“Yes.”
“Do you know if the gentleman visited his wife on Tuesday night?”
“Yes, he did. I am a light sleeper and I heard him come in shortly before midnight. I leave the door on the latch if I know guests will be late.”
“Do you know what time he left?”
“It was just getting light. I … er, I felt sorry that he had to work so early.”
“And you are certain it was this gentleman and not another of your guests?”
“Certain. Dr. Sargent’s room is down the hall from my own. I heard him go past on the way to the stairs.”
Hughes was leaning forward in his chair, his head in his hands.
“What about last night?” asked Tyler. “Did the gentleman spend the night at the Wheatsheaf?”
“Yes, he did. I had left out a bit of supper for him and the empty tray was on the counter when I got up.”
Tyler smiled at her reassuringly. “He brought you some medicine for your migraine, did he not?”
“He did. My headache vanished right away.”
“But he didn’t say what this medicine was?”
“No.” Miss Allthorpe blinked. “I do hope he’s not in trouble because of that. It was only one occasion.”
Tyler got to his feet. “Thank you, Miss Allthorpe. You have been most helpful.”
She, too, stood up. She addressed the orderly. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mother-in-law, Doctor. I hope she soon recovers.”
Hughes’s head jerked up. “What? What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Sargent said she had an urgent telegram this morning to say that her mother is seriously ill. She had to leave at once for Manchester.”
Hughes gaped at her. “Polly has gone?”
“Yes, Doctor. This afternoon … She took her things.”
“Did you see the telegram yourself?” Hughes asked.
“No, Doctor. I was out at the shops when it arrived.”
He turned away. “How could she?” he whispered.
Tyler noticed he was not speaking with the slightest trace of a posh English accent.
As he walked her over to the door, Tyler said, “Thank you for coming in, Miss Allthorpe. I’ll have Constable Mortimer drive you back to the hotel.”
She beckoned to him. “May I have a word, Inspector?”
He followed her out of the room and closed the door behind him.
“He deceived me, didn’t he? They both did. He’s not a doctor at all, is he?”
“No, he’s not, Miss Allthorpe. He’s one of the orderlies here.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “He must have taken me for a right old fool. Why would he concoct such a story?”
“Perhaps he thought it was the only way he could get a place where he could install his mistress. You might not have accepted him if he didn’t pretend to be a married doctor.”
“No, I wouldn’t have. I run a respectable establishment.” She wiped at her eyes. “Nevertheless, he did cure my migraine. I suppose I can be grateful about that.”
Tyler delivered her back into the care of Constable Mortimer and returned to the office.
Hughes hadn’t moved. Tyler sat down in front of him.
“Shall we start again, Mr. Hughes? With the truth this time.”
49.
DAISY STEVENS WAS UNABLE TO SLEEP. SHE’D GONE to bed at ten, but she felt wide awake. Was it the passionate, deep kiss she had exchanged with Jeremy when they said good night?
He’d called her into the shadow of the hall. “Can anybody see us, Daisy?”
“No. Not at the moment,” she replied.
“Kiss me then, my love. Kiss me as if we are never going to meet each other again.”
“Stop talking like that. Tomorrow we’ll go into town and find a hotel or a room.”
He shook his head. “No, you were right, Daisy. We should get properly married and we can go anywhere we want. We don’t have to be sneaking around. Let’s get a special licence right away.”
Daisy hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Sure as Niagara Falls is sure. Look, I’m saying it formally. Daisy Stevens, will you do me the honour to be my wife, till death us do part?”
Daisy giggled. “I do.”
“Sooner the better then.”
“Sooner the better, you impatient man, you.”
They had kissed again and again he caressed her tenderly. Daisy heard somebody coming up the stairs and she broke away breathlessly.
“Tomorrow then. I’ll go straight off and get us a licence.”
“Let’s hope nobody gets themselves killed in the meantime. We might all be quarantined.”
It was Sister Rachel who had come up the stairs.
“Now then, you two, time for beddy-byes. Mr. Bancroft, I’ll wheel you in. Miss Stevens, you’ll be all right on your own steam, I presume?”
“Yes, Sister. Good night.”
Daisy had made her way upstairs. Babs had already been put to bed and seemed to be asleep. There was a glass of water and a sleeping pill for Daisy to take if she wanted them. She was tempted but decided against it. She would only be groggy in the morning, and she didn’t want that.
Did she really want to marry Jeremy Bancroft? She found him immensely attractive and was quite prepared to have intimate connections with him. Why not? But marriage was a lifetime commitment. And he was Canadian. Presumably he would want to return to that country when he was sufficiently recovered. She heard it got very cold there, and she didn’t like cold weather. If she still had her good looks, the prospect might have been exciting, an adventure. But she was disfigured. Here people were getting used to maimed and disfigured people walking around, but probably not in Canada. Would she have to explain all the time? Cover her face? Cover Jeremy’s face? And what did she know about him? Other than that he was charming and funny and very sweet to her, she knew nothing. Not even what he’d done before the war. Did he have brothers and sisters? He hadn’t said. Daisy was close to her younger sister and she would miss her if she had to go and live in Canada. She’d be all right without their mother, but being without Pam was a different story.
She sat up in bed, turned her pillow over and thumped at it, then lay down again.
Maybe getting married was too impulsive. Maybe they should just make love to each other without benefit of clergy. She felt no guilt about the idea, even though her mother had drilled into her ever since she could remember that good girls didn’t behave like that. Only tarts and tramps. And if she ever got herself into trouble, don’t come crying to her; she’d get no sympathy from her.
That was another thing. Daisy had only a hazy idea of what having sex meant. She read a pamphlet once that spoke about the necessity to take precautions if you weren’t ready for pregnancy, but she didn’t know what that meant. What precautions? Perhaps Jeremy would know. He said he was inexperienced, but men seemed to know these things. But would that entail Daisy having to help him? She didn’t fancy that. She wanted the fade out, the way Anna Neagle and Michael Wilding had faded out in each other’s embrace when she saw them in the pictures.
She was glad she’d told the inspector about Miss Allthorpe and her guests. The young woman was so smart-looking, but it did seem that she and her so-called husband weren’t genuine. Daisy shivered. She had no desire to be a kept woman. And neither did she want to end up like Shirley McHattie, with a baby on the way and no husband in sight. No thank you. She tried out the sound of what would be her new name, Daisy Bancroft. She liked it.
She turned over and finally fell asleep.
50.
IT WAS ALMOST ELEVEN O’CLOCK WHEN TYLER FINALLY headed home, and the town was almost in darkness as the blackout came into effect. He’d sent Constable Mortimer home to bed, but he had to bring back Rowell’s bicycle. The front lamp, shaded as per requirements, didn’t give off much light, but the river was silvery and he was able to see well enough not to go crashing off the bridge. He pedalled slowly from sheer fatigue but rather enjoying
the brief respite of trees and river and birds settling down for the night.
He stowed the bicycle in the station shed and walked across to the house. When Tyler stepped inside the front door, Rowell was there, his demeanour so much like that of a solicitous wife that Tyler almost expected to be handed his slippers, nicely warmed.
“My goodness, sir, you look bushed. Can I get you something? A cup of tea? Cocoa? A bite to eat?”
“No, thanks, Oliver. I’m tea’d out and I ate at the hospital.” Tyler would have loved to pour himself a quiet nightcap and turn in, but the sergeant looked so glad to have company, he didn’t have the heart to abandon him immediately.
“Tell you what, I’ve been keeping a bottle of whisky for special circumstances. This feels like one of them. Will you join me for a shot?”
Rowell hesitated. “I’m not much of a drinker, sir. But you’re right, I think we could call this an emergency. A sip or two would cheer us both up.”
Tyler intended to have more than a sip or two, but he didn’t quibble and followed the sergeant into the kitchen.
Rowell went to the cupboard. “I had a little spare time this evening so I was actually able to bake up an apple pie. When Evelyn was so ill I took over the cooking, and if I say so myself I got to be rather good at pies. My roasts leave something to be desired, so I’ve been told, but the pies always get good reviews.”
Tyler wasn’t hungry but again didn’t have the heart to disappoint Rowell.
“I’ll get the whisky. It’s in my room.”
When he returned with the bottle, the sergeant had put the glasses and plates out, and an admittedly delicious-looking pie sat in the middle of the table. Without asking, Rowell began to cut a large piece. Tyler poured them both generous measures of whisky and took a big gulp of his. The warmth hit his stomach with a wallop.
“Evelyn and I liked nothing better than to talk over the events of the day when we sat down for tea,” said Rowell. “On the few occasions when we didn’t do that, I found it hard to go to sleep. Chatting together lifted away all kinds of worry, you might say.” He handed Tyler a plate with the pie. “Is that something you’ve done with your wife, sir?”
“No. We never have. Maybe if we’d followed your lead we’d be better off.”
But Tyler knew that no amount of talking over the day would have saved his marriage. Not when from the beginning his heart had belonged to another woman and Vera knew it. He took another drink of whisky, slower this time. Rowell did likewise, cautiously. No, definitely not a drinker, this man. Tyler took a bite of the pie.
“Very good, Oliver, very good.”
“I thought my crust could have been a bit lighter, but you have to go so easy on the lard these days, it’s hard to keep the pastry flaky.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, companionably enjoying the pie.
Tyler thought this was a good time to fill in the sergeant about what had been happening. He told him about the visit to Dr. Murnaghan and the discoveries the coroner had made in the post-mortems. The double tap in particular, with its connection to the commandos.
Rowell sat back in his chair in astonishment. “Well, I never. Surely it’s not some sort of blood lust?”
Tyler shrugged. “There are a lot of other people the assassin could have targeted more easily if that’s all it was. I’m still thinking it has to be personal; I’ve just not put the pieces together yet.” He poured himself another shot of whisky. “I keep feeling Shirley McHattie is at the centre, but I can’t begin to tell you how. Her mother wouldn’t let me question her again. She’s afraid Shirley will deliver before her time.”
To his surprise the sergeant let out a long sigh. “My wife and I had two miscarriages. Evelyn wasn’t as advanced as the young woman in question, but they’re right to be cautious.”
Tyler felt at a loss for words and muttered awkwardly, “Sorry to hear it, Sergeant.” He shifted uncomfortably. He and Vera had married in haste when she’d discovered she was pregnant. Perhaps his ambivalence had affected the way he’d related to his son. He’d been too disengaged, leaving Vera to be responsible for most of the parenting. Something Tyler deeply regretted now that it was too late to make amends – and would regret to his dying day.
“Please go on, sir,” said Rowell. “I didn’t mean to load my personal history onto your shoulders.”
“Not at all, Sergeant.”
He went on to relate his interview with the young orderly.
“Well, I never,” exclaimed Rowell again. “Quite a fabrication. I know Maud Allthorpe quite well. Good woman. Salt of the earth but a bit of a typical spinster. I can see her being smitten by some good-looking chap and believing everything he said.”
“Miss Allthorpe took the wind out of his sails when she said Mrs. Sargent had flown the coop. Ill mother, my eye. He realized she’d run off.”
Rowell grinned. “I bet that was a bit of a shock.”
“It was indeed. His bravado vanished almost instantaneously. He admitted to everything.”
“Good Lord, sir. Not the murders, surely?”
“No, not that. But the whole fabrication.”
“Did he admit to stealing morphine?”
“Not exactly. He claims that Jock was trying to wean himself off the drug. His wife thought he already had come off it, but that wasn’t the case. Hughes says that Jock asked him to dilute his medications. Which he did. He admitted he kept the unwanted morphine, as he put it, because Polly suffered from headaches. Jock isn’t here to deny this and Sister Rebecca has a different version.”
“Are you treating him as a suspect in the murder, sir?”
Tyler shook his head. “No, I’m not. What saves the man’s bacon is that Miss Allthorpe gives him an alibi for both the nights. His mistress, if we ever track her down, might confirm that.”
“Why do you think she abandoned him now?”
“I got the impression Hughes wasn’t that surprised. She might be a hard girl to keep under wraps.”
“How did he manage to come and go so freely? I thought the hospital was locked up tight as a drum at night. And last night we had constables on watch.”
Tyler took another swallow of the whisky. “Sad really, Sergeant, but Hughes admitted he sweet-talked Sister Ivy into unlocking the side door for him so he could exit by way of the east gate. He’d slip out at midnight and come back at sunup. He says last night he managed to elude the constables who were patrolling the grounds, and I believe it. It’s secluded and black as Hades over on that side. Frankly, I don’t think he’s really a bad lad. Just got his balls snared by a floozy.”
“Won’t be the first or the last. Are you going to charge him, sir?”
“Other than giving a false name out to Miss Allthorpe, I don’t have much to charge him with. I can’t prove he stole the morphine although he should have reported Jock’s request to wean off. If it’s true, that is. The almoner will have to decide whether or not she fires him.” Tyler yawned. “I’d better get up the wooden hill. God forbid we have another dawn crisis.”
Rowell suddenly slapped his hand to his forehead. “Good heavens, I almost forgot. There’s some post for you. I brought it over from the station. I’ll get it.”
He scuttled off and Tyler snuck a second, small slice of pie. Rowell could have a second career as a pastry chef if he wanted one.
The sergeant returned with a small bundle of papers in his hand.
“This all came in the second post, sir. Seeing as you’re up for a bit longer, I’ll sit and read the newspaper, if you don’t mind. What with one thing and another, I’ve got behind on the latest war news.”
Tyler gestured in the direction of the table. “Help yourself.”
Rowell sat down and opened his newspaper. Once again Tyler experienced an odd sense of domesticity. It was not unpleasant. He opened the bundle of letters the sergeant had given him.
One was a postcard from his daughter, Janet. An old, tinted view of Blackpool that looked as if it had been t
aken in the ’20s.
Dear Dad,
Just here for a couple of days with some of the girls. Strong sea breezes. You wouldn’t like it. Love, Janet.
Tyler scowled. What sort of message was that? Since Janet had joined the Land Army he hadn’t seen much of her. He missed her a lot. She didn’t write that often and he hadn’t even known she was going to Blackpool. He couldn’t imagine it would be much fun these days. But then he wasn’t a lively young woman who he hoped could find fun anywhere. Strong sea breezes, indeed. Why did she think he wouldn’t like them? He loved the seaside and often wished he’d been able to live somewhere on the coast.
He put the card down and picked up a long, narrow envelope. The return address was that of Laine and Clutterbuck, his wife’s solicitors. His now–former wife’s solicitors. He put it aside. He couldn’t face reading it right now. Vera was probably asking for more alimony. Even though she had actually initiated their separation and left him, she was bitter about the end of the marriage and her anger was coming out in unreasonable demands for money. He thought about the glimpse of her he’d had in Whitchurch. Perhaps her newfound happiness would soften her.
The third envelope was addressed to THE INSPECTOR, LUDLOW POLICE. Spidery handwriting. Dated yesterday. It was from a Mrs. Valentine. She said that somebody had come into her front garden, pulled up half of her fence, and taken off with it. She had a dog who had got out because of this and she was putting in a complaint. Even with a war on, the police had to do their job. Theft was theft. She hoped he would pursue the matter at once and find out what had happened to her fence. She’d only just paid to have it spruced up.
Tyler frowned. Mrs. Valentine was right. Police still had a job to do.
“Sergeant, take a read of this. I’m handing it over to you.”
Rowell scanned the letter. “Some delinquent probably. He’ll sell it on the black market for scrap. Pity. It probably dates back to the 1800s. Most of the wrought-iron railings do. History wiped out in a minute.”
Tyler got up. “I really am off to bed, Oliver, before I fall asleep at this table.”
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