Die Laughing (17 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

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“I can't imagine how I can possibly help you, Mr. Fletcher,” she said. “Do sit down.”
But he remained standing, asking without further ado, “Have you seen Gwen Walker this week?”
She looked taken aback, then, after a momentary hesitation, she said warily, “Yes.”
“Yesterday?”
“Y-yes. You told Mother you're from Scotland Yard!”
“I am.” He held out his papers, which she gave a cursory glance.
“But—”
“What time was she here?”
“Midday, for lunch. The train arrives at about half past twelve, and I suppose she was here for about an hour and a half.”
“Your mother says she hasn't seen Mrs. Walker this week, and that she never comes to lunch.”
“Oh dear.” She bowed her head over her embroidery. “I'm afraid Mother is confused. She is … getting on in years.”
“Mrs. Crouch strikes me as perfectly
compos mentis
. Was Mrs. Walker here for lunch the day before yesterday also?”
“The day before … No. Yes. I mean …”
“What exactly do you mean, Miss Crouch?”
“I suppose I may have confused the days. Are you sure you're not a private investigator?”
“Ah!” His guess as good as confirmed, Alec sat down on the sofa. “I begin to see the light. I'm quite sure I'm not a private investigator. I'm from the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police, and this matter is a good deal more important than protecting your friend from her husband's suspicions. Was she here at midday the day before yesterday?”
Miss Crouch moistened her lips. “What's happened?”
“Was she here the day before yesterday?”
“N-no.”
“Thank you. Has she explained to you why she wanted you to lie for her?”
“She said she was seeing a man. I know it's dreadfully wrong of her, but she's like a sister to me, you see. And the major is … is not a sympathetic person.”
“Did she tell you whom she was seeing?”
“No. Only that he had a very unromantic profession,
but she'd had her fill of romance when she married the gallant major. What's happened? Is the major … He isn't dead, is he?”
Alec shook his head. “No, alive and kicking at last sight. How long had this been going on? Her liaison?”
“A little over a year. She's never asked such a thing before. You needn't think she only kept in with us because of that.”
Mrs. Crouch came in, a tea tray in her precarious grasp, from which Alec hastened to deliver it. He had no more questions to ask, and in her mother's presence Miss Crouch swallowed those he saw on the tip of her tongue, though the old lady would not have heard.
“I'm afraid we finished the tin of biscuits Gwen brought last month,” Mrs. Crouch apologized.
Alec had just time for a cup of tea before the next train back to town. In fact, he left in a bit of a rush, glad of an excuse not to face Miss Crouch's questions as she showed him out. She was obviously deeply unhappy at having betrayed her friend. Alec wished he had brought Daisy with him. She would have known how to comfort the poor woman.
 
 
Daisy expected to have quite enough on her hands with the morning coffee gathering. The day was cloudy but mild and dry, and she quite enjoyed her walk through the tree-lined streets. When she arrived, she was happy to find both Sakari and Melanie among the guests. Between the two of them, they managed to shield her from the worst of the interrogation. The rumour about Gwen Walker dining with Raymond
Talmadge in Soho surfaced again, this time quite openly.
Daisy finished off a Banbury tart, followed it with a sip of coffee, and asked bluntly, “Who saw them?”
Everyone looked at each other. No one knew.
“My dear Daisy,” said Sakari, a wicked twinkle in her eye, “none of the respectable ladies here would visit a Soho nightclub. I am driven to the conclusion that someone has a less-than-respectable acquaintance whom, naturally, she does not care to acknowledge.”
The respectable ladies looked at each other askance. Each protested that she had heard the story at third or fourth hand, and some even named their informants, all equally respectable ladies.
Daisy dug out her notebook from her handbag and wrote down these names and those who had given them, who watched in dismay. “Of course, I'll have to tell my husband,” she said. The subject of the dead dentist died a swifter death than he had.
The party ended soon after. Sakari was whirled away in the red Sunbeam to a diplomatic luncheon. Daisy and Mel walked homeward together.
“Vultures!” said Daisy.
“It's only natural to be interested when someone you know is murdered,” Mel protested. “Don't tell me people haven't wanted to know the details in the other cases you've been mixed up in.”
Thinking back over past cases, Daisy was startled by how many there had been. She had always dealt with them as they happened and tried to forget the horrid details as soon
as they were over. No wonder Superintendent Crane and the AC (Crime) were aghast at her propensity for stumbling across bodies!
But she shook her head. “I've never before been besieged with questions by so many people who are not themselves personally involved. And if they think they have evidence, they should take it to Alec, not filter it through me.”
“You're so much easier to talk to, Daisy. I can imagine Alec being rather fierce.”
“He can be a bit intimidating,” she admitted, remembering times when he had fixed her with the icy grey gaze which made erring subordinates shiver, suspects shudder, and malefactors think they'd be better off at the North Pole. Not that it bothered Daisy. She looked at her friend, who was nervously nibbling her lower lip. “Mel, is there something you want to tell me?”
“You just said …”
“That doesn't apply to my
friends,
darling. What's up?”
“It's something Robert told me, in complete confidence, of course. Is Alec quite certain that Mrs. Walker was seeing Talmadge?”
“He hasn't any real evidence, if that's what you mean. He's … I suppose I'd have to say he's fairly sure. Do you know something definite?”
“Not about that, Daisy. I'd have told you, or him. No, on the whole I think I'd better not mention what Robert said. It's probably nothing to do with the murder at all.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It's nothing to do with Talmadge, at any rate. Just … just something which made Robert suggest that I shouldn't
become too friendly with Gwen Walker. I promise I'll tell you if Alec finds out she really was his mistress. Oh, here's where we go our different ways. Cheerio, Daisy.” Melanie turned the corner and dashed off at a fast walk.
Dying of curiosity, Daisy stared after her, then turned in the opposite direction towards Gardenia Grove. If Robert had told Melanie something confidential, it was probably something to do with his bank. Were the Walkers desperately in debt and vastly overdrawn? Doubtless it would reflect badly on the bank manager if his wife was intimate friends with a customer who went bankrupt.
Could the Walkers' impending bankruptcy have any bearing on Talmadge's death? Suppose Gwen had counted on him to rescue her from prospective destitution, and instead he bade her farewell forever?
That would certainly add fuel to the flames of the notorious fury of a woman scorned!
Alec came home to lunch, a rare occurrence. “I was at Marylebone,” he explained, “so it seemed silly to go back to the Yard and suffer canteen food.”
Mrs. Dobson was equal to the challenge. She stretched the chicken consommé with top of the milk, added bread and butter and cheese to the cold ham and salad, and dressed up the stewed rhubarb with a quickly browned crumbly topping.
“This soup is delicious,” Alec said.
“I'll tell Mrs. Dobson.”
“Mrs.?”
“From now on,” Daisy said firmly. “Calling a woman by her surname just because she's a servant is frightfully Victorian.”
Not wanting to get involved in a discussion which must inevitably lead to his mother, she asked, “What were you doing at Marylebone?”
He told her about his interview with Gwen Walker's indigent friend Miss Crouch and her mother.
“I'm told Mrs. Walker never forgets Christmas or birthday cards, and she often passes on bundles of clothes, some of them almost new.”
Daisy shuddered. “I'd absolutely loathe wearing a friend's castoffs. I'd rather go to the Salvation Army. But I suppose she's being kind.”
“I can't believe the frock Mrs. Walker was wearing when I saw her would be much use to a woman in Miss Crouch's circumstances.”
“Why, what was it like?”
“Oh, one of those floaty tea-gown things, all green and gold. Chiffon, I think.” Alec, as a trained observer, was remarkably good at women's clothes, for a man.
“I expect she gives Miss Crouch her more practical stuff. Skirts and blouses and woollies.”
“Yes, there was a Burberry coat. I suppose it's to Mrs. Walker's credit that she didn't altogether abandon old friends when she moved back up in the world and they stayed behind.”
“You liked the Crouches, didn't you, darling?”
“They're pleasant, straightforward people, making the best of what life has dealt them, without complaint.”
“I'd like to meet them.”
“Daisy, you are not to go calling on them!”
“I don't know their address,” she said regretfully. “Why?
Because Miss Crouch lied to you? You're not going to charge her, are you?”
“Great Scott, no! She did it so badly she obviously doesn't make a practice of it. Besides, if we charged everyone who lies to the police, half the population would be in gaol.”
Daisy was annoyed to feel herself blushing, though she couldn't at present recall any downright thundering lies she'd told the police, at least not recently. A little prevarication or suppression of probably irrelevant facts, long ago, was quite another matter. “Are you going to see Mrs. Walker this afternoon?” she asked quickly.
“Yes, later on. The fact that she gave a false alibi doesn't prove her a murderer, alas. Nor are the rest of the suspects by any means in the clear. I'm meeting Tom and the others at the Yard and it's always possible one of them will have come across some real evidence.” He pushed back his chair. “I must run.”
“No coffee?”
“No time, love.” He stooped to kiss her good-bye and was gone.
Daisy sat on at the table for a few minutes, pondering. She was awfully tempted to call on Gwen Walker, but couldn't think of any excuse. On the other hand, she really must drop in to see how Daphne Talmadge was doing. She could work for a couple of hours, then pop round at about four, as Belinda had a music lesson after school, so would be late home.
Bel was quite old enough to manage without Daisy for a while, especially as the housekeeper was always there. But
Mrs. Fletcher had always made a point of being at home when her granddaughter got back from school, and in her absence Daisy could do no less.
Sighing, she started to stack the dishes for Mrs. Dobson.
“M
rs. Walker's alibi is exploded,” Alec told the two sergeants and Ernie Piper. He explained how he had trapped Miss Crouch into contradicting herself.
“Cor, that was neat, Chief.”
“Listen and learn, lad,” said Tom. He was wearing the sober dark suit he had donned to impress the Army and Navy Club. It made him look less bulky and more formidable than his usual loud checks. He always swore villains were so stunned by the latter they didn't realize who was wearing them until he'd clapped on the darbies. “Listen and learn,” he repeated sententiously.
“I do, Sarge. Even to you.”
“Tom, did you get anywhere at the Army and Navy?”
“The major ate lunch there all right, Chief. The club secretary showed me his signed chit. It's dated, but there's no time on it, as you'd expect. They serve lunch till half two.”
“So he could easily have followed his wife to the house at one o'clock, done Talmadge in, and turned up in the club dining
room in plenty of time to eat. Anyone remember him?”
“Not a soul, not to swear to. I spoke to the porter and the waiters but they have five Major Walkers and hordes of members who look just like my description of our Major Walker. They were extra busy that day, too, because there was some sort of reunion in the evening and a lot of members came up from the country.”
“Damn!”
“No better luck with the errand boy, neither. I sent DC Ross to ask him about the astrakhan coat Mrs. Fletcher described. The lad thought he might've noticed, but then again he might not.”
“Your veiled lady could still be either Mrs. Walker or Mrs. Talmadge, then.”
“Or someone else entirely, Chief.”
“Or someone else entirely,” Alec agreed gloomily. “What about you, Mackinnon?”
“I went to the Dixons' flat, Chief, but the charwoman wasna there. I couldna think of any way to trace her wi‘out getting in touch with the Dixons, so I telephoned the Henley police to send someone out to their cottage. But it seems it's on the wrong side o' the river so they had to ring up the Berkshire police—”
“Ah yes, I remember, three counties meet there.”
“Well, after a deal o' havering, I ended up wi' Mrs. Simpkins's address in Islington. I took the Tube there, but she wasna at home. Her neighbour said she was at work, but she didn't know where.” Mackinnon apparently wanted to prove himself by describing all his difficulties and how he had overcome them.
“I take it you found her?” Alec said.
“Aye, Chief, in the end. She only does for the Dixons two mornings a week. When she left their flat that day, at one o'clock, she opened the door of the sitting room to say she was going. She saw the gentleman sitting with the lady in his lap, crying on his shoulder. She backed out in a hurry without speaking, so they might not have seen her.”
“Even if they'd jumped up the moment she left,” said Alec, “they'd have had to rush to get to St. John's Wood and back. Ernie?”
“No sign of a taxi taking one or both of 'em there or back, Chief, or there
and
back. I covered pretty well all the possibles. I talked to the other two cabbies, too. It was our two for sure that was taken from Bond Street to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions, and his lordship that was taken to the theatre.”
“And the Bentley?”
“I found the garridge where his lordship keeps it. There's a group of toffs keep their motors there and they pay a bloke to keep 'em filled up, and polish ‘em and do minor repairs and gen'rally keep an eye on things. He checks the oil and water and petrol whenever someone brings one back, and keeps a log to bill 'em.”
“There's a bit of luck!” said Tom.
“'Fraid not, Sarge. The Bentley's not in his log for that day, but it could mean it went out but didn't go far enough to need filling. He's pretty sure it wasn't taken out, but not prepared to swear to it.”
“St. John's Wood and back wouldn't take much petrol,” observed Mackinnon.
“It wasn't parked near the alley, anyway,” said Piper. “I asked DC Ross, seeing he was going to talk to Sarge's errand
boy, to ask him about it. It's the sort of car any boy couldn't help noticing, and he didn't. He's going to ask around his friends, though.”
“Good work, Ernie. I think we'll leave it at that for the moment, wait and see if anything turns up. It would take more manpower than the AC's likely to allow me to do a door-to-door in both Marylebone and St. John's Wood, though it may come to that. However, my feeling is that those two were not involved in the murder. I don't want to waste time flogging a dead horse.”
“So we concentrate on—” The ‘phone on Tom's desk rang and he stopped to answer it. “DS Tring … Yes, put her through, please … . Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. Do you want to speak to the Chief? … Go ahead.” Still listening, he reached for pad and pencil and wrote. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher … . Yes, I'll give them to him, and he can decide whether they're worth following up … . 'Bye.”
“Well?” Alec asked impatiently.
“She forgot to give you these names, Chief, but they're probably not worth much, she says.”
“What names?”
“Ladies who passed on rumours about Talmadge and Mrs. Walker to the ladies who passed them on to Mrs. Fletcher. She asked them where they'd heard the story in hopes of tracking down a source.”
From the corner of his eye, Alec saw Piper and Mackinnon exchange grins and nods that said as clearly as words, “Mrs. Fletcher does it again!”
“We'll have to talk to them,” Alec said with a sigh. “I'm pretty sure Mrs. Walker was Talmadge's mistress but until we have more to go on than rumours and guesses, we're
hobbled. I'm going to talk to her again. Tom, as you're wearing your best bib and tucker, you can deal with the ladies Daisy's named.”
“Right, Chief.”
“Mackinnon, I'm putting you onto the Walkers' cook-housekeeper, Bates. See if you can get a line on where she goes on her day off, whether she has any particular friend she might have gossiped with about her mistress. Without more evidence I prefer not to question her officially yet. There's probably a cleaning woman, too, and a gardener, possibly another maid. Find out. Ernie, you stay here and go through all the reports. See if you can spot any discrepancies, anything we've overlooked, any obscure connections.”
“Have a heart, Chief!”
“Sorry, but you have the best eye for details. I'll be back a bit before five to see if you've come up with anything. At five I have to report our progress or lack thereof to Superintendent Crane. Tom, Mackinnon, if you find out something worth telling the super, telephone here before my appointment. Otherwise we'll meet here at six to exchange news.”
On his way out, Alec was buttonholed by a colleague who had taken over one of his less urgent cases when the murder became his first priority. When at last he managed to tear himself away, he drove straight to the Walkers'. He parked a little way down the street. If Mrs. Walker was not at home—and he prayed she was there as he was now somewhat pressed for time—she might recognize his car and turn tail if it was right outside her house.
Like last time he stood on that doorstep, he was left there for several minutes after ringing the bell. This time the door was opened, just as he was about to ring again, by a
short, wiry woman in a flowered overall and carpet slippers. Wisps of henna'd hair peeked out from beneath a purple paisley headscarf knotted in front. In one hand she bore a mop, the regimental standard of her profession.
“Nobody's home, ducks,” she announced.
Though there was no reason the Walkers should be home waiting for him, Alec was annoyed. Their absence typified the investigation, which seemed to consist so far of one petty irritation after another. As yet he had not even succeeded in eliminating a single suspect.
“When are Major and Mrs. Walker expected back?” he asked.
“Dunno ‘bout madam. Nora—that's the cook-housekeeper, Nora Bates, it's 'er 'alf day—she left tea things out for the major's tea, so I specks he'll be back soon.”
“I'll come in and wait then,” Alec said authoritatively. “I'm a police officer.” He showed her his credentials.
“Coo, that's nice!” she said, admiring the seal. “You read it to me, ducks. I left me glasses at 'ome.”
Can't read, Alec interpreted, amused and appalled. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, CID, Metropolitan Police,” he told her gravely, though for all she knew it could have read “Sewer Inspector” or “Confidence Trickster.”
“Ooh, that's Scotland Yard, innit? Well, I never! Come on in, ducks, and sit yerself down in the front parlour ‘ere. I was just goin' to make meself a cuppa if you fancy one. Awready put the kettle on.”
“That sounds good, but I'll come along and save you a step or two.” He might as well try and get her talking about her employers.
“To the kitchen?” she said dubiously. “Well, I s'pose it's
all right. I've always been respectable, ain't got nuffink against the rozzers. And I don't mind if I get the weight off me bunions for a bit.”
Sitting down at the kitchen table, Alec knew himself in this situation less capable than Tom Tring. By now Tom would be laughing, teasing, maybe flirting a little, certainly calling the woman by her christian name. Alec didn't even know her surname yet. His visit to the kitchen was regarded as condescension, not because of his rank—a chief inspector was after all still just a rozzer—but because of the way he spoke.
Still, though she had ushered him towards the sitting room, she had called him ducks, not sir, so maybe there was hope.
“This is very kind of you, Mrs … ?”
“Davies, ducks, wiv an
e.
Me dear departed was a Welshman, bought it in the Fusiliers. What was you wanting to see the major for, if you don't mind me arstin'? They don't send a chief inspector round 'cause he busted the taillight on his motor-car, I don't think! He lose his temper and sock summun on the jaw, did 'e?”
“You sound as if you wouldn't be surprised if he had.”
“No more I would. Got a nasty temper, 'as the major, which ain't to say he ain't got nuffink to aggravate him. But there, we're none of us perfect, are we? Sugar?”
“No, thanks. Just a spot of milk.”
Even with milk, the tea was as dark as mahogany. Sipping, Alec felt the tannin eroding the enamel from his teeth. More work for his dentist—he'd have to find a new one.
Mrs. Davies swigged down half her mugful in one long draught. “Ah, that's a bit of all right, that is. Puts the life
back into you, don't it? Yes, the major 'as his troubles like the rest of us.” She leant forward and said in a thrilling whisper, “Madam!”
“The major has troubles with his wife?” Alec asked hopefully.
“Messy like you wouldn't believe. Never puts nuffink away, and it stands to reason that don't suit a military gentleman like the major, all shipshape and Bristol fashion. Well, that'd be the Navy, wouldn't it, but a place for everything and everything in its place, that's what I say.”
“They rowed about Mrs. Walker's untidiness?”
“Like cat and dog. I don't say he hit 'er, mind, bein' a gentleman. Leastways, I ain't never seen 'er wiv a shiner, and I does for 'em every day ‘ceptin' Sunday. I likes me Sundays off.”
“Who doesn't? You'd know, then, if they rowed about anything else.”
“Money. She spends too much, ‘e says, but what I say is, if you've got it you may as well spend it. It don't do you much good otherwise, does it? Why shouldn't she 'ave pretty clothes, I arst you! She's a real looker, sure enough, and when she gets dolled up, she'd turn any man's head.”
“Could that be the real reason for the trouble between them: that she turns men's heads, or perhaps one particular man's?”
Mrs. Davies gave him a sharp look. “Is that what you're after? You want to know 'as she got a fancy bloke? What's that to the perlice, I'd like to know?”
Alec decided to tell her. “It may be relevant to a murder case.”
“I don't ‘old wiv murder,” she said, in tones of deepest
disapproval. “That dentist, is it? Well, I dunno, I'm sure. There's times when she'll be talkin' soft-like on the telephone and ‘e'll come 'ome and she'll ‘ang up double quick. And I've seen 'er hurry to get the post and take summat out before 'e comes downstairs of a morning. That sort of thing. But I don't know as it's a gentleman friend. Could be a bookie for all I knows.”
“What about Nora? I expect you have a good gossip over a cuppa. She hasn't mentioned anyone?”

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