Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  As Alec strode towards Harris, the sergeant turned his back and wheeled the bike over to a tree, against which he leaned it, his every motion slow and deliberate.

  Refusing to let himself be baited, if that was the man’s game, Alec walked on to the gate. He looked each way along the street before he closed it and turned back to find the sergeant staring at him suspiciously.

  “Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Yes. You’re Harris, I take it.”

  “What was you looking for just now?”

  “Just to make sure no one followed you here. An elementary precaution.”

  Harris looked puzzled, as well he might. Some of the belligerence had left his voice when he asked, “Now what’s all this about finding a corpse?”

  “Follow me.” Alec spoke with authority. The man was already resentful so any attempt to conciliate him was pointless. At least he didn’t argue.

  Alec led him round to the open side door. Inside, the smell had mostly dissipated, though an unpleasant trace lingered. If Harris noticed it, he did not comment as the crunch of boots on gravel changed to a clatter on floor tiles.

  Alec gestured towards the cellar door. “The body’s in here. Would you like to see it first, or shall I explain the circumstances that led to my finding it?”

  “Circumstances be blowed! I want to see whether there really is a body.”

  “All right.” Alec held his handkerchief to his nose as he reached for the door handle.

  Harris gave him a scornful look. “I thought you Met people were tough.”

  The door swung open. Before he had even cast a glance downwards, the sergeant gagged, his ruddy complexion taking on a ghastly grey-green tint. At top speed he lumbered to the open side door and disappeared.

  Having slammed the cellar door shut, Alec went after him at a slightly more leisured pace. Sounds of retching came from the right, so he turned to the left and moved a few feet away to stand with his back to the unhappy sergeant.

  “I would offer to fetch you a glass of water, Sergeant, but I don’t intend to go back into the house for a while. Are you ready to hear how it came about that I—”

  “Save it for Inspector Underwood,” Harris snarled. He smirked as Alec swung round. “He’s expecting my call.”

  “I wondered whether you’d rung in. Underwood, is it? High Wycombe or Aylesbury?”

  “High Wycombe. He’ll be here in no time.”

  “Where are you going to telephone from?”

  Harris took a step towards the house, shuddered, then hawked and spat. “Not in there.”

  “They aren’t connected yet, as it happens. What are you going to tell Underwood?”

  “Why, that it’s no false alarm, there really is a body.”

  “You haven’t actually seen it, though.”

  “How do you know? Anyway, there’s no need to tell the inspector. I smelled the reek all right. That’s enough for me.”

  “I’ll stay and guard the house while you go and phone.”

  “No need for that. Just lock the place up before you go. Wait, where are you going? Don’t leave Beaconsfield till the inspector’s seen you.”

  “If I were to go, I’d join my wife and the ladies at the Saracen’s Head. Unfortunately, they left in rather a hurry and didn’t hand over any keys. I can’t lock up, besides which the house needs airing.”

  “Well, don’t go mucking about inside.”

  “If I had any desire to do so, I had half an hour on my own here before you turned up, Sergeant. I’ll be here when you return.”

  “Have it your own way.” Sulky-faced, Harris trudged past Alec and round the corner of the house.

  Alec wished he could overhear Harris’s report. He wondered whether Underwood would press the man about the appearance of the body. Admittedly, he doubted that he himself would be able to give a good description. The stench had been so overpowering, it befogged his memory, obscuring the scene in spite of his deliberate attempt to fix it in his mind.

  No blowflies. That was a mercy. But it was odd. The cellar was not absolutely airtight, and carrion flies were exceptionally good at seeking out the smell of death. Although they couldn’t find a way in, he’d have expected them to cluster at the keyhole.

  He tried to recall the moments before he had swung the keyhole cover aside and inserted his pick. Had he been aware of a faint odour, or was it his imagination, in hindsight?

  No, there had been something, but his olfactory memory insisted it had been the smell of disinfectant, not decay. One of Daisy’s friends, most likely Isabel Sutcliffe, must be keen on hygiene—or doing her utmost to diguise the noxious emanations from the cellar.

  Alec wanted to know a good deal more about the background of Miss Sutcliffe; of her companions, as well, since Isabel might have tried to get rid of the smell without knowing its source.

  However, it was none of his business, he reminded himself. All he had to do was hang about until the obnoxious sergeant returned, and later give a statement to the inspector from High Wycombe.

  His pondering had come full circle. What exactly had he seen on the floor below the broken rail?

  A woman, lying on her back, her arms flung out, her head at that angle that speaks unmistakably of death, the obscene remains of scarlet lipstick on the devastated mouth. The condition of the body was such that he couldn’t begin to guess her age. Though her dark brown hair had shown no grey, these days that meant little. Bobbed hair, or she had put it up in a knot behind her head.

  Brown tweed costume; flesh-coloured stockings; one well-polished brown leather shoe, not flat but low-heeled, as if the wearer expected to do a certain amount of walking; he hadn’t noticed a second shoe. Pearls, real or imitation closer examination would tell. Gloves? He thought not. He had a vague impression that a hat, the usual cloche-style, had lain on the floor some distance from her head.

  She had fallen backwards, or twisted as she fell. As for the space she lay in, it was about the same size as the kitchen above it. Three walls of mortared brick were lined with empty wooden wine racks. The floor appeared to be the native chalk, levelled and compacted. He hadn’t looked at the ceiling.

  That was all Alec remembered. He was tempted to go and take another look, but repulsion overcame temptation without much of a struggle. It was not his affair.

  Except as a witness, he was reminded, as an elderly constable joined him, saying, “I’m the beat officer, sir. Sergeant Harris told me to keep an eye on you.”

  SIX

  The click of the door latch woke Daisy. She blinked at Alec.

  “Have a good nap?”

  “Darling, I wasn’t asleep!”

  “Of course not, if you say so. Let me amend that: Are you feeling better for the rest?”

  “Much. I didn’t dream … or rather have a nightmare?”

  He laughed at her, then said seriously, “I’m afraid not.”

  “I take it the local bobby turned up? What did he have to say?”

  “He was in a great hurry to turn things over to his superiors. I didn’t wait for their arrival. Where are your friends?”

  “They’ve taken a room here and went to do a more thorough job of washing than they could as nonresidents. Darling, they desperately need clean clothes. I don’t suppose you could fetch something for them?”

  “Not, at least, until Inspector Underwood gives the say-so. In any case, they won’t want me rooting through their drawers.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, especially if the alternative is letting the locals paw through their undies. Or going into the house before it’s been fumigated. Goodness, is that the time? They’re probably downstairs by now. Will you go and knock on their door while I splash my face and powder my nose?”

  Daisy had to go to the bathroom to wash the sleep from her eyes, as every last driblet of water in the cans had been used. When she returned to their room, Alec was back, having found the others’ room empty, gone downstairs, and found out they were in the parlour.

 
“Whither I dared not venture.”

  “There’s a residents’ lounge, too. I’ll get them to move so that we can have a confab.”

  He groaned. “Do I want a confab?”

  “Of course. I’m sure you’ve got dozens of questions you want to ask.”

  “That’s as may be. Allow me to remind you, it’s not my case.”

  “Yet,” said Daisy. “Unless you altogether avoid Willie and Company, you won’t be able to avoid discussing it.”

  “We’d better go back to town as soon as I’ve given my statement to Inspector Underwood. I’m due back to work tomorrow, remember.”

  “Oh, blast!” Daisy coughed experimentally. “I think I’d better stay on for a few days to make sure I’m completely recovered.”

  “The air in Hampstead is perfectly good now.”

  “Perhaps I should go up with you and see what my doctor advises.”

  “Don’t bother. He’s completely under your thumb. If you asked him to advise you to go to the Riviera, he’d comply without hesitation.”

  Daisy laughed. “Luckily I don’t want to go to the Riviera. I might go up with you tomorrow just to see the babies, but I do want to be here to support Willie. You must admit I have plenty of experience of surviving police interrogation.”

  “Which is nothing to boast of! All you can do is advise them to tell the truth—”

  “‘The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’ I wonder how many times I’ve heard that?” She kept her reservations on the subject to herself. “Come on, let’s go down. It’s teatime and I’m ravenous.”

  “I wonder how many times I’ve heard that?”

  Downstairs, they went to the residents’ lounge. Alec flipped on the electric lights, as daylight was fast fading. Overstuffed horsehair chairs and a small sofa, covered in once-maroon rep, formed four or five groups round low beechwood tables. On each were several coasters advertising drinks. A mauve hearthrug with a pattern of orange triangles clashed horribly. Elsewhere, the polished floorboards showed the scratches and scuffs of centuries that no amount of polishing could hide. Inevitably, fox-hunting prints adorned the walls.

  Daisy continued through the connecting door to the ladies’ parlour. Here flowered cretonne reigned, the prints were of old roses, and the floor boasted an inadequate square of emerald green carpet.

  Her friends were the only occupants.

  “Daisy, where have you been?” Willie greeted her, jumping up.

  “Sorry, I fell asleep. Alec’s back. He can’t come in here. Let’s have tea in the residents’ lounge.”

  “I didn’t think I’d ever be able to face food again,” said Vera, “but I admit I’m hungry, and a cup of tea would be bliss.”

  “We must keep our strength up,” Isabel said bracingly. “When the police turn up to pepper us with a lot of questions, we’ll be glad of it. Pity we didn’t eat the roast beef first and look for a bottle of liqueur afterwards.”

  Daisy was turning back towards the other room when Willie stopped her with a hand on her arm. “We wondered if it’s all right to talk to Alec about what happened. To ask him what he saw, I mean; how long the … body has been there. That sort of thing.”

  “Without any gory details,” Vera clarified.

  “After all, no one’s told us not to talk about it.”

  “The local bobby may have asked Alec to keep quiet. He’ll make up his own mind, though. Ask away. He can but refuse to answer.” She went through, relieved to find Alec still alone. He stood leaning against the mantelpiece. “Tea, darling! Everyone’s famished.”

  “I’ve already rung the bell.”

  As they settled by the fire, a middle-aged waitress came in. Alec ordered tea for five, with plenty of sandwiches.

  The waitress left. Alec went over to the door and made sure it was closed properly. “Is anyone in there?” he asked, pointing to the ladies’ parlour. They all shook their heads as he came back to sit down. “We can talk now. But if someone comes in—including servants—we change the subject.”

  “All right,” said Willie. “First, what did you actually see in the cellar? None of us stopped to look. A man or a woman?”

  “A woman. Dark hair. That’s about all I can tell you.”

  “Can, or will?”

  Alec smiled. “A bit of each.”

  “Did the local police tell you not to blow the gaff?” Daisy asked.

  “Not in so many words, but the only officer I saw was the local sergeant, Harris. He was out of his depth. I didn’t wait for the detectives to turn up. I’m treading on thin ice here—”

  “And you don’t want to fall in up to your neck, but at least you’re not quite mixing your metaphors!”

  “Great Scott, Daisy, I’m trying to explain my position here to your friends.”

  “I’ve already told them, darling.” She gave him a sweet smile in exchange for his exasperated look. “What was Sergeant Harris like?”

  “Well, let’s just say I interrupted him in the middle of his Sunday roast and things went downhill from there.”

  “Oh dear!”

  “Sergeant Harris?” said Isabel. “That’s the man who came round a couple of days after we moved in, to introduce himself. He made it very clear he didn’t approve of three unrelated single women living together. I doubt if he has a right side to get on.”

  “If he does, I certainly didn’t get on it!”

  “He knows who you are?”

  “I told him I’m an officer of the Metropolitan Police. I didn’t mention the Yard or being a detective, nor my rank. I’ll have to tell the inspector, though.”

  “When are you going to notify the super?” Daisy sighed. “I suppose you have to.”

  “Can you imagine the explosion if I didn’t and he found out? Which he’d be bound to. I won’t disturb him on a Sunday evening, but I’ll send a wire from here before I go in to work tomorrow, to give him time to simmer down a bit, with any luck, before I see him.”

  “They’ll let us go to work, won’t they?” Vera asked anxiously.

  “I can’t think of any reason why they wouldn’t. They might turn up with more questions.”

  Vera bit her lip. “I’ll get the sack, for sure.”

  “No, why should you?” Willie cried. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “The townspeople won’t want their children taught by someone who’s been mixed up in a murder investigation. I can’t blame them.”

  “Mr. Cartwright will stick up for you. The headmaster’s words must carry a lot of weight.”

  Looking even unhappier, Vera said, “Yes, but … No. I don’t know.”

  “For pity’s sake, which?”

  “Leave her alone, Willie,” Isabel snapped. “She’s said she doesn’t know. What about your job?”

  “I’m not worried about losing it. Alec, I suppose it really is a case of murder?”

  “She didn’t lock the door herself.”

  “No. And there’s no hope of keeping it quiet?” Willie answered her own question: “No, of course not. Even if the press somehow missed it, we couldn’t keep it from Mrs. Hedger and she’d have it all over town in no time.”

  “To do her justice,” said Isabel, “she has her faults, but she’s not a gossip.”

  “Until now, we haven’t given her anything juicy to gossip about,” Willie pointed out.

  On this dispiriting note, their tea arrived. For some time no one spoke of the dire discovery at Cherry Trees. When the waitress came to remove the scant debris, Daisy noticed that everyone looked more cheerful. She felt more cheerful herself.

  She knew, though, that Alec, despite his announced detachment from the investigation, wouldn’t be able to resist returning to the subject that was on all their minds.

  Isabel got in first. “I’ve been trying and trying to think what we can do about saving your job, Vera. No brilliant ideas so far, I’m afraid.”

  “We’ll come up with something,” Willie said confidently, “if the issue ev
er materialises. As long as the children like you and behave for you, I doubt the board, the parents, or the head will want to lose you. Mr. Fletcher, how long is it likely to be before the police let us back into the house? I’ve got important papers that I need at work tomorrow.”

  “I really can’t say. There are too many variables. You won’t want to move back in until it’s been thoroughly cleansed and disinfected, of course. Would your Mrs. Hedger tackle a nasty job like that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Isabel. “She might if we paid enough. If not, I just hope I’ll be able to find some odd-job man glad to get any work. In the meantime, what am I supposed to do about things like the milk delivery? The post?”

  “Sorry, I’ve never had to deal with that side of things. The inspector might be persuaded to bring out the papers you need, Miss Chandler, after they’ve been examined.”

  “The papers are highly confidential.”

  “Then you’d have to insist that only he see them. Men rarely reach the rank of detective inspector if they’re incapable of keeping information confidential.”

  “All very well, but my boss … I’d have to get his permission. Mr. Davis, of Spencer, Mott, and Davis.”

  “Have it out with DI Underwood.”

  “I need the children’s work papers that I took home to correct,” said Vera. “Those are not confidential, of course.”

  “Will they really rummage through all our stuff?” Isabel asked in dismay.

  “Sorry, I would, in the circumstances. I can’t speak for the local chap. Now you’ve had time to think, can you still not recall any visitors since you moved in?”

  Isabel frowned. “Not what I’d describe as a visitor. The house agent dropped in one morning. He wanted to check that everything was all right.”

  “Did you ask whether he had a key to the cellar?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. He said Mrs. Gray never let him have any keys. She insisted she should always be present when he showed the house.”

  “What about the solicitors?”

  Willie answered: “When we signed the papers, her solicitor handed over a set of keys, all he had. Of course, we weren’t to use them before the first. Come to think of it, he should have got Mrs. Gray’s set from her when she left, and turned them over. Which he didn’t.”