Chapter 19 #2
“Miller and Miss Gwendolyn,” said Tom. “Mrs. Fletcher is right, of course, that you can learn a lot about a person by watching how they behave in a crisis. But there’s two ways of looking at it.
It’s all very well saying Miller makes a good living and don’t care about her couple of thousand quid, but there’s been murder done for a lot less.
Sir Harold disapproves of Miller. Sir Harold dies.
All of a sudden, Miller and Miss Gwendolyn are all lovey-dovey. ”
“We may have to go into Miller’s financial position,” Alec agreed. “Unsound investments or gambling catch even practical chaps like engineers. For all we know, he’s desperate for that couple of thousand. You’d better ask him a few questions on the way back from the village.”
“Right, Chief.”
“And what about Miss Gwendolyn?” Ernie put in eagerly. “Could be her last chance to get married afore she’s too old to have children, and her father’s spiking her guns.”
“Pity he didn’t spike his own,” Tom observed. “But you’re right, laddie. It needn’t be thwarted love, just fear of ending up an old maid.”
Alec was glad Daisy wasn’t present to hear her friend depicted as a desperate husband-hunter. “They could even be in it together, I suppose,” he said, “though the actual shooting was a one-man job. What about Miss Tyndall?”
“Ah, now,” said Tom, “barring Gooch with his Wild West experience, Miss Tyndall’s the only one of the lot I’d reckon has the nerve for it.”
“All the Tyndalls learnt to shoot in the War, Sarge.”
“Shooting at a target’s very different from shooting at a person, young feller-me-lad. On the other hand, her motive’s pretty thin. As long as Sir Harold was alive, there was always the chance he might relent and leave the place to her.”
“Good point, Tom.”
“She’s the only one we know went into the house during the fire-works,” Ernie argued, “not counting the victims. She told Mrs. Fletcher she was going to find sparklers for the kiddies.”
“Which she did.”
“Good excuse if she was seen going in. ’Sides, she didn’t hand ’em out till after the show, and she talked to Mrs. Fletcher at the beginning. Isn’t that right, Chief?”
“That’s what she said, but she’d hardly have mentioned it if she’d felt in need of an alibi.
She could have counted on Daisy not being sure at what point in the proceedings she spoke to whom.
No, Miss Tyndall stays on the list but near—” A knock on the door interrupted him. “Near the bottom. Come in!”
In came a constable in motorcycling gear, bringing the search warrant they were waiting for.
Tom and Ernie went off with him, Ernie requesting directions to Chipping Campden.
Ernie had become a good driver, which often came in handy, but Alec was always slightly nervous about letting him drive his precious Austin Seven.
To take his mind off it, he decided to go and see how Gooch was doing, make sure Blount was keeping an eye—and more important, an ear—on him, and have a word with Gwen.
While reviewing the notes, he had realized he hadn’t yet asked her about anything but meeting the Gooches at the pub.
Gooch’s accident and the subsequent revelation of the letters in his pocket had disrupted the intended course of the investigation.
Daisy had delivered Tom’s message to Miller, who was still with Gwen in the sickroom. Time to put her feet up for half an hour, she decided as she closed the door behind her. Then Alec came up the steps from the landing. She went to meet him.
“Darling, Mr. Miller says he’ll be happy to fetch Tom when he rings.”
“It’ll be a while.”
“I take it Tom will search all the poor man’s possessions before he packs them up. What’s he looking for? Blackmail letters?”
“Anything anomalous. He’ll talk to the landlord and the inn servants, too. Someone may have heard something.”
“The Gooches quarrelling, you mean? They seemed like the least quarrelsome of couples. I wish you’d seen them together. I can’t believe he shot her.”
“If he didn’t, then almost certainly your friend, or one of her family, or her boyfriend did.”
“I suppose so,” Daisy admitted, troubled. “It’s a trifle far-fetched that someone else Mrs. Gooch knew in her youth happened to be at the party and happened also to have a grudge against Sir Harold.”
“Far-fetched but not impossible. The Gloucestershire police are checking her background. After twenty years, I’m afraid it’s farfetched, though not impossible, that they’ll find something useful.
Cheer up, love, you know we’re not going to arrest any of the Tyndalls or Miller or Gooch without proof. ”
“I know. It’s just that everyone else suffers, too, whether the rest of the family or Gooch’s children in Australia.”
“You wouldn’t rather a murderer went unpunished!”
“No,” she agreed, but doubtfully. After all, no punishment would bring back the dead, and the arrest of any of the suspects would cause immense heartache to the innocent. “Though if it weren’t that he might decide to kill someone else next . . .”
“That being the case, how would you feel about taking the constable’s place at Gooch’s side for a while? I shamelessly shanghaied Blount, but it’s just dawned on me that he must have his own duties, his rounds to make.”
“I can’t nurse Gooch!”
“Of course not. Just in case he wakes and says something, or even speaks without regaining consciousness, which sometimes happens. Gwen will stay till the nurses arrive.”
“If Gwen has to be there anyway . . . No, I suppose you can’t trust her not to invent a confession to keep her family out of the picture.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right.” She sighed. “I know it’s necessary.”
Alec knocked on the door of the late baronet’s dressing room and opened it. PC Blount was sitting by the bed, notebook and pencil on the small table at his elbow. Gwen and Miller stood by the window, deep in low-voiced conversation.
Blount sprang to his feet and saluted as Alec entered. “He ha’n’t stirred, sir, nor yet made a sound.”
“Thank you, Constable, you’ve done me a great favour by taking over here. You must be behind on your usual rounds. If your superiors give you grief, send them to me, and I’ll refer them to the Chief Constable if necessary.”
The Constable looked awed and gratified. “Don’t ’spect that’ll be needed, sir,” he said with regret. “I’ll just tell the Sergeant I were giving Scotland Yard a hand.” Grinning, he saluted again.
Accompanying him to the door, Alec said, “There’s something more you can do for me while you’re out and about.” He closed the door behind them, and strain as she might, Daisy couldn’t hear anything more than a brief murmur of voices before he came back in.
“Are you taking the bobby’s place, Chief Inspector?” Miller asked.
“No, Daisy will for the present. I appreciate your offer to fetch DS Tring from the Ravens.”
“I hope all the Gooches’ bags will fit in my little bus. Their Vauxhall was much bigger.”
Daisy could tell Alec was pondering the addition of his mountainous sergeant to a mountain of luggage. Tom could always walk up—But no, that would leave Miller in sole possession of what might be valuable evidence.
“If not,” he said, “Tring can have the landlord store the less important stuff, or hire a cart to bring it up. I’m going to ask you to await his telephone call downstairs, if you please. I have a few questions for Miss Gwen.”
Miller frowned. “I can just as well wait here. The servants will let me know when he rings.”
“It’s all right, Martin. Daisy will be here if I need protection. Which I don’t anticipate,” she added hastily as his frown deepened and Daisy opened her mouth to protest.
He smiled ruefully. “No, of course not. I beg your pardon. I’ve never had anything to do with the police before, barring a summons or two for speeding. I promise I won’t speed with your sergeant aboard, Mr. Fletcher.”
“What with Tom and all the Gooches’ belongings and that narrow lane and the hill,” said Daisy, “I doubt you could speed if you tried.”