Chapter 29 #2
“I don’t mind taking soup up to Aunt Ruby,” said Myra, glancing round the kitchen, “even though Walter’s not here to carry up the tray for me. But I’m not setting the table in the dining room just for sandwiches and soup. Why don’t we all eat right here, policemen and all?”
“Suits me,” Worrall grunted and went out.
“If you’re hoping to get any information out of them,” Daisy said dryly, “you’ll be out of luck. The other way round is more likely.”
“Oh, no, I don’t need any more information since they arrested Aunt Lorna, and I haven’t got any to give them, either.
Is the soup hot yet, Sybil? I’ll just lay a tray.
What should I take Aunt Ruby to drink, do you think?
I wonder where the tray-cloths are? Should I go and pick a flower?
A tray always looks nicer with a flower on it. ”
Tray-cloths were found, tea decided on—“The universal panegyric,” said Myra with satisfaction just as Simon, Carey, and Ilkton came in.
“Where did you learn such a long word?” Carey teased her.
“I must have heard it somewhere, darling. Would you be awfully kind and go out to pick a flower for Aunt Ruby’s tray?”
“Your wish is my command, my sweet.” He took the scissors she offered.
Ilkton looked as if he was about to dispute Carey’s right to pick flowers for Myra, even if their ultimate destination was her aunt, but a glance at the window showed teeming rain, so he thought better of it.
“Are you sure you don’t mean ‘panacea,’ Myra?” Simon asked sarcastically.
“I don’t think so. Isn’t that a kind of Italian ham? I’m sure I had some once at that restaurant in Soho.”
“You’re the only one of the family who dines in Soho.”
Myra pursed her lips in thought. “Perhaps it’s ‘paregoric’ I meant. I’m sure paregoric is something you drink.”
Sybil, Simon, and Daisy burst out laughing. Ilkton again appeared about to take offence on Myra’s behalf, then thought better of it as she, obviously unoffended, went on making the tea. Daisy, regarding her plateful of neat triangles of bread and butter, decided she had beheaded enough sandwiches.
Carey brought in a yellow rosebud, unmarred by Monday night’s frost. Myra departed, with Ilkton following her, carrying Ruby’s tray. He looked remarkably like a butler, as Carey pointed out.
“Don’t say it in his hearing,” Sybil begged. “If his nose gets any higher, I swear I’ll hit him on it.”
“What’s that, Mrs. Sutherby?” Worrall came back in.
“Just Walter Ilkton being his insufferable self,” Simon explained.
“Not, to be fair, that he actually does anything insufferable,” said Carey, “or even, on the whole, says anything. It’s his nose that gives offence.”
The inspector grinned. “I know exactly what you mean, sir, but I hope Mrs. Sutherby won’t carry out her threat or I’ll be compelled to take official notice.”
“Of course not, Mr. Worrall. I work off my aggressive impulses in fictional gunfights on Main Street and ambushes in hidden gulches.”
“Did you get through to my husband, Mr. Worrall?”
“No, Mrs. Fletcher. Seems Superintendent Aves bore him off for lunch somewhere. I left a message.”
“Then you can sit down with a clear conscience and have some soup and a sandwich,” said Sybil.
“And your chaps,” Simon added, “or isn’t it proper for a mere constable to sit down with an inspector?”
“Tom—DS Tring—will certainly join us,” Daisy said firmly.
“I need one man to watch for Mr. Norman Birtwhistle and one to listen for the telephone bell.”
“Simon, why don’t you take each of the constables a sandwich,” Sybil suggested, “and invite Mr. Tring. We’ll need more chairs.”
Carey offered to fetch a couple of chairs from the dining room. The two young men went out. Ilkton returned to say Myra was staying with Mrs. Birtwhistle to make sure she ate her soup. Sybil sent him back with soup and a sandwich for Myra.
“You seem to me to be managing the housekeeping very adequately,” Daisy congratulated her.
“Well, someone has to take charge,” she said with considerable exasperation, “or nothing would get done. But I simply must get on with writing this afternoon.”
“Myra and I between us will do something about dinner, though I don’t suppose her cooking skills are any improvement on mine.”
“Bless you, Daisy!”
Soon the odd collection of people were sitting round the kitchen table, tackling the monstrous sandwiches and inadequate supply of soup with varying degrees of aplomb.
Conversation languished in the presence of the police, except between Daisy and Tom, who had a source of mutual interest in the twins’ progress.
The case was, of course, another mutual interest, but one not to be discussed in present company.
They were all munching and sipping when the constable from the hall came in. Worrall started to rise.
“Sorry, sir, not for you. Dr. Knox on the telephone for Mrs. Sutherby.”
Sybil jumped up. Catching Worrall’s eye, she said, “Don’t worry, Inspector, I’ll keep it short.”
“If you please, Mrs. Sutherby.”
She was back in three or four minutes. “Roger just wanted to say he’s been very busy catching up with the patients he missed, but he’ll come up as soon as he can to see Mrs. Birtwhistle. Your man listened to everything I said, Mr. Worrall.”
“Nothing but yeses and nos, I’ll be bound.”
Sybil smiled at him. “Mostly. But I thought you wouldn’t mind if I told him Norman hadn’t turned up yet, and he was able to shed light on the question. Today is Michaelmas—”
“Quarter Day!” Simon exclaimed. “Of course, he must have gone to the farms to pick up the rent. Uncle Norman always does a bit of an inspection on rent day. He’s usually invited to take a bite with one of the farmers, though I can’t imagine he adds much to the social ambiance. He hasn’t scarpered, Inspector.”
“That remains to be seen, sir, but I must say it’s a load off my mind to know he has a good reason for stopping away.”
“You suspect he was in league with my aunt?”
“All I know is, he’s the only person who was in this house last night who hasn’t been interviewed yet by me or the Chief Inspector. Suspicions or no suspicions—and I’m not saying either way, mind—we’ve got to talk to him.”
“Well put, Inspector,” Carey applauded. “May I quote you?”
“If it’s in a play you mean, sir, as long you don’t mention my name in something that’s liable to be banned by the Lord Chamberlain. I dare say I’m as articulate as the average Constable Plod you see on the stage.”
Carey laughed. “So you’ve heard about my last little effort. Touché! I do believe I shall put an articulate detective inspector in my next play.”
Simon scowled at him, and Daisy remembered their argument about the ethics of Carey writing a play about the troubles at Eyrie Farm.
Worrall and Tom Tring, accustomed to periods when they had to eat fast or not at all, chewed their way through their sandwiches before anyone else.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies and gents,” said the inspector, “I’m going to try again to get hold of Mr. Fletcher. Sergeant, I’ll trouble you to come with me.”
The two detectives went out. In the kitchen, there was a perceptible sense of relaxation, but still no one had much to say, not even Neil Carey.
Daisy was quite glad when, a few minutes later, Tom stuck his head round the door. “Mrs. Fletcher, DI Worrall would like a word with you, please. When you’ve finished eating, of course.”
Intrigued, Daisy willingly abandoned the remains of her doorstep. On her way to the door, she felt the gaze of four pairs of eyes on her back.