Filled with regret, he watched her trail despondently from the study. He had dished his chances of seeing her again. Not that there had ever been a future for a friendship between the Honourable Daisy Dalrymple and a common-or-garden police detective.
Daisy turned towards the drawing-room. Alec had every right to be furious, she thought mournfully. Though everything had worked out for the best, that didn't make up for her letting him down. She couldn't blame him for dismissing her so coldly, stern policeman to erring citizen.
Her reception in the drawing-room bucked her up a bit. Wilfred rushed to meet her, his usual nonchalance abandoned. “We heard the police are back,” he said. “What's up?”
“Everything's all right,” she assured him, joining Marjorie, Lady Jo, and Phillip by the tea trolley. She'd been too upset to share Alec's tea. “Mr. Fletcher was going to have the
Orinoco
called back but instead he telephoned the Commissioner at Scotland Yard and persuaded him that Lord Stephen's death was an accident.”
“Oh, good egg!” Wilfred exclaimed.
“I knew he'd come through,” said Marjorie dreamily. “He's really rather scrumptious, don't you think, Daisy?”
Her aunt regarded her with considerable misgiving. “A most worthy officer,” she said repressively. “This is good news, Daisy. Now dear Geoffrey will be able to come home again.”
“He might as well stay in Brazil once he gets there,” said Phillip. “All sorts of opportunities for the right sort of fellow, what?”
“I dare say he will,” Daisy agreed. “He always seemed to me the sort to go off to bring civilisation to some benighted tropical country.” If he had any sense he'd stay, for Annabel's sake.
“I say, Daisy, does this mean we're free to leave?” Phillip asked.
“The detective chappie doesn't want to see us again, does he? I've already outstayed my welcome.”
“It's nearly dark. You mustn't leave until the morning,” said Lady Josephine, and Marjorie and Wilfred assured him that he was more than welcome at Wentwater.
“Very kind and all that, but after the fuss and botheration with m'sister, I'd better toddle off, don't you know. It's stopped raining and the old bus buzzes along quite happily in the dark. Daisy, old girl, can I give you a lift back to town?”
She was tempted. Driving up to London in his nippy little Swift two-seater, even at night, would be much more fun than going by train. But she wasn't certain whether she had enough material for her article, and besides, she wanted to make sure Annabel didn't need her any more. “Thanks, Phil, but my work here has been rather interrupted and I still have quite a bit to do.”
“Work!” he grumbled. “Oh well, right-oh.”
He went off to pack and to make his farewells to his host and hostess. Daisy went up to her room to try to reacquaint herself with her article before dinner. Seated at the little desk by the window, she read over her notes and the pages she'd already written. Phillip, in his motoring coat, found her there.
“I say, I haven't got your new address. You won't mind if I drop round? I haven't given up hope, you know, old dear.”
“I shan't marry you, Phillip, but I'll always be happy to see you.”
Writing down the address for him, she wished it was Alec who was asking. She wondered whether he had already left Wentwater. She wanted to apologize to him, though she was not sorry for what she had accomplishedâbut one didn't apologize to a policeman for breaking the law, did one? To do so would imply that she regarded him as a friend. Which she did, but there wasn't much chance he reciprocated the feeling after she'd aided his quarry's escape.
Gazing glumly out of the window into the deepening dusk, she saw his Austin Seven proceeding down the drive, the police car close behind.
They crossed the bridge over the fateful lake and their red taillights disappeared into the woods at the top of the opposite slope. A fat chance she had of ever seeing Alec again.
Not long after, Phillip's jaunty two-seater followed them. Apart from Daisy, only a diminished family remained at Wentwater Court. She'd better leave tomorrow, she decided. Her presence would be a constant reminder of the frightful events of the past few days. She drew the curtains and turned back to her work.
Â
Dinner was more cheerful than any of Daisy's previous meals at Wentwater. The departure of the police had raised everyone else's spirits. Marjorie, Wilfred, and Lady Josephine were all buoyant, James's disgrace forgotten for the moment. Sir Hugh, back from Southampton, was relieved to hear his friend the Commissioner had come to the rescue. He vowed to write a commendation of the Chief Inspector's common sense and discretion.
Lord Wentwater looked nearer forty than fifty. His habitual gravity had given way to an air of contentment punctuated by fond smiles, and Annabel positively glowed. To Daisy, their happiness made everything worthwhile.
They were all embarrassingly grateful to her. She was quite glad to claim pressure of neglected work and retreat to her room after dinner.
In the morning, a windy day with the sun coming and going between clouds, she went down to breakfast quite early. Only Sir Hugh was before her, ensconced as usual behind his
Financial Times.
Emerging, he folded the paper to show her a modest headline: FINANCIER DEAD. Underneath, in smaller letters, it said: “Astwick dies in skating mishap. Company expected to fail, say experts.”
“There's a paragraph or two about Flatford's burglary, too,” said Sir Hugh, “but you'll find more about it in the other papers.”
Daisy dashed out to the hall. A selection of daily newspapers was spread on the table by the front door. Alec had made the front page of most of them, under headlines such as YARD MAN RECOVERS LOOT.
Two or three had photographs of him, recognizable only by his dark, thick eyebrows.
The demise of Lord Stephen Astwick, City mogul and
bon viveur,
in an unfortunate skating accident was relegated to the inside pages.
Taking all the newspapers to the breakfast-room, Daisy read every word as she consumed Cook's home-made sausages, toast, and tea. Though Lord Stephen's connection with the burglaries must surely come out at Payne's trial, for the moment the reporters were apparently unaware of the makings of a spectacular story. Alec being discreet again, Daisy thought. He was the hero of the hour, the articles full of gushing quotations from grateful ladies whose diamonds, pearls, and emeralds were to be returned to them.
Daisy wondered whether he enjoyed being a celebrity. She rather thought it would bring out his sardonic side.
With a sigh, she went off to the darkroom to sort out her pictures.
By three o'clock that afternoon, having shot a few more photographs and filled in a few gaps in her information about the house, she was ready to leave. She had sent a wire to Lucy to say she'd be home for dinner. The dark green Rolls stood gleaming at the front door with her luggage already stowed away. In the Great Hall, she took her leave of the family. As they pressed her to visit again soon, she found it hard to believe she had been at Wentwater Court for less than a week.
They all came out to the front steps to wave goodbye. Jones handed her into the back seat and took his place at the wheel. The Silver Ghost rolled smoothly on its way.
When Daisy glanced back for a final look as they started down the hill, the Mentons, Marjorie, and Wilfred had gone in. Annabel and the earl still stood on the step, locked in a loving embrace.
A pang of envy stabbed at Daisy's heart. With a wistful sniff, she settled back in the seat.
The sodden countryside was dun and depressing. When they reached the station, Jones and the one-legged porter carried her luggage onto the up-platform. As the Rolls drove off, she waited beside
the pile of stuff, gazing down the track towards Winchester, hugging her coat around her. Though the wind had dropped and it was much warmer than the bitter day of her arrival, she felt chilled.
She heard another car pull up in the station yard but she didn't turn until a voice behind her called, “Miss Dalrymple!”
Alec! His neck swathed in an orange-and-green-striped scarf, he was leaning on the fence where the crow had huddled. A curl of smoke rose from his pipe, hiding his expression.
She went across to him, a spring in her step. “I thought you'd have gone back to London by now,” she said.
“One or two bits and bobs to clear up.”
“I didn't know you smoked a pipe.”
“Not when I'm on duty, except in my own office.”
“I suppose you don't wear that natty scarf when you're on duty, either.”
He smiled around the stem of the pipe. “Do you like it? My daughter, Belinda, knitted it.”
“Your daughter?” Her heart sank. “What a clever child. How old is she?”
“Nine. Not bad, eh? Listen, will you trust your life to my driving? I know a nice little place in Guildford where we could stop for tea. I telephoned my mother and she's not expecting me home till after six.”
“Your mother?”
“She lives with Belinda and me, takes care of us. Here comes the train,” he said as an approaching whistle sounded. “Can I give you a lift?”
“A lift? Tea in Guildford? Yes,
Chief!”
“Oh no, not Chief!” He shook his head determinedly. “Never again. If our acquaintance is to continue, it will be on a strictly nonprofessional basis.”
“Right-oh, Alec,” said Daisy.