by Carola Dunn
“I hadn’t thought of that! Of course they would, in case the trunks didn’t arrive, or were damaged in transit.”
The stationmaster nodded sagely. “Happens. T’other trunk, that one went to Paris, a fortnight or so later. Now what was the hotel? A king—not a name, something like ‘His Majesty’.”
“The Majestic?”
“That’s it. If there’s nothing else I can help you with, the down-train is due in two minutes.”
Daisy left it to Isabel to thank him, as another layer of protection against being accused of interfering. They left the station and trudged up the hill.
“If you don’t mind,” said Daisy, “would you tell Mr. Underwood you made enquiries with the intention of re-addressing the envelope, then realised that it ought to be turned over to him right away? And leave me out of it?”
“If that’s what you want. He … They should be pleased, shouldn’t they? They can get in touch with the hotel. If Mrs. Gray never turned up, she must be dead.”
“Not necessarily, but it would be another nail in her coffin, so to speak. I wonder what the letter says. I expect it’s from the friend she was going to stay with, asking why she hasn’t arrived yet.”
“More than likely. It’s a pity we haven’t got a full address. There must be millions of English people in St. Tropez. Well, dozens.”
“Probably hundreds. But Alec says the French police are far more efficient—or fussy, if you prefer—about keeping track of who’s where, especially when foreigners are concerned. With the name, they’ll be able to find her if they need to.”
Drizzle started falling again as they walked up the curving lane towards the Old Town. Daisy opened her telephone-box-red umbrella and Isabel her conventional black. It was only about a mile, and after the steep slope up from the station it wasn’t much of a hill, but Daisy began to flag. She still hadn’t regained all her strength after her illness.
They crossed London End to the Saracen’s Head and went on past the hotel along Windsor End. Just before they reached the police station, Isabel stopped suddenly.
“What on earth are they doing?” she exclaimed, staring across the road.
“What? Where? Oh, good gracious, I didn’t spot them.”
In the graveyard, half visible through the rain, Alec, Underwood, and Ernie Piper stood among the trees and tombstones. They appeared to be solemnly discussing one of the stone memorials.
“Daisy, could they be going to exhume Mr. Gray?”
“Is that his tombstone?”
“I have no idea.”
“I doubt it. They can’t prosecute a dead person. The school’s just behind those yews, isn’t it? What do you bet they’re going after Cartwright?”
TWENTY-SIX
Running footsteps on gravel. Alec swung round to see a small boy in grey shorts and a green blazer, without his cap. Satchel in hand, he dashed along the path from the school, towards the street. With his free hand he seemed to be rubbing away tears. One of his dark grey knee socks had sagged down to his ankle and on the skinny calf two dark red weals were clearly visible.
Alec decided he was going to enjoy confronting Cartwright.
Pennicuik emerged from the shrubbery. “That’s the last of ’em, sir, poor little blighter.” He aimed the announcement halfway between Alec and Underwood, uncertain to whom he was meant to report.
“Let’s go.” The inspector took the lead.
Alec glanced back to see if anyone had observed them. On the far side of the street flaunted a bright red umbrella. He sighed. Still, Daisy was preferable to a crowd of curious locals.
The sound of four determined men tramping along the gravel path was very different from a scared schoolchild fleeing. Intimidating, Alec thought with pleasure. He reminded himself that they had no firsthand evidence against the schoolmaster, nothing to justify a charge of indecent assault, far less one of murder.
An alarmed face peered out through the schoolroom window, then disappeared.
Leaving Pennicuik outside to ward off interruptions, Underwood marched straight in without knocking. Cartwright had his back to the door, standing at the blackboard, cleaning it with a feverish motion. He turned slowly, trying to look surprised.
“To what do I owe the visit, gentlemen?” His voice quavered.
“Acting on information received, sir,” said Underwood, at his most stolid, “and pursuant to our enquiries regarding the death of Judith Gray, widow of Albert Gray, of Cherry—”
“I know where the bloody woman lives! Lived.”
“‘Bloody’?” Alec repeated. “You disliked her?”
“I hardly knew her,” Cartwright said sullenly.
“Hardly?” asked Underwood.
“I suppose we may have spoken once or twice, at a dinner party or some such occasion.”
“It strikes me as a bit odd that you know her address if you’d only met once or twice, casually.”
“Someone must have mentioned it in my hearing. I have an excellent memory.”
“Good, good.” Underwood rubbed his hands together. “Nothing better than a witness with excellent memory, don’t you agree, Chief Inspector? You’ll have no difficulty, then, Mr. Cartwright, remembering whether you’ve ever been to Cherry Trees?”
“Nev—I … hm … Possibly.” From adamant to peevish in two and a half words. “In my position in the community, I and my wife receive many invitations. I can’t be expected to remember everyone who’s asked us over for drinks before dinner.”
“In spite of your excellent memory. Ah well, perhaps Mrs. Cartwright will be able to tell us.”
And now he was alarmed. “There’s no need to bring my wife into this!”
“‘This’?”
“This … This nonsense. Insinuating that I was involved with Judith. With Mrs. Gray. Why would a smart, well-off young widow like that want anything to do with the likes of me? A penniless schoolmaster with no prospects and twenty years her elder … But she married a man thirty years her elder and more!” Now he was disgruntled.
“Judith?” Eyebrows raised, Underwood let the name hang in the air. The silence stretched for all of twenty seconds, that must have seemed an age to Cartwright.
He capitulated. “All right, I admit I called at Cherry Trees, just to offer neighbourly condolences. Mrs. Gray was very friendly, invited me in, offered a drink. She asked me to call her by her christian name.”
“She was friendly, so you called again.”
“Only once or twice.”
“Mrs. Gray was friendly still, perhaps a little flirtatious? The sort of manner more appropriate to her gay circle of London friends, perhaps.”
“She led me on.”
“You tried to kiss her. She rebuffed you. You quarrelled, and—”
“No! It’s not true.”
“You didn’t try to kiss her?”
“I—No, of course not. I’m a married man, with a position to uphold.”
“You weren’t considering that,” said Alec, “when you made advances to the others.”
“W—” Cartwright moistened his lips. “What do you mean?”
With distaste, Underwood told him, “Three young women have affirmed that you attempted to fondle them against their will.”
“Liars! They’re all the same.”
“Relying, no doubt, on your position to give you greater credibility than them. However, they’re unknown to each other and they all tell the same story.”
The schoolmaster sank onto the tall stool behind his lectern desk. “How—how did…” His voice failed him.
“You must realise,” said Alec, “we can’t ignore the possibility of your having behaved in the same way with the murder victim.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“We’d like you to come across to the station—”
“People will see! The rector—”
“The rector already knows about those three incidents.”
Cartwright buried his face in his hands.
&
nbsp; * * *
“Here comes Vera,” said Isabel.
Vera scurried across the street, almost running. “Your umbrella caught my eye, Daisy.” She was very pale. “Oh, it’s awful. Alec, and his sergeant and Inspector Underwood marched into the juniors’ classroom. Are they going to arrest Mr. Cartwright?”
“I doubt it,” said Daisy, “unless they’ve uncovered something I don’t know about. Which, of course, they may have. Come on back to the Saracen and have a cup of tea. We’ve had ours but you look as if you need it.”
“Don’t let his fate worry you, Vera.” Isabel patted her friend’s arm. “If he’s arrested, it’s no more than he deserves. Go and order tea and I’ll join you in a minute. I just have to deliver this letter to the police station.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Daisy advised. “We know none of our lot are there and for all we know, Harris is back. I wouldn’t trust him not to lose it, or even open it.”
“That’s a point. All right, I’ll come with you two.” They all started walking towards the hotel. “I mustn’t stay for another cup of tea, though, if I’m to get the shopping done. We can go home, Vera! The cellar’s been cleaned thoroughly, and Mr. Underwood says we’re allowed to move back in.”
“Thank goodness. I can’t wait to be back in my own room. I’ll pack up all our stuff.”
“I haven’t told them yet that we’re leaving. I hope they won’t charge us for tonight.”
“I’ll sort that out for you,” Daisy offered.
“Thanks. They won’t want to offend you in case you move out, too. Would you mind taking charge of this letter, as well? I’d like to go straight home with the shopping, and you can give it to Alec.”
“Yes, but I think we ought to give each other proper receipts for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t want Alec to think I somehow wangled it out of you, or worse, the post office. And you’ll want something saying I’ve accepted responsibility for handing it over to the coppers.”
“What letter?” Vera, her woes forgotten, was bursting with curiosity.
Isabel quickly explained as they entered the hotel. The lobby was empty. Vera, forgoing the cup of tea she had needed so badly a minute ago, made for the stairs.
“Tea at home. Bliss!”
Daisy went to the reception desk, where she found a pad of paper and a pen stand. She and Isabel each wrote out a suitable receipt, then signed and swapped them.
“You go and do your shopping. I’ll sort things out with Mr. Whitford. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t charge you for tonight.”
“I don’t know what we’d do without you, Daisy.”
“Oh, nonsense. You’d manage. Just a minute, I keep forgetting to ask you … No, never mind. It’ll be better if Willie’s there. I’ll drop round later, if that’s all right?”
“Of course. Anytime.”
Daisy tracked the landlord to his den. He grumbled a bit at her request but soon let himself be persuaded, as long as the ladies cleared the room before six o’clock. That gave them plenty of time, but Daisy went up to see if Vera needed any help.
“No, thanks, we have hardly anything here. That’s what has made it so difficult. We’d have had to start washing things in the hand-basin and hoping they’d dry overnight. Daisy, how much tip should we leave? It’s been so long since I stayed in a hotel, I’ve no idea what’s proper.”
This weighty question was settled at twenty percent plus sixpence for the Boots, “and a bit extra for Sally, because she’s been so helpful. Do you have enough cash?”
“Plenty for the tip, and my cheque book was in my handbag, the one that Pennicuik brought, thank goodness.” Vera sat down suddenly on the nearest bed. “It’s all very well, but what about Mr. Cartwright? What are they saying to him? Are they asking him about me? What will he say about me?”
“Vera, honestly, you have no need to worry. The rector is on your side, and he heard what those others said about Cartwright.”
“But he, or the school board, may decide it’s easier just to get rid of another infants’ teacher.”
“They’d never find a man to teach the infants, so they’d just put themselves in the same situation all over again. At least, they can’t be sure he’ll be chastened enough not to repeat his offence.”
“They could find an older woman.”
“I’ll be very surprised if they don’t give him the sack. He ought to go and teach in a boys’ school where there are no young women to tempt him. If, that is, he’s not arrested for murder.”
“Do you think that’s why they descended on him?”
“I’m sure of it. I’m afraid the police wouldn’t think what he did to you and the others a serious matter if it weren’t for the possibility he tried the same ploy on Mrs. Gray. I wish I could hear what they’re saying. And what he’s saying.”
Vera shuddered. “I don’t.” She got up and closed the one small suitcase Pennicuik had brought them from Cherry Trees. It had so little inside, it didn’t need sitting on, as Daisy’s suitcases almost invariably did.
Musing on Mrs. Gray’s missing suitcase, Daisy retired to her room for a nap.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Cartwright didn’t resist being taken to the police station. Finding out that the rector knew of his misdeeds took the stuffing out of him. Even his moustache looked limp. He forgot to take his overcoat and hat from their hook as they passed. Ernie Piper retrieved the hat and plonked it on his head, then helped him into the coat. The schoolmaster had wit enough left to jerk down the hat brim to shadow his face.
To Alec’s relief, Daisy’s umbrella was no longer visible. In fact, no one was about except a constable trudging away towards the crossroads, presumably on his beat.
Pennicuik bringing up the rear, the five men crossed Wycombe End and entered the station. Cartwright stumbled on a step. Ernie caught his arm and steadied him.
Sergeant Harris was at the entrance desk. He looked up, glared at Alec, and without a word started to write busily. Underwood ignored him. They went through to the office. The inspector motioned Cartwright to a chair. He sat down as if his knees had given way.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, sir. Chief Inspector, I’d like a quick word.” Leaving Ernie and Pennicuik to loom over the schoolmaster, Underwood and Alec stepped out of the room. Closing the door, Underwood nodded gloomily towards the front of the building. “I’m sorry he’s back. We needn’t expect any more cooperation from him than is necessary to keep his nose clean.”
“No, I’m afraid not. With luck we won’t need much from him. Piper and your chap are good men.” And then there was Tom, busy behind the scenes.
“Pennicuik’s still wet behind the ears, but he tries. Quite quick on the uptake. I was thinking someone ought to catch Mrs. Cartwright while we’ve got hubby here.”
“And you’re wondering whether Piper could handle it? I take it you’re not ready to stick Cartwright in a cell to cool his heels?”
“No, and nowhere near ready to arrest him.”
“I’m glad we agree. Ernie could handle it, but on the whole I’d rather you or I did.”
“You. We’ve already impressed him with your rank—”
“Oh, is that my function?”
Underwood laughed. “Among others. Pity to waste it. Do you want to take Piper?”
“I’ll leave him for you. Better just one person, for a first interview, especially with a woman.”
“Do you want to take your wife to hold her hand?”
“I think I’ll manage without,” Alec retorted, grinning.
The inspector nodded. “Right. You know where they live?”
“Ernie found the address among your reports and told me how to get there. That’s the sort of detail he excels at. It’s just five minutes’ walk.”
“Don’t forget we have an appointment with the Vaughns at six, and you offered to drive.”
“I’ll be back.”
The Cartwrig
hts lived in a small, newish house of the local brick. The small front garden with its white picket fence was very neat: the lawn closely mowed and dandelion-free, the two beds well weeded and still colourful, boasting chrysanthemums, Michaelmas daisies, and a couple of rose bushes bearing a few late blooms. On one side of the house, a hawthorn flaunted its crimson berries. A flock of chattering chaffinches were busy wrecking the display.
A net curtain twitched as Alec opened the gate and set foot on the crazy-paving path. Peripheral vision informed him of twitching curtains in the houses on either side. If a canvas of the neighbourhood should prove necessary, it would be much more fruitful than the struggle to elicit information from the residents of Orchard Road. He rang the bell.
Had Alec been asked beforehand what he expected of Mrs. Cartwright, he’d have described her almost to a T. She was about her husband’s age, possibly a year or two older. Her brown hair was set in over-stiff marcelled waves and her makeup was minimal. Her maroon woollen afternoon dress was of good material, well-cut, but not in the current style, nor that of the past couple of years—Alec was conscious of fashion because clothes tell a good deal about character and circumstances. Her face was set as stiffly as her hair, in lines of discontent.
Her look was hostile. “If you’re selling Hoovers, I already have one.” She started to close the door.
Alec was tempted to offer her the latest model, but he curbed his tongue. “I’m a police officer, madam.”
The hostility remained, but she said grudgingly, “What do you want?”
“A few minutes of your time.” He glanced to left and right. “Perhaps I could come in?”
“If you must.” She stood aside, and shut the door emphatically behind him, as if defying her neighbours. “Well, what is it?”
“Could we sit down, do you think?”
Her mouth tightened, but she led the way into a very conventional sitting room, the furniture well-chosen though inexpensive. Over the mantelpiece hung an oil painting of a colourful garden. Alec went to take a closer look.
“I wish I had more time to spend on my garden,” he said, and turned in time to catch an almost wistful expression.
