Superfluous Women

by Carola Dunn

  Mrs. Clark, thought Daisy—all that running about after the gardener, and all the time Sally could have revealed the housekeeper’s name if anyone had thought to ask her. “Did Mrs. Clark write her a letter?”

  “Auntie didn’t say. Is it important? I could ask her.”

  “No, no, it doesn’t matter. Gosh, look at the time. I’d better get up! Thanks again for my breakfast.”

  Sally went off looking puzzled and unhappy.

  Daisy decided to take a bath, a good place for thinking. Chin-deep in hot water, she considered Sally’s opinions on her aunt’s state of mind.

  Mrs. Hedger knew who had killed her employer, so much seemed pretty clear. It was not at all improbable that she should have seen or heard something that gave his—or her—identity away, or she might have actually witnessed the incident. Then why not tell the police?

  Sheer bloody-mindedness was not an adequate explanation. She might have been threatened with harm if she didn’t hold her tongue, but in that case, whence the pleasure Sally had noted?

  Blackmail sprang to mind. Blackmail, with its prospect of gain and risk of retaliation, would account for Mrs. Hedger’s mingled smugness and fearfulness. Could it also explain her cheering up when she heard about Vaughn’s arrest, supposedly for murder?

  Daisy reached for her flannel. Washing disturbed her train of thought, so she didn’t anwer her own question until she was clean, dry, enveloped in her warm blue dressing gown, and back in the bedroom. Knickers, suspender belt, stockings—warm lisle for the country. As she drew them on, her thoughts returned to Vaughn’s arrest.

  Why had the news pleased Mrs. Hedger? It put paid to any hope of money from blackmail—at least, it would have if he actually had been charged with Mrs. Gray’s death. She might be relieved of anxiety, but wouldn’t she also have regretted a lost opportunity? Sally had not spoken of regret.

  Perhaps Sally had simply failed to notice it. Or perhaps Mrs. Hedger had realised by then just how dangerous blackmailing a murderer would be.

  Daisy shied away from the third possibility that dawned on her. The general populace was naturally relieved that the murderer had supposedly been arrested, but the person who had most to gain from the police ending their enquiries was the actual killer. Was Mrs. Hedger the one who had pushed Mrs. Gray down the stairs?

  A cleaning woman bumping off her employer? Unheard of, and a singularly unsettling idea.

  Daisy wondered whether she was arguing in circles. Alec was bound to point out that her train of thought was pure speculation, based on nothing more substantial than Sally’s opinions of her aunt’s state of mind. Or he’d say they had already come up with the theory and dismissed it. Nonetheless, she had to tell him.

  Sighing, she finished dressing. It wasn’t even a pleasant morning for a stroll. Outside the window, rain bucketed down. Umbrella in hand, Daisy set out.

  She hoped to see Alec alone but she was out of luck. All four detectives were together and none showed any sign of departing when she said she wanted to speak to Alec. He and Underwood exchanged “what now?” glances while Pennicuik took her dripping umbrella and Ernie set a chair for her.

  “Go ahead, Daisy.” Alec wore his infuriating patient look. “You’ve got a revelation for us?”

  “I didn’t claim a revelation,” Daisy said defensively. “I just woke up wondering … and I asked Sally Hedger—”

  “You’ve already discussed this matter with Miss Hedger?”

  “Miss Hedger!” Ernie was upset.

  “It wasn’t till I’d asked her a few questions that I worked it out.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” said DI Underwood, “could you perhaps start with your conclusion and then explain how you reached it?”

  “Oh yes, much easier than trying to start at the beginning. I think it’s more than likely Mrs. Hedger killed Mrs. Gray.”

  The silence that followed had a surprised quality.

  Then Underwood said, “Well, why not? I, for one, have been considering her as a balky witness. I’ve barely given her a passing thought as a suspect.”

  “Nor have I,” Alec admitted.

  “Y’know, Chief,” said Ernie, “I did wonder about that disinfectant smell. My landlady uses the stuff. The smell fades in a couple of hours. Mrs. Hedger must have used gallons for you to be able to detect it a couple of days later.”

  “Drains and mucky boots,” Underwood recalled. “That’s what she told Miss Sutcliffe.”

  “Isabel always puts her gardening boots by the back door,” said Daisy, “and I haven’t caught the least whiff of bad drains. I’ve been in and out of the house for days.”

  “Is that all you’re going on, Daisy?”

  “No, darling. Though I do think it’s significant. Drains and manure don’t smell the least bit like that awful sickly stench when you opened the cellar door, so it’s hard to believe she mistook it.”

  Ernie backed her up. “More like she knew the body was there and expected it to start smelling.”

  “I did wonder whether she knew about it and kept quiet because she was blackmailing the murderer.”

  The detectives considered the theory. Underwood rejected it. “That wouldn’t work. The body was bound to be discovered sooner or later, and once the murderer was arrested he’d have no incentive not to denounce her. She’s not the sort to run off abroad with her ill-gotten gains. I doubt she’s ever been farther than High Wycombe in her life.”

  “Sally said she was pleased to hear about Mr. Vaughn’s arrest. As far as I can make out, everyone believes he was arrested for murder. So I dropped the blackmail idea.”

  “What else did Miss Hedger have to say, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  Daisy recounted the conversation. It sounded very thin, without a shred of actual evidence. She was glad Ernie had brought up the question of disinfectant to add a bit of solidity to her tissue of conjectured emotions—if one could describe a smell as solid.

  “And then she said her aunt cheered up when she heard of the arrest, as I told you. I asked if she’d talked about a reference letter from Mrs. Gray. Apparently she hadn’t expected a recommendation worth showing a prospective employer but thought the housekeeper might give her one. Sally doesn’t know whether she did. She can’t have, though, because Isabel would have told you if she’d seen it.”

  “I’m sure she would,” said the detective. “Anything more?”

  “No, that’s it.” Daisy felt flattened. “It doesn’t sound like very much, but I thought I ought to tell you.”

  “I—we appreciate it. We’ll certainly follow up. In fact, if it’s all right with you, Mr. Fletcher, Sergeant Piper can go right now and have a chat with Miss Hedger. Just to confirm what you’ve told us, Mrs. Fletcher—not that I doubt it!—and to see if she has anything to add that she didn’t think to mention to you.”

  Walking back to the Saracen’s Head with Ernie holding her umbrella above her head, Daisy felt better. Surely Ernie’s time was too valuable for Underwood to waste it on a wild goose chase, which meant he didn’t think her theory was utter bosh. And Alec had smiled at her as she left. She hoped that meant his silence was only because he was deferring to the inspector.

  “Well done, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Ernie. “The chief would have cottoned on to Mrs. Hedger sooner or later, but you may have saved us days of following false leads. I’m awfully sorry for Miss Hedger, though. Does she realise where your questions were leading?”

  “Not at the time. She may have put two and two together by now. The best thing you can do for Sally is make sure she understands you won’t drop her if her aunt turns out to be guilty.”

  Blushing, Ernie said hotly, “I wouldn’t do that! But maybe she’ll hate me if we have to arrest her auntie.”

  “I doubt it. My impression is that she’s not all that fond of Mrs. Hedger. She sticks by her because she’s the only family she has in this district, and she helps her because it’s her nature to be helpful.”

  “She’s wonderful, isn’t she?”


  “I like her very much,” Daisy assured him.

  * * *

  The church clock was striking six when Alec and Underwood, followed by Ernie and Pennicuik, turned off Wycombe End into the murky, muddy alley. The rain had stopped and the temperature had dropped, threatening a frost. The mud would be glazed with ice by morning.

  The inspector took the search warrant from his pocket. “This is all very well, but if she won’t open the door, we can’t serve it.”

  “Let’s worry about that if it happens.” Alec had a contingency plan involving windows and Ernie’s slight stature, but the less Underwood knew about it the better.

  A dim light was visible through the curtain at the downstairs window of Mrs. Hedger’s one-up, one-down cottage. Underwood stationed Ernie and Pennicuik on the opposite side of the alley, eight or ten feet away, less because the suspect might try to flee than because her tiny space had no room for them.

  Underwood knocked.

  An angry voice was heard from within. Then the door was opened, by Sally Hedger. She was in tears.

  “Mr. Underwood,” she choked out, standing aside to let them pass. “She thinks now you arrested Mr. Vaughn it’s all right to wear her things. She says it’s not stealing because she was dead. I can’t make her understand—”

  “Sally,” said Alec, “go out to Sergeant Piper. He’s just across the way. I’ll call you if your aunt asks for you.”

  She fled as Alec turned to see the inspector gaping at the old woman in the rocking chair. Mrs. Hedger’s short, stout body was enveloped in a glossy fur coat. On a slimmer woman, it would have been a loose, comfortable travelling coat. On her, it barely met across the bosom and completely enveloped her feet.

  “Wotcha staring at? I di’n’ steal it.” She bristled with self-righteousness. “She was dead, she ha’n’ got no more use for it. ’Sides, she weren’t no better’n a doxy.”

  “May Hedger, I must advise you…”

  As Underwood proceeded with the Judges’ Rules warning, Alec went up the stairs, ducking under a low beam. He didn’t have to exercise the searching skills Tom Tring had taught him years ago. The beam of his torch picked out the expensive overnight suitcase in one corner of the tiny room. On top of it was a stylish leather handbag.

  Careful to protect fingerprints with a handkerchief, he moved the bag to the bed, an iron bedstead with a thin mattress covered with a faded, patched counterpane. The clasp clicked open easily. Alec turned the torch beam on the contents.

  A silver cigarette case with the monogram JJG—Judith Jane Gray. Had she wanted gold and given in to her elderly husband’s notorious frugality? A bunch of keys—Alec hooked it out with his little finger. The pasteboard tag, “Cherry Trees,” removed any remaining doubt. He took them downstairs.

  Mrs. Hedger was glaring at the inspector in malevolent silence.

  Underwood looked at the bunch of keys and went straight to the salient fact. “You knew Mrs. Gray was dead.”

  “I could tell right off. I’ve laid out many a corpse in my time.”

  “You locked the cellar and didn’t report her death to the police.”

  “Who’d invite that busybody Abel Harris to come sticking his nose in! It were an accident, any road.”

  “An accident, was it?”

  “Tha’s right, seeing she pushed me first. ‘Go away,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got time now for writing letters.’ And she give me a shove so I shoved back. I weren’t to know she’d lose her balance and go tumbling down. It wasn’t like I murdered her. An accident it were.”

  “That’s for a jury to decide,” said Underwood. “You’re under arrest, Mrs. Hedger, and must come with us to the station to be charged. Please take off that coat. It will be used in evidence.”

  “It’s cold out,” said Alec, struck by an unexpected wave of compassion for the stubborn, ignorant, cross-grained old woman. “Let her keep it on.”

  * * *

  On Friday evening, Alec came home to Hampstead. Daisy hurried down to greet him in the hall.

  “Darling, I’m so glad you’ve made it in time for dinner. When I got your wire, I invited Tom and Mrs. Tring. It seemed only fair that they should hear all about the case.”

  He handed his hat and coat to the parlourmaid, who bore them away for a good brushing. “Thank you, Elsie. I take it, Daisy, you expect to get more information out of me if Tom’s helping?”

  “Naturally. They’re up in the nursery with the twins. Tom’s on hands and knees with his godson on his back, being a rhinoceros as far as I could make out. Oliver has a penchant for exotic steeds since last time we went to the zoo. I do hope he won’t become a big game hunter.”

  “And Mirrie?”

  “She’s on Mrs. Tom’s lap, reading a picture book while Mrs. Tom and Nurse Gilpin chat. Mrs. Tom gets on with Nurse much better than I do. Go and have a wash and brush up, darling. I’ll tell Mrs. Dobson to dish up in fifteen minutes, unless you want a whisky first, or a beer with Tom.”

  “Beer sounds good. Make it half an hour. I’ll say good night to the twins and bring the Trings down. With luck, I’ll get the story over with and eat my dinner in peace.”

  When they were all settled in the sitting room with drinks to hand, Tom rumbled, “You had the inquest yesterday, Chief?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. It was just as well the coroner couldn’t sit sooner, gave us time to get it pretty much all wrapped up for him. His jury brought in homicide by May Hedger. Manslaughter or murder is up to a criminal jury, of course. Sally Hedger made an excellent witness, Daisy, clear and concise in spite of floods of tears throughout the proceedings.”

  “Poor Sally! I wish I’d been there to support her.”

  Alec grinned. “Ernie managed that, in his usual unobtrusive style. Not quite holding her hand, but being stalwart at her side with a supply of clean handkerchiefs, while behaving in a properly policemanlike manner.”

  “He’s a good lad,” Tom observed.

  “I left him there for another day, to help Underwood with reports and tying up loose ends.”

  “That’s nice,” said Mrs. Tring placidly. “She sounds like a nice young woman. Didn’t you say that she’s wanting to move to London, Mrs. Fletcher? Me and Tom have been thinking of renting out a room, now he’s retired, if we could find a nice, reliable lodger.”

  “She’s very reliable,” Daisy assured her. “I’d be glad to know she has a safe place to stay with good people when she comes to the big bad city.”

  “And young Ernie knows he’s always welcome to take potluck with us.” She exchanged a glance of complicity with Daisy.

  Tom wanted to hear about Daisy and her friend being locked in the cellar where the body was found. She gave him a highly coloured account that made him chuckle, while his missus tut-tutted.

  “It’s funny now,” said Daisy, “but it was quite frightening at the time.”

  Mrs. Tring was confused. “Well I never! And the man who shut you up turned out not to be the murderer after all?”

  “He had other matters on his conscience. Apart from the cellar business, his crime was financial fraud.”

  “Tell us the whole story, Chief,” Tom requested. “First of all, I assume you were able to present the coroner with a definitive identification of the body?”

  “Oh yes, it was Judith Gray all right. The coroner would probably have accepted Sally Hedger’s evidence, along with what we found in her aunt’s attic: the luggage and handbag, contents intact. As it happened, Mrs. Gray’s friend Mrs. Knox was able to give us the name of their mutual dentist. You know how people recommend their medical practitioners to their friends. He’s a Harley Street man, as we supposed. When we explained our difficulty, he came right down to Beaconsfield, records in hand. Ghoulish curiosity, as DI Underwood said.”

  “Ah,” said Tom, grinning behind his magnificent moustache.

  “He found the reality a great deal more unpleasant than he anticipated. He managed to identify her faster than I’d have be
lieved possible.”

  “I don’t blame him,” said Daisy.

  “As for the rest, Tom, to tell the truth, the case was a barrel of red herrings. And we couldn’t shoot them, we had to fish for them. The stepson—he had the best motive, two excellent motives in fact: money and revenge. The victim was his father’s second wife and treated the old man abominably, by all accounts. Unfortunately, he has an unassailable alibi. It’s no good looking at me like that, Tom. I know unassailable alibis are made to be assailed. But this is truly untouchable.”

  “If you say so, Chief.”

  “Then there were Donald Vaughn and Roger Cartwright. Either or both may have been the victim’s lovers. Both their wives assumed they were.”

  “Both of them!” Mrs. Tring was shocked.

  “And a London friend now in France. She seems to have been rather free and easy with her favours, and Vaughn may have been her lover; Cartwright probably not. Anyway, each of their wives suspected a liaison and thus had a motive for hating her. Whether or not they were correct in their assumptions turns out to be irrelevant.”

  “Vaughn’s the one,” Tom rumbled, “the house agent, that shut up Mrs. Fletcher and t’other young lady in the cellar.”

  “That’s right. Financial fraud, as Daisy said. He’d been appropriating his employer’s money, quite a bit of it, but no large sums at one time. As he was saving—stuffing cash under a loose floorboard—he didn’t give himself away by excessive expenditure.”

  “My friend Willie—Miss Chandler—was auditing the books but wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. At the last minute, he found out. That’s why he was running away, nothing to do with the murder. His trouble was, he was under the impression that Mrs. Gray expected him to join her in France to start a new life together with the help of his loot, but he didn’t know where she was. He turned up at Cherry Trees in a final attempt to get her address out of Isabel. Hence our ordeal in the cellar.”

  “Ah,” said Tom. “And Cartwright, Chief? That’s the headmaster, ducks.”

  “Cartwright behaved in a suspicious manner because he had … er … attempted to misbehave with the young women teachers at his school, the latest of whom was one of Daisy’s friends.”