Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  “She’s upstairs at the back,” Alec proposed, “or gone to the shops.”

  “Not in this downpour.”

  “If she set out before— Never mind. Try again, and I’ll go round the house snooping in the windows.”

  No one in the sitting room, nothing out of place. Likewise the den and the dining room at the back. With the solidly built house between them, he couldn’t hear Underwood’s banging. The next window was the half-glazed side door. When he looked through, he blocked much of the grey daylight, so that the passage within was in obscurity. It wasn’t so dark he could have failed to see a person, however. He was about to move away when something on the floor a few feet inside the door caught his eye.

  He stood to one side and craned his neck. The “something” was a small heap of rubbish. Presumably Mrs. Hedger had left it there when she stormed out on being accosted by Underwood. But Isabel, an orderly person, would never have left it lying. She was the sort who would have cleared it away the moment she noticed it.

  Alec peered. Paper, splinters of wood—was that a glint of gold? He tried the door. Locked, but he could break the glass and open it.

  He hesitated. This was Underwood’s case and Underwood’s manor. He should be consulted. Alec went on, glancing in at the kitchen windows as he passed. The small size of the windows obstructed his view, but unless someone was under the table, the room was empty.

  He caught the inspector trying the front door. “It’s not locked. Should we go in?”

  “Yes. But hold your horses a moment.” He told what he’d seen. “It may be just rubbish, but it’s right beside the cellar door.”

  “Vaughn pushed Isabel down the stairs!” Underwood gasped, horrified, swinging back to the front door.

  “Great Scott, no! That wouldn’t explain the stuff. I think he does have keys. It would be natural to deny it with a body found in the locked cellar, whether he killed her or not. My guess is that he’s somehow managed to lock Isabel in the cellar and she’s pushed everything she could find through the keyhole to attract Miss Leighton’s attention when she comes home.”

  “Ingenious! She’s a resourceful woman. Let’s go and release her.”

  “Have you a skeleton key on you?” Alec asked as he followed Underwood into the entrance hall.

  “No. They’re … frowned upon. We’re supposed to get a warrant and a locksmith. I rather glossed over your lock-picking in my report. ‘Gained access,’ method unspecified.”

  “You’d better shut your eyes this time. I just hope Isabel hasn’t tried to master the trick of it and damaged the wards. Anyone at home?” he called.

  Turning into the cross-passage, they immediately heard a muffled noise ahead, compounded of thumps and whistles, interspersed with yelps that might have been cries of “help!” Alec recognised the piercing, unladylike whistle that Daisy had been taught by her late brother; she used it—on rare occasions—to summon Nana. He sighed. Of course she was here, had been present at precisely the wrong moment, as usual. He went to the cupboard under the stairs as Underwood hurried forward to reassure the captives.

  The contents of the cupboard were neatly arrayed, whether a tribute to Isabel’s orderliness or because the ladies had only resided in the house for a couple of weeks. Alec found the bent clothes hanger at once, hung on a hook.

  Crouched by the door, the inspector was speaking soothingly into the keyhole. “We’ll have you out in two ticks, Miss Sutcliffe. Here’s Mr. Fletcher with the wire. You’d better move down the stairs a bit out of the way of the door.” He switched his ear to the hole, then stood up with a nod to Alec. “It was Vaughn all right.”

  “Is Daisy down there, too? Oh yes, that’s her propelling pencil among the rubbish.” He picked it up and put it in his pocket, then stooped to probe the keyhole with the hook. The inside of the lock felt different. He twisted and turned and jiggled the wire, but nothing clicked. “Damn. Daisy!” he called mouth to hole. “Did you mess about with this lock?”

  He turned his head to listen. After a moment, Isabel’s voice said, “We both did. We prised a nail out of the shelves, a nice long one, and tried to open it. Unsuccessfully. Why?”

  “Because, between the pair of you, you’ve mucked it up. Bent the wards or knocked one crooked, or something. We’re going to have to get a locksmith.” Much as he’d prefer to, he couldn’t stay and deal with Daisy’s predicament. The hunt for Vaughn must be set in motion. Alec and Underwood had another interview scheduled with the Cartwrights. Ernie and Pennicuik were expected back with whatever they had gleaned from the gardener, White. Depending on their information, Mrs. Hedger might have to be hauled in to the police station. “Are you all right? Over to you.”

  “Oh yes, we’ve only been here…” Faintly: “Daisy, how long have we been here?… No, it hasn’t been forever! About an hour, since Vaughn shut the door … Uh, over to you.”

  “The air is still good for a long time, then. Tell me what Vaughn said to you and what you told him. Over.” He knelt on the floor, the easier to apply his ear to the hole.

  “I told him about the Hotel Majestic. I’m sorry, but he was looking quite wild-eyed. He locked us in to stop us raising the alarm before he could get away. The rotter had the keys all the time. I expect you and Mr. Underwood are anxious to get on his trail. We’ll be all right, but tell the locksmith to hurry! Over.”

  “We’ll send a constable with an axe in case the locksmith has any difficulty. Tell Daisy I have her gold pencil safe; I’ll leave it on the hall table. And give her my love, would you? We’re off now. See you later.”

  “Give my … thanks to Mr. Underwood. See you later.”

  Alec stood up, with a crick in his neck and another in his lower back. Underwood had disappeared at the mention of a locksmith. Now he returned with a bunch of keys dangling from his forefinger.

  “I rifled Miss Sutcliffe’s handbag,” he explained in a low voice. “We oughtn’t to leave the house unlocked. I hope she’ll forgive me.”

  “Seeing you rifled the entire house a couple of days ago,” said Alec, “I doubt she’ll mind. We can put out that alert now. We’ve got him for false imprisonment at the least.”

  * * *

  “You mean they just went away and left us here?” Daisy asked indignantly.

  “They have to chase after Vaughn. I suppose I could have asked them to fetch my hatchet and chop down the door, but I didn’t think of it in time. Besides, I’d really rather not have to replace the whole door.”

  “No, sorry, of course not. I just hope they can find a locksmith who’ll come right away.”

  “You’re not getting the wind up again, are you, Daisy?”

  “Certainly not. Don’t harp on that.”

  “My turn to apologise. I didn’t mean to. I know it was just because you were ill.”

  “Being locked in a cellar doesn’t improve one’s disposition! Alec wouldn’t have left if there were any danger. He may even think we’re safer locked up. At worst, his axe bearer will come along and let us out for a late lunch.”

  Isabel grinned. “Hungry again?”

  “I went for a long walk this morning. Nana would have loved it. You really must get a dog. Vaughn wouldn’t have taken us by surprise if you had a nice mastiff sleeping in the front hall.”

  “I was thinking of a bulldog. I’ve always liked the look of them, and someone told me they’re not half as fierce as they look.”

  “More likely to slobber a burglar to death than to bite him.”

  “What’s your Nana?”

  “‘Heinz Fifty-seven. She’s a farm dog, part sheepdog, probably part terrier. My stepdaughter fell for her when she was a puppy.”

  They talked about different breeds, Daisy having known a good many dogs while growing up in the country, at Fairacres. Then they talked about gardens, flowers, fruit and vegetables, and raising chickens. Isabel hoped for better harvests here in the temperate south than she had achieved in the suburbs of Huddersfield.

  The n
atural sequel was food. Daisy was ravenous, as well as dying of thirst, by the time a knocking on the cellar door announced the arrival of a bobby, axe in hand.

  The constable was perfectly willing to chop down the door, if that was what Miss Sutcliffe required. “Howsumdever,” a locksmith was on the way from High Wycombe. If the ladies would bide just a wee bit longer, they would be released with no damage done.

  Daisy would have opted for immediate release, but it was for Isabel to decide. They bided a wee bit longer.

  An hour later, they were sitting in the kitchen, finishing the last bites of a lunch of toasted cheese and apples, when the doorbell rang. Isabel got up and peeked out of the window.

  “A black umbrella—I think it’s Mrs. Barnes. I don’t feel like entertaining, but it’s the first time she’s called. And I want to see if she has any suggestions about someone to take Mrs. Hedger’s place.”

  “Offer a cup of coffee. I could do with one. I’ll put it on while you answer the door.”

  An explanation of why they were having after-lunch coffee so late inevitably turned into an account of the morning’s excitements. The doctor’s wife was properly sympathetic as well as much entertained.

  “I won’t breathe a word to a soul,” she promised. “Goodness, I never dreamt the life of a policeman’s wife was so exciting.”

  “It’s not supposed to be,” Daisy assured her.

  When Mrs. Barnes left, Daisy helped Isabel wash the few dishes, then went back to the hotel. She had intended to take a nap, but she wasn’t really sleepy and her typewriter sat in silent reproach on the table in the window.…

  Once she started transforming her notes on the Inns of Court into an article, she became absorbed in manipulating words. Time passed without her noticing, until a knock on the door made her surface.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Sally. You didn’t come down to tea, so I brought you some.”

  “You spoil me, Sally. Put it here, will you? I’ve fallen behind in my work, so I’ll just keep at it while it’s going smoothly.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt.” Sally hesitated. “But do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  Daisy tore her thoughts away from the Inns of Court, which the arrival of tea had scarcely disrupted. “Yes?”

  “It’s Auntie May. Someone told me she was at home, not out at work, so I went round this afternoon. She’s upset: angry for sure, and maybe afraid. But she won’t tell me what the trouble is. She just sits there in her rocking chair, rocking and rocking. Do you know what’s wrong, Mrs. Fletcher? What happened to upset her so?”

  “The police went round to Cherry Trees this morning to ask her a few questions, that’s all. You know my husband and DI Underwood. You know they wouldn’t bully her. She wouldn’t talk to them, just stormed out of the house, I was told. Older people without much education tend to be afraid of the police, I’m afraid,” Daisy added tactfully.

  “Auntie left school at twelve to go into service.”

  “There you are, then. I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s just being awkward.”

  “I know she can be difficult. She likes to keep herself to herself, you see, and questions always upset her. Oh dear, I suppose she’ll get over it.”

  “I’m sure she will.” Daisy didn’t mention that Mrs. Hedger might have lost her job at Cherry Trees in the meantime. “Try not to worry, Sally.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll pop round after supper and make sure she’s all right. It’s just that she’s the only relative I’ve got left in these parts.”

  Daisy went on with her work. It was going well. She let her tea grow cold and got crumbs in her typewriter, but by the time she went down to dinner, she had finished the draft.

  The dining room was busy, and buzzing with chatter. Sally had saved Daisy a small table in a comparatively quiet corner.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, we’re out of everything ’cepting the ham.”

  “Then ham let it be. What’s brought the crowd out?”

  “Hasn’t Mr. Fletcher told you yet? They’ve arrested Mr. Vaughn. I’ve got to run. I’ll bring your soup in just a minute.”

  Sally had no time to stop and chat. Eavesdropping on nearby diners supplied “arrested for murder,” but offered no further credible details. Daisy went back up to the bedroom without much food for speculation. She sat on the bed with her typescript, trying to concentrate on editing.

  Alec came in before she had finished, wresting off his tie as he closed the door.

  “Darling, you look exhausted. Sally says you’ve arrested Vaughn.”

  “I suppose Sergeant Harris has been talking again. I’m going to write a strongly worded suggestion that he be sacked, or at least demoted. Yes, Vaughn was easy to catch, driving his wife’s car. She’s furious—she wanted it for some errand this afternoon. Once we were fairly sure he was heading for Paris, and had good reason for stopping him, it didn’t take long to pull him in.” Alec grinned. “We’re grateful to you and Isabel for the information and for being stuck in the cellar.”

  “What do you mean? You arrested him for kidnapping us, not for murder?”

  “False imprisonment, as he didn’t run off with you. We’ll need your statements tomorrow. Still no grounds for homicide. We can hope for a confession.” Wearily he sat down on the edge of the bed. “But I’m not inclined to believe he killed her. We’ve found Judith Gray’s maid and housekeeper, one in London, one in Bath, so tomorrow we’ll have local lads ask them a few questions. Between them, they should be able to confirm the quarrel Mrs. Tom heard about, and identify the second woman for certain.”

  “Mrs. Tom? You didn’t tell me … I’m glad she had some success for her trouble.”

  “Yes, it may reconcile her to Tom’s notion of a nice outing to the countryside. The maid used to go up to town with Mrs. Gray, so we’re hoping for the names of London friends.”

  “What about the one in St. Tropez? Elizabeth Knox?”

  “She wired. She and her husband and Geegee, who turns out to be Sir George Gantry, are devastated. A flic is going round to talk to them.”

  “The inquest is tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yes. I doubt you and your friends will be called upon. Underwood’s going to request an adjournment as early as possible in the proceedings, and he says the coroner’s a reasonable man. Enough, Daisy. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’ll be up early again in the morning.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Once again Daisy awoke to the arrival of Sally with early morning tea, to find Alec already gone. She snatched at the fading wisps of a dream and missed. A glance at the clock showed that she had missed breakfast, too. However, as well as a little pot of not very early tea, Sally set a plate of bread and butter and a hard-boiled egg on the bedside table.

  “Thank you so much, Sally.” The sight of her set questions buzzing in Daisy’s brain. “Are you in a hurry?”

  “No, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m finished serving breakfasts for this morning. Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Piper had theirs ages ago and went out.”

  “Pull up a chair. I’d like to ask a couple of questions, if you don’t mind?”

  “Course not. Anything I can do to help.”

  “I was just wondering if your aunt was very upset that she wasn’t paid for the time she worked while no one was living at Cherry Trees.”

  “She wasn’t happy about it. Well, who would be? But she didn’t really expect to be. I don’t blame Miss Sutcliffe, mind. She didn’t ask Auntie to do it, and there can’t have been much needed doing, with the house empty.”

  “Why do you think she bothered, then, if she didn’t expect to be paid?”

  Sally considered, her head tilted. “Partly habit. She’s ever so set in her ways, Auntie May. And she could always hope, couldn’t she? When you make just enough to scrape by, sometimes you’ve just got to hope.”

  Remembering her own less-than-affluent days, Daisy could only agree. She persevered. “Yet yesterday she went off in a huff in the middl
e of her work. That was more of an interruption than spending a few minutes answering a few questions would have been. Even for someone as … crotchety as Mrs. Hedger, it seems a bit silly. Against her own interests.”

  “She’s always been contrary. It is odd, though. She’s not been properly herself recently.”

  “In what way?”

  “Sort of like as if…” Sally frowned. “As if she’s got a secret. Something she won’t tell even me, and I’m the only person she ever talks to.”

  “A pleasant secret, would you guess, or unpleasant?”

  “I … I’m not sure. Sometimes she seemed pleased. Not happy-pleased, more sort of smug. But sometimes … sometimes it seemed as if she was almost afraid, like I told you yesterday. Do you think she knew who killed Mrs. Gray?”

  “It’s possible. Do you think she’d be likely to withhold that information from the police?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Fletcher, and that’s the truth. She’ll be in awful trouble if she did, won’t she?” Tears sprang up in Sally’s eyes.

  Luckily the hankie under Daisy’s pillow was unused. She handed it over. Afraid that Mrs. Hedger might be in much more serious trouble than withholding information, she had no words of comfort to offer.

  Mopping her eyes, Sally cheered up. “But maybe now Mr. Vaughn’s been arrested, it won’t matter much. She really cheered up when I told her they caught the murderer.”

  So Sally believed Vaughn had been charged with murder, as, no doubt, did most or all of those who heard of the arrest. It was not for Daisy to enlighten them. She moved on to the last question that must have revolved and evolved in her dreams.

  “Did your aunt ever mention getting a letter of recommendation—a character—from Mrs. Gray?”

  “Not that I remember. Oh, wait, she did say—ages ago—that Mrs. Gray didn’t like her and would likely give her a reference that wasn’t fit to show. But Mrs. Clark, that was housekeeper at Cherry Trees, always said she was a hard worker even if she had her ways, so she’d ask her for a character.”