L
eaving the Vicarage, Daisy crossed the lane to knock on Mrs. LeBeau's door. The mistress of the house opened the door herself, dressed in a glorious tea-gown of rose chiffon.
“Miss Dalrymple, do come in! I hope you have come to satisfy my vulgar curiosity? I'm all agog. It's been all I could do to restrain myself from going over to ask what has happened.”
“I'll tell you, but I'm afraid you won't like the rest of my errand.”
“You'd better come and sit down,” said Mrs. LeBeau soberly, showing her into the drawing room, which was filled with fragrance from the vases of roses. “Sherry?”
“No, thanks.” Daisy needed a clear head, and she had not eaten since lunch. She told the bare facts of Professor Osborne's demise, little more than that he had been killed by a falling tombstone.
Mrs. LeBeau made the proper shocked and sympathetic noises, without pretending to great distress. “I didn't know the professor except to bow to in passing,” she explained, “and I doubt anything more than formal condolences from me would be well received at the Vicarage. I'll rely on you to tell me if
you think there's anything I can do to help without giving offence. But what else did you have to tell me?”
Daisy hesitated, then came to the conclusion that there simply wasn't an easy way to say it. “The thing is, there seems little doubt that Professor Osborne was murdered.”
“I wondered whether that might be the case, since the police appear inordinately interested. Why on earth would anyone kill him? He seemed an inoffensive sort of man, if rather eccentric.” She frowned. “Don't say you came to warn me there may be a homicidal maniac about?”
“Good gracious, no! At least, I don't think the police are thinking on those lines. No, the thing is, it seems to me the murder is very likely tied up somehow with the Poison Pen letters.”
Mrs. LeBeau stared at her in surprise. “The letters? But how?”
“It's rather complicated, and I really ought not to explain to anyone but the police. Because I'm afraid I'm going to have to tell the police about the letters, and they're going to want to know who's been getting them.”
“Must you?” Mrs. LeBeau cried. Daisy thought she paled, though it was hard to be sure because of her make-up. “Must you tell them about
me
? There are others, you said.”
“The others won't be any happier than you,” Daisy pointed out gently. “I can't very well pick and choose.”
“No.” Her shoulders slumped. “And after all, one of themâone of
us
âis your brother-in- ⦠Miss Dalrymple, I'm not a suspect, am I? Surely you don't suspect me! Truly, I didn't know the man.”
“I believe you,” Daisy hastily assured her.
In fact, it had not dawned on her before that Mrs. LeBeau might be the murderer, with the same conceivable motive as any victim of the Poison Penâincluding Johnnie. On the
whole she was inclined to the theory that the murderer was the Poison Pen, found out by the vicar and killing his brother by mistake.
She was pretty sure Mrs. LeBeau had not written the anonymous letters, including those to herself to divert suspicion. But one never could tell, Daisy thought uneasily.
“Excuse me,” said Mrs. LeBeau, rising, “I believe I'll have a glass of sherry now. I feel rather in need. You won't?”
“Thank you, no.” She jumped up, glad of a suitable opening to take her leave. “I must be getting back to Oakhurst, to warn Johnnie.”
“I do appreciate your warning me, Miss Dalrymple, not just sending the police round to interrogate me.” Mrs. LeBeau ushered Daisy out into the hall and opened the front door as she went on with a faint smile, “And I'm grateful to you for believing me. You will be careful whom else you warn, won't you? Before the police have all your information, I mean.”
“Gosh, yes!” said Daisy, dismayed.
Of all the feeble-minded chumps! The inherent danger in advising suspects of her intention of blowing the gaff to the police had not occurred to her. Alec would be furious if he found outâso he mustn't. Too fearfully lucky that Mrs. LeBeau was innocent. Daisy had even contemplated ringing up Dr. Padgett. That was out.
Johnnie was all right. She
had
to trust him. But she jolly well hoped he had an alibi.
All the way up the hill, she pondered how to persuade Inspector Flagg to take her theories seriously, without setting his back up. The easiest would be to 'phone up Alec and ask him to convey her concerns. However, she wasn't frightfully keen on Alec finding out she had set out to investigate an anonymous-letter epidemic without his knowledge. Anyway, Flagg would resent his repeated intervention.
Her reflections were interrupted as she approached the house. Derek and Belinda burst out of the front door.
“Aunt Daisy, Aunt Daisy, Bel's daddy's coming to stay!”
“Daddy telephoned and said he was motoring down tonight and Aunt Violet said he could stay here, at Oakhurst. Isn't it spiffing?”
“Spiffing!” Daisy agreed with a laugh, wondering how Inspector Flagg would take the unofficial arrival of a superior officer from the Met. And how she was going to explain everything to Alec.
“We were watching for you from the nursery windows and when we saw you coming up the drive we came down because I have to ask you, what shall I call Bel's daddy? Bel says âUncle Alec,' because she calls my daddy uncle, but I don't know if it's all right to call a
detective chief inspector
from Scotland Yard uncle, even if he really nearly is.”
“I'm sure it's all right, Derek, but we'll ask him, if you like. When is he arriving?” Entering the hall with a child hanging onto each arm, she suddenly felt exhausted.
“Not till after we're in bed, probably,” said Derek. “He's stopping for dinner on the way.”
“But he can come and say goodnight, can't he?” Belinda asked anxiously. “If I'm not asleep yet? He always does when he comes home in time.”
“Yes, of course.” Daisy's father would never have dreamt of turning up in the nurseries at Fairacres to bid his children goodnight. Nor would her mother, come to that, nor Violet and Johnnie. That was what nannies were for. If a bedtime kiss was the middle-class way, there was a lot to be said for it, Daisy decided.
“Will you, when you're my mummy?”
“Absolutely,” Daisy promised. “But run along now, I must talk to Uncle Johnnie.”
“About ⦠about the dead body?” Bel's freckled face took on a pinched look.
Daisy hugged her. “Yes, darling, but there's no need for you to have anything more to do with it. You've both been absolute angelsâI don't know how I'd have coped without you. Now you can forget all about it.”
“Golly,” said Derek in disgust, “that would be an awful waste. Don't be such a girl, Bel. Come on.”
As Daisy entered the drawing room, Violet looked round and Johnnie started to his feet.
“Daisy, darling,” Vi exclaimed, “I'm so glad you're back. I've been worrying. And so, I may say, has your Mr. Fletcher. He's on his way.”
“The children told me,” Daisy said, dropping into a chair. “I can't think how Alec got away in mid week.”
“He said he had just cleared up two or three cases, and he's due a couple of days off after working several weekends in a row. He asked about accommodation in the village, but of course I invited him here.”
“Thanks, darling.”
“Daisy,” Johnnie said impatiently, “what exactly has happened? I came home to one garbled story from the children and another from Violet. Professor Osborne's dead?”
“Yes, it is the professor. I was frightfully afraid I was wrong, and it was really the vicar, but he's turned up.”
“How did it happen?”
“I don't want to hear the gory details,” Violet said firmly. “I'm going upstairs to write a note of condolence, and to lie down for half an hour before changing for dinner.” Standing up, she stooped to kiss Johnnie's scarred cheek. “Don't get up, darling.”
He caught her hand and squeezed it. “Take the stairs slowly, love. Daisy, can I get you a cocktail, or sherry?”
“A drop of vermouth with loads of soda, please, but what I'd really like is some salted almonds to nibble. I'm starving. I missed tea, but I don't want to spoil my dinner.”
Her needs provided for, and Violet well out of the way, she told Johnnie about the fallen angel.
“But who on earth would do in the professor? Perhaps he was followed from Cambridge by a student he'd ploughed, or a rival academic,” Johnnie speculated. “Surely no one local. He's been to stay in Rotherden before, but hardly enough to drive the neighbours to violence!”
“Unless he was the Poison Pen.”
“Unless ⦠Daisy, was he? You found him out already?”
“No,” she admitted regretfully, “but it's a possibility. When did the first letter come?”
“I feel as if I've been getting the beastly things forever, but I suppose it's just a couple of months.”
“Any before the beginning of July?”
Johnnie pondered. “I couldn't swear to it one way or the other.”
“Bother!” Crunching on a handful of almonds, Daisy wished she hadn't forgotten to ask Mrs. LeBeau the same question.
“Why should you imagine Professor Osborne wrote them?” Johnnie asked. “Just because he's been murdered?”
“Not entirely. I wondered before.”
“I can't see how he could have known about ⦠my fall from grace.”
“The Vicarage is a hot-bed of gossip, and he was the sort of man who might think it a joke to write anonymous letters. The alternative is that the vicar unmasked the Poison Pen, who meant to kill him, not his brother. They are ⦠were very alike. Either way, Johnnie, you see why I have to tell the police about it.”
“You
what
? Dash it, Daisy, no!”
“It's murder now, not just anonymous letters. You're a magistrate. Would you really advise me to withhold information from the police?”
“N-no, I suppose not,” Johnnie said doubtfully. “But, dash it, it may have nothing whatsoever to do with it.”
“Maybe, but we can't be sure. Anyway, as they investigate there's a good chance they'll find out a Poison Pen's been active in the village. Then they'll really start to dig, and it's far more likely Violet will hear about your letters than if you're frank with them and ask them to try to keep it from her.”
“I think I'll have a whisky,” groaned Johnnie.
“I don't see any need to tell them what the letters were about,” Daisy said, trying to cheer him. He merely groaned again.
While he was at the drinks cabinet, Daisy sipped her soda-and-It and guzzled a few more almonds. She wondered how to break to him what had apparently not dawned on him: that he would inevitably become a suspect. The moment was postponed when his butler appeared.
“There's a person to see your lordship. A plain clothes policeman he says, my lord. A Detective Inspector Flagg.”
Heaving a mighty sigh, Johnnie set down his glass unsipped and said resignedly, “Show him in, Mitchell.”
The lanky inspector looked a trifle embarrassed to see Daisy. He gave her a brief nod, but addressed Johnnie: “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, my lord. You'll have heard about the unfortunate incident down in the churchyard, I don't doubt.”
“I have,” Johnnie said curtly.
“The thing of it is, sir, when my men came out from Ashford they brought a message to ring up my superintendent. Which I did, and he wants me to talk to Master Derek Frobisher and Miss Fletcher.”
“The children? Why the deuceâ? Sorry, Daisy.”
She waved permission at him to use what language he liked.
“It's not what I like to do, sir,” Flagg apologized. “I've young daughters of my own. But we always like to get more than one witness whenever possible, and we've only Miss Dalrymple's description of what happened when she found the deceased.”
“Surely you don't doubt Miss Dalrymple's word!” Johnnie exploded.
“No, no, not at all, sir,” the inspector said hastily, and not quite convincingly. Not, Daisy decided, as if he did actually doubt her, but as if he bore her possible untruthfulness in mind. “Nothing like that. It's just that in the stress of the moment, as you might say, specially in a nasty business like this, witnesses do get confused and forget exactly what they saw and did.”
“The children told me they didn't see the body.”
“And I'm glad to hear it, sir, but for that very reason they're less likely to have been upset and more likely to remember just what they did see. It's remarkable how much children notice. They might, for instance, have observed someone making off down the lane, which Miss Dalrymple naturally missed. Perhaps you'd like to telephone the super, sir?”