Chapter 7
SEVEN
Sybil took Daisy back to her office, where they could be private.
“Well, what do you think?” she demanded, poking up the fire and adding a couple of lumps of coal as Daisy sat down.
“I’m fairly certain Walter Ilkton’s intentions are serious. He’s completely infatuated, though how long it’ll last is anyone’s guess. Neil Carey seems more motivated by his enjoyment of trying to get a rise out of Ilkton. I don’t believe he’s any more interested in marrying than Myra is.”
“I mean, about Simon and Myra and Humphrey.”
“I’m sure they were both far too young when Humphrey first fell ill to have anything to do with prolonging his illness.”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose it is unlikely.”
“Very.”
“So I’m making an ass of myself,” Sybil said disconsolately.
“It’s all in my head. I should have worked that out for myself before getting you here under false pretenses.
And I can’t even entertain you. I really do have to work tomorrow.
But don’t feel obliged to go on an outing to Matlock tomorrow if you’d rather just go home. ”
“Not on your life! It’s a long drive. I’m not going to do it again tomorrow.
” She decided not to mention that with Simon and Myra out of the picture, other possibilities arose.
She hadn’t had a chance to develop her theories.
They were still far too tenuous to explain.
“Besides, I’d really like to see Matlock and the view from the Hydro. ”
“It is special. You can see right over Matlock Bath to the Heights of Abraham, and down the valley to the Black Rocks and miles of country beyond.”
“Lovely. I hope it’s fine. You don’t work seven days a week, do you?”
“Heavens no. Ruby motors over to Bakewell every Saturday morning to fetch Monica from school. When they get back I stop writing and I have the rest of the weekend with her. It’s a pity you couldn’t have come at the weekend so that you could meet her and I’d be able to see more of you.”
“It was one of Alec’s rare free weekends. Speaking of which, I’m amazed that no one has yet asked me what he does. You didn’t tell them, I assume?”
“Of course not.”
“No, sorry. In any case, I can always tell when people know he’s a copper. Even the most innocent people tend to come over all twitchy. When someone asks, I say he’s a civil servant. They usually do ask, sort of as if I’m only a real person in relation to what my husband does, even though I write.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Outside this house, people think of me as a widow first, not as a competent secretary, let alone a writer. It’s just as well, really, as we don’t want people to know that last part.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, does Myra know you do most of the writing?”
“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure not. The rest of us agreed not to tell her, for obvious reasons.”
“In that case, I can’t see why you suspected her at all. The only motive she could conceivably have for keeping Humphrey under the weather is that you’re making more money than he did. If she doesn’t know, pop goes the motive.”
“Daisy, I must be blind as a bat not to have seen that. She certainly didn’t know a couple of years ago, when all this began. And quite apart from her age and what she knows or doesn’t know, I don’t believe for a moment she has enough brains to come up with such a devious plot.”
“No, devious plots are Humphrey’s business,” Daisy said, laughing.
“Perhaps I get too caught up in his to think straight about real life.”
“Then all I can say is it’s a good job he doesn’t write detective stories!
” Daisy yawned enormously. “Sorry! I’d better head for bed if I’m not to sleep half tomorrow away.
I was up early this morning. May I take a couple of Eli Hawke’s books with me?
I’d like to dip into one of Humphrey’s solo efforts and one of yours. ”
“Help yourself. No, on second thoughts, let me give you a couple of my favourites.” She went over to the bookcase. “Here, Lonesome Creek is one of his best. And Halfbreed Hero.”
“That’s the one based on Othello.”
“Loosely. With a happy ending.”
“Good. I prefer happy endings, especially at bedtime. Thanks.”
“You’d better have a hot water bottle. Let’s go and see what sort of mayhem those three have accomplished in the kitchen.”
As they went through the hall, Daisy noticed a telephone in a niche under the west stairs.
“Oh bother!” she said, “I meant to write to Alec as soon as I got here, to tell him I arrived safely. He was a bit worried about my driving so far on my own. Would it be all right if I sent a wire? I’ll pay, of course. ”
“Go ahead. That’s the only phone in the house, I’m afraid. Not very private. And don’t say anything you don’t want all the operator’s friends and relations to know. You know what country districts are like. I’ll be in the kitchen, through that door and turn right and you can’t miss it.”
Daisy sent her telegram, then went up to her room to fetch a shilling, knowing she’d forget if she didn’t do it right away.
The stairs and passage were dimly lit by a single oil-lamp on the landing.
In the murk, it was easier to give credence to Sybil’s forebodings.
Daisy pondered the difference gas and electric lighting had made to the world.
It was much easier to believe in “ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night” when there were lots of shadowy corners for them to lurk in.
Counting doors, she found her room. Plenty of shadows here. The flickering embers in the fireplace and the last light from the hallway enabled her to see just well enough to cross to the mantelpiece and find a box of matches.
After the gloom, one lit candle seemed bright. She dug a couple of sixpences out of her purse, and was turning to leave when a tapping on the door almost made her jump out of her skin.
“Who’s there?” she quavered.
“Daisy?”
“Sybil!”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Come in. You just startled me. ‘Suddenly there came a tapping…’”
“A raven bearing a hot water bottle. You weren’t by the phone so I brought it up.”
“I came to get the money for the telegram. I didn’t have a shilling and now I’ve gone and dropped the sixpences. Where on earth are they? They must have rolled away.”
“We’ll find them in the morning.” Sybil tucked the rubber bottle with its red and blue striped, knitted cosy, under the bedclothes.
“If you’re not absolutely determined to go to bed right away, do come down again.
” As she spoke, she poked up the bedroom fire and put a couple of lumps of coal on it.
“Myra’s given up on dancing. She’s trying to get a game of Racing Demon going.
But if you don’t want to play, no one will mind if you just sit and read. Simon probably will, too.”
“Yes, somehow I can’t imagine Simon playing Racing Demon. It seems a bit below Ilkton’s dignity as well, but who knows what a man in love will stoop to. As for me, I couldn’t possibly sit in a room where it was being played and not join in.”
Sybil laughed. “If you’re going to play, I will, too. I hope we have enough packs of cards. Here, I’ll light your lamp so you don’t have to fumble for a candle when you come back up.”
“Thanks. I haven’t lit an oil-lamp in ages. I’d probably manage to make a mess of it.”
“The girls clean and fill them, so it’s only a matter of adjusting the wick properly. There. Just turn it up a bit if you want more light. Look, there are your sixpences.”
They went downstairs. Daisy put the coins beside the telephone. The doctor and Mrs. Birtwhistle, who was knitting, sat by the fire, talking. There was no sign of either Norman or Lorna.
In the middle of the hall, two card tables had been set up, touching each other. Ilkton, Carey and—surprisingly—Simon Birtwhistle were carrying chairs through from the dining room, while Myra directed the operation.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” she cried, “you are going to play Racing Demon with us, aren’t you? The more the merrier.”
“I’d love to, if you have enough cards.”
“Simon found enough packs in the sideboard for everyone. Aunt Ruby, Dr. Knox, do come and play.”
“I used to be a dab hand at Racing Demon,” Knox said nostalgically, glancing at Sybil.
“Come and play, Roger. If Ruby doesn’t want to, I’ll sit out with her.”
Knox looked as if that was not quite the outcome he desired. Fortunately, Ruby Birtwhistle decided to take a hand.
Eight people seated round two tables was a bit of a squeeze. Carey and Ilkton nobly offered to take the middle places on each side, where the table-legs got in the way of knees. Giggling, Myra sent Simon to one end and posted herself at the other.
“We’ll have to jump up and down to reach the cards in the middle,” she pointed out. “It’ll be easier for us.”
“Are you saying I’m too old to jump up and down?” Roger Knox demanded with mock indignation.
Myra grinned at him. “Actually, I thought it would be beneath your dignity.”
Simon snorted. “I wouldn’t describe Racing Demon as a dignified game under any circumstances.”
“Don’t be pompous, Si.”
“That’s enough, you two,” Ruby sat down between her son’s place and Walter Ilkton’s. “Heaven help me, you sound like a pair of seven-year-olds.”
“Sorry, Aunt Ruby.” Myra sounded neither penitent, nor put out at being chastised in front of her beaux.
Simon looked sulky—if he wasn’t careful, he was going to turn out very like his uncle Norman, in temperament if not in intellectual pretension, Daisy decided. He hesitated, but took his place at the tables.
The rules of the game had to be explained to Walter Ilkton, who had never played before. It wasn’t complicated. Winning depended on concentration, speed, dexterity, and a certain amount of luck.
“I’ve got it,” Ilkton said.
“Let’s have a five-minute practice,” suggested the doctor.
“A couple of rounds should be enough.”
“You haven’t got it, me boyo,” said Carey a trifle maliciously. “There are no rounds. We all play at once.”
“All at once? It sounds like chaos!”
“It is,” said Myra. “That’s what makes it such fun.”
“But chaos with rules,” Ruby said firmly, “or it’s not fun. Mr. Ilkton, I’ll help you for a few minutes’ practice. Is everyone ready? On your marks, get set, go!”
For a few minutes there was complete chaos. Half the players played as if life and death depended on the game while the other half kept an eye on what Ilkton was doing and commented freely, some helpful, some sarcastic.
“Stop!” said Ruby. Carey sneaked one last card onto one of the piles in the middle. She made him take it back, even though they were only playing for practice. “Begin as you mean to continue,” she said severely.
“Have you got the hang of it now, Walter?” Myra asked.
“I think so,” he said, much more cautious now than he had been before.
“We’re not playing for money, so it doesn’t really matter,” she reassured him.
Daisy, sitting opposite Ruby, heard her say in a low voice, “I hope you won’t find it too boring, Mr. Ilkton. Not playing for money, I mean.”
He glanced at the other end of the tables. “If Miss Olney enjoys it, I shall. I normally play bridge for stakes, of course. One does. But I assure you I’m not a confirmed gambler.”
The cards were sorted and restored to their starting configuration. The game commenced. The need to concentrate precluded conversation, so for some time the only sounds were the slap of cards and occasional crows and moans from the players.
Daisy, accustomed to being beaten hollow by her stepdaughter, Belinda, or one of her friends, didn’t expect to win. Her mind wandered, studying the style of the others.
Both Carey and Myra were fast and careless; if a comparatively neat pile of cards became a disorderly heap, one of the two was usually to blame.
Ilkton, though handling the cards with the skill of a regular player, was hesitant and spent far too much time in deliberation for a game so unlike bridge.
Sybil was quick and neat. Roger Knox was neat but slow, as if his mind, like Daisy’s, was largely elsewhere.
Ruby and Simon, somewhat to Daisy’s surprise, both played with speed, neatness, and an almost ferocious concentration.
Simon even remained on his feet so as to be able to reach the central piles without bobbing up and down.
Ruby won, through sheer single-minded determination. Daisy wouldn’t previously have considered those traits part of her character. Surely she couldn’t be so determined to have enough money to support her son’s literary ambition that she was willing to sacrifice her husband’s health?