Superfluous Women (19 page)

“We won't keep you. Allow me to thank you most sincerely for your frankness.”

“I regret not having spoken at the time.” In a low voice, for Daisy's ears alone, she added dryly, “I hope I shan't regret having changed my mind at this late date.”

Daisy felt guilty. Some, at least, of what she had heard she must pass on to Alec, and once in the hands of the police, one could never be sure where information would lead. Miss Mason hadn't been warned that she was on the periphery of a case of murder.

Warning her, Daisy was sure, would have constituted interference from the police point of view. Already it was going to be touchy deciding what she had to tell them and what could be decently suppressed.

Mr. Turnbull preceded the ladies to open the door for them. Behind his back, Daisy whispered, “I don't suppose you'd like to tell me the name of the youngish woman?”

“Oh, something very ordinary. Grove? Or Green, or—Gray, that's it.”

Daisy hoped she didn't look too obviously triumphant. “And your friend who saw Cartwright visiting her?”

Miss Mason shook her head. “No, we may have parted brass rags, but that wouldn't be fair. Sorry.”

All the same, Daisy mused as she and the rector returned to the car, she had news for Alec. She could explain why Vera had been evasive when questioned and whom Cartwright had in mind when he asserted that “she” was lying about him. She could also offer a motive for Cartwright to have killed Mrs. Gray.

If necessary, the police should be able to trace Miss Mason's jealous boyfriend and get his evidence that the widow had rejected the schoolmaster. Cartwright was apparently a singularly unsuccessful would-be philanderer.

He had a propensity for violence. Both Vera and Miss Mason had remarked on his penchant for beating the children in his class. He was impulsive. He hadn't waited to find out what the police were investigating before he rushed to try to exculpate himself. If Daisy had a list of suspects, he'd be at the top.

“What's Mrs. Cartwright like, Mr. Turnbull?” Daisy asked, starting the car and turning left into the street.

“I was just thinking about her. A difficult woman, I'm afraid. But I mustn't speak ill of her; no doubt she has her reasons. And besides, it's no excuse for Cartwright's shocking behaviour.”

“Very true. Oh dear, I think we're going the wrong way. I'd better concentrate on driving.”

They had to circle around to get onto the right road. From that point it was fairly straightforward. Daisy's thoughts wandered again.

Her whole edifice, she realised, was based on the premise that the body was Mrs. Gray's. Surely she must be? After a fortnight or more, anyone else would have been reported missing.

Unless—Could Mrs. Gray have had a prospective travelling companion? Suppose they had planned to set out from Cherry Trees for the Continent, had quarrelled, and Mrs. Gray had pushed her friend down the cellar steps. In that case, the victim would not be missed for who could guess how long?

But that line of speculation was equally fruitless until the corpse had been identified. Daisy was going round in mental circles, and if she didn't watch where she was driving, she'd be going round in literal circles again.

 

EIGHTEEN

As Alec
was leaving the Yard, he heard Tom Tring's voice and glanced into the room he was passing.

“Tom!”

“Hello, Chief. I just popped in for a chat.”

The officer with whom he was chatting developed a sudden diligent interest in the papers on his desk. DS Tom Tring, retired, came out into the passage, closing the door behind him. His huge bulk was clad in one of his more subdued suits, a dark grey and forest green check. The bald dome of his head was as shiny as ever and his face no longer had the greyish tinge of permanent tiredness it had worn his last few weeks in the force.

“It's good to see you, Tom. Can't stay away from the old place?”

“Retiring's harder than you'd think, for both me and the missus. She's got her ways, and I try to stay out from under her feet.”

“I expect it will grow easier with time. Most things do.”

“I haven't got enough to do, that's the beginning and end of it. You know how it is on the job, Chief. You can't start an allotment garden or join a bowling team or suchlike because you may be called away any moment. How are my godson and Miss Miranda?”

“Flourishing. You and Mrs. Tring must come and see them one of these days.”

“Any time. And give my best to Miss Belinda when Mrs. Fletcher writes to her at school.”

“I write to Bel, too!”

“But not as often, I bet. I know who writes most letters in my family, and it isn't the men. What are you working on these days?”

“A murder in Bucks. I found the body, which has complicated matters. I'm sort of officially unofficial on the case.”

“Ah. Mrs. Fletcher involved, by any chance?”

“Well, yes.”

Tom grinned. “Ah!”

“You know, I was thinking about you last night. What we needed was someone not obviously a cop to mingle in the public bar. Come to that,” he added thoughtfully, “we still do. Also someone to chat with servants in hope of tracing a gardener and a maid. But no, that wouldn't be at all according to Cocker.”

“Come on, Chief, you can't dangle the carrot and then whip it away! Unofficial, you said. What could be more unofficial than me and the missus taking a little holiday in the country? Wouldn't it be a coincidence if we ended up in the same place as you and Mrs. Fletcher?”

Alec's turn to grin: “I can't stop you, Tom. We're at Beaconsfield—pretty country. Come on up to the office—no, better not.”

“Too official-looking?”

“Much too. It's just on opening time; let's go over to the Feathers. I'll buy you a pint and explain the situation.”

*   *   *

When Alec and Ernie Piper reached the Saracen's Head, Sally Hedger was at the reception desk.

“Mrs. Fletcher isn't back from London yet, sir,” she said to Alec. “You're staying on?”

“For the present. I'm not sure how long.”

“I'll see if you're still in the book.” She opened the big ledger. “No, Mr. Whitford wrote you down as checked out. Here's your key. And Mr…?”

“Piper,” said Ernie. “Ernest Piper, Detective Sergeant, miss. I don't know how long I'll be staying neither, sorry. Likely as long as Mr. Fletcher.”

“I'll put you in Twelve, Mr. Piper, next to the Fletchers.” Sally smiled at him. “Stay as long as you want. You're from London, too?”

“That's right.”

“I'll see the Boots takes up your bags, gentlemen. By the way, Mr. Fletcher, Inspector Underwood has set up at the police station today. It's just down the road. Turn left outside the door and go on round the corner into Windsor End.”

“Thanks.”

“Miss Sutcliffe spent half the morning there. Mr. Underwood asked her not to see Auntie May about cleaning the cellar till after he's talked to her.”

“Miss Hedger, I know you sometimes help your aunt. Please don't offer to do so on this occasion.”

“Is it as nasty as they're saying, then?”

“Who's saying?”

“Everyone, but it was Sergeant Harris as started it.”

“Today?”

“No, sir, last night, like I told the inspector. I haven't seen hide nor hair of him today.”

“Good,” Alec said grimly, hoping Underwood had put the sergeant firmly in his place. “It's quite as nasty as anything I've ever seen. Stay away. If my wife comes in before I return, please tell her I'll be at the police station.” He almost added, “and she's not to join me,” but decided that was carrying familiarity a bit too far.

As he and Ernie turned left into Windsor End, Ernie said, “That young woman seems to know a lot about our business.”

“Rumours have been flying, as you heard, but more to the point, Daisy has taken a liking to her.”

“I see.”

“Sally was very good to Daisy when she was ill.” Alec tried not to sound defensive.

“Well, that's different then, isn't it.” Ernie had always been a staunch admirer and defender of Daisy, even after he at last realised that she wasn't always right. “A nice young woman. Miss Sutcliffe is not the lady Mrs. Fletcher was at school with, right?”

“Right. She's the one who runs the household. But they're all Daisy's friends now.”

“If that isn't Mrs. Fletcher all over! This is an odd position we're in, and no mistake, being unofficial. What are you going to do if this DI Underwood starts ordering you about, Chief, and telling you to do things you don't agree with?”

Alec had told Ernie all the facts of the case, but hadn't attempted to explain his tenuously amicable relationship with the local man. “Let's not borrow trouble,” he temporised. “Here we are.”

Beaconsfield's police station was an ugly brick building that also housed the magistrate's court. DI Underwood had appropriated a good-sized room with a couple of desks. He was the sole occupant, seated at one of the desks, gloomily reading the top page of a neat pile. When Alec and Ernie entered, he sprang up.

“Chief Inspector, glad to have you back, sir.” He looked enquiringly at Ernie.

“DS Piper, my right-hand man. Superintendent Crane suggested he might be of assistance.”

“Happy to meet you, Sergeant.”

“Likewise, sir.” They shook hands. “I hope I can help.”

Underwood waved them to a couple of rather battered wooden chairs and sat down on a similar one behind the desk. “The two of you have doubled my detective force, though I have a few PCs and a uniform sergeant at my disposal.”

“Not Sergeant Harris, I hope,” said Alec.

“Lord, no! My super gave him what-for for gossiping and he's lying low. Sergeant Levin and his men are talking to neighbours who weren't at home when they called yesterday or this morning. They'll try the shops on Station Road, too. You never know, someone may have seen her with an identifiable companion, or been given an address to forward a final account.”

“Delivery people may even be able to put a date to her demise—or departure. Any luck with the neighbours?”

“So far, nothing. With those damned high hedges all along the street, nosy neighbours are scarce! Not one of the residents of Orchard Road admits to having been better acquainted with Mrs. Gray than to say good morning.”

“Too soon to give up,” Ernie observed cheerfully. “You never know what they'll remember with a bit of digging.”

“True, Sergeant. Maybe I'll set you onto them. Two or three did say they think she's spent a good deal of time in London since her husband died. So far we haven't found a local doctor or dentist. They're cagy about giving information about their patients on the telephone, so DC Pennicuik called on all the Beaconsfield practitioners—both, rather, one of each. Dr. Barnes was her husband's practitioner, but not hers. I sent Pennicuik to High Wycombe to make the rounds there. If she went to a London doctor or dentist, though…” Underwood looked thoroughly discouraged.

“Her dentist could be all-important,” said Alec. “Dental records may be the only way to get a positive identification of the victim. Have you seen her lawyer yet? He's in Beaconsfield, isn't he?”

“Mr. Ainsley, yes.” The inspector glanced at the wall clock. Standing, he took his hat from the knob of his chair. “I've got an appointment with him in fifteen minutes. He was away for the weekend, his secretary told me, and wasn't expected back till after lunch. You'll come with me, won't you, Mr. Fletcher? Solicitors are always tricky to deal with and he might be a bit more forthcoming to a high-ranking Scotland Yard man.”

“I'll come. In the meantime, I suggest Piper go through those reports you have there. He's a demon for spotting easy-to-overlook details.”

“Go right ahead, Sergeant. I wish you better luck than I've had.”

A chilly breeze from the north had arisen. As Alec and Underwood passed the Saracen's Head, Alec was tempted to drop in to find out whether Daisy had returned already. But Underwood was walking briskly, so he resisted temptation. They crossed the main road, and continued down Aylesbury End towards Station Road and the new town.

The thought of Daisy reminded him of her inexplicable errand. “Was Mrs. Gray a churchgoer?” he asked.

“I don't think so. The pastor of the Congregational was sure she'd never attended his services. The rector of St. Mary's wasn't at home when I called, but his wife was pretty sure Mrs. Gray wasn't a member of the congregation, even on an occasional basis.”

“The rector is the Reverend Mr. Turnbull? I … uh … I ought to tell you that he was picked up at Marylebone station this morning by my wife. Don't ask me why. I haven't the slightest idea.”

“She wouldn't tell you why?” Underwood asked, disbelieving.

“She told me on the phone, said she was in a hurry, and hung up before I could ask.”

“You wouldn't have mentioned it if you didn't think it's something to do with the case.”

“Nothing so clear-cut. It just occurs to me that the school Cartwright and Miss Leighton teach at is a church school. The rector, one may assume, is one of the governors. Miss Leighton lives in the house where the woman died; she was evasive and emotional when questioned. Cartwright's behaviour last night needs to be investigated: Who does he think told us lies about him, and why?”

“And today the reverend gentleman enlists Mrs. Fletcher to escort him about London? Hmm.”

“There may be absolutely no connection with the case.”

“But it's fishy, if you'll pardon me saying such a thing about your wife.”

“You won't be the first, Inspector. No doubt we'll find out in due course what it's all about.”