Chapter 12
TWELVE
Everyone stared blankly at Ruby Birtwhistle, except the doctor. He sprang to his feet, saying, “I’m sure he’s just very deeply asleep, but of course I’ll check at once.” He strode out, Ruby trotting to keep up.
Just before she turned the corner, she looked back. “Simon?”
“Coming, Mother.”
A tense silence enveloped those left behind. Daisy met Sybil’s eyes and saw there a reflection of her own horror. Could it be that Sybil’s suspicions were justified?
Myra broke the silence. “Poor Uncle Humphrey,” she wailed. “To think that he was feeling so full of beans just today!” She burst into tears and sobbed noisily, with abandon, like a small child.
Carey, on one side of her on the sofa, felt in his pockets, shrugged. On the other side, Ilkton whipped out a large, spotless linen handkerchief and pressed it into her hand.
Daisy had an almost irresistible urge to suggest a soothing cup of tea, but on top of the cocoa they had just drunk, it probably wasn’t such a good notion.
Sybil got up and crossed to the sofa, saying, “Excuse me, gentlemen.” When they rose and moved away, she sat down beside Myra and took her hands. “Darling, it’s not certain he’s … gone. It’s possible Ruby made a mistake, or Roger will find a way to revive your uncle. He’s a very good doctor.”
“I know he is, but…” Myra buried her face in Sybil’s shoulder.
While Sybil murmured soothingly in Myra’s ear, Ilkton and Carey came over to Daisy. Carey took a seat. Ilkton stood on the hearth rug, vacated by Scurry, who had doubtless gone with Norman.
“We ought to leave,” said Ilkton, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Mrs. Birtwhistle won’t want guests underfoot at a time like this.”
“Fog,” Carey reminded him.
“Damn the fog! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Fletcher, but it’s an awkward situation.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Birtwhistle wouldn’t expect you to leave tonight, even without the fog, and no matter what’s happened.”
He started to pace, head turned to keep an eye on the pair on the sofa. “I’d like to take Myra out of it, drive her up to town.”
“You can’t do that,” said Carey, startled and disapproving. “She’s family. She can’t leave now.”
Daisy nodded agreement, her opinion of him going up a notch, and of Ilkton down a notch.
“She’s not going to be much support to anyone. The poor child needs to be supported, and no one here’s going to have time for her.”
“I shall. I can’t see Mrs. Birtwhistle throwing me out.” Carey lounged back in his chair, gazing up at his would-be rival. “You can leave in the morning, fog willing. I’m staying.”
“So am I,” said Daisy. “At least until I’m sure I can’t help. Myra will decide for herself, but I don’t think she’ll want to desert her family.”
“Certainly not. Hasn’t she more spunk than you give her credit for, Ilkton.”
Ilkton’s lips tightened. Daisy was afraid he was ripe to escalate the sniping into open hostilities, but after a moment, he sat down without speaking. His fingers beat a tattoo on his expensively clad knee.
“She’s had a nasty shock,” Daisy pointed out. Though it made her feel ancient, she went on, “The young tend to see people close to them as immortal. She’ll be all right.”
Neither of the men responded, and Daisy was quite glad not to have to talk.
Myra’s sobs had subsided to sniffs. She and Sybil talked quietly, their words for the most part indistinguishable.
Daisy wondered if her casual words about no one in the household paying much attention to the girl had borne fruit already.
The only other sound was an occasional crackle or hiss from the fire. Ilkton went back to the hearth and stood leaning with one arm on the mantel, head bowed, staring into the flickering flames.
Approaching footsteps sounded loud. Everyone turned to look. Simon came in. His face was very pale, set in an expression of disbelief.
With a wordless cry, Myra jumped up and ran to him. “Oh, Simon!” She clutched him.
Somewhat to Daisy’s surprise, he put his arms round her and hugged her. He seemed unable to speak.
“Brandy!” said Carey.
“I’ll get it.” Ilkton went towards the sideboard, twin of the one in the dining room, where the drinks were kept.
“No! No, I don’t want it. I’m all right.” Simon came to the fire, his arm still round Myra’s shoulders. After what seemed like a long pause, he said in a strange voice, “Father’s dead. And Knox won’t give a certificate.”
“A certificate?” Myra sounded frightened. “What does that mean?”
No one seemed inclined to tell her, so Daisy explained. “When someone dies, a doctor has to issue a certificate listing the cause of death. If he’s not sure, he won’t sign it.”
“But Uncle Humphrey was ill.”
“Not of anything that could have killed him,” said Simon, achieving a normal tone with a heroic effort. “At least, that’s what Dr. Knox thinks. He says he never did achieve a satisfactory diagnosis of what ailed Father.”
“It might have been a heart attack or a stroke,” Sybil suggested, almost hopefully. “He wasn’t a young man.”
“That’s what he said. But he can’t tell from a superficial examination, and he wants to be certain.”
“Does that mean they’ll…” Myra’s horrified voice trailed off.
“Yes,” her cousin told her savagely. “They’ll cut—”
“Simon!” Sybil cut him off.
“Sorry.” He passed his hand over his face. “I’m just about done in. I’ll take that brandy after all, Ilkton.”
Ilkton seemed no longer eager to oblige. “What about Mrs. Birtwhistle?” he asked, frowning.
“Poor Aunt Ruby!”
“Knox is taking care of her,” said Simon, flopping into a chair as Carey went to fetch the brandy. “She’s pretty shattered, of course. I think he’s taken her up to her room.”
“I must go and help her,” Myra declared, and whisked out.
Sybil looked at Daisy. “Do you think I ought—”
“Let Myra do it. Feeling useful will help her, I expect. Ruby will send her away if she doesn’t want her.”
“Heavens, I’ve just thought: What about Lorna and Norman?”
“I’m not telling them!” Simon took a gulp of the brandy Carey put in his hand. “Thanks, Neil. I can’t see any need to wake Uncle Norman and Aunt Lorna. They’ll find out soon enough. And won’t they be happy!”
“Simon!” Sybil protested.
“Well, they will. They’ve always wished he hadn’t come back from America alive. Not that they’ll have anything to gloat about. I suppose Mother or I will inherit his share of the farm. I could live happily without ever seeing the place again.”
Daisy began to fidget. She knew what the next move should be, but she didn’t want to be the first to mention the police.
“Would you like me to tell them?” Sybil offered—very nobly, Daisy felt. “Lorna and Norman, I mean. He’s their brother, after all.”
“No need,” Simon insisted, slurring a bit now, after finishing off the brandy with a third gulp.
On top of the shock of his father’s death, it was enough to befuddle a stronger head than his.
“Why spoil their sleep? They’re always complaining about how hard they work.
Leave ’em to get their rest while they can. ”
“I suppose it won’t hurt to wait till the morning.”
“No. And it won’t hurt to wait till morning to call in Dr. Harris and the coppers. They can’t get here in this damn fog anyway.”
“The coppers!” Carey exclaimed.
“Didn’t I tell you? Dr. Knox sent me to ring the police. Standard procedure when the cause of death is uncertain. We’re going to have bloody coppers crawling all over the house tomorrow. Won’t that make Uncle Norman and Aunt Lorna happy!”
“All the same,” Sybil advised, “you’d better ring them up right away.”
“Why the hell should I?”
“You’re not thinking clearly, Simon. Which is very understandable in the circumstances, but not at all helpful.
The last thing we want to do is antagonise the police before they even begin ‘crawling all over the house.’ Can’t you see, if there’s something the least bit fishy about your father’s death, they’re going to start with the assumption one of us here at Eyrie Farm must be involved? ”