Superfluous Women (23 page)

“We're at your disposition, Mr. Underwood. What's on the agenda for me?”

“I wondered if you happen to have any acquaintances at the Foreign Office. I'd very much like to know the stepson's whereabouts in the past couple of months. Also, this friend who inherits the pearls has to be run to earth, and her address is in London.”

“As it happens,” Alec said dryly, “a friend of mine from Manchester University managed to squeeze through the swarms of Oxbridge men into a position at the FO. I expect he'll be able and willing to help. Anything else to be done while I'm in town?”

“Not that I can think of. I don't suppose Mrs. Fletcher would like to go with you?”

“And stay there? I'll put it to her, but I doubt it. She seems to be comfortably settled at the Saracen's Head and determined to support her friends, though she might pop up for a few hours to see the twins.”

“Ah well.” At least Underwood apparently didn't delude himself that Alec was able to control Daisy's movements. “Myself, I'm going to start in High Wycombe. I'll send someone up to the county offices in Aylesbury to get a list of owners of cars with the BH registration. You never know, if it's not too long it may be useful. Then I'll call on Mr. Butterworth, the ladies' solicitor, and whatsisname, Miss Chandler's boss—”

“Mr. Davis, sir,” Ernie put in.

“Thank you, Sergeant. And see if I can catch Vaughn at his office. If not, I'll talk to
his
boss and set up an appointment.”

“Langridge's, in the High Street.”

“Then back here to have a word with the rector. Depending on what he has to say, I may ask you to come with me, Sergeant, to see Cartwright. Depends on the time, too. I won't fetch him out of his classroom if he turns out not to be a serious suspect. Have I covered everything?”

“It should clear the ground nicely,” said Alec, “which is about the best we can hope for at this stage, considering how little we have to go on.”

“One thing, sir.” Ernie hesitated. “It's not strictly relevant, but it's kind of a loose end you might want to tie up.”

“What's that, Mr. Piper? Go ahead.”

“Well, Miss Hedger told me there's a rumour Mrs. Gray did away with the old man. There's likely nothing in it, and even if it's true, it wouldn't have a direct effect on finding who killed her. Unless…” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Spit it out, man,” Underwood encouraged him.

“It's pure speculation, sir, as the Chief would say, but supposing her stepson guessed she'd murdered his dad—”

“Or came home for his funeral and heard the rumour—You'd better ask where he was at that time, too, Mr. Fletcher. April, wasn't it?”

“He died on the twenty-fourth of April, sir, and was buried on the twenty-eighth.”

“Not much time to return to England from the farthest reaches of Empire,” Alec observed. “But a friend who attended the funeral and heard the rumour could have passed it on in a letter. In any case, I'll check the dates.”

“Because,” said Underwood, “it would give him a whopping great motive, on top of the money, for doing in his stepmother.”

 

TWENTY-ONE

Umbrellas raised,
Daisy and Isabel made their way along the Wycombe Road. They passed the Fire Engine House, then turned off into a narrow, muddy alley. Sally had told them her aunt's cottage was the fourth on the right. The drizzle, scarcely pierced by the lamp on the far side of the main street, made it difficult to tell one tiny cottage from the next. Lath and plaster, ancient and ramshackle, they opened directly onto the mud.

At one front door, a pale paving stone caught a glimmer of light. One resident, at least, had made an effort to prevent the muck from being tracked in.

“That will be it,” Isabel guessed.

Daisy stood back, peering, and counted. “Yes, that's the fourth. It seems to be completely dark, though. She probably goes to bed early.”

Isabel, closer, said, “No, there's an oil lamp or a candle burning downstairs. I can just make it out through the curtain. Come on.”

Failing a door knocker, she used her hand. Her glove muffled the sound so she took it off and rapped with bare knuckles.

After a moment, a suspicious voice asked, “Who's there?”

“It's Miss Sutcliffe, Mrs. Hedger.”

“What d'you want, Miss, disturbing a poor ol' hardworking woman this time of night?” Despite her complaining words, her voice was flat.

“You didn't work today,” Isabel pointed out. “I promised to pay you anyway, so I've brought your money.”

“Devious,” Daisy murmured, “and clever.”

The door creaked open. Mrs. Hedger, a brightly multicoloured shawl over her head and swathed round her shoulders, appeared with her cupped hand already held out. Her back to a dim oil lamp, her face was shadowed.

Isabel reached into her coat pocket and took out a purse. “It's too dark out here to see to count.” She stepped forward, so that the charwoman had to retreat.

Daisy followed them in. The room was tiny, and very clean, from the brick floor to the shabby wooden rocking chair, the whitewashed walls, the mantelpiece above the meagre fire, and the tarnished looking glass above the mantelpiece.

Coins clinked into the waiting palm. “Also,” said Isabel, “I wanted to talk to you about earning some extra cash.”

Mrs. Hedger was staring at Daisy. “Who's she?”

“A friend. She walked with me for company. No doubt you've heard what happened at Cherry Trees? There's some cleaning needed, and I can't pretend it won't be—”

“No!” Her vehemence was so much at odds with her usual surly reticence as to startle Daisy. “Not that I haven't laid out a corpse or two in my time, but …
her
! No, I won't do it, and that's flat.”

“The body's not there any longer,” Isabel said coaxingly. “The police removed it. It's just that it's left rather a nasty mess. Or so I'm told. I'd pay extra, of course.”

“Not for nothing I won't.”

Daisy didn't blame her a bit, but she said in her mother's tones of utmost displeasure, “You may regret disobliging, the next time Miss Sutcliffe has a job to be done for extra pay.”

Mrs. Hedger was unmoved. “I've said all I has to say, Miss, and I'll thank you to leave me in peace. I'll be in Wednesday, same as usual, to do my usual.”

“That depends on the police,” said Isabel. “I'll let you know. Good night.”

They walked in silence to the end of the alley. Daisy was piqued by her failure, but she laughed. “It would seem my voice isn't posh enough.”

“It was worth a try.”

“Perhaps I'd have had more success as myself, not my mother.”

“Never mind. I didn't really expect her to agree, even if she has ‘laid out a corpse or two.' I just hope I can find someone willing at the Labour Exchange.”

“You'd better check with Underwood before you hire someone.”

“Oh, yes. I wonder—There's the church clock. Half past nine. He'll have gone home by now.”

“Don't be so sure. The police work all hours on an investigation like this. Though this case is rather different, of course. They're usually in a hurry to find clues before they disappear, but this time if they were going to disappear they'll be long gone by now.”

“I might as well pop into the police station anyway.”

“The Saracen's Head first. Alec may be there, or Underwood himself, and able to give you an answer.”

“It's a very unsettled life, isn't it?”

“I never know whether Alec will be home for dinner. He's sent all over the country, though. I imagine Underwood rarely has to leave the county.”

“What does Alec think of him?”

“He hasn't told me directly, but judging by how well they're working together, I'd guess he respects his competence.”

“That's good. All the same, I'm glad Alec's on the case.”

They crossed the Wycombe Road and were halfway across Windsor End when the door of the Saracen's Head opened and a very large man stepped out into the light from the lamp above. Spotting them, he stopped and held the door for them, raising his hat to reveal a hairless dome immediately bedewed with glinting raindrops. Isabel passed him with a nod of acknowledgement.

Daisy paused with a smile. He winked at her.

Wondering whether Tom had heard any new and useful rumours, she followed Isabel.

They returned to the parlour, where they found Willie and Vera.

With the burden of her secret lifted, Vera was a new person. She'd never have Willie's sparkle or her drive to succeed, Daisy thought, nor the inner strength that enabled Isabel to cope calmly with what life threw at her. But Vera had a quiet charm that showed more clearly now that she wasn't living in fear.

Daisy was glad for her. She had run out of steam though, too tired to stay and celebrate with them. She turned down the offer of a drink and went upstairs.

Her mind was restless and wouldn't let her fall asleep. Her friends seemed to have put behind them the horrible discovery in their cellar. Ought they to be worrying about DI Underwood? Had the inspector really concluded that the murder had nothing to do with the present inhabitants of the house where it had occurred?

Perhaps Alec would tell her whether they were still under suspicion. He might not, fearing that Daisy would warn them. And he might be right at that.

She thought back over the past week. Nothing she'd seen or heard since arriving in Beaconsfield gave the slightest ground for suspecting any of the three women had the least idea a body was slowly decomposing in their cellar. Nothing in their characters gave the slightest grounds for supposing any of them capable of killing someone and concealing a guilty conscience for a month or so.

Nor had they even the slightest hint of a motive for the murder. The legal papers had been signed; the house was theirs. Mrs. Gray couldn't have refused to vacate it. Nonetheless, doubtless all sorts of rumours about Willie, Isabel, and Vera were flying round the town. Daisy wished she had been able to chat with Tom Tring, to ask him what was being said.

As far as Daisy knew, the police had only two real suspects, and neither Vaughn nor Cartwright looked very promising.

She was still awake when Alec came in.

“Still awake, love?”

“Your powers of observation and deduction are astounding, darling. I'm not sleepy, just feeling a bit limp.”

He sat down on the bed and took her hand. “Not a relapse?” he asked anxiously.

“No, I haven't coughed once. I rather overdid things today, I suppose.”

“Won't you go home and let yourself be spoiled by Elsie and Mrs. Dobson? I have to go to London tomorrow. I could drive you, so you wouldn't have to tackle the train journey.”

“You're going up to town again? What for?”

“You won't let it go, will you?”

“Not as long as there's any chance of helping Willie and company. Did the super call you back?”

“No, it's an errand for Underwood. Do you remember Eric Bragg? I think you've met him.”

“Your friend from Manchester? The one whose Mancunian accent somehow survives at the Foreign Office? Oh, no, don't tell me you've proved it's not Mrs. Gray and have to go looking for her on the Continent!”

“No, no. We're about as sure as we can be without finding her dentist that it is her. Underwood, very properly, wants to know what her stepson's been up to recently.”

“I'd forgotten about him. He's at the FO?”

“That would make things too simple. He's a diplomat. We can only hope Bragg knows or can find out where he is and where he's been.”

“Surely they must keep track of their people? Though I expect there are still places where communication's pretty difficult: parts of Africa and China and the Northwest Frontier, for instance. Well, give my regards to Mr. Bragg. You'll come back here when you've talked to him?”

“Eventually. I also have to call on the only friend of Judith Gray whose name and address we've found.”

“Who's probably on the Riviera, waiting for her to turn up.”

“Very possible.”

“Unless she's actually already there … You said you can't find her dentist? What about her doctor? She didn't go to Dr. Barnes?”

“No, though Albert did.”

“Have you talked to Dr. Barnes about her? Mrs. Barnes didn't know her, but the doctor might have discussed her husband's illness with her, at least when he was dying. He might have a better idea of what she was like than anyone else you've found.”

“Could be,” Alec said thoughtfully, taking off his jacket and tie. “He struck me as pretty shrewd. As far as I'm aware, Pennicuik was told only to ask whether he was her practitioner. We ought to find out whether he saw enough of her to gain an impression of her character.”

“You see?” Daisy crowed. “I
am
sometimes helpful!” Before he could retort, she went on, “I saw Tom this evening.”

“You didn't—”

“Of course not, darling. He was coming out of the hotel—this hotel—as Isabel and I were going in.”

“Where on earth had you been?”

“Isabel had to tackle Mrs. Hedger about cleaning the cellar.”

“Don't tell me she needed your support to make a request of her own char!”

“Well, no, not Isabel. Though she is a fearsome old woman.”

“She is indeed. You wanted to see for yourself?”

“And Sally did say her aunt respected people with posh voices, so when she adamantly refused Isabel, I tried Mother's voice on her. It didn't work. Meeting her made me very thankful for Mrs. Twickle, who's good-natured even though Mrs. Dobson has to stand over her to keep her going. I still think Tom would be able to get round Mrs. Hedger.”