Superfluous Women (12 page)

“Oh? What did they have to say?”

“The agent told me she was much younger than her husband, and his second wife. Albert Gray had plenty of brass.” She pronounced the word with the short Yorkshire vowel. “He was tight-fisted, though. His only extravagance was his wine cellar. He'd pay for her fancies to a point and then shut the spigot. She wasn't at all happy. Mr. Vaughn had no qualms over gossiping about his client.”

“You didn't like him,” Underwood stated.

“Not much, I admit. I wouldn't have chosen him to deal with, but as it happens he's a relative of one of Willie's bosses, who recommended him.”

“Ah. Nor you didn't like Mrs. Gray?”

“Discontent sours people, don't you think? Even though he'd died—last April, I think it was—and she'd inherited a fortune, she stayed sour. That was my impression. She told me herself she'd been married to a miser and couldn't wait to get out of the place. A long holiday abroad was her immediate aim, before deciding where to live.”

“Did she mention where exactly? ‘Abroad' is a big place.”

“Paris to start with—Albert Gray had refused to spring for a holiday in Gay Paree. Then she was going to stay with friends on the Riviera, possibly followed by Italy.”

“No names for the friends?” he asked unhopefully. “Or which Paris hotel?”

“She had no reason to mention them as there wasn't the slightest chance I'd know them.”

“Cannes? Monte Carlo?”

Isabel shook her head. “Just ‘the Riviera.' Boasting.”

“That sort.” Underwood nodded his understanding. “If you remember anything else about her destination…”

“I'll let you know, of course. Not likely, though.”

“Did she have any relatives?”

“Not that she mentioned, but why should she?”

“All right. Can you tell me any more about Vaughn?”

“Not about
his
relatives, other than the one I mentioned, who's in Willie's firm. He's Donald Vaughn's brother-in-law, I think she said. Vaughn married his sister. Vaughn's pushy, but I suppose house agents have to be. Flashy and full of himself. A bit of a bounder, perhaps. I don't want to traduce him. You'll talk to him yourself, Inspector?”

“Most certainly.”

“You may decide I'm talking through my hat.” She hesitated. “It seemed to me there was something between them, Vaughn and Mrs. Gray. Something more … personal than his finding a buyer for her house.”

“Indeed!”

“Nothing definite. Nothing I could swear to.”

“A place for me to start. You're a detective's dream, Miss Sutcliffe.” They smiled at each other.

At once, Daisy wondered if there was a possibility of “something between them” in the future. Not much chance. At Underwood's age, he was probably married, and Isabel would remain a surplus woman.

Had Mrs. Gray been a member of the superfluous ranks? Had she, like Daisy, beaten the odds to find a husband? Unlike Daisy, though, it didn't sound as though she had found love, or even contentment, far less happiness.

More to the immediate point, had she found death in a dark cellar?

 

ELEVEN

Alec had
taken a seat in the corner of the saloon bar most distant from the bar itself. Two wooden settles against the walls met in the corner, and two spindle-back chairs occupied the other two sides of the small table, its top marred by countless rings in spite of a scattering of coasters. Like most police officers, Alec preferred to sit where he could see the whole room, especially the entrance, whether or not he was expecting someone—or trouble.

He had opted for a pint of home-brewed bitter rather than whisky. He might be glad of a clear head later. DI Underwood was sure to want to talk to him again. After a gulp of the excellent brew, he nursed his beer and sat back to watch and listen.

His fellow imbibers looked to be a moderately prosperous lot, from various walks of life: tradesmen, clerks, farmers, commercial travellers, a professional or two. There were two women, staid matrons obviously out with their husbands.

Nowhere appeared the excitement inevitable if any were aware of the murder.

Sergeant Harris had struck Alec as a man not to be trusted to hold his tongue, but these were not the sort of people to whom he'd chatter. His friends would be in the public bar, where Alec would stick out like a sore thumb. Tom Tring, his sergeant of many years, would be the perfect man to find out what was being talked about there, but Tom had retired just a month ago. Not to mention that this was Underwood's job. Alec was finding it deuced difficult to keep the fact in mind.

The saloon bar drinkers were not likely to be the sergeant's confidants, but they were the sort the Grays might have consorted with. Alec, in his oft-assumed guise as a civil servant, was more one of them than DI Underwood was likely to be. Chatting to them, he might learn something useful about the Grays.

So Alec was welcoming when a newly arrived couple, after greeting two or three people and glancing round the room for seats, came over to his table.

“D'you mind if we sit here?” the man said. “Quite a crowd tonight.”

“My pleasure.”

“Thanks. The usual, Alice? What's yours?” he asked Alec as he pulled out a chair to seat his companion.

“Bitter, thanks. But I'm not in need.” He hoisted his half-full tankard.

“Get it while you can. A few more crammed in here and you won't be able to catch Mickey's eye for love nor money. Well, money might work.…” He went off to battle the swarm at the bar, shaking hands here and there as he went.

“I'm Alice Barnes,” the woman introduced herself. She was fiftyish, round faced with smile lines, dressed in good but well-worn clothes. “That's my husband, Brian, that was. He won't be back for at least twenty minutes.”

“Fletcher. It's obvious Mr. Barnes is on good terms with everyone here.”

“It's Doctor. Most of them are Brian's patients, or their wives and children are,” Mrs. Barnes said dryly.

Alec wanted to ask whether the Grays had been Barnes's patients. However, if he gave in to temptation, the inspector would have every right to be incensed.

The doctor's wife continued, “You're not from these parts, Mr. Fletcher?”

“London. Just visiting. An old friend of my wife's moved here recently, from the North.”

“Ah, so you've escaped the reunion. Sensible man. I don't believe I've met anyone who's recently moved here from the North.…” She paused invitingly.

Alec saw no reason not to oblige. “Miss Chandler. She and two friends have bought Cherry Trees, in Orchard Road.”

“Oh, yes, someone did mention that three ladies had moved in. About a fortnight ago, wasn't it? You'll think it disgraceful, Mr. Fletcher, that I haven't called on them yet. I'm afraid I'm very bad about introducing myself to newcomers. I tend to wait until I meet them at someone else's house. I'm a nurse, you see, and though I don't work full-time, I'm kept pretty busy in Brian's practice.”

“Two of them are working women, so they'll quite understand.”

“Now I remember. Teachers, aren't they?”

“One is. Miss Chandler is an accountant, duly chartered.”

“Is she! How enterprising. One is reminded that until the Crimean War, nursing was not considered a suitable occupation for a respectable female. It seems a pity that it takes war to persuade men of our capabilities. I really must make Miss Chandler's acquaintance.”

Hoping he'd been helpful in breaking the ice for Daisy's friends, Alec was afraid he was merely meddlesome. As a policeman he ought to know better, when they might yet prove to be involved in the murder. But he'd taken a liking to the three women, bravely making their own way in what was still a man's world. It was one of Daisy's attributes that had first drawn him to her.

The doctor returned, two tankards in one hand and a sherry glass in the other. He set them down as his wife introduced Alec, and they shook hands.

“From London,” Mrs. Barnes added.

“Then you won't be interested in the latest local rumour.”

“Brian, you can't say that and just stop there,” she protested. “Mr. Fletcher won't mind.” She cast a questioning glance at Alec.

“Not at all,” Alec said, hoping he looked politely resigned, not all agog. The subject of the rumour was not difficult to guess.

“Apparently the police have taken over Whitford's snug.”

“That bumptious Sergeant Harris? What's wrong with the police station?”

“It's an inspector from High Wycombe, dear. He's interviewing witnesses.”

“Witnesses to what?”

The doctor shrugged. “No one seems to know.”

“A decent rumour should have more meat to it,” Mrs. Barnes complained, laughing. “Don't you agree, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Some rumours are best fleshed out,” he said cautiously, thinking of those that aid the police. “Others are better left to die.”

“Unmourned,” Dr. Barnes agreed. “This one, I suspect, is true, and when the details are revealed in the fullness of time, we may well wish it wasn't.”

“A police investigation is bound to bring bad news to someone.” His wife firmly changed the subject. “Now that's enough of that. Mr. Fletcher has been telling me about his wife's friend who recently moved here. Miss Chandler. She sounds like an interesting—”

“And here she comes,” Alec interrupted, standing and waving as Willie entered the bar and looked round.

“Oh, good!” Mrs. Barnes exclaimed. “You will introduce us, won't you?”

Willie's face lit up as she saw Alec. She started to come over, but hesitated as she realised he was not alone.

It was not the best time for her to meet the Barneses, but once she had appeared it was inevitable. Alec waved again, wondering where Daisy was and what she was up to. He couldn't ask Willie in the presence of the others.

The doctor stood up as she arrived. Alec made the introductions, and Barnes asked, “What are you drinking, Miss Chandler?”

“My turn,” said Alec, seating Willie, though he didn't really want to leave her alone with them.

“Not at all, it's still my round.”

Willie looked as if she was in need of a brandy, but she glanced at Mrs. Barnes's glass and opted for sherry. The doctor went off. He wouldn't be gone long: The crowd was thinning as dinnertime approached. With luck, the Barneses would soon join the exodus.

The ladies were making small talk, Willie careful of what she said, Mrs. Barnes with apparently genuine friendliness.

“I hope you'll enjoy living here,” said the latter, “you and your friends. I'm looking forward to meeting them. And to making your wife's acquaintance, Mr. Fletcher.” She turned back to Willie. “Mrs. Fletcher will be joining us, I imagine?”

“I … I'm not sure. She's … rather tired. Thank you,” she added as Dr. Barnes returned with her drink, saving her from further explanation. Or further evasion, Alec thought, trying not to show his misgivings.

“What a pity. Some other time, perhaps. London's not far, and we have excellent train service. It's very easy to get up to town for concerts and the theatre.”

“Not to mention shopping,” the doctor teased.

“Well, the choice here is very limited,” Mrs. Barnes said indignantly, “and not much better in High Wycombe. I don't go shopping in London very often. Have you had a chance to look round our shops here, Miss Chandler?”

“Not much. I'd be glad to know which you recommend.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, then Mrs. Barnes told her husband to finish off his beer, as they had to go. “I left jacket potatoes in the oven,” she explained, searching through her handbag. “Bother, I've left my diary at home, but I'll be in touch when I have it beside me.”

The Barneses left. As soon as they were out of earshot, Alec turned to Willie.

She spoke first, gloomily. “Not a chance, when news gets about. It's a pity; I liked them.”

“Nice people. You never know.”

“I expect they knew the Grays. Will the inspector talk to them?”

“I imagine so. Where's Daisy? I know prevarication when I see it. I don't believe for a moment that she's too tired to come and have a drink!”

“It was the first excuse that came to mind. And true, besides. Vera said she kept nodding off, though she seemed quite alert when I was interviewed.”

Alec groaned. “Great Scott, how the deuce does she do it? And what the deuce is Underwood thinking of to let her?”

“Does she make a habit of sitting in on police interrogations?”

“Yes. Give her an inch … My fault, I suppose. When I first met her, I was short of men, and I let her help me. She took shorthand notes and typed them up for me.”

“Nothing so formal for Inspector Underwood. Vera wanted her hand held, which he allowed. Then she stayed to see if I needed support. I didn't, but she looked so comfortably ensconced in her chair that I couldn't bear to oust her! Not that I minded her being present. She must have stayed with Izzie, too, or she'd be here by now.”

“Where's Vera?”

“She went upstairs. She was pretty upset in spite of Daisy's support.”

“Not everyone can be as blas
é
about a police ‘interrogation' as you appear to be.”

“It's not just that.” Willie frowned in thought. “She's been—”

“Hold on a minute. Someone's coming over.”

A corn-blond young man had just walked in, scanned the room, and spotted Willie. After a moment's hesitation, he headed for Alec's table. In spite of his cocky stride and a gleaming smile, he looked worried.

As he came closer, Alec saw that he wasn't as young as he'd appeared through the haze of smoke in the bar. Thirty, or even thirty-five. Nonetheless, he was extremely good-looking. His navy suit was in the latest style, double-breasted, with pencil stripes, wide trousers and sleeves, slightly tailored waistline, and wide lapels with rounded tips. His tie was striped with a hideous shade of mauve.