Chapter 19 #2
“Inspector, what the deuce is going on here?” he demanded contemptuously. “How many more murders are we to expect? If this is the best Scotland Yard can do, we might as well have left the investigation to the local dolts!”
Stopping on the bottom step, where he had an inch or two advantage, Alec looked him up and down in silence for a moment, then said, “So you agree that your father was murdered, Lieutenant?”
Rupert’s lips tightened. “Lieutenant Colonel.” His sudden smile, as sardonic as it was unexpected, strongly reminded Alec of his cousin Lucy. “No, Chief Inspector, I do not believe anyone would harm my father.”
“Well, we’ll see when the autopsy results come back. As for the rest, if you wish to return the case to Inspector Crummle—”
“Crummle?”
The Reverend Timothy joined them. “Believe me, Rupert, you do not want Crummle back on the job.”
“Are you speaking ill of your neighbour, Timmy?” Rupert jeered. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. No, Chief Inspector, we don’t want Crummle.”
“Just as well. It would take not only the Chief Constable’s approval but my Commissioner’s. And at this time of night …”
“Say no more. No doubt you are doing your best.”
“You could help, if you were to ask your guests not to retire until they have spoken to me. I haven’t yet had time to see everyone, though I have just had a long talk with Daisy, who has told me everything she observed on entering the conservatory.
Every new attack provides new clues. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to Lord Gerald. ”
“How is he?” Rupert asked with concern, and the rest of the group, who had been listening at a little distance, gathered closer.
Whatever Alec said was bound to reach the murderer’s ears. He knew what he wanted the murderer to believe. Unfortunately it was far too near the truth for comfort. “Lord Gerald is still unconscious,” he said. “I’m afraid Dr. Arbuthnot does not expect him to survive.”
“Oooh!” The wail came from Lucy’s mother. “How am I going to tell the Tivertons?”
The Rev. Timothy put his arm around her shoulders. “You don’t need to, Mother. Uncle Nicholas has said he’s going to telephone Lord Tiverton. He’s just waiting for me to take him the latest news. I only wish it were better!”
“Mr. Fletcher,” said Lucy’s father, “I don’t want to ask for special treatment, but if you could see your way to interviewing Victoria first, so that I can put her to bed with one of my sister-in-law’s bromides …”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir, but it won’t be for a while yet, I’m afraid.”
“Good enough. Come along, Vickie.”
“Well! I don’t see why Vickie should have priority! I’m sure I’m just as upset about Ursula as she is about Lucy.”
“Come now, Adela,” said Lord Carleton dryly, “why should you be upset when Ursula all too obviously is not?”
“I think it’s all too thrilling for words!” exclaimed a gawky girl of sixteen or so.
In the midst of the general disapprobation this remark engendered, Alec escaped.
At the door from the dining room to the conservatory, he had posted Stebbins. Seeing him, the elderly constable lurched to his feet and saluted. “I hope as you don’t mind me sitting down, sir,” he said anxiously.
“As long as you don’t drift off.”
“Not likely, not with retirement coming up. ‘Sides, I’m not sleepy. It’s me feet, you see. These here new boots hurts something chronic.”
“Anyone try to come through?”
“Nossir. But here comes summun now, sir.”
Alec swung round to see the door to the hall, which he had shut behind him, begin to open. It was too late to duck into the conservatory and leave Stebbins to deal with the intruder. “Please, not Lady Carleton!” he muttered.
“It’s the CC, sir,” the constable reassured him unnecessarily, saluting again as Sir Leonard entered, followed by Dr. Philpotts.
Philpotts, black bag in hand, dodged past the Chief Constable and came striding round the table, saying, “Still living? Arbuthnot’s with him? Head injury? Right, we’ll see what can be done.” And he disappeared into the conservatory.
“The Curse of the Conservatory,” said Sir Leonard. “It’s like one of those thrillers, isn’t it? I don’t want to get in your way, Fletcher, but I thought I’d better turn up. Show willing, don’t you know. Can you give me an account of what’s going on in a few words?”
“Of course, sir. Lord Gerald Bincombe arranged to meet my wife in the conservatory after dinner, to talk about his intended. She arrived to find him badly hurt, apparently struck on the back of the head with a palm tree.”
“By Jove, there’s an original weapon! I suppose it couldn’t have been an accident?”
“No, sir. I said ‘apparently.’ The tree lay across his body but had not actually been in contact with the injury. The pot’s been smashed and the soil spilled, and among the debris is a clear spot roughly five inches wide, of indeterminate length, and roughly rectangular with rounded corners at one end.
The other end could be any shape—it fell clear of the debris—or rather the debris did not fall on it.
We think the murderer must have flung the weapon away after hitting Bincombe, shattering the pot. Then he picked it up and took it away.”
“Hmm, about five inches wide, with rounded corners? Cricket bat?”
“That’s an idea. Certainly a cricket bat could be wielded with sufficient force to cause such a nasty injury. Dr. Arbuthnot considers that ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have been killed instantly.”
“Hard head, what?”
“Bincombe played Rugby football for one of the universities. I gather a thick skull is a prerequisite,” Alec said dryly.
“Jove, yes, wouldn’t last long in a scrum otherwise. Bincombe—he’s the one who was with Lord Fotheringay when he died? Connected?”
“We can only assume so, sir. We’re working on the premise that the murderer believed Bincombe had recalled something of significance which he hadn’t mentioned to us. I’m afraid people seem to have a tendency to confide in my wife matters they had far better bring to us … .”
“It’s those blue eyes of hers,” Sir Leonard said shrewdly. “Noticed it myself, matter of fact. Competent little woman, though,” he added in a congratulatory tone, “and there’s not many you can say that about.”
Alec managed to keep a straight face while resolving to pass on the compliment. “Apparently there was general speculation that this was why Bincombe had asked Daisy to meet him privately.”
“And the murderer acted to forestall the revelation! Just as he killed Lord Fotheringay to prevent his talking about Lady Eva’s murder.”
“So it would seem, sir.”
“Dammit, man, does this mean Mrs. Fletcher is now in danger?”
“I sincerely trust not, but she’s upstairs with her door bolted. I’ve done my best to spread word that she’s told me all she saw, and to emphasize the fact that each new attack gives us more to go on. Not that I’ve had time to gather facts, let alone to consider them.”
“And I’m keeping you from your work now!” Sir Leonard apologized. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yes, sir, two things. First, Constable Stebbins here has been extremely useful, but he’s been on duty all day and deserves a rest. There’s also a constable on duty at the gate who ought to be relieved.
If you could arrange to have reliefs for them and a couple more men come out to take the night watch, and possibly to help search for the weapon, I’d be very grateful. ”
Stebbins was heard to mutter, “Me too!”
“Certainly, certainly. And?”
“I’m hoping to interview this evening everyone I haven’t seen yet. I can’t keep them from their beds if they choose to go, but if you were to go and mingle and give them a pep talk …”
“Pep talk?”
“Sorry, sir, bit of slang I picked up in America. Encouragement, let’s say, to stay downstairs and do their duty as citizens. I’ve asked Lieutenant Colonel Fotheringay to do the same, but your word might carry more weight.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sir Leonard promised. “‘Pep talk,’ eh? I like it! And you can count on me to make sure everyone knows you’ve wrung Mrs. Fletcher dry.”
An infelicitous image, and inaccurate besides, Alec thought, continuing into the conservatory.
He would never be able to wring Daisy dry of her endless theories.
Nor would he want to, for now and then they actually proved valuable.
He must remember to send Piper up for her and Lucy’s lists of names.
Daisy’s was certain to come with plenty of comments. A “competent little woman” indeed.
He allowed himself a grin, only to meet Tom’s eyes and raised eyebrows. Sobering, he shook his head.
By the light of an oil lamp, several lanterns, and a large electric torch, he surveyed the scene of the latest crime.
The fallen palm had been moved aside. The two doctors knelt on either side of Lord Gerald, who lay now on a spread quilt which Tom and Ernie had managed to slide beneath him with minimal disturbance.
At his head knelt Nancy Fotheringay. With gentle, capable hands she was removing
the bloodstained bandage covering his injury, while Angela prepared a fresh dressing at the table which earlier had held the fatal cup of tea. His hair had been shaved around the ugly wound.
Pointing, Dr. Arbuthnot was explaining to his colleague what he had found and what he had done about it.
Ernie Piper stood by with his notebook, taking down their consultation.
Alec looked just long enough to see that blood still seeped, slowly now, from the mashed area at the back of Bincombe’s resilient cranium.
He turned to Tom and they moved aside, out of the way.
“I’ve done some photographs and a sketch of that clear shape, Chief.”
“The Chief Constable suggested a cricket bat.”
“Could be! What I don’t get is why he threw it, and why he picked it up afterwards.”