The Penningtons (13 page)

‘Namely Albert Pennington.’

‘That’s about it, sir.’

‘And they all claim they have no enemies. No idea who this can be?’

‘No sir.’

‘It’s too much of a coincidence. They must be lying. They’re hiding something.’

‘Yes sir. But we’ve asked the neighbours. It’s all in my report.’

‘Then what do you think we should do next, Cresswell?’

‘Widen the search, sir?’

‘Exactly. Who else might know something? Maybe something in the long distant past. A long-held grudge. Who has known them for a long time? Anyone?’

‘There was a housekeeper, sir, but she left not long ago. A Miss Dutton – or Button. Something like that.’

The sergeant’s expression changed. ‘Sacked? See, that could be the motive! People have long memories and as long as they get revenge they don’t care how long they wait for it.’

The constable scratched his head. ‘You’re not saying it was the housekeeper, sir?’

‘Of course I’m not, you idiot! I’m saying she might remember someone who was sacked and now has a grudge against the family.’

‘The housemaid said she left to look after her mother who was very ill. Just upped and left.’

‘Pity.’

‘Yes sir. But we can find her.’

The sergeant’s hopes lifted again. ‘If she’d been there for a long time she might know more than the rest are saying! Get after her, Cresswell. Find her and grill her to within an inch of her life!’ They both grinned. ‘It may be a dead end but at this moment this Miss Dutton is all we’ve got!’

Dilys and Monty were in the summer house when the telephone rang later that afternoon and Daisy hurried from the kitchen to answer it. She now considered herself an experienced hand with the machine and answered crisply. ‘Montague Pennington’s house. Who’s calling?’

‘This is Steven Anders from Marsh & Desmond, the—’

‘The solicitors!’ Daisy could hardly believe what was happening. That nice Mr Anders was telephoning them! For a moment she could hardly speak.

He said cautiously, ‘Is that Miss Letts?’

‘It is!’

She assumed he needed to talk to Monty or Dilys but he went on, ‘I have a confession to make, Miss Letts. You gave me a sample of your signature but I accidentally spilt tea over it and I don’t want to look a fool in front of my partners. I was wondering—’

‘If I could call in and give you another one? I could.’ She cheered silently. ‘It would be no trouble, Mr Anders. None at all. When should I come in? I’ll have to ask . . .’

‘Well, the thing is, I’m going past Mr Pennington’s house this evening and I could bring the form with me. It would only take a moment.’

This very evening! Daisy’s face was one large smile. She was going to see him again. Struggling to maintain some sort of calm she asked what time he was likely to be passing.

‘Around six thirty? Would that be acceptable, Miss Letts? Do you need to ask permission from your employer? I don’t want you to get into any trouble.’

‘I won’t. Mr Pennington will understand. I shall be . . . that is, I look forward to seeing you.’

‘It will be a pleasure, Miss Letts.’

‘Oh!’ She could hardly breathe. Was he just being polite?

He said, ‘A real pleasure.’

Daisy searched for the right reply. If she was misunderstanding any of this, she must not give herself away, but if he was trying to tell her something – that, perhaps, he had taken a fancy to her – then she must encourage him. The silence lengthened as she sought a suitable reply.

‘Miss Letts?’

‘Yes. I mean . . . yes, it will be a pleasure for me, too!’ She crossed her fingers in case she had gone too far. He might be laughing at her. Could he be leading her on? Her smile faded.

‘Then I’ll see you at six thirty, Miss Letts. Goodbye for now.’

‘Goodbye.’ She replaced the receiver but remained staring vacantly towards the front door. What was she supposed to think now? He might just be making fun of her – raising her hopes only to dash them! Would he even turn up at half past six? If he didn’t she thought she might die of disappointment. Briefly she closed her eyes, uttering a prayer that she would survive.

‘Trust him, Daisy!’ she told herself in a whisper. ‘He’s a nice man. He wouldn’t . . .’ She couldn’t even put the thought into words.

Footsteps sounded behind her and a voice startled her. She spun round to discover that Dilys had come in from the garden and was standing a few feet away from her.

‘Are you ill, Daisy?’

‘No. I was answering the telephone.’ She explained about the signature and Dilys frowned.

‘I thought it was Mr Desmond who dealt with our family’s business. This Mr Anders – who is he exactly?’

‘He’s only been there a few months so you may not have met him. He was only standing in for Mr Desmond because he’d gone to the dentist. He’s awfully nice.’ Immediately she wished the last few words unsaid.

As she expected, Dilys pounced. ‘“
Awfully
” is not the word you want to use there, Daisy.
Very
nice is better. And how would you know how nice he is? I hope you are not getting any foolish ideas, Daisy. Remember your place. You are only a housemaid. Mr Anders—’

‘At the moment I’m a trainee housekeeper,’ she protested. ‘Mr Pennington says . . .’

‘Don’t interrupt your betters, Daisy! You’ll never be a housekeeper with manners like that! As I was saying, this Mr Anders is obviously a well-educated man with a career ahead of him and if he
is
showing any interest in you, he will certainly have no
serious
intentions where you are concerned. Apart from which my brother obviously does not wish you to encourage followers. So please do not encourage Mr Anders.’

‘I wasn’t . . . I mean, I won’t.’ What do I mean, she wondered, thoroughly confused. It had seemed that
he
was encouraging
her
.

‘When he calls,’ Dilys went on, ‘take him into the sitting room to do the signature and I will come in with you. That way he is unlikely to attempt any unseemly flattery or nonsense of that sort.’

‘There’s no need, ma’am.’

‘I feel there is.’ She sighed. ‘We really must get Montague a new housekeeper.’

‘But I can learn and—’

‘I’m not blaming you, Daisy. You are doing your best in difficult circumstances. It is a housekeeper’s job to keep an eye on the housemaids and there is no one to guide you. Poor Montague is somewhat out of his depth – in more ways than one. My sister-in-law is extremely worried about him. She thinks he needs help with . . . certain family matters.’

‘I think he’s coping very well.’

Dilys raised her eyebrows. ‘I haven’t asked for your opinion, Daisy. Do pay attention to the advice I give you since Miss Dutton is no longer here to supervise you.’

As she swept out of the room Daisy stuck out her tongue and began counting the days until Monty’s sister would feel able to return to her own house.

That same afternoon PC Cresswell arrived at Emily Dutton’s cottage. It was small and the neat parlour in which they sat was what estate agents liked to call ‘compact’. It was also dark because a large oak tree outside hid the sun and it smelled of cats. PC Cresswell forced a smile. He sat uncomfortably in a wing-backed chair that creaked ominously whenever he moved, and to complete his discomfort, the trailing leaves of a tradescantia in a pot on the mantelpiece to his right dangled close to his face, which he found irritating.

The old lady, introduced as Emily Dutton, sat in a rocking chair surrounded by cushions, her nightwear discreetly hidden by a blanket which was well tucked in around her. She was working at something white that the policeman took to be crochet. Probably cuffs, he thought irritably. His grandmother had always been embroidering tablecloths. Why did elderly people always have to pretend they were busy, he wondered, as he pulled a notebook from his pocket and found a clean page for his notes.

Emily Dutton’s daughter, whose name was apparently Edie, balanced her comfortable body on a small stool, with her hands clasped in her lap, and the constable was reminded of a childhood illustration of Little Miss Muffet awaiting the arrival of the spider.

‘Well,’ said Miss Dutton, in answer to the constable’s first question, ‘I wasn’t there when Monty’s wife was alive because I suppose
she
ran the house but when she died he advertised for a housekeeper and I got the job.’

Her mother nodded. ‘That’s right. You can write that down, Mr Cresswell. Edie was just on twenty-three when she went to work for Mr Pennington but she was already a dab hand with pastry. You can take my word for it that nothing but butter goes into her shortcrust.’

The policeman counted to ten as he scribbled the words ‘twenty-three’, and ‘pastry’. ‘And as far as you were aware, Miss Dutton, there was no one who might feel a grudge towards the family. No falling out of any kind?’

‘No one. Mind you, Monty kept himself to himself meaning he never invited the neighbours in or family members except at Christmas and on his birthday. But there were lots of photographs of his wife. Cressida. That was her name. Everyone loved Cressida. That’s what he used to say, anyway.’

‘What about the rest of the family – were they on good terms with each other? No family feuds?’ He looked up hopefully.

‘Goodness no!’ Miss Dutton snorted at the very idea. ‘I shouldn’t have cared for that sort of goings on! I would have been out of there like a shot!’

Her mother nodded. ‘Like a shot, Mr Cresswell. You can take that as gospel.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Maybe our visitor would like a cup of tea, Edie, and a biscuit.’ She smiled at him. ‘D’you fancy a cuppa tea, Mr Cresswell? I’d offer to make it but it’s my leg. I fell and broke it. Snapped right in two, it did – the bone that is. Leastways, that’s what I reckon. The doctor said it’s a fracture but I know better. What do they know, these doctors? It’s still swollen and I can’t get my shoe on that foot so I—’

‘No!’ he said hastily. ‘That is, no tea, thank you, Mrs Dutton. I mean, I’m sorry about your accident but I’m a bit pressed for time. Got to catch this blighter and put him behind bars!’

‘And serve the chap right. Bothering people and sneaking about like that.’ She leaned forward. ‘Thing is, Mr Cresswell, I ask myself where will it end. He might be getting worse. Might go on to murder someone.’

Miss Dutton said, ‘Mother! The policeman hasn’t got all day. This is urgent.’ She turned back to him apologetically and was rewarded with a smile.

He said, ‘Now, Miss Dutton, can you give me some brief details about the other members of the family – just to corroborate what I know already.’ He studied his notes. ‘Albert, the younger brother, and Dilys, the sister.’

‘Well. Let’s see now. Not a lot to say about Dilys,’ she informed him. ‘She married John Maynard and they had no family. He passed on quite recently . . . Albert is married to Hettie and they have a son called George Egbert. No, sorry, that’s George
Albert.
He married a French woman but they didn’t take to her one bit, and when they went to live in France . . .’

Her mother rolled her eyes. ‘Funny lot, the French!’

‘. . . so I never saw the young couple but Monty did say once that her father owned a farm in Brittany – wherever that is.’

‘Did they ever have a falling out, Miss Dutton? The father and the son?’

‘Not to my knowledge. Not that Monty ever spoke about him. Just the odd mention, maybe.’ She shrugged then leaned forward as if to read his notebook. ‘Are you getting all this, constable? Albert and Hettie’s son George Albert. I got the impression they’d lost interest in him. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes.’

He wrote carefully. ‘I see that they all live around this corner of Bath and yet they don’t seem a very close-knit family.’

‘I don’t reckon they are. Monty was bedridden for years but they hardly ever came to see him.’ Realizing suddenly that she had answered his knock at the door while still wearing her pinafore, she hastily pulled it off, folded it and set it on the table beside her. ‘Birthdays, of course, and Christmas. Monty didn’t seem to care but I felt for him. I mean Christmas can be a lonely time when you’re old.’

The old lady said, ‘People can be very selfish. ’Specially family. I remember wonderful Christmases when I was a child. Everyone came.’

The constable coughed and turned pointedly towards the daughter. ‘You were saying?’

‘Albert had been married before and they had a son but I never set eyes on him. Never seen a picture of him and they never mentioned him in my hearing.’

‘And his name is . . .?’

‘I don’t even know his name! He was long gone. Packed off to Ceylon to a friend of the family who managed a tea plantation. Leastways that’s what the gardener said. Lord knows why but rich people do things like that, don’t they?’

Emily said, ‘Funny lot, rich people!’

The policeman saw a glimmer of hope. ‘So would you think, Miss Dutton, that this first son might have quarrelled with his father and mother? Is that why he was sent off to Ceylon?’

While Edie considered her answer, the old lady said, ‘I fancy a cup of tea and a biscuit.’

‘Mother! We’re trying to concentrate!’ She turned back to the constable. ‘There
might
have been a quarrel. D’you reckon that’s who’s doing these awful things, then? Stealing and trespassing and such like? The long lost son?’

He shrugged. ‘It has to be a remote possibility if he’s still in Ceylon but I shall go to see Albert Pennington next and ask him directly. It just might be, if he’s back in England, that this is our first lead.’ Head bent, he wrote furiously. It would have been helpful to get a description of this alienated first son but that sounded unlikely. Who, he wondered, might have seen the young man before he was sent into exile. And what had been his crime, if there was one? A quarrel with his father or something worse?

‘Keeps me awake at night, this leg does. Throbbing like mad, whichever way I turn. Can’t get comfortable.’

PC Cresswell ignored the interruption as he scanned his notes. He still felt vaguely dissatisfied with his enquiries which had provided a very thin possible lead. He racked his brain for anything else that might prove more fruitful. ‘And the sister, Dilys, thinks the man was in the free soup queue last week . . . Maybe we’ll find someone else who can add something to her description; maybe remember something else about him. His voice, perhaps. He might have had an accent.’