Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  “When can you take the bandage off?”

  “Permanently? A couple more weeks at least, the doctor expects. Depends on progress, which is why I obey orders. This session, you tell me. I set the alarm for half past eleven.” He gestured at the clock on the bedside table. “Should be soon, but it always feels like forever.”

  “Just a couple of minutes.” Alec wanted to see the man’s whole face. In general, the eyes were far less capable of concealing emotion than the mouth.

  “The hell with it!” He sat up, taking off the cloth and dropping it with a slight splash in a basin beside the clock. His eyes were reddish, half-open. He blinked, and raised his hands with forefingers crooked, then froze. “Damn, it’s so hard not to rub them. Make me think about something else. Why are you interested in my father’s second marriage, anyway?” Through slitted eyes, he stared at Alec.

  “Your father’s second wife is dead.”

  Gray’s eyes opened fractionally wider. “Dead! Good riddance! But she was my age, a year or two younger. What did she die of? Motor smash? Wait a minute, you came to bring me the news? A detective chief inspector, didn’t you say? She was murdered! And you presume I did it.”

  “I don’t presume you did it. I have to consider the possibility. You have a very strong motive. Are you aware of how your father left his affairs?”

  “He told me he felt obliged to provide for his widow, if that’s what you mean. He apologised, poor old chap! But everything was to come to me if she remarried or died. At the time, the former seemed far more likely.”

  “Did the solicitor, Mr. Ainsley, write to tell you Mrs. Gray proposed to sell the house, Cherry Trees, and did in fact do so?”

  “He may have. My letters are held for me when I’m abroad, and I haven’t been able to read anything since I got back. It doesn’t surprise me, though. She was never cut out for life in a village. I expect she’s bought a flat in town.”

  Alec chose not to enlighten him. “You don’t mind?”

  Gray shrugged. “As I mentioned, I didn’t grow up in that house, and I haven’t even visited in years. I have no emotional attachment. I do see what you mean about motive, though. I assure you, I’ve been unable to leave the flat since I was discharged from the hospital. I’ll give you my doctor’s name.”

  “Thank you, that won’t be necessary. You see, she died a month ago.”

  “A month? Mid-September? I was in—I was a long way from England, and a long camel ride from the nearest port.”

  “I’ve heard camels aren’t the easiest ride in the world.”

  “They’re not, particularly when you can’t see.”

  The alarm clock rang shrilly. Alec took it as his cue to leave.

  He returned to Whitehall, but not to the Foreign Office. They weren’t going to give him an answer unless he called in the heavy guns. The question was, in view of his unofficial status in the case, would the super cooperate?

  Several colleagues greeted him on his way up to Crane’s office. Word of his present situation had spread, inevitably. Some were inquisitive; some teased him about his penchant for odd cases. Only a couple knew about Daisy’s frequent involvement, and they were too discreet to mention her.

  Superintendent Crane was fatalistic. “As soon as I heard Mrs. Fletcher was involved, I knew there’d be complications.”

  “Sir, you can’t blame my wife for the Foreign Office’s reluctance to divulge where one of their secret agents spent September!”

  “When you put it like that … But I bet she has relatives in the FO.”

  “A cousin, on her mother’s side. Would you like me to appeal to him for assistance?”

  “Heaven forbid! I’ll see what I can do. What’s the man’s name, again?”

  “Robert Gray, sir. The victim’s stepson.”

  “Ah yes, difficult relationship. Not that I mean to suggest … How are the children doing these days, Fletcher?”

  Alec assured him that Belinda loved her boarding school and the twins were growing by leaps and bounds.

  “Good, good. I’ll be in touch when I get the information. Or not, as the case may be. Never can tell with those Foreign Office Johnnies.”

  * * *

  Alec made his way to Belgravia. Judith Gray’s friend, Elizabeth Knox, lived in a fashionable maisonette in a row of fashionable maisonettes with pretentious columned entrances. All the curtains were closed. He rang the bell.

  Again, an overalled cleaning woman opened the door. “Not at ’ome,” she said, and started to shut it.

  “Just a minute!”

  She stopped and fixed him with an incurious gaze. “Nobody’s ’ome, like wot I said.”

  He lifted his hat. “Is Miss Knox out for the day?” he asked hopefully.

  “Mrs. They’ve both gone off.”

  “When will they be back?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Can you tell me where they went?”

  “Dunno. They don’t tell me, do they. I comes in three days a week like always. Don’t make no odds to me, savin’ there’s more work when they’re ’ome.”

  “They must leave a forwarding address with someone?”

  “Dunno. If that’s all, I’ve got me work to do.”

  The door started to close again, and Alec found no reason to arrest its progress. Where, oh where were all the inquisitive, garrulous charwomen of England hiding?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The twins were rolling down the hill. Though the sun shone, it had rained in the night. Miranda’s pinny and Oliver’s corduroy rompers were covered with mud. Daisy decided she’d better add a tip when she paid the laundryman’s bill.

  Nana was pretty muddy, too. Luckily it was the gardener’s day, so he could wash her. Elsie would do it if necessary, but she didn’t consider it any part of a parlourmaid’s duties—and of course she was quite right. A less obliging girl would refuse.

  “One more time, my pets,” Daisy called as the children toiled up towards her again. “Then we must go home. Don’t pout, Miranda. The wind will change and your face will get stuck. What would Nanny say?”

  The dog suddenly charged up the hill, barking.

  “Daddy!” Oliver shouted, his short legs pumping harder.

  Daisy turned to see Alec coming down. He fended off Nana, who danced about him, whining her delight. He might as well not have bothered, as he then swept up Oliver in his arms, transferring a goodly quantity of mud to his jacket, and placed him, shrieking with joy, on his shoulders.

  Miranda arrived. Alec bent to pick her up, eliciting further shrieks from Oliver, but she said, “No, Daddy, I’m being a lady. I’ll hold your hand, like Mummy does. Mummy, you can have his other hand.”

  “Thank you,” said Daisy, laughing at the muddy little lady as she took advantage of her generosity.

  Oliver piggyback, Daisy and Alec walking slowly to allow for Miranda’s short stride, they turned homeward.

  The children chattered about the fun they’d had. Oliver’s speech was still unclear, but his sister understood every word and interpreted when necessary. Back at the house, they went off with Bertha, the nurserymaid, happily repeating their story, which doubtless would be told a third time, to Nanny Gilpin. Mrs. Gilpin wouldn’t scold them too much for their condition, knowing perfectly well who was to blame.

  “You’ll have to change everything you’re wearing, Alec,” said Daisy, following the twins and Bertha up the stairs. “Oliver even got his grubby little hands on your collar.”

  “Your skirt isn’t exactly what I’d call pristine.”

  Daisy glanced down and laughed.

  Mrs. Dobson had lunch waiting when they came down. Alec was in a hurry to get back to Beaconsfield, so they didn’t linger over the meal. He carried her Remington “portable” typewriter out to the car and they set off.

  “Did you talk to Mr. Bragg this morning?” Daisy asked. “How is he?”

  “Flourishing. It turns out Robert Gray is a friend of his.”

  “So he was ab
le to tell you all about him?”

  Alec shook his head. “Not much more than that he’s in England. His travels are strictly hush-hush.”

  “He’s a secret agent?”

  “I didn’t say so!”

  “No, but really, darling, a hush-hush ‘diplomat’ can hardly be anything else. So they wouldn’t tell you where he was when?”

  “I’ve had to put the super on to it,” Alec said gloomily.

  “I suppose he thinks it’s all my fault?”

  “Not exactly your fault. Just, if you weren’t involved in the case, the situation wouldn’t have arisen. He doesn’t really believe it, of course.”

  Daisy snorted in a most unladylike manner. “I should be used to him by now. He is going to find out about the spy for you, is he?”

  “He’s going to ask. Whether he’ll get an answer remains to be seen. Gray is in England at present, and having talked to him, I’m inclined to doubt that he killed his stepmother.”

  “You’re always telling me my personal belief in someone’s innocence is of no significance. Especially if it’s someone I like. Did you like Robert?”

  “I didn’t dislike him. He’s a quirky chap, interesting.”

  “And obviously plausible. A prime requirement for a spy must be plausibility.”

  Alec laughed. “He didn’t strike me as a plausible liar, but you’re probably right.”

  “Is he willing to identify the body?”

  “I didn’t ask. The doctor who did the autopsy said it would be impossible to make her face presentable—Sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that. You’re not going to be sick, are you?” He slowed down, prepared to stop.

  “No, I’m all right. I just need to shut down my imagination.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “In any case Gray came home with a serious eye complaint.”

  “Oh, poor man! What about the woman, Mrs. Gray’s friend?”

  “Departed for parts unknown. The daily professed to be unaware of her destination, and it wasn’t the sort of neighbourhood where women chat on the doorsteps. A bobby or two making house-to-house enquiries might turn up something. It’s up to Underwood to decide whether he wants to request that level of assistance from the Met.”

  “Beneath the dignity of a detective chief inspector?”

  “Very much so. Not to mention a waste of my time.”

  * * *

  Messages awaited both Daisy and Alec at the Saracen’s Head.

  “Oh, good,” said Daisy, reading hers. “Isabel managed to hire a couple of men to clean the cellar. She’s over at the house now, supervising—from a distance—and doing some gardening. I think I’ll walk over to see how it’s going. What about you?”

  “Underwood has finished his enquiries in High Wycombe for the moment. He suggests I join him and Piper at the police station—”

  “Here, or in Wycombe?”

  “Here. To discuss our various findings and plan the next moves. I’ll see you later, love.”

  “Expect you when I see you? All right. I hope the inspector had more luck this morning than you did!”

  Alec had covered half the short distance to the police station when it started to rain. Thinking about the case, he hadn’t noticed the increasingly threatening clouds. He almost turned back to tell Daisy not to go to Cherry Trees, to remember she’d been ill. Whatever he said, she’d make her own decision, though.

  Glancing back, he saw her red umbrella bobbing as she walked in the opposite direction. With any luck, he thought with a sigh, the cellar would have been cleaned already to the point where she and Isabel could take refuge in the house.

  He found Underwood dictating his report to Ernie, who had studied shorthand before becoming a detective officer, with the aim of attaining that branch of the service. Pennicuik was laboriously writing his own report longhand. They all looked up as Alec entered, Pennicuik with an air of profound relief.

  “Any news?” Underwood asked.

  Alec told them the indecisive results of his morning’s travails.

  The inspector grunted. “Good job we don’t want him to take a look at her face. Nor the friend neither, if she wasn’t traipsing about on the other side of the Channel in any case!”

  “How about you, Mr. Underwood? Any luck? What about the rings?”

  Underwood gestured at Ernie, who said, “Mr. Ainsley recognised the fake ruby right away as Mrs. Gray’s. Not a doubt in his mind.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “While I was there, I asked him about the stepson, whether he’d come back after his father’s death. I didn’t know you were going to see him yourself, Chief.”

  “He did come back to England, in June. I didn’t ask him whether he’d come down to Beaconsfield. I slipped up there, though Bragg said all communication about the will was through Gray’s own London solicitor.”

  “That agrees with what Mr. Ainsley said,” Ernie confirmed.

  “I can’t see it matters, Mr. Fletcher,” said Underwood, “because he told you he thought his father’s death suspicious, even without hearing local rumours. I reckon he’s still got the best motive by a mile and a half.”

  “So it still comes down to what the FO will reveal about his whereabouts. Let’s hear the rest of your news, Inspector.”

  “I’ll start with the last item, so that Sergeant Piper can finish taking down my report. In official language, please, Mr. Piper. I called on the rector, the Reverend Jeremy Turnbull, regarding enquiries about Cartwright. He told me he had spoken to three young women, quite independently of each other. All had been approached with ‘lascivious intent including physical contact’—his words—by Roger Cartwright, the headmaster of the church school.”

  “My wife…” said Alec. Damn, he’d meant to keep Daisy out of this particular business. “My wife knows, of course.”

  “So she was your source?” Underwood perked up. “I wondered! I asked Mr. Turnbull whether Miss Leighton was one of the three but he refused to answer.”

  “So does Daisy. Given Miss Leighton’s upset nerves and the rector’s involvement, we can be pretty sure of her. I’d guess the others were her predecessors at the school. We can find them if we need them. Is the rector taking any action?”

  “He’s spoken to the governor of the school board, who’ll be calling a meeting of the trustees.”

  “We ought to interview Cartwright before that, if possible.”

  “Yes. I’ll let DS Piper tell you the rest of our news, while I ring up my super about the stepson. He’s already worried about stepping on Foreign Office toes.” The inspector left the room.

  “Go ahead, Ernie. You walked over to take a look at Cherry Trees?”

  “Yes, Chief. All those high hedges, I can see why they wouldn’t be keeping tabs on their neighbours. I went round the house—Cor, what a pong!—without finding anything the locals missed. And it was Mr. Tring taught me to search, so I reckon it’s all square and above board with the ladies.”

  “Good. Now, that mysterious vehicle. Miss Hedger told me you’d unravelled the riddle.”

  “I talked to the ladies about it, Chief, this morning before I went to look at the scene of the crime. Miss Chandler and Mrs. Fletcher witnessed a black saloon driving dangerously last Friday night. It sped past them up Orchard Road and turned into Station Road without pausing to look for cross traffic. Miss Chandler didn’t catch the letters but she memorised the numbers—eight seven four—so’s she could report it if she ever again saw it posing a threat to life and limb.”

  “We already had possible letters, didn’t we?”

  “That’s right, Chief. BH 874. Made it easy for the county to look it up. It’s a Jowett. As for the owner, they confirmed what Miss Sutcliffe guessed, it’s Vaughn’s.”

  “Vaughn’s! No surprise, really. He’s known to have been hanging about Cherry Trees, first to sell it, then to try for news of Mrs. Gray.”

  “DC Pennicuik talked to some of the neighbours again, an
d managed to get a bit more out of them than they’d offered to the uniformed officers.”

  “Well done.” Alec’s nod of approbation turned the young detective’s ears bright red.

  Ernie Piper, not so many years his senior but much more experienced, resumed his report. “Several of them had noticed the car parked outside Cherry Trees for extended periods, longer than the business of selling the house would account for. One had seen it a couple of times, in the evening, driving up the street, slowing in front of the house, then dashing on. She thought it was driven by a woman. Right, Pennicuik?”

  “That’s it, Sarge. She was pretty certain.”

  “The Jowett is actually registered to Myra Vaughn, Chief, not her husband.”

  “Is it, indeed. What, if anything, do we know about her?”

  “Only what Mr. Underwood found out from Vaughn’s employer, Mr. Langridge. She’s older than he is and she’s the one with the money. The car is available to Vaughn when needed to show a property to a client, which is not often as most of their business is in High Wycombe. Mr. Langridge hasn’t met her, though he hired Vaughn on the recommendation of her brother, a highly respected local accountant.”

  “That would be the partner in Miss Chandler’s firm, correct? What’s his name?”

  Ernie, as always, had the information at his fingertips—or rather, on the tip of his tongue as he didn’t have to consult the notes in front of him. “Mr. Spencer, of Spencer, Mott, and Davis. Davis is the partner Miss Chandler answers to.”

  “So the inspector talked to Davis?”

  “Yes, Chief, but you’re getting ahead of me.”

  “Sorry. Do it your way or we might miss out something vital.”

  “DI Underwood asked Mr. Langridge whether Vaughn was a satisfactory employee. Langridge said, on the whole, yes. Mr. Underwood thought he was being evasive and pressed a bit, but he wouldn’t say any more except that Vaughn is very good at hooking buyers and tenants, which is, after all, their business.”

  “What sort—” Alec paused, as the inspector returned.

  “I got through right away,” he grumbled, “only to find Mr. Parry’s gone to a meeting in Aylesbury. At least he can’t say I didn’t try. What were you asking?”