Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  “We seem to have got sidetracked,” he said mildly. “You mentioned talking with your friends about servants. Have they any?”

  “Not live-in. Just a char three days a week. Mrs. Hedger—she’d be the best person to ask about the date they moved in. She worked for the previous owner and just stayed on, taking care of the house, when Mrs. Gray … left. If she left. Sorry, but one can’t simply turn off one’s brain!”

  Underwood heaved a deep sigh. “No, I suppose it’s too much to expect of the modern young woman.”

  “It seems pretty plain to all of us that the chances are she’s either the body or the murderer.”

  “Mr. Fletcher’s suggestion?”

  “As I remember,” Daisy said dryly, “Miss Chandler was the first to voice the probability. No doubt Alec had already considered it, being a policeman.”

  NINE

  DC Pennicuik escorted Daisy back to the lounge. She was glad not to have to find her own way through the passages. Suddenly she was very tired.

  Six men were in the residents’ lounge now. A third had joined the original two; another pair, one smoking a cigar, consulted over a map spread on a table before them; and one solitary sat hunched over a mug of beer, contemplating his sorrows by the look on his face.

  “Looks like the ladies moved to the other room,” Pennicuik said uneasily, “unless they’ve scarpered.”

  “Nonsense. They have no reason to run away.” Daisy trudged over to the connecting door. “If they’re not here, they’ll have gone up to their room. They’re staying at the Saracen’s Head, you know.”

  “Oh. Umm.” The young detective turned bashful. “Umm, would you mind taking a look, madam? I didn’t ought to go into the ladies’ parlour, not without it’s urgent. Mr. Underwood wants to see Miss Leighton next, if you wouldn’t mind asking her to come out.”

  She took pity on him. Besides, it would be silly for him to knock and wait for someone to respond when she was going in anyway. And it never hurt to get on the right side of a copper, however junior.

  “Hold on half a mo, then.”

  The three looked round as Daisy entered and closed the door behind her. In her absence, they had all acquired drinks, which did not seem to have cheered them up.

  “What’s he like?” Willie asked.

  “Not bad.” Daisy plumped into the nearest chair. “He doesn’t bite.”

  The feeble witticism made them laugh more than it deserved.

  “We were just talking about whether we ought to get a dog,” Isabel explained, “thus locking the stable door after the horse has been stolen.”

  “I would. Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Underwood would like to see Vera.”

  “Me? Why me? I mean, why me first?”

  “I’ve no idea. A random choice, I imagine.”

  “Oh. Yes, I suppose so. Couldn’t Willie or Iz go first, then?”

  “He asked for you. You’d better go.”

  “Buck up, Vera, don’t be such a drip,” Isabel admonished her. “Daisy said he won’t bite.”

  “He doesn’t suspect Daisy, and she’s married to a chief inspector. Daisy, would you come with me? Please!”

  “I doubt he’d let me.”

  “What about Alec? If he—”

  “He didn’t stay with me, and Mr. Underwood told him not to come and talk to you, so that’s even less likely. All right, let’s see if he chucks me out.” She struggled wearily from her seat.

  “You’re worn out,” said Willie with concern. “Vera, I do think you might—”

  “It’s all right,” Daisy repeated. “I don’t mind, honestly.”

  “Here.” Vera picked up the glass beside her. “I haven’t taken a single sip. You drink it.”

  Daisy didn’t ask what it was, just took a couple of swallows. Gin and tonic, which she didn’t much like, but the warmth that coursed through her brought a smidgen of energy.

  “Come along.” As she opened the door, a mutter of voices in the residents’ lounge ceased. She noticed that all the residents present were watching PC Pennicuik, who shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. In a low voice, she introduced Vera: “Miss Leighton, Officer. I’m going with her.”

  “Uh, I don’t know if the gov’nor…” He looked round at the avid listeners. “We’ll talk outside.”

  Their footsteps sounded loud on the bare boards. Behind them, the muttering started up again.

  Pennicuik almost slammed the door behind him.

  “They’re talking about us,” Vera said despairingly.

  “They’re strangers,” Daisy pointed out, “or they wouldn’t be in there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pennicuik blurted. “I wish I didn’t look so much like a copper.”

  “It’ll wear off,” Daisy consoled him, “the longer you’re a detective.” She had kept walking fast while they spoke, and they had nearly reached the landlord’s snug before the constable realised it. She shephered Vera in.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?” Underwood rose. “Did you remember something—?”

  “’Fraid not, Inspector. Miss Leighton asked me to come and support her. With your permission, naturally, but I can’t see why not.”

  “You can’t?” He gave her an incredulous look and glared at Pennicuik, entering after the ladies.

  “Sir, I couldn’t—”

  “I didn’t give him a chance to stop me, so don’t berate him. Go on,” she said persuasively, “let me stay. I promise not to say a word, just to hold Vera’s hand. Metaphorically.”

  “Miss Leighton?”

  “Oh, please! I’ve never had anything to do with the police.…”

  Not for the first time since he’d made Daisy’s acquaintance, Detective Inspector Underwood sighed. He waved them to seats.

  The edge that had been in his voice when questioning Daisy completely vanished as, in a most prosaic tone, he requested Vera’s full name and address. Next he asked for her previous address, the temporary lodgings in High Wycombe, and before that, in Yorkshire.

  “I grew up in Yorkshire,” she volunteered, already much more comfortable with the situation, to Underwood’s credit. “My father is a canon at York Minster.”

  “I expect he would have liked you to stay at home?”

  “Yes. He didn’t want me to train as a teacher in the first place, but Mother coaxed him round. I didn’t want to spend my entire life in the Minster close, and I knew I’d end up living at home if I worked in a school in York, so I looked for a position in Huddersfield. You won’t have to tell him about … this, will you?”

  “You’re an independent adult, Miss Leighton. I can’t foresee any reason why I’d have to approach your family, though I can’t promise. Why did you—all three of you ladies—choose to move south?”

  Daisy knew he had to ask everyone more or less the same questions so as to compare their answers. Moreover, so far he hadn’t obtained this particular information from those concerned, only from Daisy herself and possibly from Alec, at one further remove. Hearsay, she told herself. Vera’s account was no different from her own. Boring. Her eyelids drifted downward and the voices seemed to come from a long way off.

  She wouldn’t be much comfort to Vera if she fell asleep. Blinking hard, she tried to concentrate, as the inspector obliquely approached the happenings of the day.

  Vera was distressed in spite of the kid glove treatment. Altogether natural, in Daisy’s view. She herself would prefer not to talk or think about the discovery of the body. It had been a horrid experience, even though Alec had borne the brunt. But Vera’s upset now was of a different nature from her near-panic at the prospect of the interview with the police. Puzzling over the difference, Daisy missed another chunk of Vera’s evidence.

  Talking about the murder evoked in the schoolmistress horror, pity, and a certain detachment. There had been nothing detached about her fear of stepping alone into the lion’s den.

  DI Underwood had turned out to be not such a lion after all, and Vera seemed quite at ease.


  So was it just fear of the unknown, her lack of experience dealing with the police, that had sparked her earlier alarm? Or was the cause deeper, something that had happened to Vera.… Daisy had a feeling that if she could remember everything everyone had said today and at tea on Friday, she would have a clue to … to what?

  She must have nodded off for a minute or two, because the next thing she heard was the inspector saying incredulously, “Nothing?”

  Vera’s response sounded defensive: “Why should they gossip about their neighbours to someone they barely know? All they want to talk about is their children.”

  “The children don’t tell you things?”

  “About their own families, yes. Since I’ve been here, I’ve heard nothing I can’t handle myself, nothing that would make me report to the authorities.”

  “You don’t overhear the mothers talking to each other?”

  “I don’t listen,” Vera said primly, with a hint of rebuke. “What they say to each other is none of my business.”

  Underwood coughed, raising his hand to his mouth—to hide a smile, Daisy suspected. “Very proper, I’m sure. What about your colleagues? You don’t chat with them?”

  “No.” The single syllable was adamant, but Vera’s voice trembled as she explained, “The only other teacher is the headmaster.”

  The inspector looked at her with narrowed eyes. “His name?”

  “C-Cartwright, Roger Cartwright.”

  Underwood didn’t pursue the subject, to Daisy’s disappointment. She wanted to know what was going on between Vera and the headmaster. On the other hand, she didn’t at all want Vera crying on her shoulder, so it was just as well that DI Underwood decided to end the interview.

  Perhaps he, too, was keen to avert tears if possible. Alec always had a couple of extra handkerchiefs in his pockets in case of weeping witnesses, suspects, and even villains.

  Underwood thanked Vera for her assistance, warning her that he’d probably have more questions for her later. He told Pennicuik to escort her back to the others and return with Miss Chandler. When Daisy started to stand, he said to her, “Just a moment, if you please, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Daisy examined her conscience. “I didn’t utter a single word!” she said indignantly.

  “Not so much as a word,” he agreed. “I appreciate your … self-control. I wondered whether Miss Chandler, too, is likely to insist on your presence.”

  On the verge of admitting that she couldn’t imagine Willie needing support, Daisy bit back the words and said instead, “You’ll have to ask her.”

  “There’s no point in you leaving and coming back. You’d better just stay. While we wait: Miss Leighton’s account included a few details neither you nor the chief inspector mentioned, as is only natural. Would you say it was accurate? Off the record.”

  “I didn’t notice any discrepancies.” She wasn’t about to confess that she hadn’t listened half the time. She swallowed a yawn.

  “Did it spark any ideas? Remind you of details you left out before, perhaps?”

  The only noteworthy point was Vera’s marked aversion to Cartwright, surely not relevant to the murder. Daisy shook her head. “Not immediately. I’ll think about it. Something may occur to me later.”

  The brief exchange made her wonder more than ever on what terms Underwood and Alec had parted. Rare indeed were the police officers who recognised that her opinion might prove useful. She was sorry she had no suggestions to offer.

  The brisk tap of footsteps approached the door. Willie came in, her tread light, and glanced round the room as Pennicuik trudged in after her.

  “Hello, Daisy. Still here? But no Alec?”

  “It’s not his case, darling. Detective Inspector Underwood is in charge. He kindly let me stay with Vera.”

  “How do you do, Inspector.” Willie stepped forward with a friendly smile, her hand held out. “I’m Wilhelmina Chandler.”

  Underwood shook hands and invited her to sit.

  “It was good of you to let Daisy support Vera. I’m sure you did your best, but she’s absolutely shattered anyway, poor thing. She doesn’t do well under fire.”

  “I assure you, Miss Chandler, in no sense was Miss Leighton under fire!”

  “Badly phrased. Vera deals better with children than adults, as I’m better with numbers than words. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get going.”

  “Would you like Mrs. Fletcher to stay?”

  “I don’t need support, but don’t make Daisy leave. By the look of her, she’ll never move again.”

  “Thanks for nothing!”

  “You’ve been ill. You’re entitled to look as if you’re at death’s door.”

  “You’re welcome to take a nap, Mrs Fletcher,” said Underwood, and mouthed silently, “again.”

  Daisy glared at him. She had hoped he hadn’t noticed. While she’d been snoozing, he’d been disconcertingly wide-awake, it seemed.

  “Let’s get down to business, Inspector,” said Willie. “If you want to know what I saw, you’re out of luck. If you want to know what I smelled…”

  TEN

  This time Daisy listened carefully, in case the inspector quizzed her afterwards. It was easier to keep her mind on what was said because Willie’s voice was bright with interest, and she fenced with Underwood, just as Daisy had.

  “Why on earth do you want to know why the three of us moved south?” she demanded.

  “The more I know about those involved, the quicker I’ll be able to solve the case.”

  “‘Those involved?’ We’re not involved. Someone took the liberty of using our house to dispose of—”

  “That’s as may be, Miss Chandler. Supposing you to have nothing to do with the murder, it was probably committed by someone who knew the house was empty.”

  “The neighbours.”

  “Or the house agent, or someone who was aware of your plans. I’m still asking you to tell me why you moved.”

  Willie grinned and complied. “Not many firms are willing to hire a woman accountant,” she finished. “I couldn’t afford not to take the position.”

  “I’ve never had anything to do with accountants,” Underwood admitted. “What’s the difference between them and bookkeepers?”

  “We’re the ones who check the books, to make sure they’re properly kept: accurate arithmetic and accounts balanced, no errors, no fraud. That’s my job for the present. Senior partners advise companies on the law and so forth.”

  “Fraud, eh? Anyone in your sights?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “In other words, yes.”

  “I can’t say any more. It’s an interesting theory, though.”

  “What is?” Underwood asked irritably.

  “I assume you’re proposing that someone either intended to kill me and botched it, or hoped to intimidate me into botching an audit.”

  “Or just to distract you from doing a thorough job,” Daisy suggested.

  “Rubbish!” The inspector frowned at her. “I’m not proposing any such notion, Miss Chandler, especially your second theory. Killing someone just to intimidate a third person may be something that goes on in the East End, or in Huddersfield for all I know, but not on my patch!”

  “Good. Then you won’t keep pestering me to disclose confidential information.”

  “Let’s see if I have better luck with nonconfidential information. What date did you move into Cherry Trees?”

  “The afternoon of Saturday the eighth. Isabel came over on the first and spent the week making sure everything was ready for Vera and me. I don’t know how much time she spent at the house, but I assure you, she didn’t use any of it to push a stranger down the stairs.”

  Underwood eyed her narrowly. “Put like that, it does seem unlikely,” he conceded. “But perhaps the victim was not a stranger. I’m not going to be making any headway until she’s been identified. You didn’t recognise her?”

  “I didn’t see her. To put it crudely
, I smelled her, and that was quite sufficient. I can’t express how grateful I am that Mr. Fletcher was present to take charge.” Willie smiled at Daisy.

  “Tell me about it. Start with why you invited him to the house.”

  As far as the facts relating to the dinner invitation and the corpse’s discovery were concerned, Willie’s statement differed little from Daisy’s own and what Daisy had heard of Vera’s.

  “When Mr. Fletcher came back,” she finished, “he said we could leave, and we did, as fast as possible.”

  “Who can blame you? Mrs. Fletcher says you were the first to suggest that the previous owner of the house is likely to be either the victim or the killer. Is that correct?”

  “I can’t remember whether I was first. It seems a reasonable proposition.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “Briefly. Twice, actually. Miss Sutcliffe found the house and liked it, but of course she didn’t make any decisions without us—Vera and me—looking it over and giving our approval. Mrs. Gray was present when we called, and the house agent, too. I was far more interested in the house than in its owner. She didn’t make much impression then. And when I met her again, to sign the papers at her lawyer’s, I was concentrating on the contract.”

  “Do you recall her lawyer’s name?”

  “Ainsley. Ours is Butterworth.”

  “Would you recognise Mrs. Gray, if you saw her again?”

  “I doubt it. I’m not good at faces. If she’s the body, judging by what I’ve gathered about its condition, definitely not!”

  “You ladies didn’t find any of her effects in the house when you moved in? A handbag, clothes, suitcase, nothing at all?”

  “I assume Isabel would have mentioned it if she had come across something other than the household effects that were part of the deal. She certainly would if she’d found a handbag with anything of value in it.”

  “Does Mrs. Gray have any relatives that you’re aware of?”

  “For all I know, she could have swarms. I haven’t the foggiest. Surely Mr. Ainsley must know.”

  “The solicitor? Yes.” Underwood asked a few more questions in a desultory way: Where Willie had lived before the Huddersfield lodgings, how long she had lived there, whether she’d known the other two previously, the name of her firm in High Wycombe.