Superfluous Women (7 page)

“We'd better go back to town as soon as I've given my statement to Inspector Underwood. I'm due back to work tomorrow, remember.”

“Oh, blast!” Daisy coughed experimentally. “I think I'd better stay on for a few days to make sure I'm completely recovered.”

“The air in Hampstead is perfectly good now.”

“Perhaps I should go up with you and see what my doctor advises.”

“Don't bother. He's completely under your thumb. If you asked him to advise you to go to the Riviera, he'd comply without hesitation.”

Daisy laughed. “Luckily I don't want to go to the Riviera. I might go up with you tomorrow just to see the babies, but I do want to be here to support Willie. You must admit I have plenty of experience of surviving police interrogation.”

“Which is nothing to boast of! All you can do is advise them to tell the truth—”

“‘The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.' I wonder how many times I've heard that?” She kept her reservations on the subject to herself. “Come on, let's go down. It's teatime and I'm ravenous.”

“I wonder how many times I've heard that?”

Downstairs, they went to the residents' lounge. Alec flipped on the electric lights, as daylight was fast fading. Overstuffed horsehair chairs and a small sofa, covered in once-maroon rep, formed four or five groups round low beechwood tables. On each were several coasters advertising drinks. A mauve hearthrug with a pattern of orange triangles clashed horribly. Elsewhere, the polished floorboards showed the scratches and scuffs of centuries that no amount of polishing could hide. Inevitably, fox-hunting prints adorned the walls.

Daisy continued through the connecting door to the ladies' parlour. Here flowered cretonne reigned, the prints were of old roses, and the floor boasted an inadequate square of emerald green carpet.

Her friends were the only occupants.

“Daisy, where have you been?” Willie greeted her, jumping up.

“Sorry, I fell asleep. Alec's back. He can't come in here. Let's have tea in the residents' lounge.”

“I didn't think I'd ever be able to face food again,” said Vera, “but I admit I'm hungry, and a cup of tea would be bliss.”

“We must keep our strength up,” Isabel said bracingly. “When the police turn up to pepper us with a lot of questions, we'll be glad of it. Pity we didn't eat the roast beef first and look for a bottle of liqueur afterwards.”

Daisy was turning back towards the other room when Willie stopped her with a hand on her arm. “We wondered if it's all right to talk to Alec about what happened. To ask him what he saw, I mean; how long the … body has been there. That sort of thing.”

“Without any gory details,” Vera clarified.

“After all, no one's told us not to talk about it.”

“The local bobby may have asked Alec to keep quiet. He'll make up his own mind, though. Ask away. He can but refuse to answer.” She went through, relieved to find Alec still alone. He stood leaning against the mantelpiece. “Tea, darling! Everyone's famished.”

“I've already rung the bell.”

As they settled by the fire, a middle-aged waitress came in. Alec ordered tea for five, with plenty of sandwiches.

The waitress left. Alec went over to the door and made sure it was closed properly. “Is anyone in there?” he asked, pointing to the ladies' parlour. They all shook their heads as he came back to sit down. “We can talk now. But if someone comes in—including servants—we change the subject.”

“All right,” said Willie. “First, what did you actually see in the cellar? None of us stopped to look. A man or a woman?”

“A woman. Dark hair. That's about all I can tell you.”

“Can, or will?”

Alec smiled. “A bit of each.”

“Did the local police tell you not to blow the gaff?” Daisy asked.

“Not in so many words, but the only officer I saw was the local sergeant, Harris. He was out of his depth. I didn't wait for the detectives to turn up. I'm treading on thin ice here—”

“And you don't want to fall in up to your neck, but at least you're not quite mixing your metaphors!”

“Great Scott, Daisy, I'm trying to explain my position here to your friends.”

“I've already told them, darling.” She gave him a sweet smile in exchange for his exasperated look. “What was Sergeant Harris like?”

“Well, let's just say I interrupted him in the middle of his Sunday roast and things went downhill from there.”

“Oh dear!”

“Sergeant Harris?” said Isabel. “That's the man who came round a couple of days after we moved in, to introduce himself. He made it very clear he didn't approve of three unrelated single women living together. I doubt if he has a right side to get on.”

“If he does, I certainly didn't get on it!”

“He knows who you are?”

“I told him I'm an officer of the Metropolitan Police. I didn't mention the Yard or being a detective, nor my rank. I'll have to tell the inspector, though.”

“When are you going to notify the super?” Daisy sighed. “I suppose you have to.”

“Can you imagine the explosion if I didn't and he found out? Which he'd be bound to. I won't disturb him on a Sunday evening, but I'll send a wire from here before I go in to work tomorrow, to give him time to simmer down a bit, with any luck, before I see him.”

“They'll let us go to work, won't they?” Vera asked anxiously.

“I can't think of any reason why they wouldn't. They might turn up with more questions.”

Vera bit her lip. “I'll get the sack, for sure.”

“No, why should you?” Willie cried. “You haven't done anything wrong.”

“The townspeople won't want their children taught by someone who's been mixed up in a murder investigation. I can't blame them.”

“Mr. Cartwright will stick up for you. The headmaster's words must carry a lot of weight.”

Looking even unhappier, Vera said, “Yes, but … No. I don't know.”

“For pity's sake, which?”

“Leave her alone, Willie,” Isabel snapped. “She's said she doesn't know. What about
your
job?”

“I'm not worried about losing it. Alec, I suppose it really is a case of murder?”

“She didn't lock the door herself.”

“No. And there's no hope of keeping it quiet?” Willie answered her own question: “No, of course not. Even if the press somehow missed it, we couldn't keep it from Mrs. Hedger and she'd have it all over town in no time.”

“To do her justice,” said Isabel, “she has her faults, but she's not a gossip.”

“Until now, we haven't given her anything juicy to gossip about,” Willie pointed out.

On this dispiriting note, their tea arrived. For some time no one spoke of the dire discovery at Cherry Trees. When the waitress came to remove the scant debris, Daisy noticed that everyone looked more cheerful. She felt more cheerful herself.

She knew, though, that Alec, despite his announced detachment from the investigation, wouldn't be able to resist returning to the subject that was on all their minds.

Isabel got in first. “I've been trying and trying to think what we can do about saving your job, Vera. No brilliant ideas so far, I'm afraid.”

“We'll come up with something,” Willie said confidently, “if the issue ever materialises. As long as the children like you and behave for you, I doubt the board, the parents, or the head will want to lose you. Mr. Fletcher, how long is it likely to be before the police let us back into the house? I've got important papers that I need at work tomorrow.”

“I really can't say. There are too many variables. You won't want to move back in until it's been thoroughly cleansed and disinfected, of course. Would your Mrs. Hedger tackle a nasty job like that?”

“I don't know,” said Isabel. “She might if we paid enough. If not, I just hope I'll be able to find some odd-job man glad to get any work. In the meantime, what am I supposed to do about things like the milk delivery? The post?”

“Sorry, I've never had to deal with that side of things. The inspector might be persuaded to bring out the papers you need, Miss Chandler, after they've been examined.”

“The papers are highly confidential.”

“Then you'd have to insist that only he see them. Men rarely reach the rank of detective inspector if they're incapable of keeping information confidential.”

“All very well, but my boss … I'd have to get his permission. Mr. Davis, of Spencer, Mott, and Davis.”

“Have it out with DI Underwood.”

“I need the children's work papers that I took home to correct,” said Vera. “Those are not confidential, of course.”

“Will they really rummage through all our stuff?” Isabel asked in dismay.

“Sorry, I would, in the circumstances. I can't speak for the local chap. Now you've had time to think, can you still not recall any visitors since you moved in?”

Isabel frowned. “Not what I'd describe as a visitor. The house agent dropped in one morning. He wanted to check that everything was all right.”

“Did you ask whether he had a key to the cellar?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. He said Mrs. Gray never let him have any keys. She insisted she should always be present when he showed the house.”

“What about the solicitors?”

Willie answered: “When we signed the papers, her solicitor handed over a set of keys, all he had. Of course, we weren't to use them before the first. Come to think of it, he should have got Mrs. Gray's set from her when she left, and turned them over. Which he didn't.”

“Good point.”

“She may have gone off with them by accident.”

“Yes, or he may have forgotten to give them to you. I—Underwood must ask him. What's his name?”

“Darling, it's not your case,” Daisy reminded him. “No solicitors.”

“Right, love. Miss Sutcliffe, are you certain that Vaughn didn't have any keys?”

“I only know what he told me.”

“If Vaughn had had them,” said Willie, “I wouldn't count on him to give them up. Assuming his claim is true, I don't blame Mrs. Gray for not trusting him.”

“Why?”

But Willie would say no more.

Alec turned back to Isabel. “Vaughn didn't offer to write to her to ask about the cellar key, or keys in general? I assume you haven't got her present address.”

“No, and nor did he. He asked me if I had it. In fact, I thought at the time that was the only reason he came. He was disappointed when I said I didn't, and he left pretty quickly after.”

“Presumably her solicitor has an address for her.”

“Alec!” Daisy said warningly.

He gave her a rueful grin. “Solicitors are out of bounds. I got a bit carried away. Forgive me, ladies.”

“I don't mind,” said Isabel. “Is there anything else you'd like to know?”

“I'd better not ask any more questions. I'm permitted to wonder aloud, though, am I not, Daisy?”

“It's a free country!”

“All right. I'm wondering, now that I've told you the deceased is a dark-haired woman, whether you have any ideas about who she might be or how she ended up in your cellar.”

“Mrs. Gray has dark hair,” Isabel told him uneasily. “Short. Crimped.”

“Obviously,” said Willie, “the most probable person to be involved is Mrs. Gray, whether as victim or as … the one responsible for the death. Don't you agree, Mr. Fletcher?”

“I'll go so far as to say that I expect the detective inspector to begin his investigation by checking whether the body is in fact Mrs. Gray.”

“So if he doesn't,” Isabel suggested, “we'll know he's not much cop.”

As she spoke, the door opened. The Boots appeared. “'Tective Inspector Underwood. 'E wansta see Mr. Fletcher.”

A tall, thin man in a Sunday black suit and sober tie stood behind the boy, peering over his shoulder. The inspector had the sort of face that could be anywhere from thirty to fifty years old. His glance of dismay swept over the ladies, pausing on Isabel. Had he heard and misinterpreted her last few words? As his gaze settled on Alec, Daisy read in his expression a compound of mistrust, defiance, and uncertainty.

 

SEVEN

The landlord
had lent DI Underwood his snug. The room where Mr. Whitford was wont to entertain friends and favoured patrons was small and cosy, with sagging armchairs long ago faded to an indeterminate brown. The smell of tobacco was all-pervasive, the low ceiling yellowish from centuries of fumes.

Alec sat down by the fire without waiting to be invited. He was in no position to take control of the coming interview, but he was not about to let the inspector imagine that he could be dominated. He took out his pipe and tobacco pouch.

Underwood stood for a moment looking down at him, his face gloomy. Then, sighing, he dropped into the chair opposite, long limbs asprawl.

“Harris says you're from the Met.”

Alec took his warrant card from his inside breast pocket and handed it over. “Not so much
from
as
of
. I'm not here on business.”

Studying the card, the inspector sighed again. “Detective Chief Inspector, Scotland Yard.” He took down the particulars in his notebook, then looked up. “Are you saying you didn't come down about this business, sir? You weren't hot on the trail of a connection to some metropolitan crime, so to speak?”

“Great Scott, no. Whatever gave you that notion?”

“Sergeant Harris as good as told me so.” Underwood returned the warrant card and sat back.

“I can't be held responsible for whatever nonsense comes out of Harris's mouth.”

“Frankly, sir, there are those who doubt whether Harris is always responsible for what comes out of his mouth. Why he was ever promoted—well, never mind. This sort of thing is above his head. A nasty affair.”