by Diane Janes
‘Hold on a minute.’ Fran stood up from the chair in which she had sat to make her telephone call and, somewhat to Mo’s surprise, marched into the parlour. ‘I’m just fetching something.’ She returned a moment later with what was clearly an amateurishly produced booklet – essentially a lot of typewritten sheets of paper, stapled together.
‘Now what are you up to?’
‘I’m about to misuse my membership list again. Do you remember my telling you something about the membership secretary?’
‘Some new chap who helped to organize the conference?’
‘No, not him. There was a previous membership secretary and she stood down for what were officially described as “personal reasons” too.’
Mo shook her head. ‘Darling, I haven’t got an inkling as to what you’re talking about.’
‘Jennifer Rumsey. I’m going to telephone Jennifer Rumsey. Oh, damn!’ she exclaimed a moment later. ‘She’s not on the telephone. Well I’ll have to drop her a note and arrange to see her somehow. This isn’t the sort of thing you can put in a letter.’
THIRTY
The inquest into Linda Dexter’s death was resumed the following day. Fran had been watching for the date to be announced in the newspaper and had briefly considered the possibility of attending in person, but it seemed rather like the sort of morbid behaviour – which her mother had often remarked upon – among those lower-class women who could hardly wait to go and see the laid-out body of a deceased neighbour, so Fran had held her curiosity in check until the evening paper arrived, and she was able to read an account of the proceedings instead.
To her irritation, the jury had brought in a verdict of suicide while temporarily of unsound mind. As she read the evidence, Fran found her indignation bubbling up to boiling point. When Christina Harper had been asked about her stepsister’s life, the coroner had adopted a line of questioning which served to emphasize the relative loneliness of Linda’s situation, and then Hugh Allonby had been questioned about Linda’s role in the conference and had managed to imply that the theories which she had intended to share with her fellow members were questionable to the point of eccentricity. The coroner (who sounded like a pompous old fool of her mother’s vintage, Fran decided) had made some remarks to the effect that it was distinctly abnormal for a woman to lead a life ‘so lacking in purpose, without the normal constraints of husband, family and home which would inevitably lead to a more balanced outlook’.
‘Bloody man,’ Fran said aloud. ‘Doesn’t he realize that living with some husbands would be exactly the kind of life which could lead a woman to throw herself under a train?’
The sergeant who had appeared as a witness on behalf of the local police informed the court that their investigations had failed to throw up anything which suggested foul play.
After she had tossed the paper aside in an untidy manner of which her mother would have thoroughly disapproved, she felt enveloped by a sense of hopelessness. She and Tom had assumed that it was taking so long to bring the legal formalities to a close because the police were undertaking a thorough investigation and had been pursuing some interesting clues, whereas what the newspaper report actually revealed was that the resumption of proceedings had been delayed due to some ‘indisposition’ on the part of the coroner, which had led to a backlog in the business of the court. Ever since Linda Dexter’s death, she had become more and more convinced that it was a case of murder, but now she was confronted with the plain fact that the police – who were surely the experts – had found nothing to underpin that idea. Under the circumstances, could she realistically attempt to continue with some kind of investigation on her own?
The telephone rang right on cue.
‘Fran?’ It was Tom, sounding less than certain of what his reception might be.
‘Yes, yes, it’s me.’ Who else would it be? After all, she was one of those unbalanced women who lived alone.
‘The inquest took place this morning.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She tried not to sound too eager. ‘I’ve just been reading about it in the evening paper.’
‘The police have given up.’
‘I know.’
‘But … we’re not going to give up, are we?’
‘No.’ She gulped. ‘We won’t give up.’
‘I’m not sure that there’s much to be gained from my going back to the Vester House Museum.’
‘Probably not. It’s pretty obvious that Linda was right about the magic chair. The question is whether that actually matters to anyone. In the meantime, I’ve had another letter from Hugh Allonby.’
‘Another letter?’
‘Yes.’ She told him about the broken windows, her call to the police and its aftermath, but Tom’s reaction was somewhat different to that which she had expected.
‘I can see why old Allonby finds himself between the Devil and the deep blue sea on this one.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Whatever we may think about Allonby, he does have to put the society’s interests first, and if Latchford is cutting up rough and threatening to sue, he will naturally want to mollify him.’
‘But what about me? Surely it’s hardly fair to cave in the minute that wretched man threatens him. Why … it’s positively cowardly.’
‘Some might say that he’s merely taking a diplomatic line.’
‘Just suppose,’ Fran tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice, ‘that Stephen Latchford had done this before and knew that he could get away with things by pretending that he had been falsely accused.’
‘But there’s nothing to link him to Linda Dexter.’
‘I’m not talking about Linda Dexter. Jennifer Rumsey lives up in Cumberland – just as both Linda Dexter and Mr Latchford did until recently. Don’t you remember that Jennifer Rumsey was supposed to have stood down for “personal reasons” too? I’m convinced that there was something fishy about her resignation. No one is willing to talk about it.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you, but it may be absolutely nothing to do with Latchford, and anyway, I’m not sure how you’re going to get to the bottom of it. Didn’t Miss Robertson say that it was a confidential matter and it hadn’t been minuted?’
‘She did. But I’m not going via the committee members or the minutes. I’m going straight to the horse’s mouth. I’ve written to Miss Rumsey, saying that I have to go up to Carlisle on some errand and asking if I can meet her while I’m there.’
‘Talking of meeting,’ Tom said, ‘I think it would be a good idea if we could meet too, face-to-face, because there’s something I would like to discuss with you which can’t easily be said on the telephone.’
THIRTY-ONE
Fran had initially written to suggest that Jennifer Rumsey nominate a tea shop where they could meet on the day when she ‘happened to be up in Carlisle’, but Miss Rumsey’s response had been to invite her to call at her home instead, so Fran made her way to an address not far from the cathedral at the appointed time. A smartly dressed parlour maid answered the front door and conducted her into a positively Victorian drawing room, complete with a stuffed fox on a plinth in one alcove and side tables draped with cloths which almost reached the carpet and were so laden with ornaments that they looked for all the world like chronically over-decorated iced cakes.
‘I’m afraid my mother’s tastes are rather old fashioned.’ Miss Rumsey had evidently caught Fran’s expression.
‘How is your mother? I heard that she was unwell.’
‘My mother’s as fit as a flea. She is currently chairing a meeting at the Women’s Institute, which gives us a chance to enjoy our tea without your being asked a million and one questions. I’m afraid my mother mistakes interrogation for polite conversation. Tell me, what made you imagine that she had not been well?’
Fran decided that there was no point in beating about the bush. ‘I expect you know that I’ve recently been elected on to the Barnaby Society committee …’ She received a nod of confirmati
on and continued, ‘There is a possibility that the new membership secretary may have to stand down, and I asked whether you might be prevailed upon to resume the task, but I was given the impression that your mother, or perhaps some other relative, was in greater need of your assistance.’
‘Oh, heavens!’ Jennifer Rumsey burst out laughing. ‘So that’s the way Mr Allonby and his cronies tried to dress it all up, is it? I can assure you, Mrs Black, that at the slightest sign of my mother or anyone else requiring any kind of ministrations, I engage the services of a private nurse at the first possible opportunity.’
A tap on the door heralded the arrival of the maid, bearing an impossibly large tea tray. When she had gone and Miss Rumsey had dealt with the little ritual of pouring their tea and offering thinly sliced cucumber sandwiches, she fixed Fran with a rather determined look and said, ‘Would I be right in guessing that this is not purely a social call? You have come to find out the truth behind my resignation, isn’t that so?’
Fran smiled. ‘I’m afraid you have found me out.’
‘I am perfectly happy to explain, but first I have one condition. Will you tell me why you want to know?’
‘Certainly. On Tuesday this week, I myself was privately invited to stand down, and it was suggested that a story be put out that my resignation had been tendered for personal reasons.’
‘Well, well.’ Jennifer Rumsey laughed again. ‘And may I ask what offence you are supposed to have committed which has rendered Mr Allonby so eager to be rid of you?’
Fran swallowed. ‘I complained to the police about the behaviour of a fellow member.’
‘Did you now? Chap’s name wouldn’t be Stephen Latchford, would it?’
‘You have it in one. Can I take it that he had been bothering you too?’
‘Not bothering me, no. I live here with Mother, you see. Mr Latchford’s activities are, so far as I know, usually directed only at women who live alone.’
‘But …’
‘I promised to explain and now I will. You see, as membership secretary, I get to hear about all resignations from the society. Almost two years ago, a woman member from Darlington resigned. There was a bit of a fuss because she had complained to the committee about Mr Latchford calling on her and making a general nuisance of himself. At that time he was living over in North Yorkshire. She wanted the committee to do something about his having a copy of the membership list. As you may know, although he isn’t on the executive committee, he acquired one some time ago, supposedly for the purposes of a project he had suggested which involved plotting how many members lived in different parts of the country, or something of the kind. It was supposed to help determine the organization of regional events, though I’m not at all sure that anything ever came of it. Anyway, the woman’s complaint was pretty much dismissed out of hand. Mr Allonby said that the committee could not get involved in personal spats between members and, at the time, I have to admit that I agreed with him.
‘However, about a year later we got another complaint. A woman informed Miss Winterton, of all people, that Stephen Latchford had been making a nuisance of himself. She brought it to the committee and Hugh Allonby was all for dismissing it again. He didn’t want “some sort of bandwagon”, as he put it, developing against Mr Latchford. Miss Robertson and I protested at once. Neither of us could see how a bandwagon could have been developing because, so far as we knew, there wasn’t a connection between the two women who had complained, but of course the rest of the committee fell into line behind Allonby as usual and nothing further was done.
‘The whole business left me feeling very uncomfortable, and when I got home from that meeting I had a look through all the resignations from the previous year and noticed that there were two from women who happened to live in this same area of the country, and I decided to contact them, to check why they had resigned. It’s a perfectly reasonable step for a membership secretary to take.’
‘Of course.’ Fran nodded, mentally noting that she and Tom were by no means the only amateur detectives in the society.
‘One of the women was extremely cagey. I felt that something had gone on which had clearly upset her but she was not willing to talk about it. The second was more forthcoming. She went so far as to say that Latchford had called repeatedly and eventually tried to … well … take advantage of her. She did not wish to involve the police – what woman wants to give evidence about such matters in a court of law?’
‘Quite so.’
‘Needless to say, I took my findings to the next committee meeting. I pointed out that we now had the word of at least three of our members that Latchford had made improper approaches, and strong suspicions that he had done so in the case of a fourth. Essentially the man had gained access to our membership list and was using it in order to intrude himself into the lives of various women. Naturally their confidences had to be respected, so we could not take the matter to the police, but I felt that Mr Latchford ought to be made to return his membership list and, at the very least, be warned in some way about his conduct. To my absolute astonishment, Hugh Allonby became furious – not with Stephen Latchford, but with me. He said that we could not give credence to unsubstantiated allegations of this nature, accused me of snooping and virtually claimed that I had encouraged these women to invent these stories.
‘I had at one point suggested confronting Latchford and requesting his resignation, but according to Allonby that was tantamount to slander and liable to bring the society into disrepute. As you can imagine, I was furious. I said there and then that it was my intention to stand down. I could not countenance being part of an organization which ultimately placed its reputation ahead of the welfare of the very members who financed it. I initially decided to have nothing further to do with the society, but later I thought better of it. After all, why should that nasty little man rob me of the enjoyment I get from reading the society journals?’
‘But you no longer come to any of our meetings,’ Fran said.
‘I thought it over and decided that it was better not to. I don’t want to have to lie to members, if anyone asks me, as for example you did today, about the circumstances of my resignation. You see, the problem is that, in one sense, Hugh Allonby does have a point. Until one of the recipients of Mr Latchford’s unwelcome attentions makes a complaint to the police and has it upheld in court, he can continue to bluster about suing anyone who says anything at all about what is going on.’
‘It’s an impossible situation,’ Fran said. ‘It is very … intimidating … when he keeps hanging around, but if you complain to the police, he justifies it in such a way as to make you look like an idiot.’
‘Precisely. And if – as I believe must have occurred on at least one occasion already – things go too far, no respectable woman will want to damage her reputation by making a complaint.’
‘What use would it be to complain anyway?’ Fran said bitterly. ‘No court in the land will take a woman seriously if she appears to have befriended the man and invited him into her home before such an act took place.’
‘I trust,’ Miss Rumsey said, carefully focusing her eyes on the teapot as she lifted the lid and added hot water from a jug, ‘that nothing too dreadful has occurred in your own dealings with Mr Latchford?’
‘He has done nothing worse than make repeated attempts to visit me. I became alarmed and reported him to the police, at which point he returned and smashed my windows. Or at least I suspect that it was him – I could never prove it.’
‘Past behaviour suggests that although nothing can be proved, the involvement of the police at this stage will ensure the cessation of his visits. No doubt he will now transfer his attentions elsewhere.’
‘Tell me,’ Fran said, ‘was Mrs Dexter one of the women who complained?’
‘I am not prepared to name names, I’m afraid, because people spoke to me in confidence. However, I don’t see any harm in telling you that she was not.’
‘Though that doesn’t guarantee that he
wasn’t bothering her.’
‘And you think that may have been what led her to take her own life?’ Jennifer Rumsey looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose there might be something in that, but I can only repeat that she was not one of the women who had actually complained.’
‘I have found myself wondering whether she did take her own life,’ Fran said carefully.
‘I can’t see how there would be any doubt about it,’ Miss Rumsey said. ‘After all, it can’t possibly have been an accident and it struck me from what little I read about in the newspaper that it would be a frightfully complicated way of choosing to murder anyone. To begin with, the person concerned would need to know that Mrs Dexter was going to be at the conference at all. Then they would need to know where and when the trains ran – oh, yes, and which room she was staying in at Furnival Towers … that place is a fearful rabbit warren. If you wanted to murder her, why not just break into her house one night, taking care not to rouse the servants, stab her, or strangle her, and then creep away into the night? It surely wouldn’t have been any more difficult to break into her house than it would have been to break into a hotel?’
‘I don’t know,’ Fran said. ‘Well … I expect you’re right.’
‘There was probably some deep-seated unhappiness there which drove her to do it. That’s the thing about organizations like the Barnaby Society, of course. We none of us know anything much about one another’s lives. Occasionally one comes across the most astonishing things. Did you know, for example, that our journal secretary, Richard Finney, won a VC in the last war? Such a pleasant, unassuming man. I only found out by accident because I have a cousin who was in the same regiment.’
‘Gosh,’ Fran said. ‘I had no idea.’
‘There we are. Bertram Winterbottom, who preceded Miss Robertson in the role of Minutes Secretary, sings solo tenor in his church choir and my replacement, Mr James, coaches junior athletics teams. None of us knows a thing about one another.’ There was a faint note of triumph in Miss Rumsey’s voice, as if she had established an important point.
