Heirs of the Body(106)

He exchanged glances with Tom and Ernie. “Daisy, I said we’d take care of it. Leave it to us, will you? And don’t for pity’s sake talk about it.”

“I wasn’t going to.” As an exit line, it could have been bettered, but it would do. Daisy duly made her exit. If they needed her to explain the evidence to them, they could jolly well come and find her.

She still hadn’t dealt with the frock she wanted to wear. Hot and sticky, she plodded up the stairs yet again.

On her way to the bedroom, she had to pass Martha’s room. She decided to pop in to say hello to Violet and see how things were going. When she knocked, to her surprise she heard rapid footsteps coming towards the door.

“Come in!” Vi sounded desperate. She flung the door open before Daisy could turn the knob. “At last—Oh, Daisy! I rang for a maid. Thank heaven you’re here. Martha’s bleeding and having cramps.” She laid her hand on her abdomen. “Like contractions. I’m afraid.… Please, please, go and ring the doctor!”

“Of course, darling. Right away.”

“I want Sammy!” Martha’s wail followed Daisy.

This time she ran, sliding her hand down the banisters to keep her balance. Halfway down the second flight, she remembered Dr. Pardoe’s presence. A doctor in the house was worth two in Upton, she thought, slightly hysterical. Dr. Pardoe was the police surgeon and pathologist, but presumably he knew a bit about difficult pregnancies as well as dead bodies.

She sped to Edgar’s den and burst in without knocking. “Dr. Pardoe, I’m afraid my cousin Martha is having a miscarriage. Will you please come quickly!”

“I’m not really … But of course I’ll come. Have someone fetch my bag from my car, and you’d better ring up her GP. Symptoms?” he queried, following Daisy from the room.

“Bleeding and cramps. I don’t know how bad. My sister is with her.”

When they reached the entrance hall, a maid was scurrying down the stairs, looking frightened. Daisy told her to show Dr. Pardoe to Mrs. Samuel’s room.

By then Ernest had appeared. “Go and get the doctor’s bag from his car,” Daisy directed, “and take it to him.”

“At once, madam.”

“Half a mo, do you know where Mr. Samuel is?”

“He said just a minute ago he was going down to the river, madam, to try for a breath of cooler air.”

“Thanks. Be quick now.”

He dashed off.

The operator put Daisy through to Dr. Hopcroft right away. He was in the middle of his evening surgery, but he said he had only a couple of patients waiting, neither of whom he expected to occupy him for more than a few minutes. “Then I’ll come straight to Fairacres,” he promised, “though I have every confidence in Dr. Pardoe.”

Hoping that was true, not just professional courtesy, Daisy went to look for Sam.

No one in the drawing room, no one on the terrace. Entering the alley, she could see all the way to the end: no sign of Sam. As she entered the wood the path curved and at last, through the trees, she glimpsed movement.

“Sam!” she called. There was no response, but she was breathless and the trees and undergrowth were in between. Sam—or whoever it was—might not have heard her.

Panting, she rounded the bend. Ahead, just about to disappear round the next bend, was a man’s back.

Daisy drew a deep breath so that this time he’d hear her. Before she could shout, a figure darted out of the bushes. From the woods came a yell: “Uncle Sam!”

A stray ray of sun glinted on a knife blade as it rose and fell. The second man plunged back into the bushes. The first man cried out and fell, face down.

Sam—villain or victim? Daisy ran.





THIRTY-TWO





No sooner had Daisy flounced from Edgar’s study, not quite slamming the door behind her, than Alec had spread Vincent’s jacket and shirt on Edgar’s desk. He and the sergeants bent over them, studying the pattern of cuts.

Dr. Pardoe joined them. “This is significant, Chief Inspector?” he queried. “You were rather cavalier with … Mrs. Fletcher, was she?”

“I just want to keep my wife out of this affair, Doctor. She has a talent for complicating matters.” He pretended not to see Tom Tring’s grin and shake of the head. “These clothes may or may not be material—Sorry, pun unintentional. Not material evidence of wrongdoing. But certainly indicative.”

Tom put it in the vernacular: “Fishy.”

“Blood on the shirt.” Ernie Piper held it up to show Pardoe. “None on the jacket. And it doesn’t line up.”

“Are you saying someone was wearing them at the time they were damaged, Sergeant?” Pardoe examined the jacket. “At a superficial glance, anatomically impossible.”