Read Death at Wentwater Court Online
Authors: Carola Dunn
Death at Wentwater Court (5 page)
The earl certainly had every reason to rejoice, yet he was as soberly formal, as unreadable, as ever.
After lunch, Daisy declared her intention of skipping coffee and
going to see the C.I.D. man. At once Phillip, James, Lord Wentwater, and even Sir Hugh offered to accompany her.
going to see the C.I.D. man. At once Phillip, James, Lord Wentwater, and even Sir Hugh offered to accompany her.
“Heavens, no, thank you,” she said, laughing. “I don't imagine he'll use the âthird degree' on me.” Leaving Wilfred to explain that American term to his father, she went off to the Blue Salon.
She was eager to meet the detective. The only contact she'd ever had with policemen was to enquire after the family of the local bobby at home in Worcestershire, and occasionally to ask the way of a London constable. A Chief Inspector was a different kettle of fish, not a “real gentleman,” in the footman's words, but a man of a certain power and influence.
Despite her refusal of support, she was a trifle nervous when she entered the small sitting-room. Facing north, decorated in pale blue and white, the room had a chilly atmosphere that the small fire in the grate battled in vain. No doubt that explained why it was little used by the family in winter and could be spared for the police. Daisy shivered.
The man who looked up from the papers on an elegant eighteenth-century writing table was much younger than she had expected, in his mid-thirties, she thought. He rose to his feet. Gentleman or not, he was well-dressed in a charcoal suit, with the tie of the Royal Flying Corps. Of middle height, broad-shouldered, he impressed Daisy as vigorous and resolute, an impression reinforced by rather intimidating dark, heavy eyebrows over piercing grey eyes.
Daisy was not about to let herself be intimidated. She advanced across the blue Wilton carpet, held out her hand, and announced, “I'm Daisy Dalrymple.”
“How do you do.” His handshake was cool and firm, his voice educatedâthough not at Eton or Harrow. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, C.I.D. I understand I have you to thank for my lunch, Miss Dalrymple.”
“The servants seemed to think that a policeman is above such mortal needs as food, Mr. Fletcher.”
He grinned, his eyes warming, and she noticed that his dark, crisp hair sprang from his temples in the most delicious way. Altogether he was rather gorgeous, she decided.
“This policeman was hungry. Thank you.” He became businesslike. “I hope you don't mind describing to me the events of this morning.”
“Not at all.” Remembering, she changed her mind. “Well, not much. But I shouldn't think I can add anything to what JamesâLord Beddoweâand Fenella Petrie have told you.” She sat down on the nearest chair, and he resumed his seat.
“You can hardly tell me less.” He grimaced. “I'm glad you didn't bring any guardians with you.”
“I suppose Phillip-Mr. Petrieâand James insisted on protecting Fenella from you.”
“They hardly let her say yes or no.”
“And James would have been standing on his dignity, no doubt. I'll see what I can do.”
“I'm sorry to put you through this, Miss Dalrymple. Just tell me what happened in your own way.”
He picked up a fountain pen and took notes, without interrupting as she spoke until she reached the point where she returned to the house to develop the photographs.
“Thank you, that's very clear,” he said then. “You succeeded in developing the pictures?”
“Yes, and printed them. The darkroom has all the necessary equipment.”
“I'll want to see them later, but first a question or two. You say you and Miss Petrie and Lord Beddowe went down to the lake right after breakfast.”
“After finding skates and collecting my camera and stuff.”
“Right, but it was still quite early.” He glanced over his notes. “Nine thirty, or thereabouts. Weren't you surprised to find Lord Stephen there before you?”
“No, not at all. I was pretty sure it was him even before I recognized the jacket. You see, he went on and on last night about keeping fit and going out at dawn to exercise.”
“Ah, that makes all the difference. I couldn't understand what he was doing there in the first place.” Capping his pen, the detective straightened his papers with an air of finality. “Obviously it was just an unfortunate but straightforward accident.”
“Well, I'm not sure.” Daisy persevered in spite of his sceptically raised eyebrows. “You'll probably think I'm a complete fathead, Mr. Fletcher, but I wish you'd come and look at the photos.”
“I'll have to look at them before the inquest, but I'm down here on another case and I can't really spare the time ⦔
“Please.
”
”
“Right-ho,” he said indulgently. “I do appreciate your taking the trouble to photograph the body.”
“Trouble! It was perfectly beastly.” Bursting with indignation, Daisy led the way through the kitchens to the darkroom.
Following her, Alec Fletcher recognized her annoyance and was amused. He smiled at her stiff back.
Even the tailored tweed skirt and blue woolly jumper failed to conceal her shape as she marched ahead of him. Not plump, but not the straight up and down boardlike figure young women strove for these days. Cuddlesome was the word that had sprung to his mind the moment she walked into the Blue Salon. Cuddlesome from gold-brown hair and round face with that delectable moleâ“the Kissing,” it would have been called as an eighteenth-century face-patchâall the way down to the neat ankles in fashionable beige stockings.
She had been friendly, too, in contrast to young Beddowe, who appeared to consider Alec's presence an impertinent intrusion. He found it difficult to think of her as an Honourable, or even simply as a witness to be questioned.
Sternly, he recalled himself to duty. In gratitude for her cooperation he'd give her photos the praise she evidently craved, then get back to the business that had brought him to Hampshire. He'd have
to attend the inquest, but luckily Astwick's death was clearly pure mischance.
to attend the inquest, but luckily Astwick's death was clearly pure mischance.
The local G.P., Dr. Fennis, had assured him that the cause of death was drowning. Astwick must have hit his head on a jagged edge of ice as he fell. The laceration on the temple had probably been caused by a blow sufficient to make him dizzy and weak, perhaps even unconscious, obviously unable to pull himself out of the frigid water. Fennis could not confirm the time of death, since icy conditions retarded
rigor mortis,
always unpredictable in any case. However, since Astwick would hardly have gone skating in the middle of the night, the time was not in question. No autopsy was needed. He had died in an unfortunate accident, thank heaven.
rigor mortis,
always unpredictable in any case. However, since Astwick would hardly have gone skating in the middle of the night, the time was not in question. No autopsy was needed. He had died in an unfortunate accident, thank heaven.
Alec had no desire to tangle with Beddowe's father, Lord Wentwater. Even in this modern day and age an earl had to be handled with kid gloves, as the Commissioner had made quite plain over the wire.
Miss Dalrymple opened a door into a small, stone-floored room with whitewashed brick walls and a sink. The air had a chemical tang. “Don't touch the pictures; they're still damp,” she warned. “There's something ⦠odd. I won't point it out. See if you notice it.”
He studied the photographs. No wonder a well-brought-up young lady had considered taking them perfectly beastly, but the only odd thing he could see was their excellence. He'd expected amateur shots taken from a safe distance, but these could almost have been produced by a police photographer.
“These are very good,” he complimented her. “Quite professional.”
“You needn't sound so surprised! I worked for a friend in her studio for nearly a year. As a matter of fact, I'm here as a professional photographer.”
He stared. “I thought you were a guest.”
“Well, not quite. You see, I'm writing an article about Wentwater for
Town and Country,
and Carswell, the photographer who was supposed to take pictures to go with it, is ill.” She blushed to the roots of her hair, and went on defiantly, “That isâI suppose I ought to tell
the police the truthâhe doesn't really exist. My editor doesn't believe women can take good photographs, so I invented Carswell so that I could earn the money.”
Town and Country,
and Carswell, the photographer who was supposed to take pictures to go with it, is ill.” She blushed to the roots of her hair, and went on defiantly, “That isâI suppose I ought to tell
the police the truthâhe doesn't really exist. My editor doesn't believe women can take good photographs, so I invented Carswell so that I could earn the money.”
Alec gave a shout of laughter. “Ingenious. So you are a working woman as well as a scion of the nobility?”
“Yes. Promise you won't tell about Carswell?”
“I promise, unless for some unlikely reason he comes into this investigation.” He still hoped an investigation would prove unnecessary, but while he could easily dismiss the fancy of a bored society girl, the doubts of a practical woman deserved serious scrutiny. “Will you show me what has aroused your suspicion?”
“Here, and here.” She pointed at a couple of photos of the hole in the ice.
“Those marks?” He took the magnifying lens she handed him.
“When I was down on the lake, I didn't really notice them. I just assumed they were made by skate blades. But you see how short and deep they are? Nicks all along the edge? The sun throws them into relief. I'm fearfully afraid they might be ⦠they might be the marks of an axe.”
“They might.” He frowned. “Are you suggesting that someone deliberately weakened the ice?”
She shuddered. â'âI don't want to suggest anything.”
“I'd better go down to the lake and have another look,” Alec said with a sigh. “Will you come with me? Bring your camera and take some more shots of that particular spot.”
Donning coats, hats, gloves, and mufflers, together they walked down the path. The dark waters that had taken a man's life gleamed in the sun. Gingerly Alec approached, noting how the ice was roughened by skating. Miss Dalrymple followed him.
“Keep back,” he said. “Let me test the ice.”
“It seemed to me very solid. That's another reason ⦠And wouldn't you expect cracks radiating from the hole?”
“Hmm.” He was chary of committing himself, but the ice did in
fact feel perfectly safe beneath his feet. Taking out a tape-measure, he went down on hands and knees.
fact feel perfectly safe beneath his feet. Taking out a tape-measure, he went down on hands and knees.
Quite different from the skate-marks, the notches appeared at curiously regular intervals on the very edge of the hole, all the way around. Grimly he confirmed her guess. “They look like the work of an axe to me. But it looks more as if someone cut a hole, rather than simply weakening the ice. There are not nearly enough pieces of floating ice to fill the hole, as if a large central piece was removed or shoved under the edge.”
“To save time, rather than chopping it into bits as if it broke? Yes, there is far too little ice floating.”
“Surely Astwick would have seen a hole in time to stop. He didn't come down before daybreak, did he?”
“Not as far as I know. This bit of the lake would have been in the shadow of the bridge, though. You remember, in the photos you could only see one side of the hole properly? He was here earlier and the shadow would have been longer. After the dazzle of the sun on ice and snow, he wouldn't have seen anything. I was really close before I made out what James and Fenella were looking at, though the one side was in sunlight and I already knew something was wrong.”
“Will you take a few more shots, please?”
“If you like,” she said doubtfully, “but the sun is too high now to provide the contrasting shadows. I shouldn't think you'll see much.”
“I can get them blown up. They may be useful.”
As she moved about with her camera, Alec searched for cracks in the ice around the hole, and for signs that it might have been thinner in that spot. He wanted it to be an accident. He had plenty on his hands with the big jewel robbery at Lord Flatford's place. One disgruntled peer was enough. To affront the Earl of Wentwater with the news that further investigation was warranted would be to risk blighting his career.
Miss Dalrymple finished and returned to his side. “Well?”
“I'm not convinced that it wasn't an accident, but nor am I convinced
that it was, I'm afraid. It'd be a dashed peculiar way to commit suicide, so it seems to be a deliberate effort to harm someone, probably the actual victim in view of his known habit of skating at dawn. There will have to be an autopsyâit's involuntary manslaughter at least. But who would have it in for Lord Stephen Astwick?”
that it was, I'm afraid. It'd be a dashed peculiar way to commit suicide, so it seems to be a deliberate effort to harm someone, probably the actual victim in view of his known habit of skating at dawn. There will have to be an autopsyâit's involuntary manslaughter at least. But who would have it in for Lord Stephen Astwick?”
“Half the residents of Wentwater Court,” Miss Dalrymple informed him unhappily.
C
hief Inspector Fletcher looked no happier than Daisy felt. “You'd better tell me,” he said resignedly. “You are to some degree an outsider here, so you may not know the inside story but I'm hoping you can be reasonably impartial.”
hief Inspector Fletcher looked no happier than Daisy felt. “You'd better tell me,” he said resignedly. “You are to some degree an outsider here, so you may not know the inside story but I'm hoping you can be reasonably impartial.”
Her heart sank still further. She felt she was betraying the Wentwaters' hospitality, yet it was her duty to help the police. One couldn't let people get away with deliberately drowning other people, however despicable.
“All right. Let's go back to the house. I'm cold.”
“So am I, and my knees are wet. Besides, I must telephone my sergeant and the mortuary and the coroner.”
“Will I have to give evidence?”
“What I want from you is your impressions, even guesses and hearsay, to give me some idea of where to start. If you have to give evidence it will be of facts only, of what you have actually observed,” he reassured her as they trudged up the path.
She nodded, grateful for his understanding. If she had to assist the police in their enquiries, at least she had a sympathetic policeman to deal with. “I don't know where to begin.”
“Astwick must have a friend here, I imagine, or he wouldn't be a guest. Who invited him?”
“Wilfred. Lord Wentwater's second son. But I'm sure they're not friends. Quite apart from Wilfred being twenty years younger, he seems ⦠seemed to be afraid of Lord Stephen. He was almost indecently cheerful at lunch today. Come to think of it, he actually told me Lord Stephen was a rotten swine and that Marjorie was well out of it. Admittedly he was rather sozzled.”
“Marjorie?”
“His sister. She was madly in love with Lord Stephen and pretty cut up over his death. The doctor put her to bed with a sedative. Of course, she was madly jealous, too. Do you think she might have done it to give him a nasty fright, then been shocked when he actually drowned?”
“Possibly. It would take considerable strength to hack through that ice.”
“She's a sporty type, skating, tennis, golf, riding, and so on. As strong as Wilfred, I reckon. He's a stage-door johnny, not good for much more than lifting a glass or a croquet mallet.”
“A graphic description! What about Lord Beddowe?”
“James is pretty strong. Huntin', shootin', fishin', you know. Only he had nothing against Lord Stephen, no motive, rather the reverse. Geoffrey, the youngest, is even stronger, but he's just a boy and never paid any heed to Lord Stephen, neither liking nor disliking.”
They reached the house. Mr. Fletcher, ignoring Drew's disapproval, went off to make his telephone calls. Daisy repaired to the Blue Salon, where she rang for a footman to build up the fire to dry out the detective's damp knees.
What a ghastly business it was! She couldn't help recalling Annabel's wan face at lunch. Could she have aimed to scare off Lord Stephen with an icy wetting, underestimating the risk of his hitting his head and knocking himself unconscious? No, with the threat of revealing her past to hold over her, he'd only have bullied her even worse afterwards.
Which meant that if Annabel had done it, she had intended his death.
In spite of the roaring fire, Daisy shivered. She wouldn't point out that bit of deduction to the Chief Inspector.
He returned. Standing in front of the fire, steaming at the knees, he said, “Sergeant Tring will be on his way as soon as the locals can get my message to him. The coroner has agreed to adjourn the inquest after evidence of death and identity, which means we need not say yet
where
Astwick died. And the body's off to the Yard's pathologist for post-mortem examination. The Commissioner himself told me to keep the locals out of it as much and as long as possible.”
where
Astwick died. And the body's off to the Yard's pathologist for post-mortem examination. The Commissioner himself told me to keep the locals out of it as much and as long as possible.”
“The less the local people find out, the happier Lord Wentwater will be.”
“So I gather. Well, he has to live with them. I'll do what I can. Now, Miss Dalrymple, you said Lord Beddowe had no apparent motive. What about his fiancee's brother, Mr. Petrie?”
“Phillip! Heavens no. At least, he called him a good egg. There was some sort of transaction between them, but he was surprised when I told him Sir Hugh distrusted Lord Stephen. That was last night, so he couldn't have heard in the interim that he'd been cheated, could he? I've known Phillip all my life. He's a bit of a juggins but he'd never do anything underhanded like that.”
“I see.” Mr. Fletcher sounded rather sceptical. “Who is Sir Hugh?”
“Lord Wentwater's brother-in-law, Lady Josephine's husband. It was he who insisted on calling the police and arranged to have someone discreet sent by Scotland Yard.”
“Someone discreet, eh?” He grinned. “I thought it was just because I was already down here.”
Daisy smiled at him. “Oh no, your superiors must have a high opinion of your discretion. Sir Hugh is a friend of your Commissioner. He's a big noise in the City, which is how he knew Lord Stephen was not to be trusted. I'm sure he's much too knowing to have let him cheat him. Besides, if he wanted to retaliate, he'd do it financially, don't you think?”
“I certainly hope so. I'd hate a friend of the Commissioner to be
my chief suspect.” He felt the knees of his trousers and sat down in the chair opposite her. “Lady Josephine?”
my chief suspect.” He felt the knees of his trousers and sat down in the chair opposite her. “Lady Josephine?”
“Good Lord, no! She was worried, but she's too good-natured-and far too stoutâto take an axe to the ice.”
“We can count out Miss Fenella Petrie, can't we?”
“I should think so. Yes, of course. She's just a child and he never showed any interest in her.” Daisy was flattered by the inclusive “we,” by the Chief Inspector's apparent trust in her judgement. Nonetheless, she dreaded the next few minutes. “That leaves only Lord and Lady Wentwater.” And she liked them both.
“Before we tackle them, let me go back a little. You said, or implied, that Lord Beddowe liked Lord Stephen, that Lady Marjorie had cause for jealousy, and that Lady Josephine was worried.”
She tried to postpone the inevitable. “You have a very good memory.”
“It's part of the job.” He paused. His grey eyes were sharp again beneath the heavy brows, as if he had guessed her reluctance. “Would you mind explaining?”
Daisy took in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “James didn't
like
Lord Stephen. He
used
him, to further his feud against his stepmother. Not that it was necessary, if you ask me. Lord Stephen was in determined pursuit without any need of encouragement from James.”
like
Lord Stephen. He
used
him, to further his feud against his stepmother. Not that it was necessary, if you ask me. Lord Stephen was in determined pursuit without any need of encouragement from James.”
“You mean Lord Stephen was aiming to seduce Lady Wentwater? It scarcely seems possible!”
“That's certainly what it looked like. She's about my age and quite stunning, you know.”
“So naturally Lady Marjorie was jealous. Was Lady Josephine worried that her sister-in-law might ⦠er ⦠succumb to his blandishments?”
“Yes.”
“Did it appear likely to you?”
She hesitated. If she said yes, Lord Wentwater's motive for doing away with Lord Stephen was strengthened and Annabel appeared in a
disgraceful light. If she said no, she'd have to explain, which would give Annabel an otherwise absent motive, as well as hinting at something shameful in her past.
disgraceful light. If she said no, she'd have to explain, which would give Annabel an otherwise absent motive, as well as hinting at something shameful in her past.
The detective's steady gaze was upon her. She sighed again. The truth was the only way. “She hated him and feared him. If she had succumbed, it would have been through fear.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “It sounds like blackmail, as does Wilfred Beddowe's invitation. A thoroughly unsavoury character, Lord Stephen Astwick.”
“Wilfred was right, he was an absolutely rotten swine.”
“Lady Wentwater had a motive, then, as did her husband.” He groaned. “So instead of Sir Hugh, my chief suspect is the earl! And now I have to go and tell him I want to interrogate not only his household but himself.”
There went any chance of ever making it to Superintendent, Alec thought. In comparison, the indiscreet way he was confiding in Miss Daisy Dalrymple was insignificant. Something about her guileless blue eyes invited confidences, and after two nearly sleepless nights he lacked the energy to resist. Besides, he had reason for trust: if she hadn't drawn his attention to the marks on the ice, Astwick's death would have passed as pure accident.
All the same ⦠“I shouldn't be talking to you like this, especially when I'm posing as a model of discretion. I'll be well and truly in the soup if you repeat what I've said.”
“As though I would!” she said indignantly. “I haven't told anyone about the photos. I know police business is confidential.” Unexpectedly she giggled. “Though I couldn't have guessed it from the way you've been blethering on to me. People do, you know,” she consoled him. “It's very odd.”
Alec came to a decision. “I'm going to ask a further favour of you. Do you by any chance take shorthand?”
“Yes, sort of. That is, I learned it and I worked for a while as a stenographer, but being in an office all day was simply frightful.”
“You've forgotten it?” he asked, disappointed.
“Not exactly. I use it when I'm making notes for my writing, but it's not quite Pitman's any longer. I don't think anyone else could read it. I can, as long as I transcribe it before I forget what it says.”
He laughed. “I'll risk it. It'll be better than nothing. I want to interview people while they think I believe the drowning was accidental, but my officers won't be here to take notes for some time.”
“You want me to do it?” She sounded astonished and not a little excited, her eyes sparkling.
“A highly irregular proceeding,” Alec admitted. “Expecting a simple accident, I've come ill-prepared for a serious investigation. The other case I'm working on, the one that brought me to Hampshire, also involves a number of influential people. We're short-handed and I can't just abandon it.”
“I'll help, as long as no one objects.”
“Thank you, Miss Dalrymple. I count on you not to repeat anything you hear. I'll see that you're paid for your work, including the photography.” Even if he had to pay her himself.
“Spiffing! I'll send for ⦠no, I'll go and fetch my notebook. I don't want Mabel messing about with my papers.”
She went off, a spring in her step. Alec rang the bell and asked the footman who appeared to inform Lord Wentwater that he desired a private interview.
“His lordship is occupied in the estate office with his agent,” the man told him loftily.
Alec turned on the hapless menial the look that made his subordinates jump to attention and crooks shake in their shoes. “Then you know where to find him,” he said.
“Yes, sir. At once, sir.”
While he waited, Alec planned his approach to the earl. Had he enough evidence to insist on questioning the household if a polite request was refused?
He read over the notes he had made on the thickness and solidity of the ice, the missing piece or pieces, the lack of cracks radiating from the hole, the curious marks on the edge. Glancing at the photographs,
he admired again not only Miss Dalrymple's competence, but her perspicacity in noticing something amiss.
he admired again not only Miss Dalrymple's competence, but her perspicacity in noticing something amiss.
His thoughts wandered. From what she said, it sounded as if she was working for living, however cheerfully. At first he'd assumed she was merely amusing herself, like Lady Angela Forbes with her florist's shop off Portman Square, before the War, when he did his years on the beat after University. Surely an Honourable Miss, the daughter of a baron or viscount, could not be so devoid of family as to make employment necessary. Yet she didn't seem the rebellious, or quarrelsome, or shameless sort of girl who might have cast off or been cast off by her family.
He shook his head, rubbing tired eyes. It was none of his business. What he wouldn't give for a pipe!
The footman returned. “His lordship will see you in the estate office, sir, if you'll please to come this way.”
The estate office was a small room cluttered with ledgers, monographs on raising beef cattle, silver cups won by prize sows, and the general paraphernalia of running a busy estate. Lord Wentwater, seated at the desk, dismissed his land agent with a nod.
“I trust your investigation is completed, Chief Inspector.” He spoke with courtesy but did not invite Alec to sit down.
Alec put him down as an aristocrat of the old school, mindful of his responsibilities and taking his privileges for granted. His son and heir was like him in many respects, but in a changing world Lord Beddowe was less certain of his privileges and therefore more insistent on them. Perhaps that uncertainty had bred the undercurrent of resentment Alec had sensed in James Beddowe. The young man would have to work hard to earn the respect his father received as his due.
“I'm afraid not, sir,” Alec said. “I find I must pursue further enquiries. I'd like your permission to ask a few questions of your household, your guests, and yourself.”
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