Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Alec reached Derby in the early hours of Wednesday morning.
A uniformed constable was waiting, as promised, to escort him to the headquarters of the county police.
Having snoozed on the train, Alec was somewhat refreshed, and the crisp night air completed his revival.
During the few minutes’ walk through the silent town, he made an attempt to discover the reason for his despatch to Derbyshire.
All he could extract from the man was that Detective Inspector Worrall was in charge.
He would have liked to ask whether the inspector was greatly put out at having the Yard brought in, but even if the constable happened to know, it wouldn’t be at all proper to ask him.
“Is the inspector at the station, or still at the scene?”
“He’s back, sir. Came in a few minutes before I left to meet you.”
On the one hand, Alec thought, no time wasted waiting about; on the other, no time to feel out amongst DI Worrall’s colleagues whether he was indifferent, disgruntled, or furious. He’d just have to tread with caution.
On reaching the station, he was invited to step straight up to the inspector’s office. Following the constable up the stairs, he was struck by a sudden wave of fear for Daisy. What was her involvement in whatever was going on? Was she a suspect? Could she even be in danger?
He clung to a slender hope that Superintendent Crane had misunderstood the situation, that at worst Daisy was mixed up in the business only peripherally.
His guide opened a door and announced him: “Sir, Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of New Scotland Yard.”
“Come in, come in, Chief Inspector, and set yourself down.” The man behind the desk half-rose and waved him to a chair. A neat, unobtrusively dressed man with an undistinguished face, he smiled, but his eyes were wary. “You’ll be wondering what’s going on, I don’t doubt.”
“How right you are!”
“I admit, I’m not sure yet myself. We didn’t expect you so soon.”
So the urgency was the Super’s notion. Any hint of Daisy’s presence at the scene of a police investigation was liable to overthrow his usual sangfroid.
“No?” Alec said noncommittally.
“I’d best explain. It was Dr. Knox rang up our chap in Matlock, saying he had an unexplained death on his hands, so to speak.
Being as how he’s the local police surgeon, the sergeant was bound to sit up and take notice.
He reported to me, and … well, he told me the doctor said one of the sus—one of the people on the premises was the wife of a top CID man. Namely, yourself, sir.”
“Namely, myself.” Alec sighed. “Of course you had no choice but to pass the information up to your superior. And he decided to alert your Chief Constable.”
“His deputy, sir. Mr. Oakenshawe. The Colonel’s off somewhere inaccessible in Scotland shooting at inoffensive birdies.”
“Is he, indeed! I begin to see the light. Am I right in assuming Mr. Oakenshawe has even less police experience than the CC himself?”
“Far be it from me to contradict a superior officer.”
“So he didn’t want the responsibility for a murder investigation— I suppose it is murder we’re talking about?”
“That remains to be seen, sir. Our county medico agrees with Dr. Knox that the cause of death is not clear. He’s doing the autopsy later this morning, but in the meantime he’s running some tests.
Very up in the latest techniques, he is.
He said they wouldn’t take too long, so I’m waiting for the results. ”
Alec sighed. “All right, since I’m here, you’d better put me in the picture. All I know about the friend Daisy—my wife—is visiting is that she lives on a farm and is secretary to a literary man. Who else is on the scene?”
“As to that, Mrs. Fletcher was very helpful, very helpful indeed. A very nice lady, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I might have known she wouldn’t be content with standing by, minding her own business.” He ought to be resigned by now. At least she seemed to have managed to get on the right side of DI Worrall. “Let’s hear it.”
He listened without comment as DI Worrall read from his notebook. By certain turns of phrase he could tell that the inspector was quoting Daisy directly.
She had provided a succinct overview of the household that would be useful if there was in fact anything to investigate.
Alec noted—and wondered whether Worrall had noted—her protectiveness towards Sybil Sutherby.
Inevitably, in every case she meddled in, Daisy took a suspect or two under her wing and refused to believe ill of them.
Inevitably, in this case, her ewe-lamb was the woman she had been at school with.
Usually, but by no means always, those she chose to defend turned out to be innocent.
By no means always. Moreover, their innocence was sometimes distinctly ambiguous. Daisy and the Law did not always see eye to eye on the subject of Justice.
As yet there was no case, Alec reminded himself.
Worrall pushed a sheet of paper across his desk. “I’ve made a list for you, just in case. And I’ve booked you a hotel room, in case you want to try to catch a couple of hours of shut-eye. Or longer, if Dr. Jordan’s tests come back negative.”
“Thanks, but I’ll wait with you for the results, if I won’t be disturbing you.”
“Nothing pressing. I’ll tell you what, I’d like to hear the inside story on the Epping Forest murders.”
In Alec’s estimation, the tracking down of the man who had been dubbed by the press “The Epping Executioner” had not been one of his great successes.
But the story had some interesting points, so he obliged.
Worrall was gratifyingly interested, especially in the team-work necessary to deal with the complicated case.
“That’s where us provincials can’t match you at the Yard,” he said. “We just haven’t got the manpower or the facilities.”
“It involved several different counties. We’d have had to be called in anyway. I can’t see that my presence is necessary here, however.”
“That’s yet to be seen, sir. If there’s anything in it, I won’t say no to a helping hand from—” The telephone bell cut him short. He lifted the receiver. “Worrall. Yes, put him through.” Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he said to Alec, “Dr. Jordan.”
“Good,” said Alec, suppressing a yawn.
“Yes, Doctor, please go ahead … Chloral hydrate? Would you mind spelling that, sir?… Thank you. It’s a poison?
… Oh, a sedative. How much?… Yes, yes, quite, a matter of the proportion in the blood.
… Yes, I understand. So you’re sure it killed the victim?
… Ah … Yes, I see, enough to kill him but…
” Worrall listened intently for a minute.
“Right, Doctor. You’ll do the postmortem examination first thing …
Yes, sleep well. Thank you for ringing up. ” The inspector hung up.
“Chloral?”
“As full as he can hold. Not just a few drops from a phial, at least several teaspoons. It’s normally dispensed in a dark glass bottle like cough medicine, too big to be easily concealed. Isn’t that the stuff that’s sometimes used for doping racehorses?”
“So I understand, though I’ve only been peripherally involved in any of those cases.
It’s not an uncommon sedative for insomnia or agitation in humans, though.
The victim could have taken an accidental overdose, or even intentional.
We’ll have to see if it had been prescribed for him before we jump to any conclusions. ”
“Yes, of course. Besides, Dr. Jordan wouldn’t swear the stuff was the actual cause of death or just a prox—proximate, I think was the word.”
“Proximate cause? That just means he won’t commit himself until he’s cut up the corpse. Doctors never will. Incidentally, I’m surprised a country doctor would be aware of the test for chloral. It’s a fairly new development, I believe.”
“As to that, sir, Dr. Jordan is the county pathologist as well as the county police surgeon. Keen as mustard, and he likes to keep up with that sort of thing. Prefers dead bodies to live ones, he told me once.”
Alec laughed. “Still, I wonder what suggested to him that he should test for it.”
“As to that, sir, it was likely something Dr. Knox told him. They were talking medical language, throwing Latin about if you know what I mean, and I didn’t even try to follow it. I didn’t ask for a translation. Dr. Jordan’d’ve told me if there was anything I needed to know right away.”
“I expect you’re right. What I didn’t gather from my wife’s chat with you, is whether Dr. Knox was at the farm last night solely to visit Mrs. Sutherby, sweetheart or not, or was he there in his medical capacity?”
“He was Mr. Birtwhistle’s doctor.”
“But not, apparently, treating him for anything that he considered might prove fatal.”
“No, he told me that much in plain English. But he didn’t think it was proper to talk about his health history till he knew more about what killed him.”
“Reasonable.”
“I couldn’t very well insist, seeing I didn’t know but what his death was perfectly natural.”
“Quite right. I can’t see that you could have done anything more last night. You didn’t even have any real justification for leaving an officer on the premises.”
“That was my feeling, sir.”
“Right, I’m going to sleep on it for a couple of hours, but I think we’d better get out to the farm early, rather than wait for the autopsy results, if that suits you?”
“I’ll get everything sorted. And I’ll have someone take you to the hotel now.”
“Thanks,” said Alec, profoundly grateful for Worrall’s cooperative spirit—and wondering how much of it was owed to the inspector’s having taken a fancy to Daisy.
* * *
From the bridge, the farmhouse looked like a haven of peace, nestled in its green bowl in the sunshine. The peace was illusory. At best, a man had taken an accidental overdose of a medicine. At worst, someone had deliberately administered a dangerous drug with intent to kill.
Were the household mourning their loss, or had Birtwhistle’s death come as a relief to some? What sort of man had he been? Knowing the victim, in Alec’s experience, was the first step towards finding out why he had died.
And Daisy, presumably, had known the victim.
Hesitantly he asked Worrall, “Would you think it unreasonable of me to talk to my wife first? About Birtwhistle’s death, that is, not personal matters.
Not that I necessarily consider her an impartial witness—in fact, I’m very sure she’s not.
But I can allow for her biases, and she is a good observer. On the whole.”
“Seeing I relied on her for most of what I know, I can’t hardly object, sir! Would you be wanting me to take notes, or should I have a go at the doctor? Find out what he was treating the deceased for.”
“Won’t he have gone home?”
The inspector explained that Dr. Knox had announced his intention of staying the night at the farm, because of his concern for Mrs. Birtwhistle.
“Hmm. No, unless the doctor’s in a rush to get to his surgery or another patient, I think we’d best tackle him after we see what Daisy can add to what she’s already told you. I’ll be glad to have you take notes.”
Worrall’s knocking on the front door was answered by a young woman in an orange-flowered overall with her hair tied up in a purple-flowered scarf, wielding a broom.
“You’ll be the police, I dare say,” she greeted them with an air of satisfaction on her round, rosy face. “Didn’t I tell Etta, poor Mr. Birtwhistle were ’orribly done to death in his bed, mark my words, weltering in his own blood.”
Alec let the local man take the lead.
“I’ll thank you not to be spreading such nonsense, miss,” he said severely. He took out his notebook. “I’m Detective Inspector Worrall, and you’ll be…?”
“Miss Hendred, to you,” said the maid.
“Given name?” the inspector enquired, unimpressed.
“Betty. Elizabeth, properly speaking, but no one ever calls me—”
“Thank you, Miss Hendred. I expect Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher will want to talk to you later, but for the present, be a good girl and inform the master or mistress of the house—”
“Now isn’t that just the trouble? Who is the master, I’d like to know?
Mr. Humphrey it was, him being the older brother, but now he’s gone is it Mr. Norman or Mr. Simon?
I can’t think of either of ’em as ‘the master,’ try as I may.
Mr. Norman never opens his mouth, saving to eat, and Mr. Simon—well, he’s only a lad yet.
As for my mistress, that’d still be Mrs. Humphrey, and nobody can make me say otherwise. If Miss Lorna thinks she can lord it—”
“Betty!” The shocked voice came from the rear of the murky hall, into which little of the sunlight outside penetrated through the small windows in thick walls. Alec made out another figure in an overall, plain dark blue, presumably another maid. “If Miss Lorna hears you!” she added.
“What’s she going to do? She’ll never find anyone else fool enough to—”
“Miss Hendred, if you please,” Worrall interrupted. “The Chief Inspector is anxious to speak to Mrs. Fletcher. At once. I don’t care how you get hold of her, but do it now.”
Offended, Betty Hendred drew herself up and put her hands on her hips. “Well, really, I must say!”
Alec wished he had Tom Tring with him. Tom, though devoted to his almost equally massive wife, had a way with servants and with female servants in particular.
He would have had the girl eating out of his hand, rushing to do his bidding.
Talkative servants were often a fruitful source of information.
Meanwhile, the second maid squeaked in alarm, “Oh, sir, Mrs. Fletcher’s still at breakfast. I’ll tell her you’re here to talk to her.” She scuttled out.
“I s’pose you’d best come in,” Betty snapped.
“Miss Hendred,” Alec said mildly, “is Dr. Knox also at breakfast?”
“Him! No, he’s not. At least he had the decency to get up early for his surgery in town.” Turning her back, she moved away from them and went on with her sweeping.
Worrall grimaced as he stood aside to let Alec enter. “Sorry, sir,” he said in a low voice. “She set my back up with her gabbling, but I should have handled it better.”
A sharp retort sprang to Alec’s lips but he swallowed it. A cooperative local detective was more important than an uncooperative servant. “Pity the doctor left already,” he said. “I wonder who is the master here now.”
“Mrs. Fletcher said the two brothers and the sister were joint owners.”
“She wasn’t sure of it.”
“Maybe she’s found out a bit more by now. Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” he went on as she came into the hall, followed by a stocky woman whose reddish, puffy eyes Alec discerned through the gloom.
“Good morning, Inspector.” Daisy’s smile wavered. “Alec, darling, I’m so glad you’re here!”