by Carola Dunn
“The New Theatre, to see Shaw’s Saint Joan. A superb play, well worth seeing twice. Mrs. Talmadge had missed the first night.”
“Did she enjoy it?”
“She …” A pause, then Creighton rose and stepped forward to stand facing the window, his fists clenched at his sides. The silence stretched.
“The truth is generally the best policy,” Alec said gently.
A long sigh followed, as if squeezed from Creighton’s lanky frame like lava from a volcano, by intolerable internal pressures. Yet, as he turned back to Alec, he managed an ironic comment: “I notice you say ‘generally,’ not always, Chief Inspector. However, being uncertain what lie may serve in the circumstances, which remain unclear to me, I find myself driven back upon the truth. Mrs. Talmadge did not attend the theatre with me.”
Alec’s sigh was silent. He had manoeuvred Lord Henry into a position where he had either to lie about the theatre or to confine himself to the feeble lunchtime alibi. Choosing the latter might mean that he was aware of the time of death—or it might mean that he was innocent and felt that a lie was likely to be disproved and therefore to arouse unwarranted suspicion.
In either case, Alec was convinced that his lordship was concealing something more than an illicit relationship with a married woman. Otherwise a man of his social rank would surely not have answered with such patience questions he must regard as impertinent.
“One of my men will be speaking to Mr. Truscott at Sotheby’s, sir, and of course we’ll be trying to find the restaurant you patronized. I don’t suppose you have a photograph you could let me have, of you and Mrs. Talmadge?”
“Only a very old … one of myself. I’ll fetch it.” He hurried out through the nearer door.
There were plenty of recent photos on the wall, though Creighton might be reluctant to part with one. So his pause and quick recovery meant he had kept a photo of the two of them, probably from before her marriage, which argued that he had at least a deep affection for her. Deep enough to try to protect her, knowing she was a murderess? Deep enough to murder her husband for her sake?
Creighton returned with a faded, blurred photo of a school cricket team. He had to point out to Alec his own likeness, standing in the back row.
“Useless for identification, I’m afraid, sir. Perhaps you could spare me one of these?” Alec gestured at the theatrical wall.
For the first time, Creighton showed annoyance. “One of my collection?”
“I’ll do my best to see it’s not damaged. We’ll make copies to show around and return the original to you.”
“Oh, very well, if you must.” He chose an unsigned photograph of himself with an actor who had enjoyed a brief success three or four years ago, before sinking back into obscurity.
A passion for the theatre might be the link between him and Daphne Talmadge, but Alec wasn’t prepared to bet on which he’d pick if forced to choose between his beloved and his memorabilia.
“Thank you, sir.” Alec started towards the entrance hall. “We’ll take good care of it. I may have some more questions for you later, so if you leave London I’d be grateful if you’d let me know your whereabouts.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Is … is Mrs. Talmadge greatly distressed?”
“Naturally.” His hand on the front-door knob, Alec turned to observe Creighton’s reaction as he continued, “As any woman would be having found her husband’s murdered body.”
“My God! I must—”
“Mrs. Talmadge is under heavy sedation, sir,” Alec added with some satisfaction. “I’m afraid it’s no good your trying to see her.”
It was frustrating not to be able to question his chief suspect, but at least the second on his list couldn’t speak to her either.
9
For Daisy, Mrs. Grantchester’s luncheon party started badly before she even left home. When she came downstairs, her mother-in-law was already waiting in the hall, toe tapping impatiently though Daisy had left plenty of time.
She took one look at Daisy, and asked, “Is that what you’re wearing to Mrs. Grantchester’s?”
“Yes,” said Daisy. She considered the plain amber crepe frock a neat compromise, less dressy than would be appropriate to lunch in the West End, but more formal than a country house party. Maybe it was the hemline just below the knee Mrs. Fletcher took exception to; or the hip-level belt—she still kept her waist where her waist had once been; or maybe the flesh-coloured stockings, though only old ladies wore black or white these days, and not all of them.
Whatever her objection, she merely uttered a disapproving “Hmm.”
Paying this as little heed as it deserved, Daisy went to the coat cupboard to get her coat. It was a beastly day, cold and rainy, the sullen drizzle quite unlike yesterday’s smiling showers. She turned to the umbrella stand, and remembered she’d left her umbrella in Talmadge’s waiting room.
“Blast!” Her mild epithet earned a pursed mouth from Mrs. Fletcher.
Both Alec’s and Belinda’s umbrellas were gone. With a choice of sharing with her mother-in-law or getting wet, Daisy resigned herself to the latter. Thus she arrived at Mrs. Grantchester’s with her hat dripping and drooping over her ears and the shoulders of her coat soaked through.
The parlourmaid took their coats. On impulse, Daisy handed over her hat, too. The maid’s eyes widened, and Mrs. Fletcher’s lips pursed so tight Daisy wondered if they would ever unknot again. Lunching out without a hat simply wasn’t done, but she’d rather be thought eccentric than have it drip in her soup. No doubt her hostess and the other guests would blame her aristocratic background for the lapse. They might be right.
She felt entirely justified when, after her mother-in-law gave their names as “Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. Alec Fletcher,” the maid announced them as “Mrs. Fletcher and the Honourable Mrs. Alec Fletcher.” She must have done so on prior instructions from Mrs. Grantchester, with intent to impress.
Mrs. Grantchester surged forward to greet them. Dressed in pale silk, she made Daisy think of a battleship swishing through the waves. She blinked at Daisy’s bare head, but at least she didn’t comment. She was far too keen to start on the topic of the day.
“My dear, it’s too, too brave of you to join us. I’m sure I should be quite prostrate after what you went through yesterday.”
Daisy refrained from asking why, then, she had been invited. The room had fallen silent, awaiting her response. Trying to look brave, she said bravely, “It’s no good brooding, is it?”
An elderly lady sitting nearby said in a loud voice, “Admirable, if you ask me. In my day we were expected to brood. You don’t see these modern young things going into a decline over a lost lover.”
“Her dentist, Mother!” said the woman next to her in an agony of embarrassment. Daisy recognized Mrs. and Miss Tebbit, and gave the latter a reassuring smile. When Mrs. Tebbit responded with a wink, Daisy realized she had been deliberately outrageous and immediately wanted to know her better.
“An excellent dentist,” young Mrs. Ledway lamented. “So good with the children.”
Mrs. Grantchester ignored this by-play. Having succeeded in snaring Daisy for her luncheon party, she abandoned restraint and asked bluntly, “It was murder, I suppose? A chief inspector would hardly be called in for anything else.”
“We shall all be murdered in our beds!” That was Miss Petherington, who was given to premonitions of disaster.
“Better to be murdered in bed,” observed Mrs. Tebbit, “than anywhere else. So much more comfortable.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Grantchester. “No doubt Mr. Fletcher will very soon arrest the perfect monster who killed Raymond Talmadge. It must be quite obvious to him who did the dreadful deed, and it will be equally clear to us once Mrs. Fletcher has told us all about it, won’t it, Mrs. Fletcher?”
The question was addressed to Daisy, as her mama-in-law had abandoned her to join a crony on the other side of the room, where they muttered darkly together.
Da
isy had decided earlier that the best way to deflect questions she couldn’t or shouldn’t answer was to float a red herring. “I’m sure we’re all safe, Miss Petherington,” she said, “not being dentists.”
Several people gasped.
“You mean there’s a maniac going around killing dentists?” Mrs. Grantchester asked, all agog.
“Who can blame him!” said Mrs. Tebbit. “I’ve always thought you have to be a bit of a sadist, in the modern idiom, to become a dentist.”
“Oh, Mother, how can you say such a thing?”
At that moment, the parlourmaid came in to announce luncheon.
Miss Cobb, a particular friend of the hostess, glanced around the company and asked, “Didn’t you say you were going to invite Mrs. Walker, Julia?”
“I did, Ettie,” said Mrs. Grantchester in a voice heavy with significance, “but she declined. Shall we go through, ladies?”
Shepherded into the dining room with the rest of the flock, Daisy pondered the significance of Mrs. Walker. There might well be more than one lady of that name in the neighbourhood, but the one her memory turned up was the wife of a Major Walker. Offhand, Daisy couldn’t remember anything else about her.
Over luncheon, to her relief, the subjects of murder and dentists were studiously avoided. She was not lulled into imagining either had been abandoned. It was just the effect of the middle-class belief, not shared by the aristocracy, that if one didn’t mention something in front of the servants they would not find out.
The talk was mostly of bridge and the relative merits of various resorts for summer holidays. To liven things up, Miss Petherington had a premonition that the south coast would be hit by a tidal wave in August. Hearing this, the parlourmaid almost dropped the sauceboat. However, under the eagle eye of her mistress, she recovered herself after merely dripping parsley sauce on Miss Cobb’s sleeve.
Fortunately Miss Cobb didn’t notice, being intent on proclaiming the superiority of her favorite resort, Buxton Spa, well out of reach of tidal waves.
Miss Tebbit, sitting beside Daisy, ventured to mention that she had enjoyed her last article in Town and Country magazine and to ask her about her next. Before Daisy could respond, Mrs. Fletcher said from across the table, “Such a nice hobby for Daisy, since she doesn’t care for bridge.”
Daisy was tempted to respond that writing was her profession and sleuthing her hobby. She decided it was better not to remind people of the sleuthing. They might take fright and not tell her things if they couldn’t pretend they were just exchanging gossip with someone like themselves.
So she held her peace, unlike Mrs. Tebbit, who said, “Writing is a dashed sight less of a waste of time than bridge. More lucrative too, I should hope. Though there are those who make a good thing of bridge.” She glared at her hostess.
Mrs. Grantchester bridled and changed the subject to the new dressmaker in the High Street. Over treacle tart and custard, it was agreed that the competition with Delia’s, the current favourite, ought to lower prices but probably would not. The conversation moved naturally to the pros and cons of the High Street hairdressing salon.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Mrs. Alec Fletcher at our local Salon de Beauté,” observed Miss Cobb.
“I go to a hairdresser in Chelsea,” said Daisy. “It’s where I had my hair cut short, just last year. They did a good job with the shingle, and besides, it gives me an excuse to visit friends in the neighbourhood.”
“Such interesting people live in Chelsea,” said Mrs. Grantchester.
“It’s not nearly as bohemian as it was in my young day,” Mrs. Tebbit said regretfully.
“It’s not a good place to bring up children,” Mrs. Ledway contributed, “or so I’ve heard. But I suppose you didn’t have any to worry about then?”
“Not a single one,” Daisy agreed with a straight face, aware of her mother-in-law’s outraged face but avoiding her eye. “I enjoyed living there and I like going back now and then.”
“But you miss all our local news,” said Miss Cobb. “The High Street salon is quite the best place for—”
“Shall we have coffee in the drawing room?” interrupted Mrs. Grantchester, rising in a determined way. Everyone trailed after her obediently, back to the drawing room.
The parlourmaid brought in coffee. As the door closed behind her, Miss Cobb sat down beside Daisy. “We’re all dying to hear what happened yesterday,” she said.
A sudden silence attested to the accuracy of her words.
Daisy had already considered what she could say, knowing it would not satisfy them. “I had an appointment with Mr. Talmadge,” she explained. Her tooth gave a reminiscent twinge and she realized it hadn’t made itself felt since yesterday. “That’s why I happened to be at his house when … when he was discovered. I telephoned for the doctor. And I happen to know that the police have to be notified of any unexpected death, so I rang them up, too. That’s really about all I can tell you.”
“Did you see the body?” asked Miss Petherington ghoulishly. “The papers say it was murder, but they don’t know how he was killed.”
“No doubt Mrs. Talmadge seemed very upset?”
“How lucky they have no children!” That was Mrs. Ledway, of course.
“Naturally Daphne Talmadge was upset,” said Mrs. Tebbit, “whatever her feelings for her husband.”
“Not as upset as Gwen Walker, I imagine,” Miss Cobb said just loud enough for Daisy to hear.
“Does Mrs. Walker have bad teeth? Poor thing, it must be dismaying to lose one’s dentist in the middle of a course of treatment, but she can always find another.”
Daisy’s wilful misunderstanding vexed Miss Cobb. “Teeth! For all I know she has perfect teeth,” she exclaimed rather snappishly, then tittered. “Oh, my dear, you really miss a great deal by not having your hair done locally. One has heard that Raymond Talmadge and Gwen Walker were seen dining together. Tête-à-tête!”
“Who saw them? And where?”
“In Soho, I believe! At a club! No one respectable would admit to going to a nightclub in Soho, so I don’t know who saw them. Simply shocking!”
“An anonymous rumour is hardly worthy of credit.” Though Daisy would report it to Alec anyway.
“No smoke without a fire. And she hasn’t come today. She doesn’t want us to see how upset she is.”
“I dare say she had a prior engagement.”
Miss Cobb tittered again behind her hand. “Not with Mr. Talmadge this time.”
Daisy couldn’t help giving her a disgusted look, one which she knew made her look like her mother, the Dowager Viscountess, at her most grande dame. She was disgusted with herself, too, for encouraging such a spiteful scandalmonger to pass on her malicious tale.
At least she had the best of motives, to help find a murderer. It was up to Alec to discover whether the rumour was true.
Catching Mrs. Grantchester’s gaze, she wondered whether her hostess had induced Miss Cobb to recount the gossip. Perhaps Mrs. Grantchester didn’t want to be caught telling tales.
“Excuse me, Miss Cobb,” Daisy said, “it looks as if my mother-in-law is ready to leave.”
After a round of good-byes, Daisy, Mrs. Fletcher, and the latter’s friend, Mrs. Harbison, departed together. In the hall, the parlourmaid returned Daisy’s hat to her, dry but rather droopy about the brim. Outside it was still raining, though not quite as hard as earlier.
“Thoroughly distasteful!” fumed Mrs. Fletcher as the front door shut behind them. “Alec is frequently involved in such cases, alas, but I have never before been subjected to such impertinent inquisitiveness.” She didn’t need to spell out that it was all Daisy’s fault.
“How lucky I haven’t told you anything about it,” said Daisy, following the older ladies down the garden path. “You could truthfully say you didn’t know any more than was reported in the papers.”
“Perhaps you should go away, Enid, till it all blows over,” suggested Mrs. Harbison. “The talk of summer r
esorts put it into my mind. You could go and stay with your sister in Bournemouth.”
“How can I abandon my son and my granddaughter at such a time?”
Daisy fumed, but managed to ignore this innuendo also. “As you said, Mother, dealing with murder is nothing out of the ordinary for Alec. And it will be no different for Belinda from any other of his cases.” She was pretty sure Bel had told her grandmother a great deal less than she had told her friends. “You and I are the ones who face the questions of our nosy neighbours. I’m a witness, so I can’t escape, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t.”
“Well … Bournemouth is very pleasant in April, before the crowds arrive. But people will say—”
“What business is it of anyone else’s if you choose to take a spring holiday?” Daisy demanded. “You haven’t seen your sister since Christmas. I’m sure Dobson and I between us can manage not to let Alec and Belinda starve in your absence. If anyone dares to say anything, we’ll say you’ve been feeling a bit run down and the sea breezes will buck you up, won’t we, Mrs. Harbison?”
“It is a very healthy place,” said Mrs. Harbison, “but I thought I might go as well. I know a very comfortable boarding house near the front … .”
“Good, that’s settled then. You can send your sister a wire today, Mother, and go down tomorrow morning.”
“But—’
“And by the time you come home, Alec will have caught the culprit and everyone will have found something else to talk about. I’m going to look for my umbrella now. I’ll see you later.”
Without waiting for any further protests, Daisy turned into the Talmadges’ street. Perhaps she had been a bit highhanded; perhaps Mrs. Fletcher would decide not to go; but the chance of a few days without her carping was worth the attempt.
At the Talmadges’ house the front blinds were down. Daisy went round the side to the waiting room, but the door was locked. She’d have to go to the front door, and she could hardly do that without asking after Mrs. Talmadge. Even Alec couldn’t possibly call it meddling.
