by Carola Dunn
“Three cabbies, Chief. Leastways, I only talked to one of ’em, but I checked the logs of the other two that they turned in to the company at the end of their shifts. One picked up a couple in New Bond Street around twenty past twelve and took them to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, Old Marylebone Road. The other took one person from the rank in the Edgware Road to the New Theatre, leaving at five to two.”
“And the one you talked to?”
“Took a lady in a veil from the Edgware Road rank to the Talmadge house. Left at seven minutes to two, arrived ten past. The lady was put in the taxi by a tall thin gentleman with a monocle and no chin, who gave him a fiver. He’d not likely forget that! Blimey, Chief, I reckon I’m in the wrong business. Some bloke offers me a fiver, I have to arrest him.”
“Talk to the other two tomorrow and make sure it’s our pair, though there seems little doubt. Good work, Ernie, and quick work.”
“But I never found whoever took ’em there and back in between,” said Piper disconsolately.
“Try again tomorrow, but there’s another factor. Creighton owns a very nippy three-litre Bentley, royal blue. He wouldn’t want to leave it in New Bond Street, but suppose he always intended the stop at the Dixons’ flat and then, perhaps, to take Mrs. Talmadge for a spin in the country.”
“He could have driven it over earlier and parked it in one of those side streets,” said Mackinnon, catching on at once. “With that, he’d have plenty of time to dash over to talk to the victim and finish him off.”
“What about my veiled lady?” Tom demanded.
Piper and Mackinnon stared at him.
Alec gestured to Tom to explain. When he finished, Piper said thoughtfully, “So either Mrs. Talmadge did take a taxi, in which case I’ll find it, or she can drive. But it don’t seem likely, somehow, that he’d lend her the car to hurry home and murder her old man.”
“Ah,” said Tom, “but he might have driven her there—not gone in himself—so she could tell hubby it was all off and she was going to run off with his lordship. It’s always looked like a spur-of-the-moment job to me.”
“Me too, Tom,” Alec agreed. “We’ll have to see if we can trace the car. Ernie, add that to your taxi-tracing chores.”
“Right, Chief.”
“Before we discuss any further, let’s make sure we all know all there is to know or we’ll be talking at crosspurposes. Mackinnon, let’s hear from you. Tell them about the interview with Creighton, and then report on the Dixons’ flat.”
Skimming the relevant reports on his desk as he listened to his men, Alec gathered together the threads of the investigation. Unfortunately, they showed no sign as yet of entwining in a knot.
The pathology report held no surprises. Talmadge had died of a combination of the suffocating and toxic effects of breathing pure nitrous oxide. Any pressure marks caused by his being bound and gagged had disappeared before the autopsy. However, traces of isinglass and benzoin were found around his mouth. Also, the lab confirmed moustache hairs on the sticking plaster from the waste bin and an exchange of fibres from his white coat with those of the bandages and chest strap.
Daisy had got it exactly right.
Ernie Piper had gone through Talmadge’s personal and business accounts, all very orderly. He had found nothing to suggest blackmail or gambling or any other irregularity. Scanning his list of female patients from eighteen to forty, Alec saw many names of people he knew. It wouldn’t be needed, though, unless Gwen Walker was definitively eliminated.
Either she or Daphne Talmadge was almost certainly Tom’s veiled lady. Alec was going to have to go down to Denham to check the old-school-friend alibi.
As for Mrs. Talmadge’s alibi, Mackinnon had not had to sneak into 6J to study the possibilities. When he knocked on the door of the flat below, to ask if the resident had seen or heard anything at the relevant times, he was invited in. The elderly widow, delighted to have a visitor, had assured him the flats were all identical in design and shown him around her own. Though there was no back door, the rooms all led off a passage and the cleaner could easily have left without seeing Creighton or Mrs. Talmadge.
“You’ll see her tomorrow, Tom,” said Alec. “Mrs. Simpson, isn’t it, Mackinnon?”
“Simpkins, Chief.”
“That’s it.” Another good mark for the sergeant. “On second thoughts, you can deal with her. I want Tom to tackle the Army and Navy Club. If Major Walker lunched there, he probably signed a chit. Times may be more difficult to establish.”
“What’s he look like, Chief?” Tom rumbled. Alec gave a description. “Ah! Sounds like ninety per cent of retired army officers that go on calling themselves by their rank.”
“I’m afraid so. You’ll have to hope he’s well-known at the club. Any questions or ideas, anyone?”
The discussion continued for another half hour or so, without any new facts or insights emerging. Alec sent the others home. He stayed on for just long enough to flip through the pile of papers marked Urgent, concerned with other cases and general directives. Deciding to come in early to deal with those that really were urgent, he went home.
Daisy was still up. As he hung up his hat and coat, she came out of the sitting room and into his arms. He kissed her. “Any luck?” he asked.
“Well, in a manner of speaking, darling.”
“Don’t you be oracular, too!”
“Too?”
“That’s exactly what Tom said when I asked him if he’d learned anything from his errand boys.”
“And what did he say next?”
“One lad saw a veiled lady going through the back gate in a furtive manner. He’ll swear to the time, but didn’t see her well enough to recognize her. He was in a hurry.”
“Oh dear, Daphne was wearing a veiled hat when she arrived home. Cocoa, darling? Or a whisky?”
“Cocoa, please.” He followed her to the kitchen and sat down at the scrubbed wood table. “What else was Mrs. Talmadge wearing?”
“A fawn coat with astrakhan trimmings.” Daisy fetched a bottle of milk from the larder and took down a small pan with a lip from its hook.
“General description: brownish?”
“Good enough, though I’d have thought he’d at least notice the contrast of light cloth with dark collar and cuffs.”
“Yes, he’ll have to be asked about that. I should have found out from you yesterday what she was wearing. What’s your news?”
“Another rumour about Gwen Walker and Raymond Talmadge, a new one. They were seen having breakfast together at a hotel in Brighton. No mention of who saw them, I’m afraid, or when, or which hotel, and it may be pure fantasy or even a deliberate fabrication. But I do think it’s significant, as it’s not just repeating the Soho story.”
“Watch the milk!”
“Oh, blast!” The froth had risen in the pan and bubbled over the sides. Daisy snatched it from the flame before too much spilt, but a smell of burning permeated the kitchen. “Oh dear, I don’t think I shall ever be frightfully good at domestic things, darling. There’s enough left for half a mug each.”
“Fill mine up with cold. I don’t mind it lukewarm as long as it hasn’t got a skin on it.”
“Right-oh. Did you see Gwen Walker this evening?”
“Yes. Naturally she denied any more than a casual acquaintance with Talmadge. Not convincingly.”
“Here, try this. Here’s the sugar if you want more. You believe she was involved with him, then?”
“Delicious.” A vast improvement on canteen coffee, at least. “I’m working on the assumption that such is the case. I’ve got to go down to Denham tomorrow morning to check her alibi.”
“I bet she has a hat with a veil, too, if she’s been sneaking around seeing Talmadge on the sly. And everyone has a brown coat. I was going to ask you about the major, but Tom’s veiled woman must have done it, mustn’t she?” Daisy gulped the last of her half cup of cocoa and smothered a huge yawn.
“Seems likely. I’ve got To
m checking the major’s alibi tomorrow, and Creighton’s not altogether out of the running yet. Come on, love, time for bed.”
They went upstairs. Alec popped into Belinda’s room. His daughter lay sprawled on her back, her loose nighttime braid gleaming redly against the pillow by the light from the landing. Her arms were flung every which way in utter abandon, her face relaxed in a slight smile. Tucking her arms under the bedclothes, he recalled a time when her freckled face in repose had contrasted with her usually anxious expression. Nowadays there was not much difference. Since Daisy moved in, Bel had found less worry and much more fun in her young life.
Dropping a light kiss on her forehead, Alec wondered how he was going to persuade his mother to move out—without her realizing she was being persuaded.
17
The quantity of luggage loaded into Mrs. Fletcher’s taxi next morning showed a lamentable lack of faith in her son’s ability to solve the dentist’s murder. As well as her large trunk, the basket and overnight case and three hatboxes, she added a Gladstone bag at the last minute. Daisy almost hoped the latter contained the family silver, such as it was, as that must surely indicate a lack of intent to return.
The last half hour before her departure Mrs. Fletcher spent giving orders to Dobson and advice to Daisy. The advice differed from the orders only in being couched in slightly more conciliatory language. Daisy listened, willing to learn, horrified at how much there was to learn, and resentful of her mama-in-law’s smug certainty that she would do it all wrong.
Daisy went out to the kerb to wave good-bye. The moment the square black back of the cab disappeared around the corner of the street, she hurried back indoors to consult Dobson.
The cook-housekeeper was seething with indignation. “I’m sure I don’t need to be told how to do things after all these years, madam,” she burst out. “And there’s no call for you to worry your head about what to have for dinner, ’less you want to, nor yet when to send the sheets to the laundry!”
“Really?”
“As if Mr. Wu don’t send his boy to pick ’em up reg’lar as clockwork, for all he’s a heathen. And no one knows better’n me what Mr. Fletcher and Miss Belinda likes to eat and what veg is in season and where to get the best lamb chops. And Mrs. Twickle knows as well as me what rooms to turn out when, and if there’s summat needs doing different she’ll do it as I says, won’t you, dearie?” she added menacingly as the daily help came in through the kitchen door.
“Yes, Mrs. Dobson,” said the stout charwoman timidly. “Whatever you says.”
“I know I can rely on you, Mrs. Twickle,” said Daisy.
“Yes, m’m.” Looking to Dobson, who nodded a regal permission to leave, Mrs. Twickle scuttled to the scullery for a bucket and scrubbing brush.
“So you go do your typewriting, madam, and don’t you worry about a thing. Some ladies haven’t got nothing better to do than poke their noses in where they’re not w—needed, but them as has talent didn’t ought to waste it on ordering liver and bacon for dinner!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dobson,” Daisy said, much moved. “Fried onions with the liver and bacon, I hope?”
“If onions is what you like, madam, onions there’ll be. Mrs … T‘other Mrs. Fletcher couldn’t abide ’em. I hope you don’t think I meant you wasn’t to tell me what you like, madam. You’ve only to give the word. But Mrs. I’m not, not if it was ever so, never having been married.”
“Married or not, a housekeeper is always addressed as Mrs.”
“Well, thank you, madam. I’ve heard that’s what real ladies do. I dare say it’s a compliment.”
“It’s meant to be.”
“Thank you, madam. And if I was to try summat a bit different, like as if it was a recipe Mr. Kesin gave me, I’d be sure to ask you first,” Mrs. Dobson promised.
“Oh, Mr. Fletcher and Miss Belinda and I have all had Indian food at Mrs. Prasad’s and liked it, as long as it’s not too spicy-hot. But you’d better not try serving it to Mrs. Fletcher.”
“As if I’d dare, madam! I’ll make this recipe of Mr. Kesin’s tomorrow, shall I? He brought me a little jar of the curry mixture.”
“Oho, did he indeed? Perhaps we’ll end up calling you Mrs. Kesin!”
“I couldn’t marry a heathen, madam,” said the housekeeper regretfully, “not but what Mr. Kesin is ever so gentlemanly in his foreign way. Well, I’d best be getting on if there’s to be anything got done today.”
Thus dismissed, Daisy went up to the spare bedroom, where her Underwood typewriter sat incongruously on an elegant Regency writing table from Fairacres. Her conversation in the kitchen had sparked an idea for an article on “the servant problem.”
No one who lamented the difficulty of finding good servants since the War ever seemed to wonder if the cause might be the way they were treated. Daisy’s mother, for instance, left everything to her staff and complained constantly and bitterly about the results. Her mother-in-law, on the other hand, had a finger in every pie, never trusting the housekeeper or the part-time gardener to use their initiative.
Servants were expected to be competent, obedient, deferential, loyal, and hard-working, all for minimal wages and very little free time. No wonder the young women who had cheerfully gone to work in the factories of England during the War were reluctant to re-embrace servitude.
Daisy sketched out an article on the subject. If she managed to sell it, she’d have to make sure the Dowager Lady Dalrymple and Mrs. Fletcher were unrecognizable. Though both heartily disapproved of her writing, both made a point of reading her work so as to be able to criticize it.
Perhaps she should write it pseudonymously, but the sad fact was that it would sell more easily and probably have more impact from the pen of the Honourable Daisy Dalrymple. It was a pity, but no doubt other writers used their connections to get published.
Sighing, she put a paperweight on her notes and went to get ready to go out to morning coffee.
After nearly three hours clearing the arrears of papers from his desk at the Yard, Alec took the train from Marylebone to Denham.
The station was perched on a railway embankment above the flat surrounding countryside. The village was visible about a mile away. Alec crossed the bridge over the line and asked the ticket collector for Station Row. He was directed to an isolated terrace of tiny brick cottages at the bottom of the station access road, facing the main road.
Probably provided for navvies building the railway, Alec thought as he approached. The brick might once have been red, but soot smuts had long since blackened it. Every time a train went by up above, the windows rattled in their grimy frames.
Alec simply couldn’t see the elegant Mrs. Walker dropping in for lunch in such shabby surroundings, quite apart from the strain on the Crouches’ budget of feeding a guest.
No pavement. The blue front door was about a yard from the edge of the road, which continued under a bridge beneath the railway line. In the intervening space, potted pink hyacinths struggled against soot and coal dust and the shadow of the towering embankment. The brick step was neatly swept and some ineffectual effort had been made to wash the smuts off the paint, Alec noted as he raised the iron knocker.
A sharp rat-tat brought no response. He waited a couple of minutes, then knocked again.
The next front door, defiant scarlet beneath its coat of soot, opened and a head tied up in a scarlet polka-dotted scarf poked out to peer around the downspout in between. “It’s no good banging away, dear. Miss Crouch went into the village to the shops and the old lady’s stone deaf. You can try stepping over to the window and waving. She mostly sits in the front room and there’s nothing wrong with her eyes.”
“Thank you, madam.”
The neighbour came out onto her front step, feather duster in hand, to watch. A couple of steps took Alec to the centre of the window. Lace curtains, their original whiteness compromised by age, not dirt, hid the interior. Feeling a bit of an ass, he gesticulated at the glass, which reflected a gib
bering monkey in a charcoal grey suit.
It worked, however. A moment later the blue door opened on a chain and an elderly, well-bred voice asked, “Who is it?”
He passed his papers through the gap. The door closed. He heard the chink of the chain and it reopened wide to show a small, wrinkled woman with an amazing quantity of silvery white hair done up on top of her head.
“Police? Has something happened to Jennifer?”
Alec shook his head vigorously. He made a discreet gesture towards the neighbour, who had moved closer on hearing the fascinating word “police.”
Mrs. Crouch put her hand on his arm and drew him forward into the postage-stamp hall. “Come in, Mr. Fletcher.” She closed the door. “Inquisitive as a robin, but she has a kind heart. Come in.”
She led him into a tiny room crammed with overstuffed furniture which had once been good. Not a speck of dust marred the polished wood, but the quantities of crossstitchery failed to hide all the worn patches in the upholstery. Mrs. Crouch sat down in a wing chair to one side of the sole window, waved Alec to the sofa, and offered him a pad of paper and a pencil.
“What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?” she asked, picking up a piece of embroidery.
I am trying to trace the movements of a number of people, he wrote. You and your daughter may be able to help me. He showed it to her.
“I do watch the coming and going to the station,” she admitted. “I rarely go out. It’s so difficult when one can’t hear what people are saying. Of course I’ll help if I can.”
Did Mrs. Francis Walker lunch with you this week?
“Gwen Walker? No, she never comes to lunch. Now and then she’ll pop in for a cup of tea, while her husband is playing golf at Denham Golf Club, I understand. She always brings a treat, knowing I have something of a sweet tooth. She was at school with Jennifer, you know, and used to come to stay in the holidays, in better times. Gwennie and Jenny, they called themselves. I hope she’s not in serious trouble?”
We’re trying to trace several people.
