Daisy was relieved. The fewer people about while Raymond’s body remained in the Daimler in the garage, the better. She hoped Alec would arrange to have it removed before the children and the pregnant Martha came back. And she hoped Martha would not suffer for going without her usual cup of mint tea before the meal.
“I’ll wait for Alec in Lord Dalrymple’s den, Ernest. Would you go and tell Smethwick the telephone is available for his use?”
Too agitated to sit in one of the huge leather armchairs, Daisy stood at the window in the study, gazing out but seeing only the scene at The Cross—the trams, cars, lorries at a standstill, and people crowding forwards. If only she had been closer, had been able to see exactly what had happened. The point-duty policeman hadn’t noticed anything more than a stumble, though, and he surely would have noticed anything suspicious. Perhaps not; he had to keep an eye on the movements of all those vehicles and people.
She should have taken Raymond straight to a hospital.
Not more than five minutes passed before Alec strode into the room. “Daisy, what’s this garbled story of Laurette’s? Raymond’s had an accident?”
“Oh darling, he’s dead!” Daisy burst into tears and flung herself on Alec’s chest.
He gave her a handkerchief and put his arms round her. “Dead! Laurette seemed to think he just had a fright.”
“That’s what I thought. He said he wanted to come back here and go to bed, so I decided I’d better go with him, and if only I’d taken him to a doctor right away he might still be alive. But he died in the car. Alec, it was simply frightful!”
“Come and sit down and tell me all about it. Does Edgar keep any booze in here?” After scanning the room in vain, he unceremoniously yanked open the kneehole desk’s two bottom drawers. “Damn.” He rang the bell, then went impatiently to the door.
It opened as he reached it, revealing Ernest with a silver tray. On it stood a decanter, a bottle, and a soda syphon.
“You’ve read my mind,” said Alec.
“Mr. Lowecroft did, sir. Brandy for madam. He thought you’d prefer whisky.”
“Perfect.” He took the tray from Ernest and closed the door.
“I don’t want brandy,” Daisy said crossly.
“Whisky, then. You’ve had a shock.”
“I don’t like whisky.” She accepted the B and S—more B than S—that he handed to her, and took a sip. “Alec, could Raymond have died of shock?”
“That’s for a doctor to say.” He frowned. “I’d have thought it would be instant or not at all. You’ve sent for a doctor? The man who was at the fête?”
“I was going to, but then he died, so I thought I ought to—”
“Better start at the beginning, Daisy, if I’m to have a hope of sorting this out.”
She described the scene in Worcester and her recognition of Raymond. “He was obviously dizzy and he said his head hurt. He denied he’d hit it, though. He wanted to come home so I sent for his car. Then he suddenly got worse. I thought he ought to see the doctor right away, but he died.… And then we couldn’t get through. The road’s flooded.”
“So you came back here. I take it Dr. Hopcroft couldn’t get here, either.”
“I haven’t talked to him. I didn’t know who to tell, so I was going to phone you at the Talbot, but you were already on your way. Thank you for rushing to the rescue! Did they all come back with you?”
“No, no one. I sent Truscott back to pick them up when they’re ready to leave.”
“Thank goodness, and the children and Martha are all still out. Edgar, too, so I couldn’t ask his advice. Should I try to get hold of Dr. Hopcroft? Or report Raymond’s death to the local bobby?”
“You were quite right to ring me first, love. I’m going to go straight to the top.” He went over to the telephone on the desk.
“Sir Nigel?”
“Sir Nigel. He was quite chummy, and sent you his best regards. I’ll try the main police station first, but if he’s not there, I’ll call him at home.” He picked up the receiver and the daffodil base and sat on the corner of the desk.
“Smethwick was sending a telegram to his employer.”
“He’s not on now. Hello? Put me through to the main police station in Worcester, please. I’ll stay on the line.”
“What did Sir Nigel think of the string of accidents?”
“He was inclined to pooh-pooh the whole thing. Not that he doubts the incidents occurred, but that they might have any sinister significance. I have a feeling he sees my profession as making me apt to see crime where none exists.”