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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Styx and Stones
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Daisy was beginning to think Mrs. Molesworth must once have suffered acutely from being the butt of gossip, to hate it so devoutly. “What did you see?” she asked.
“You're determined to pin me down, aren't you? I saw Mrs. Lomax running the meeting, reasonably competently, for perhaps a quarter of an hour. I saw her then stumble and lose her way, whereupon Mrs. Osborne went up to the dais and took
over. She—Mrs. Osborne—seemed agitated. I assumed, because she had given Mrs. Lomax her head and watched her lose it. That's all I can tell you. I must go and get on with the flowers.”
Her assumption could be right, Daisy thought as they stepped from the cottage into the street. Maybe Mrs. Osborne had watched from the back the whole time. Miss Prothero might deny noticing her, but
someone
was bound to have seen her.
Inspector Flagg would have to get a list of members and question each one. But Doris, the Vicarage maid, could well know when her mistress left the house, Daisy realized. What was more, though the girl might turn sullen if faced by the police, she was quite likely to open up to Daisy.
“I'll walk with you,” she said to Mrs. Molesworth.
They parted in the churchyard. Daisy turned down the path to the Vicarage, through the gate, then right to the tradesmen's entrance at the back, instead of left to the front door.
The kitchen door stood open. Daisy stuck her head around, to the astonishment and dismay of Doris and the cook.
“Oh miss,” cried Doris, “y'ought to've come to the front.”
“I just want a quick word with you, Doris, and I didn't want to disturb people. I won't come in and get in your way. Can you step out here for a moment?”
Her plump face avid with curiosity, Doris joined her. “What is it, miss? Not another murder?”
“Gosh, no! One's plenty. Can you remember what you were doing at half past two yesterday?”
“Ooh, miss,” Doris squealed, “you don't think I done it?”
“No, no,” Daisy said impatiently. “It's what the police call a routine question for elimination purposes.”
Cowed by the polysyllables, Doris said, “Hunting for Mrs. Osborne's gloves, I was. You see, Miss Gwen rang up just on twenty-five past, and I picked up the telephone and called the
mistress and she told me to fetch clean gloves from her drawer while she was on the telephone but I couldn't find ‘em anywheres. And Miss Gwen went on talking till after half past and madam was angry as anything 'cause she was already late and I hadn't got her gloves for her and she had to go and find some herself. She couldn't find 'em either,” the maid added resentfully, “after giving me what-for and all. Not for ages, anyways. She was ever so late to the meeting.”
So that was that, Daisy thought, suddenly tired.
“Miss Dalrymple!” Mrs. Osborne's voice came from behind her. She swung round, as Doris bolted into the kitchen, closing the door. The vicar's wife looked haggard. In one hand she wielded a colourful bunch of pompon dahlias like a shield, in the other a pair of sharp-pointed garden scissors.
“Oh, hullo,” said Daisy, heart in mouth, trying to keep her gaze from the scissors. If Mrs. Osborne had killed her brother-in-law, as now seemed more than likely, it had been on impulse, and without thought for the inevitable discovery.
“Really, Miss Dalrymple,” she snapped, “I know modern manners are lax, but to come sneaking around to the kitchen …”
“I didn't want to disturb you, in the circumstances,” said Daisy truthfully, hoping she wasn't gabbling, searching desperately for an excuse. The one she found seemed to her pretty lame. “I lost a hankie and I wondered whether Doris had found it here.”
Mrs. Osborne snorted, and the scissors lowered marginally. “That girl can't find the nose on her face. Or if she did find your handkerchief, no doubt she put it away somewhere and forgot all about it. So difficult to find competent servants these days! You should have come to me.”
“Sorry!” Now how to extricate herself? “I'd better go and see if I dropped it at Mrs. LeBeau's. It's one my sister embroidered
with daisies for me, you see,” she invented wildly. That treasured handkerchief had frayed to the point where her nurse threw it out a good fifteen years ago.
“A pity to lose it. I shall keep an eye out for it.”
“Thank you.” Conveniently, the church clock chimed. “Oh gosh, is it four already? I must run.”
Daisy managed not to run literally, until she rounded the corner of the house. Then she took to her heels.
At the gate to the street she paused to glance back. The Vicarage looked just as it always had, a large, ugly Victorian house, displaying no signs of the emotional turmoil within. Daisy turned her back on it with a shiver and pulled the gate to behind her.
On Mrs. Molesworth's doorstep stood Alec, his hand raised to the knocker, his dark eyebrows a thunderous line.
“Alec!” Untrammeled by a middle-class upbringing, Daisy called out as she ran to him.
“Daisy, where have you been? Mrs. Molesworth's, you said, but no one's home. Not the Vicarage, you unmitigated little idiot?”
Safe in his comforting arms, she explained, “I went to talk to Doris, the maid. I'm not a complete idiot, I went round the back way specially to avoid Mrs. Osborne. How could I guess a murderess would be out in the garden picking flowers?” Suppress the scissors, she thought. He didn't need to know about those. “Would you believe she chatted quite calmly about incompetent servants and lost hankies?”
“I take it what the maid told you supported the theory of her guilt.”
“She left the house very late for the meeting. Mrs. Molesworth said she arrived on the dais at about quarter to.”
“It wouldn't take more than a moment to push over the statue. She might not even have spoken to the professor first.”
“But is that enough evidence?” Daisy asked.
“Flagg rang up Mrs. Lomax. She saw Mrs. Osborne enter the hall and lost her place in what she was saying. It was two forty-seven. She particularly noted the time, as she meant to point out that since she had managed quite well for over a quarter of an hour she could have managed the whole thing. Flagg's satisfied with her confirmation of Miss Prothero's story, though the maid's evidence will help. It's more than enough to tax her with in hopes of a confession, and I agree with Flagg that she's unlikely to hold out.”
“Where is Mr. Flagg?”
“He drove up to the house to get a warrant, Frobisher being a Justice of the Peace. And you're going to follow him, Daisy.”
She yielded without a struggle. She had no desire whatsoever to be present at the arrest.
 
Daisy was half way to the stairs when Inspector Flagg came into the front hall from the library. Tucking a folded paper into the inside breast pocket of his bronze-green suit jacket, he said with satisfaction, “Signed, sealed, and to be delivered. You've seen Mr. Fletcher, I expect, Miss Dalrymple?”
“Yes, he told me what Mrs. Lomax said.” She reported her conversations with Mrs. Molesworth and Doris.
“Excellent.” He rubbed his bony hands. “Extra confirmation never hurts. To think all this—Poison Pen letters and murder—came about because the vicar turned atheist!”
“Not really,” Daisy protested. “He wrote the letters because he couldn't escape his religious instincts and training. He felt obliged to try to set the world to rights. As for the murder, if you ask me, she'd never have done it if it hadn't been for the professor's constant jokes.”
“Well, that's as may be,” said Flagg peaceably. “You may have gone off in the wrong direction a bit to begin with, but
I must say in the end you and Mr. Fletcher have been more help than a dozen slow-witted constables going door to door. It's a feather in my cap to have the whole thing wrapped up before the inquest tomorrow. The coroner and my super'll both be happy.”
The complacent inspector went off, leaving Daisy to reflect on the fact that even murder is not an unmixed tragedy.
Johnnie came out of the library, also looking pleased with himself. “So you have found the Poison Pen and the murderer all in one,” he greeted Daisy.
“Inspector Flagg told you so?”
“He applied to me for a warrant for the arrest of Mrs. Osborne for murder. He said the police didn't intend to prosecute over the letters. Stands to reason, when they have a so much graver charge against her, and of course I don't want any publicity about them. Jolly hard cheese for poor Osborne, I'm afraid. I'll have to see what we can do for the family.”
Daisy decided he didn't need to know that the vicar had been the Poison Pen. He would find out soon enough that Mr. Osborne was leaving the Church, but now the defection might be blamed on his wife's crime. If no one but the bishop was aware that he had lost his faith, it would be one less burden for the family to bear, she hoped.
Johnnie seized her hand. “I say, Daisy, I'm dashed glad I asked you to investigate. You sorted it all out in no time. I'll give you a recommendation as a sleuth any day.”
“No, thanks! If you think I actually
enjoy
stumbling over bodies or seeing families cast into chaos, you can think again.” Which was true enough in itself, though it dodged the issue of her zest for investigation. “I'm a writer,” she said firmly.
“Well, thanks anyway, old dear.” He dropped a peck on her cheek, and blushed. “You coming out for tea on the terrace?”
“I'll join you in a bit. I need a wash and brush-up.”
When Daisy went down, the children were on the terrace with Violet and Johnnie, so there was no talk of the murder. Alec arrived soon after, and was besieged with requests to redeem his pledge to play cricket.
“You promised, Daddy.”
“Please, Uncle Alec!”
“Can I play too?” asked Peter.
“Of course,” said Belinda as Derek said, “No.”
“Of course he can,” said Vi.
“All right. Us three against Uncle Alec.”
Alec groaned. “You'll join us, won't you, Frobisher? And you're not escaping, Daisy.”
Johnnie agreed, and Daisy let herself be persuaded, since a cooling breeze had come up.
“But let Uncle Alec have his tea first,” Violet said firmly.
The three children, Johnnie, and the dog went off to set up the wickets, Tinker Bell carrying one of the stumps. Daisy broke it to her sister that the vicar's wife had been arrested for murder.
“Oh dear,” said Vi, a shadow crossing her serene face. “I must see what I can arrange to take care of Mr. Osborne. She is the very person one would ask to organize assistance if it were not—Oh dear! I wonder whether he will want to bring the children home? Excuse me, please, Alec. Daisy will pour you more tea.” She went indoors to the telephone.
Full of Mrs. Barton's tea, Alec rejected a second cup. He and Daisy strolled after the others.
“You went with Mr. Flagg to arrest her?” Daisy asked.
“Yes. It was one of the most difficult ones. She ranted and raved, half hysterical. I rang up and asked Padgett to come round, both to calm her and to stand by Osborne. He's hard hit, poor fellow.”
“I'm glad I wasn't there,” Daisy acknowledged.
“You got it right in the end, you know,” Alec said sombrely. “She thought the professor was responsible for the vicar's apostasy. Since she said so before three police officers, you won't have to testify.”
Not having considered the possibility, Daisy was aghast and relieved at the same moment.
Alec went on, “She seemed almost to believe the angel struck him down without human agency, or at least that she was the instrument of God. There's bound to be a plea of insanity.” He cheered up. “A game of cricket is just what I need. Where are our cricketers?”
“Beyond the trees,” said Daisy, “out of sight of the house. Too many broken windows.”
He laughed. “Now there's a crime I could put my heart into investigating!”
T
he yellow Austin Chummy buzzed down the drive, paused between the tall gates, then turned left towards Ashford and London. Daisy sat beside Alec in the front. In the back were two excited children—Derek was going to stay with Belinda for a few days, to visit museums and the zoo—and a puppy named Nana.
“There's one thing I've been meaning to ask you, love,” said Alec. “How on earth did you discover about Dr. Padgett and the worming pills?”
“Padgett's Patent Puppy Worming Pills,” Daisy chanted. “I happened to see a box in the shop just before we went to talk to him. Sheer chance, followed by a wild guess.”
Alec sighed. “There's a place for chance and guesses in solving crime,” he conceded with reluctance.
“Daddy,” said Bel in an ominous voice, “Derek thinks Nana's going to be sick.”
Slowing, Alec drew in to the side of the lane and stopped. With an even deeper sigh, he turned to Daisy and asked plaintively, “Why do I let you talk me into these things? I must be mad!”

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