by Carola Dunn
“Good point.”
“She may have gone off with them by accident.”
“Yes, or he may have forgotten to give them to you. I—Underwood must ask him. What’s his name?”
“Darling, it’s not your case,” Daisy reminded him. “No solicitors.”
“Right, love. Miss Sutcliffe, are you certain that Vaughn didn’t have any keys?”
“I only know what he told me.”
“If Vaughn had had them,” said Willie, “I wouldn’t count on him to give them up. Assuming his claim is true, I don’t blame Mrs. Gray for not trusting him.”
“Why?”
But Willie would say no more.
Alec turned back to Isabel. “Vaughn didn’t offer to write to her to ask about the cellar key, or keys in general? I assume you haven’t got her present address.”
“No, and nor did he. He asked me if I had it. In fact, I thought at the time that was the only reason he came. He was disappointed when I said I didn’t, and he left pretty quickly after.”
“Presumably her solicitor has an address for her.”
“Alec!” Daisy said warningly.
He gave her a rueful grin. “Solicitors are out of bounds. I got a bit carried away. Forgive me, ladies.”
“I don’t mind,” said Isabel. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
“I’d better not ask any more questions. I’m permitted to wonder aloud, though, am I not, Daisy?”
“It’s a free country!”
“All right. I’m wondering, now that I’ve told you the deceased is a dark-haired woman, whether you have any ideas about who she might be or how she ended up in your cellar.”
“Mrs. Gray has dark hair,” Isabel told him uneasily. “Short. Crimped.”
“Obviously,” said Willie, “the most probable person to be involved is Mrs. Gray, whether as victim or as … the one responsible for the death. Don’t you agree, Mr. Fletcher?”
“I’ll go so far as to say that I expect the detective inspector to begin his investigation by checking whether the body is in fact Mrs. Gray.”
“So if he doesn’t,” Isabel suggested, “we’ll know he’s not much cop.”
As she spoke, the door opened. The Boots appeared. “’Tective Inspector Underwood. ’E wansta see Mr. Fletcher.”
A tall, thin man in a Sunday black suit and sober tie stood behind the boy, peering over his shoulder. The inspector had the sort of face that could be anywhere from thirty to fifty years old. His glance of dismay swept over the ladies, pausing on Isabel. Had he heard and misinterpreted her last few words? As his gaze settled on Alec, Daisy read in his expression a compound of mistrust, defiance, and uncertainty.
SEVEN
The landlord had lent DI Underwood his snug. The room where Mr. Whitford was wont to entertain friends and favoured patrons was small and cosy, with sagging armchairs long ago faded to an indeterminate brown. The smell of tobacco was all-pervasive, the low ceiling yellowish from centuries of fumes.
Alec sat down by the fire without waiting to be invited. He was in no position to take control of the coming interview, but he was not about to let the inspector imagine that he could be dominated. He took out his pipe and tobacco pouch.
Underwood stood for a moment looking down at him, his face gloomy. Then, sighing, he dropped into the chair opposite, long limbs asprawl.
“Harris says you’re from the Met.”
Alec took his warrant card from his inside breast pocket and handed it over. “Not so much from as of. I’m not here on business.”
Studying the card, the inspector sighed again. “Detective Chief Inspector, Scotland Yard.” He took down the particulars in his notebook, then looked up. “Are you saying you didn’t come down about this business, sir? You weren’t hot on the trail of a connection to some metropolitan crime, so to speak?”
“Great Scott, no. Whatever gave you that notion?”
“Sergeant Harris as good as told me so.” Underwood returned the warrant card and sat back.
“I can’t be held responsible for whatever nonsense comes out of Harris’s mouth.”
“Frankly, sir, there are those who doubt whether Harris is always responsible for what comes out of his mouth. Why he was ever promoted—well, never mind. This sort of thing is above his head. A nasty affair.”
“Very nasty.”
“Would you mind telling me how you come into the picture, sir?”
Alec was faced with the conundrum Daisy always complained about when he asked her for a coherent narrative: Where to start? Keep it short, he decided.
“I happened to be the person who opened the cellar door and discovered the body.”
“Harris got that bit right, then. What exactly is your connection with the family? The household, I should say. This all-female household.”
“They are not my harem, Inspector,” Alec said dryly, “if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“The thought never crossed my mind, sir!”
“Glad to hear it. My wife came down to Beaconsfield to convalesce. She was at school with Miss Chandler—I take it Harris managed to give you all the names correctly? I spelled them out for him.”
“Er, no.” Underwood sighed. “He said a mob of spinsters was known to reside in the house but they’d cleared out before he arrived. I’m sorry your wife was subject to such a terrible experience, sir, ’specially if she’s been ill. Harris didn’t mention her, and wasn’t able to give me any of the names except yours.”
“Never mind,” said Alec, tolerant of the failings of subordinates for whose mistakes he was not responsible. “The sergeant was in pretty poor shape after the shock.”
The inspector’s snort made a change from his sighs. “Mrs. Fletcher.” The name went into his notebook. “Miss Chandler, was it, sir?”
“Miss Wilhelmina Chandler. Miss Vera Leighton. Miss Isabel Sutcliffe.”
“Thank you, sir. Miss Chandler was at school with Mrs. Fletcher. They’re not elderly spinsters, then. Some of these ‘surplus women’ like they talk about in the papers, they’d be?”
“They wouldn’t appreciate the epithet, but yes, I believe that’s a fair enough description.”
“Newcomers to the district, Harris said.”
“As to that, I know only what my wife has told me. You won’t want thirdhand information. You’ll have to ask them.”
“Fair enough. Had you ever met any of them before?”
“Never.”
“Not even Mrs. Fletcher’s schoolfellow? At your wedding, for instance?”
“We had a quiet wedding, just family. Miss Chandler may have been invited to the reception, I don’t know. If so, I’m pretty sure she didn’t attend. She lived up north, after all, and not in affluent circumstances, and wasn’t especially close to Daisy. It’s possible she came and I somehow missed meeting her.”
“You’ll have a good memory for names and faces, no doubt, in our business.”
“I do. However, I can’t say my mind was running on those lines at the time. Are you a married man, Inspector?”
“Widower. Lost my wife in the flu.”
“So did I. My first wife.”
After a silent moment of mutual commiseration, an unexpected grin lit Underwood’s dour face. “I’ll be blamed if I can remember a thing about our wedding breakfast. Right, Mrs. Fletcher’s convalescing in Beaconsfield, and she calls on her friend, very natural, even if they weren’t close. And you, sir?”
“I came down to see Daisy and to drive her back to town after a pleasant weekend in the country.”
“No such luck, eh? Your good lady was eager to introduce you to her friends, I expect.”
“Rather the reverse.”
“Oh? Why was that?”
Alec was half amused, half irritated to have his own techniques used against him. “Look,” he said, “I’ll tell you what happened and what I observed. For opinions, wishes, hopes, reasons, you must apply to those concerned. The ladies at Cherry Trees
invited my wife and me to Sunday lunch. We reached the house some time between half past twelve and one o’clock.”
“You can’t be more precise?”
“No. Miss Sutcliffe was busy in the kitchen. They keep no cook. Miss Chandler and Miss Leighton invited us into the sitting room. We were offered sherry. One of them—Miss Chandler, I think but couldn’t swear to—apologised for its mediocre quality. One or the other mentioned that the previous owners were reputed to have owned an excellent wine cellar. The ladies had speculated that when it was cleared out, a bottle of something good might have been overlooked. However, the door was locked and they had not been provided with a key.”
“They could have sent for a locksmith.”
“I daresay they would have in due time, when they’d settled in. But that’s mere speculation. I offered to take a look and see if I might be able to help. It’s a simple, old-fashioned lock, as no doubt you noticed.”
“Easy to pick.”
“For anyone with the slightest knowledge and skill, and a suitable instrument. Miss Chandler produced a wire coat hanger. The ladies, including my wife, accompanied me to the door to watch—”
“Including Miss—the cook, Miss Sutcliffe is it?”
“She was there when I opened it. She saw us pass the kitchen, I suppose, and followed to see what was up. Picking the lock took only a few moments. As soon as I pushed the door open, all four ladies fled to the kitchen and closed the door.”
“And who can blame them!” DI Underwood said feelingly. “I’d’ve liked to turn tail myself. How would you account for none of them noticing the stink before? The cellar isn’t completely airtight. You didn’t get a whiff as you approached?”
“Nothing suggestive of decay, but…” He flared his nostrils, remembering. “Carbolic!”
“I knew it! They did smell it and tried to conceal it.”
“Hold on. It’s more likely, wouldn’t you say, that they smelled something vaguely unpleasant and tried to eliminate it with disinfectant.”
“Speculation, sir.” Underwood’s face was bland. “We better get this straight, sir, so we understand each other. I hope you won’t take it amiss. You’re a superior officer, I’m not questioning that, but this is my patch. Unless I decide I can’t cope, and my super agrees, this case is my pigeon. I won’t say you couldn’t be useful to me. But when all’s said and done, you’re a witness. Even was I to call for the Yard to help, chances are it wouldn’t be you they sent.”
“For witness, read suspect. You’re quite right, Inspector,” Alec acknowledged ruefully.
“At least at this stage of the game. I hope you won’t hold it against me, sir. Seems to me, though, for the present we’d better stick to the facts, as you said.”
“Meaning a description of what I saw when I opened the cellar door. All right, here goes. For a start, you must realise that all I had to see by was a small torch. If there’s electric lighting down there, I didn’t care to look about for the switch.”
“I don’t blame you. Proper pongy that was. I’d go so far as to say the most revolting pong I’ve ever smelt.”
“Far be it from me to contradict you.”
“Having warning, we brought an arc light. As it happens, there is an electric bulb in the cellar, but the switch is awkwardly placed, an arm’s length from the door. A quick look with a torch—You wouldn’t have taken in much beyond a very dead woman, I suppose.”
“A bit more. I’m a copper after all, even if beyond my bailiwick, and a detective to boot. I noted the broken rail on the left, of course. The woman was lying on her back, just below it. She appeared to be well dressed, in tweeds, a silk blouse, and pearls, whether real or imitation I couldn’t tell from above.”
“But you could tell her blouse was silk?”
“The material had a sheen. Could have been artificial silk, to be sure, but the rest suggested otherwise. She was wearing one shoe, well-polished, again judging from the sheen.”
“Not much dust down there.”
“No. The cellar is supposedly nearly airtight. I didn’t see the second shoe.”
“It was found on the floor, directly below the landing.”
“Hmm. It must have come off as she fell.”
“Or as she hit the floor.”
“Could be.”
“It’s hard to see what could have made her lose her balance, don’t you think?”
“You’re asking me to speculate, Inspector?”
“No!” Underwood paused, with a sheepish look. “Well, yes, I suppose I am. On second thoughts, it would be a bit silly not to take the opportunity to pick your brains. You’ve got much more experience in this sort of thing than I do.”
“I’ve never come across anything quite like this before. I take it you’re convinced the death is a homicide?”
“Oh yes. It seemed obvious at first, because of the door being locked, then I realised she might for some reason have locked it behind her and put the key in her pocket, then stepped back from the door and took dizzy as she started down those steep, narrow stairs. She’d likely have fallen on her face, though. Besides, the doctor checked her pockets and there’s no keys at all.”
“You’re quicker than I was. I didn’t think of the pocket possibility until just now, when I was describing her clothes to you. It’s a bit odd that she was on her back, whichever direction she was going in.”
“My guess is, when she lost her balance she twisted to make a grab for the rail attached to the wall, and missed it.”
“I missed it, too,” Alec said ruefully. “Missed seeing it, that is. My attention was all in the opposite direction and in trying not to breathe. Was the doctor able to say how long ago she died?”
Underwood grimaced. “Very vague, given the unusual conditions: cool, dry, no flies. At a guess, two to four weeks. The local sergeant says the ladies moved in about a fortnight ago.”
“At the beginning of October.”
“Just so. Lots of coming and going and general confusion that someone took advantage of. The victim was, you might say, a moving target.”
“Ouch!”
“Sorry, sir. Bad pun.”
“An excellent pun.”
Underwood looked gratified. “I have a go at The Observer crossword every week. Puns are the least of Torquemada’s tricks. But wouldn’t you agree, about the coming and going?”
“The change of residents would account for the long delay before the finding of the corpse, but whether that was planned or was a lucky happenstance for the killer remains to be seen. No reports of local people missing?”
“None. The first thing we have to do, of course, is identify the victim.” He hesitated. “According to Sergeant Harris, rumour had it that the previous owner of Cherry Trees, Mrs. Gray, was going abroad. I can’t help wondering whether she ever arrived.”
“Supposing it’s her body, then you’ll know she didn’t. I don’t know how long she lived here, but you should be able to find someone who’d recognise her.”
“Once she’s been cleaned up a bit, maybe. She’s a mess, though. I don’t like to ask a woman to do it. I suppose the ladies who bought the house would have met her?”
“You’ll have to ask them,” Alec said firmly.
“All right.” Underwood sounded quite cheerful. “Just finding out where the boundaries are. A couple more questions for you, sir. You couldn’t see the second shoe under the landing. Fair enough. Was there anything else down there that you noticed?”
Alec frowned in thought. “A hat. An ordinary sort of cloche hat, as far as I could see, lying not far from her head.”
“That’s all?”
“I’m pretty sure, though I had only a small torch and didn’t linger, remember.”
“No handbag, for instance?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Gloves?”
“She certainly wasn’t wearing gloves.”
“Rings?”
“Her hands were grossly swollen, and they lay palm
up. Chances are I wouldn’t have been able to see the shanks of wedding and engagement rings, or even a large gemstone, if any.”
“You didn’t go down the stairs?”
“No. She was so obviously beyond needing help. Was there a handbag?”
Underwood shook his head.
“A hat and no handbag,” Alec commented. “It’s odd.”
“Maybe it’ll turn up somewhere in the house.”
“Perhaps one of the ladies found it and put it aside to be kept till called for.”
“Possible,” the inspector allowed grudgingly. “You see, you’ve already given me an idea or two. I don’t suppose you’d care to sit in on my interviews—some of them, at least—on an informal basis? Not taking part, of course, but passing on any hints afterwards: questions I should have asked, inconsistencies I missed, that sort of thing. No, you won’t want to spoil your holiday with your lady wife.”
“My ‘holiday’ ends at nine tomorrow morning.”
“You’re going back to London?”
“Duty calls.”
“And Mrs. Fletcher?”
“She’s thinking of staying on a few days.”
“It’s only half an hour by train. You could come back evenings. I’ll be working day and night till I’ve got my man. Or woman.”
“I may well be working day and night, if a big case comes up. And not necessarily in town. I could be sent anywhere in the country.”
“I daresay I’d have to ask officially for your help.” Underwood sighed. “I’d rather try to tackle it myself.”
“While unofficially picking my brains,” Alec said dryly.
“While learning from an expert. What if there isn’t any important case waiting for you at the Yard? I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher would appreciate you rejoining her, and being here anyway, surely you’ll want to help me exonerate her friends.”
“Or incriminate them?”
“I’d be less likely to make a mistake that’d fix the blame on an innocent person if I had your advice.”
“My super would blow a fuse! Oh well, I can’t withold from him that I’m a star witness in a murder case, so he’s going to blow a fuse anyway. I’ll put it to him. And you must ask your super’s consent. He may be less convinced of my innocence than you appear to be.”
