The Winter Garden Mystery (17 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: The Winter Garden Mystery
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As she and Alec left, she heard Phillip asking Ben, “What's yours, old chap?”
Alec closed the dining-room door behind them. “What is it?” he asked, taking down two of the chairs which had been up-ended on the tables to facilitate sweeping the floor.
“Bobbie.” Daisy sat down and told him about overhearing Lady Valeria reading her daughter's note. “I feel utterly despicable eavesdropping and tale-bearing,” she finished, “but I thought you ought to know.”
“You're quite right, it's definitely fishy. I'll put out a general call to keep an eye out for her, but not to stop her unless she tries to leave the country. Describe her, please.” He took out his notebook.
“I can do better than that. I pinched this photo.” She produced a shot of Bobbie in the centre of a group of Girl Guides, abstracted from Bobbie's room when she went to get her coat. “This was the most recent I could find. She's taller than me, blue eyes. Alec, if you're not going to tell them to stop her, that means you don't necessarily think she's the murderer, doesn't it?”
“Not necessarily. After all, since she was already gone, I hadn't
actually requested that she inform me before leaving the area. I take it you don't believe she's our villain?”
“No, I
can't
believe it.”
Alec glared at her and said in a biting voice, “In which case, with the murderer still at large and nearby, what the dickens did you think you were doing going out alone at night with Goodman?”
“Ben?” Daisy stared in astonishment. “I'm safe with Ben, of all people!”
“We can't be sure of that. Piper dug up a possible motive.”
“Not Ben!” Her eyes filled with tears. “This is a
beastly
business!”
He took her hand in a warm clasp. “Go back to London, Daisy, won't you?”
“No,” she said stubbornly. “I'll see it through.”
Sighing, he passed her his spare handkerchief. “Then for pity's sake at least take elementary precautions, you little idiot!”
A
lec watched with fond exasperation as Daisy blotted her eyes and turned on him an indignant gaze.
“I'm not quite an idiot. Everyone at the Hall knew I was going with Ben, so he wouldn't be so stupid as to try anything. Anyway, I'm sure I'm at least as strong as he is. In fact, I don't believe he could have carried Grace to the garden, let alone dug a hole and buried her.”
“From the path outside he might have dragged her, and a well-prepared garden bed is comparatively easy to dig, not like undisturbed soil. Besides, he might have had help.”
“He's the secretary, not a member of the family, remember. What's his motive supposed to be?”
“He was seen talking seriously to Grace, a week or so before her death. She laughed at him and ran away. A man whose advances are ridiculed by a girl known to be … no better than she should be has to join the list of suspects.”
Daisy bit her lip. “Ben's not like that.”
Alec felt a flash of jealousy. “You hardly know him,” he pointed out tersely.
“I know he's kind and sympathetic.”
There it was again, that hint of a sorrow in her past, which she had never confided to him but had apparently revealed to Ben Goodman—Goodman, who was of her class despite his menial position. Alec's jealousy intensified and he struggled to subdue it.
“There may well be nothing in it,” he conceded, “but I have to talk to him.”
“Yes, of course. But you must admit, under those circumstances Grace wouldn't have agreed to meet him, and he's not well enough to lurk about waiting for her on a winter's night, however mild.”
“He walked down tonight, didn't he? You really shouldn't have risked coming down alone in the dark with him. If you had telephoned, I'd have driven up there.”
“Oh Alec, I didn't even think of that! I was so determined not to let the switchboard girl know Bobbie was missing. Yes, Ben did walk down tonight, but he is fearfully tired, I'm afraid. Would you mind driving us back? I'd ask Phillip, only his car is a frightful squeeze with three.”
“I'll take you, provided Goodman doesn't confess within the next few minutes.” He started to stand up.
Daisy clutched his arm. “You haven't told me what else Ernie found out from the servants!”
“Very little. They all seem to stick pretty close to their own quarters after dinner.”
“Servants expect to be treated like human beings these days. Mother's always complaining that hers have the nerve to demand more than a half day off once a month. Didn't you learn
anything
from them?”
Succumbing, as usual, to the appeal in her blue eyes, Alec told her what little Piper had found out. “He didn't get around to seeing the chauffeur,” he finished, “so we don't know whether a car was out that night. Do you happen to know how many motors the Parslows own?”
“A Daimler and a Morris. Bobbie and Sebastian both drive the
Morris, but I don't think either of them goes anywhere very often.”
Alec sat up. “Bobbie—Miss Parslow
has
gone somewhere. Did she take the car?”
“I've not the foggiest.”
“Dash it, I'll have to ring up and ask the chauffeur before I send out a description. I'm afraid your switchboard girl is soon going to know all there is to know.”
“Inevitable.” Daisy sighed. “At least I tried.”
She returned to the bar-parlour while Alec went to the telephone.
Moody was at length persuaded to fetch the chauffeur, Brady, to the telephone. Alec didn't ask about December 13, but he found out that Miss Parslow was indeed driving the Morris, a blue, bull-nosed “Oxford,” of which there were hundreds on the roads. He wrote down the number-plate, rang up Scotland Yard, and ordered a description of car and driver to be circulated to all police forces. He was well aware, though, that if Miss Parslow stuck to country lanes or had gone to earth at a friend's country home she'd be very hard to find.
Could she be the murderer? He'd had no opportunity to judge for himself. According to Daisy she was strong enough, and protective enough of her brother to provide a motive. Nor was Daisy anywhere near so convinced of her innocence as she was of Goodman's.
If Miss Parslow hadn't turned up by Sunday night, he decided, he'd have her detained if found, not merely watched. But he hadn't nearly enough evidence to justify ordering a full-scale hunt.
He went to find Ben Goodman.
Petrie and Goodman were deep in conversation over a couple of tankards. To Alec's surprise, Daisy wasn't with them. He scanned the room and saw her chatting with an elderly man in an old-fashioned knickerbocker suit who had the outdoor look of a smallholder. She saw him and waved him over.
“Mr. Fletcher, this is Ted Roper, proprietor of the station fly.”
“And me grandson drives a motor-lorry,” said Ted Roper with pride. His deepset eyes twinkled maliciously at Alec, who had already
talked to him without eliciting more than an “ar” or a “nay.”
“Mr. Roper was here when Grace was talking to the commercial traveller,” said Daisy.
“Just like her ma,” Roper said unexpectedly. “Runned off wi' an artist fella came to paint the village, Elsie Moss did. 'Cepting Grace didn't, seemingly.”
“Her mother ran away with an artist?” Alec sat down. Trust Daisy to get the close-mouthed old fellow chatting. “When was that, Mr. Roper?”
“'Bout when Gracie turned fourteen and left school, it'd be, old enough to look after her pa, any road. No one din't blame Elsie too much, mind. Stan Moss were always a cantankersome bugger, beggin' your pardon, miss. A flaming row they had, and Elsie up and walked out.”
“So that's why everyone was so sure Grace had gone off with Brown.” Alec had never been quite satisfied with the collective certainty. “Did you see Grace leave the pub?”
“Aye, that I did. Din't reckon nothing to it, then.”
“Did anyone else leave at the same time, or shortly after?”
“Not as I saw, sir. All alone, she were. Arterwards, us reckoned she went to pack up her bits and bobs and come back later to meet the fella.”
“Did you talk to the man, or see who did?”
“Not I.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Roper,” said Daisy coaxingly. “You told me which men he talked to, and I bet I can remember some of the names. Mr. Fletcher doesn't think any of your friends killed Grace, only that they may have heard something which will help him if the commercial did it. Don't you want him to catch the murderer? It could be your granddaughter next!”
“Now, now, missy,” Roper growled, “my girls be good girls.”
“I'm sure they are, but who's to say the murderer knows or cares? Until Mr. Fletcher works out who it was, he can't tell why he did it.”
“Perhaps Grace made someone angry by refusing him,” Alec suggested. Daisy frowned at the reference to Goodman's possible motive.
“Fair enough,” said Ted Roper reluctantly. “Them as talked to him was Walt Ferris, Ned Carney, Peter Jiggs, Albert Bartholomew.” He pointed out each man as he named them. “And Harry Middlecombe.”
Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all, Alec thought. “What a memory you have, Mr. Roper,” he said, slightly sceptical.
“Oh aye.” The old man preened, then admitted, “They han't none on 'em never stopped jawing 'bout it since.”
They hadn't jawed to Alec, though he'd already questioned four of the five. Hoping Roper's loquacity had broken the dam of silence, he excused himself and went to try the fifth, Peter Jiggs, who was Sir Reginald's chief dairyman.
Alec had met Jiggs briefly when he went to the dairy to see Sir Reginald. Asked not whether he'd spoken to Brown but what had been said, Jiggs scratched his head and thought the weather might have been mentioned. “Mild it were for December. Good for the pasture. Cows milk better on green stuff nor ever they do on fodder. Yon fella said it made his job easier, too, dashing all over in one o' they motor-cars.”
“Oh aye.” Ned Carney had drifted over to join them, no doubt having seen Ted Roper point him out to the detective. He met Alec's gaze with bland unconcern. “Fella told us a yarn ‘bout getting stuck in snow up Cumberland way. Took three horses to pull his motor out o' the drift.” He snickered.
“They get much more snow up in the hills than we do down here.” That was Albert Bartholomew, a young clerk with a job in Whitbury, a ploughman's son who had bettered himself. He had the grace to give Alec a sheepish look.
“Did he seem familiar with this area?” Alec asked.
The three men glanced at each other doubtfully.
“A Londoner, he were,” said Carney.
“Cheshire was part of his territory,” said Bartholomew, “and he liked to explore the countryside when he had time. He said village inns often did him better than fancy hotels. But I'm pretty sure he'd never been to Occleswich before.”
The other two shook their heads. “He were asking 'bout village fairs and such,” said Jiggs.
“He said he enjoyed quaint rural jollifications,” Bartholomew said distastefully.
“A Londoner, he were,” Carney repeated with scorn.
“What did you tell him?”
“Church bazaar.”
“Whitsun fete.”
“Bank holiday Open Day up at the Hall.”
“Harvest festival.”
“Someone said something about the old Winter Garden Open Day they used to have before the War,” said Bartholomew. “That's what you want to know, isn't it, Chief Inspector? Whether he knew about the Winter Garden?”
It was indeed. None of the three, nor the other two named by Roper, could recall what had been said about the Winter Garden, but there was a fair chance George Brown had known its rough whereabouts and that it was walled.
Perhaps he had in fact arranged to take Grace to London. She had gone up to the Hall to sneak in and fetch her belongings. Suppose he parked his motor by the wicket-gate and walked up the path to meet her … .
No, more likely he'd wait for her. She's late—delayed by a last effort to persuade Sebastian to marry her? Impatient, Brown walks up the path, meets her near the Winter Garden. They quarrel.
What did they quarrel about? Maybe she had changed her mind and was on her way to tell him. From what Alec had learned of her, it was the sort of thing she'd do rather than leave the fellow up in the
air. But he knew nothing of Brown's temperament, couldn't guess whether the commercial might be triggered to violence by his blighted hopes.
According to Rita he had been drinking heavily, which could also account for the murder weapon. Unsteady on his feet, he'd want a walking-stick to help him up the path. After his adventure in the snowdrift, he'd probably keep a hefty walking-stick in the car against future need—and a spade.
Brown collects his bags, drives up to the wicket-gate, gets fed up waiting in his car, walks up the path and meets Grace. Perhaps she even takes him into the Winter Garden to ensure privacy. She tells him she isn't going with him. As she turns away to hurry back to the Hall before the doors are locked—having decided to stay, she wouldn't want to risk being locked out—he hits her.
The timing was tight, but by no means impossible. Brown left the inn shortly after ten thirty; Moody locked up at the Hall at eleven thirty. Time enough, and once she was dead he had all the time in the world to bury her.
Thin motive, Alec thought. He'd have a better idea what was what once he'd seen Brown. Right now, Goodman was waiting for him.
While he worked out Brown's possible movements, the men had been arguing about precisely who said what. He asked them a few more questions, which they answered with apparent candour if unhelpfully. Everyone who had been at the Cheshire Cheese that December night had been debating it ever since the body was discovered. No one had seen anything worthy of note or they'd have told each other, if not the police.
Alec was about to buy his informants one last round when Carney said, “Yon fella never told us what he were a-selling of. I 'spect you'll know that, Chief Inspector?”
Alec pondered for a brief moment. Brown's job was hardly a secret and anyway the chances were excellent he'd never return to Occleswich. “He sells ready-to-wear corsets,” he informed them.
This was met with such delighted mirth—broad grins, raucous
laughter, and slapping of thighs—he wished he'd told them sooner. He might not have had to rely on Daisy to break the ice. As it was, she'd hold her assistance over his head whenever he tried to disengage her from the investigation.
He looked around for her. Just as he spotted her, sitting with Goodman and Petrie now, the landlord called out, “Time, gentlemen, please.”

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