Chapter Eleven #2
“Yes. He treated me like a lady, send in his card instead of barging in and all, and he didn’t try to make love.
He said he was a writer for the Evening Dispatch, a weekly column about people, and he wanted to write about me ’cause I have an interesting job.
I don’t read the papers much but you better believe I got hold of the Dispatch, and there it was.
Just a couple of lines, but nasty! Why pick on me? I never done nothing to him.”
“Was he picking on you? That is, were you the only person mentioned? Or if not, was he complimentary about the others?”
“Not ’im. A bad word for everybody, four or five of ’em, but mostly he used initials for people.”
“So he wrote gossip columns for the Evening Dispatch!” Daisy wondered whether initials would be any use to the police, if they studied the back numbers of the Dispatch. “Not under his own name?”
“No, somefing different. But I know it was him. He was the only writer I ever talked to, before you. That’s why I wasn’t sure, when you said—”
“I wouldn’t say anything you’d object to. That’s not the sort of article I write. But I don’t want you to count on a cabaret article. I may not write it, in the end. At the moment I’m busy with one about the Crystal Palace.”
Miss Fanshawe showed not the least sign of uneasiness at the mention of the site of Teddy Devenish’s death. “Int’resting is it, the Palace? Would you believe, I never been there, and me a Londoner born and bred!”
“I expect you’d enjoy it. Well, I’d better be getting back to my friends. I’ve enjoyed chatting. I’ll let you know if I ever do write that article.”
“Ta, ducks. It’s been a treat, talking to a lady.”
Daisy returned along the corridor, earning a suspicious stare from the stage door–keeper. He couldn’t very well question her credentials as his negligence had let her pass.
Phillip, alone at their table, was fretting over her lengthy absence. “Where on earth have you been, Daisy? You said you wanted to leave early.”
“Sorry, Phil. What’s the time?”
“Nearly midnight.”
“Gosh, is it really? Yes, I ought to go home. There’s not the slightest chance the children will sleep late in the morning. Ought we to wait and say good-bye to the others?”
“No, they’ll be dancing till the next act comes on. It’s not as if we came with them; they’re chance-met. Besides, it’s only Fenella.” With this cavalier dismissal of his sister, they departed.
The streets were empty and Phillip’s powerful car made nothing of Hampstead Hill. They pulled up in front of the house scarcely quarter of an hour later. Daisy was tired and sleepy, but though Phil was a very old friend, she owed him common courtesy as well as much gratitude.
“Will you come in for a nightcap?”
“No thanks, old bean. I’m off to Cowley at crack of dawn. I wish I knew what you’re up to.”
“I don’t know why you always think I’m up to something.”
“Because you usually are.” He got out to open the door for her and escorted her up the steps.
The electric porch light was on, as well as the hall light inside.
On either side of the door, the Victorian stained-glass panels glowed welcomingly in purples and greens.
Daisy had told Elsie not to wait up, so she used her latch-key, then turned to give Phillip her hand.
“Thanks, Phil, it was sweet of you to take me out.”
“I must have been mad,” he grumbled. “Explain to Fletcher that you bullied me into it.” He kissed her cheek and loped down the steps with a farewell wave.
She closed the door and pushed down the locking button.
As she took off her gloves, she noticed that the light was on in the narrow hall leading back beyond the stairs, not usually left burning at night.
Investigating, she saw that the door of the small sitting room was ajar, with a light on inside.
Though not normally of a nervous disposition, she had the mysterious death of Teddy Devenish on her mind, as well as the mysterious actions of Mrs. Gilpin and her present state of mental disorder. Daisy crept forward and peeped round the door.
Alec! He sprawled in his favourite armchair, fast asleep.
Looking down at him, she was reminded of the time at Wentwater Court, shortly after their first meeting, when he had drifted off with his boots on in the middle of a strenuous double investigation.
Was that the moment when she had fallen in love with him?
She wasn’t sure, but by the time the two cases ended with him furiously angry at her, she had known she badly wanted to see him again.
His hair was still crisp and dark, but now threaded with silver, and the tired lines in his face were not all temporary. Crow’s-feet punctuated the closed eyes that would open to a steely grey capable of freezing malefactors with a single glance.
He wasn’t much over forty, she reassured herself, still young. Dark hair often did turn white or silver early. He needed a holiday. Assuming he had wrapped up the Bristol case, perhaps they could go away for a few days.
Probably not, given that she was mixed up in the Devenish investigation. She sighed.