faltered. âPlease? Strangu ⦠Ah, she was strangled?â Unhooking the receiver, he clicked the hook up and down to summon the operator. âPut me through to the county police headquarters, miss. It is urgent.â
Daisy listened with one ear to Walsdorfâs half of the ensuing conversation. She was trying to picture the group who had gathered in the hallway when the maidâs screams shattered the morning peace.
Montagu Fotheringay had been there of course, apparently stunned by his sisterâs death; Lucyâs brother Tim and his level-headed wife, thank heavens; Lucyâs parents? Just her father, Daisy thought.
The rest were a blur of four or five faces, but she was fairly certain the Haverhills had not turned up, nor Lord and Lady Fotheringay. Fortunately their rooms were in another wing of the house. Daisy didnât want to contemplate the effect of murder in the family on the aged earl and countess and their weak-hearted son, but at least it could be broken to them gentlyâby someone other than herself.
Other guests were sleeping in distant parts of the house, but one person who should have put in an appearance was missing: Lucy. Her room was closer than Daisyâs to Lady Evaâs, so she must have heard the commotion. Why ⦠?
âMrs. Fletcher, it is quite certainly murder I am reporting?â
She nodded. âI saw her,â she said reluctantly.
One glance at Lady Evaâs face would be enough to convince the most hardened sceptic. At least Daisy didnât have to waffle about unnatural death and try to persuade the police there had been foul play. Of that there is no manner of doubt, No probable, possible shadow of doubt, No possible doubt whatever âthe tune from The Gondoliers ran through her head, almost obliterating the awful sight from her mindâs eye.
âMrs. Fletcher.â Her name caught her attention. âA guest of his lordship ⦠Yes, a most reliable witness, I am sure. I understand Mr. Fletcher is a detective at New Scotland Yard.â
Daisy groaned. Her status as the wife of a Metropolitan Police detective would by no means dispose the Cambridge police to trust her as a reliable witness. More likely they would regard her with suspicion, afraid her presence would lead to the Yard interfering in their case. She should have refused to have anything to do with reporting to them, even through John Walsdorf.
âNo, Mr. Fletcher is not at Haverhill at present,â he was saying. âI believe he is expected on Friday.â
With any luck at all, the local detectives would clear up the case before Alec arrived for the wedding.
âOh gosh, the wedding!â Daisy exclaimed as Walsdorf rang off. âIt will have to be postponed, wonât it? There will be a funeral instead. How ghastly! I must go and talk to Lucy. Mr. Walsdorf, did the police say anything about sending for the local doctor?â
âNo. Should I?â
Daisy hesitated in an agony of indecision. No more interference, said one part of her. The sooner a doctor saw the victim the better, argued another part. It might help establish the time of death, even the precise cause of death. The police surgeon might not arrive for ages. But would the local practitioner understand about not moving the body, not touching anything in the room?
Walsdorf was waiting for her instructions. Everyone seemed to think she should know what to do.
âRing up Dr. Arbuthnot. Explain whatâs happened and leave it to him to decide. No, on second thoughts, Lord Fotheringay may need him. I gather he has a weak heart, and the shock ⦠Youâd better ask the doctor to come. All right? Iâm going to Lucy.â
Daisy scurried across the icy hall. The polished oak of the stairs was not much warmer to her feet, but she slowed down, trying to think how to break the news to Lucy.
Turning into the west wing, she was surprised to find it empty but for the footman