Chapter 8 #2
“Yes. She kept her head, said nothing about shooting, just that I was urgently needed. Unfortunately, I was chatting with Dryden-Jones at the time. He stuck to me like a burr and argued with every decision. Never been in the army, you know.”
Alec wished he had taken the time to change into his Royal Flying Corps tie, which generally went down well with upper-class gentlemen sporting their own regimental or public school colours.
Still, Wookleigh knew his credentials, and Miller did not appear to be an upper-class gentleman.
Who was the man and what was he doing here?
“Gwen brought Dr. Prentice, too,” Daisy continued, “the local GP. He rushed off to see if he could do anything for Mrs. Gooch. Mr. Miller showed him the way.”
“Mrs. Fletcher pointed out that nothing must be moved or touched unnecessarily,” said Sir Nigel.
“Dashed clever to remember such a thing at such a time. So I went along as well, as soon as I’d detached Dryden-Jones from my coattails.
You’ll want to have a word with Prentice, of course, but Miller and I can tell you what he said and what we saw. ”
Daisy’s hand twitched in Alec’s clasp. “Later,” he said firmly. “Daisy, is there anything else you really need to tell me now, anything Sir Nigel doesn’t know that can’t wait until the morning?”
She frowned. “No, I suppose not. You’re going to question the family tonight?”
“Yes, I must talk to them.” He knew she wanted to tell him all about the Tyndalls.
Her judgements of people she knew were often useful, if sometimes misleading.
She had a way of taking one or more suspects under her wing and failing to notice anything to their detriment.
Tomorrow was soon enough to hear her views, though, and the wild theories which would undoubtedly accompany them.
Presumably she had an opinion about Miller, too. And the Gooches? Their appearance in the drama seemed even more mysterious than Miller’s. He was on the point of asking her, when she succumbed to an enormous yawn.
“I beg your pardon!” she said, blushing.
Alec managed to suppress a strong desire to kiss her. He escorted her to the stairs and bade her a fond but discreet good night.
When he returned to the fireplace, Miller was holding out a packet of cigarettes, Player’s Navy Cut, to Sir Nigel.
“Thanks, my dear fellow, but I never touch ’em. May I offer you one of these?” He produced and opened a silver cigar case. “Dash it, only one left.”
“All yours, sir. I prefer my own. Chief Inspector?”
Alec was already feeling in his pocket for his pipe and tobacco pouch. “No, thanks. I’m a pipe man.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Miller offered the packet to Piper, who looked to Alec for permission before taking one. They were a cut above his usual Woodbines.
The others had all lit up while Alec was still tamping the tobacco in his pipe.
In spite of their long day, Ernie was bright-eyed and alert, his pencil hovering at the ready over his notebook.
Wookleigh’s soldierly pose had relaxed; he sat, as it were, at ease, not forgetting that he was a Chief Constable, nor that a murder had taken place, but remembering that he was not in his own county.
More interestingly, Miller had also relaxed. The death of his host did not appear to cause him any distress. An engineer, as firmly middle-class as was Alec himself, he was an anomalous figure in this house where an anomalous event had occurred. To a detective, anomalies are meat and drink.
However, Alec had no reason to suppose Miller’s visit had anything to do with Sir Harold having shot the Australian woman.
Since the murderer was as dead as his victim, his motive was of little interest to anyone except their families.
The local police ought to have handled it, and would have, no doubt, but for Daisy’s presence and the rivalry between Wookleigh and Dryden-Jones.
Still, since Scotland Yard was on the scene, Scotland Yard had better show its paces.
The pipe caught at last. Alec puffed a couple of times, then said, “Sir Nigel, what do you know of the Gooches?”
“Absolutely nothing whatsoever, my dear fellow. Never heard of them, never seen them before, never exchanged a word with either of them.”
“Mr. Miller, you mentioned meeting Mr. and Mrs. Gooch at the Ravens. That’s the pub in the village?”
“Yes, the Three Ravens. We all went down for a drink—good heavens, it was just last night. It seems like a century ago.”
“Dash it,” said Wookleigh, “I could do with a whisky, but I suppose in the circumstances, helping ourselves would hardly be cricket.”
“ ‘All’?” Alec queried. “My wife and you, Mr. Miller, I gather, and who else?”
“Jack, Miss Tyndall, Miss Gwendolyn. Jack drove Mrs. Fletcher. The rest of us walked.”
“Sir Harold didn’t go with you?”
“Lord no! We were . . .” He clammed up, then went on, “No. Nor Lady Tyndall, nor Mrs. Yarborough.”
“Mrs. Yarborough?”
“The middle sister, Adelaide. She’s a widow and she doesn’t live at Edge Manor, but she spends a lot of time here.”
“Oh, yes, Daisy mentioned her having a dust-up with her brother which led to the discovery of the bodies.”
“I simply cannot understand why Sir Harold took Mrs. Gooch up to his study!” Miller exclaimed.
“Come, come!” said Wookleigh. “No need to beat about the bush now Mrs. Fletcher has gone up. I saw Mrs. Gooch, though I didn’t speak to her—a nice-looking woman, must have been a stunner in her youth, and I understand she came from Evesham originally.
I imagine she was Tyndall’s mistress, come back to blackmail him. ”