Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  Had Cartwright spread his version of events? If so, Daisy thought, the fat was in the fire. She could only hope she’d be able to smother the flames.

  “The fact is,” the rector continued, reaching over to pat Vera’s hand, “we have had great difficulty in keeping teachers for the infants. It is some time since any have stayed longer than a single term. Naturally we—the board and I—suspect a common factor. However, not one of the young women has been willing to speak out, to give any but the vaguest of reasons for resigning. Without facts, we cannot act.”

  “Go on, Vera,” Daisy urged.

  “It was last month,” she began hesitantly, “a couple of weeks after the beginning of term. Before we moved to Beaconsfield. The children had left and I was tidying the room, preparing lessons for the next day. I was at the blackboard copying out a poem from When We Were Very Young. Children respond so well to Mr. Milne’s verses. They want to learn to read them for themselves.” She fell silent.

  “My little ones love them,” said Daisy. “You were writing one on the board when…?”

  “When Mr.… The headmaster came in. I thought … I assumed he wanted to make sure I had everything I needed, to ask if I had any questions or wanted advice, as he had once or twice before. I said hello and went on writing on the board. He came up behind me and put his arms round me, and he … he…” She shuddered. “I’d rather not describe—”

  “No, no, by all means!” exclaimed the rector.

  “I broke away from him and ran to the door. I told him I was going to report his … advances. He said I was a … a typical frigid old maid and it was no wonder no one had ever loved me. It’s not true! I was engaged. It’s different when someone you love kisses you, when you want to be kissed.” Her voice cracked.

  “He didn’t come back from the war?” the rector asked gently.

  Vera nodded. Daisy couldn’t speak, a lump rising in her throat as she relived the moment when she’d heard that Michael wasn’t ever coming back. She took Vera’s hand in hers.

  As if taking strength from her clasp, Vera went on: “Mr. Cartwright threatened that if I told anyone, he’d say I tried to … to seduce him and had hysterics when he wouldn’t … cooperate. He said I’d lose my job and never teach again.”

  “Darling, that’s a threat that would only work if he had done it right away. Telling his version now will lead to his having to explain why he let you go on teaching innocent children after your misbehaviour. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Turnbull?”

  “Why, yes. I hadn’t thought about it in precisely those terms, but yes, I see your point, Mrs. Fletcher. He would be most unwise to come forward now.”

  Daisy realised it was pointless to try to keep Vera’s personal troubles separate from the murder. “That seems to be just what he’s done.”

  “What? He hasn’t come to me.”

  “He went to the police.”

  “Surely this is not a matter for the police!”

  “I doubt it. But ‘the wicked flee when no man pursueth.’” Daisy was pleased with herself for producing an apt biblical quotation. “You’ve heard about the police investigation in Beaconsfield?”

  “I have heard a doubtless garbled version of something of the sort,” the rector said severely. “More than one, in fact, so one or the other is necessarily inaccurate.”

  “Yes, well, the details are not important just now. As to what brought Mr. Cartwright into the picture, I can only speculate. My theory is that he was passing the house where Miss Leighton lives, saw the police there, learned that she was helping with their enquiries, and jumped to the conclusion that she’d reported him. At any rate, I witnessed his bursting into the inspector’s room declaring wildly that an unnamed ‘she’ was lying. When the inspector obviously didn’t know what he was talking about, he withdrew his words. And his person.”

  “Good gracious!” the clergyman exclaimed.

  “Daisy, you didn’t tell me!”

  “No, you weren’t there when I told the others, and as you’d already made up your mind to report him to Mr. Turnbull, I decided his antics might scare you off.”

  “They might. I’m such a coward.”

  “Some of us, myself included, would be scared stiff to face a classroom full of children.”

  The rector asked, “You say Cartwright’s not going to pursue the matter?”

  “The police will. He has no choice. One can’t make wild accusations to an officer investigating murder, and expect—”

  “Murder? Then that part of the story was true. I didn’t want to believe it, in our quiet little town.”

  Daisy was about to speak, but he bowed his head in silent prayer over his clasped hands. She was wondering whether she too ought to pray, and if so for whom, when he looked up.

  “What should I do, Mr. Turnbull?” Vera asked desperately.

  “Sit tight, my dear. Go to school in the morning. Have as little to do with the headmaster as is consonant with courtesy and the necessities of your profession. I’m going to do a little investigating myself. I have the addresses of two of your predecessors who left unexpectedly. I shall write at once and ask them to reveal why they felt unable to stay with us.”

  “It might be better to look them up in person,” Daisy suggested, “if they are within reach. They may not care to put the experience on paper.”

  “Why should they speak up now,” said Vera, “when they wouldn’t before?”

  Daisy thought fast. “Because, before, they would have just put their reputations and careers in danger, but now they’d be helping you, who find yourself in the same position. Or so we can reasonably assume.”

  “You’re right, Mrs. Fletcher. One is in Croydon, I believe, and the other also south of London. Surbiton? I’m sure there are buses,” he added vaguely.

  “Oh, Mr. Turnbull, I’m sure writing to them will be enough. I can’t ask you to traipse about—”

  “My dear Miss Leighton, you are not asking, I’m offering. I keep Mondays as clear as I can, in case anything should come up. ‘Traipsing about,’ as you put it, will be a pleasant outing.”

  “I’ll drive you, Mr. Turnbull,” Daisy proposed. “I’m going up tomorrow to see my babies. I’ll pick you up at Marylebone Station in my car.”

  “That would be most enjoyable, Mrs. Fletcher, if you can spare the time. Let me find my address book and the train timetable.” He toddled off to his fireless study.

  “It’s very sweet of you, Daisy, but—”

  “Don’t worry, darling, it shouldn’t take long, and besides, I have an ulterior motive. You’ve probably already realised that my besetting sin is curiosity. I’d like to see your predecessors for myself. Also, they may be willing to tell me what they find embarrassing to spell out to the rector.”

  “I couldn’t bring myself to confess to him that I smiled at Mr. Cartwright when he came in.”

  “Why shouldn’t you? The previous time, he’d come to help you.”

  “Yes, but he probably thought I was encouraging him.”

  “Admittedly you’re particularly attractive when you smile, but if one has to consider every time one feels like smiling that it could inflame the passions of the nearest male, life would become impossible. You mustn’t think for a moment that his boorishness was in any way your fault, Vera.”

  “I used to smile a lot more before, I think.”

  “Well, start smiling again. It suits you.”

  As she spoke, a tap on the door preceded Mrs. Turnbull’s entrance with a tray of steaming mugs. “Here we are. Now where’s my husband disappeared to?”

  “He went to get his Bradshaw’s, Mrs. Turnbull.”

  Without comment or questions, the rector’s wife—properly discreet in public, though he might tell her everything in private—passed round the cocoa and offered a plate of custard creams. She sat down, saying, “I’ll leave you in peace when Jeremy comes back.”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Turnbull.” Vera managed to smile at her. “We’ve just ab
out finished my … our business.”

  The rector returned, happily waving a large diary, the larger train timetables, and a map book. “Here we are. Let us plan our travels, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  While they discussed train times and pored over the maps, Vera talked to Mrs. Turnbull. Daisy didn’t hear much of what they said, but to her relief, they appeared to be getting on well together.

  Daisy and Vera left the rectory half an hour later. Vera walked with a much springier step. Daisy plodded. All she wanted was her bed.

  SIXTEEN

  When Alec at last went upstairs, Daisy was already in bed and half asleep.

  “Darling, have they decided?” she asked drowsily.

  “Decided what?”

  “Whether they want your invaluable assistance.”

  “They want me, if they can get me. Go back to sleep, love, we’ll talk in the morning.”

  For once, she obeyed orders. When, having donned his pyjamas and brushed his teeth, he slipped in beside her, she didn’t stir.

  Alec was tired, but questions and concerns swirled in his restless mind. First and foremost was the super and the AC’s possible reaction to the peculiar predicament he found himself in. He would have to testify at the inquest as a private person. If his superiors decided to accede to Buckinghamshire’s request for his services, he might find himself on the stand as a detective officer as well. The coroner would have good reason to be outraged.

  All Alec could do was employ his persuasive powers to convince Crane and the AC that they must send someone else. Surely the fact that the three most obvious suspects were Daisy’s friends would be sufficient.

  Wilhelmina Chandler, Vera Leighton, Isabel Sutcliffe: suspicion inevitably fell on them. Alec was fairly certain they were not responsible for the woman’s death. He didn’t think that conclusion was influenced by his undeniable bias in their favour. Years of experience told him anyone was capable of killing, under the right—or wrong—circumstances. But equally, his experience of judging character made him doubt that any of the three was capable of behaving as she had since the discovery if burdened by a guilty conscience.

  Nonetheless, Vera’s emotional collapse and Willie’s refusal to break a confidence would have to be investigated. As for Cartwright’s extraordinary outburst and Vaughn’s repeated efforts to trace Mrs. Gray—or to pretend to want to trace her, the two men had moved themselves from the periphery to the centre of the case.

  Tomorrow … No, no point planning for tomorrow until he heard whether he was to be involved or not. He lay listening to Daisy’s quiet breathing, thankful that the horrendous, laboured wheeze had completely disappeared. If he had lost her as he’d lost Joan—

  It didn’t bear thinking of. Holding her close, he fell asleep.

  * * *

  When the chambermaid tapped on the bedroom door in the morning, Daisy went on sleeping soundly. Alec washed and dressed quietly, then kissed her good-bye. She smiled, mumbled, and turned over. He went down to breakfast, intending to catch an early up-train.

  As he ate, he changed his mind and decided to drive up. He hoped Daisy would have the sense to stay in Hampstead once she got home, and he had no idea whether he’d be returning to Beaconsfield. He might need the car for a job elsewhere in the country.

  * * *

  Daisy didn’t get down to breakfast until the last possible moment before they stopped serving. Isabel was in the dining room, dawdling over a cup of coffee.

  Joining her, she asked, “How is your room working out?”

  “Not bad. Cramped, but we don’t have much stuff. Vera said the truckle bed was quite comfortable—Sally put an extra mattress on it for her. Vera and Willie went to work. Last night, DC Pennicuik brought us Willie’s briefcase and Vera’s papers, and our handbags and some clothes, thank goodness. He was no end embarrassed about the clothes! I saw Alec, but just to say good morning before he dashed off. He went up to town?”

  “I presume so. I hope the super doesn’t hit the ceiling. No other coppers about yet?”

  “Not that I’ve seen. I need to know when they’ll let me get the cellar cleaned. I can’t stand not having anything to do. They won’t object if I go and get some work done in the garden, will they?”

  “I doubt it, unless they take it into their heads that another body might have been buried in a flower bed.”

  “Daisy! Surely they can’t—Oh, you’re joking. Aren’t you?”

  “I was, but you never know.”

  “I do hope Alec comes back. Though I was quite impressed with Inspector Underwood. He seems intelligent, especially in comparison with Sergeant Harris. I hope Underwood hasn’t left Harris to guard the house.”

  “More likely a constable, who won’t care two hoots if you work in the garden. It’s worth asking, anyway, if you’re dying for something to do.”

  “The alternative is to go and try to persuade Mrs. Hedger to take on the cellar.”

  “You’re pretty certain she won’t?”

  “I don’t know, she might, if I offer her enough money. One thing’s certain, she’ll be offended whether I ask or not. She’ll make sure I realise it’s not part of her duties and go about baleful and tight-lipped for hours, if not days.”

  “Tell her she can use as much carbolic as she likes.”

  Isabel laughed. “That’s a notion. I’ll try it. Oh well, it’ll have to be done, but I can put it off until the police give the word.”

  Sally Hedger arrived with Daisy’s breakfast. “More coffee, Miss Sutcliffe?”

  “No, thanks, Sally. I’m just keeping Mrs. Fletcher company.”

  The waitress hesitated a moment, then said, “Mrs. Fletcher, d’you mind if I ask … Was it really Mrs. Gray that was killed, like they’re saying?”

  “I don’t know, Sally.” Better not to mention that no one knew as yet. It was the stuff of nightmares. “Did you like her?”

  “Her! No, I did not. Married Mr. Gray for his money, she did, and made him cut his son out of his will, they say.”

  “A son? He had a son?” Daisy wondered whether Alec and DI Underwood knew.

  “Yes, madam. There’s them as says worse of her: She did the old man in. She used to talk to him really nasty, but I can’t believe she was that wicked, to kill him. ’Sides, the doctor said he died natural. Natural causes.”

  “Miss!” called a man on the other side of the room. Sally, having dropped her double bombshell, bustled off.

  “Gosh!” said Isabel. “Do you believe any of it, Daisy?”

  “That Gray had a son, yes. It’s the sort of thing people would know. About the will: It wouldn’t be surprising if father and son quarrelled over the second marriage. As for Mrs. Gray murdering her husband, I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. He was elderly, so the doctor wouldn’t have looked very hard, so he probably didn’t test for poisons.”

  “Couldn’t they exhume his body?”

  “With nothing but rumour to go on, I don’t think the police could get permission for an exhumation, even if they wanted to.”

  “Not much point, anyway, with her dead.”

  “You’re assuming she’s the body in the cellar.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes. I dreamed last night that it turned out to be someone else and Alec was sent to France to find her and I went with him.…” She sighed. “Too much to hope for. I wonder whether Inspector Underwood is aware of the son. Ought I to tell him?”

  “He can hardly fail to find out. The lawyer must know.”

  “You’re right. Alec would say it was unwarranted interference. Besides, I haven’t time. I’d better stop talking and finish my breakfast or I’ll have to run for the train.”

  * * *

  Alec reached the Yard at nine. On his desk was only routine paperwork.

  “How’s Mrs. Fletcher, Chief?” his sergeant, Ernie Piper, enquired.

  “Much improved, thanks. What’s up?”

  “I dotted all the i’s and crossed the t’s in Rutland.
Inspector Mackinnon took care of everything that came in here over the weekend. There’s nothing new to hand.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Alec, but he didn’t explain. Time enough for that when he found out what his position was. He read reports, signed a few letters, initialed memos, all the while waiting for a summons.

  It didn’t come till shortly before eleven. Ernie answered the internal phone. His end of the brief conversation consisted entirely of “Yes, sir.” He hung up. “The super wants to see you, Chief. He sounds unhappy.”

  “For once, he has cause.”

  Crane’s secretary said only, “Go straight in, Chief Inspector,” but her moue and her eyebrows told Alec to watch out.

  As if he needed a warning.

  He stepped through the door. As he approached the desk, the super regarded him in stony silence and did not wave him to a seat. Alec remained standing, trying his best not to come to attention.

  “Explain.”

  Alec explained. His story did not change with repetition, but it sounded more and more unconvincing to his own ears each time he told it. At least the super had no interest in the details, only in the broad picture.

  His face brought to mind a dormant volcano preparing to erupt. In due course, he erupted.

  “It’s the devil of a mess your wife has dragged you into now!” He grabbed a fistful of papers from his desk and shook them at Alec.

  “Sir, she didn’t exactly—”

  “Don’t quibble, Fletcher. Her friend’s house. Her friend’s invitation. Her friend’s cellar.”

  Alec let the flow pass over him unanswered. It trickled to a halt.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s a pretty kettle of fish! I trust Mrs. Fletcher is back at home with no intention of venturing to Beaconsfield again unless her presence is officially required.”

  “I—ah—I’m not sure exactly what her plans are, sir.”

  “Dammit, man, she’s your wife! Can’t you control—”

  “Sir.” The secretary’s voice came over the interoffice phone. “The Assistant Commissioner will see you and the chief inspector now.”

  The AC was not given to lengthy or intemperate speech, and he didn’t put up with it from his subordinates. “Be seated, gentlemen. Mr. Crane, I have received a brief wire from the chief constable of Buckinghamshire requesting the ‘informal’ assistance of Mr. Fletcher in a murder investigation. Please explain.”