The Winter Garden Mystery (19 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: The Winter Garden Mystery
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“No? A bold man! Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Goodman.” Not that he was quite finished with the secretary. However much Daisy trusted the man, Alec was quite certain that, like Parslow, Ben Goodman had something to hide.
R
eluctant to witness Ben's response to a conjecture that Grace had scorned his advances, Daisy hadn't even tried to persuade Alec to let her be present. Instead, she had arranged with the delighted Sir Reginald to tour his dairy. Now, though, she was eager to find out how Ben's interview had gone. She hurried back up to the Hall.
He wasn't in the library. She went to the Yellow Parlour. Pushing open the door, she stepped in, then stopped, her hand to her mouth to hold back a gasp of shock.
Ben sat in a chair by the fire with Sebastian huddled on a footstool at his feet. Sebastian's face was hidden in his folded arms, resting on Ben's lap. Ben had one arm about Sebastian's shuddering shoulders, and his other hand caressed the golden hair.
The loving tenderness on Ben's face made Daisy's breath catch in her throat. As she stood frozen in the doorway, Ben looked up. His expression changed to resigned regret. “Miss Dalrymple's here, Sebastian,” he said gently.
Sebastian raised a tear-devastated face and reached for Ben's hand.
Daisy hurriedly shut the door behind her. “You're …” she began, then stopped, unable to think of a polite way to phrase her question.
“We're in love,” said Sebastian defiantly.
“That explains a lot.” So many little oddnesses came together in
her mind. She crossed the room to drop, weak-kneed, onto the sofa opposite them. “It must be absolutely frightful trying to keep it hidden.”
“I've grown accustomed to concealment,” Ben said wryly. “It's been hell for Sebastian. You aren't beating a horrified retreat?”
“I live in Chelsea; we have all sorts of … unusual people living around us,” Daisy explained. All the same, she was rather proud of her
sang-froid.
She had met two or three male couples at parties, but somehow suddenly discovering someone one regarded as a friend to be that way inclined was rather more difficult. “Lady Valeria knows, doesn't she?”
“She certainly suspects.” The grim set of Ben's mouth made him plainer than ever. “She inveigled Sebastian into the affair with Grace to try to prove her suspicions were unfounded.”
“You can't be sure of that, Ben. In any case it wasn't all her doing,” Sebastian said with remorse. “I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn't … different. It didn't work. I was more than ready to admit that to myself when Grace told me she was pregnant and all the fuss started.”
“Escaping to Antibes must have been a vast relief,” said Daisy.
“It would have been, if only Ben could have come too. I was desperately worried about him. When Bobbie wrote to say Grace had cleared out with a stranger I wanted to come home but … .”
“Bobbie wrote to tell you?”
“Yes. She's not much of a letter-writer but she knew how much it meant to me.”
“When did she write?”
“Oh, about a week after we left. It takes a couple of days for village gossip to filter up to our ears, and she waited a day or two longer to be sure Grace didn't reappear.”
Daisy noticed Ben was amused. She lifted an enquiring eyebrow at him.
“Fletcher has an apt pupil,” he said.
She blushed furiously. “I'm sorry.”
“It's all right, I don't mind telling you,” said Sebastian. “It's an enormous relief to have it all out in the open.” He leaned back against Ben's knees.
“I'm glad, but … Ben, you know I have to tell Mr. Fletcher?”
His eyes were full of weariness and pain. “I know,” he said quietly. “But he's a clever man, your detective. He'll find out anyway, and I'd rather you told him than I.”
“I'm sure he won't … . No, I can't be sure,” Daisy admitted, downcast. “I think Alec's broadminded enough not to make things more difficult for you just because of that. If it weren't for Grace's murder … .”
Ben nodded. “As it is, you have no choice but to tell him.”
“I'll try to persuade him not to tell anyone else,” she promised.
Sebastian was in better form than Ben now. His cheeks had regained their colour and the signs of tears were fading. “Why do you want to know about Bobbie's letter, Daisy?” he asked curiously.
“Because it seems highly unlikely that if she had killed Grace she'd write you a letter which might well bring you home into the middle of a murder investigation. She couldn't know so soon that it was safe. Therefore she didn't kill Grace, not that I believed for a minute she did.”
“Anyway, the mater refused to come home. Jove!” Sebastian clutched his dishevelled golden locks and groaned. “I suppose that makes it look even more as if she … .”
Heavy footsteps outside the door silenced him. In an instant he sprang to his feet and sat down again on the sofa beside Daisy. When Lady Valeria clumped in, the three were discussing Greek architecture—and Daisy had just had a brilliant idea.
For the moment she had to keep her idea to herself. Lady Valeria stayed with them until they all moved to the dining room for lunch. Besides, though as an afterthought, Daisy decided she'd better hold her tongue until Alec was convinced of Ben and Sebastian's innocence of Grace's murder.
She wondered whether he'd be frightfully shocked by her discovery
about them. No, a policeman was not so easily shocked; but she hoped he wouldn't be disgusted. Slightly to her own surprise, she found she liked Ben as much as ever, and Sebastian was nice enough when he pulled himself together. They obviously cared deeply for each other.
Surely Alec would not arrest them? Even if he wanted to, he'd have to have proof of “misconduct,” not just an admission of feelings, wouldn't he? But she refused to believe he was a bigot.
It wasn't something she could discuss over the phone. If he didn't return to the Hall soon, she'd walk down to the inn.
 
Alec returned to the inn sooner than he had intended. The only remarkable thing about Grace's funeral was that her father had attended wearing greasy dungarees and a surly scowl. Stan Moss did not accompany his daughter's coffin to the graveside, as Alec realized very nearly too late. When he reached the street the blacksmith was revving up a small, dilapidated motor-lorry.
Over the noise of the engine, Alec bawled, “I'd like a word with you, Mr. Moss.” He reached through the glassless window to present his credentials. “Scotland Yard.”
Moss glowered but he took his foot off the accelerator. The roar diminished to a loud rumble. “Ruddy Lunnon busies think you know better'n the local coppers? That Taffy done it.”
“Did you see him?”
“Di'n't get home till late that night, did I?”
“Then what makes you think Morgan killed your daughter?”
“Bloody obvious, innit! She got a bun in the oven and whether 'twere his or not he'd cause.”
“You knew she was having an affair with young Parslow.”
“Mebbe I did and mebbe I di'n't.”
“I understand you encouraged her to seduce him.”
Moss's sullen face crimsoned. “It's a bloody lie!” he bellowed. “Look here, mate, I can't stop here chatting all the ruddy day. I got business.” He revved again and released the brake.
“I'll need to see you again,” Alec shouted, hastily removing his hand from the door and jumping back.
The lorry roared off down the hill, leaving Alec certain the blacksmith was lying. He had pushed his daughter into the affair. However, far from making him a murderer, that gave him every motive to keep her alive for his unpleasant purposes.
Annoyed, Alec walked back to the church for a word with the vicar. He felt a spark of hope when Mr. Lake told him Wednesday was choir practice night. However, the practice ended at nine, a good hour before Grace was last seen alive. Another dead end.
On the point of leaving, Alec turned back. “Owen Morgan isn't in the choir? The Welsh are known for their singing.”
“And for their Methodism, Chief Inspector. I believe Morgan often walked into Whitbury to Chapel on a Sunday. A good lad, by all reports, and I'm glad you have reopened the case.”
A charitable man as well as a bold one, Alec thought.
Stan Moss, on the other hand, seemed absolutely convinced the police had already arrested his daughter's murderer. He might change his mind if he realized his enemy, Lady Valeria, was now a suspect. Alec wanted to talk to him again.
Not nearly as badly, however, as he wanted to talk to Lady Valeria Parslow, and Miss Roberta, and George Brown.
Back at the Cheshire Cheese, he reread the scanty reports of the local police. He noticed Ben Goodman had said at the inquest that Lady Valeria told him to sack Grace if she returned. When had she so instructed him? Either her ladyship reckoned the girl's running off removed any claim against Sebastian, or she knew Grace would not be seen again. Which? Alec wondered.
He telephoned Sergeant Shaw to clarify one or two points. Ernie Piper came in with his typed report and clarified a couple more points. Grace's belongings were still in her bedroom at the Hall, he announced, but since they consisted only of her parlourmaid's uniforms no one had wondered at it.
Something curious about that caught Alec's attention, but before he could chase down the thought, Piper continued. “And the chauffeur swears no one took a motor out the night of December 13th.”
“He's quite certain?”
“Yes, Chief. His room's right over the garridge, an old hayloft it is, the garridge being part of the stables. He was there all evening, having to drive to London next day.”
“Any witnesses? Any sign he was interested in Grace?”
“No witnesses, Chief, but he's engaged to a girl in Whitbury, which he don't want her ladyship to know about. I got her name and address, case we need to check.”
“Well done, Ernie. Let's go and eat before you leave for Crewe. I'll go over your report later.”
They had the dining room to themselves. Petrie had gone off to call on a distant, elderly cousin at his mother's behest.
“It's odd, Chief, that long-haired bloke not being here. I mean, with Miss Parslow gone missing and all.”
“Great Scott, I'd forgotten. You said they knew each other.”
“I only remembered acos of typing up my notes, Chief,” Piper said modestly. “D'you think he went with her?”
“It's a possibility I shouldn't have overlooked. Everyone's hunting for a woman on her own, not a couple. Mrs. Chiver,” he said to the landlady as she brought in their soup, “has our resident poet left?”
“Mr. Wilkinson, sir? He's booked another three nights and left one of his bags. Said he might be gone a night or two. You don't think he's skipped, sir, without paying?” she asked anxiously.
“I don't suppose so,” he soothed her, “but I'd better take a look at that bag, make sure it's not empty.”
“After lunch, I hope, sir. The cutlets are browning nicely.”
“I wouldn't want them to spoil. The bag won't run away.” And if Mr. Wilkinson had run away, he'd not get much farther in half an hour. The landlady left and Alec said to Piper, “If the bag's empty, or full of rubbish, I'll add him to the wanted notice, but all he has to do
to make himself unrecognizable is cut his hair. Chances are, though, he's just dodged the bill and his departure has nothing to do with Miss Parslow.”
The small portmanteau turned out to be full of books, surprisingly neatly packed shirts, and a cheap but respectable lounge suit. Alec had a feeling that Wilkinson was a red herring, his acquaintance with Miss Parslow probably distant and certainly nothing to do with Grace. Lady Valeria was sufficient reason for any air of conspiracy surrounding their meetings.
He set off to walk up to the Hall, Piper having already left in the Austin to meet Tom Tring's train at Crewe. The light overcast had taken on a yellowish tinge which, together with a distinct chill in the air, threatened snow. Alec hoped it would hold off until his precious motor-car was safely back in Occleswich.
Despite the chill, well-muffled children played in the front gardens of several cottages. Most ran to the fence to stare as he passed, and one bold little girl waved. He waved back, which sent her and her companions giggling and shrieking into the house. The shop and post office were closed on Saturday afternoon, so few adults were out and about. One or two of those he met nodded and smiled, others ignored him.
The smithy looked deserted, and no one answered the door when he knocked. Out of curiosity he walked right around it, picking his way between the piles of rusting junk. The yard behind the cottage was also paved, with a considerable area clear of rubbish. Moss must keep his lorry here, and perhaps do such mechanical work as he obtained. In fact, a farm tractor standing near the back door of the forge was obviously being worked on, and a decrepit harrow had a shiny, newly forged bar holding it together.

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