Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  Daisy decided to accept the praise and ignore the second part of this. “There’s something else…” She paused, waiting for exclamations of astonishment, dismay, congratulation, or disapproval. Apparently she had exhausted Alec and Underwood’s capacity for such emotions. They just looked at her, so she continued. “All I need is a scrap of information from Willie—Miss Chandler. She wasn’t home yet.”

  Alec frowned. “If you’re expecting her to discuss her work with you—”

  “Nothing to do with her work. She’s silent as the grave about that. She has no reason to keep quiet about what I want to find out.”

  “What might that be, Mrs. Fletcher?” The inspector sounded resigned.

  “A date. It should narrow down the date of death.” Both men opened their mouths. Daisy hurried on. “I was thinking about it, thinking that Mrs. Hedger’s in the best position to say when Judith Gray was last seen alive. Assuming she’s dead.”

  “You may be sure we’ll be questioning her again.”

  “And will you get any answers? I gather she was no more willing to talk to Alec than to me and Isabel. It struck me that she very likely wanted to be paid for the work she did while the house was unoccupied, and that Isabel probably keeps the household accounts and so would know how long that was.”

  “What strikes me,” said Underwood, “is we could do with a few women on the force. A different point of view, they have. How long did she work without pay?”

  “They decided they weren’t responsible for what they hadn’t asked for, so it’s not in the account book. However, both Isabel and Vera are sure Willie must remember the last date Mrs. Hedger said she had been paid. It’s a number, you see.”

  “Miss Chandler never forgets numbers.”

  “Exactly. That’s everything I had to tell you, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to the hotel.”

  Alec walked her out to the street door. “I have to say well done, love, and I’m trying not to say don’t meddle. But you must realise that the more helpful to us you are, the more likely the killer will put two and two together and do his utmost to stop you.”

  Daisy reckoned a grudging compliment was better than a stinging rebuke. “I can’t see how he’d ever find out. I don’t go round interrogating people—except the stationmaster, and that was really Isabel, who had a good reason for asking.”

  “If he has his wits about him, he’ll have noticed or heard that you’re spending more time here than being a copper’s wife can explain.”

  “Oh no, darling, I’m the clingy kind of wife that just can’t let her adored husband alone.” She reached up to put her arms round his neck and kiss him, and he obligingly responded in kind. Anyone observing them through the glass of the door might well have believed her words.

  * * *

  Alec watched Daisy go off towards the Saracen’s Head, wondering whether she’d heed his parting warning, “Stay out of it, and be careful,” or had even heard it. She’d do what she considered right, no matter what he said.

  He returned to the others.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Underwood.

  The inspector shook his head, grinning. “The unstoppable Mrs. Fletcher. Well, she’s done all right by us. Mrs. Knox being British, I take it I can just send her a wire. Are we required to go through the Yard and the Sûreté for the Majestic Hotel?”

  “In the ordinary way, I’d get in touch directly with one of the French officers I’ve dealt with before. But given my officially unofficial status, we’d better do it by the book. You’ll want Superintendent Parry’s permission, I imagine.”

  “I rang him while you were outside, to report the latest news. He’s not available. We’ll go ahead on my own authority and if he doesn’t like it, he can lump it. Will you deal with the Yard?” He pushed the telephone across the desk.

  Alec asked the operator for the superintendent on duty at New Scotland Yard. As a police call, it had priority, but even so ten minutes passed before she rang back and connected him.

  To his relief, Superintendent Rossiter had the night watch. Rossiter was a friend of Crane and already knew about Alec’s peculiar unofficial mission. In fact, he was easier to deal with than Crane would have been. He simply authorised the contact with a foreign force without asking any of the awkward questions about Daisy that Crane would surely have posed.

  Ringing off, Alec said, “We’ve got the go-ahead. You’d like me to compose the telegram?”

  “I would. You speak French, I take it.”

  “Speak, read, and write reasonably well, but I’ve never mastered French telegramese. You’re right that it would be polite and politic to use French, if you think your county budget can hold up at tuppence ha’penny per superfluous word.”

  “Hang the budget.”

  “Very well, hang the county budget. Let me get straight exactly what you want to find out.”

  “Is Judith Gray there. If not, has she been there. If so, has she left a forwarding address, and what is it.”

  “Admirably succinct.”

  “Have I left anything out?”

  “I’d say you’ve covered it. Let me get on with it.”

  Alec wrestled with turning the message into an abbreviated yet clear and comprehensible French version. He left off the accents, as he suspected an English telegraphist wouldn’t be able to transmit them. The result looked unfinished; he was engaged in adding them—acute, grave, circumflex, and cedilla—when a constable came in with a note for him.

  “The Boots from the Saracen brought it, sir.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher doing our job for us again?” Underwood asked as Alec unfolded it. His tone was not altogether pleased.

  “No, it’s anonymous.” Tom, of course. “About Mrs. Gray’s servants. Our informant met the gardener who used to work for the Grays, in a pub. In Seer Green?”

  “Next stop up the line. Just a couple of miles.”

  “The pub is the Jolly Cricketers, according to Mr. Anon, our informant. The gardener’s name’s White. Half the patrons were talking about the murder, of course, so White spoke up. He said he wasn’t surprised someone did for Mrs. Gray. She was quick to complain when something wasn’t to her liking, but never gave a word of praise or thanks. Anon asked whether all the servants disliked her. It seems the housekeeper, Mrs. Clark, had already registered with a London agency before she was given notice.”

  “Mrs. Clark, eh? Doesn’t sound too easy to trace.”

  “No, a lamentably common name. We might have to try, though. According to Anon, she told White there were ‘goings-on’ in the house she disapproved of, but she wouldn’t name names.”

  “Does Anon mention the lady’s maid?”

  Alec consulted Tom’s note. “There was a high turnover of lady’s maids. The last was a Miss Lewis. High and mighty, didn’t consort with gardeners. According to Mrs. Clark, though, she was furious when told she was to be turned off because Mrs. Gray wanted a French maid. She departed the next day without serving out her notice.”

  “Lewis,” Underwood said gloomily. “Be a job tracing her, too, and nothing to be done till the servants’ agencies open tomorrow. It’s all very second and third hand,” he added with dissatisfaction.

  “Anonymous letters commonly are. This last bit is equally unverified. All the same, it could be more immediately useful. Anon says—”

  A knock on the door. Not waiting for a response, Isabel Sutcliffe opened it, stopping on the threshold. “The officer at the desk said to go straight in. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  The inspector smiled at her as he rose. “Not at all. You’re very welcome.” He hurried round the desk to hold a chair for her. Catching Alec’s amused eye, he quickly added, “I expect you have information for us?”

  “Daisy explained about the significance of the date Mrs. Hedger was last paid?”

  “Yes,” said Alec. “We ought to have thought of it ourselves.”

  Isabel absolved them. “It’s only natural. It’s usually women who p
ay the cleaner.”

  “I have no excuse,” Underwood admitted. “As a widower, I’m the one who pays the charwoman.”

  Eyes brightening, she consoled him, “You’ve been busy. Well, Willie came home soon after Daisy left. She remembered right away. Mrs. Hedger claimed the last day’s work she was paid for was the seventeenth of September.”

  “Thank you, Miss Sutcliffe. That may prove extremely useful. And thank you for coming out so late to tell us.”

  “Does Miss Chandler usually work so late?” Alec asked.

  “She’s usually home by half past six. She finished the job she’s been working on today and Mr. Davis asked her to stay on and go over the figures with him.”

  “What figures were those?”

  “She was auditing some company’s accounts, she wouldn’t say whose. Frankly, neither Vera nor I was particularly interested.”

  Alec laughed. “And who can blame you. Would you like me to run you back to Cherry Trees in the car? If the inspector can spare me for ten minutes…”

  “Of course.” Underwood looked a bit wistful, as if he’d prefer to escort Isabel himself. Knowing nothing of his driving skills, Alec didn’t offer to let him. “Good idea. Take fifteen and see if Miss Chandler will open up to you about the audit. Sergeant Piper isn’t likely to ring for at least a couple of hours.”

  “Will do. You can send off this cable right away. And I suggest another to the Yard to get them moving on querying the domestic service agencies first thing in the morning. Put my name to it.”

  In the car, Isabel asked, “We’re still suspects, aren’t we?”

  “Strictly speaking, yes. Don’t let it worry you. None of you is under serious consideration.”

  “Because of Daisy?”

  “Good heavens no! We’re not allowed to take that sort of thing into account.” A certain amount of bias was inevitable, however. Perhaps they ought to have subjected the three women to closer scrutiny? Perhaps they would have to, if they eliminated both Cartwright and Vaughn. Alec changed the subject. “Were the cleaners you found for the cellar satisfactory?”

  “Excellent. It looks clean as a whistle and the smell is barely perceptible. I’m so sorry for them. They both fought in the war and haven’t been able to find steady employment since. Their wives both work to make ends meet. The men feel inadequate, not being able to provide for their families. I’m going to have them back to build shelves in the cellar for storing apples, as soon as I’ve worked out just what I want.”

  “It sounds as if you’re quite comfortable moving back in.”

  Isabel grinned. “None of us believes in ghosts! Vera isn’t altogether happy about being in a house where someone was murdered, but I pointed out that we lived for a fortnight with the body actually present. Anyway, she has plenty to occupy her thoughts. I can’t tell you how grateful we are for what Daisy’s done for her.”

  “She has a penchant for combining helping people with interfering in police investigations,” Alec said dryly, drawing up in front of Cherry Trees. “You don’t mind if I come in for a minute?”

  “Not at all.”

  Willie and Vera were drinking coffee in the sitting room. Despite Alec’s refusal, Isabel bustled off to fetch cups for him and herself.

  “Miss Chandler—Willie—” It was difficult to decide how he ought to address the ladies. “I’d like you to confirm the date Miss Sutcliffe passed on to us, the last day’s work Mrs. Hedger was paid for.”

  “Or so she claimed. It was the seventeenth. Of last month, of course.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely. I never forget a number.”

  “And will you confirm that today you completed an audit of the accounts of Langridge’s, the estate agent?”

  “Who told you? Neither I nor Isabel!”

  “Just putting together hints from your boss—”

  “Mr. Davis talked about it?”

  “Indirectly. Isabel said you’d finished a big job today, so I assumed … What I really need to know is when you or Mr. Davis intend to give Langridge the results of the audit.”

  Willie considered, her blond head tilted, eyes narrowed. “I suppose there’s no harm, since you already know so much. Mr. Davis is going to ask Mr. Langridge to call at our offices tomorrow morning, whenever convenient to him.” Unexpectedly, she giggled. “If you ask me, it would be much easier for him to go to Langridge’s. When Mr. Langridge came in to request the audit, it was touch and go whether he’d make it up the stairs to Mr. Davis’s room.”

  “I take it Mr. Langridge had his suspicions that something was amiss?”

  “Sole proprietorships—one owner and one or more employees—rarely call for an audit until they’re fairly sure something’s wrong. They’d do better to get an outside audit regularly, like big companies.”

  “Did you know what or whom Langridge suspected?”

  “No. Mr. Langridge has four employees. He probably didn’t tell Mr. Davis if he suspected one person in particular. It could bias the audit. I discovered pretty quickly whom he ought to have suspected. I won’t confirm your guess, though.”

  “Very proper,” said Alec, grinning.

  Isabel came in with the coffee. As they were drinking from demitasses, Alec relented and accepted. He emptied the tiny cup rather quicker than was strictly polite, made his adieux, and went out to the car. On the way back to the police station, he reflected that he was indubitably biased in their favour. He could only hope it wouldn’t come to arresting one or more of them. Given his ambiguous position in the case, though, he’d be able to leave that dismaying task to DI Underwood.

  Who wouldn’t be any happier about it than Alec.

  Happily, another suspect had moved up the list. Alec had been interrupted before telling Underwood about the interesting second item in Tom Tring’s note.

  THIRTY

  “Miss Chandler confirmed the seventeenth,” Alec announced.

  “Seventeenth?” said Underwood, taking out a pocket diary. “A Monday. Mrs. Hedger went in three days a week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday, as she does now, I expect. If she was paid on the Monday, likely she was usually paid each day that she worked, rather than weekly. She wasn’t paid on Wednesday. So the victim died Monday night or sometime Tuesday.”

  “Not that it helps us much.”

  “No, people don’t remember what they were doing on a particular day a month ago, unless they had an appointment or an engagement, something worth noting down. What about Miss Chandler’s audit?”

  “Davis, her boss, is seeing Langridge tomorrow to give him the results. Miss Chandler naturally refused to confirm the name of the embezzler. I’m reluctant to tackle Vaughn about it, tonight. We might queer their pitch.”

  “Yes, better avoid the subject. It doesn’t seem to have any bearing on our business, anyway.”

  “Agreed. If we do need the actual figures gone over at some point, it’s a job for Piper.” Alec retrieved Tom’s note from his inside breast pocket. “You didn’t hear the last part of this. It should be more immediately useful than the rest.”

  “Vaughn?”

  “Mrs. Vaughn, according to report. She had a flaming row with Mrs. Gray, at Cherry Trees.”

  “From the housekeeper via the gardener?”

  “From the housekeeper originally, I expect, but rather more roundabout.” Tom had been cautious in his note, in case it fell into the wrong hands, but Alec knew him well enough to guess he was hinting that the story had been overheard in a tea shop by Mrs. Tring.

  “Fourth or fifth hand,” Underwood said gloomily. “Everyone in Beaconsfield is talking about the murder, exaggerating and adding to any little scrap they can possibly claim to know about the Grays. Though with the gardener’s name and him being local, we shouldn’t have any trouble finding him tomorrow. I’ll send a man to Seer Green. When did this row happen?”

  “Unknown. We might do worse than making that our first question. Something on the lines of: ‘On what date did y
our quarrel with Mrs. Gray take place?’”

  “Leading the witness.”

  “We won’t have a judge watching us.”

  They continued to discuss tactics, and then every conceivable permutation of the scanty evidence and the theoretical possibilities, with Pennicuik venturing a few words now and then. In spite of yet more coffee, by the time Ernie Piper’s call came through at last, at a quarter to midnight, all three were somnolent.

  Alec, more accustomed than the local men to working through the night, was first to reach for the ringing phone.

  “Fletcher.”

  “It’s me, Chief. The car just turned into the drive.”

  “Don’t let the bloody woman go to bed.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Ernie sounded remarkably cheery. The Vaughns’ servants must have been good hosts.

  “We’re on our way.”

  Twenty minutes later, the Austin Twelve swung into the drive and stopped just short of the garage doors, next to the new wing behind the house. Light showed dimly through the heavy curtains of its ground-floor windows.

  A curtain twitched. A man’s face looked out, the electric light making a halo of the corn-gold hair Alec recalled from their encounter in the bar of the Saracen’s Head. Donald Vaughn.

  They walked back to the front door. It was already open and Ernie welcomed them with relief.

  “I don’t know how much longer I could have kept her downstairs.”

  “Twitchy, is she?” Underwood asked.

  “That’s not quite the word I had in mind,” Ernie said primly. “Close, but not quite. No, he’s the one that’s twitching.”

  He led the way along a narrow corridor, past a couple of closed doors and one standing open to the dark, silent kitchen. Stairs rose on their left. They came to a last door, probably once the back door of the old house, beyond which was the light, warmth, comfort, and colour of a modern sitting room. Alec noted radiators as well as a good fire. Decidedly there was money, whether or not its distribution was as they had been told.

  Ernie ushered them in and announced them butler fashion: “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher. Detective Inspector Underwood.”