by Carola Dunn
“Are you certain?”
The door was flung open. “Dammit!” roared the large man in a dinner jacket who appeared on the threshold. “Where’s the—Oh, excuse me, ladies. The tapster sent me off on a wild goose chase.” He glared malevolently at the connecting door to the saloon bar. “I see I’m right back where I started. Can either of you by any chance direct me to the landlord’s private room?”
“It is complicated,” Daisy said sympathetically. “You turn—No, perhaps I’d better show you the way.”
“My dear lady, I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you.”
But Daisy was already on her feet, ignoring Willie’s expression of surprise and doubt. She suspected that the tall, stout gentleman was Underwood’s superintendent and she wasn’t about to let him get away without making an effort to hear what he had to say.
“That’s all right. It’s easy to get lost in old buildings like this.” As, looking baffled, he stood aside to let her pass, she asked, “You’re here to see Detective Inspector Underwood, Mr…?”
“Parry,” he said grudgingly.
“Superintendent Parry? I thought you must be. I’m Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Fletcher? You’re the Yard chap’s wife? The one who found the body? Those three spin … ladies are your friends!” he accused her.
“DI Underwood has already sorted out all that. Doubtless he’ll be writing a report for you explaining everything he didn’t tell you over the telephone.”
“Hmph.”
Daisy decided no response was called for. In fact, as the super appeared to be in a bit of a temper already, she might well make things worse. Whether he was annoyed with Underwood, with Alec, or with Daisy herself remained to be seen.
They reached the den. “Here you are.” She stepped back to let the superintendent barge in, then sneaked in behind him as the others stood up. Taking a seat in a dark corner, she knew Alec, Underwood, and Pennicuik had all spotted her, but as she had hoped, they chose not to draw Parry’s attention to her.
The inspector introduced Alec.
“How do you do, sir.”
Parry stared at him. Daisy couldn’t see his expression, but wasn’t surprised when he said in an exasperated voice, “So you’re the man responsible? I suppose you want to be responsible for the investigation, too.”
“Not at all, sir. I’ll have more than enough work waiting for me at the Yard tomorrow. Besides, it’s a matter for your chief constable and my assistant commissioner.”
“The CC will follow my advice.”
“I can’t say the same for the AC.”
“Hmph!”
“Usually my superintendent would make the decision. However, in the circumstances, I’m certain Mr. Crane will take it to the AC. And even if your CC should ask for the Yard’s assistance, sir, they could well decide I’m not the right man for the job.”
“‘In the circumstances.’ Hmm.” This time his interjection was a thoughtful sound, not irritable.
“Chief Inspector Fletcher has been very helpful already, sir,” put in Underwood.
Parry rounded on him. “But would you want help if it wasn’t Fletcher, eh?”
“It depends, sir. As I mentioned on the telephone, there’s a chance we may have to ask the Yard to request the Sûreté’s assistance with enquiries in France.”
“All right, I’ll—”
The door was flung open and a stranger burst into the room, a man in an overcoat, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped short and a bristling moustache to match. His hands, one holding his hat, the other a pair of leather gloves, were large, out of proportion to his narrow shoulders. He looked around wildly as Parry swung to face him.
“Who the dev—” Parry caught sight of Daisy and scowled at her. “Who the deuce are you, sir?”
“Cartwright’s the name. Whatever she told you about me, it’s lies, all lies! She’s a—”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” The superintendent pointed at a chair and Cartwright sank into it. Parry himself sat down at last, Alec and Underwood thankfully following his example.
Daisy held her breath, but the three policemen were all too interested in the intruder to remember that she ought to be chucked out. Pennicuik, catching her eye, kept his mouth shut.
“Cartwright?” said Underwood. “The headmaster?”
“You know of this man?” Parry demanded.
“I’ve heard the name mentioned, sir.”
“In connection with this case?”
The inspector gave his superior a warning glance. “Not exactly. Tangentially, as you might say.”
Daisy was delighted with Underwood’s unexpected erudition. Her dear friend, DS Tom Tring, retired, had an extensive vocabulary and enjoyed displaying it. She warmed still further to Underwood.
Parry turned to Cartwright. “I am a superintendent of police. Who do you assume has told us lies about you, and why?”
“Why might she lie? Or why do I assume she has lied?” the schoolmaster asked, prissily precise.
“Either. Both. And why do you think there’s a connection with our investigation?”
“I don’t … I…” Agitated, he stood up, dropping a glove. “Clearly I am mistaken.”
“So it would appear. Detective Inspector Underwood will send someone to take a statement—”
“I was mistaken! I have nothing to say that’s of interest to the police.”
“All the same,” said Underwood, “I’m afraid we can’t just drop the subject now you’ve brought it to our attention. I’ll need a statement, sir.”
“Not at the school!”
“As you prefer, sir. Constable, escort Mr. Cartwright out and get his address and the hours when he can be found at home. That will be all—for the moment.”
Cartwright practically bolted, forgetting his dropped glove. Pennicuik picked it up and hurried after him.
“He’s got the wind up all right.” Parry nodded with satisfaction. “One of your spinsters is a teacher, isn’t she? That’ll be who he’s talking about, I bet. They go funny, spinsters.”
Daisy opened her mouth to object. Alec and Underwood both glared at her.
“Sir,” said the inspector, “I’d—”
“What, you’re still here, Mrs. Fletcher? Thank you for your help. We won’t keep you any longer.”
For once, she didn’t mind being chased out. She had managed to stay much longer than she expected, and to learn much more than she ought, thanks to Cartwright’s intrusion. What was more, her dismissal had been so abrupt, no one had ordered her not to talk about what he’d said.
With any luck, by now Vera would have told Isabel her side of the story. Putting the two parts together, they might work out whether it had anything to do with the murder, or at least bring some comfort to Vera, in that whatever had happened troubled him just as much as her. More so, in fact: She hadn’t been driven to make wild accusations to the police.
The residents’ lounge was inhabited solely by men. Several stared as Daisy walked through to the parlour to see whether Willie had been driven to take refuge there. She had, and Isabel was with her.
“Who was that?” Willie asked.
“The superintendent, as I guessed.”
“That’s why you were so keen to show him the way! They let you stay in the snug?”
“I sat down in a corner and stayed quiet as a mouse. Parry forgot me and Alec and Underwood weren’t keen to draw his attention.”
“Is Parry going to ask Alec to help?”
“They hadn’t really decided when I left.”
“You were kicked out,” Isabel guessed.
“Yes, but before that … The most extraordinary thing happened. Cartwright came rushing in, babbling—”
“Wait a minute,” said Willie. “Cartwright? Vera’s Cartwright?”
“Her headmaster, yes. He insisted that ‘she’ was lying about him, which rather baffled the coppers as he’d barely been mentioned.”
“‘
She’ being Vera?” Isabel asked.
“He refused to say, once he understood that no one had been saying anything, true or false, about him. But I’m certain Alec and Underwood assumed it was Vera, and the superintendent was pretty quick on the uptake. Underwood must have told him on the phone about you three. He knew Vera was a teacher, so he put two and two together. By that time, Cartwright had backed down and denied any connection with the case. He departed with as much haste as he’d arrived.”
“He never explained what he was talking about?”
“No, but they’re going to take a statement from him. Did Vera tell you what he did that started the fuss?”
Isabel frowned. “Yes. She said I could tell Willie, but she couldn’t make up her mind about you, Daisy. Sorry, she feels she doesn’t know you well enough.”
“Never mind.” Daisy did her best to repress her bursting curiosity. “I understand.”
“Iz, we ought to tell her—not what he did, since Vera is so embarrassed about it, but what Cartwright said afterwards.”
“Well … all right. He threatened that if she reported … what he’d done, he’d easily convince people it was all her fault. Everyone would take his word over hers. She’d be disgraced and she’d lose her job.”
“And all three of us would have to leave the district,” Willie added. “The trouble is, he’s right. He’s a pillar of the community. We’re strangers, and ‘superfluous women.’ No one would believe her.”
Daisy couldn’t deny it. “However, the situation has changed. I still can’t see what it has to do with the murder, but the police are going to dig until they’re sure of that. I doubt they can keep it quiet, even if they try. If you ask me, Vera should make a clean breast of it.”
“That’s what I told her,” said Isabel. “She refused to go to the police—the inspector or even your husband—so I persuaded her to go and talk to Mr. Turnbull, the rector. She can’t postpone it till tomorrow because of school. She was putting on her hat as I left.”
“Oh good! At least someone will know the truth before the rumours start flying.”
“And someone with plenty of credibility,” Willie pointed out.
“One would hope so!”
“What’s more, it’s a church school, for what that’s worth, so the rector is probably on the board of governors.”
“What still baffles me,” said Daisy, “is why Cartwright assumed the police were investigating his misbehaviour towards Vera. I suppose he walked or drove past Cherry Trees, fortuitously or because he’s been keeping an eye on her.”
“He hasn’t got a car. Teachers in church primary schools aren’t paid at all well, even the head in such a small school. In fact, before what happened, Vera told me he’d been complaining to her that his wife nags him for wasting his talents for such low pay. One of the things she wants is a car, apparently. He claimed to Vera to be dedicated to teaching. Vera says he’s dedicated to power, even if it’s just power over a classroom full of children. He’s a great knuckle-rapper, is Cartwright.”
“If he bullies children, it’s not surprising he would bully his subordinate.” Daisy returned to her theory. “He could have walked past the house. He would have seen the police there, and then he heard they were here, too.”
“Or vice versa,” said Willie.
“Or vice versa,” Daisy agreed. “But was whatever happened with Vera so criminal as to require so large a police presence?”
“No,” said Isabel. “I’m certain the police would have taken no action whatsoever if she had reported it.”
“Guilty conscience, then. And now it’s his own fault that it will all come out. It does seem to me, though, that it rules him out as the murderer.”
“Yes,” Willie said sadly. “Much as I’d love to see him arrested, he’d hardly have drawn attention to himself if that were the case.”
“Unless,” said Daisy, “it’s a deliberate red herring, as Vaughn asking for Mrs. Gray’s address may be. Cartwright might hope that bringing attention to the lesser offence will throw them off the track for the greater.”
“Could it work?” Isabel asked.
“Unlikely. The police—the CID, that is—see through much more complicated ruses. But he may have a low opinion of the local police—”
“Not surprising if he takes Sergeant Harris for an example!”
“Or Cartwright may just be really, really stupid. Not unintelligent, perhaps, but lacking in common sense. At any rate, having thrust himself into the middle of a murder investigation, he’s going to find himself thoroughly investigated.”
FIFTEEN
Vera scurried into the parlour. Daisy suspected it had taken a lot of nerve for her to brave the residents’ lounge on her own. She was dressed for outdoors.
“Did Izzie tell you?”
“I told them you’re going to see the vicar. Rector. And I told Willie why, but not Daisy.”
“Oh.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted.”
“Yes. But…” Vera dithered.
“But what?” asked Willie with a hint of impatience.
“Daisy, are you C of E?”
“Yes. At least—”
“Would you mind awfully coming with me? Izzie’s Methodist, and Willie never goes to church.”
“I hardly ever go,” Daisy admitted.
“But you’re not Mr. Turnbull’s parishioner. Willie is.”
As Daisy actually wanted to accompany Vera, she stopped raising objections. “I’ll get my coat.”
“It’s very kind of you, Daisy,” said Isabel, “but are you sure you’re not too tired?”
“Not at all.” Curiosity outweighed weariness every time.
“It’s just across the street,” Vera pointed out, “beyond the church. I’ll run up and fetch your coat and hat if you like.”
“I’ll go,” Isabel offered, and she hurried out.
Taking her cue from Willie, Daisy didn’t tell Vera about Cartwright’s irruption into the middle of things. It might well change her mind about confiding in the rector.
Five minutes later, Daisy and Vera crossed the road, free of traffic on a Sunday evening. The grass in the churchyard sparkled with frost and the church stood silhouetted against the star-filled sky. Daisy started to turn left, towards the Old Rectory, an ancient building she had noticed on her peregrinations.
Vera put a hand on her arm and gave a little tug to the right. “It’s this way. The new rectory is to the north. Not that it’s very new—mid-eighteenth century.”
“Much more comfortable, I expect. Look, there’s a light in the church. Could it be the rector?”
“I doubt it, not so long after Evensong. Probably the sexton clearing up.”
“What sort of person is the rector? Is he married?” A nice, sympathetic clergyman would be an ideal match for Vera, Daisy thought.
“He reminds me of my grandfather.”
Too bad. “In what way?”
“He looks like him. Grandpapa was a clergyman. They run in the family. But he was also a hard-headed, practical Yorkshireman. He spent all his life as vicar of a poor parish in Bradford and he was more concerned with alleviating poverty than climbing the church hierarchy, like my father. He was the kindest man I ever met.”
“And Mr. Turnbull is kind?”
“Well, I don’t really know, but he looks kind and he was very nice when he called.”
Daisy crossed her fingers for luck. Vera’s optimism seemed a bit premature, but at least she had cheered up.
A frowning maid opened the door of the rectory and asked their business. Daisy gave their names and asked to see Mr. Turnbull. Grudgingly the woman invited them to step into the hall, then went away to ask her master if he could see them, muttering audibly about “people who never give the poor man a moment’s peace.”
“Should I offer to come back in the morning, before school?” Vera whispered. “Or after school?”
“No.” Daisy was adamant. Given time to worry, Vera wou
ld not easily be brought back up to scratch. Besides, delay would give Cartwright a chance to get his story in first.
The maid returned, with a martyred air that Daisy hoped was not a reflection of the rector’s. She led them to a pleasant, shabby living room, Daisy with a firm grip on Vera’s arm to prevent backtracking.
The man who came to meet them was short and plump, with a broad pink face and thick, wavy silver hair. He had changed his clerical black for an ancient blazer with the threadbare crest of a Cambridge college on the pocket.
“My dear Miss Leighton, what can I do for you?” He turned courteously to Daisy. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your name, Mrs…?”
Vera seemed tongue-tied so Daisy said, “Fletcher. A friend from London. We’re sorry to disturb you so late on a Sunday evening.”
“Not at all, not at all.” He beamed at them benevolently, then glanced behind him, where a plump, grey-haired woman was gathering up her knitting. “My wife.”
No hope for Vera, then, even if he weren’t thirty years too old. Daisy exchanged polite murmurs with Mrs. Turnbull.
“Don’t move, dear,” said the rector. “I’ll take the ladies to my study.”
“There’s no fire, dear. It will be icy.”
“No matter, no matter. They are young and dressed for out-of-doors, and you know I don’t feel the cold.”
Vera found her voice. “Mrs. Fletcher has just recovered…”
“Come and sit by the fire, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Mrs. Turnbull placidly. “I’ll make cocoa.” She went out.
When they were all seated, the rector asked Vera how he could help her. She looked pleadingly at Daisy, beside her on a sofa.
Daisy knew only half the story. Also, she wanted to avoid all mention of the murder, let alone suggesting any link between it and Vera’s troubles. She opted for brevity and candour.
“I just happen to be in Beaconsfield for a few days. I’m not really familiar with the situation, but I gather something that happened at the school upset Miss Leighton. She—”
“Indeed!” The rector leaned forward, fixing an intent gaze on Vera. “I’m sorry to hear it, Miss Leighton. And extremely interested.”
Alarmed, Vera faltered, “B-but I … You already know?”
