Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  “Piper said you thought Langridge wasn’t telling the whole story about Vaughn. I wondered what kind of man he is?”

  “Hail-fellow-well-met. I should think he was good at the business in his time but he’s now too stout to budge from behind his desk without much huffing and puffing. In fact, while I was there, his secretary brought in a paper that urgently needed signing, and simply leaning far enough forward to put his name to it was a hard job of work.”

  Langridge sounded like an easy job for Tom Tring, Alec thought. He and his missus could go in with vague enquiries about looking for a place in the country and move on to the shortcomings of the younger generation. “He refused to explain his reservations about Vaughn?”

  “I didn’t push it. We can always go back. But as it happens, I got a clue to Vaughn’s failings at Miss Chandler’s firm. I talked to her boss, Mr. Davis. He speaks very highly of her, incidentally. They wouldn’t have hired her if she hadn’t had an excellent reference from the partner in Yorkshire who encouraged her to qualify as an accountant.”

  “Did Davis say why her previous boss didn’t keep her on?”

  “He couldn’t talk his partner into it. Partly because she’d started there in a lowly position so he didn’t think she’d have the authority, partly just what Davis described as typical Northern stick-in-the-muddishness, just as the ladies told us. Mind you, I gather Davis had trouble with his own partners, but he persuaded them it was the forward-looking, go-ahead way to get a march on their competitors. Full of clichés, our Mr. Davis.”

  Alec and Ernie Piper laughed. Pennicuik ventured a tentative smile.

  “And what did he have to say about Vaughn?” Alec asked.

  “Nothing direct, though I was pretty direct with him, given Miss Chandler’s hints of a connection. He admitted that Langridge is a client, who’s presently having his books audited. He wouldn’t confirm that Miss Chandler is handling the audit, nor that Langridge requested the audit because he suspects the books have been cooked.”

  “They’re trying to keep Vaughn in the dark,” Ernie suggested.

  “That’s how it looks to me,” Underwood agreed. “Maybe trying to keep his wife’s brother in the dark, as well. Assuming he’s been cooking up the books, could Mrs. Gray have found out?”

  “You’re thinking blackmail?” Alec suggested. “Conceivable, though I can’t imagine how she’d have found out.”

  “It might’ve been obvious, Chief, from what he said when they talked about the price of the house. I don’t know how it’d work but if he’s skimming a bit off the top … Miss Chandler’s the one to ask.”

  “If she’ll answer. I’m more inclined to consider an affair gone wrong. You haven’t interviewed him yet, I take it, Inspector.”

  “No, sir. His work is the perfect excuse to keep out of our way. His wife was out, too, when I called at their house. I left a note with the maid setting an appointment for six this evening. I hope you’ll join me. Unless you’d rather do it yourself?”

  “No, the two of us should impress him with the necessity of cooperation. What about Mrs. Vaughn? We’ll need to talk to her, as well.”

  “I hope she’ll be there. If not, we’ll have to catch her tomorrow. But if he doesn’t turn up, we’ll find him one way or another and bring him into the station. We need to have a chat with Mr. Vaughn.”

  “Good enough. Which leaves Cartwright.”

  “How about all four of us waiting at the school gate when the children get out?” Underwood grinned. “I don’t mind giving the slimy bastard a bit of a scare.”

  “It’s an attractive thought.” Alec considered. “But on the whole, better not. We don’t want all the children hanging about asking questions. If we lurk behind the yews in the graveyard, we can watch the school until they have left, and then go in.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Daisy hurried along Orchard Road through the rain. By the time she reached Cherry Trees, it was coming down hard, with no signs of letting up. At the gate, an elderly bobby was buttoning his cape.

  “Is Miss Sutcliffe in, Officer?”

  “Are you press?” he countered.

  “A reporter? No, a friend.”

  “They telled me to watch out for girl reporters. Haw! I never seen such a thing.”

  “Have you had many reporters turn up?”

  “Yes’tiddy. Jus’ the one today. Not much interest in a body in a cellar since Delores Wendover, the actress, shot that lord yes’tiddy.”

  “Good heavens, what lord? I’ve been avoiding the newspapers.”

  “Can’t rightly remember the name, madam, but I dessay he deserved it. Anyways, if it keeps them newshounds away from here, I’m right grateful to Miss Wendover.”

  “You have a point,” Daisy agreed. Her ankles were getting wet. “I hope you don’t have to stand out in the rain much longer.”

  She stepped forward and, with a gloomy mutter about Sergeant Harris, he moved aside to let her through the gate.

  Isabel couldn’t possibly be gardening in this downpour. Daisy hoped the house had been disinfected enough to be bearable by now. She rang the bell.

  From the open kitchen window to her right came Isabel’s voice. “Daisy? Just a minute. It’s locked, and I’m just scrubbing the soil out of my fingernails.”

  “Weeding?”

  “That’s right.”

  A minute later, the door opened. Daisy couldn’t restrain herself: she sniffed as she stepped across the threshold. “Sorry! That’s rude. But it’s much better, isn’t it?”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I wasn’t sure if it was wishful thinking.”

  “It’s more disinfectant than … anything else.”

  “Better enough for a cup of tea, if we go into the sitting room and close the door?”

  “Definitely. Can I help?”

  “No, go and sit down. I already put the kettle on. It won’t take a moment.”

  Only five days had passed—four if one didn’t count Friday itself—since last time Isabel had gone to make tea while Daisy waited in the sitting room. She chose the same chair by the fireplace. No fire burned in the grate now, though the room was chilly. She kept her coat and hat on.

  Isabel still wore her gardening jacket and a woolly hat, when she came in with tea and biscuits. “I think they’re all right,” she said doubtfully. “They were in a tin with a tight lid. But don’t eat any if you’re suspicious. I’ll light the fire.”

  “Not just for me.”

  “It’ll help freshen the air. Besides, we’ll probably move back in this evening. The hotel’s getting a bit expensive.”

  “Will Inspector Underwood let you?”

  “Yes. He popped into the Saracen’s Head at lunchtime to tell me we can come home as soon as we’re ready. I don’t think he really suspects us, do you?”

  “I don’t think so. You three have no motive. Of course, the police don’t have to prove motive. But without at least the shadow of one, they have to have more incontrovertible evidence than they’re ever going to find in this case. I’ve seen no signs that any of you are under suspicion.”

  “That’s a relief. That and getting the cleaning done. I thought I’d do some baking this afternoon. It always makes the house smell good.”

  “Good idea. It’s really not bad, though. You must have picked good workers.”

  “A couple of ex-soldiers who just can’t settle to a steady job, as Mrs. Barnes said. One of them gets bad spells, and the other can’t cope without his pal.”

  “Poor chaps!”

  “They even dug out the floor a couple of inches deep to get rid of … It’s chalk, you know. Absorbent. I’ll have to put down paving stones to fill the space or I’ll keep tripping over the edge. They said they’d try to come back tomorrow to help, but not to count on it. I gave them the best letters of reference I honestly could.”

  “That reminds me, did Mrs. Hedger give you a written recommendation from Mrs. Gray?”

  “No, as a matter of fact. I could se
e how well she’d been keeping up, with no one telling her what to do. Also, frankly, I didn’t care to ask for one. You know what she’s like. That reminds me, I must go and pick up the post. The police wouldn’t let the postman deliver yesterday and the post office said they’d hold everything for us until they heard otherwise. Why do you ask?”

  “Because if Mrs. Hedger had a signed and dated letter, the police would know Mrs. Gray was still alive then. And in England.”

  “They still don’t know when she died?”

  “Not as far as I know. They aren’t even a hundred percent sure it’s her, the last I heard. Ninety-nine and a half percent, but she could be living the gay life in France.”

  “Surely they must have asked Mrs. Hedger when she left.”

  “I presume so, but whether they got an answer…”

  “True,” Isabel agreed. “At any rate, if she had a reference letter, I didn’t see it. Shall I get some more biscuits?”

  “Oh!” Daisy was dismayed to find crumbs on her saucer and the nearby plate empty. “I honestly didn’t mean to eat any. No, please don’t fetch more! But I’d love another cup, thanks. I wonder whether Sally would know whether her aunt had a reference letter?”

  “Ask her.”

  “I’d better not. I’ll mention it to Alec, though.”

  “I can’t see why Mrs. Hedger would have kept it if it was bad, or why she wouldn’t have shown it to me if it was good.”

  “Good in parts, perhaps, like the curate’s egg. She’d prefer not to show it if you didn’t demand it. But as you didn’t, she probably has thrown it out by now.”

  “More than likely. You know, I can’t help feeling Mrs. Gray must have gone to France. Otherwise, why hasn’t anyone found her handbag? And even if she sent her trunks ahead, she must have had overnight things, a small suitcase at least, mustn’t she?”

  “You’d think so.”

  “I couldn’t have helped noticing if they were anywhere in the house. I even went up to the attics. There were some things she sold us that we didn’t really need, just cluttering up the place, so I stored them up there. So she must have taken her bag and a suitcase, or where are they?”

  “They could have been dumped anywhere,” Daisy protested, “and the police have had only two days. They can’t go off hunting in all directions for something that may be in Paris, or at the bottom of a pond somewhere, not until they have much more information to go on.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “All the same, I wonder whether they’ve checked at the station here. Mrs. Gray might have left something in the left luggage office, though they’d surely have reported it to the police by now. If she forwarded her trunks, though … They’d probably remember where to.”

  “Wouldn’t Mr. Underwood or Alec have checked that?”

  “They might not have thought of it. Men seem to be able to manage with a tenth of the luggage.”

  “You could go and ask at the station, couldn’t you?”

  “In theory. But Alec and the inspector would probably be furious.”

  “No need for them to know, unless you found out something useful, and then they ought to be grateful.”

  “Ought to be. Alec is seldom as grateful as I feel he ought to be. Still, if it weren’t raining I’d be tempted.”

  Isabel glanced at the window. “It’s stopped raining. And I have shopping to do, as well as the post office. I hate to turn you out—in fact, you’re welcome to stay put—but I’d like to go before it starts pouring again.”

  “I’m coming. I just can’t resist enquiring at the station, now that I’ve thought of it. It’s a great trial, being subject to insatiable curiosity.”

  “Like the Elephant’s Child? I loved the Just So Stories when I was little.” She sighed. “I always thought someday I’d read them to my children. Oh well, what can’t be cured must be endured. I’ll just take the tea things to the kitchen and wash up later.”

  Daisy’s thoughts turned from Mrs. Gray’s luggage to Isabel and Inspector Underwood. She was pretty sure they had taken to each other. The trouble was, supposing their liking became friendship, grew warmer, and ended in marriage? What would happen to the amicable household of the three women?

  Not to mention that, although she had somehow gathered the impression that Underwood was a bachelor, she didn’t actually know whether or not he already had a wife.…

  Alec would say, “Don’t interfere.” And this time, he was probably right.

  Carrying umbrellas, Daisy and Isabel walked down Orchard Road and crossed Station Road to the post office. Isabel went in. Daisy went on towards the station. At the near end of the bridge over the railway cutting, she stood aside to let a couple of women with shopping baskets go by in the opposite direction: The footway on the bridge was so narrow pedestrians could pass each other only with difficulty. Once the way was clear, she crossed the bridge and had just reached the far end when she heard hurried footsteps following her.

  She glanced round and saw Isabel, practically running after her and about to call out. With a wave, Daisy turned right and moved a few feet down the slope to the station, where the pavement was wider.

  Isabel caught up. She clutched Daisy’s arm with one hand, the other flapping an envelope with a foreign stamp. “From France!”

  “Gosh! From Mrs. Gray? Hold it still, do. I can’t read it.”

  “No, to Mrs. Gray.” Isabel handed it to Daisy. “I can’t make out the postmark, can you?”

  Daisy peered at the blurry impression. “St. Tropez, I think. It’s taken a long time to get here. It’s dated the fifth.”

  “The post office has held it for a week, expecting her to write with a forwarding address. They should have given it to the police, shouldn’t they?”

  “Yes, but never mind. You can hand it over in person to the inspector.”

  “I … Or you could give it to Alec.”

  “He’d be bound to think there was something fishy about my having it. Better that it go straight from your hand to Mr. Underwood’s. I’ll go to the police station with you, if you like, but first I want to ask about her luggage.”

  “All right. I’ll come, too.” Isabel tucked the letter into her string bag and they set off down the hill. “The stationmaster is in charge of left luggage, and he knows me from when I was constantly dashing back and forth to Wycombe. I bet he knows I bought the Grays’ house, so he won’t be surprised if I ask about her trunks.”

  “Whereas if I do, he’ll either guess that I’m just being nosy or assume the police sent me to ask—if he knows about Alec—which could lead to trouble when he finds out they didn’t.”

  Isabel grinned. “It sounds as if you’re often in trouble with the police.”

  “Only because they regard any attempt to help as interference. I don’t know why I bother.”

  “Insatiable curiosity? There’s the stationmaster now, looking portentously at his watch. Must be a train due.”

  The burly man in the smart uniform frowned at his gold pocket watch and peered down the line towards High Wycombe. The wail of a whistle came to Daisy’s ears. The stationmaster’s frown vanished; he stowed away his watch and prepared to welcome the up-train to his station.

  Daisy and Isabel waited until the train had made its brief stop, allowing two women, laden with loot from the Wycombe shops, to alight. As the stationmaster turned back towards his lair, Isabel accosted him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Jenkins.”

  “Afternoon, miss. Summat I can do for you?”

  “I hope so. I’m Miss Sutcliffe. I daresay you heard I bought Mrs. Gray’s house recently?”

  “That I did,” he responded cautiously. “And I heard Mrs. Gray was foully done to death in that same house.”

  Isabel turned to Daisy. “Is it all right if I explain?”

  “You’ll be Mrs. Scotland Yard?” asked the stationmaster.

  “I am. I’ll tell you what happened, if you promise not to pass it on.”

  “I won
’t. The comp’ny don’t put gossips in charge of stations. We see things and we hear things and we keep our mouths shut. Not like the county police. That Sergeant Harris, he’s in a mint of trouble on account of not holding his gab.”

  “So I believe.” Daisy wanted to give him as little information as was necessary to persuade him to help. “The thing is, the death occurred before Miss Sutcliffe and her friends moved in. The body was in the cellar and they didn’t have a key. Because it’s been several weeks, it’s … not easy to identify, so the police are not absolutely certain it’s Mrs. Gray.”

  “Is that so! I’d reckernise her, surely. Always popping up to town, she was. Come through this very station four or five times a week, sometimes.”

  “Do you think you would? Of course, you’d be willing to try, a responsible person like you. Shall I mention it to the inspector?” Best to keep Alec out of it as much as possible, though his profession had given her a chance with Mr. Jenkins.

  “Happy to help, madam. I wouldn’t put meself forward, but if they was to request, I wouldn’t say no. Now, what is it I can do for Miss Sutcliffe?”

  Isabel retrieved the letter from her shopping bag. “I just picked this up at the post office. It’s addressed to Mrs. Gray. It ought to be sent on to her if she’s alive, or returned to the sender with an explanation if … if not. But there’s no return address on the envelope. I’m sure you’d have told the police if she’d left any bags with you.”

  “I would, natural.”

  “I wondered, though, whether she forwarded a trunk from here, and if so, whether you remember the address it was sent to.”

  “There was three.” Mr. Jenkins visibly went through an internal debate. “Reckon it can’t hurt to tell you ladies. Not that I remember the addresses, mind, just the towns. She sent two trunks to some place in France with a saint’s name. Not one of our English saints. I ’spose the Frogs have their own saints.”

  A saint on the Riviera? “St. Tropez?” Daisy asked.

  “Like that, but with a zed on the end. Trop-pezzzz,” he buzzed, “that’s it. What the street was I can’t tell you after all this time. Six weeks, must be, or more. The comp’ny’d have records, though.”