by Carola Dunn
“Good heavens, no! It’s not your fault we’re in trouble. I’d rather have Mr. Fletcher investigating than that awful inspector.” She shuddered. “Isn’t there something in Shakespeare about a man who smiles all the time?”
“‘One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.’ Othello, I think, or is it Macbeth? No, not Macbeth, no one ever smiles in Macbeth. Maybe Julius Caesar? Anyway, I know what you mean. He does rather give one the creeps, though I don’t suppose he’s actually a villain. Only, I bet he wouldn’t have looked any further than your husband, once he heard about last night.”
“Peter didn’t do it. Didn’t push George over. I was awfully afraid, just for a moment. But he says he didn’t and I know he’s telling the truth. Will … will Mr. Fletcher believe him?”
“I’m afraid Alec can’t just go about believing people,” Daisy said regretfully. “He’ll have to look for clues and things. Evidence. But at least he will look very thoroughly. I doubt Mallow would be questioning Baskin, for instance, if it wasn’t that I’d told Alec about all the questions he asked about Enderby. Would you like lots of sugar in your tea? I think it’s good for shock.”
“No, thanks.” She managed a smile. “Just one teaspoon. I’m all right, really. It’s just that he took me by surprise.”
“The rotten beast! No, that’s not fair, he has his job to do and he might have learnt something useful that way. Milk?”
“We’re out, till the milkman comes in the morning. That’s lovely, thank you so much. It’s awfully kind of you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I do think you might call me Daisy, if you’re sure your husband doesn’t want to throw us all out into the street.”
“Of course not. That would look suspicious, as though he had something to hide, which he doesn’t. I wonder why Mr. Baskin was so interested in George.”
“Alec will find out.” Daisy sat down at the table with her cup of tea.
“I suppose it’s bound to be something to do with a woman. I can’t imagine why I fell for his line, but in some ways it’s a consolation to know that I wasn’t the only one he fooled.”
“Do you know who else was taken in?”
“Well, Nancy Pinner as was, for one. He must have told her she was the woman of his dreams, the one he’d been searching for all his life, mustn’t he? Or she wouldn’t have married him. I know who he moved on to after me, but I wouldn’t want to tell tales on her.”
“Once the police get involved, it’s not telling tales, Cecily. Suppose it was … your successor or someone close to her who pushed Enderby off the cliff? You may think whoever did it is a public benefactor, but suppose it was her husband and he gets away with it, he might decide murder’s easy and do her in next.”
Cecily looked horrified. “Do you really think so?” she asked uncertainly.
“It happens. Besides, isn’t it better if your husband is one of a host of suspects instead of the obvious scapegoat? Not so much from the point of view of the police, because Alec doesn’t jump to conclusions, but as far as local people are concerned. If they don’t catch the murderer, and can’t prove for certain that your husband is innocent, there will always be people in the village who believe it was him.”
“In the Navy, too, I expect. All right, I’ll tell what I know. To Mr. Fletcher, not that horrible inspector.”
Daisy had rather hoped that she would be the recipient of any confidences, but at least she could tell Alec she had persuaded Cecily to spill the beans. She would also tell him that she strongly disapproved of Inspector Mallow’s sneaky, underhanded tactics.
14
Alec crept into the house well after midnight. The light in the hall was turned down low. By its dim glow, he saw on the hall table an unlit candle and a sheet of paper headed MR. FLETCHER. He turned up the gas.
“Sandwiches in larder,” the note continued in a small, neat hand. “Please lock and bolt front door and turn out gas. Cecily Anstruther. P.S. Peter did not do it.”
So they knew who he was. Mallow hadn’t mentioned that in his oral report. Perhaps it would come out in his written report, but if not he’d have to be told that Alec expected every detail.
Of course, the Anstruthers and Baskin would inevitably have discovered his profession this morning, but Alec hoped Daisy had not been made too uncomfortable in the meantime. Probably not, he reflected. She had not been cast out into the night, and it took more than an awkward social situation to discomfort Daisy.
After Mrs. Puckle’s tasty fish pie, he had no need of sandwiches. They would do for breakfast in the morning, as he had to get going before the normal breakfast hour. The door locked and bolted, he lit the candle, turned out the light, and went up to bed.
He looked in on the girls. Deva had thrown off her covers, so he pulled them up and tucked her in before turning to Belinda. As always his heart clenched with love as he gazed down on his sleeping daughter. In the months since his mother had removed herself and her Victorian strictures to Bournemouth, the last little lines of anxiety had smoothed from Bel’s freckled forehead. Her mouth curved in a slight smile suggesting happy dreams. Daddy had found a body on the beach, but Mummy was not making a huge song and dance over it, as Granny would have, so why worry?
Alec kissed her cheek. She didn’t stir. He went on to his and Daisy’s room.
Daisy was lying on her back, the position she found most comfortable at this stage in her pregnancy. At a later stage, Alec remembered with a touch of guilt, Joan had been uncomfortable in any position. What women put up with! He was grateful that Daisy wanted to have his baby, in these days when women had a choice, almost as grateful as he was for her love and care for Belinda.
He kissed her on the nose. She stirred and murmured, “Silly nose,” but didn’t waken.
Grinning, he took his pyjamas and sponge-bag and headed to the bathroom. Daisy’s nose wasn’t at all silly. It was, in fact, a very ordinary nose, not snub, not Roman, not even the aristocratic sort of nose her birth entitled her to. It occasionally garnered a few freckles, nothing like Belinda’s crop, but the summer sun had sprinkled a few that she didn’t bother to cover with powder here at the seaside. He just happened to like to kiss it. What could she have been dreaming to come up with “Silly nose”?
Or had he misheard her? His grin faded as he contemplated the first substitute that sprang to mind: “Cecily knows.” Whatever Mrs. Anstruther knew, he would doubtless find out. He was more concerned with the unexpected use of her christian name.
In every case Daisy had managed to get herself mixed up in, she had taken one or more of his suspects under her wing. While he didn’t for a moment believe she deliberately concealed evidence tending to implicate these protégés, the fact remained that she saw them through rose-tinted spectacles. And now, unless he missed his guess, she was on christian name terms with the wife of the man he had to regard as his chief suspect.
Alec groaned.
Monday morning, waking early in spite of his late night, Alec dressed without disturbing Daisy. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed. She turned towards him. He kissed her cheek and she opened her eyes, blinking up at him.
“Good morning, love.”
“Morning, darling. Morning? You’re already up! What time is it?”
“Nearly seven.”
“Seven! You’re supposed to be on holiday … Oh no. Enderby.”
“Enderby it is. Daisy, last night when I came in, you said, ‘Cecily knows.’”
“I was asleep when you came in.”
“Well, maybe you were talking in your sleep, but you still might have had a reason for those words.”
“‘Cecily knows’? Oh yes, Cecily knows who followed her in Enderby’s affections. If affections is the right word, which I rather doubt.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t tell me, and she refused to tell Inspector Mallow, after the way he behaved. I must say I don’t care for Mallow, darling. He looks so frightfully saintly, and then he drops a bomb and goes on looking
saintly.”
“A bomb?” Alec was interested in her view of the inspector.
“The Anstruthers thought he’d come about Saturday night, till he started asking about yesterday. Cecily assumed Enderby had been assaulted again and was afraid Anstruther had done it. And then Mallow mentioned quite casually, with no attempt to break it gently, that Enderby had gone over a cliff, whereupon Cecily fainted.”
Alec frowned. “I can see why she wouldn’t confide in him, then. But surely she must realize that widening the field of suspects can only help Anstruther.”
“That’s what I told her. She’s willing to give you the name.”
“Did you reveal my secret identity, or was it Mallow?”
“Mallow practically forced me to. At least, he deliberately put me in a position where if I hadn’t, they’d have had every right to be shirty when they found out. That man has a very misleading exterior!”
“So it would seem. I’ll have to keep an eye on him. Antagonizing a witness is sometimes unavoidable and occasionally useful, but the Anstruthers appeared to be cooperating—there was no call to go upsetting them unnecessarily. What about Baskin? He knew Enderby was dead, of course, but not that I’m a CID man.”
“I was too concerned for Cecily to notice his reactions, but at the very least he’ll be wary of the inspector after seeing the way he broke the news to the Anstruthers.”
“Mallow may have had his reasons. I’ll have to see if he explains himself in his written report, and if not I’ll try to think up a way to ask him without giving you away as a tale-bearer.”
“Beast! After I persuaded Cecily that revealing the name of her successor to the police didn’t count as tale-bearing!”
Alec grinned. “Thanks, love. I’m off now.” He stood up.
“Darling, is it all right if the girls go exploring the stream with Baskin this morning?”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asked doubtfully. Mallow had reported the hiker’s staff undamaged, no sign of splintering, but that didn’t let him out. “He’s on my list of suspects.”
“If he pushed Enderby over I’m sure he had an excellent reason, which has nothing whatsoever to do with Bel and Deva. They’re frightfully keen. He’s good with children. Besides, I’ll walk up the lane and meet them at intervals. I shan’t be far away.”
“In that case, I don’t see why not. Don’t overtire yourself.”
“I shan’t. I’m going straight back to sleep now.”
Downstairs, Alec found the Anstruthers and their maid already at breakfast in the kitchen. Cecily was pale and heavy-eyed as though she had not slept well, if at all. Anstruther’s eyes looked more wary than tired. A sailor learns to catch his sleep when he can, whatever the circumstances, especially in wartime. He was jacketless, shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbow exposing muscular arms with a tattoo of a twisted rope and anchor on his left wrist, a musical stave around the right. St. Cecilia was the patron saint of music, Alec remembered. Someone—Purcell?—wrote an ode to her.
“Good morning, Chief Inspector,” Anstruther said dryly.
“Sorry about that. There was no point telling you as long as I had some hope of not being dragged in.”
“Dragged in? Baskin says you found the … Enderby.”
“Yes, but I hoped to get away with being called as a witness at the inquest. No such luck.”
“That inspector of yours—”
“Peter, let Mr. Fletcher be. He didn’t choose to have his holiday spoilt. Mr. Fletcher, you didn’t eat your sandwiches last night.”
“It was very kind of you to make them for me. Mrs. Puckle gave me something to eat, so I thought I’d save them for breakfast.”
“Good gracious, no, all curled up at the edges as they are! I’ll have bacon and eggs ready for you in just a moment, if you don’t mind setting yourself down in here. Peter, pour Mr. Fletcher some coffee.”
Whether she was motivated by hospitality or a desire to curry favour with the police, Alec didn’t feel it incumbent upon him to refuse. He did say as he sat down, “I have a few questions for each of you, but most of them can wait till later.”
“Long as you don’t go springing any more nasty shocks on Cecily, like that Inspector Mallow did,” Anstruther said truculently. “Seeing you were in the Schooner Saturday, we’ve nothing to hide.”
“I’m glad to hear it. As I recall, you told the inspector you left here at about quarter past two yesterday afternoon. Is that correct?”
“I didn’t notice the time. That’s what Cecily said. It was right after dinner.”
“That’s about right,” said Mrs. Anstruther, breaking a large brown egg into the sizzling frying-pan. “Sunday dinnertime for guests is one o’clock, same as weekday lunch, and we ate after you finished. In fact, I remember glancing at the clock when Vera took the dishes into the scullery to wash up, and thinking it was time I started making your picnic tea.”
Alec looked at the maid, who had continued to eat with no sign of hearing a word, lost in a world of her own. “No doubt Vera will be able to confirm the time.”
The Anstruthers glanced at each other and laughed. “Not likely,” Cecily said. “The only time Vera notices is what o’clock the pictures begin at the cinema in Abbotsford on her day off.”
“Twenty past five, The Thief of Bagdad,” said Vera reverently, “with Douglas Fairbanks. Last week I saw—”
“That will do, Vera. If you’ve finished your breakfast, go and sweep the hall, please. You see, Mr. Fletcher?”
“I do. We’ll call it two fifteen. Enderby seems to have left the Schooner at roughly the same time.”
“Can’t have,” Anstruther protested. “Sunday midday closing time is half past.”
“And Nancy’s busy with dinner for residents,” said his wife. “She can’t tend the bars too.”
“Enderby left the bars untended. I gather Sunday midday is a slow time, so presumably he felt he wouldn’t be missed. At least, I assume he wouldn’t have walked out if customers were present. A couple came in at twenty past and found no one there. When they called for service, Mrs. Enderby discovered he was gone.”
“Poor Nancy! That must have been the last straw.”
“She wasn’t happy,” Alec confirmed, “especially as he also wasn’t there to do his share of cleaning up, of course. I’m surprised you didn’t see him coming this way, Mr. Anstruther.”
“Even if I’d cycled into town, I might easily have missed him if I’d gone by the lane and him by the path. But I didn’t go that way, as I told the inspector. I turned left outside the front door and went by the back lane to Malborough. I can show you on Baskin’s map. Or, come to think of it, we could just step out of the door and I’ll point it out.”
“I may ask you to, later. Inspector Mallow had some difficulty explaining your route on Puckle’s map of his district. Did you meet or see anyone on your way?”
“There was a motor-car passed me.”
“I don’t suppose you remember the number plate?”
“I had other things on my mind. Couldn’t even tell you the make—I don’t know much about ’em—but it was one of those little sports cars, two-seater, pale blue, I think, or grey.”
“That’s not much to go on, I’m afraid. Whereabouts were you when you saw it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t recall exactly. Nearly to Malborough, I reckon.”
“No one else who might have seen you? In Malborough, perhaps?”
“Not that I noticed. You don’t get many people wandering about the streets of a small country town in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.”
“No. Well, if it was a local car, we may be able to trace it.” Alec paused as Mrs. Anstruther set before him a brimming plate and a toast-rack. “Ah, thank you!”
Anstruther passed the butter. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Fletcher, I’ll go fill the coal-scuttle.”
“Nothing else for the present. There will be more later, I’m afraid, but I want you to know you’re
by no means the only person we’re investigating.”
“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Anstruther said sourly and went out with the empty scuttle.
Mrs. Anstruther sat down opposite Alec. “Did Mrs. Fletcher—Daisy—tell you?”
“She said you had some information for me.”
“It doesn’t seem right, talking about someone else’s trouble, when I’d have given anything to keep my own secret.”
“Do you know how people found out about you and Enderby?”
“I suppose someone saw him coming in here, though this is the last house in the village and he always came late at night, after closing time.”
“If such precautions failed, I doubt very much that the name you’re going to give me is any more secret. How did you discover it?”
“He told me,” she said bitterly. “George. ‘We’ve had a good time,’ he said, ’but all good things come to an end. Rita Stebbins is a common little piece but she doesn’t have your old-fashioned scruples so she’s more fun.’ There, now you know.”
“Rita Stebbins. Tom’s wife?”
“You know him?”
“He was one of the lifeboatmen who came to take off the body,” Alec said noncommittally. It was true, as far as it went, but what he remembered was Tom Stebbins losing to Peter Anstruther at skittles and getting his revenge by blowing the gaff on Cecily and Enderby.
Or did Stebbins have a double purpose? Could he have hoped for revenge for his wife’s unfaithfulness without risk to himself, by inciting Anstruther to attack Enderby?
Alec very much wanted a word with Thomas Stebbins.
Anstruther returned with the full coal-scuttle. Alec finished his last mouthful of breakfast, advised the couple to leave word at the parish hall if they went anywhere farther than into the village, and went out into the entrance hall. There he was waylaid by Belinda and Deva.
“Mr. Fletcher, may we explore the stream with Mr. Baskin this morning?”
“We’d much rather go with you, Daddy, but Mummy said you’re going to be busy. Because of the dead man. What a pity you found him!”
