by K. J. Frost
“I see,” he murmurs.
“And of course, we can’t forget that he neglected to answer my question as to he whereabouts on Monday evening.”
“No, I noticed that,” Ellis muses. “What does that mean, do you think?”
“It might mean nothing. It might mean he was somewhere else that he’d rather not reveal to us, or it might mean he was in The Plough, making unwanted advances to Beth Templeton. There again, it might simply mean he was fed up with me asking him questions. To be honest, at the moment it’s all conjecture.” I close the door behind us. “But so is most detective work.”
“It is?”
“Yes. As you gather more information, you try and fit it into the jigsaw, discarding the irrelevant pieces, until eventually you complete the picture.” Hopefully.
We’re almost at the car when I hear my name being called out. The voice is female and, for a moment, I hope it may be Amelie, but then I turn and see Miss Higgins waving her arm in our direction.
She walks quickly towards us and I meet her half way.
“I’m so glad I caught you,” she says. “I saw you arrive earlier and expected you to come into the main office, but you didn’t.”
“No. We needed to see someone else today.” I’m not about to tell her who. I doubt she’s the soul of discretion.
“I remembered something earlier, about Miss Templeton, and I thought I ought to tell you.” She turns away from the offices as she’s speaking, as though the other staff might be looking out of the window and be able to hear, or maybe lip-read what she’s about to say.
“Yes?”
“It was on Monday,” she continues. “She received a personal telephone call…”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “When was this?” I ask.
“About eleven o’clock.” She leans a little closer. “She often had personal calls, but this one was different.”
“Why?”
“Because she declined it.”
I fail to see why that’s so noteworthy, but clearly there’s more to this than meets the eye. “She did?” I prompt.
“Yes.” She nods, looking up at me.
“Had she ever done that before?”
“No.” She lowers her voice. “Never. That’s why I remarked on it.”
“Do you know who the call was from?”
“Oh, yes.” She leans back, looking up at me. “Miss Templeton only ever had personal calls from one person…”
“Who was that?”
“Her father.”
“What shall we do now?” Ellis asks as we drive back to the office. It’s lunchtime, which is too early to expect Gordon Templeton to have arrived home from London, but I resolve to go around there later this afternoon to question him, assuming he’s made it back by then.
“First thing’s first, I want you to check Mr Johnson’s background. Find out everything you can about him, specifically about his relationships.” Ellis nods. “And I want you to make sure all the files are completely up to date. I’m going to go and see Ursula Franklin’s mother, and then I’m going to see if Gordon Templeton is back from London.”
He looks a little despondent at being left out of the rest of the day’s enquiries, but I want to get a feel for the cold case myself, without any outside influences.
“Very good, sir,” he says, getting out of the car.
There are a few items of paperwork to deal with, but eventually I get away again. The drive over to Molesey is busier than any so far this week, but it’s Friday afternoon, which I suppose is a good enough reason.
Ursula Franklin lived with her mother in Avern Road, a little further down Walton Road from The Plough. The houses here are smaller and, in the case of the Franklins’ property, more run-down. As I get out of the car, I look up at the building. The main door is to the side, the front face showing just two rather grimy cottage style windows. Down the side alleyway, there’s an accumulation of rubbish and, for some reason, the spare tyre of a car, leaning up against the wall, although there’s no sign of the rest of the vehicle. It seems incongruous.
The door is answered – to my surprise – by a woman wearing a pale pink silky dressing gown. It is gone three o’clock in the afternoon, so my reaction doesn’t feel unwarranted. I doubt, however, that her gown is of real silk, although the overall impression is of a silky nature. Her hair is blonde, but I’m not sure how natural that is, and she’s made up as though she were going out for the evening. What she’d be doing while out isn’t something I want to consider. She has a cigarette hanging from her left hand, the fingernails of which are painted bright red, to match her full lips.
“Hello,” she purrs. “To what do I owe the pleasure…?” I retrieve my warrant card and her face falls. “Not again, for Christ’s sake,” she says, no longer the feline temptress. She’s now more of an alley cat. “I don’t care what that bitch next door says, those three blokes what was ’ere last night was all cousins of mine, and we…”
“Mrs Franklin,” I interrupt, before she goes into any more detail. “I’m not interested in anything to do with what happened last night, nor with your neighbours. I’m here about your daughter.”
“My Ursula?” she says, softening again in an instant.
“Yes.” I’m slightly worried about asking my next question, but I also don’t want to stand on her doorstep. “May I come in?”
Her eyes brighten. “Of course you may, dearie,” she replies, stepping back. The stairs are right behind her, making my entrance a little awkward and we have to both manoeuvre around the door before she can close it again. “Sorry about that,” she says.
“Don’t worry.”
“Do come in.” She directs me to the room at the front of the house. Despite appearances to the contrary from the exterior, the inside of her home is tidy – if a little cluttered with ornaments and photographs. “Take a seat,” she offers and I do, at one end of the floral patterned sofa, the colour of which clashes with the equally flowery wallpaper.
She sits beside me, closer than she needs to and then twists to face me, deliberately allowing the gown to shift, revealing more than I wanted to see of what’s underneath.
“About your daughter…” I turn to her, but make sure to keep my eyes focused on her face.
“Yes?” She smiles at me. It’s the self-confident smile of a spider, who’s just realised her next meal has walked into her web and sat down of its own volition – or so she thinks.
“I understand she’d only just joined the WAAFs?”
She nods. “Yes.” Then she smiles again. “She wanted to do her bit and decided on the WAAFs because she’d heard there were lots of young men to be had. You know what these pilots are like.” She chuckles. “And my Ursula didn’t need much encouragement in that department.” Like mother, like daughter, I think to myself.
I glance up at the array of photographs on the mantlepiece and notice one of a young woman wearing a very low-cut dress. She’s blonde and extremely voluptuous, a broad smile on her face. I recognise her from the photographs in the file, although in those, she was less attractive.
“And was she walking out with one particular pilot, or someone else in the RAF?”
“Walking out? One particular pilot?” Mrs Franklin replies, a little incredulous. “No, dear. That wasn’t Ursula’s style.” She sighs. “I’m not sure she’d ever have settled down with just one man. But then, I don’t doubt she remembered what her father used to be like.” I sit in silence, hoping she’ll elucidate. Unfortunately, she doesn’t.
“I take it he’s not around anymore?” I ask in an effort to encourage her.
“No. He ran off with some young tart about seven or eight years ago,” she says, suddenly being more forthcoming. “And good riddance too. Our Ursula was quite well developed by then and he was starting to take an unhealthy interest in her, if you get my meaning. Luckily, he left before things went too far.”
I wonder about her definition of ‘too far’. “Does h
e still live around here?” I ask. His interest in his daughter, and other young women may not have waned over the years.
“He could be anywhere, as far as I know. He took his tart to Salisbury, I think, because he got work there, but whether they’re still there or not, I’ve got no idea,” she replies. “His parents lived just up the road from here, but I heard they moved a while back.”
“Any idea where to?” It’s too much to hope for.
“No.” I thought so. “His mum and I never really got on,” she adds. “But then she and Ken never really saw eye to eye either.”
“Can you give me his full name?” I ask her.
“Yes. It’s David Franklin.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you just called him ‘Ken’.”
“Yes, I did. Everyone used to call him that.”
“Why?”
“It’s his middle name, and his father’s name is David as well. It avoided confusion.” I wonder to myself why his parents didn’t just christen him Kenneth and save everyone the effort, but my thoughts are interrupted by Mrs Franklin moving closer to me and running her hand along the back of the sofa.
“Going back to your daughter,” I say, trying to move the interview along. “Do you think she’d have left the pub with a man she didn’t know?”
“Probably. If he was good looking enough,” she replies.
I’d really hoped she might say ‘no’ to that, so we could try to narrow the field a little. Instead, given the siren-like qualities of Ursula Franklin, we seem to have opened it up to just about every reasonably presentable red-blooded male in the country.
“That’s the sort of girl she was,” Mrs Franklin continues. “She was like me.” She moves closer still. “Neither of us can help ourselves…”
“Really.” I try to put as much disinterest into my voice as I can.
“Yes. We both have a soft spot for a good-looking man.” She leans in and I quickly get to my feet before she can make good on her innuendos.
“I’d better be leaving.”
“Oh, surely you can stay a bit longer.” She lets the gown fall open a little more and I discover something else I didn’t want to know. Mrs Franklin is definitely not a natural blonde.
It’s only a short drive back to the Templeton’s house, but I take it slowly and park up outside, sitting in the car for a moment to recover myself.
I didn’t actually run out of Mrs Franklin’s house, but I beat a very hasty retreat, being as polite as possible in my refusals to stay and sample her none too appetising wares. I’ve resolved that, in future, should we need to enquire any further of the woman, we’ll either do so by telephone, or I’ll send Ellis. Better still, I’ll send Thompson.
I’ve still got a while before I can expect Templeton to have come back from London, so I leave my car where it is and wander down to Walton Road, buying a couple of apples from the greengrocer’s on the corner. I dawdle along the street for a while, looking at the village shops, eating my rather sweet cox’s orange pippins, and thinking about Amelie. An instinctive smile forms on my lips as I picture her angelic face, her perfect lips and sparkling eyes. A thought strikes me, and I’m reminded of something Daniel Milton said, when he was talking about Beth Templeton. Amelie has something else too. Yes, she’s beautiful. Others have commented on that, and it’s obvious for anyone to see, but there’s more to her than that. I don’t know whether it’s her natural charm, her pure grace, or her sometimes worrying youth, but it’s what makes her who she is… The woman I’m almost certain I’m falling in love with.
When I return, Gordon Templeton is none too pleased to see me.
“I’ve only just arrived back from London,” he says, glaring at me from in front of the fireplace in the drawing room.
“I’m aware of that, sir. I’m just trying to find out who murdered your daughter, and then I’ll happily leave you alone.” My words might be blunt, but I find the man annoying. He asked for the presence of Scotland Yard on this case, but seems to be offended that my job involves him in any way.
He softens almost immediately. “Yes,” he says, and moves away from the fire, sitting down and indicating that I should do likewise. “I’m sorry.” I nod my head in acceptance of his apology. “How may I help?” he asks.
“I was wondering if you could explain why you used to telephone your daughter at work?” His eyes flicker for an instant and then return to normal.
“That’s quite simple,” he replies, before he starts coughing. I wonder if he’s playing for time, or whether he genuinely does need to clear his throat… or whether I’m just getting too cynical in my old age. Eventually, he stops and focuses on me again, apologising and then continuing, “I wanted updates on my wife’s health and what was happening at home. It was quicker and easier to telephone Beth at work. Conversations with Millicent can be drawn-out affairs, and I don’t like involving the servants in our family business.”
“I see.” I nod my head slowly. “And why did you telephone her on the day of her death?”
This time, there’s a more pronounced reaction. He pales significantly and turns away, looking at the roaring fire. “That… well, that was also to do with Millicent,” he replies. “She’d been particularly difficult over the weekend, and I wanted to remind Beth to keep an eye on her. That’s all.”
“And yet, your daughter didn’t take your call?” His head flips back around, focusing on me again.
“No.” He purses his lips and I wonder how close he is to losing his temper. “I understand she was busy.”
“But she took your calls every other time?”
“Yes. I suppose hearing the news of her promotion meant she had more to do… I don’t know.” He huffs out a breath.
“Yes, I expect that’s what it was,” I say, soothingly. “I was surprised you didn’t tell me your daughter was adopted.” I change the subject in the most matter of fact tone I can muster. Templeton is clearly taken aback, but rallies well this time.
“It’s not common knowledge,” he replies, inspecting his fingernails. “I don’t generally tell anyone.” I look at him, and after just a few moments, he sighs, realising he’s going to have to tell me more than that, if he wants me to drop the point. “When we lost our baby, Millicent found it very upsetting.” I want to tell him that I’m not overly surprised, even though he seems to be. “The situation was made worse by the doctors telling her she wouldn’t be able to conceive again, and for a while, she was inconsolable. She’d sunk to a very low ebb when I managed to find Beth. She was only six weeks old, her teenage mother had died in childbirth, with no sign of a father, and so we adopted her. It—It was like a miracle. Millicent came out of her shell immediately. She came back to life. She took over the running of the house again, cared impeccably for Beth, and was just like the woman I’d married.” His eyes glaze over and, for a moment, I feel sorry for him. “We were extremely happy. Then Amelie came to live with us, and for a very brief time, it was like having the perfect family.” He pauses for a moment. “And then my wife’s health took a turn for the worse. She would probably give you a list of ailments, and our doctor may concur with a few of them. For myself, I’ve always believed that the start of her illness coincided with Beth and Amelie growing more independent of her. Their friendship flourished and blossomed, they started to do everything together and, therefore, in Millicent’s eyes, they needed her less. She felt side-lined.”
“And now?” I ask, out of genuine interest.
“Now, I think she’s just become accustomed to being an invalid. She’s lain up there for ten years or more.” He rolls his eyes upwards. “I don’t think she’d know how to live a normal life anymore.”
“And you never mention Beth’s adoption?”
He shakes his head vehemently. “No. And I’d be grateful if you didn’t.”
I can feel myself blushing. “I may have slipped up,” I confess.
“You haven’t been questioning Millicent about this?” He sits forward.
“No. But I did question Miss Cooper.”
Templeton flops back into the sofa. “Amelie…” he sighs. “That’s alright.”
“If I’d realised she didn’t know, I would never have said anything,” I explain. “I thought she did and wondered why she hadn’t mentioned it.”
He shakes his head more slowly this time. “No, Amelie had no idea.” He looks up at me. “How did she take the news?”
“She was surprised,” I tell him. “But to be honest, I think she’s still so shocked about what’s happened, it didn’t really register.
“Hmm… that’s not surprising, I suppose.”
This is Gordon Templeton at his most human – in my experience, anyway.
“I’d better leave you to get on,” I say, remembering that he’s only just got home, and getting to my feet. “I’ve taken up enough of your time already.”
He stands. “I can rely on your discretion?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
As I take my leave and go down the steps and onto the driveway, I accept that, while I still don’t like the man, and I don’t approve of how he lives his life, he hasn’t necessarily been dealt the easiest of hands, and maybe he’s just making the best of what he’s got.
After seeing and hearing his emotional reactions to talking about his family, I’m also starting to wonder whether my suspicions about him are just a blind alley, based largely on my jealously, but with very little foundation in fact.
At the end of the driveway, I glance at my watch, which I can just about see in the early evening gloom. It’s a little after six o’clock, so it’s not worth going back to the office now. I may as well go home, spend some time with Aunt Dotty, have something to eat and then come back here and collect Amelie. Just the thought of her makes me smile, but I’m getting used to that now.
Over another delicious dinner of chicken pie, Aunt Dotty told me she’d managed to clear half a flower bed that afternoon, and was clearly feeling very pleased with herself. She hasn’t started digging up the lawn yet, thank goodness, and I’m hoping to get some free time soon, so I can save her the trouble.
