Chapter 20 #2
Shopping with her had been a revelation to Daisy.
Lucy always dressed in the height of fashion; attaining it was a long drawn-out process that bored Daisy to tears, involving models and seamstresses and milliners and much discussion of everything but cost. Laurette, on the other hand, swept through the ready-to-wear racks with an inerrant eye for what would both suit her and fit her, at a reasonable price.
Her aim was not fashion but a businesslike chic.
That was the way to do it, Daisy thought. Now all she needed was the inerrant eye.…
Not that she had any way to judge Laurette’s claim of inerrancy, as she hadn’t actually bought any clothes, just sighed for the shops of London and Paris.
They crossed Castle Street and went straight on along The Foregate.
A tram passed them as they walked under the railway bridge.
Ahead was the busy intersection known as The Cross.
Some traffic, including trams and an occasional horse dray, continued along the High Street, some turned left into St. Swithin’s Street, and some turned right to go down Broad Street to the bridge over the Severn.
A white-sleeved policeman on point duty managed the flow with an almost balletic grace.
As Daisy and Laurette approached, he held up his hand to stop the tram that had passed them to allow another, coming up Broad Street, to turn left. Suddenly he waved his arms frantically and blew several piercing blasts on his whistle.
People started screaming and shouting. The trams both came to a halt, as did cars, vans, lorries, motorbicycles, and everything else on the road except for errand boys on pedal bikes.
They weaved through the rest, necks craned to see what was going on.
Some pedestrians on the pavements held back, others ghoulishly pressed forward.
“Run over by a tram!” said a woman pushing past Daisy and Laurette. She sounded hopeful.
Daisy was relieved that Laurette wasn’t one of the gawkers. It would have been too frightful to have a relative—even if just by marriage—who gaped at accidents.
Accidents. Another accident. Sheer coincidence of course. In the middle of the busy city, the odds against one of the party from Fairacres being involved were enormous.
All the same, she was not displeased when the press of people moving forward forced them to go along with the flow.
Not that she wanted to see what had happened, but she did want reassurance that no one she knew was involved.
A gruesome rhyme Gervaise used to chant to tease Violet circled in her mind:
“Oh look, Mama, pray what is that,
“That looks like strawberry jam?”
“Hush, hush, my dear, ’tis poor papa,
“Run over by a tram.”
Several more bobbies came running from all directions. Some started to clear away the throng.
“Nothing to see, ladies and gentlemen. Keep moving, please. Move along there.”
In any case, as Daisy and Laurette approached, people started to disperse, talking and shaking their heads. To Daisy they seemed disappointed or relieved, not shocked.
Then two policemen came round the end of the nearer tram, supporting between them a large, hatless man.…
“Raymond! Let me through, please. He’s my cousin!”
A youth came out of the nearest shop carrying a chair, which he placed on the pavement against the wall. “Here, set the gentleman down to catch his breath.”
Looking dizzy and disoriented, Raymond slumped onto the chair. As Daisy reached him, he dropped his head into his hands.
“He’s my cousin,” she repeated to the bobby who stepped forward to stop her. “Is he badly hurt?”
“Not a scratch, madam, saving on his hands from the cobbles. Gentleman stumbled but summun shoved him aside from the tram tracks. Could o’ bin nasty, else.”
“He didn’t get a knock on the head?”
“Don’t b’lieve so, madam, but you better arst him yoursel’. The lady’s the gemmun’s cousin, Jerry,” he introduced her to his colleague, who was bending solicitously over Raymond, notebook in hand, asking his name.
“He’s Raymond Dalrymple, officer. He’s a guest of Lord and Lady Dalrymple at Fairacres, as I am. I’m Mrs. Fletcher, if you want it for your report.”
“No need for that, thank you, madam.”
“We’re going to meet the rest of the party at the Talbot. Mr. Raymond’s car is there, and his chauffeur. Perhaps someone could—”
“Here, you!” the constable called to the boy, who lingered in the shop door. “Run over to the Talbot, lad, and have them send Mr. Raymond Dalrymple’s car for him.”
The trams had already clanged away and the flow of traffic resumed. Most of the police had returned to their beats, but one brought Raymond his hat and his cane, broken in half.
“’Ere you go, sir. I ’opes you don’t need the stick for walking.”
Raymond raised his head. “No no.” He reached for his felt hat and settled it on his head, then snatched it off again. “It hurts. Someone pushed…”
“Yes, sir, someone pushed you out of the way and lucky for you it was.”
“Raymond, did you bang your head?” Daisy leant over him, examining his balding scalp for bruising.
He looked at her vacantly, apparently finding it difficult to focus. “Daisy? No, I didn’t.… Someone pushed…”
Though she couldn’t find any marks suggestive of a blow, she was worried. “We’d better get you to a doctor.”
A shake of his head turned into a wince. He dropped the hat and clutched his head. “No. Home. Go to bed.”
Arguing seemed inadvisable. Daisy decided to go with him, and if he was no better by the time they reached Fairacres, she would ring up Dr. Hopcroft.
The bronze Daimler arrived at last, the shop boy lounging happily in the seat beside the chauffeur. He bounced out and he, the chauffeur, and the one remaining bobby vied to help Raymond into the car. Daisy tipped him, as Raymond showed no sign of doing so, and he handed her in next.
Laurette, who had been hanging back from what she appeared to consider a disgraceful scene, came up to the car. The bobby looked at her askance.
“Another cousin,” Daisy told him. To Laurette she said, “I’m going to go back to Fairacres with Raymond.”
“You can take me to the Talbot, n’est-ce pas?” Laurette joined them in the car. “I will explain to the others what has happened.”
“Good idea.”
They dropped her off. Raymond remained slumped in the corner, eyes closed. Before they were halfway back to Fairacres, he started to breathe stertorously, an unpleasant cross between a snort and a gasp. Alarmed, Daisy spoke to him. He didn’t respond.
She listened for a few minutes, then reached for the speaking tube. “Smethwick?”
“Yes, madam?”
“Mr. Raymond seems to be very ill. I think we’d better take him straight to the doctor, in Upton-upon-Severn. Just stay on this road.”
“Yes, madam.”
“I don’t know his address.”
“We’ll just have to ask, madam. You’re all right, are you?”
“So far, thank you.” After all, having hysterics or fainting would hardly alter the situation for the better. “Oh, by the way, I’ve been wanting to thank you for trying to help me when I had that puncture a few weeks ago, and for sending the RAC man to the rescue. The blue Gwynne Eight?”
“I thought it was you, madam. My pleasure, I’m sure.”
Daisy sat back. The horrible sound had stopped and Raymond’s chest no longer heaved at each breath. Perhaps he’d be all right just going to bed? Should she take his pulse?
Reluctantly she slid across the leather seat. His breathing was so quiet she couldn’t hear it at all. She couldn’t see his chest rising and falling. When she lifted his wrist, his hand flopped downward. His skin felt clammy.
No pulse. The blank stare wasn’t a stare because those fixed eyes were seeing nothing.