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.
TWENTY-ONE
Daisy’s heart stood still. For a moment she couldn’t speak, then she cried out, “Stop!” so loud that Smethwick heard her, although she didn’t use the tube.
He glanced back, his expression startled. A hundred yards farther on, he pulled into a farm gateway. “Madam?”
She opened the door and jumped out, her one thought was to escape from the immediate vicinity of Raymond’s body. “I can’t find a pulse,” she blurted out as Smethwick, alarmed, also sprang out of the Daimler. “I think he’s dead.”
“Let me check,” he said in a businesslike way. “I drove an ambulance in the war. Flat feet.”
He climbed into the back of the car, leaving Daisy thinking sad thoughts of her fiancé, Michael, who had likewise been an ambulance driver during the war but had not returned.
“You’re right, he’s gone.” The chauffeur emerged from the interior. “Had an accident in Worcester, did he?”
“Yes, but the police seem to think he just fell, and he himself said he hadn’t hit his head.”
“Heart attack. Or stroke. He’s the age and figure for it.”
“He seemed so vigorous!”
“Oh well, you never can tell. I s’pose I better lay him out on the seat. Otherwise he’s going to slide off when we start moving. If you don’t mind sitting in front with me, madam.”
“Yes, please!” said Daisy.
Once the Raymond’s body was in a decently recumbent position, Smethwick fetched a car rug from the boot to spread over him. The cheerful red-and-yellow tartan was altogether inappropriate, but as the chauffeur said, “Beggars and corpses can’t be choosers.” He returned to his seat behind the steering wheel. “I haven’t driven around with a stiff behind me—if you’ll pardon the expression—since the Armistice. Where to now, madam?”
“Oh dear, I expect we ought to take him to Dr. Hopcroft, even though it’s too late. He’ll know what to do.”
“Right you are. I’ve got to find a post office and send a wire to my company, too. The boss isn’t going to be happy.”