Chapter 5
FIVE
Daisy had brought a warm woollen dress, certain it would prove to be a necessity.
She dressed it up for the evening with a cashmere stole.
Adding the necklace of polished petrified-wood beads Alec had bought her when they visited the American West—unexpectedly appropriate—she wondered what sort of evening concoction Myra would wear.
The girl was obviously fashion-mad, but at least she had a sense of humour about it.
It was hard to imagine her deliberately making her uncle ill in order to have the money to dress in the latest modes.
However, Daisy had never been particularly interested in leading a fashionable life, so she wasn’t really qualified to understand how important it might seem to a pretty young girl.
At Myra’s age, Daisy had just emerged from her volunteer job in the office of a military hospital and was trying to find a way to earn a living.
Anything had seemed preferable to residing with her ever-dissatisfied mother or taking advantage of the offered charity of Cousin Edgar, the present Lord Dalrymple, then a virtual stranger.
Simon evidently didn’t feel that way about sponging on his father’s hard work. Could he possibly be so wrapped up in his dream of future literary greatness that he considered it more important than Humphrey’s health? From what little she had seen of him, she wouldn’t put it past him.
Still, putting some sort of dope in his food would be an awfully risky business. Suppose he miscalculated and killed him? No more books. No more income.
Daisy wasn’t au fait with the novel-publishing world, but what Sybil had said seemed logical: The Westerns sold under the Eli Hawke name were presumed to have been written by Humphrey Birtwhistle.
The publisher’s contracts were with Birtwhistle.
If he died, they wouldn’t easily accept his secretary suddenly declaring that she’d been writing them for several years and was quite capable of continuing to do so.
Besides, Sybil herself admitted that Humphrey was responsible for the plots. She might not be capable of coming up with such popular stories for herself, even with the aid of Shakespeare.
Whether Simon and Myra understood these intricacies was another matter.
Perhaps they were self-absorbed enough to believe Sybil could go on writing if Humphrey died, and that she’d be willing to turn over a large part of the proceeds to the Birtwhistles.
Or they might simply not have considered the possibility of an accidental overdose of whatever was turning Humphrey into an invalid.
Daisy really didn’t know them well enough to indulge in what Alec would undoubtedly describe as “wild speculation.” First things first. She applied a final dab of powder to her nose and went downstairs.
Hearing her footsteps on the stairs, Walter Ilkton—now in evening dress and without the Woolworths pearl—looked round eagerly. His face fell, because she was not Myra, Daisy supposed.
However, he said courteously enough, “Hello, Mrs. … er, Feather.”
“Fletcher,” Daisy corrected him with a smile. “Not too far off.”
“Sorry! Association of both sounds and ideas, what?” He wasn’t as unintelligent as he had first appeared, if he knew what a fletcher was. “And I have a bad habit of not listening properly to introductions. The Americans are better at it, in my opinion.”
“The way they tend to repeat one’s name after hearing it? Have you been in America, Mr. Ilkton?”
He had, and they chatted about their experiences till Simon Birtwhistle joined them. He, too, was in evening dress, but with a cravat instead of a bow tie.
“Oh, America!” he said dismissively when he heard what they were talking about. “Leave it to the cowboys and Indians. The few really cultured Americans are all in Paris.”
Daisy and Ilkton exchanged a look and made a mutual decision to let this wild generalisation pass.
“What are you writing?” Daisy asked.
Simon waved a languid hand. “Oh, just a little thing about perversion and decay in a small mining town in Derbyshire.”
“Nice and convenient for your researches.” Ilkton’s bland tone failed to hide his sneer. “Or do you write from personal experience?”
“I’m a novelist,” Simon snapped. “And I don’t mean a scribbler of popular fiction for the masses, like my father and his so-called secretary. I intend to make a serious contribution to the literature of the ages.”
“If wishes were horses,” said Ilkton, but he never completed the proverb, to Daisy’s relief, because at that moment Myra appeared at the top of the staircase. Ilkton noticed her instantly.
She looked splendid in a floor-length frock of heavy silk, silvery-grey embroidered with tiny gold beads.
The low neckline was filled in with gold net, more of which fell in cascades from shoulders to wrists.
The effect was of almost barbaric splendour, most unsuitable for a quiet evening in a farmhouse.
Myra descended with a superb disregard for the unsuitability.
Stifling a laugh, Daisy wondered if she had found her woollen stockings to wear underneath.
Ilkton, looking dazed, went to meet her. “You’re magnificent,” he said.
“Horrible little show-off,” said her cousin.
“I hope you know how to dance a minuet, Walter,” Myra said with a dazzling smile, batting darkened eyelashes. “I feel nothing else will do.”
“You’ll have to teach me,” he said gallantly.
“And what music do you propose to dance to?” Simon demanded. “My Stravinsky or your tangos?”
“We don’t have any suitable records for the gramophone,” Myra agreed amiably, “but it doesn’t really matter, because I haven’t the slightest notion of the steps. Still, it was a nice idea, don’t you think, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I’d have enjoyed watching. But it seems to me your frock would do very nicely for a captive princess in Stravinsky’s Firebird—”
“Have you seen it, Mrs. Fletcher?” Simon asked eagerly, revising his opinion of her. “The ballet?”
“No, just heard the suite, at the Queen’s Hall, years ago.” Daisy tried to remember who had taken her to the concert. She certainly hadn’t had the money to buy a ticket in those days, and it had been before she met Alec.
“You’re so lucky to live in London.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. I wanted to live there so I found a job to make it possible.”
He muttered something about women taking men’s jobs.
“Honestly, Simon,” said Myra, “as if you’d ever even looked for a job! And if you did, you’ve already aired your opinion of Mrs. Fletcher’s work. You wouldn’t take it if it was offered you on a gold plate.”
Simon flushed.
In an undertone, Walter Ilkton said to Daisy, “Tact is definitely not the family’s long suit. The poor dear was attempting to defend you. There’s not an ounce of malice in her.” He glared at Neil Carey, who was coming down the stairs whistling an Irish tune.
“Neil,” Myra addressed him, “the very thing: You can teach us how to dance an Irish jig.”
He grinned at her. “With pleasure, Miss Olney. Is it this very minute you’ll be wanting a lesson?”
“After dinner, silly.” She moved towards him as she spoke.
Ilkton, his lips tight, drifted after her. He was too bland, too much a man of the world to look thunderous, but Daisy was pretty sure that was how he felt. Whatever Myra’s view of their relationship, his proprietary interest was obvious.
In general, Myra seemed good-natured enough, even her occasional animosity towards her cousin merely an injudicious mixture of sibling squabbling and unfortunate frankness. She just said whatever came into her head, unfiltered by what passed for her brain.
Daisy wondered whether she knew her uncle’s books were actually written by Sybil.
Probably not, she decided, or the whole world would know by now.
Myra might well not work it out for herself, and if it were Daisy’s secret, she’d try to keep it from the girl for fear of its popping out quite by accident. Yet Sybil suspected her.…
Sybil must be too upset about the whole business to think it through. Daisy would have to remember to ask her what Myra had been told.
Simon had recollected his duty as host. He started distributing drinks, a choice of sherry, whisky, or gin with tonic or bitters. No Dubonnet or vermouth, Daisy’s favourite aperitifs, she noted sadly. She accepted a small sherry.
“I wish I could offer you Irish whiskey,” Simon said to Carey.
“Sure, ’tis none so easy to find the stuff this side of the Irish Sea, excepting in the big cities. I’ll make do with a Scotch, I thank you.” He pulled a wry, humorous face.
Sybil and Mrs. Birtwhistle came together down the stairs from the east wing. Then Dr. Knox, still in his tweeds, came in through the door below, looking worried and moving slowly. On his arm leant a tall, painfully thin gentleman in a dinner jacket of old-fashioned cut.
“Humphrey!” Mrs. Birtwhistle hurried towards them, tut-tutting. “Are you sure you’re well enough—?”
“Quite well enough to greet my guests, Ruby. Don’t fuss. Introduce me.”
“At least sit down first, dear. The ladies will excuse you.”
Once Mr. Birtwhistle was ensconced in a deep armchair close to the fire, introductions proceeded. He showed no interest in Neil Carey, nor Walter Ilkton, but invited Daisy to come and sit beside him.
“Pink gin, sir?” Simon offered his father.
“Thank you, my boy.” He looked at the doctor and said half laughing, half defensively, “No need to look like a stuffed turkey, Knox. I didn’t have a drink with my lunch.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“You see, Mrs. Fletcher, cowboys are—or were in my day—a hard-drinking bunch, and the habit is hard to abandon. The hooch we used to drink was known as whisky, but they had only the name in common. As pond water to Malvern! To this day the very word brings back the taste, and I never touch anything that goes by the name of whisky.”
Daisy didn’t feel it incumbent upon her to comment on his drinking habits. “You actually worked as a cowboy, Mr. Birtwhistle?”