Authors: Carola Dunn

The Winter Garden Mystery (16 page)

BOOK: The Winter Garden Mystery

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A pair of moderately prosperous farmers in country tweeds and leggings nodded to him and returned to a discussion of the prospective
price of spring lamb. A man seated alone at the bar ignored him after a glance. A middle-aged couple sitting by the fire answered his greeting. He recognized them as the Taylors, proprietors of the Village Store where he had replenished his tobacco pouch.

“What will you have?” he asked them genially.

After consulting her husband with a doubtful look, Mrs. Taylor said, “I wouldn't say no to a sherry, Chief Inspector. Just a small one, mind, and thank you kindly.”

“The name's Fletcher. What's yours?”

“Half of bitter, thanks, Mr. Fletcher.”

The improbably blond barmaid came through from the public, which shared the long bar-counter. He gave his order and carried the two tankards and a glass over to the Taylors' table.

They proved friendly, perfectly willing to talk about the murder, but quite unable to help. Their custom was to call in at the Cheshire Cheese for a drop before dinner (no proletarian tea for the Taylors). They very seldom came back later, preferring to listen to the wireless when there was not stock-taking or accounts to be dealt with. On the evening of December 13, as usual on a Wednesday, they had been in the shop restocking shelves, but the blinds had been down and they had seen nothing in the street.

“It's no picnic running the only shop in the village,” said Mr. Taylor impressively. “People expect to find everything under the sun, and then there's the Post Office, too. Well, we'd best be off, Doreen. Take my word for it, Mr. Fletcher, you're wasting your time. It was the Welshman did it.”

Alec had much the same result from the less amicable farmers and the solitary fellow at the bar, a clerk who worked in Whitbury and lived with his parents in Occleswich. Three or four others came and went without adding to his store of information.

“Likely you'll do better after you've ate, sir,” the barmaid told him when she summoned him to dinner. “There's them as comes in early and them as comes in late.”

“And never the twain shall meet,” Alec said resignedly. “Perhaps
you can help me with a couple more points, Rita. I know you wouldn't have seen anything outside, but did you notice whether anyone left at the same time as Grace, or thereabouts?”

“I couldn't say, sir, I'm sure. There was people coming and going same as usual, and I only noticed Grace âcos she gen'rally stayed till closing.”

“Did her father come in at all?”

“Don't think so, sir, though I wouldn't swear to it.”

That agreed with the local police report. Moss told Dunnett he came home late; Grace had left his tea in the oven and he did not see her.

“What about the commercial traveller? He was a stranger and supposed to be staying here, so you might have been aware of his movements. When did he leave the bar?”

“Oh, yes, he did stay till closing, I 'member that. He were knocking back the whisky like water. After Grace went off, he talked to some others, but he kept taking out his watch. It seemed a bit odd to me, seeing he'd booked a room. Must've been after the bars closed he picked up his bags and scarpered. I were cleaning up and I din't see him again.”

“Do you by any chance recall who else he talked to?”

Rita's eyes went blank as she thought. “No, sir, I'm that sorry.”

“Never mind, you've been a great help.”

“Well, sir, if it weren't Owen Morgan done it, I'm sure I hopes you catches whoever it were, or we're none of us safe in our beds.”

As Alec crossed the lobby to the dining room, Petrie came down the stairs in his dinner-jacket. Probably Petrie, as was rumoured of his class, would dress for dinner in a clearing in the jungle, whereas Alec hadn't even brought his dinner-jacket with him to the wilds of Cheshire. He suddenly felt underdressed, but after all he was dining with Piper, who undoubtedly didn't even own such esoteric garb.

“Hullo, Fletcher,” Petrie greeted him. “Heading for the old feeding trough? Mind if I join you?”

“I'd be delighted, except that my young officer may have a report to deliver while we eat.”

“Right-oh. Don't want to butt in, old man.” But Petrie looked disappointed. He was a sociable chap, and pleasant enough when he forgot to stand on the dignity of his father's rank.

With a touch of malice, Alec decided to see whether the Honourable Phillip would decline to dine with a mere constable. “Here comes Piper now,” he said, turning at the sound of footsteps behind him. “If his luck was as bad as mine and he has nothing to tell me, you're welcome to sit with us.”

Petrie's dismay was obvious, but he rallied and said stoutly, “Jolly good. I say, young fellow, anything to report?”

Piper's mouth dropped open. “N-no, sir,” he stammered, then turned gloomily to Alec. “I mean, no, sir, I didn't get nothing useful. The ones as come in early, they're the ones as is hen-pecked, as you might say. They stops by for their pint afore their tea acos once they've gone home, they're not let out again, so they wasn't here when Grace was.”

Alec laughed. “I drew a blank, too,” he consoled. “With luck we'll do better after dinner. I'd really rather not have to do a house-to-house.”

They went into the dining room. At first Piper was a bit overawed by their dinner-jacketed companion, but when Petrie started talking about football and cricket, he joined in eagerly. In fact, he knew far more about sport than did Alec, who was left to enjoy his meal in peace.

Afterwards, Petrie accompanied Alec to the bar-parlour. “A sound chap, that constable of yours,” he said, as they made their way to the bar. The room was now too full for their arrival to create a hush. “What are you drinking, old man?”

“Allow me,” Alec said. “Tonight's on expenses. All I have to do is point out to my Super that a few rounds come cheaper than overtime for a horde of uniformed locals knocking on doors.”

“B-and-s, then. Thanks, old chap. Don't worry, I shan't get in the way of your enquiries.”

But Alec's enquiries, though watered by several rounds, still failed to bear fruit. Everyone denied having noticed the movements of either Grace or George Brown, let alone having spoken with the traveller. Nor had they seen anyone in the street other than the cronies with whom they had left the pub. None of them even claimed to have seen the despised Welshman.

By half-past nine, Alec was resigned to a wasted evening. Having made a pint of stout last till then, he ordered a whisky from the landlordâas unobservant as any of his customersâwho had joined Rita behind the bar. Glass in hand he turned to survey the room, hoping to spot someone he hadn't yet spoken to.

Then Daisy walked in, with Ben Goodman limping after her.

From her face Alec knew at once that she had news, and that from her point of view it was bad news. And what the deuce did she mean by going out alone with one of the suspects? Had she no common sense whatsoever?

Throughout a sombre dinner at the Hall, Daisy had been wondering how to convey her news to Alec without broadcasting it via the telephone operator. She suspected he'd be less than pleased if she delayed until the morning. Of course, having proclaimed her right to stay unaccompanied at the inn, she could hardly cavil at entering the place alone. It was the walk down to the village in the dark she didn't look forward to. After all, a girl had been killed out there quite recently. Bobbie's unexplained absence didn't prove Bobbie had done the foul deed. Some maniac might be lying in wait for another victim.

Alec himself had warned her to be careful.

She was still trying to decide whether to telephone or risk the walk when Ben announced his need for exercise.

“I've been cooped up all day,” he said. “Do you want to pop down to the Cheese with me for half an hour, Sebastian?”

“How thoughtless of you,” said Lady Valeria coldly. “You can't imagine the dear boy chooses to expose himself to the vulgar curiosity of the yokels. Sebastian, why don't you put a record on the gramophone. We haven't listened to any music in a long time.”

“All right, Mater,” Sebastian said without enthusiasm.

Daisy jumped up. “I'll go with you, Ben. I'll just fetch my coat. I shan't be a moment. You'll excuse me, Lady Valeria.”

“Naturally I cannot control your movements, Miss Dalrymple.” Her ladyship's censorious voice followed Daisy to the door. “Such odd behaviour, these modern girls.”

Bloody cheek, thought Daisy, when her own daughter had just cleared out on the arrival of Scotland Yard.

As she and Ben left the house, he smilingly apologized. “I ought to have invited you, as well as Sebastian, to go with me. I'd forgotten you modern girls refuse to be limited as were the young ladies of my youth. You must think me a frightful old fogy.”

“Not at all. I'm afraid you'll think me a frightful traitor. You see, the reason I want to go to the inn is to tell Mr. Fletcher about Bobbie going missing.”

“Missing? Lady Valeria just said we wouldn't wait for her as she might be late. By Jove, you don't suppose she's been mur â¦ . No, that wouldn't make you a traitor.”

“She wrote a note to her mother. She left of her own accord and couldn't say when she'd return.”

“So you think she's lying low, hiding from the police? You can't believe she's a murderer!”

“I don't want to. It's possible she knows something she doesn't want to tell, isn't it?”

“Something about Sebastian,” Ben said dully.

“Or Lady Valeria.” Daisy realized she was hurrying her pace as they passed the Winter Garden, and Ben was having trouble keeping up with her. She slowed down. “This whole affair is so beastly.”

“I imagine murder is always beastly. You're perfectly justified in telling the police anything which might help them find the killer, and
Bobbie's absence could hardly be kept from them for long anyway. You need not feel treacherous.”

“Thank you, Ben,” she said, reassured. “At least I know Mr. Fletcher won't jump to conclusions as the dreadful Dimwit did.”

“You know the Chief Inspector pretty well, don't you?”

“Yes, rather.”

“He's not quite what one expects of the police, not that I've ever come across the upper echelons of Scotland Yard before. But he struck me as well educated, not your narrow-minded guardian of the law.”

“He's a gentleman,” said Daisy in hot defence of Alec. “He may not have gone to Eton and Oxford, but he has a degree in history from Manchester University. I dare say he knows as much about eighteenth-century England as you do about ancient Greece.”

She heard the smile in his voice. “I expect he does, and all about detecting crime, into the bargain. He's young to be a Chief Inspector, isn't he?”

“I can't say I'm acquainted with many police officers, but he's much younger than the Dimwit, who's only an Inspector.”

“You'd better stop using that name for Inspector Dunnett,” Ben advised, laughing as he opened the wicket-gate in the park wall. “You might call him Dimwit to his face by accident.”

“I hope I never meet him again,” said Daisy, passing through into the lane, “but if I ever do address him as Dimwit, it won't be by accident!”

She glanced at the smithy as they passed. A light flickered in the downstairs window next to the forge itself. Presumably Stan Moss was at home, not at the pub, and she was glad of it. She ought to feel sorry for the bereaved father, but after seeing him threaten Owen she found him more alarming than pitiable.

Before they reached the Cheshire Cheese, the street door of the public bar at the front opened as someone went in. They heard a cheerful hubbub of voices. Ben ushered her past and through the lobby to the bar-parlour at the back.

Alec stood with his back to the bar. He saw her at once and smiled. Then his smile turned to a frown. He came to meet them.

With a curt nod to Ben, he said to Daisy, “What's the matter?”

“I have to talk to you.” She glanced around the crowded room.

“Not in here. We'll go to the dining room. It should be empty. I'd like a word with you later, Mr. Goodman.”

“I'm at your service, Chief Inspector.” Ben looked exhausted. Daisy wondered whether his desire to walk down to the village was due more to a wish to escape the Hall for a while than to a need for exercise.

Phillip joined them. “What-ho, Daisy, Goodman.”

“Hullo. I'm just going to the dining room to talk to Mr. Fletcher.”

“I'll come with you,” said Phillip promptly.

“Don't be an ass, Phil. I
don't
need a chaperon, nor a protector. We'll only be a couple of minutes.”

BOOK: The Winter Garden Mystery

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