Chapter 23
If Edge Manor had worn an air of gloom on Thursday, on Friday the atmosphere was thick with doom. No matter what Daisy said about “helping the police with their enquiries,” she was unable to convince the Tyndalls that Jack had not been arrested.
Immediately after breakfast, the detectives from Scotland Yard had taken him off to the village police station.
Martin Miller, having adjured him not to say anything without a lawyer present, had then taken it upon himself to ring up Mr. Lewin to request the name of a local solicitor who handled criminal matters.
Lady Tyndall was deathly pale but would not go to bed, even at the behest of Dr. Prentice, who came to see Gooch (and pronounced him out of danger).
Babs muttered about a thaw and rain coming and jobs that needed doing.
She went off to the farm but came back half an hour later to mope about in the hall with the rest. Adelaide turned up, without her sons, to complain that the whole family was bound to be ostracized.
Babs and Gwen turned on her, and she flounced away again in a miff.
Daisy found the situation extremely uncomfortable. She decided to leave after lunch by train, without waiting for Alec. But Gwen, when asked for a lift to the station, begged her to stay.
By mid-morning, Daisy was in desperate need of a breath of fresh air. The cloud banks of last night’s sunset had solidified to a thick grey pall, but no rain yet fell. She fetched her coat and slipped out. No one appeared to notice her going.
The wind that brought the clouds had subsided to a breeze, warm in comparison to the past few days’ frosts.
She stood for a few minutes on the terrace, gazing down at the meadow and the village.
The last of the autumn leaves had been torn from the skeletal trees, revealing the roofs of houses and shops.
Daisy didn’t know which was the police house, but she picked out the inn.
There in the cosy taproom of the Three Ravens, the machinery of tragedy, created more than twenty years ago, had been set in motion.
The meadow where children had danced around the bonfire was empty but for a bull, pastured there to keep unwanted visitors at bay.
The only sign of the celebration was a black circle in the middle.
The fireworks apparatus was gone from the lowest terrace, the chattering crowds from the top terrace.
Would the Tyndalls ever again celebrate the Gunpowder Plot with their friends and neighbours?
In a melancholy mood, Daisy walked along the terrace and into the shrubbery, murkier than ever beneath the overcast sky.
“Daisy!”
She swung round. Lady Tyndall, enveloped in her loden cloak, came towards her with short, quick steps. The cloak was done up to the chin and her hands were buried in the pockets, but she had forgotten her hat. She looked cold, with an inner chill nothing could ever warm.
“Daisy, I’m sorry, I expect you wanted to get away from . . .from us all.” She paused, but Daisy was far too well brought up to agree. “I have to talk to you.”
“Right-oh.” Daisy gave her an expectant look but walked on slowly.
Lady Tyndall kept pace. “You must tell your husband that Jack didn’t shoot his father and that woman!”
“I’m afraid Alec can’t accept my unsupported assertion any more than anyone else’s,” Daisy said with all the patience she could muster. “He has to have evidence.”
“But he had no reason to! He didn’t know she was—she claimed to be his mother. He wasn’t there, so he didn’t hear Harold say he didn’t care what she told his ‘damned underbred, misbegotten son.’ And even if he had . . .” Her voice trailed away as she met Daisy’s eyes.
And Daisy knew who had shot Sir Harold and Lady Gooch, and she saw Lady Tyndall realize that she knew.
“ ‘He wasn’t there.’ Outside the study, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“You were.”
“Yes. I saw them go off together. I followed. Harold didn’t close the study door properly, and I heard every word.
They were conspiring to drive my boy away from me!
” The words came out as a cry of anguish.
“I went down and took a gun from the cabinet. Harold insisted I learn to shoot, during the War. I hoped . . . but I can’t let Jack be blamed. I’ve written—”
An explosion made both their heads turn. It came from the direction of the potting shed and was followed by shrill screams.
“Reggie and Adrian!” Lady Tyndall started running through the bushes towards the shed.
Daisy was not supposed to run, but she followed at a fast walk.
Approaching the wooden building, she heard more explosions, and a rocket smashed through the small cobwebbed window, scattering shards of glass and glowing balls of silver, blue, and green fire.
Behind the broken panes, flames flickered.
Lady Tyndall flung open the door and plunged into the shed. She emerged, coughing, with a limp grandson in her arms, just as Daisy arrived. “Get him away from here!”
As Daisy took the child from her, she rushed into the shed again.
Staggering under the boy’s weight, Daisy carried him a few paces away and laid him down.
His hair was frizzled on one side and his face, hands, and clothes were smudged with soot, but he was breathing, thank heaven.
After a moment, his body convulsed with a racking series of coughs, the sound vying with the continuing explosions and the crackle of the fire.
Daisy hurried back towards the shed. Now flames shot from the window and the collapsing roof. A final flurry of bangs announced the demise of the last rocket.
Through thick smoke, Lady Tyndall tottered out with the second boy.
Her face was black, her eyes red and staring.
She sank to her knees, her burden slipping to the ground.
It was the elder brother, too heavy for Daisy to lift.
She grabbed him under the shoulders and dragged him over to the other, then turned to help Lady Tyndall.
The elderly woman had somehow risen to her feet. She seemed to be struggling to take an object from her pocket. As Daisy started forward, she saw Lady Tyndall whirl around and dart back into the burning building.
The shed was engulfed in a roaring inferno, clouds of smoke billowing into the sky. And then came one final crack.
Her legs suddenly weak, Daisy sat down on the ground, watching aghast.
“Mrs. Fletcher!” Constable Blount came pounding towards her, the gardener, Biddle, close at his heels. “What’s happened?”
Only then did Daisy realize that all along she had been shouting, screaming for help. She pointed at the boys. “Stolen rockets,” she gasped hoarsely, and surrendered to tears.