Superfluous Women (37 page)

“Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, we're out of everything 'cepting the ham.”

“Then ham let it be. What's brought the crowd out?”

“Hasn't Mr. Fletcher told you yet? They've arrested Mr. Vaughn. I've got to run. I'll bring your soup in just a minute.”

Sally had no time to stop and chat. Eavesdropping on nearby diners supplied “arrested for murder,” but offered no further credible details. Daisy went back up to the bedroom without much food for speculation. She sat on the bed with her typescript, trying to concentrate on editing.

Alec came in before she had finished, wresting off his tie as he closed the door.

“Darling, you look exhausted. Sally says you've arrested Vaughn.”

“I suppose Sergeant Harris has been talking again. I'm going to write a strongly worded suggestion that he be sacked, or at least demoted. Yes, Vaughn was easy to catch, driving his wife's car. She's furious—she wanted it for some errand this afternoon. Once we were fairly sure he was heading for Paris, and had good reason for stopping him, it didn't take long to pull him in.” Alec grinned. “We're grateful to you and Isabel for the information and for being stuck in the cellar.”

“What do you mean? You arrested him for kidnapping us, not for murder?”

“False imprisonment, as he didn't run off with you. We'll need your statements tomorrow. Still no grounds for homicide. We can hope for a confession.” Wearily he sat down on the edge of the bed. “But I'm not inclined to believe he killed her. We've found Judith Gray's maid and housekeeper, one in London, one in Bath, so tomorrow we'll have local lads ask them a few questions. Between them, they should be able to confirm the quarrel Mrs. Tom heard about, and identify the second woman for certain.”

“Mrs. Tom? You didn't tell me … I'm glad she had some success for her trouble.”

“Yes, it may reconcile her to Tom's notion of a nice outing to the countryside. The maid used to go up to town with Mrs. Gray, so we're hoping for the names of London friends.”

“What about the one in St. Tropez? Elizabeth Knox?”

“She wired. She and her husband and Geegee, who turns out to be Sir George Gantry, are devastated. A
flic
is going round to talk to them.”

“The inquest is tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes. I doubt you and your friends will be called upon. Underwood's going to request an adjournment as early as possible in the proceedings, and he says the coroner's a reasonable man. Enough, Daisy. I didn't get much sleep last night and I'll be up early again in the morning.”

 

THIRTY-THREE

Once again
Daisy awoke to the arrival of Sally with early morning tea, to find Alec already gone. She snatched at the fading wisps of a dream and missed. A glance at the clock showed that she had missed breakfast, too. However, as well as a little pot of not very early tea, Sally set a plate of bread and butter and a hard-boiled egg on the bedside table.

“Thank you so much, Sally.” The sight of her set questions buzzing in Daisy's brain. “Are you in a hurry?”

“No, Mrs. Fletcher. I'm finished serving breakfasts for this morning. Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Piper had theirs ages ago and went out.”

“Pull up a chair. I'd like to ask a couple of questions, if you don't mind?”

“Course not. Anything I can do to help.”

“I was just wondering if your aunt was very upset that she wasn't paid for the time she worked while no one was living at Cherry Trees.”

“She wasn't happy about it. Well, who would be? But she didn't really expect to be. I don't blame Miss Sutcliffe, mind. She didn't ask Auntie to do it, and there can't have been much needed doing, with the house empty.”

“Why do you think she bothered, then, if she didn't expect to be paid?”

Sally considered, her head tilted. “Partly habit. She's ever so set in her ways, Auntie May. And she could always hope, couldn't she? When you make just enough to scrape by, sometimes you've just got to hope.”

Remembering her own less-than-affluent days, Daisy could only agree. She persevered. “Yet yesterday she went off in a huff in the middle of her work. That was more of an interruption than spending a few minutes answering a few questions would have been. Even for someone as … crotchety as Mrs. Hedger, it seems a bit silly. Against her own interests.”

“She's always been contrary. It is odd, though. She's not been properly herself recently.”

“In what way?”

“Sort of like as if…” Sally frowned. “As if she's got a secret. Something she won't tell even me, and I'm the only person she ever talks to.”

“A pleasant secret, would you guess, or unpleasant?”

“I … I'm not sure. Sometimes she seemed pleased. Not happy-pleased, more sort of smug. But sometimes … sometimes it seemed as if she was almost afraid, like I told you yesterday. Do you think she knew who killed Mrs. Gray?”

“It's possible. Do
you
think she'd be likely to withhold that information from the police?”

“I don't know, Mrs. Fletcher, and that's the truth. She'll be in awful trouble if she did, won't she?” Tears sprang up in Sally's eyes.

Luckily the hankie under Daisy's pillow was unused. She handed it over. Afraid that Mrs. Hedger might be in much more serious trouble than withholding information, she had no words of comfort to offer.

Mopping her eyes, Sally cheered up. “But maybe now Mr. Vaughn's been arrested, it won't matter much. She really cheered up when I told her they caught the murderer.”

So Sally believed Vaughn had been charged with murder, as, no doubt, did most or all of those who heard of the arrest. It was not for Daisy to enlighten them. She moved on to the last question that must have revolved and evolved in her dreams.

“Did your aunt ever mention getting a letter of recommendation—a character—from Mrs. Gray?”

“Not that I remember. Oh, wait, she did say—ages ago—that Mrs. Gray didn't like her and would likely give her a reference that wasn't fit to show. But Mrs. Clark, that was housekeeper at Cherry Trees, always said she was a hard worker even if she had her ways, so she'd ask her for a character.”

Mrs. Clark, thought Daisy—all that running about after the gardener, and all the time Sally could have revealed the housekeeper's name if anyone had thought to ask her. “Did Mrs. Clark write her a letter?”

“Auntie didn't say. Is it important? I could ask her.”

“No, no, it doesn't matter. Gosh, look at the time. I'd better get up! Thanks again for my breakfast.”

Sally went off looking puzzled and unhappy.

Daisy decided to take a bath, a good place for thinking. Chin-deep in hot water, she considered Sally's opinions on her aunt's state of mind.

Mrs. Hedger knew who had killed her employer, so much seemed pretty clear. It was not at all improbable that she should have seen or heard something that gave his—or her—identity away, or she might have actually witnessed the incident. Then why not tell the police?

Sheer bloody-mindedness was not an adequate explanation. She might have been threatened with harm if she didn't hold her tongue, but in that case, whence the pleasure Sally had noted?

Blackmail sprang to mind. Blackmail, with its prospect of gain and risk of retaliation, would account for Mrs. Hedger's mingled smugness and fearfulness. Could it also explain her cheering up when she heard about Vaughn's arrest, supposedly for murder?

Daisy reached for her flannel. Washing disturbed her train of thought, so she didn't anwer her own question until she was clean, dry, enveloped in her warm blue dressing gown, and back in the bedroom. Knickers, suspender belt, stockings—warm lisle for the country. As she drew them on, her thoughts returned to Vaughn's arrest.

Why had the news pleased Mrs. Hedger? It put paid to any hope of money from blackmail—at least, it would have if he actually had been charged with Mrs. Gray's death. She might be relieved of anxiety, but wouldn't she also have regretted a lost opportunity? Sally had not spoken of regret.

Perhaps Sally had simply failed to notice it. Or perhaps Mrs. Hedger had realised by then just how dangerous blackmailing a murderer would be.

Daisy shied away from the third possibility that dawned on her. The general populace was naturally relieved that the murderer had supposedly been arrested, but the person who had most to gain from the police ending their enquiries was the actual killer. Was Mrs. Hedger the one who had pushed Mrs. Gray down the stairs?

A cleaning woman bumping off her employer? Unheard of, and a singularly unsettling idea.

Daisy wondered whether she was arguing in circles. Alec was bound to point out that her train of thought was pure speculation, based on nothing more substantial than Sally's opinions of her aunt's state of mind. Or he'd say they had already come up with the theory and dismissed it. Nonetheless, she had to tell him.

Sighing, she finished dressing. It wasn't even a pleasant morning for a stroll. Outside the window, rain bucketed down. Umbrella in hand, Daisy set out.

She hoped to see Alec alone but she was out of luck. All four detectives were together and none showed any sign of departing when she said she wanted to speak to Alec. He and Underwood exchanged “what now?” glances while Pennicuik took her dripping umbrella and Ernie set a chair for her.

“Go ahead, Daisy.” Alec wore his infuriating patient look. “You've got a revelation for us?”

“I didn't claim a revelation,” Daisy said defensively. “I just woke up wondering … and I asked Sally Hedger—”

“You've already discussed this matter with Miss Hedger?”

“Miss Hedger!” Ernie was upset.

“It wasn't till I'd asked her a few questions that I worked it out.”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” said DI Underwood, “could you perhaps start with your conclusion and then explain how you reached it?”

“Oh yes, much easier than trying to start at the beginning. I think it's more than likely Mrs. Hedger killed Mrs. Gray.”

The silence that followed had a surprised quality.

Then Underwood said, “Well, why not? I, for one, have been considering her as a balky witness. I've barely given her a passing thought as a suspect.”

“Nor have I,” Alec admitted.

“Y'know, Chief,” said Ernie, “I did wonder about that disinfectant smell. My landlady uses the stuff. The smell fades in a couple of hours. Mrs. Hedger must have used gallons for you to be able to detect it a couple of days later.”

“Drains and mucky boots,” Underwood recalled. “That's what she told Miss Sutcliffe.”

“Isabel always puts her gardening boots by the back door,” said Daisy, “and I haven't caught the least whiff of bad drains. I've been in and out of the house for days.”

“Is that all you're going on, Daisy?”

“No, darling. Though I do think it's significant. Drains and manure don't smell the least bit like that awful sickly stench when you opened the cellar door, so it's hard to believe she mistook it.”

Ernie backed her up. “More like she knew the body was there and expected it to start smelling.”

“I did wonder whether she knew about it and kept quiet because she was blackmailing the murderer.”

The detectives considered the theory. Underwood rejected it. “That wouldn't work. The body was bound to be discovered sooner or later, and once the murderer was arrested he'd have no incentive not to denounce her. She's not the sort to run off abroad with her ill-gotten gains. I doubt she's ever been farther than High Wycombe in her life.”

“Sally said she was pleased to hear about Mr. Vaughn's arrest. As far as I can make out, everyone believes he was arrested for murder. So I dropped the blackmail idea.”

“What else did Miss Hedger have to say, Mrs. Fletcher?”

Daisy recounted the conversation. It sounded very thin, without a shred of actual evidence. She was glad Ernie had brought up the question of disinfectant to add a bit of solidity to her tissue of conjectured emotions—if one could describe a smell as solid.

“And then she said her aunt cheered up when she heard of the arrest, as I told you. I asked if she'd talked about a reference letter from Mrs. Gray. Apparently she hadn't expected a recommendation worth showing a prospective employer but thought the housekeeper might give her one. Sally doesn't know whether she did. She can't have, though, because Isabel would have told you if she'd seen it.”

“I'm sure she would,” said the detective. “Anything more?”

“No, that's it.” Daisy felt flattened. “It doesn't sound like very much, but I thought I ought to tell you.”

“I—we appreciate it. We'll certainly follow up. In fact, if it's all right with you, Mr. Fletcher, Sergeant Piper can go right now and have a chat with Miss Hedger. Just to confirm what you've told us, Mrs. Fletcher—not that I doubt it!—and to see if she has anything to add that she didn't think to mention to you.”

Walking back to the Saracen's Head with Ernie holding her umbrella above her head, Daisy felt better. Surely Ernie's time was too valuable for Underwood to waste it on a wild goose chase, which meant he didn't think her theory was utter bosh. And Alec had smiled at her as she left. She hoped that meant his silence was only because he was deferring to the inspector.

“Well done, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Ernie. “The chief would have cottoned on to Mrs. Hedger sooner or later, but you may have saved us days of following false leads. I'm awfully sorry for Miss Hedger, though. Does she realise where your questions were leading?”

“Not at the time. She may have put two and two together by now. The best thing you can do for Sally is make sure she understands you won't drop her if her aunt turns out to be guilty.”

Blushing, Ernie said hotly, “I wouldn't do that! But maybe she'll hate me if we have to arrest her auntie.”