by K. J. Frost
“No,” he replies. “But we knew it was only a matter of time. I—I told her it didn’t matter; that being called up didn’t make a difference. But she said it did. She said she’d have to leave her position if we were married, and then if I went away, what would become of her?” He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to wait, but she was adamant, and in the end, I agreed with her.”
“Would the Whartons have let her go, just because she was married?” I ask, intrigued. They seemed like an odd couple, but Sam’s just painted a picture of them as reasonably kind employers, allowing her to go out of an evening, if her services weren’t required. And their problems seem to be with each other, if anything. I doubt they’d be so heartless.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “But Milly thought they might.” He looks up at me now, staring right into my eyes. “I got it wrong, didn’t I? I made a mistake. We should have got married when we had the chance… then she’d have been safe with me, wouldn’t she?” He covers his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking as he sobs again, and his father puts an arm around him.
I give them a moment, then step back, my movement attracting Mr Higgs’ attention.
“We’ll show ourselves out,” I say quietly and he nods his head.
“Thank you, Inspector,” he replies, which is a rather humbling sentiment, considering I’ve just turned their lives upside down.
I don’t have a reply, so I turn and Thompson opens the door, letting us out and closing it behind him.
We both get back into the car before either of us speaks.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“Just about a conversation I had with Amelie once,” I reply, honestly.
“A repeatable one?”
“Yes. I was just remembering a time when I told her that war tends to make people rush into marriage.”
“Was that by way of explaining why you wanted to whisk her down the aisle yourself?” he jokes.
“No.” I glare at him, although I’m smiling and shaking my head at the same time. “It was by way of explaining that war can make people do impetuous things. You know perfectly well that the war had nothing to do with my marriage to Amelie, or our very brief engagement.”
“No…” he replies thoughtfully.
“Which is rather the point.”
“It is?” He turns, looking at me.
“Yes. Amelie and I got married quickly because we were waiting for each other… and… well, it wasn’t easy.”
He smirks. “I remember,” he says.
“And I’m fairly sure that if she’d come to me and asked me to postpone our wedding indefinitely, after nearly a year’s engagement, I’d have had something to say about it… and it probably wouldn’t have been a meek acceptance of the situation.”
He shakes his head now, and then sighs and starts the engine, before looking back at me again. “You’re forgetting something though, Rufus.”
“I am?”
“Yes… you’re forgetting the fact that Mildred Ryder and Sam Higgs may not have been waiting, like you were. And that makes a good deal of difference when you come to think about it.”
I sit back in my seat. “Yes, I suppose it does,” I whisper and he pulls the car away from the kerb.
“Where am I driving us?” he asks, looking across at me as we get to the end of the road.
I cease my musings and turn to face him. “I think we’ll pay a quick visit to Susan and Laurence Conroy.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies, giving me a mock salute before turning left.
“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” I growl at him.
He chuckles. “Sorry, guv’nor.”
“Oh God… I think that’s worse.”
“It is, isn’t it?” he grins.
“Which is why you said it.”
“Absolutely.”
He turns the car into the High Street and, after a short distance, goes right into Ashley Road.
“It was number sixteen, wasn’t it?” I ask.
“Yes.” He slows the car, and we find the house in question on the right hand side a short way down the road.
The properties down here are of many and varied styles, but the one we’re looking at is substantial and semi-detached, with large bay windows at the front, and ornate gables. There’s a low wall dividing the front garden from the footpath, and Thompson parks in front of this, both of us climbing from the car.
There’s a rather flamboyant brass door knocker, in the shape of a lion’s head, placed in the centre of the panelled door, and I use it, rapping hard, then stepping back and waiting long enough for me to think about knocking again, whereupon a young woman suddenly opens the door. She’s of medium height, quite slim, and reasonably attractive, although there’s something about her grey eyes that sends a shiver down my spine; something cold and calculating. Her dark blonde hair is styled away from her face, showing her long neck, accentuated by what seems to me to be an inappropriately low cut dress for not long after ten o’clock on a Sunday morning. Although on second glance, it appears that, while her hair may be styled to perfection, the dress has literally been thrown on, the buttons not properly fastened and the belt left untied.
“Mrs Conroy?” I ask, when she doesn’t say anything.
“Yes?”
“My name is Detective Inspector Stone.” I show her my warrant card, which she actually takes from me and scrutinises closely, before handing it back. “And this is Detective Sergeant Thompson.” He offers her his, but she just nods at him, presumably because he’s less worthy of her acute analysis. It’s a trait I’ve come across before in people of a certain class, and one I despise. “May we come in?” I add.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because we need to ask you and your husband some questions,” I explain.
“What about?”
She seems determined not to grant us admittance, which I find interesting in itself. “About the death of Mildred Ryder.”
She frowns. “I don’t know anyone called Mildred Ryder, and I doubt my husband does either.”
She goes to shut the door, but I hold up my hand, preventing her and she glares at me.
“She’s the maid who worked for your friends, Mr and Mrs Wharton,” I say firmly.
Her face clears slightly, but now she tilts her head to one side, as though confused. “I see,” she remarks. “I wasn’t aware that was her name. And in any case, I fail to see what her death could possibly have to do with us.”
“She was killed on Friday evening, when Mr and Mrs Wharton were here at your husband’s party,” I reply. “We just need to ask you a few questions about that evening, that’s all.”
“Did you say killed?” she asks, her eyes widening now.
“Yes.” I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Mrs Conroy, but I’m afraid these questions do need to be asked, and it’s entirely up to you whether we do so here, or whether you and your husband would prefer to accompany us to the police station and make your statements there.”
I raise my eyebrows and stare at her, letting her know that, either way, she’s going to talk to us, and I’m not backing down.
“Very well,” she says, after a short pause. “Come in.”
She steps back and we enter the hallway, with its black and white tiled floor, the stairs ahead of us and three closed doors, barring the way to various reception rooms, no doubt.
“Come through to the drawing room,” she says, as we remove our hats and she leads the way, opening the first door on the left, which gives onto a large room, overlooking the front of the house, with the squared bay window. There are two cream coloured sofas and a separate chair, with a couple of low tables, and a drinks cabinet. The mirror above the wide fireplace is framed in a very shiny gold finish, as are all of the pictures on the walls and, in my view, they lower the tone of what would otherwise be a perfectly attractive room.
“Is your husband at home?” I ask, standing next to one of the sofas, being as we haven’t been invited to sit
.
“He’s upstairs,” she replies.
“Could you fetch him?”
She hesitates for a moment and then leaves the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
I turn to Thompson, who rolls his eyes, and then smirks. “What?” I whisper.
“Do you get the feeling we interrupted something?”
I think for a moment about the state of Mrs Conroy’s clothing and then smile myself. “Her hair was a bit too neat though, don’t you think?” I think about how beautifully dishevelled Amelie looked this morning when we finally got out of bed, even though her hair is significantly shorter than Mrs Conroy’s.
“Well, maybe we didn’t come in until the end,” Thompson says, and then shakes his head, grinning. “And I’m aware I worded that very badly.”
“Very badly indeed,” I whisper, smiling at him as we hear the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.
The door opens and Mrs Conroy reappears, followed closely by her husband, who to my surprise, is wearing the uniform of a pilot officer in the RAF. He’s a handsome man, without perhaps the flair, or the arrogance of Norman Wharton, but with a kindliness to his eyes, which the other man lacks. His hair is a light brown, and he’s of a slim build, roughly thirty years old, or thereabouts.
“I do apologise,” he says, holding out his hand for me to shake, which I do. “I’m afraid you’ve caught us a little… um… off guard, this morning.” As he’s speaking, he looks down at his wife and smiles, before turning back to me. “I’ve just come to the end of my leave and I’m going back to base in about an hour, you see.”
I nod my head, and realise that, if the rumours I’ve heard are true, he’ll almost certainly be going overseas very soon and that, if I were in his shoes, with just an hour or so before my departure to an uncertain future, I’d have been spending my time in exactly the same way that he and his wife clearly have been.
“No need to apologise.” I hold up my hand. “We just have a few routine questions and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
He nods. “My wife says this is about Norman and Lucy’s maid?” He sounds intrigued, enquiring; not impatient, like his wife.
“Yes. I’m afraid she was murdered on Friday evening in the churchyard.”
“The one just around the corner?” he asks, pointing over his shoulder.
“Yes.”
“How awful.” He lets out a sigh. “The poor girl… the thing is, I’m not sure how we can help.”
“I understand that you had a party on Friday night,” I say and his face lights up, just for a moment.
“We did,” he replies. “It was a stroke of luck really that my leave coincided with my birthday, but that meant the party was very last-minute, and we literally just called a few friends and invited them round.”
“And Mr and Mrs Wharton were among those friends?” I ask.
“Yes. Norman’s never been one to miss out on a party, has he, Susie?” He turns to his wife and she smiles up at him, shaking her head.
“Can you confirm whether either Mr or Mrs Wharton left the party at any time?” I ask and Mr Conroy’s face falls, becoming more serious.
“Well… no,” he says. “I mean… I went out onto the front porch with Lucy for a cigarette at one stage, if that counts.”
“You did?” His wife steps away from him, looking up into his face and frowning, her eyes narrowing slightly. I recognise the jealousy written on her features.
“We were outside for less than ten minutes,” he replies, sighing.
“Did you see Mr Wharton leave the house?” I ask, getting their attention back to the point in hand, although I notice that Mrs Conroy continues to stare at her husband.
“No, but knowing Norman’s capacity for smoking, he probably left several times during the evening,” Mr Conroy replies.
“Well, I didn’t see him leave at all,” his wife puts in, a little too quickly for my liking, especially as the man himself has already admitted to taking time outside for cigarettes on several occasions during the evening, both with and without his wife.
Her husband turns to her, frowning, but then adds, “You have to understand, we had a houseful of guests, Inspector. It would have been impossible to keep track of everyone’s movements.”
“I see,” I reply.
Mr Conroy glances at his wife, giving her an entreating look, which she ignores. “I’m sure Norman was here all evening,” she continues, stubbornly, “but there were several times when Lucy wasn’t with him.” She smiles up at her husband. “But that’s Lucy for you… always off with someone or other.”
“How long have you known Mr and Mrs Wharton?” I ask, steering them away from their cat and mouse games.
“The friendship is really with Norman,” Mr Conroy explains. “We all went to school together, Norman, Susan and myself. Lucy came along later.”
I sense a dislike for Mrs Wharton in his tone, although I wonder if that’s for his wife’s benefit, given her jealous reaction to him having spent ten minutes alone in the woman’s company.
“And did you know their maid at all?”
Susan Conroy finally turns to face me, a look of incredulity on her face. “Their maid?” she scoffs. “Of course not. I mean, she opened the door and served us at table. Why on earth would we know her?”
“She was a friendly, polite girl,” her husband adds, a little more generously than his wife, making sure not to be too effusive in his praise, I notice.
“And she was always exhausted,” puts in Mrs Conroy. “But then that’s hardly surprising, is it?”
She folds her arms, looking a little too self satisfied for my liking.
“Why is that?” I ask and she tilts her head at me as though I’m being dense.
“Because she was one of those ‘maids’ who was expected to do everything, from the cooking and cleaning, to the laundry and shopping. She was literally a dogsbody… Lucy saw to that.”
Her husband shifts from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable, but says nothing.
“Miss Ryder was unhappy in her work?” I ask and Mrs Conroy shrugs.
“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t speak to the girl, but I know what Lucy’s like. She was brought up with certain airs and graces.”
“She was?” She mentioned her father having had expectations of her marriage, but I didn’t get the impression of any haughtiness about her myself.
“Yes, of course,” Mrs Conroy huffs, with a degree of impatience, as though I should know this story for myself, and she wonders why I don’t. “She’s Sir Edwin Phelps’ daughter.” I recognise the name of the well-known newspaper man. “She was born to better things than a little house in Thames Ditton.”
“She made her choice,” Mr Conroy says through gritted teeth. “And so did Norman.”
“Yes, and she’s made sure that Norman has regretted it ever since,” his wife snaps at him, although she’s still looking at me. “It’s all about appearances with Lucy, I’m afraid,” she remarks, and I try desperately not to look at the gilded mirror to my left, or to show any reaction on my face as I recall the Whartons’ much more simple, and plain – and tasteful – decor.
“Is it?” I remark, not bothering to disguise my confusion. “Surely he can’t be that badly off. He owns a factory in West Molesey, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” Mr Conroy replies. “Norman’s father died just a few weeks before his marriage to Lucy, and he inherited the factory, together with a much larger house in Weston Green. Unfortunately, it became clear within a couple of months, that the factory wasn’t doing as well as Norman had expected, so the house had to be sold, and he bought the place in Station Road. It was the sensible thing to do.”
“It might well have been, but Lucy resented it, right form the word ‘go’,” Mrs Conroy says, interrupting her husband’s flow. “Moving from Norman’s nine bedroomed house to their pokey little four bedroomed place in Station Road was a real come-down for Lucy, even though she still insisted on keeping a
housemaid, for heaven’s sake. Do you know, it wouldn’t surprise me if she only married him for his money…” She smiles, but it’s an ugly smile. “I’d have loved to see her face when she discovered there wasn’t any.”
“There was still some money,” her husband corrects her, earning a scowl. “But not as much as there had been. Their lives had to become quite modest, by comparison.”
“It doesn’t need to be so modest,” Mrs Conroy says, raising her voice, almost angry, it seems. “Not any more. And I’m sure if Lucy didn’t have such ridiculously expensive tastes, Norman could be doing a lot better for himself, especially now he’s got this government contract. It’s Lucy who’s holding him back, you mark my words.” She stops talking, breathing quite hard, her eyes alight.
I pause for a moment, asking myself whether perhaps there’s more to Mrs Conroy’s reactions than just a large hint of jealousy. It doesn’t take a huge leap of my imagination to wonder whether, despite her suspicions over her husband’s behaviour, she’s actually attracted to Mr Wharton herself. I’m not clear whether her admiration is reciprocated; I didn’t notice anything in Mr Wharton’s responses about Mrs Conroy when we questioned him, but then I wasn’t thinking along these lines at the time.
“Is there anything else, Inspector?” Mr Conroy’s voice interrupts my train of thought.
“No, I don’t think so.”
He smiles. “I just have a few things to finish packing and then Susie’s going to run me to the station.”
“I see.”
He moves towards the door, taking his wife’s hand in his as he does so. She smiles up at him, her earlier jealousy seemingly forgotten, and I silently chastise myself for being so cynical about them. It’s possible that the last few cases I’ve worked on have made me see infidelity at every turn, but as I look at Mr and Mrs Conroy, it occurs to me that I’m probably being uncharitable and that it’s possible that Lucy Wharton and Susan Conroy simply don’t get on with each other, and that Mrs Conroy is merely being loyal to her old school friend.
We move out into the hallway and Mr Conroy opens the door, standing to one side and putting his arm around his wife, who looks up at him affectionately. “Good luck to you,” I say, shaking his hand as we leave.
