Chapter 18
Another death? It couldn’t be a coincidental accident! The back of Gerald’s head was matted with blood and a steady stream trickled down on each side to drip into the growing puddles. Did that mean he was still alive? Daisy was not sure. What she could see of his face was bone white.
She needed to feel for a pulse and stanch the bleeding and go for help and, above all, not be sick. Her gorge rose as she knelt beside him, but she’d had a lot of practice recently at fighting down nausea. She conquered the turbulence in her stomach.
Her trembling fingers failed to find a pulse.
She’d never been much good at finding pulses, not even her own.
Stop the bleeding. She fumbled in her evening bag, dangling from her wrist, and pulled out her handkerchief.
Belinda had hemmed the dainty little square of muslin for her for a Christmas present, and embroidered daisies in the corner.
She hated to ruin it and it was far too small to be much use, but she had nothing else to use.
Gerald’s own handkerchief would be more adequate, but she couldn’t reach it.
Even if she managed to lift the palm and shift his large, muscular body, she knew people with head injuries had to be moved with extreme care.
If he wasn’t already dead.
Could she use his socks to bind her folded hankie to the wound? No, her own stockings were more accessible. But what if his skull was fractured? She didn’t dare put any pressure on the spot.
Maybe she ought to run for help. She couldn’t bear to leave him. Suppose he wasn’t yet dead and the murderer came back for another try?
“Hullo!”
Daisy jumped a mile. “Angela, thank heaven! Gerald’s hurt and I don’t know what to do. Go for help.”
Angela strode forward from the garden door. Tiddler stayed cowering on the threshold, his quivering nose uneasily testing the air. “No, you go. I’ll deal with this.”
“You were a VAD?”
“No, Land Army.” Angela dropped to her knees, pulling a large linen handkerchief from her sleeve.
“But you wouldn’t believe what some of the girls did to themselves with sickles and scythes.
Besides, I’ve treated animals with similar injuries.
Go on, quickly. Send Nancy and get Dr. Arbuthnot here on the double. ”
And Alec, Daisy thought. For a moment she hesitated. Was Angela the murderer come back for another try? No, she had to trust the lover of all creatures great and small, or Gerald would bleed to death anyway while she looked on, afraid to act.
“Don’t touch or move anything you needn’t,” she said, and ran.
Entering the hall, she saw between pillars a footman about to disappear through the baize door to the servants’ wing.
“Stop!” she cried. He swung round so abruptly several cups slid off his tray and smashed on the marble floor. “Lord Gerald’s hurt, badly. Find Mrs. Reverend Timothy and send her to the conservatory. Hurry!”
He dropped the tray on top of the broken china and was already dashing off as he said over his shoulder, “She’s upstairs with Lady Fotheringay.”
Daisy sped on to the library and burst in. “Alec! Lord Gerald—he’s been attacked.”
He looked up in annoyance, then took in her words and her face and jumped up. “Dead?”
“I don’t know. He’s bleeding horribly.”
“Where?” he snapped, coming around the desk towards her.
“In the conservatory. Oh, Alec …” Realizing tears were pouring down her face, she dabbed at them ineffectually with the hankie still in her hand, then ran into his arms.
“Tom, conservatory,” he ordered over her head.
Tom picked up the Murder Bag and dashed off.
“Ernie, telephone. Both doctors. Devenish, you’re in the clear, for this one.
Hop it. No, wait a minute, go and find one of the local bobbies Sir Leonard left us and send him to the conservatory.
Then keep your mouth shut. Daisy, I can’t stay. Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes,” she sobbed into his chest. “Go, Alec. Don’t let him die. Angela’s looking after him. I didn’t know what to do! How am I going to tell Lucy?”
“Calm down, love. Coming for me was the best thing you could possibly do.” He picked her up and deposited her on a sofa by a window. “There, keep your feet up. I take it you didn’t see anyone.”
“No, only Angela. Darling, what if … ?”
“She knows you saw her. She’s not going to harm him now. If Bincombe can be saved, we’ll save him.” He strode out after Teddy Devenish.
Drying her eyes, Daisy was aware of Ernie watching her with concern as he talked on the telephone. Seeing she was once again more or less compos mentis, he asked, “What sort of injury, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“His head. Someone hit him on the head with a palm tree. There’s blood everywhere.”
“Head injuries always bleed like a pig,” the young DC said comfortingly, and relayed the information into the phone. A moment
later he was asking for another number and reporting to the police surgeon.
“Yes, sir, Dr. Arbuthnot’s coming, fifteen minutes he said.
I’ll tell the Chief Inspector you’re on your way, sir.
Thank you.” He held down the hook, cutting off the call, and said to Daisy, “What d’you reckon, Mrs. Fletcher, should I ring the CC? The Chief didn’t say.”
Daisy thought. Sir Leonard hadn’t been much help but he hadn’t been a hindrance, either, and he had neatly disposed of the abominable Crummle.
“He might take offence if he’s not notified at once.
Yes, better ring him up. But don’t wait for him to come to the phone.
Leave a message. I’m sure the Chief needs you in the conservatory. ”
Piper left a message with Sir Leonard’s butler, hung up, and gathered up all the papers the Yard men had scattered over the desk. Stuffing them into his pockets, he came over to Daisy. “You going to be all right now, Mrs. Fletcher? Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks, Ernie, I’ll be all right. I don’t know why I came unstuck like that.”
“He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, Lord Gerald.
It’s different from a stranger, or even someone you know just a bit.
And then, if someone’s dead you can’t help them and you can take your time to …
to get a grip on yourself. But if they’re not, and you’re all in a rush, like, trying to decide what to do for the best … well, it’s different.”
“Very,” Daisy agreed fervently.
“And you did the best thing you could, coming for the Chief, like he said.”
“I sent a footman for Nancy Fotheringay, too. She was a nurse during the War. Oh, blast! What one servant knows they’ll soon all know, and what all the servants know can’t be kept from anyone else. I must go and find Lucy.” She started to swing her legs off the sofa.
Piper fielded her ankles neatly. “You stay put,” he said, then blushed and hastily put his hands behind his back. “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but you didn’t ought to get up yet. You looked like a ghost when you came running in. I’ll see Miss Lucy comes to you.”
He left Daisy trying desperately to decide how on earth to break the news to Lucy.
She hardly had time to begin to fret herself to flinders before the elderly housekeeper bustled in.
“Oh dear, madam, this is a very nasty business!” She came over to the sofa and stood gazing down at Daisy, hands on her hips.
“Cocoa,” she announced. “That’s what you need, madam.
Very soothing, cocoa is, made with milk and nice and sweet.
I’ll bring you some in a jiffy, with my own two hands. You just lie there and rest.”
Before Daisy could do more than murmur, “Thank you, Mrs. Maple,” she was trotting out again.
Cocoa did sound soothing, but Daisy was dismayed by how quickly word of the attack on Gerald had spread. Lucy must have heard by now—unless by chance Mrs. Maple had been coming down the back stairs as the footman ran up to fetch Nancy.
Something of the kind must have happened, because when Lucy entered the library a few minutes later she obviously had no idea that her ex-fiancé was lying hurt, dying, perhaps dead.
At her most languidly graceful, she crossed the room saying, “Has he talked you into pleading his case? Quite useless, I’m afraid, darling, unless he’s come up with something Mummy hasn’t already said. ”
Behind her came her parents. Daisy silently groaned. Their presence was going to complicate her revelation no end and make the effect on Lucy much harder to gauge.
“Sit down, Lucy. Aunt Vickie, Oliver, I’ve got some …”
“You’re looking frightfully seedy, Daisy,” Lucy said, frowning. “Are you feeling ill?”
Aunt Vickie clucked anxiously.
“I’m perfectly well,” Daisy said, “but Gerald isn’t. I wanted to break it gently but I don’t know how. He’s the latest victim.”
Lucy and Aunt Vickie both sat down very suddenly. Lucy’s face was as still and inexpressive as a mannequin’s in a shop window, carved in celluloid.
“Dead?” asked Oliver, pale-faced, his hand on his wife’s shoulder.
“I don’t know. Maybe not. He was … he was hit on the head and b-bleeding dreadfully.”
“Daisy, dear, don’t talk about it.” Given someone to succour, Aunt Vickie pulled herself together. “Try not to think about it. Think of your dear baby!”
“I’ll go and see what I can find out,” said Oliver. “In the conservatory?”
Before he reached the door, Constable Stebbins creaked in. “Mrs. Fletcher? Oh, there you are, madam. The Chief Inspector sent me to tell you the young chap’s still alive. Hanging on by a thread, if you ast me, but he ha’n’t passed on yet.”
Daisy let go a long breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
“Thank you, Officer.” Oliver’s calm manner was no different from what it would have been had Stebbins announced the recovery of a parcel dropped in the street.
That was how an English gentleman behaved in the presence of minor officialdom.
But when Lucy faltered through stiff lips, “Is he … ?” and was unable to continue, her father read her mind and asked, “Is Lord Gerald conscious?”