Styx and Stones (14 page)
Authors: Carola Dunn
The main thing on Belinda's and Derek's minds was what Derek was to call Alec. That settled in favour of “Uncle Alec,” to everyone's satisfaction, the day's plans had to be discussed. Alec accepted an invitation to play cricket but declined one to help restore their dam, breached in the rain.
Yesterday's disquieting events seemed utterly forgotten. Much relieved, Alec went down to find his own breakfast.
A young footman directed him to a pleasant, sunny breakfast room. Frobisher was alone there, methodically disposing of a plateful of eggs, sausages, and muffins, while scanning
The
Times
. On Alec's entrance, he looked up with a friendly greeting but laid aside his newspaper with scarce concealed reluctance.
The
Times
. On Alec's entrance, he looked up with a friendly greeting but laid aside his newspaper with scarce concealed reluctance.
“Good morning,” Alec responded. “Don't let me interrupt your reading.”
“Oh, well, if you don't mind. Somehow I never find time for the paper later in the day. You'll find one or two others on the sideboard there.” He waved. “Help yourself, and to breakfast, of course.”
“Thank you.” Alec selected ham and eggs, coffee, and the
Daily Chronicle
, and seated himself at the table.
Daily Chronicle
, and seated himself at the table.
Apparently feeling obliged to make some sort of show of polite conversation, Frobisher said, “Violet doesn't come down to breakfast at the moment. She's ⦠er, hm ⦔ He flushed.
“Oh, is she?” Alec said hastily. Pregnant, he assumed. Funny that a farmer, who presumably discussed cows and bulls, ewes and rams, with the best of them, found it impossible to speak openly of his wife's condition.
“Looks as if Daisy's sleeping in this morning,” Frobisher went on. “She's usually an early riser, but yesterday took it out of the poor girl, I'm afraid.” He ducked behind his newspaper again.
Alec would have liked to ask for details of yesterday's events, but he could not proceed in the face of his host's evident disinclination. He applied himself to breakfast and the
Chronicle
. Professor Osborne's death had not yet reached the national press, he discovered.
Chronicle
. Professor Osborne's death had not yet reached the national press, he discovered.
He was still eating when Frobisher folded the
Times
and stood up.
Times
and stood up.
“You'll excuse me, my dear fellow. There's a gelding out in the stables I'm a bit worried about, seems to be going lame. Make yourself at home,” he said with a vague gesture encompassing house and lands, and he departed.
Not five minutes later, the footman came in, looking excited. “It's Inspector Flagg, sir, from the police.
Detective
Inspector, he said to be sure and say. Wants a word with you, he says. He questioned me yesterday, sir, acos I helped Miss Dalrymple down the church.”
Detective
Inspector, he said to be sure and say. Wants a word with you, he says. He questioned me yesterday, sir, acos I helped Miss Dalrymple down the church.”
“Did you? Thank you ⦠Arthur, isn't it? Yes, I'll see the inspector. If it won't disturb the rest of the household, you can show him in here.”
Alec girded his loins for an awkward interview. The whole situation was extremely irregular, from his original telephone call to the Ashford police, to his presence here. Local police often resented Scotland Yard's official appearance in their cases. Flagg had every excuse for resenting Alec's unofficial arrival.
“Detective Inspector Flagg, sir.”
A beanpole of a man came inâa flagpole, Alec thought, wondering if the inspector suffered under that nickname. Flagg's knobby face wore a wilting moustache and a carefully noncommittal expression. His blue eyes were wary.
Standing up, Alec offered his hand. “From the Ashford C.I.D.,” he observed perhaps a shade too heartily. “We spoke yesterday.”
“I
am
the Ashford C.I.D., sir. We don't get much in the way of crime that a uniformed constable can't handle.”
am
the Ashford C.I.D., sir. We don't get much in the way of crime that a uniformed constable can't handle.”
“Lucky man.” Definitely too hearty. “Take a seat, Inspector. May I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“I don't mind if I do, sir.”
Alec poured coffee and hot milk, passed the sugar. “Look here,” he said, deciding there was no point beating about the bush, “I came down because I was worried about my daughter and Miss Dalrymple. You can sympathize with that, I'm sure. I'm on leave. I've no right to interfere in your case, and no intention of trying, I promise you.”
“Ah,” said Flagg ruminatively, strongly reminding Alec of Tom Tring. He stirred his coffee, sipped, and set down the cup before he spoke further: “I'm glad you said that, sir. Because if you hadn't ⦠But there, you have, so I've no scruples about asking your advice on one or two points.”
Honest enough to acknowledge he would have hated to be shut out completely, Alec was yet dismayed at the prospective disruption of his precious free days. “I don't see how I can help you, Flagg,” he said. “I know damn all about the affair.”
The inspector proceeded to enlighten him. “The deceased was ⦠I'm afraid the only possible word is squashed,” he said distastefully, “by a falling monument in the form of an angel. Dr. Soames, our police surgeon, says he would have died instantly of a broken neck, if not of the other massive injuries. I haven't spoken yet to Dr. Padgett, the first medico on the scene.”
“I imagine Padgett will be able to narrow the time of death.”
“Not by much, sir, if at all. You see, a number of women would have taken the path through the churchyard on their way to a meeting at the Parish Hall, which began at half past two. I haven't questioned any of them yet, either, but our local man confirms that. They couldn't possibly have avoided seeing the corpse if it was already there. And Miss Dalrymple says she looked at the church clock a minute or two after discovering the body, and it was then five to three. I hope you'll understand, sir, that I had to consider the possibility of Miss Dalrymple having done it.”
“Great Scott!” Alec yelped. “Yes, I dare say you did. I sincerely trust you have been able to clear her by now?”
“On the children's evidence, sir,” Flagg said cautiously, “and taking into account certain further information she has volunteered, I can say I consider it highly unlikely she is implicated.”
“That will have to do for the present, I suppose. What information?”
“I'll come to that in a minute, if you don't mind. First you ought to know that there seems to have been at the outset some question as to whether the vicar or his brother, the professor, had been ⦠ah, struck down by the angel.” The inspector explained the close resemblance of the two, the question of the hat, the academic gown, and the vicar's eventual arrival, which confirmed Daisy's identification of the deceased.
“So the murderer may have caught the wrong man,” Alec said thoughtfully. “It's quite certain the angel didn't fall by accident, is it?”
“It doesn't seem possible, sir, though there's tests to be done. It took four men to raise it off the body, tilting it not lifting it straight up, but the damn thingâif you'll excuse the expressionâis so top-heavy it wouldn't have taken much of a push to topple it. You'll be wanting to see it.”
“Not me!” Alec disclaimed. “This is your case. I don't want to get mixed up in it. Any dabs?”
Inspector Flagg quickly covered a grin with his hand, smoothing his ochre moustache. “None, sir, and the granite's polished, would have taken them a treat. Gloves, or wiped off.”
“Pity. I don't imagine you've had time yet to dig for possible motives.”
“No, but that's where Miss Dalrymple's information comes in. She has it all worked out.”
“Oh, does she!” Alec said grimly.
“Inclined to theorize, is she?” Flagg asked, his face bland. “Well, now, she's her wits about her, no doubt of it, and I'm obliged to take her notions seriously, for the information behind 'em has been confirmed by an indisputable source. I can see you aren't aware, sir, that Lord John Frobisher invited Miss
Dalrymple down here to investigate some anonymous letters he'd been getting.”
Dalrymple down here to investigate some anonymous letters he'd been getting.”
“He
what?
” Wrath warred with disbelief. He must have misunderstood!
what?
” Wrath warred with disbelief. He must have misunderstood!
“What the Yankees call Poison Pen letters. I don't know why his lordship should have decided to consult his sister-in-law ⦔ Flagg's voice made it a statement, but his eyebrows rose interrogatively.
Discomfited, Alec said, “I assume he thinks she's a competent detective because he's heard that she got herself involved in one or two of my casesâmuch against my will, I need not tell you.”
“Of course, sir. So Miss Dalrymple agreed to help. Her choice and very obliging, too, but I must say I'd not be best pleased to have one of my little girls mixed up in this sort of business.”
“No.” What the dickens did Daisy mean by bringing Belinda along?
“Still, it can't be denied Miss Dalrymple was making progress. She gave me the names of two more she knows received these letters, and there's others she suspects of getting or writing 'em. I didn't have time last night to get a list, which is another reason, besides seeing you, why I came to Oakhurst this morning.”
“What's the connection with the murder?”
“Oh, didn't I explain? She's got it taped coming and going,” Flagg said admiringly, and recounted Daisy's reasoning. “I told her there's more likely some commonplace motive, but the more I think about it, well, it'd be quite a coincidence. Rotherden's measure in the way of crime is mostly poaching, and now and then a bit of a barney outside the Hop-Picker after closing of a Saturday night.”
“And suddenly you have both a Poison Pen and a murderer
in the village,” Alec mused. “No connection between them does seem a bit much to swallow.”
in the village,” Alec mused. “No connection between them does seem a bit much to swallow.”
“So we have to investigate Miss Dalrymple's theory.”
“Yes. For a start, we'llâ
you
will want to ask the vicar if he knows who's writing anonymous letters. If he doesn't, the Poison Pen has no known reason for killing him, or his brother in mistake for him.”
you
will want to ask the vicar if he knows who's writing anonymous letters. If he doesn't, the Poison Pen has no known reason for killing him, or his brother in mistake for him.”
“Yes, sir. I thought, while I'm up here at Oakhurst, I'd ask Lord John to tell me a bit more about those letters, give me something to go on, if you see what I mean. And I wondered if you'd be so kind as to join us, him being more likely to talk to you than to me.”
“I don't know about that, Inspector.” Struggling with temptation, Alec spoke quite sharply. “He hardly knows me.”
“Who? Johnnie?” Daisy came in.
She looked pale and heavy-eyed, as if she had slept badly. Alec repulsed a pang of sympathy. It was her own fault for agreeing to help Frobisher. He was angry with her for getting herself into such a situation, and furious with her for involving Belinda.
A glimpse of his darkly lowering brows and Daisy was sure he and Flagg were at odds. Though her heart sank, she did her best to smile as she said, “Good morning, Inspector. Good morning, darling. Don't get up. I'm ravenous. All night I kept dreaming of angels, and they weren't the friendly guardian kind. Flaming swords and trumps of doom.” She went straight to the sideboard and helped herself to sausages and bacon. Arthur had promised to bring fresh toast and tea.
Flagg returned her greeting. “I was just saying I'm hoping Lord John will give me a bit more information about the letters,” he said.
“They're written in pencil,” Daisy told him, “in block capitals, on cheap white notepaper. The envelopes match all
round. All I know about were posted in the village and Johnnie's have been coming for a couple of monthsâhe can't remember exactly when they started.” Turning to sit down at the table, she saw that he had taken out his official notebook to record her words.
round. All I know about were posted in the village and Johnnie's have been coming for a couple of monthsâhe can't remember exactly when they started.” Turning to sit down at the table, she saw that he had taken out his official notebook to record her words.
“Contents?” he asked briefly.
“Filthy. Badly spelt, but my guess is that they were written by an educated person.” She explained why.
“Thank you, ma'am, that's a help, but what I really meant was what did the Poison Pen write
about?”
about?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Can't, or won't?” Alec grunted.
“Won't,” Daisy said flatly. “You'll have to ask Johnnie and the others. Ah, thanks, Arthur.”
“Toast in just a minute, miss,” said the footman, setting down teapot and hot water jug in front of her.
Flagg asked him where Lord John was, and decided to go himself to the stables to request an interview. “I'll ask you to give me those names when you've finished your breakfast, Miss Dalrymple,” he said. “Chief Inspector, I hope you'll join his lordship and me in the library shortly.”
Surprised by this evidence of concord, Daisy turned to Alec. He was scowling at her, the dark, thick eyebrows still frowning. His grey eyes, so capable of freezing a recalcitrant witness, an erring subordinate, or a wretched villain to the marrow with one icicle glance, were now hotly stormy.
“How
could
you bring Belinda down here,” he demanded harshly, “when you came expressly to meddle in a crime? Does her safety mean nothing to you?”
could
you bring Belinda down here,” he demanded harshly, “when you came expressly to meddle in a crime? Does her safety mean nothing to you?”
“Of course it does!” Daisy cried. “I didn't know there was going to be a murder.”
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