“It talks.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Besides having eyes that open and close and movable arms and legs, the Dy-Dee doll coos, drinks, and wets.”
Drew thrust the infant phenomenon back into her arms. “Perhaps something a bit less authentic.”
“Very well.” Miss Allen put the doll back into the window and brought out another, this one glancing sideways out of painted blue eyes, her bobbed hair and headband molded and painted on her composition head. “This is Patsy. She doesn’t talk, drink or wet, but she has a large variety of clothes and accessories to choose from, and her—”
“It’s quite lovely, really, but I don’t think it’s quite the thing.”
“All right. If you’d prefer, we have some lovely French dolls from the eighties and nineties from the House of Bru.” She picked up a fussily dressed doll in a lace cap. “The Bru dolls are all authentically outfitted.”
Drew began to gracefully decline. “Actually, Miss Allen—”
“My grandmother has one of these and just adores it,” the girl gushed. “You wouldn’t think older ladies would care for dolls, but—”
Drew gave her a nod. “Come to think of it, Miss Allen, you have just made a sale. Wrap it as a gift, if you would, please.”
A few minutes later, package in hand, Drew tipped his hat and hurried out the door and round the corner, where Birdsong and Phipps were waiting for him.
Ignoring their curious glances at his purchase, Drew looked at Phipps. “Well?”
“That’s her, sir, the very one.” Phipps was ecstatic. “I’ve seen her round the hotel half a dozen times if I’ve seen her once.”
They walked back to the Rolls, where Drew reclaimed his coat, stowed his package in the boot of the car, and returned Phipps’s hat to him with the utmost respect.
“You’d best get back to your job now before Mr. Leonard starts wondering what we’re all up to.”
“What should I tell him, sir? He’ll want to know where I’ve been and all.”
“You just tell him it was police business and you’re not allowed to say.” Birdsong gave the little man his most forbidding glare. “And see you don’t say, understand me, Phipps?”
“Right, sir. Right. You can rely on me, sir.”
Drew gave Phipps a pound note. “You’ve been a great help.”
The lift boy touched his cap and sprinted back into the hotel.
“What now?” Drew asked.
The chief inspector’s face displayed its usual scowl, but Drew could see a spark of excitement in his hound-dog eyes. “I’ll send one of my men to stay out here in the street until the shop closes. Then he can ask her to come down to the station and have a bit of a chat with us.”
“Excellent. Do you think I might . . .”
Birdsong pursed his lips, his scowl not all that convincing anymore. “I suppose you could come along and see what you make out of this register book until they bring the woman in. Never hurts to have another set of eyes, you know.”
Drew smiled.
“Anything unusual?” Birdsong asked.
Drew closed the hotel register and rubbed his eyes. “Nothing really, Inspector. There were five unaccompanied women who engaged rooms there on May nineteenth. She could be any of them. But I don’t see four of those names repeated any time before or after the nineteenth, and the other one, a Miss Josephine Chadwick from Sterling, stayed for two nights in May and four in July. Phipps said this girl only ever stayed one night at a time, if she even stayed the night.”
One of the constables stuck his head in at the door of Birdsong’s office. “The young lady is here, Inspector.”
“Right. Send her in.”
Drew stood up to leave, but Birdsong waved him back into the chair.
“May as well stay on now. A smooth talker like yourself may well get something out of her that we can’t.”
“Very well, Inspector. I’ll do my best to stay out of the way.”
A moment later, another police constable escorted the girl into the room. “Miss Allen, sir. This is Chief Inspector Birdsong, miss.”
Drew stood, and Birdsong looked up from his desk. Without her familiar surroundings and professional cheerfulness, in just her plaid wool skirt and plain white blouse and without the navy jacket emblazoned with Hirsch’s logo, she hardly looked seventeen, though Birdsong’s records stated she was twenty-two. She gave Drew a puzzled smile.
“We appreciate you taking the time to come speak with us today,” Birdsong said. “Have a seat, if you please.”
Drew gave her his chair and seated himself on the edge of the chief inspector’s battered desk.
Birdsong studied her for a long moment. “You are Miss Margaret Allen, is that right?”
“Yes.” Her brown eyes grew round, and her voice became softer than it had been at the shop. “I’ve never been to a police station before. Have I done something wrong?”
“I don’t know, miss.” Birdsong peered at her. “Have you?”
Her lower lip trembled. “I . . . I don’t think so. What is this about?”
He pushed the picture of Whyland, Montford, Clifton and Russ across the desk toward her. “Do you know these men?”
She glanced at Drew and again at Birdsong and then picked up the photograph. “No. No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
Birdsong’s eyes narrowed. “None of them?”
She shook her head. “Should I? Who are they?”
“My name is Drew Farthering.” Drew smiled, hoping a little warmth and understanding would coax her into cooperating. “I’m, uh, working with the police on a rather serious matter, and I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“You were at the shop today. You didn’t really want to buy a doll, did you?”
Drew shook his head. “I didn’t start out to, I admit, but now I’m hoping it will help smooth over a rather bumpy relationship for me. But no, that wasn’t why I went into your shop originally. We had to make sure we had the right person. You understand, I’m sure.”
She looked at the chief inspector. “What’s he say I’ve done? I never saw him until this afternoon, I’m positive, and I can’t help who comes into the shop.”
“Really, Miss Allen, no one’s accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to get some information.” Drew put his hand over his heart. “You have my word on it.”
“I’ll try to help, but I really don’t—”
“Give the photograph another look,” Drew said. “Are you absolutely sure you’ve never seen any of them?”
She did as he asked, and again she shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, but I haven’t.”
Birdsong lit a cigarette, observing her until she became visibly uncomfortable. “Ever been to the Empire Hotel, miss?”
Something flickered in the girl’s eyes. “Which hotel?”
“The Empire. On St. Peter Street. It’s just two streets from your job.” Birdsong took a drag on his cigarette and then released the smoke into the air above his head. “You were seen leaving there on the nineteenth of September. That was a Monday.”
“I was . . .” She looked pleadingly at Drew. “But Mr. Farthering, I couldn’t have . . .”
Drew kept his expression pleasant. “You were seen, you know.”
She bit her lip. “Which hotel did you say?”
“The Empire Hotel,” Birdsong supplied.
“Oh, yes. How silly of me. Yes, I did go there a while ago. I couldn’t tell you the exact date. It had slipped my mind altogether.”
“And the reason for your visit, miss?”
“I went to see a friend.”
Drew glanced at Birdsong but said nothing.
“And who was this friend?” the chief inspector asked.
“It was, um, Grace. Grace Poole.” Miss Allen smiled prettily. “I hadn’t seen her in ages.”
A smile tickled the corners of Drew’s mouth. “And that was when you were both at Thornfield Hall, was it?”
Her face paled. “I don’t know what you
mean by that. She’s from Torquay.”
Birdsong consulted the register. “I don’t see a Poole for that date.”
“No, well . . .” The girl fidgeted for a moment and then brightened. “She would have been under her married name now, of course. She was Poole when we were at school together.”
“And what is her married name?”
She gave Drew a look that was at once coy and pleading. “Oh, I have the most terrible time with names. It was nothing out of the ordinary, just a usual surname, as I recall. If I could just see the register, I know I could pick it out.”
Drew couldn’t help pitying her. He knew well enough that bland, skeptical expression on the chief inspector’s face.
“The police will be talking to whomever you claim to have met that day, Miss Allen. You may as well just own up to whatever it was you were doing.”
Apparently she was determined to carry it off.
“Now I know why she’s not on the register. We met there for lunch, but I don’t believe she was stopping there at all, come to think.”
Birdsong merely looked at her. “You’ll find yourself in considerably less trouble, miss, if you’ll tell us the truth.”
The girl’s lower lip quivered again, but she held her head high. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you have a solicitor, miss?”
“Wh-why?”
“You may wish to telephone him and let him know we’ll likely be taking you into custody.” Birdsong stood, looming over her. “On suspicion of willful murder.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Kill who, miss?”
“Quinton Montford.”
“And how do you know Montford is the subject of our inquiry?”
“He was killed at the Empire, wasn’t he?” She calmed a little, again holding her head defiantly. “Who hasn’t heard about that by now?”
“Then would you care to tell us what you know about that incident?”
“I don’t know anything about it.” She picked up the photograph once more and began to sob. “I just know I went to the hotel and they wouldn’t let me upstairs. I heard afterwards that a man had been killed, and later I found out it was Quint.”
A tear fell onto the picture, onto the face of the dead man, and she wiped it away with one tender finger.
Drew handed her his handkerchief. “So you did know him. Rather well, it seems.”
She looked up, her eyes fierce. “We were in love! He was going to divorce his wife and marry me.”
Birdsong sat down again, looking mildly disgusted. Drew could hardly blame him, even though this just confirmed what the police had already suspected. How many young girls, and not-so-young ones for that matter, had fallen for that old chestnut? But Montford? He hadn’t at all seemed the type. Poor, trusting Mrs. Montford. Who could ever tell about
people?
Drew gave the girl a moment for her fresh grief, and then he cleared his throat. “How long had you and Mr. Montford been meeting?”
“We, uh . . .” She took a deep breath. “Since March. He would tell me when he was coming, and I would book a room at the hotel. I always used different names and didn’t ever speak to anyone, so they really couldn’t find me. The staff never knew who Quint was either or really that he was there at all. I mean, as far as their records went.”
“But this time was different?”
“This time he made the reservation.” She blotted her wet face and then squeezed the handkerchief into a tight little ball. “He said he had some other business to take care of, but then I was to meet him afterwards.”
Birdsong eyed the girl. “And what time was that meant to be?”
“At three o’clock.”
Her face was blotched with crying, and she seemed more like a schoolgirl than ever.
“That was rather an odd time of day, wasn’t it?” Drew asked. “Didn’t you have to leave your work and all?”
The girl sighed. “Mrs. Hirsch didn’t like it, of course, and Mr. Joseph had to promise he’d see to my work as well as his own while I was away before she’d let me go.”
“So you usually didn’t meet Mr. Montford in the afternoon?”
“No. This was only the second or third time.”
“Were you there at three, miss?” Birdsong asked, and she nodded.
“And I was too late.”
That brought on another torrent of tears, and there was nothing to do but wait it out.
The chief inspector shuffled through his notes for a moment. “How did you and Mr. Montford meet?”
“He, um, he came into the shop one afternoon. We sell a lot of different things, toys and games and such, and he wanted something for his son. For his birthday.” Her lips trembled into a smile. “I don’t remember what it was he said that first time, but he made me laugh. He came back a couple of weeks later and asked if I didn’t want to take some supper with him after we closed. I didn’t know then that he had a wife.”
“And does Mrs. Montford know about you?”
She looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. “I don’t know. He was supposed to tell her. He promised he would.” She pressed the crumpled handkerchief to her mouth, suppressing a small cry. “You don’t think she . . . ? Oh, no. No. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t.”
Birdsong drew his heavy brows together. “What are you saying, miss?”
She blinked again, calming somewhat. “I . . . I don’t know what I’m saying. I’ve never met her. I don’t know what she’s like or what she might do. Oh, my poor Quint.”
The girl was pretty cut up, and Drew gave her another moment to compose herself.
“When was he supposed to tell her?” he asked finally. “Did he say?”
“He said he would before he came back to Winchester. That was why he made the reservation himself. He said we didn’t need to hide any longer.”
“And that was your final conversation?”
She nodded at Drew, too choked up to speak.
“What did you do when you weren’t allowed into the hotel?” Birdsong asked. “Did you know he was dead?”
“I went round to the tobacconist’s, the one across the street and down at the corner, to telephone. But the man at reception told me he couldn’t connect me to the room and he couldn’t give out any information about any of the guests. I didn’t know what to do or what to think, so I went back to my flat to see if he would call there. I didn’t know what happened until I saw the next day’s newspaper.”
She wiped her face and said no more. Evidently she was done with crying for the time being.
Birdsong studied her for a while. Long enough, Drew suspected, to make her wonder how much the police knew.
“Do you know a doctor by the name of Corneau? Has his practice here in Winchester?”
She blinked rapidly. “Who?”
“Dr. Joseph Corneau. Did you ever have occasion to visit his surgery for any reason? Perhaps you knew him socially?”
“No. I don’t have a regular doctor. I’m not much to go to one, to be honest, but if I did, I would most likely go down to the hospital. St. Cross’s.”
Birdsong questioned the girl a bit more, but she didn’t have much to add. All she could say was that she got there too late to see Montford. Finally the chief inspector sighed.
“That’ll be all for the time being, miss. If you’ll give me your address and telephone number, you’re free to go. See you don’t stray too far from home until we give you leave, eh?”
She accepted the pencil and paper he pushed across the desk and did as he asked. Then she stood to go.
Drew rose when she did. “I’m so sorry to have upset you, Miss Allen.” He gave her his card. “If there’s ever any way I can be of help, do let me know.”
She murmured her thanks and hurried away.
“So, Detective Farthering, what did you think of her?”
“I’m not quite sure. She doesn’t at all seem the murdering type, but so few murderers do. She’s not a
very good liar, at any rate, but I’d take bets on one thing. She’s sure she’s lost the love of her life.”
Birdsong sagged in his chair. “She’s young, isn’t she? A girl like that should have people looking after her, father or brothers or someone to warn the old lechers off. Of course, they won’t let you look after them anymore. Not these modern girls. If I thought my Betty was carrying on with someone my age, why I’d . . .” He sat up straight again, fumbling with his notes and not looking Drew in the face. “But that’s neither here nor there. The Allen girl had an appointment with Montford at three, and that was when—”
“Perhaps there is something in that line of thought, Inspector. Suppose there is a father or a brother, an uncle or even just a bloke she went round with before she met Montford. Maybe this protector, whoever he might be, felt the same way about her as you do about your daughter. It would be enough motive for murder, wouldn’t it?”
“It would, I expect, except there isn’t anyone. No family. But we’ll do some investigating to see if she had a young man. As best we know at the moment, though, she’s all on her own.”
“Right. Any problem with my telling Mrs. Montford about this? I am in her employ in a manner of speaking.”
“You think she’d want to know?”
“She claims she does. Whether or not she believes it is another matter.”
The chief inspector shrugged. “Not very comforting news for a grieving widow, but do as you please, only no specifics. No need to give out the girl’s name and that.”
“You may rely on me, Inspector. And I’d like to hear about the boyfriend, if any such person exists.”
“Fair enough. Er . . .”
Drew lifted an eyebrow, waiting for the chief inspector to continue.
“You don’t think, well, the girl acted as though she were wondering about Montford’s wife and all. You don’t suppose—”
“I thought your men had spoken to Mrs. Montford already.”
“Yes, of course. She has a reasonable alibi, neatly verified by the staff.”
“Well, there you are. Of course, we can’t rule anyone out as yet, eh?” Drew put his hands behind his back and rocked a little on his heels in imitation of the chief inspector. “It’s early days yet. Early days.”
Death by the Book Page 6
