“You thought the scream came from out in the street?”
“Yes.” The brigadier and I both nodded, he nearly losing his turban in the process.
“Sir, why do you still have that towel on your head?” The policeman cocked an eyebrow.
“You’re going to have to explain, Brigadier,” I said.
“Quite so.” He gulped before manfully meeting the policeman’s eyes. “I appreciate that, under the circumstances, this”—tapping his turban—"could look suspicious. But I assure you, sir, that I am not trying to hide a head wound caused during an attack upon Miss McKinnley. I don’t think I have spoken to the woman above a couple of times.”
The policeman was looking impatient, and Brigadier Lester-Smith, apparently being of the same persuasion as myself—that you only had to tick off a member of law enforcement to find yourself handcuffed, tried, and sentenced to life imprisonment all in the space of minutes—glumly removed the towel.
“Good God!” said the cop.
After that little episode I asked permission to telephone my husband. When I got through, it was Freddy who answered, saying Ben was putting Abbey and Tam to bed.
“What is this?” My cousin sounded genuinely alarmed. “Cleaning women dropping like flies all over the place!”
“Trina’s murder may have absolutely nothing to do with what happened to Mrs. Large.”
“And you’ve been reading Gullible’s Travels!”
“Freddy, tell Ben I’m fine, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be. Mrs. Malloy may need me for a bit. Sorry, I have to go now.”
I found Brigadier Lester-Smith washing the dye out of his hair at Mrs. Malloy’s sink. No doubt in fear and trembling as to whether he would even have a scalp left. The results, surprisingly, weren’t as ghastly as might have been supposed. He was more crimson than carroty, but that was surely better than having hair that was frog-green.
Mrs. Malloy came out of the sitting room—looking, I must say, as cool as a cucumber sandwich. Putting detectives in their place was all in a day’s work for her. She had removed her coat, and the taffeta frock she wore would have been suitable for a cocktail party, or at a pinch—being black—for Trina McKinnley’s funeral. Not a word did she speak to me or the brigadier. About half an hour later, Trina’s body was removed, and the house was suddenly bereft of policemen.
“Bloody hell!” Mrs. Malloy splashed gin into a glass and downed it in a gulp. “I’m too old for being suspected of murder.”
“They can’t think you did it,” I said. “If they did they would have asked you to accompany them to the police station.”
“I’m sure that’s so,” agreed the brigadier.
“I suppose they searched the place while I was in with that Detective Galloway—checking to make sure I hadn’t switched clothes and hidden the bloodstained ones away if I hadn’t had time to get rid of them.” Mrs. Malloy gave one of her snorts before pouring another gin. “Flaming cheek, but it’s not like there was anything for the buggers to find, leastways that I know about.”
She went instantly from bravado to looking worried. The purple and bronze shadow she was wearing on her lids reflected in dark smudges under her eyes, which widened as she glanced over at the little telephone table. Dropped down beside it was a black plastic handbag. Mrs. Malloy’s own bag was on the kitchen table—fake alligator with a flashy gold clasp. The other just wasn’t her sort of thing at all. It was cheap and utilitarian. Trina McKinnley’s? Where had I seen it before?
“Whose bag is that?” I asked.
“Mine!” Mrs. Malloy knew which one I meant. “Can’t a woman have two bleeding handbags without you making something out of it?” Her hands shook as she poured herself another glass of gin.
“Silly of me,” I replied quickly. “I’m not thinking straight.” Obviously, she wouldn’t say anything in front of Brigadier Lester-Smith. The trick would be hustling him out the door without arousing his suspicion. Luckily the brigadier looked preoccupied, as well he might after such an evening. He did, however, very kindly invite us back to his house for a restorative cup of tea and a bite to eat.
“Thanks ever so, Briggy old stick.” Mrs. Malloy mustered a wan smile. “But just for now I’d like to sit here with Mrs. H. and have a good sniffle. Can’t do that in front of a man, can I? Make me lose all me sex appeal, it would. And say what you like, you’d never feel the same about me.”
She had said just what was needed. Giving his dressing gown another tug, Brigadier Lester-Smith headed for the door, murmuring that he wouldn’t intrude one moment longer.
“Like as not I’ll come by for that cuppa later,” Mrs. Malloy offered by way of consolation. He departed with his stained towel draped over his shoulder. I was reminded of a boxer leaving the ring—bloodied and not exactly prancing on the balls of his feet. The moment the back door closed behind him I turned to Mrs. Malloy.
“Now let’s hear about that handbag that isn’t yours.”
“And who made you Scotland Yard?” She reached again for the gin bottle, but I got to it first and planted it at the far end of the kitchen table.
“Not another drop until you start talking.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll tell you!” She caved in more readily than I had hoped. “You and me go back a long way, Mrs. H., you could even say we was family with my George being married to your cousin Vanessa.” The name stuck in her throat, but she finally spat it out. At some point I would have to ask Mrs. Malloy what had kept her incommunicado for so long, but I wasn’t about to distract her now. “I suppose what it really comes down to, Mrs. H., is I trust you. Leastways,” she had to add, “more than I do most people.”
“Butter me up all you like,” I replied bracingly, “but you don’t get another drop of gin until you spill the beans.”
“Oh, bugger!” She heaved a soul-wrenching sigh. “I can’t carry this thing on me own! But you’ve got to swear, Mrs. H., you won’t go running to the police.”
“I can’t promise that. Not until I know what’s involved.”
“Oh, to hell with it! I’ve already given the game away, so I guess I might as well tell you the lot and hope you see things the way I do. You’re right—that bag’s not mine, and it didn’t belong to Trina, neither. It’s Winifred Smalley’s and it weren’t over there by the phone when I got here. It was right there next to the body.”
“And that’s when you went screaming out into the road?”
“I did nothing of the bloody sort.” Mrs. Malloy ruffled up like an outraged chicken. “I’m not one of them hysteria types, and well you know it, Mrs. H!”
“Then it must have been Trina when she saw that knife coming at her. I don’t know why I was so sure that scream came from outside.”
“Or it could have been Winifred. Not the bravest woman in the world, she isn’t. But that’s all to the good in this case. Because if she’d done it, she wouldn’t have gone screaming outside to alert the neighbors, now would she?”
“People don’t necessarily behave rationally when they’ve just killed someone. Think it through, Mrs. Malloy. If Mrs. Smalley walked in on Trina’s body, why didn’t she stay and phone the police?”
“Always got to put a spoke in the wheel, that’s you, Mrs. H.! I’m telling you, I know Winifred Smalley. The woman wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone Trina. They was like mother and daughter. Besides, where’s the motive? Answer me that, Mrs. Clever Dick?”
“Maybe they got into an argument about Mrs. Large’s money.” I saw Mrs. Malloy’s face go blank. “You don’t know about the will, do you? Why don’t I make us a pot of tea and we’ll take it into the sitting room. If that’s all right?”
It was a mark of how truly worried she was that Mrs. M. allowed me to bugger about her kitchen without so much as pointing me in the direction of the tea caddy or telling me to wipe off the kettle before putting it on to boil. She did wince when I rattled the cups and saucers while putting them on the tin tray with the thatched-cottage design. But she followed me
meekly into her sitting room, where her coat lay on a chair—a leopard-patterned easy chair with a garish yellow footstool dangling scarlet tassels. We could have been in a sultan’s pied-a-terre. There were cushions on the floor, incense burners, a statue of a Greek god sporting a fig leaf, brass urns, and sparkly sequined elephants with gold fringe. The latter reminded me of the set of fake ivory ones I had unearthed during my assault on spring cleaning. I decided to give them to Mrs. Malloy for her next birthday.
It helped to fasten on the mundane pleasures of life. It made murder seem far-fetched. But there is no living in a dream world for long. I poured our tea, stirred in milk and sugar, and handed Mrs. Malloy her cup.
“What were you saying about Gertrude Large’s will?” She put her feet on the yellow footstool and eased off her shoes. “And I don’t want no talk about how there’d be no need to ask if I’d come back for the funeral.”
“I didn’t get the details that day.” I sat down on the faux-lizard-skin sofa. “Mrs. Large’s daughters did mention when I saw them at the service that they were heading down to see their solicitor. But it wasn’t until they met with him that they got what must have been the surprise of their lives.”
“Spit it out, Mrs. H.!”
“That Mrs. Large had left almost everything she had, something like fifty thousand pounds, to Trina McKinnley—insurance money from her husband’s accident.”
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” Mrs. Malloy put down her teacup before she dropped it. “I knew about the insurance; we all did in the C.F.C.W.A., but I’d no idea it was such a bloody windfall!”
“Does it seem odd to you that she left it all to Trina, except for a hundred pounds each for her daughters?”
Mrs. Malloy pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “No, I can’t say it does. You see when Frank— that’s Gertrude’s husband—was laid up, she gave up working for a while to take care of him. But you know how hard it is to nurse a man with the hiccups, let alone one that’s bedridden. And from the sound of it, Frank wasn’t what you’d call jolly when he was well. So after a bit Gertrude went back to work to get out of the house. There was a visiting nurse that came in regular, but Trina pitched in, too. She’d shifted her work schedule around so that she could stay with Frank a couple of hours two or three times a week. And she used to go in and help turn him and whatever on weekends.”
“That explains it,” I said.
"‘Course,” Mrs. Malloy picked up her teacup, “it would’ve been nice if Gertrude had left me and Betty Nettle and Winifred Smalley a little something to remember her by—say a few thousand for old time’s sake.”
“She made Mrs. Smalley the trustee.”
“Meaning?” Shooting up in her chair.
“That she got to ration out the money to Trina. And there, in my opinion, is what makes it particularly bad for Mrs. Smalley that you found her handbag by the body. When that comes out, the police may think she killed Trina over a row about the money.”
Mrs. Malloy shook her head at my numbskull thinking. “The trouble with that bright idea is that it should have been Trina doing the stabbing. Hoping that with Winifred out of the way she’d get control of her inheritance.”
“I realize that,” I said, “but what if it turns out that in the event of Trina McKinnley’s death, Mrs. Smalley herself would be the one to inherit?”
“Just who was it gave you the scoop on Gertrude’s will?” Fear flickered in Mrs. Malloy’s eyes before flaming into annoyance.
“I’d rather not say.”
“You don’t have to.” She laughed scornfully. “It was that Bunty Wiseman, weren’t it? I remember now! Her ex was Gertrude’s solicitor. And I never did think that man could keep quiet, short of padlocking his mouth. He ought to be struck off or unfrocked or whatever they call it.”
I remained determined to name no names. “Nothing was said to me about what would happen to the money if Trina died. But it would certainly complicate matters for Mrs. Smalley if she becomes the beneficiary by default.”
“Making it even more bloody important the police don’t find out about her handbag!” Mrs. Malloy leaned wearily back in her chair. “They’ll never buy the notion of Winifred walking in on the body and dropping her bag before she ran off in fright.”
“What if it was Trina who picked up that knife in the first place.” I sipped at my tea without tasting it. “Just to scare Mrs. Smalley into seeing the sense of shelling out the money in large amounts. And in the course of struggling to get it away from her, Mrs. Smalley struck the fatal blow?”
“Oh, I’ll give you Trina had a filthy temper if anyone pressed the wrong buttons. But”—Mrs. Malloy shook her head—”she loved Winifred like she was her own mum. The only thing they ever argued about was Trina’s boyfriend.”
“Joe.” I got up to refill our cups.
“That’s right.” She twisted her lips disparagingly. “Joe Tollings, Mr. God’s gift to himself.”
“Did you say ‘Tollings’?” I spilled tea all over the tray.
“I just spoke to a woman named Marilyn Tollings when I was going into Brigadier Lester-Smith’s. I thought I’d never get rid of her. Don’t tell me she’s Joe’s wife!”
“Been married to him these past ten years at least.”
“I met him with Trina at Mrs. Large’s funeral.” Forgetting the tea, I sat back down. “It was Mrs. Smalley who got Trina to take over from Mrs. Large at Merlin’s Court. And there was an awkward scene on Monday. Bunty Wiseman was there when Joe arrived to pick Trina up. And, no surprise, he’s also been carrying on with Bunty. When Trina came into the kitchen and saw them together she picked up on the vibes. But she didn’t cut Joe down to size in front of me. It was Ben who heard the two of them arguing as he drove through the gates on his way home for lunch.”
“And you couldn’t have told me this sooner?” Mrs. Malloy looked as though she would have liked to hurl the yellow footstool at me and follow it up with a couple of sequined elephants. “Because if this don’t shed a new light on the miserable business, I’m a monkey’s Great-Aunt Mabel. Joe Tollings always did have a violent streak. I think that’s a good part of why Trina fancied him. She saw herself as a lion tamer, cracking her little whip.”
“Dangerous.”
“A suit and tie never was no challenge to Trina. I can’t say as I worried about her like Winifred did, but I weren’t all that easy in me mind when Trina offered to come and stay here while I was gone. ‘What if his wife finds out the two of you are carrying on?’ I says to her. I don’t want me front door being kicked down or rocks thrown at me windows by the woman scorned. But cocky as anything, was Trina. She saw it as some bloody game—dangling herself in front of Marilyn Tollings’s nose, so to speak. And look where it got her! Joe goes and chops her when he finds out he can’t shake the money tree. It was just bleeding bad luck that Winifred walked in and found her.”
“Let’s say that’s the case.” I stirred in my chair, having grown cramped and chilly. “Why didn’t Mrs. Smalley go to a neighbor’s and phone for help?”
“Because she was buggering scared she’d be blamed!” Mrs. Malloy spoke as if to a dimwit.
“But what if it’s worse than that?” I suggested. “Suppose when Mrs. Smalley arrived, the killer was still on the premises, either in the house or lurking outside. Waiting to make sure no one was about when he took off down the road. And when Mrs. Smalley screamed upon finding the body he—we’ll say it was Joe—grabbed her and dragged her away with him.” My voice ground to a standstill. Awful images swam around in my mind. I should not have put ideas for which there was no foundation in Mrs. Malloy’s head.
“I guess I’d better give Winifred a ring.” She heaved herself up, looking as though she had been hit with the yellow footstool, and I trailed after her into the kitchen to stand hovering as she dialed her friend’s number. “No answer,” she said bleakly, hanging up.
“That doesn’t mean something’s happened to her,” I tried to sound nonchalant.
“No, she’s just bleeding done a bunk.
“I really think you have to phone the police.” I put an arm around Mrs. M.’s black taffeta shoulders. “You should tell them about the handbag and let them take over. If there’s the smallest possibility that Joe, or whoever else it might be, has made off with Mrs. Smalley, we can’t waste time!”
“Oh, go on with you!” She shrugged away from me.
“We’re letting our heads cloud our judgment, Mrs. H., or however the saying goes. What I ought to do is call an emergency meeting of the C.F.C.W.A. That shouldn’t take long, seeing there’s only Betty Nettle left to call. Although I guess we could make you an honorary member, just for this evening.”
“Mrs. Malloy, you mustn’t shilly-shally.”
“I’d better have a drink,” she said, and on reaching for the gin bottle discovered it was empty. “Bloody hell!” She padded across to the pantry on her shoeless feet and emerged seconds later, her face at half-mast. “That was the only bottle. Now what am I to do?”
“Phone the police.”
“Nothing doing! You nip down to the brigadier’s and ask to borrow a cup of gin. Can you remember that, Mrs. H., or do I need to write it down for you?”
“All right.” I was about to let myself out the back door when a thought occurred to me. “How would Mrs. Smalley have got into the house if Trina was already dead?”
“She had a key. All members of the C.F.C.W.A. had keys to each other’s houses.” Mrs. Malloy sighed deeply. Two of her friends dead and one of the others up to her neck in trouble. It had stopped raining, but the night was thick with cloud and the wind nippy as I hurried out onto Herring Street. There were no neighbors hanging about. They’d probably all trotted back inside after the grand finale—Trina’s covered body being removed from the house.
One car did slide past me as I was about to step inside Brigadier Lester-Smith’s gate. I was thinking how Marilyn Tollings had rushed across the street to ask if I were the woman in the woolly hat and raincoat she had seen earlier. Sheer nosiness had been my assumption. But might she not have had another motive? There was no doubt Joe’s wife had reason to hate Trina McKinnley if she knew about the affair. Had she been craftily covering her tracks in saying she didn’t know the woman living in Mrs. Malloy’s house? My God! What if she’d gone there to have it out with Trina and ended up sticking a knife into her back? Then just suppose that when she was leaving the scene of the crime she saw my car pull up. And thinking it unlikely she could get all the way into her house without my seeing her, she had with wickedness aforethought made a big production of talking to me! A gutsy sleight of hand.
The Spring Cleaning Murders Page 17
