Chapter 13 #2
Alec handed her a handkerchief. He went through vast numbers of hankies, as weeping suspects rarely laundered and returned them to him. She sniffed into it and dabbed her eyes.
“You already had an appointment with Lord Henry?” Alec asked.
“Yes. There was a preview at Sotheby’s, the auction house, of Sarah Bernhardt’s effects.
She collected the most marvellously exotic objets d’art, and they had some of her own paintings, too, and the manuscripts of her plays.
She wrote and painted, as well as acting. Did you ever see her on the stage?”
“Yes, in France during the War. She came to entertain the troops, though by then she was over seventy and missing a leg. You enjoyed the preview, then, Mrs. Talmadge?”
Daphne’s enthusiasm vanished. “Harry did. He couldn’t help it, though he saw that I was unhappy.
It’s just the sort of stuff he likes best. I didn’t want to spoil it for him so I paid attention and I suppose I found it impossible not to appreciate such wonderful things.
I couldn’t tell him there, anyway. About the baby.
It wasn’t busy, but there were always people around. ”
“How long were you at Sotheby’s?”
“I took a taxi and got there just at eleven, which was when we’d arranged to meet. I think it was about noon when we left.”
“And then?”
“Oh, we walked for a bit, while I … while I told him everything.”
“Everything?” Alec asked sharply.
“That … that I was going to have his baby, and that Raymond and I were going to patch things up and try to make a go of it. And that I couldn’t see him again. He was devastated. He wanted me to go abroad with him, to let Raymond divorce me and then we’d be married. Perhaps
I’m a coward, but I couldn’t face the scandal, not just for my own sake but for his, and our child’s. I know lots of people don’t snub divorcees the way they did even ten years ago, but plenty still do. We’d live under a cloud for the rest of our lives.”
Daisy wondered whether Daphne was deliberately making a play for Alec’s sympathy, or just wallowing in her own self-justification.
And the question recurred: Was she deceiving herself or attempting to deceive Alec?
Did she or did she not realize that the more desperate she painted Lord Henry, the more suspicion must fall on him?
“I’m doing my best to stay calm now,” Daphne went on, “but I was as upset as Harry then. We had intended to lunch together but neither of us felt like eating. We went …”
After a long pause, Alec said, “You went?”
“We went … We went to Regent’s Park.” This statement had the same air of inspired improvisation as when she had told Daisy about her husband’s imaginary disappointment. “He accepted my decision to stay with Raymond, you see, but we just wanted a little more time together before we parted forever.”
“You walked to the park?”
“No, I … we took a taxi. We sat on a bench by the lake and talked.”
“In the rain.”
“It wasn’t really raining, just an occasional shower. We had umbrellas.”
But she hadn’t been carrying an umbrella when she stepped out of the taxi yesterday. Daisy particularly remembered, having just discovered she’d left her own behind. Of course, Daphne might have forgotten hers in the taxi,
but women who habitually took taxis, rather than buses or the Tube, often didn’t bother with an umbrella.
Anyway, her story of sitting in the park conflicted with Lord Henry’s of going to a restaurant. Either they had not been together and were trying, ineptly, to give each other alibis, or they were together—committing murder.
While Daisy pondered, Alec had asked something to which Daphne responded, “I don’t know exactly. I didn’t look at my watch, but it didn’t seem very long. Daisy knows what time I got home, and I came straight by taxi from … the park.”
“Ten past two,” Daisy said. Wherever Daphne had been, it wasn’t Regent’s Park. “No, call it twelve or thirteen minutes past, if you want precision. It was ten past when I checked the time a couple of minutes before Daphne arrived.”
“Thank you,” said Alec, giving her an I-told-you-to-keep-quiet look. “Mrs. Talmadge, I understand you jumped to the conclusion that your husband had committed suicide. Do you mind telling me what you thought might have driven him to take his own life?”
No drivel about a Harley Street practice this time. “Everything.” Tears started again. “I thought he must have been brooding about the baby not being his and … oh, everything! I felt that way myself.” Her voice quavered. “If it wasn’t for the baby, I might have tried to kill myself.”
To Daisy’s wifely eyes, Alec looked torn between disbelief in Daphne’s melodramatic statement and concern over her emotional condition. With outward equanimity he said, “I’m very glad you didn’t, and I trust the impulse has passed. Just one or two more questions, if you feel up to it.” Not
waiting for an answer, he went on, “Did you know your husband was in the habit of inhaling laughing gas?”
“Yes. I asked him to stop, but he said he knew what he was doing so it wasn’t at all dangerous. I don’t think he did it very often.”
“Who else knew?”
“Just Nurse Hensted, I think. I never told anyone, of course, and I doubt she did. It wouldn’t do his practice any good.”
“I dare say. Can you suggest anyone who might have a motive for hating or fearing your husband?”
Daphne gave a short, unamused laugh. “I suppose most of his patients feared him. The only person I can think of who might have hated him enough to murder him is his mistress’s husband.”