made any attempt to dissuade you from visiting it?”

“No, but it would have looked awfully odd if they had, unless all three were in it together. Wait, Sebastian came in later. I'm sure we talked about the gardens in general in his presenceâI refused an invitation to ride with him because I wanted to take advantage of the sunshineâbut I can't swear to mentioning the Winter Garden specifically.”

Alec made a note. “Now, Owen Morgan. It's a bit strange he should make a point of telling you about his girlfriend, that he wanted to marry her but she had deserted him.”

“It's not strange at all. He sounds very Welsh, you know. I asked him where he came from, which led to his family, which led to his being lonely here, which led quite naturally to the missing sweetheart.”

“I see. Well, I must interview him as soon as I've made my bow to the C.C. and my peace with the local coppers.”

“Can you get him out of prison?”

“Probably. But he might be better off staying there.” He flipped through her report. “You say here the girl's father threatened him.”

“Because he thought Owen was the murderer.”

“Even if he's released, he'll still be under suspicion. Anyway, that's not a decision I can make until I've seen him.” Consulting his wristwatch, Alec pushed back his chair. “I must go, I have an appointment with the C.C. in Chester.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot. Ben took some photos with my camera of the body in the trench.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the memory. “It seemed like a good idea. I don't suppose they'll show anything useful but if you want to pick them up in Chester, here's the receipt. Don't lose my pictures on the same roll.”

“I shouldn't dare.” He pocketed the slip of paper. “Thanks. Unless something unexpected comes up, I'll see you this afternoon at Occles Hall. Daisy, you've done a good job but
don't
go asking questions while I'm gone. You never know what you might stir up.”

“All right, I won't, if you promise not to cut me out of your investigation altogether.”

Alec sighed and shook his head. “I'll keep you abreast of things,” he said, “though I ought to be hanged for it.”

Alec fetched his young constable, Piper, from the kitchen and they went out to the gravelled yard at the back of the inn. Petrie was flat on his back under his aging silver-grey Swift, invisible but for two long legs in oil-stained blue dungarees too short for them.

“Found the trouble?” Alec asked, striking a match and cupping his hands around the bowl of his pipe in an effort to relight it.

“I think so.” Petrie wriggled out, his hands filthy, a smear of oil on one cheek, and wisps of his usually slick hair sticking up all over. Alec liked him the better for his dishevelment. “There's a nut fallen off,” he said, sitting up. “I hope Moss will have one that fits.”

“Moss at the forge? The bereaved father?”

“Yes, he lent me these dungarees. A good egg. He's got a load of bloody rubbish up there, but he swears he knows exactly where to find all the bits that might turn out to be useful.”

“Good luck. You won't talk to him about anything to do with the case, will you? But if he should start on it, you might listen and remember.”

Petrie began to scowl, then changed his mind and grinned. “All right, Chief Inspector. At least it's good to know I'm not on your list of suspects this time.”

“You never seriously were, you know. Miss Dalrymple was quite convinced of your innocence, and Miss Dalrymple's convictions are damned persuasive.”

“They are, aren't they?” Petrie agreed.

Alec drove to Chester. The Austin Chummy bowled happily along the country lanes at a steady thirty-five miles an hour while Ernie Piper reported on the Cheshire Cheese's kitchen gossip.

Most of what the young detective constable had heard merely confirmed already known facts about the commercial traveller: Daisy's
account of what Petrie had learned in the bar, plus the Occleswich constable's findings as passed on by his superiors to the Met.

“That's not all, though, Chief,” Piper announced importantly. “I found out why this here George Brown was in Occleswich even though he weren't trying to sell to the Village Store. He told the barmaid he'd been doing business in Whitbury, the market town. Summun there told him the village was worth a look and the Cheshire Cheese was a good place to stay, so he decided to try it, being headed this d'rection anyways.”

“Well done! I'll ask the local people to make enquiries in Whitbury. The town can't be very big, compared with London at least, so you may have saved the sergeant a lot of work.”

Piper's thin chest swelled with pride. “There's more, Chief. Seems he'd took a room for the night but he didn't stay, which is why they all thought the girl had hopped it with him. So what I reckon is, he done her in and then scarpered.”

“It's a nice theory, except that he was a stranger in these parts. How would he have known the Winter Garden was there to bury her in?”

“Oh.”

Alec glanced at Piper's crestfallen face and consoled him. “It's not inconceivable. I shan't dismiss the possibility that he may have visited Occles Hall at some time for some reason.”

“Only then he'd've knowed about the village being pretty,” said Piper gloomily.

“Probably. Just remember, in detective work recognizing the holes in your own theories is as important as coming up with them in the first place.”

BOOK: The Winter Garden Mystery

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