Chapter Thirty
THIRTY
DS Gaskell entered Pritchard’s den with an ivory-coloured envelope held by one corner between finger and thumb, as if he expected it to be covered with useful fingerprints.
“Mrs. Fletcher said—”
“Yes, yes, put it down here.” Boyle gestured at a bare spot on the desktop, and then at the scatter of notes covering most of the rest. “I hope you can explain all this muddle to me.”
“Yes, sir. Like I told Mrs. Fletcher, that’s what took me so long, sorting it all out with them so’s it makes sense.”
“Good. You can write it all out neatly for me later, but first, tell me what they had to say about whatsisname, Lord Rydal’s chauffeur.”
“Gregg, sir. Not strictly speaking a chauffeur, more of a valet. His lordship preferred to drive himself, but required his manservant to be able—”
“All right, all right, I don’t need to know the details. Not yet, at least. What were his relations with his employer?”
“For a start, he’d only been with him a couple of months and wasn’t planning on staying, from what he told the others.
The fellow before him wasn’t there more than six months, neither.
Gregg told them he never kept servants long.
If you done something wrong and get sworn at, that’s one thing, he said, and par for the job, but getting blasted all the time for what can’t be helped is more than flesh and blood can stand. ”
“Did anyone know he hadn’t left Appsworth?”
Daisy stopped listening. She wasn’t interested in the hapless Gregg.
She didn’t believe for a moment that he had anything to do with the explosion, apart from getting caught in it.
No one could be so stupid as to set a trap of such magnitude and then hang about to see what happened.
Whatever he had been up to, it wasn’t turning on gas taps.
Nor did she believe Boyle was so stupid as to suspect Gregg of murder. The inspector was trying to rattle Charles Armitage, who so far was far too blasé about his fateful secret. The envelope lay there on the desk between them, an innocent rectangle of ivory paper, waiting to explode.
Or was it fateful? More likely, as he had claimed, merely embarrassing. Nonetheless, Daisy was dying to know what the contents would reveal.
Armitage took his tobacco pouch and pipe from his pocket and started to stuff the bowl. Getting a pipe going was a wonderful cover for nervousness—or irritation. Daisy thought he was more irritated than nervous as he tamped down the tobacco and took out matches.
He was striking the third when Julia marched into the room. Armitage leapt to his feet.
“What’s going on?” she demanded militantly. “Charles has been in here for hours.”
“Darling, it’s quite all right. They’re not giving me the ‘third degree.’ ”
“What’s the third degree?”
“Strong-arm methods the American police are known to use sometimes in interrogating suspects.”
“Strong-arm … You mean hitting?” Julia was appalled.
“Not the English police,” the inspector protested, scarlet with indignation.
“I should hope not! But you’re not a suspect, Charles. You were with me the whole time this morning. I know you didn’t go into the grotto.”
“I don’t,” Boyle pointed out.
“You’re saying I’m lying about it? Why should I tell a lie?”
Boyle looked significantly at Armitage, whose arm Julia was holding, and back at her. She wilted into the nearest chair.
“Perhaps you’re not aware, miss, that it’s a felony to conceal evidence from the police.”
“I haven’t! We didn’t go anywhere near the grotto entrance, just walked over the hills.”
“That’s for you to know and me to find out.” The inspector picked up the envelope and tapped with it on the desk, looking again at Armitage.
“Julia, you’d better go back to your mother and let Mr. Boyle get on with his finding out. He can’t find out that I was responsible for the explosion, because I wasn’t.”
“I’m staying,” Julia declared, no longer militant, but determined. Glancing from Boyle to DS Gaskell, she caught sight of Daisy. Her eyes widened.
Daisy frantically but fractionally shook her head. If Julia addressed her, she was sure to be sent out. It was touch and go for a moment whether Julia herself would be expelled, whether by the police or her beloved, but both subsided.
Julia watched, obviously puzzled, as Boyle untucked the flap of the envelope, pulled out the letter, and opened it. He started reading.
His jaw dropped and he said incredulously, “Appsworth?”
For a moment, Daisy felt as blank as Julia looked. Then she had to bite her lip, hard, to stop herself laughing aloud. Appsworth! Was Charles a long-lost son of the family?
“What do you mean, Appsworth?” Julia said crossly.
Boyle gestured at Armitage/Appsworth. “Ask him.”
“It’s my name,” Charles explained, rather flushed.
“That’s why I’m interested in the old family papers.
It’s—or more accurately, it was—my family.
Mr. Pritchard asked me not to use the name down here.
He was afraid it would start all sorts of rumours flying, people saying there was something fishy about his buying the house and I ought to have inherited it. ”
“And is there something fishy?” Boyle enquired. “Should the place be yours?”
“Good lord no! My great-grandfather was a fourth son. He emigrated to Canada and lost touch with the family. To tell you the truth, I think he started out as a bit of a ne’er-do-well, but he made good.
My grandfather made a fortune in wheat, in Alberta.
So we’re a junior branch at best. I suspect the senior branches have died out, though I haven’t finished tracking down the details.
There have been a number of distractions.
” He smiled at Julia, who was still looking somewhat bemused.
“So you may be the Appsworth heir,” the inspector persisted.
Daisy couldn’t see why he was interested. After all, it was Rhino who had been blown up, not the usurping Pritchard, who might conceivably have been a target to Charles. But she wanted to know the whole story—and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself—so she didn’t interrupt.
“Good lord no! I’m not even an eldest son of an eldest son.
If any of my immediate family were the heir, it would be my uncle, and since all my cousins are girls, my father after him, followed by my older brother.
But the entail was broken long ago. My uncle may be able to call himself Lord Appsworth, but he has no rights in the estate whatsoever.
It was left jointly to the two daughters of the then holder of the title, failing male heirs-of-the-body.
When the younger died, the elder was perfectly at liberty to sell the place lock, stock, and barrel.
She retired to a cottage in Dorset, I believe. ”
“We must look her up, darling,” said Julia, “and make sure she’s all right.”
“Yes, I’d intended to, before I go home. Before we go home.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes.
Boyle broke up this picture of love’s young dream with a loud cough. “Yes, that’s all very well, but it’s got nothing to do with my investigation.”
“At least you know now that my presence at Appsworth Hall isn’t a long-laid plan to do away with Lord Rydal.”
“That’s as may be. I’ve got plenty more questions for you, Mr. Arm—Appsworth, so—”
“Inspector, as long as you’re not about to arrest me immediately and need my right name to do so, would you mind continuing the fiction? The possibility of embarrassing Mr. Pritchard continues.”
“I suppose it doesn’t make much odds,” Boyle grumbled. “Gaskell, you’re to write down Appsworth, though, whatever I say. In the meantime, I’ll thank Miss Beaufort to take herself off until I send for her. I promise not to engage in any strong-arm tactics.”
At this point, an enormous yawn overcame Daisy. It drew the attention of both Julia and Charles, and Boyle turned his head to see what they were looking at.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, his tone resigned. “All right, I don’t need you, either, now Gaskell’s here to take notes. Perhaps Mr. Fletcher can avail himself of your services.”
“Right-oh.” Daisy was actually quite willing to leave now that she knew Charles’s secret.
Julia was not. “But I don’t see why I shouldn’t—”
“Come on, darling,” said Daisy. “It’s no good arguing with a copper in full cry. You’ll get your turn, never fear.”
“But what am I going to tell Mother about who you really are, Charles?”
“Don’t tell her anything until you’ve warned Pritchard that my alias is blown. See what he says, but I should think he’ll want to keep quiet about it as long as possible—with your cooperation, Mrs. Fletcher? Inspector?”
Daisy nodded. “Of course. Except Alec.”
“I was going to say,” Boyle said, “except Mr. Fletcher. It’s all the same to me. At present, at least. I can’t see your name has anything to do with your committing murder.”
“Thank you,” Charles said ironically.
“Though it does show a talent for deceit.”
Julia wasn’t going to let that pass. “For Mr. Pritchard’s sake!”
“Don’t worry, Julia. Just think what a story we’ll have to tell our grandchildren when we’re old and grey.”
Daisy managed to get her friend out of the room without any further outbursts. “Darling,” she said, “you really must stop showing yourself so partisan. You make it less and less likely that Boyle will believe anything you say about Charles.”
“It’s already too late. He thinks Charles turned on the gas when we went out, and I’m aiding and abetting him. After all, apart from Pritchard and Howell, Charles knows about the gas supply in the hermitage better than anyone.”
“Bosh! Anyone who’s been in there knows about all the lights and the fire. I expect there’d have been enough gas to blow up without using the geyser, but anyway, we were all there when Pritchard was talking about it. Most of us. Let’s see, who was actually there?”
“Charles and I,” Julia said gloomily. “And Rhino.”
“Lady Ottaline and Sir Desmond. Carlin. Lucy and I. And Pritchard and Howell, of course, but the gas was no news to them. Mrs. Howell didn’t come, nor your mother.”
“Nor the doctor and his wife. They came to dinner, remember? But I think they’d gone home by the time we got back to the house. It all seems so long ago. Whatever became of Carlin? Oh, Daisy, you don’t think he’s out there under the rubble?”
“Heavens no! Didn’t you hear him at breakfast? He was engaged to play in a golf tournament tomorrow so he went back to town by train. Does—did Rhino play golf?”
“No. He called it a footling occupation for fools who had nothing better to do with their time. Why?”
“I was just thinking it was a bit fishy the way Carlin disappeared so promptly. Pritchard telephoned Sir Desmond in Swindon when we got Lady Ottaline back to the house, so the three men were still there, so Carlin must have known about the explosion before he caught his train. It’s a bit cool, if you ask me, his just going off like that. ”
“What’s that got to do with Rhino and golf?”
“Well, suppose he and Rhino had quarrelled over a game sometime in the past. Men get frightfully worked up about it. Rhino might forget, but Carlin brooded about it and—”
“But Rhino didn’t play.”
Daisy sighed. “No. Pity.”
“All the same, I don’t think the inspector should let Carlin off without being interrogated.”
“He told his sergeant to find him in London and bring him back. I hope Lucy took the Daimler or poor DS Thomkin will be stuck in the dickey all the way down. Always supposing he manages to find Carlin and persuade him to abandon his match.”
“It sounds like a tall order.”
“Alec gave him the name of an inspector at the Yard who’ll help him. I just hope it doesn’t get Alec into trouble.”
They had been standing talking just outside the drawing room. Now Julia said, “Are you coming with me to warn Mr. Pritchard about Charles having to reveal his alias to the police?”
“Not me. I’ll leave that to you. I’m just going to find out where Alec is, then I’ll go and see if—”
“Madam!” It was the little housemaid, Rita. Twisting a corner of her apron in nervous fingers, she was obviously upset. “Oh, if you please, madam!”
“What is it, Rita?” Daisy asked.
“Oh, madam! Mr. Barker said I got to tell you.”
Daisy envisioned her best evening frock ruined by overenthusiastic application of the smoothing iron. She gave Julia a little push towards the drawing-room door, and taking the hint, her friend went in alone.
“What do you have to tell me?” she asked.
“Oh, madam!” Rita glanced wildly round the hall.
“Would you like to go somewhere private? How about the dining room?” Daisy led the way. “Now sit down and spit it out. I won’t eat you, you know.”
“Mr. Barker said you was the best one to tell. I’m sure I couldn’t say a word to that inspector, but you’ll know what to do, madam. Oh, madam, I never thought he meant it.” The girl flung her apron over her face and started crying.
“Who? Who meant what?”
“Mr. Gregg, madam.” Her voice was muffled by the cloth and interrupted by sobs and hiccups. “His lordship’s man, madam. And I’m sure I wish he’d never said a word to me!”
“Oh dear!” said Daisy and set about coaxing the story from the frightened maid.