Chapter 17 #2
“Darling, I’ve only been here a couple of days!
But it sounds to me as if he’s been getting weaker.
Less because of whatever’s wrong with him, or being done to him, than because he spends so much time lying down that his muscles have gradually atrophied.
That’s hearsay, too. I mean, I’ve seen how weak he is. The deterioration is hearsay.”
“He’s weak and pretty much bedridden,” said Worrall, “yet he’s managed to go on writing his books?”
“You’ll have to ask Sybil—Mrs. Sutherby—about that. Unless, of course, this is a murder enquiry. I’m aware that any information may be pertinent in a murder enquiry.”
Alec and Worrall exchanged glances again.
“We’re not sure yet,” Alec said resignedly. “It may be. Your answer may help us to decide whether it was murder or not.”
Daisy hesitated. Others were in the secret, she reminded herself: Ruby and Simon, almost certainly Lorna and Norman, not to mention Roger Knox. “If it turns out not to be murder, or not to be relevant … Never mind, I know you can’t promise anything.”
“I won’t write it down,” offered the inspector. “That way, it needn’t go into my report unless—”
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Worrall.” Daisy sighed. “Come to think of it, quite possibly it really doesn’t matter any longer who knows, now that Humphrey’s dead.”
“In that case,” Alec pointed out stringently, “it’s extremely likely to be relevant to his death! Come on, Daisy, what is this terrible secret?”
“Humphrey hasn’t … hadn’t actually written a book since he fell ill. At least, if I understood correctly, he’s thought up the plots. Sybil has done all the actual writing.”
“I don’t know the lingo,” said Worrall, “but isn’t the plot the same as the story? And isn’t that what a secretary’s for, to write everything down?”
Daisy did her best to explain the division of labour.
Worrall was clearly unconvinced that Sybil’s part in the business was far beyond the merely secretarial.
Alec understood, of course. Perhaps Scotland Yard’s being called in was a blessing after all—in disguise, as far as Daisy was concerned, but it was just as well to have someone in charge who had a firm grasp of the issues.
“It sounds like a useful collaboration,” he said, “one benefiting both sides. Assuming Sybil’s increased r?le was recognised in financial terms?”
“Oh yes. She was happy with the increase in her salary. You see, the books started bringing in more money. They had much better sales once Sybil took over the writing.”
“So she felt she was fairly compensated for her contribution, as far as money was concerned? What about recognition of her talent?”
“Impossible. Publicly, at any rate. Readers want books written by … uh, under Humphrey’s pen-name, and they don’t care who wrote them.
I dare say most of them don’t even realise it’s a pen-name.
On the other hand, Humphrey signs the contracts with the publisher.
There’s no knowing how they might react if they found out they were written by a woman. ”
“Shouldn’t think they’d care,” Worrall commented, “as long as the sales were up.”
“That’s my feeling,” Daisy conceded, “but I presume the Birtwhistles didn’t want to risk killing the goose that was laying the golden eggs. Sybil certainly didn’t. She relied on Humphrey for the plots. She— Someone’s knocking on the door.”
“Who’s there?” Alec called irritably.
The response was an indistiguishable mumble. He jumped up and went to fling the door open. Etta, the maid in dark blue, stood there looking scared half out of her wits.
“Well? What is it?”
“Please sir, I’m sorry, sir, I’m sure, but Miss Lorna said to come and tell you Dr. Jordan’s on the telephone.”
“Thank you, Miss…?”
She stared at him blankly.
“Your name?”
“Please, sir, it’s Etta.”
“Thank you, Etta. I don’t bite, you know.”
“Oh no, sir, I never thought…”
He gave up. “Would you be so kind as to light a fire in here?”
“Oh, yes, sir, of course, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Alec as she scurried away. He turned to Worrall. “Dr. Jordan already. Keen as mustard is right. You’d better take the call. He doesn’t know me from Adam.”
“The only phone’s in the front hall,” Daisy advised the inspector. “And I was warned that the operator is liable to listen in.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll have a stern word with her concerning unauthorised dissemination of police business.” He went out, closing the door.
Daisy decided it was past time to give Alec a proper welcome. She went to give him a kiss. It lasted an agreeable length of time, then she laid her head on his chest with a sigh. He kept his arms around her, warming her. She could hear his heart beat.
“Ker-thump, ker-thump.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your heart. It sounds very strong and dependable. Determined. Alec, I know I shouldn’t have come without telling you.”
“If you’d told me, you wouldn’t have come.”
For once she let him enjoy the delusion that he could have stopped her. “I really am very glad you’re here. I can’t believe Humphrey was murdered, though. It must have been a mistake. Someone really was dosing him regularly and accidentally gave him too much.”
“Whether by accident or on purpose, the coroner would almost certainly advise his jury to bring it in as murder, because the drug wasn’t being administered by a doctor as part of a course of treatment. At least, could Dr. Knox—?”
“No. Absolutely not. He was extremely concerned about being unable to diagnose Humphrey’s condition. He would never have prescribed a sedative when he was already dopy all the time.”
“For Mrs. Sutherby’s sake? So that she could continue to write the books and reap the rewards?”
“Darling, it was his doing that the police were called in at all, remember. He could have just signed the death certificate. Humphrey would have been buried and that would have been the end of it.”
“Unless he was afraid someone might question it. He told Worrall he had Birtwhistle taking nux vomica, a dangerous drug. Presumably Mrs. Birtwhistle, at least, knew that. There was always the possibility she’d question whether the doctor had set the dosage too high, high enough to kill him.”
“I suppose so,” Daisy said doubtfully. “Though—”
The door opened. Once more, Etta stood there with her mouth open, this time apparently aghast at the sight of the Fletchers’ chaste marital embrace. She bore a coal scuttle, which she almost dropped. Of course, she very likely didn’t know they were married.
“I was so cold,” Daisy explained with a smile, stepping away from Alec. He, too, stepped back hurriedly, smoothing his hair, though it was the crisp kind that never looked ruffled. “My husband was trying to keep me warm till you get a fire going. Come in, do.”
Daisy’s mother, the dowager viscountess, would have been horrified to hear her daughter condescending to explain her actions to a housemaid, or even simply to notice her presence.
Alec’s mother, the bank manager’s widow, would have been horrified that they had indulged in such behaviour where a servant might come upon them.
Both would have been appalled that Alec took the heavy scuttle from Etta and carried it to the fireplace.
Daisy suspected he was trying to put the girl at her ease in case he had to question her later.
In the quiet while Etta built the fire, the sound of Sybil’s typewriter next door was faintly audible. Alec went over to the desk, where Worrall had left his notebook, and looked through it.
“Can you read it?” Daisy asked softly.
“Oh yes. He doesn’t use shorthand. It means his notes are somewhat sketchy. I suspect he relies a good deal on his memory.”
“I bet you wish Ernie Piper was here.” DC Piper was an excellent shorthand writer, with a supply of well-sharpened pencils always at the ready and a memory to match. “I’ll take notes if you like.”
“I’m hoping Dr. Jordan’s report will mean no interviews and I can go straight back to town.”
“In that case, I think I’ll leave with you. If you coppers have no reason to make us stay, the family won’t want guests at a time like this. We can drive back together.”
Alec grinned at her. “Now there’s a pleasant prospect! Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”
DI Worrall returned shortly thereafter. The omens did not look good. He was obviously bursting with news, and that could only mean Humphrey Birtwhistle had not died a natural death.